When we arrived home, I got down from the coach by myself and left the door open for him to follow, but he reached forward and slammed it shut. The driver looked down at me. I met his eyes for a moment before he chose to pretend he’d not seen anything. I could tell from his face that I looked a mess. Then the coach pulled away. Thomas had taken my dolman with the white fur and the pendant, the things that had been my gifts. I was naive to think they had ever really been mine. I was left standing in the fussy dress, blood from my mouth dripping down the front. I ran my tongue over my lip; the skin was smooth and taut where it had already begun to swell. When he’d hit me, I knew he was holding back. There was still so much more to come out.
When Mrs Wiggs saw my face, she gasped, then, quick as a flash, collected herself and pretended as if nothing more than another silly accident had occurred. She pestered me to take off the pink silk dress, chasing me as I walked up the stairs.
‘Quick, quick, Mrs Lancaster! Blood becomes more difficult to get out the longer it is left.’
The Ghost of Dark Annie
Timothy Donovan, the deputy manager for Crossingham’s Lodging House on Dorset Street, was by all accounts a grim-faced and unapproachable man. It was widely known that it was never worth asking him for any kind of favour, as his answer was sure to be no. For his part, Donovan avoided all unnecessary engagement with dossers because no matter how often he reminded them of the rules and terms of business, they would always try their luck by pushing for more or paying less. They had no honour or dignity, and this disgusted him.
It was still fairly light when Dark Annie appeared in the doorway of his office. She was a sloping, apologetic figure and he steeled himself in anticipation of the request that was sure to come. The woman was a regular, a reliable payer for at least three nights a week, but where she got to on the other nights he had no idea; most likely she slept under the night sky like the rest of them.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Dark Annie – the woman was notably polite, well-mannered, articulate even. He’s heard that her father had been a guardsman and that she’d once been married to a coachman but he’d died. The woman came with an air of ominous melancholy, as if she were already a long-gone soul somehow still trapped in her earthly body. How the woman was still alive was beyond all reasonable comprehension. She was sick and getting sicker, which was apparent each time he encountered her. She was probably in her forties, but she looked older. Her face was long, with sad, down-turned eyes and slow lumbering footsteps. She was a drinker, but a courteous drunk, and so one of the more tolerable. And here she was, haunting his doorway. He knew the reason for her visit.
‘Good afternoon, Annie,’ he said.
‘Afternoon, Mr Donovan,’ she said, coughing into a yellowing muslin.
Mr Donovan turned his chair round to face her but would not give her the satisfaction of asking what she wanted.
‘Mr Donovan, you know me to be a reliable tenant. I know the terms of business and I always rent a double-bed, but I’m unwell at the moment, Mr Donovan. I’ve been sick.’
‘Have you, Annie?’
‘I’ve been up the infirmary today. I have pills – look.’ She took out a small paper envelope and shoved it in front of Donovan’s face, at pains to show him the stamp on the envelope: Sussex Regiment, London.
‘I see. Well, I hope those do the trick.’ Donovan turned back to his desk, but Annie stepped a little further into his cramped office.
‘Would it be all right if I sat in the kitchen awhile, by the fire?’
‘Course it would, Annie,’ said Donovan.
‘Thank you,’ she said and turned to leave.
‘You have a few hours yet, before I send the night-watchman to collect. You make the most of that fire, Annie.’
Annie stopped walking but didn’t turn around and didn’t say anything. After a pause, she slowly dragged herself back down the stairs towards the kitchen. They both knew she hadn’t had the courage to ask for what she wanted.
*
It wasn’t long after midnight when Donovan looked out of the window and saw Dark Annie leaving the kitchen with a couple of others. He was surprised at the relief he felt. He was relieved she’d had the dignity and respect for both of them not to grovel.
At about two in the morning, Donovan sent the night-watchman into the kitchen to collect the night’s rent. There was the usual groaning and grumbling, and Donovan tutted and shook his head. Every night, it was a great surprise to them. What he hadn’t expected was to find Dark Annie blocking his doorway again. He nearly leapt out of his skin when he saw her.
‘Jesus Christ, Annie, what you doing there?’ he said.
‘You know me to be reliable. I always have my bed money, but I’ve been unwell. I would ask if you could trust me only this once, Mr Donovan.’
‘Yet you can find money for your beer, can’t you, Annie? How much have you had tonight? Enough for a bed? Enough for your double? You can find money for this, but you can’t find money for your bed.’
Donovan waited for her to argue, but instead she sighed and said, ‘Keep Number 29 for me, please, if you will, Mr Donovan. I shan’t be long.’ Then she sloped away again.
*
Annie trudged towards Christ Church in Spitalfields. She
