“I think Mr Nightingale is full of shit,” I say to Goliath.
She is crying now. Crying over her life, her loneliness, in fear of the picture of the woman, whose eyes watch her day in day out. I think, take that picture off the wall and throw it away. Throw her away. She is with the dead, now.
Mr Nightingale, hysterically excited: “I command thee. I, Augustus Nightingale, Spirit Talker, Command Thee. Return to thy wicked Master!”
I hear a smash from downstairs.
The woman has shut her eyes. Mr Nightingale laughs triumphantly. “I have saved her. The devil is gone,” he cries and stands as though waiting for an applause.
Goliath moves to the woman’s side and helps her up.
“Thank you,” she says to him.
Mr Nightingale quietly says under his breath to us, “She was lucky. Sometimes the spirit is too strong for them to survive. Tonight has been a triumph.” His eyes move to my guardian, nervously. The young boy creaks open the door, peering into the gloom.
“Mum, are you alright? Grandma’s picture fell off the wall and smashed and I think the cat shat himself.”
Mr Nightingale turns towards us. “I am performing at the spiritualist church on Duck Lane tomorrow night if you would care to attend. I could exorcise your ward on stage in front of an audience if you would like?”
Goliath shakes his head. “I do not think so Mr Nightingale.”
Mr Nightingale looks down at me. “Maybe she would like it. What is your name little girl?”
“Mirror,” I say.
“Would you like me to take the nasty demon out of you?”
“I would like to see you try,” I reply.
And so it is decided.
We leave number 63 Quack Alley and return to our lodgings. The stars are now hidden under a blanket of smog and the air tainted with cat fuzz-stink. I wonder how much money slippery Mr Nightingale has asked for. I wonder, if he tripped on his cloak and fell into the harbor and drowned, would it be such a bad thing? Would the angels sitting on the rooftops intervene? Or would they shrug their winged shoulders and watch him sink underwater?
As soon as my head hits the pillow I am asleep. I dream that Goliath is an Egyptian prince and I am his magic crocodile with shiny, shiny teeth. I could eat anyone I wanted and he would let me do it.
The morning shines with an egg-yellow sun over Liverpool, the skies steel grey, with swirls of industrial cotton wool puffs. We eat bacon for breakfast with heaps of buttered toast. I lick the fat off my fingers and smile at the beautiful Goliath. His great dark beard has silver streaks like moonlight and his eyes are chocolate, deep and delicious. Today he wears a big fur hat and a great fur coat. He looks like a giant grizzly bear and I, his cub. By his side is a long silver cane with a frog engraved on the top. I asked him, once, why he had picked a frog and he said it was because frogs grant wishes if they are kissed. And so I kissed him on the cheek and made a wish that he would never leave me and would always, always love me.
Mr Nightingale is performing at the spiritualist church tonight and so Goliath has decided for us to visit a tarot reader during the day. She is called Nettie Stout, and she resides in a little shop on Goodhop Lane. She has been recommended by the wife of the tavern owner who had brought us up our breakfast.
We spend the morning feeding seagulls near the docks and we find a little bakery and buy meat pies for our lunch, followed by sticky buns. Goliath devours three and then announces he is going to buy me a book for our train journey the next day. We find a little secondhand bookshop, small and dark and stuffed with books. I like the sound the pages make when they are turned, the different colours and pictures. I like the smell of them, musky and covered in fingerprints.
The shopkeeper eyeballs us suspiciously, for we make a strange twosome. I choose a book of fairy stories with dark illustrations and a moral verse as a warning for children, which I think is funny. Do not play with matches. Do not go for walks in the wood alone. Do not talk to strangers because they might be a wolf in disguise. I hand it to Goliath, who flicks through it, pats my head and hands it to the shopkeeper.
“Red Riding Hood would like this book please.”
I treasure that book because it is full of magic and wonder, like him.
Our appointment with Miss Nettie Stout has arrived. She is a pawnbroker but reads tarot in the backrooms, mostly for her neighbours and the odd visitor. She is a plump widow and her eyes are green as peas. We sit in the back of the shop, while Nettie shuffles her tarot. Goliath lays the money on the table for her. She quickly puts it away in a drawer, then continues shuffling those bright coloured cards.
“How long have you been reading tarot cards?” Goliath says.