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.A man on a makeshift bed of newspapers and old clothes sprawled close by, his hand twitching in a fitful sleep.Annie’s attention also turned to the groggy man.‘What’ve I told yer about smoking in that state, stupid old fool.Yer’ll burn the place down.’ She picked up the pipe and kicked the man hard in the ribs.Blacked out to the pain, he moaned and turned over.Annie’s voice ripped Pearl out of her stupor.‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ She pushed a foot hard against Pearl’s shoulder and sent her hurtling back down into the hole.Pearl screamed as she fell backwards, the desperate voice of a stranger, no longer recognisable as her own.‘Get a load of this, Lolly.’ A blubbery girl, with rouge so plastered it could have been slapped on by a brickie’s trowel, slouched sullenly alongside Annie, who pinched her on the shoulder and snarled.‘See what happens to girls who don’t do as I say?’Annie had more menacing words for Pearl.‘Stop yer squawking, yer rattling bag of bones.Yer only good enough for the likes of Slasher, because yer don’t do as yer told.’ Without a further word of warning she spat on Pearl, then let the trapdoor slam down.Left alone, Pearl’s body took on a dreadful, involuntary life of its own, her limbs shaking as if she had caught the typhoid.Surely to become a ghost child wouldn’t be so bad, once the darkness took over completely.She felt detached from her body, a colourless wisp of air.From beyond the exterior wall came a faint noise, a slight suggestion of music, enough to coax Pearl away from these morbid wonderings.She concentrated on the beat of the Oompah.As it became a little louder, she could make out the ring and clashing of the Sally Army.Hadn’t Daisy been teaching her this same salvation song? She jostled her memory for the words ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus … coming down before …’ No, she thought, that isn’t right, I should have paid more attention.Annie’s voice filled her mind, Yer a muddling slag, a smut of soot.A single tear spilled from her eye.If it was the works of her mind gone insane, well, it would be understandable.After all, she had suffered so miserably of late and couldn’t be blamed for losing her wits.But what if the sound was a sign that Daisy was coming to find her? Daisy who was always kind to her, the way she always was with everyone.To be with Daisy would be safe.Daisy was good and kind and generous.Not scampish and wayward the way Pearl had turned out.Not stinking vermin.Pearl didn’t do what she was told.Pearl was only good enough for Slasher.That’s why Madam Buckingham was so good to Daisy, but wouldn’t help her.Madam knew Daisy was an angel and Pearl was wilful.Daisy could reserve a place in heaven.Pearl had nowhere.She strained to hear the Sally’s song of prayer.Could she dare to hope that sweet, kind Daisy was leading an army of God’s angels to save her?A feeble shaft of filtered light crept through the gaps between the trapdoor and the floor joists, directing her attention to a cluster of objects which, obscured by dust up until now, had gone unnoticed.For the first time since her capture, the light was shining upon this particular spot, illuminating these remnants of someone’s earlier stay.The music of the Army softened.The band passed by.Pearl realised she would not be liberated this time by her angel from God.But neither would she become a ghost child.For a fragment of candle stuck to a saucer with wax was lit up by the light as if itself were burning.Two matchsticks left there could be no less than a sign.It was an eerie feeling to rise from the dead.She was convinced there and then that an angel must have been sent to lighten her troubles.A sense of hope filled her, warm and soothing.Yes, she might remain at Annie’s mercy, probably she would die soon, but she would have some respite from the dark and the rodents until then.She struck the two match heads together and prayed the way Daisy did, asking for a swift deliverance, a good feed before it came, and the most fervent request of all: that Annie Walker lose her footing over a cesspit, topple down senseless and be left to rot in the bog forever.HORSE BRASSItem No.5439Brass ornamentation worn on a horse’s harness.Over in the office at the Golden Acres stud farm, Thomas Crick stood pleading with his father over the plan to let Lonnie McGuinness ride in the upcoming street race.‘That impertinent stableboy called me an ape.He needs teaching a lesson.How dare he compare himself with me or the other jockeys? You have to consent to him riding Lightning.’ For the umpteenth time that week he tried to make his point.His father must see it was a matter of pride.‘Have you lost your mind?’ Crick said to his son.‘If anyone’ll be able to tell there’s something fishy going on, it’ll be McGuinness.’It wasn’t proving easy to convince his father, but Thomas wouldn’t be silenced.‘It’s clear as day.When Lightning gets beaten in the race, everyone will be suspicious of us because we’ve made such heavy bets against it.But if we put McGuinness on Lightning we can blame its defeat on his bad riding.All we have to say is we put money on Trident because we knew McGuinness wasn’t good enough.Our plan’s infallible.’As his father considered this new point Thomas realised he was wavering, which prompted him to advance the argument even further.‘We’d look even better if we say that we were trying to do those Little Lon scum a favour by letting one of their own ride the best horse in Melbourne.Think of the publicity for Golden Acres.You could even fix it so that the story gets covered by the Argus.He drew the headline in the air: ‘Lightning luck for a Little Lon lad.We’d sure look good, helping out the poor unfortunates.’‘The Argus? Are you a complete lunatic? This is an illegal race! We can’t go admitting our horses are in it.’ Mr Crick paused.‘But your idea is basically sound.’Course it’d have to be done by word of mouth.Only rumours mind you, nothing official.’Thomas could see from his father’s expression that he was at last winning the argument.‘It’s a perfect ruse, Father.Explains why I’m not riding Lightning.We just let slip about my bet with McGuinness and how, through the kindness of my heart, I’m letting him ride the “best” horse
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