Liberty of the clink, working the corner. Outside the law. 5 pounds a throw, can you afford it, Sir?

It starts with the whispers down Redcross Way. She appears on the corner, fluffing her skirts, cut up the middle. Walking past the fence that drowned under memories, ankles flashing between soiled hems.

Aye, we know the bishop.

They greet from gates, speared atop the walls, posed like gargoyles. Semi-naked nymphs, bodices unchained, chests at liberty, greeting their visitors, guarding their sisters. Their legs spill down the mottled stone.

Which girl ‘ere doesn’t. We’es the actresses what said to him. Buried in chapel, while we’es buried in the dirt.

The gates are open. They leer with smudged crimson at their mouths.

Best watch your feet.

The whispers only grow louder. The ladies grow clear.

That’s a pretty ribbon you got there. Mary owns the red tree. You won’t see ‘er, but you’ll see ‘er ribbons. Red and pink. Like the sheets she died on.

They lie between the branches of trees, ribbons dripping down them. Tattered taffeta and lacy pantalettes, bark bruised skin and sticky-cold amber sap tangled up together; colours stained with rain. Little shrouds of brightness fighting against the grey stones, grey skies, dull greens and Mother Marys, wrapped up in skin. Doxy graveyard. Lady garden. The tree girls titter at the joke.

Ghost town, the one by the pond laughs in response, her hair stained with algae combs, cheeks rouged with greener muck. Liberty of the clink ain’t the same anymore.

Queenie. They all call her name. The youngest of those who made it past fourteen. The wind goes rattling through the iron fence, snapping bundles of ribbons, flower petals breaking and twirling across the courtyard, paper and fliers and obituaries humming the names of the lost. It blows her silken hair out. Platinum-Luck. They used to pay just to touch it. She traces the lines of a poppet, propped up on one of the shrines left behind.

Mr. Bishop’s been gone a long time, but he still sends us gifts.

Her voice is lost under earth. Her lips don’t move when she speaks.

Touch for love.

The heart is pink, old paint, and the door is older and grey, and the words are the ladies’ and the ladies keep their word. Two sets of milky hands curl around the edges, two sets of hips propped between its planes and the garden wall. These ones are most dead among the rest, their skirts shredded, their touch cold, their smiles stained with black.

Best leave an offering at the shrine if you do.

The door feels like a door. Except for the possibility that it shouldn’t and that it doesn’t at all. Their legs part astride the entrance.

Or you won’t know what kind of love you’ll get.

Their gazes linger. Skin rises to its call and they cackle all together. Goose bumps. You don’t want those from the Winchester Geese.

They flock and sway like their namesake, eyes boring holes, skirts fluttering and slashing and wisping away into nothing.

An apple, cherry red and heart-shaped, set down at a shrine before a Mother Mary. In front and centred, startling. Making a point.

It’s not much. It’s all there is.

The cackling stops. The whispers begin again.

It is enough.

The geese turn back into ladies and float away, back to their spirit-made homes. The girl on the corner leans her face to through the fence and blows a kiss. The one in the pond slips silent into the mucked water, without a ripple. The whispers stop. The gates creak open and the nymphs turn back to stone.

On your way, Sir. You won’t get bit by us today.

Inspired by Crossbones Graveyard Southwark