Razorhurst by Justine Larbalestier Page A

Hence Glory’s rise to power. The cops couldn’t take away her money from running girls.
    Still, running sly grog shops and nightclubs and gaming houses and peddling illicit drugs were also against the law, and yet Mr. Davidson saw that as no barrier to his involvement. The answer to the conundrum was easy: the cops raided the houses of ill repute far more often than the illegal casinos. All those shapely women dragged out onto the street in dishabille meant better newspaper coverage.
    As it happened, much of Mr. Davidson’s profits from the low end of town supported his licit activities at the high end of town running legal nightclubs and restaurants and even clothing factories in SurryHills. Glory’s territory, yes. But she didn’t know he’d invested in the rag trade.
She
certainly hadn’t. A pub in Woolloomooloo and some flats in the Cross were all the legal real estate she’d managed thus far.
    Mr. Davidson wasn’t like anyone else in their world. His ambitions were larger. The aim wasn’t merely to run all of Razorhurst—Davidson wanted the entire city, hell, the rest of the country too. He wanted onward and upward and an enormous bag of respectability.
    He also wanted Dymphna Campbell.

KELPIE
    Dymphna took a seat at the back of the tram, pulling Kelpie beside her. Kelpie’s feet did not reach the floor. She kicked them back and forth. Dymphna let go of her hand at last and patted her shoulder. Dymphna was breathing hard, and her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes glittered, and for a moment Kelpie thought she might cry.
    “I’ve managed to stay out of gaol this long,” she whispered. “And alive. I’m not about to go back there now. We’ll be all right, Kelpie. If we can get home.”
    Palmer sat opposite them next to a small boy ghost.
    A man in uniform came up to them, and for a moment Kelpie thought he was a copper, but then Dymphna handed him money, and he handed her two small pieces of thin paper. She gave one to Kelpie, who stared at it.
    “Your ticket, silly.”
    Dymphna stared out the back window, probably checking that Mr. Davidson was not following them. Kelpie didn’t know how she could tell. All those motor-cars looked pretty much the same to her. Black and shining and metallic. She had no trouble imagining Mr. Davidson ordering Palmer’s death. Or anyone else he didn’t like.
    Across the aisle the small boy stared at them. Kelpie wondered why he wasn’t ignoring her and Dymphna. Most ghosts ignored the living. She smiled at him. He did not smile back.
    Kelpie had never been on a tram before. She’d thought they’d be free of ghosts. She didn’t know why. Trams were filled with people. People could die anywhere.
    Next time the tram stopped, she was going to run. She hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to find her way back to the Hills.
    “Dymphna’s scared,” Palmer said as they rattled along.
    Every time the tram shuddered, Kelpie bounced on the hard wooden seat. There were already plasters on her fingers from Mrs. Darcy’s scrubbing—soon she’d need them on her bum.
    The tram stopped. Now was the time. They were only a block and a half further along. Easy to get back along Elizabeth Street to the Hills.
    Kelpie pushed herself up.
    Dymphna pulled her down.
    “You’ll have to be quicker than that,” she whispered, holding Kelpie’s hand firmly.
    Kelpie was plenty quick. She’d just timed it wrong. She knew she could outrun Dymphna, especially in those heels she was wearing. No one could run in those things.
    Loads of people crowded on board, filling the aisle, holding the leather straps that hung intermittently from the railing down the centre aisle. A big fat man leaned over her, so close she could smell his tobacco breath. Kelpie couldn’t see a way to push past him without Dymphna catching her.
    “I’ve never seen her this scared,” Palmer said, peering over and through the fat man, who shifted uncomfortably.
    She didn’t look scared to Kelpie. Dymphna caught Kelpie