But Si’s giving me that mega-arched-eyebrow look only someone in eighteenth-century makeup can pull off. He knows I’m burning to find out what’s going on next door, just as he is. But I’m not in the mood to give in to him right now. So when he opens his mouth again…
‘Daniel?’
…I roll away into my blanket, fully clothed.
‘Just buzz off, Si. Go and bother a badger. I need to think.’
And I’ve got a lot to think about: the palatial squat with its cooler than ice-cream kids, the cellar door barricaded on the outside (what is that all about?), the candle skulls (again, huh?), the teenage ghost in the kitchen…
Lucifane.
Yeah, it’s a long time before I get to sleep.
The next day, as we risk our teeth on the bullet-hard breakfast croissants served at the Hotel Cafards, Frenchy Phelps goes over the programme for the day. And if I’d thought I could somehow sneak back to the squat and make things right with Lucifane, then an extensive guided tour of something called ‘the catacombs’, followed by a written test (to make sure we were all paying attention), will put paid to that.
In no time at all, we’re trooping onto the flea-bitten bus again.
‘Si, what exactly are these catacombs?’ I manage to ask without attracting too much attention. Bri is so close that he can’t help but hear, and he looks at me with curiosity.
‘A catacomb is an underground graveyard,’ says Si. ‘There are ossuaries and tunnels beneath Rome that are known as the catacombs, but if there is such a thing in Paris it must be from after my own time.’
‘Si, “after your time” covers about two hundred and fifty years, so that’s not very helpful.’
‘Then I can only suggest we wait and see.’ Si puffs a cloud of his more superior ectoplasm at me. ‘This will be an education for us both.’
The bus gasps to a stop. Frenchy jumps to his feet and starts yelling at us to wait and settle down. He’s wearing his black polo neck pullover again, but with a red waistcoat this time, and I swear, he’s started growing a little goatee in his eagerness to fit in.
On the pavement, we gather before a windowless stone building with a pair of wide wooden doors. There are a few tourists milling about and blinking in the sun, and it’s then that I realise that we really are going to be spending time below ground. Si seems to realise it too, and he starts quivering in his stockings again.
‘Perhaps you can just tell me about it afterwards, Daniel. I’m feeling a little off colour.’
‘Si, the last time you had any colour in your cheeks, it was painted on with arsenic and whiter than a vampire’s bum.’
‘When…’ comes a little squeaky voice beside me. I’d almost forgotten Brian. ‘…when you talk to yourself like that, is it…? I mean, is it really…?’
‘Spit it out, Bri,’ I say. ‘Is it because I’m loopy, is that what you’re asking?’
‘No, no!’ he answers, just a bit too quickly. ‘It’s just… well, it must be weird to have an imaginary friend.’
I sigh.
‘Yeah, Brian. It’s a bit weird.’
‘It’s just, I was thinking… well, what with all this trouble with Baz and everything, I wonder if maybe, you’d… sort of…’
I sigh again. And it takes some effort, too, because my lungs are still empty from the last one.
‘You’d rather I didn’t talk to him?
Because of Baz?’ Brian nods so vigorously I can almost hear his eyeballs rattling.
I can’t believe this. But I really don’t have time to argue about it, so instead, I just speak out loud to Simon, right in front of Brian and everyone.
‘Okay, my weird imaginary friend, why don’t you take the morning off. Go put your heels up and blow smoke rings till I get back.’
Si looks a bit surprised to be spoken to openly like this, but he’s so keen to avoid going underground again that he just gives a quick bow and then vanishes in a puff of ectoplasmic relief.
I turn back to Brian.
‘Is that better?’
Brian – who obviously didn’t see any of that – looks a bit dubious, but nods anyway. Then he looks down at a half-finished paper plane in his hands.
‘And I suppose I’d better stop making these. I’m drawing too much attention to myself.’
I look at the plane. Its design is fabulously complex. And suddenly I’m angry, though it takes a moment before I realise why.
‘Brian, do you want to stop making your planes?’
‘No, but…’
‘Then don’t! Baz doesn’t get to decide who you are, does he? Or what you do?’
‘No, but…’
‘Button it, Bri. Just leave him to me and finish your plane. Something tells me today is the day we deal with Baz for good.’
‘Do you really think so?’
I adjust the coat and my new purple specs. Brian looks wide-eyed for a moment, then a little smile appears and he starts folding his paper masterpiece again. But he doesn’t get far. Before I can react a big beefy hand slaps down onto his shoulder. Another slaps down on mine.
‘Morning, losers,’ come the lumpen tones of Baz. ‘Did I hear my name? Can’t get enough of me, eh? Had time to think about my overdue homework, have we, Brain Cabbidge? Good man!’ Then he clonks Bri round the head and laughs, ‘Hur hur hur.’
I shrug the slab of fingers and thumb off my shoulder.
‘Watch it, Baz,’ I say, doing the spooky eyebrow thing for all I’m worth. ‘Wouldn’t want to see your jeans at half-mast again, would we?’
I’m hoping there’s still a bit of protection to be had from his embarrassment on the train, but when Baz opens his denim jacket, I see that I’m out of luck on that score. He’s wearing a belt and braces.
‘I don’t know how you did that yesterday, spooky boy.’ Baz leans over me, so close that his bumfluff tickles my forehead. ‘But try any funny business today, and you’ll be seeing the rest of Paris from a wheelchair. Got it?’
And he pokes me in the chest so hard I actually sit down on the pavement.
I’m just about to see red – quite a feat for someone wearing purple specs – and get all paranormal on him again, when I remember I’ve sent Si off for the morning.
Crapsticks.
I get to my feet, but what can I do? Baz is about twice my weight, and he knows it. He simply grabs Brian in a headlock and walks him away, as if everything I’ve just said means nothing. The last I see of Brian is his helpless little ferrety face looking at me pleadingly, the plane still clutched in one hand, before he’s lost in the crowd of tourists.
But as I straighten the coat and flick the lapels back up, I quietly promise Bri I won’t let him down. I meant what I said: I’ll find a way to stop Baz bullying him for good, with or without Si.
As for Frenchy, he’s almost quivering with excitement. As he gets us to group together, I see that he’s got one of the natives captive, and it’s quite a specimen: a tall, hook-nosed man is standing beside him, wearing some kind of uniform. Police, it looks like, and judging by the splendour of his hat and lapels, pretty senior. Frenchy’s fawning over him.
‘Now class, we are incredible lucky today. Mais oui! For our guided tour of the catacombs, we are extremely privileged to be shown around by none other than le Commandant Lavache, head of the special police force charged with protecting this unique part of the city’s heritage. Quelle chance!’
Commander Lavache turns his impressive nose on Frenchy, peers down at him along it, then turns it back to us. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere on the planet but here with a bunch of British school kids and their prancing teacher.
‘Sir,’ says the girl called Tanya. ‘What’s this catacombs, then? A shopping centre?’
There is an exaggerated gasp of horror from Frenchy. But it’s le Commandant who speaks, and in an accent as thick as Dijon mustard.
‘You ask, what is it that it is? This is really what it is that you are asking? Ignorant child! It is a monument
to the glory of the dead of Paris, is what it is.’
There’s a murmur round our group as everyone tries to untangle such interesting grammar, but me, I’m mostly just stuck on the mention of the dead. If I’m going to tackle Baz today, at least it sounds like I’ll be doing it on home territory.
Le Commandant waves a perfectly manicured hand at the entrance to the Catacombs.
And then, whether or not we’ve actually understood what it is that we are about to see, we’re all shuffling inside.
6
The Empire of the Dead
There are steps going down. As we descend the air gets heavier and cooler, and we all go a bit quiet, not really sure what to expect. Even Frenchy clams up.
When we reach the bottom le Commandant tells us to walk in single file, setting off ahead of us at a military pace. I try to get nearer Baz and Brian, but the passage we’re in is too narrow. The stone of the walls is white-gone-to-green and clammy, and I button the coat up. Nice place!
The corridor ends, and we find ourselves below the vaulted rock ceiling of a rectangular chamber. There is a stone doorway opposite, in an old-fashioned style that Si would probably go for if he wasn’t too much of a wuss to follow me down here. Above the doorway, in curling letters of lead, is an inscription:
ARRÊTE! C’EST iCi L’EMPiRE DE LA MORT
By now we’re all seriously huddled together. The girl called Tanya even clutches my arm for a moment, before realising whose arm it is and dropping it with a squeal of fright. I give her the grin, and she vanishes in an instant.
Le Commandant sweeps his nose-mounted gaze across us all before speaking.
‘’Ere, you are at the door to the Empire of the Dead. This is what it is saying, ’ere.’ And he points to the inscription. ‘I will be watching you. You touch one thing, you misbe’ave, and I will ‘ave you strung up by the – ’
‘Thank you, Commandant!’ Frenchy gasps. ‘Please be assured that my class will be on its best behaviour. Perhaps, before we go in, you could give us a quick history of the catacombs? I’m sure we would all benefit from your years of wisdom as guardian of this place.’
Commander Lavache looks at Frenchy like an eagle regarding a lame rabbit it just can’t be bothered to catch. There’s an awkward pause as it becomes clear that the Frenchman is going to do no such thing.
Frenchy Phelps tugs his tiny goatee in desperation before filling the silence himself.
‘Well, class, you see, beneath Paris is a vast network of tunnels, quarries and natural caverns. When the city graveyards became overcrowded at the end of the eighteenth century, human remains were collected together in some of these tunnels, and, well… you will see for yourselves.’
Le Commandant walks through the doorway and vanishes into the blackness. No one seems too keen to be the first one in after him, so I decide it had better be me. After all, who better to have a shufti round the Empire of the Dead than the kid who sees dead people?
But what I see when I get into the next chamber is not only an eye-opener, it also explains some of the weirder stuff that’s been happening lately. Because the walls of the next chamber aren’t made out of stone at all. They are made out of bones.
Human bones.
Long leg bones are arranged lengthways so that the nobbly ends are like mildewed flints in an old church wall. Only this is a wall topped not with bricks but with pelvises. Every few paces a skull stares blankly out. And where have I seen a lot of skulls recently? Yup – Luci’s place. Suddenly an explanation for the blocked-up cellar door in the squat presents itself. But what can they be worried about down here? And how does it all fit in with the ghost of Jojo la Mouche?
‘Sir,’ I say, giving Commander Lavache the eyebrow. ‘Are there other entrances to this place? I mean, do some people have private ways in, from their houses?’
The Commander stalks over and casts his eyes over me with unconcealed disdain. He reaches out and flicks his finger tips at the Tippexed skulls on my coat.
‘If I ’ad my way, your type would not be allowed down ’ere. Death is not a game. But yes, there are still some unofficial ways in. We sometimes find pee-pul down ’ere oo should not be down ’ere.’ Then he leans in close. ‘We dee-eel with zem.’
Frenchy jumps over and starts nodding ingratiatingly.
‘Yes, as I explained, class, le Commandant is none other than the head of the police department charged with protecting the catacombs. Trespassing is a growing problem, I understand…’
‘What, people actually come down here on their own?’ cries one of the girls, staring aghast into the grinning face of a skull. ‘But, sir, it’s horrible down here.’
‘Well, some people are funny that way,’ says Frenchy, and I notice him flicking a glance my way. ‘There are many in Paris who enjoy these tunnels and galleries – they aren’t all filled with bones. In French, these people are known as les cataphiles– those who love the catacombs. I believe that the police who guard them are called les cataflics…’
Frenchy tails off as he sees the thunderclouds gathering over the brow of le Commandant’s nose. If he thought he was going to impress the Frenchman with his knowledge of the lingo, he’s obviously miscalculated.
‘I see zat you know all about ze catacombs, Monsieur Phelps. So, I will leave you to ze rest of your vis-eet. I ’ave business to attend to. There ’as been an act of vandalism ’ere recently, and… somezing else.’
And with that he stalks off toward two policemen who are waiting in the shadows of the cavern. They snap to attention as he approaches.
‘Sir, can we just say we’ve seen the skulls now and get out of here?’ says the girl called Tanya.
‘Yeah, let’s quit this dump,’ come the murmurs of agreement.
But Frenchy’s having none of it. He starts leading us around, pointing out strange carvings here and freakish arrangements of bone there. The Empire of the Dead is well named, but I wonder what all these people would have said if they’d known in advance they’d one day end up as wallpaper in some creepy-kitsch tourist attraction.
And that’s when I see him. The ghost of Jojo la Mouche, that is.
At first I’m not sure – in such a place I’m half expecting to see spirits wandering all over the place – but there’s no mistake. I’d recognise that soggy ectoplasmic look anywhere. Down a dark passageway that has been grilled off with rusting iron bars, the empty-eyed teenage ghost from Lucifane’s kitchen drifts toward me.
‘Er… hi!’ I say, as he sweeps through the bars. Then I add ‘Salut!’, copying the greeting I heard yesterday in the squat. He doesn’t answer, he just floats down the corridor, right through a group of my classmates. I see them gasp and shiver at his passing, and then hurry away. The only thing they can see which accounts for their strange feeling is, of course, me.
Alone again, I jog after Jojo for a little longer, but he’s starting to fade now. I make one last attempt to communicate, but it’s no good. Simon has often explained that the newly dead take a few days to become aware of themselves again, and if Jojo isn’t ready yet, there’s nothing I can do about it.
Then he’s gone, splashing through the wall of bones in a burst of ectoplasm only I can see.
I’m staring at the wall where he was, wondering what to make of it all, when I hear a squeak I have come to know all too well. It’s coming from the next chamber. I peer round and see – in a dark corner – something both horrible and grotesque.
7
My Inner Ninja
It’s Baz.
He’s the grotesque part. What’s horrible, though, is the fact that he’s standing on top of Brian Cabbidge, and zooming poor Bri’s paper plane around like a giant five-year-old playing with a new toy. Brian squeaks with every move of Baz’s feet. Baz goes, ‘hur hur hur’ with every squeak.
I sigh, and for a moment I wonder about just dropping this whole business with Brian – I really don’t need this, not with having to sort things out with Luci. Maybe I should just leave Brian to
his fate – after all, what can I do against the boy mountain and his zitty biceps? I mean, I’m not exactly built for the rough stuff.
But hey, I’m the kid who sees dead people, remember? And I’ve learnt a thing or two from my spooky clients over the years, including some pretty nifty martial arts moves. I may not have my spectral sidekick to back me up right now – so yeah, I’m going to have to do this the old-fashioned way – but if Baz comes at me, I reckon I can get the better of him. And what Baz really needs is to be brought down a peg or two. It’s almost an act of kindness.
I straighten the lapels and set the specs for action.
‘Baz, I was wondering,’ I ask, strolling up to him. ‘Have you always looked like a monkey’s bum, or does your mum do your make-up?’
Baz looks confused for a moment, his mouth falling open. The paper plane zooming slowly stops.
‘I like the way she’s left a little fuzz on your top lip though,’ I continue, keeping my arms loose and ready. ‘Girls love that. And whatever you do, don’t cover up those zits either. If you took a pen and joined them all up, I reckon they’d spell “Pineapple Pizza”.’
Whoosh!
The plane is flying for real now, zooming straight at my face, its paperclip tip gleaming. I drop, letting it pass over me. Then I pull the classic karate stance and start weaving about, ready to unleash my inner ninja and turn Baz’s every move against him.
But there’s a problem.
Baz doesn’t actually throw a punch. He doesn’t aim a kick or a head-butt, or do any of the things he’s supposed to. He just piles straight into me like the entire New Zealand rugby team. The wind is knocked clear out of my lungs and I’m carried through the air. When we hit the wall, I can hardly see it for flying bones.
And my inner ninja? Well, I doubt there’s any martial arts move for getting out from under half a tonne of bully.
I try to get up anyway, but all I do is free my head enough for Baz to lock his arm around it. I manage to say something, though only just:
Dan and the Caverns of Bone Page 3