things that killed them whistling through them every day.
Kelpie looked towards Central and wished she hadn’t. From this side there were even more of them, weaving so close together they looked like storm clouds.
They stood at the tram stop and waited for the next tram. There was only a grey-haired couple waiting with them.
“You’ll tell me what that was,” Palmer said, “when Dymph can’t hear you.”
Kelpie nodded her head slightly, though she didn’t really know.
A fancy motor-car slowed, and someone in the back rolled down the window.
“Dymphna, angel,” said a deep, oddly accented voice, “what are you doing on this side of town? Need a lift?”
The man’s hat kept his face in shadow, but Kelpie knew who it was from his voice alone. Everyone knew who he was. The arm that rested on the motor-car door had a large watch on it. It shone.
“No, thank you, Mr. Davidson.”
“You sure, darling? An angel like you is too refined for the tram.”
Dymphna laughed, shaking her head. “I’m not sure Glory would approve. You know I don’t like to get in trouble.”
The man laughed hard. “Weren’t you born in trouble, young Dymphna? Why, haven’t you heard? You’re the Angel of Death! Is there anything more troublesome than death? Do get in. I’ve got a present for you. You’ll like it.”
The man smiled. Kelpie thought he looked like a dragon. Someone moved behind Mr. Davidson, but the windows were too dark for her to make out who it was.
Dymphna shook her head and took a few steps further away. The motor-car rolled along beside her. “Terry, why don’t you give Dymphna here a hand getting into the car?”
The motor-car stopped, and the driver, a large man in a suit much shinier than Mr. Davidson’s, got out. He moved towards Dymphna, who increased her pace and pulled Kelpie closer to her. Several motor-car horns sounded.
“You should do what Mr. Davidson says, Miss Campbell,” the driver said.
“You should fucking run,” Palmer said. But he was looking at Kelpie.
“Oh, look,” Dymphna said, smiling brightly, “here’s our tram.” She twisted past the driver, holding Kelpie’s hand so tight it hurt, and dashed out onto the street. More horns sounded, someone yelled abuse, but Dymphna had pulled Kelpie up onto the back of the tram, where Dymphna paused to ask if she was all right, before waving to Mr. Davidson.
Kelpie wasn’t. She didn’t like the look of that Mr. Davidson. Or the sound of him. Or anything about him. It wasn’t safe with Dymphna.
Mr. Davidson
No one knew Mr. Davidson’s first name. Or where he came from. Or anything about him. Except for the little you could glean from looking at him. His accent was faintly foreign. But local too. Just more Point Piper than Millers Point.
He never got into fights. Not like Glory, who’d been known to go the biff more than once. With her own husband, even, and every one of her lovers. Mr. Davidson never raised his voice. The only sign he was angry was that he smiled more. Or so said one of his razor men. Long gone now. So who knew if that was true?
He didn’t have a wife or children. As far as anyone knew, with few exceptions, he lived like a monk. A monk with a taste for caviar and champagne—in small amounts. No one had ever seen Mr. Davidson drunk or even slightly tipsy.
He was unfailingly polite to everyone, and yet no one in his domain would defend him the way those in Glory’s defended her. No one trusted him. His hands were never dirty. He didn’t drink beer. He spent more time at the high end of town than the low. “Looking after his
legitimate
business interests,” Glory said, scoffing, “as if he has any of those. Or have smoke houses, sly grog shops, and two-up parlours gone and got respectable while I wasn’t looking?”
The one thing Mr. Davidson could not be accused of was running a brothel. The niceties of the law meant that men could not profit from women selling their bodies. But women could.
Kelpie looked towards Central and wished she hadn’t. From this side there were even more of them, weaving so close together they looked like storm clouds.
They stood at the tram stop and waited for the next tram. There was only a grey-haired couple waiting with them.
“You’ll tell me what that was,” Palmer said, “when Dymph can’t hear you.”
Kelpie nodded her head slightly, though she didn’t really know.
A fancy motor-car slowed, and someone in the back rolled down the window.
“Dymphna, angel,” said a deep, oddly accented voice, “what are you doing on this side of town? Need a lift?”
The man’s hat kept his face in shadow, but Kelpie knew who it was from his voice alone. Everyone knew who he was. The arm that rested on the motor-car door had a large watch on it. It shone.
“No, thank you, Mr. Davidson.”
“You sure, darling? An angel like you is too refined for the tram.”
Dymphna laughed, shaking her head. “I’m not sure Glory would approve. You know I don’t like to get in trouble.”
The man laughed hard. “Weren’t you born in trouble, young Dymphna? Why, haven’t you heard? You’re the Angel of Death! Is there anything more troublesome than death? Do get in. I’ve got a present for you. You’ll like it.”
The man smiled. Kelpie thought he looked like a dragon. Someone moved behind Mr. Davidson, but the windows were too dark for her to make out who it was.
Dymphna shook her head and took a few steps further away. The motor-car rolled along beside her. “Terry, why don’t you give Dymphna here a hand getting into the car?”
The motor-car stopped, and the driver, a large man in a suit much shinier than Mr. Davidson’s, got out. He moved towards Dymphna, who increased her pace and pulled Kelpie closer to her. Several motor-car horns sounded.
“You should do what Mr. Davidson says, Miss Campbell,” the driver said.
“You should fucking run,” Palmer said. But he was looking at Kelpie.
“Oh, look,” Dymphna said, smiling brightly, “here’s our tram.” She twisted past the driver, holding Kelpie’s hand so tight it hurt, and dashed out onto the street. More horns sounded, someone yelled abuse, but Dymphna had pulled Kelpie up onto the back of the tram, where Dymphna paused to ask if she was all right, before waving to Mr. Davidson.
Kelpie wasn’t. She didn’t like the look of that Mr. Davidson. Or the sound of him. Or anything about him. It wasn’t safe with Dymphna.
Mr. Davidson
No one knew Mr. Davidson’s first name. Or where he came from. Or anything about him. Except for the little you could glean from looking at him. His accent was faintly foreign. But local too. Just more Point Piper than Millers Point.
He never got into fights. Not like Glory, who’d been known to go the biff more than once. With her own husband, even, and every one of her lovers. Mr. Davidson never raised his voice. The only sign he was angry was that he smiled more. Or so said one of his razor men. Long gone now. So who knew if that was true?
He didn’t have a wife or children. As far as anyone knew, with few exceptions, he lived like a monk. A monk with a taste for caviar and champagne—in small amounts. No one had ever seen Mr. Davidson drunk or even slightly tipsy.
He was unfailingly polite to everyone, and yet no one in his domain would defend him the way those in Glory’s defended her. No one trusted him. His hands were never dirty. He didn’t drink beer. He spent more time at the high end of town than the low. “Looking after his
legitimate
business interests,” Glory said, scoffing, “as if he has any of those. Or have smoke houses, sly grog shops, and two-up parlours gone and got respectable while I wasn’t looking?”
The one thing Mr. Davidson could not be accused of was running a brothel. The niceties of the law meant that men could not profit from women selling their bodies. But women could.
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