His T-shirt read:
I GOT FEISTY WITH
THE POLTERGEISTY!
The boy looked not much older than nine or ten, and his skin had that grey-purplish tinge I had come to know so well.
‘Nate. Our client? He’s still waiting,’ said Scanlon softly. ‘I don’t think he has long left with the poison. So can you get on with it?’
Oh. We weren’t in the ballroom. We were in a cramped, stuffy lounge, with quite a lot of things competing for space within it. Two large sofas, one cat hissing in my direction, this mysterious Nate – whoever he was – two grown-ups, one whimpering baby and at least six other boys.
I felt strangely jagged, bright and brittle, a broken bauble strung up on a tree.
‘Right. Course. Nate,’ I said.
Scanlon turned to the boy. ‘So then, birthday boy. What do you fancy doing first?’
‘I dunno,’ said the small boy to the carpet.
‘We paid for Package D,’ said the scrawny-looking man nearby, in a tight, strained voice.
The woman next to him shifted the snivelling baby on her hips absent-mindedly. ‘No high prem extras,’ she added.
Scanlon nodded discreetly. ‘She – it – knows. It’s been briefed. Haven’t you, Poltergeist?’ Those green eyes of his bore into mine. ‘Package D?’ he said through faintly gritted teeth.
For a moment, I had a sensation I was spinning wildly on a small planet, only big enough for me.
‘Sure,’ I said automatically. ‘Package D. Gotcha. Say no more.’
What was Package D?
I glanced at Scanlon’s face for clues. He looked different, I thought distractedly. His body, once so slight, had filled out, but not with softness. It was like he was carved from slate.
Nate and his friends looked as if they were going to black out.
‘Look, is it going to do it or not? It’s just, we’ve dug deep for this,’ said the boy’s father.
‘Of course it will,’ said Scanlon in his new, deep voice. ‘Get on with it,’ he murmured to me. ‘You know what to do.’
I didn’t, but something told me we’d gone beyond questions. Improvising, I reached out for Nate and threw him, hard, across the room and into the wall opposite. He landed with a soft ‘oooof’ on the floor, where he lay a moment before stumbling to his feet.
Scanlon opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Nate looked as if he was about to cry.
‘How was that, son?’ asked the man eagerly. ‘Was it what you wanted?’
For a second, the boy’s eyes darted to his mother’s arms, as if he wanted to run into them. But then he smiled listlessly. ‘It was tent,’ he said.
His mother and father’s shoulders relaxed, and they gave him these awful, bright smiles of relief and love.
‘Go on then,’ said the dad proudly to the other boys, who were nervously eyeing the dent on the wall Nate had left. ‘Your turn. You all get a turn, lads. On us.’
I took in the man’s bitten fingernails and the woman’s pallor, saw the threadbare carpet and the crying baby. I realised what booking me had cost this family, and if I saw it, I bet Nate saw it too.
In a voice that spoke of blind and noble sacrifice, the dad said, ‘Have another go, if you like. Would you like that, champ? Would you?’
‘Course he would,’ said the mother lovingly. ‘Look at his little face. He can’t speak, he’s that excited.’
‘Only the best for our lad,’ said the father.
‘He’ll never go without,’ said the mother.
‘Not on our watch,’ said the father. ‘Off you go, son. Enjoy yourself.’
Nate hesitated, nodded with resignation, and limped to the back of the queue.
LATER, ONCE I’D thrown all the boys as hard as I could, dislocated a few shoulders and thrown the cat too for good measure, a meagre sponge cake with nine scrawny candles stabbed into its icing was brought into the lounge.
The boys stared at it with dazed eyes, rubbing their arms, not quite looking at each other.
‘And many happy returns,’ I said cheerfully, heading for the door.
Once outside, Scanlon turned to me. He looked angry. It almost suited him.
‘That was your Package D?’ he snapped. ‘Dislocated shoulders and unconscious family pets? Care to give me a download? Cos that’s not what we discussed this morning.’
I shrugged. I felt lightheaded suddenly, so dizzy I could faint, had a head full of brain snow, and to top it all off that revolting smell of Scanlon’s was back too, that sickly stench of rotting fruit.
‘Did you hear any complaints from that lot? No, me neither. So can we go back now please?’ I said.
‘Not right now,’ snapped Scanlon. ‘We need to sort this out, Frankie. That was an absolute embarrassment back there.’
Never had I felt the chasm between us so strongly. It was as if I’d never met Scanlon before in my life. He loomed over me in a way I couldn’t remember either. Once, we’d been roughly the same height. Now he seemed five inches taller than me.
‘Have you been taking growth hormones or something?’ I mumbled.
‘Frankie.’ Scanlon ran a hand through his short stubble. ‘Look, you’ve been doing this more and more. Saying random things that make no sense. Losing concentration in the middle of a booking and deviating from the agreed terms of destruction. You know that Package D is the cheapest Birthday Party option and doesn’t ever involve throwing young children around or breaking any bones – we haven’t done that for ages, not since that lawsuit—’
I gritted my teeth and waded into battle. ‘Wait. Huh? Slow down. What are you talking about? What even is a lawsuit? We’ve never talked about Package D – I had to literally guess on the spot. It wasn’t fair to land that on me right in the middle of the party and make me look stupid. You’re the one saying random things that make no sense, I think you’ll find, pal.’
I was quite proud of that one. I carried on.
‘Also, next time I’d like a break between bookings, okay? I was whisked straight from that ballroom to here in a matter of minutes, which was a bit too much for me. It compromised the depth of my performance, and … okay, can you stop looking at me like that because it’s creeping me out.’
Scanlon’s stare was very unsettling.
‘Er, what ballroom?’ he said finally.
My laugh sounded high-pitched and strained, but we both ignored it.
‘“What ballroom?” Um, how about the ballroom we were at literally this morning? Like, an hour ago?’
‘Frankie,’ sighed Scanlon, and his voice lost that anger and became very gentle, but also exhausted and flat. It was as if, whatever he was about to tell me, he’d told me many, many times already. ‘That party didn’t happen this morning. It was two years ago.’
‘SURE, SCANLON,’ I said, breaking eye contact and scanning the sky for our lift back.
When is our limousine going to come? I’m tired.
‘Two years ago. Hilarious. You’re killing me. Ha. Ha. Stop it, I’m breaking a rib.’
‘You never believe me, at first,’ he muttered. And then he exhaled deeply, and stared at the ground, leaving me no choice but to glare at him with frustration.
And that was when I realised the alarming truth. He wasn’t joking. How did I know? It was literally written all over his face. More than a morning had gone by since the ballroom. His face was the proof. It was undeniably two years older. That wider jawline, deeper frown lines between his eyebrows, those five extra inches he’d gained in height … for a moment an odd mournful feeling crept over me as I remembered, softly, those stolen afternoons we’d shared in the tree house.
This person in front of me wasn’t the same person who’d cycled over on a rusty bike to see me. That boy had been slowly but carefully painted over by time’s relentless brush when I wasn’t looking. Two years. It had felt like a blink to me.
‘The weird thing is,’ said Scanlon, ‘you always seem totally fine when you come in for
a briefing. You always nod and say you understand, but …’ His voice spluttered out and he looked away.
‘What?’ I urged him.
‘I just feel like there are parts of you that are shu—’
He didn’t even have to say it. It was easy to guess the rest.
Parts of you that are shutting down.
Hadn’t I been warned? Someone had told me. I couldn’t remember who, but I remembered their words: ‘You won’t rot. But your memories might.’
Now I realised there was nothing the rot wouldn’t touch. Blankness was falling inside me, and one day my mind would become completely buried.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Scanlon gruffly. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s happening to the others.’
‘The others?’ I said thickly.
His eyes grew wide then. ‘Yeah. The others. The other ghosts. Back at the Haunted House?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, suddenly afraid.
‘They keep switching off too. Right in the middle of shows. They just stop whatever they’re doing and stare into space. It’s happening more and more. Dad’s not happy about it, obviously, but it’s not their fault.’ He rubbed his eyes and said, sounding oddly self-conscious, ‘It’s a challenging time at work, to be honest.’
Work?
Carried softly through the air just then came the sound of the boys singing ‘Happy Birthday’. It was the saddest version I had ever heard, but it at least injected a jolt of energy into my sluggish thoughts.
‘Scanlon,’ I said, caught up within a strange realisation. ‘If two years have gone by … does that mean you’re fourteen now?’
He looked taken aback, but shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s three and a half years since we opened—’
We? I thought distractedly.
‘—so I’m going to be sixteen next month.’
Whoa.
Like a pebble rolling down a beach, a memory slowly spun out of the haziness in my brain. ‘So why aren’t you at school?’
‘What?’
‘Well, didn’t you tell me once that only rich kids go to school now?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah.’
‘And you love Skool Tools,’ I went on with a sluggish determination.
‘Well—’
‘I never saw you look so happy as you did when you shared your plug-in lessons with me. So if you’re rich now, why aren’t you making the most of it? Going to college, like you always wanted to? You can more than afford it, right?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah.’
‘So why aren’t you there then? Why are you here, with me?’
There was a movement beneath his skin, as if he wanted to bring something huge within him to the surface. But then it dropped back down quickly, like it was an anchor too heavy to lift.
‘What’s with all the questions, Frankie? Why do you care all of a sudden?’
I was taken aback by the emptiness in his voice. ‘Just wondered.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t.’
As if aware of how harsh he sounded, he produced a mollifying smile.
‘You just concentrate on getting better, okay?’
Abruptly, he fished a pair of keys out of his trouser pocket, beeped a button, and fidgeted until a flying car came to a hover just next to us.
‘You drive now?’
‘Yep,’ he said, grinning for the first time that day. ‘I do. Perk of the job.’
He opened the passenger door for me. I moved to get in, and stumbled on the way. Accidentally, I tripped into Scanlon, and winced with discomfort as his upper torso moved through mine before popping out again.
That was when I finally discovered what that rotting smell – the one that had been emanating from Scanlon since the day we’d met – was coming from. And realised, at last, what it meant.
THAT FESTERING, STALE smell which had bothered me ever since I’d met him? I’d tasted it. It came from inside him. And it was the worst thing in the world – the rancid taste of a life going bad. Scanlon might not know it, but he was dying inside. He was wasting his life away.
We got in the car. Scanlon pressed buttons and we slowly rose into the sky. Clouds and cars whooshed past us.
As a light drizzle began to fall past our windows, I threw him a puzzled look. What’s in your brain, Scanlon Lane?
Scanlon wouldn’t go to school. That stubborn look on his face made that clear. Even though learning stuff had been the only thing he’d ever talked about with any enthusiasm.
What would he do instead?
Well, now I knew. Scanlon would work for Crawler until Crawler died. And then Scanlon himself would take over the Haunted House. He’d become the Lane in Lane and Son, and probably have kids himself, and they’d all follow in his footsteps. I would watch him grow old, and his kids grow old, and I’d work for them all.
I understood all of that as plainly as if it had happened already.
What I couldn’t understand was why. For the first time ever, Scanlon had opportunities. If he went to school, he could do anything he wanted … he could learn in classrooms, not from that battered old laptop … have proper friends for the first time in his life. And in time he could do something he loved, if he was lucky, something more rewarding than taking poltergeists to birthday parties and spraying fake cobwebs on ghosts.
Why was he turning his back on all of that?
That terrible taste of him squandering himself away.
I noticed the glint of satin on his trousers, the shine of gel on his stubble. He negotiated the clouds quite skilfully, it seemed, a small smile on his lips, like he was enjoying it.
I went very still as an unsettling idea uncurled in my mind. Was he staying for the money?
Was he staying for the car?
Maybe he wanted to take over the business. Maybe he loved the idea of being in charge. Maybe Scanlon was becoming more like Crawler than Scanlon?
And suddenly, any pity I might have had for him and his potential vanished. So what if he was rotting away inside? He only had himself to blame.
‘Fancy listening to some music?’ Scanlon said, after a while.
‘Whatever,’ I said, staring out of the window. ‘Knock yourself out.’
BACK AT THE Haunted House, Crawler appeared.
‘We need to chat,’ he said to Scanlon. ‘Get the others.’
Once Isolde, the Girl With No Name, Theo, Obediah and Vanessa were gathered in Vanessa’s fake boardroom, Crawler fixed us all with his usual empty stare.
‘A few of the regulars are starting to complain.’
‘Oh no,’ said Vanessa, looking worried. A people-pleaser, she always fretted more about feedback than the rest of us.
‘Let’s face it, you’re all getting a bit … glitchy,’ said Crawler. ‘You keep switching off. It’s not what they want. It’s not what they’ve come for. They have a taste for high drama. They want you to bring the house down, night after night. And you’re not doing that. You’re forgetting your lines, your moves. You’re just standing there like lemons, giving me a bad name.’
We threw each other uncertain glances.
‘Look, I think you’ve all still got a lot to offer,’ said Crawler. ‘But I have to listen to my regulars. I don’t want to lose them. So you’re going to have a little power-down.’
‘Dad,’ said Scanlon quietly, ‘where are you going with this?’
‘I’m giving them early retirement.’
‘Retirement?’ said Scanlon. ‘What do you mean?’
Crawler casually inspected his nails. ‘I’m going to can the malfunctioning ghosts. Keep them in storage. Indefinitely. Make space for new stock. Ghosts that don’t go glitchy.’
We were all completely quiet as this sank in, and then the most awful thing seemed to happen to Scanlon. He began to shake uncontrollably. Honestly, it was like watching someone get electrocuted. And the more he tried to stop it, holding one hand over the other and pressing down on it hard, the worse it got. He wouldn’t look at any o
f us.
I remembered what he’d told me about his childhood – hunting for ghosts, making friends with them, knowing he’d have to betray them. Over and over. And now he’d have to do it again.
‘Please …’ his lips had gone completely white, his teeth chattering as if he had a fever, ‘can’t we work something out? I’ll find a way to fix the ghosts, I know I can. Maybe we could put them in different rooms. A change of scenery might work miracles. I can try a few mind exercises with them – keep their brains active.’
For a second, I saw that horrified boy he’d been back in the storeroom, surrounded by his unwanted spoils.
‘No. I’ve made my mind up. Once the rot sets in, you have to act fast. I think we’ll put the workhouse brats and the Girl With No Name in their cans tomorrow,’ Crawler went on, as lightly as if he was discussing what to have for dinner. ‘They’ve been a total let-down recently. And Virginia—’
‘Vanessa,’ said Scanlon.
‘—too. The poltergeist and Isolde can remain. For now.’
For now? I thought I was the star of the show.
‘Then we’ll head off to Italy. Pompeii. Tragic eruption, lots of death. Lots of dead, gorgeous dark-eyed bambini wandering around. I wouldn’t mind exploring Germany, France and Poland either. I bet they’re heaving. Oh, try to look more excited, Scanlon.’
Scanlon continued to shake.
Theo, the younger workhouse boy, went over to his big brother and very quietly nestled into his shoulder. Obediah put his one arm round him, and closed his eyes for a moment.
Vanessa had put her hands up to her face.
‘Back in our cans? How long for?’ said Obediah.
‘And who will cuddle the Girl With No Name?’ said Theo, his mouth all twisty and sad.
This was making me extremely uncomfortable. I needed to get away. Longingly, I contemplated my silent, empty room upstairs. I stared at the table.
Crawler spoke about flight times to Scanlon.
Isolde began to pace around the room with agitation, stopping occasionally to try to force the bars of the window wide open while muttering her long-dead language, as if she wanted to escape.
Storm Page 18
