Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 27
“Drop it in, Billie.”
The relic made a tiny bloop sound as it hit the water. Billie kept her eyes glued to it, not wanting to miss what might happen next. Gantry fished out a cigarette and sparked his lighter.
“Do you have to smoke now?” Mockler grumbled, his annoyance deepening.
“Part of the ritual, mate.”
“Bullshit.”
“Shh,” Billie said. “It just got colder in here.”
The candles guttered south, as if buffeted by a northernly breeze.
“Watch the mirror,” Gantry said.
She was small. Billie pegged her age at 11 or 12 years. The girl appeared hazy in the mirror, standing in the darkness behind them. Her dark frock was coarse-looking, the lace trim at the neck frayed and grimy. Billie studied the girl’s gaunt face for any family resemblance to the boy, but she found none. The hands poking out from their threadbare sleeves were spiky thin, her features wan and malnourished. Whatever kind of life she had lived, it had not been prosperous.
“You’re the sister, yeah?” Gantry said.
Billie gripped his wrist to silence him. His tone was too gruff and the girl in the mirror was already taking a step back. Oftentimes, the dead were wary or frightened, needing to be coaxed forward with gentle words like shy ponies. “Don’t go,” she said in a quiet tone. “Please. We’re happy you came.”
The girl in the mirror stopped. Studying the girl’s drab garments, Billie noted that the only speck of colour on her was a shabby ribbon tied in her hair. Red, like the one found in the Half-Boy’s pockets. The girl returned Billie’s stare, her lips pursed in silence. A horrid thought came to Billie as she witnessed the mute ghost. Had the sister had her tongue cut out like her sibling? “I wanted to ask you about your brother,” Billie ventured. “I’m worried about him.”
The girl loomed closer, her head tilted to one side as if to hear better.
Emboldened, Billie went out on a limb. “What’s your name?”
“Katie,” the girl whispered, her voice as thin as her wrists. “Katie Cleary. What’s yours?”
“Sybil,” Billie answered, uncharacteristically offering her given name. She had never liked it, but it seemed appropriate now if she wanted the ghostly sister to be open with her.
“That’s a pretty name,” the girl named Katie said. “It’s not Irish, is it?”
“I don’t think so. You’re Irish?”
The girl glanced at the two men beside Billie. “I was born there. We came across when I was wee. The year of our Lord 1896, or so me mum said.”
Billie crossed her fingers before launching the next question. “Was your brother born there, too?”
“Which brother?” the girl queried. “Blaine and Michael were born in Cork. Thomas, Arden and Cillian came after the crossing. They were born here, in this city.”
“The brother who’s here,” Billie said. One of the names uttered by the girl had flared hot in her mind but she kept quiet, needing to be sure. “The one with me.”
“Tom,” she said. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Poor Tom, as we called him.”
Tom.
Billie closed her eyes as a warm flush of relief flooded her nerves. Poor Tom Cleary. Of course, it was Tom. “Why do you call him that, Poor Tom?”
“There was always something odd about Thomas. Even as a wee bairn he was odd, born too soon and sickly. It sent father into a rage sometimes. Our Tom would get these falling spells, you see. He’d freeze up, stiff as a board and stare at nothing for a time. You couldn’t get him to crack out of it. Then, he’d collapse to the floor. It was frightening. Father said he was nipped by the devil with those spells, but mother never believed that. Not that she’d dare speak against the man.”
Billie chanced a glance at Mockler. The detective looked uneasy, clearly not comfortable speaking to a ghost in a mirror. She regarded the girl again. “Did you live here, in this building?”
“I wish we had,” replied the girl, looking around. “It’s grand compared to the filthy shack we lived in. It wasn’t far from here, in Corktown. Sometimes, it would flood when the spring thaw came trickling down the mountain.”
“Were you the oldest among the kids?” Billie asked.
“Second eldest. Blaine was firstborn. Thomas was seventh. I tried to protect him from father when I could.”
Mockler spoke up. “Why did you have to protect him?”
The girl named Katie flinched at the timbre of a male voice and took a step back. Her eyes cast to the floor, refusing to look at the detective.
“Katie,” Billie said, addressing the girl in a gentle tone. “This is Ray and this is John. They’re friends. They won’t hurt you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The girl dipped by way of a small curtsy, but averted her eyes from the men present in the room. Billie studied the girl anew, wondering what her life had been like, one where any man was treated with deference and fear. “Katie, why did you have to protect Tom from your father?”
“It was the spells. They enraged our father. He tried to beat it out of Tom, but that didn’t stop the spells from happening.” Katie’s hands clenched together and she tucked them under her chin as if in prayer. “And there were the queer things that Tom would say when he was in his spells. They frightened father. They frightened us all, to tell the truth.”
“What things?”
“That someone would die. Or another’s house would burn to the ground. A bad fortune befalling another. These things came true a day or two after the spells.” The girl rubbed her hands together as if cold. “The neighbours were frightened of him then, too. They said he was in league with the devil. Some of them believed that he caused these misfortunes to happen. When they started to shun the family out of fear, father tried to beat the falling sickness out of Tom. Mother took him to the church and begged the priest to drive the wickedness out of him. It didn’t work.”
A shudder rippled down Billie’s spine. Like herself, the boy had a gift, one that frightened his parents and everyone around him. Was that the connection that drew the Half-Boy to her? Tom, she reminded herself. His name was Tom. Poor Tom. She looked at the sister again. “Katie, did your father kill Tom?”
“No. He came close, mind you, with the flogging he would lay on him, specially after I was gone. But no, father didn’t kill Tom.”
“After you were gone?” Billie asked. “After you passed on?”
The girl nodded her head. “I had the fever. I died on Saint Anne’s day. After that, there was no one to shield Tom from our father. When he was in his cups, he would blame Tom for all of his bad fortune, claiming that the boy had cursed the family. It was heartbreaking. All I could do was watch.”
“You watched over him?” Billie said. “After you were gone.”
“I wanted to help Tom, but he couldn’t see me. No one could.” The girl’s eyes rose to meet Billie’s. “You’re like Tom, aren’t you? You see things.”
“Yes.” Holding the gaze of the little girl, Billie smiled warmly, but the smile wasn’t returned. The grim angle of the girl’s mouth hinted at a face that had never smiled. “Katie, can Tom see you now. Now that you’re both passed?”
“He can’t. Or he won’t, I don’t know which. His shame is too great to see me. I wish that he could. He’s been alone for so long.”
Something snapped deep in Billie’s chest. She pictured the boy, legless, filthy and alone all this time. “What happened to him? You said your father didn’t kill him.”
“He came close one night. He took Tom to the saloon, thinking the boy could foretell the turn of the cards. It didn’t work that way and Thomas was bedridden for days after the flogging father laid on him. He sold Tom a fortnight later.”
Billie startled, thinking she had misheard the girl. Gantry and Mockler did the same. “Sold?”
“To a man named Crump. A charlatan. He was a wicked man.”
“How?” It was all Billie could say, trying to comprehend the idea. It was unthinkable.
“Archibald Crump was a clairvoyant in the area. A magician and a seer. He performed magic shows at the Palladium and held séances at a tearoom on Victoria. He had heard of Tom’s spells and came round enquiring about him. He told father that if the boy’s talents were real, he’d consider employing the boy. Instead, Father sold Tom to the clairvoyant and mother never saw him again. Not alive anyway.” Katie plucked a stained handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her nose. “Tom didn’t cry when he was taken away. I think that he felt he deserved his treatment, that he truly was the cause of the family’s misfortune and that, without him, they would finally prosper.”
“Did they prosper?” Mockler asked, unable to bite his tongue.
Katie lowered her eyes again, as if scolded. “No, sir.”
Again, Billie speculated on the kind of life that the girl had had. She was as frightened and skittish as a bird, even in the realm where no man could hurt her. Billie softened her tone even more. “So, Crump used Tom in his act?”
“When he wasn’t working Tom like a slave, which I guess was what he was, having been sold and whatnot. Crump knew how to exploit Tom’s talent for his paying clients. He sat there at the table between the clairvoyant and the person who wanted to know their future, but Tom’s divinations were not what these people wanted to hear. He would tell these rich men and their stuffy wives when they were going to die. The day and the manner. He told one gentleman that his house would burn down the next day, and how it would take his entire family with it. A lady from Aberdeen wanted to know if she should marry the man who was courting her. Tom told her that her suitor would soon be driven mad with syphilis and she would follow suit soon thereafter. All of Tom’s divinations came true and, like before, people began to fear him, claiming that he was causing the misfortunes to occur. They said he was bewitched.”
“Crump beat poor Tom, much the way father had, demanding that he foretell only happy events and not tragedies. Tom said he could only see the tragic moments in someone’s life, never the joyous ones. Then, he told Archibald Crump that he would die at the hands of an angry mob, his head split open on the cobblestones under their boots.”
Billie felt Gantry stir beside her, but she nudged him to stay quiet. “Go on, Katie. Did Crump hurt Tom for saying that?”
“He took a knife and cut out Tom’s tongue; my brother never spoke again. It only got worse after that. He stopped using Tom in his act, keeping him out of sight, but working him like a dog. When he was mad with the drink, he would attack Tom and take him.” Here, the girl lowered her head again and made the sign of the cross.
“What do you mean ‘take him,’ Katie?”
“Like the men of Sodom in the Bible. The ones who surrounded Lot’s house and demanded he give up his angels to them. Like a man takes his wife. Tom cried out to me then, that first time, trying to call out my name with his ruined tongue, although I’d been dead for two years. I could do nothing.”
Another thread snapped in Billie’s heart and her belly churned in equal measure with rage and horror. She had wondered for so long who this little ghost was and, now, she almost regretted learning the truth. She didn’t know if she could bear to hear anymore.
Katie Cleary went on. “Tom tried to escape. The city was in turmoil, men gathering in the streets, hurling stones at the constables. Crump had rushed out to see the chaos, leaving the door unlocked. Tom slipped out, but he was seen by a neighbour, who caught him up and returned him to that horrid man. Crump went into a rage at his running away. He took an axe and cut both of Tom’s legs off. Then, he threw him into the root cellar and Tom died there three hours later, alone as always.
“I stayed with him the whole time, watching him turn grey as he bled out over the earthen floor. I was almost glad that his suffering was over. At least now, he would see me and we could be together, but it was not to be. Tom slipped free from his body and looked down at his wretched remains, but when he saw me kneeling there beside him, holding his dead hand, he burst into tears and ran. On his hands, the way he does now. He hid, never letting me get close, and he’s been alone all this time.” Katie looked up at Billie. “Until now. Until he found you. I don’t know what you did, Sybil, but he came to you. He let you get near him. Bless you for that.”
Billie wiped the tear crawling hot down her cheek, but her voice was too constricted to form words. Mockler spoke, his tone as gentle as he could manage. “Katie, how did Tom end up in the harbour?”
“Crump tried to cover up his sin. The next night, the rioting was even worse. He took Tom’s body to the pier as the streets burned and tossed it in. It was found the next morning and someone in the crowd recognized Tom as the boy from the séances. The people in the streets were still worked up from fighting the police and a crowd of men stormed Archibald’s house, dragging him out into the street. They stomped his head into gristle against the pavement, just as Tom had foretold.
“News of it carried to mother and father. They feared their own crime would be found out, so they fled Hamilton. They packed up that day and left when the sun went down, moving to a small village about a day’s ride out. They changed their name and started a new life. After that, there were no Clearys here. And no family for Tom to turn to.”
Billie buried her face in her hands and Mockler shifted uncomfortably, even Gantry was clenching his jaw to keep his eyes dry. No one spoke and the candles burned on.
Katie turned to the window, the one newly repaired with a clean plate of glass. “He’s coming. I have to go.”
“Wait,” Billie said. “Stay. Maybe he’ll come to you this time. You could help him.”
“I wish it was so, but he won’t. If he sees me here, he may not come back to you, Sybil. Watch over him. He needs you now.”
“Please.” Billie shot to her feet and turned to face the little girl, but Katie Cleary was gone.
Gantry blew out the candles and launched off of the sofa. “I need a fucking drink after that story. Christ.”
The window sash rattled in its frame and the boy slipped into the room. He looked up in surprise to see the men in the apartment. His mouth soured in disappointment and, then, he hobbled across the floor and leaped onto the work table. He crouched there like a cat, watching them.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Billie said to him. “Tom.”
The boy flinched at hearing his name. He looked at Billie and then turned slowly to the two men watching him. He dropped from the table and hobbled back to the window to leave.
“Wait,” she said. She knelt down and touched his cold hand. “Don’t go. Stay with me. I want you to get to know my friends.”
The boy wavered, looking askance at the two men as if they weren’t to be trusted. Billie felt him pull away, but she held on. “You’re safe here. I promise.”
He stayed, huddled next to Billie on the floor, but the glint of suspicion never left his eyes.
“I forgot to ask her something,” she said.
“What’s that?” asked Mockler.
“What name the family took after they left the city.”
“Does it matter?”
Billie shrugged. “I’m just curious.”
Smoke billowed under the Christmas lights. Gantry crossed the room and lifted something from the floor. “She wrote it down.”
“What do you mean?”
Gantry waved the small chalkboard in his hand. A child’s slate that Billie had brought home in hopes of teaching the boy how to read. Gantry shook his head at the scrawl of letters scratched onto the slate. “She wrote the name they adopted here.”
“What is it?” Billie said, rising up from the floor.
“I’m not sure you want to know, Billie.”
“Of course I do. Let me see it.”
Mockler watched the two of them, wondering why the Brit was being so cagey. Gantry handed the slate to Billie and Billie became still. A blank look settled over her face and she sank slowly onto the sofa. The chalkboard clattered to the floor.
“What is it?” Mockler said. “What’s the name?” He fetched up the slate from where it had fallen and read the name written there. His face fell and then he wiped his hand over the slate, erasing it.
With the gypsy girl overwhelmed and the men blind to him, poor Tom Cleary hobbled to the newly mended window and slipped out into the cold December night.
Afterword
WELCOME BACK. IF you’ve made it this far with the series, I just wanted to say thank you for coming along for the ride. Book Five. Wow. I’ve never gone this far in a series before. The response to the Spookshow has been more than I could have hoped for and I’ve met some truly amazing people because of it. I’m looking forward to writing more of these stories in the coming year.
In the Afterword to the first book, I wrote briefly about my own, small experience with the paranormal and asked readers for their stories. Lots of people were kind enough to share their stories and their responses blew me away. Some of these experiences are similar to mine, small occurrences that could be coincidental, but others have been truly eye-opening. A few have been downright frightening. All of them fascinate me and I remain grateful for their openness in sharing them with me.
I have a small rider to my own tale. This past summer, my wife and I attended a wedding of a cousin on my Dad’s side of the family. It was a beautiful event for a lovely, charming couple. I don’t see much of my Dad’s side of the family anymore and I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be back among the McGregor clan. Scotch-Irish and strong Catholics through and through. It was customary for at least one member of each generation to join the clergy. A quick gander at the old photo albums turns up a lot of priests and nuns and at least one Mother Superior. As a kid, I was constantly given rosaries, bibles and prayer beads and I feared that I was being groomed for the seminary, but that wasn’t the case. As the eldest male with the family name in my generation, I was meant to be the keeper of the faith. That didn’t turn out as expected, lapsed Catholic that I am. However, with the books, I discovered that I may be the keeper of a different kind of faith.
