The Last of the Spirits by Chris Priestley

Author:Chris Priestley
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2014-10-13T16:00:00+00:00

It was dark and the nearby factory gates were closed. There had been rain here too and the lamps lit up the wet cobbles so that they glowed like hot coals. It could have been later the same day, but Sam sensed somehow that they had moved on in time.

‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘I asked what happened to Liz. What are you showing me? Does she work at that factory?’

Sam knew that factory work was poorly paid and tedious, but it would mean that she at least would be safe and might have the means to look after herself. It was something to cling to.

‘Does she get work? Is this her fate? Is this where she works?’

The spirit nodded gravely and Sam smiled hopefully.

‘Lizzie seems like she’s weak,’ said Sam. ‘But she’s not. She’s clever. She’s cleverer than me. She can read and everything. She’ll be fine without me. She’ll make friends. I never let her do that. I told her there was no such thing as friends on the street. But I think I was just scared she’d leave me on my own . . .’

Sam had never even thought these things before, never mind said them aloud. But as much as he tried to keep this positive feeling alive, there was something unremittingly grim about the spectre’s silence.

‘Please tell me she’s all right,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t mind if she works hard as long as she’s safe. I could bear the horror of what I’ve just seen if you show me that. Just give me some sign of what happens to her.’

The spirit raised its arm and once again pointed its long finger, this time at a group of women who stood in the shadows of the railway viaduct, so cloaked in darkness Sam had not noticed them before.

‘What?’ said Sam. ‘What should I be looking at?’

He peered at the group who, though they were not so very distant, could no more see Sam and the phantom than could the crowd at the execution.

Sam knew their kind. No one could live on the streets and not. They were streetwalkers, women who sold themselves for money to men – good, God-fearing men who went to church with their wives the following Sunday without a care.

These women dressed like actresses, their faces crusted in make-up, bold in its application to work in this low light – and to divert attention from the ravages of time and disease. And in a way, actresses were what they were, a painted smile to please the vanity of the men who used them so callously.

The coloured silks of the group flickered occasionally as they caught the light. They were like a small flock of parrots sheltering against the grey and hostile London weather.

Sam heard a noise in the distance and the group of women peered out expectantly. A hansom cab clattered down the street and pulled up alongside. A woman came out from the shadows, hands on hips, and talked to the passenger, who

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