by Alex Shearer
‘Or Mrs Ghost. Or Miss Ghost.’
‘Yes, all right, Thruppence. Or Miss Ghost.’
‘Or Ms Ghost.’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘Or Dr Ghost … Professor Ghost … Bishop Ghost –’
‘Thruppence!’
‘Sorry. Carry on.’
‘Anyway, what I’m saying is you can’t just expect a ghost to climb into a bottle because you want it to. It needs an incentive. Some motivation. Something to get it in there.’
‘Let’s look it up.’
Thruppence turned back to the index and found what looked like an appropriate entry.
‘Bottle. Persuading Ghost to Go Into. Suggested Methods. Page three-seven-one,’ she read out.
She turned to it.
It is one thing to lure your ghost to appear before you. To bottle it is another. There are tried and tested methods for the bottling of ghosts. But none can be guaranteed. The temperaments of ghosts are as varied and variable as those of the living. Ghosts are individuals, and what works for one ghost will not work for another. In all things the ghost hunter must be alert and adaptable.
Suggestions for entrapment of ghosts in bottles.
1) Place something into the bottle relating to the ghost’s past. A small picture from a locket. An item of jewellery. A fragment of a once loved thing. NB: The problem with this method is that the ghost catcher may know nothing of the ghost’s past, or possess no such personal items.
2) Place something into the bottle of an enticing nature. A bon-bon, perhaps. A gold coin.
3) Place something into the bottle to excite the ghost’s curiosity. A folded note, for example, with something written upon it. A rare and unusual item. A novelty of some sort, a puzzle, a curio, a toy.
4) Some ghosts may be lured into a container by a burning candle – but, caution, the candle will not burn long from lack of air, and the heat may explode the glass.
5) Many ghosts may be seduced by scents and perfumes. Dried flowers, for example. Tinctures and essences and exotic oils. They are particularly fond of the smell of roses and even more so of the scent of fresh strawberries.
‘Fresh strawberries … ’
It was Tim who spoke. Thruppence raised her eyes and looked into his. Neither of them said anything else. Yet they both suddenly felt very alone in that seemingly deserted building. Just them, and the books, and the silence, and the motes of dust forever floating in the shafts of sunlight that intermittently broke the gloom.
Thruppence cleared her throat.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well, we’ve got a few ideas there then. We’ll just have to try things out as we go along and see what happens.’
‘Right,’ Tim said. ‘That’s what we’ll do. So what about step one?’
‘Step one?’
‘Yes,’ Tim said. ‘We’ve got an idea of how to trap the ghost – which has to be step two. But how do we get it to appear in the first place – step one?’
‘Maybe we’d better leave that until tomorrow,’ Thruppence said. ‘I’ll have to get home, or they’ll be wondering where I am.’
But when she looked at her watch, instead of an hour having passed, as she had imagined, only fifteen minutes had gone by.
‘We can stay a little longer, can’t we?’ Tim said.
‘Okay. But I tell you what – is it me, or do you think it’s a bit spooky in here?’
‘Well, I guess it would have to be,’ Tim said. ‘It is the Ministry of Ghosts, after all.’
‘I suppose,’ Thruppence said. ‘But don’t forget, even if things do get really spooky at any point along the way here … just remember – no hugs.’
‘No hugs,’ Tim agreed. ‘Absolutely not.’ With that, he reached for another book.
Softly, softly, catchee monkey, Tim thought to himself as he turned the pages. And maybe it was the same for ghostees too.
14
Plans
It was quite impressive, Tim Legge felt, to have your own key to the front door of the Ministry of Ghosts.
How many boys of his age had a privilege and a responsibility like that? He slept with the key under his pillow. But he told his parents nothing about it. He had a feeling, possibly a justified one, that they would not understand.
Either they would say, ‘Tim, it’s all nonsense!’ or they would say, ‘Tim, there are things beyond our knowledge in this world – dangerous things – and you shouldn’t go messing about with them.’
Or they might say, ‘Tim, what do you mean you’ve got a Saturday job? And not only that, it sounds like a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights’ job too. It’ll interfere with your homework. You’ll get too tired and come out in boils. We forbid you to do it!’
And he didn’t want to lose his job. Not when he had a birthday coming up every year, and a present to buy for himself.
A few streets away, staring up at the ceiling of her own bedroom, Thruppence Coddley was having similar thoughts. It felt good to be entrusted with major responsibilities, both somewhat scary and rather exciting. It felt good to have the key to the Ministry of Ghosts under your pillow. But it wasn’t the sort of thing to mention to your parents.
‘If you want a Saturday job, Thruppence, you can help out with the fish.’
No. She was happy to help with her dad’s paperwork these days, but she didn’t fancy extra fish. She’d done enough of that already. Fish were no good to a girl who only ever smelled of strawberries. And fresh ones, at that.
There were other problems too.
Thruppence was sure she had once heard her father say that children under a certain age could not do any kind of paid work at all. You had to be at least thirteen even to do a paper round. She was sure that was so.
But they didn’t seem bothered about things like that, round at the Ministry. Not old, kindly Mr Copperstone, or fierce but friendly Miss Rolly, or nice but shy Mr Gibbings, or eccentric Mrs Scant with her endless promises of tea that never arrived.
They were a funny bunch all right. Tucked away there in their offices, out of sight and out of mind, with their tarnished brass plate – well, shiny now, thanks to Thruppence – and their olde-worlde ways, and with their out of style clothes and old-fashioned manners.
They didn’t seem to know what was going on, really. They seemed out of touch with the modern world. Mrs Scant still had that battered old typewriter on her desk, an immense thing it was, almost the size of a washing machine, Thruppence reckoned. They really needed to get a few laptops in there and to bring themselves up to speed.
Thruppence’s eyes began to close. The key under her pillow felt as if it were emanating warmth. For a moment she imagined she could hear – even feel – a heartbeat, as if the key were a living thing.
But all this was in her imagination, of course. And as she sank into sleep, her mind dwelt on the problem of where and how to catch a ghost.
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ Thruppence told herself, as her wakefulness turned to drowsiness, and as her thoughts turned to dreams.
‘Sleep on it … and then in the morning … I’ll have the answer. Yes. I’ll have the answer … in the mor … ’
Then she was fast asleep.
When morning came, she was woken by the sound of voices and clattering wooden boxes. Out in the yard the truck had come with supplies of fresh fish, with lobsters from Cornwall and herring from Scotland and salmon from the same place, and whelks and prawns from who knew where.
Suddenly, she had the solution.
She and Tim Legge had the apparatus and they had the means to trap a ghost. All they needed was the place at which to find a ghost – and Thruppence knew just the spot.
Back at head office, the granite-faced Mr Beeston pressed a buzzer on his desk to summon his assistant, Mrs Peeve.
She came promptly (if not all that willingly, as she had been interrupted while eating a cake) and asked what she could do.
Mr Beeston had a file open upon his desk.
‘It’s t
his Ministry again, Mrs Peeve,’ he said. ‘This obscure department of ours, this Ministry of Ghosts, which no one seems to know much about, and which seems to have slipped down the back of a filing cabinet for the last twenty years.’
‘Indeed, sir. And … what is your concern there now?’
‘Well, I went round to see them, as you know, and I chivvied them up, Mrs Peeve.’
‘Did you, sir?’
‘Very much so, Mrs Peeve. I chivvied them up big time. And I think you’ll agree that when it comes to chivvying up –’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘I chivvied them up and I told them to get their fingers out. And I think you’ll also agree, Mrs Peeve, that when it comes to telling people to get their fingers out –’
‘You are one of our most experienced operatives in that field, Mr Beeston, without question.’
‘I gave them an ultimatum. I said, find a ghost in three months’ time – a proper, all-singing, all-dancing ghost that we can all see for ourselves and get a good look at – or this Ministry of yours is going to be closed down.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Quaking in their boots, they were, Mrs Peeve.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘However, I’ve been looking at the files here, and I can’t seem to find any detailed records for the staff and their employment history. Nothing about academic qualifications, dates of birth, when first taken on and so forth. It’s just general bumf here. But where’s the specifics?’
‘Their personal details ought to be there, sir.’
‘“Ought to be” is not the same as “actually is” though, is it, Mrs Peeve?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So kindly get yourself over to the Human Resources Office, Mrs Peeve, have a good rummage, and get hold of the personnel records for these four names: Copperstone, Gibbings, Scant and Rolly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want to find out what these four have been up to; where they come from; and what they did before they got these cushy little numbers for themselves round at the Ministry of Spooks.’
‘Ghosts, to give it its official title, sir.’
‘Spooks, ghosts, same difference. Just get the records, if you would. I want to know how old that Copperstone is, and whether I can actually retire him. And I want to see whether the other three are suitable material for the Sewage Department.’
‘I’m sure they would be, sir.’
‘We’ll have to see about that. It’s not everyone who can work in sewage. You need a flair for it. We have to make sure, Mrs Beeston, that public sewage is in the right hands.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, crack on then, Mrs Peeve.’
‘I’ll crack away, sir.’
Mr Beeston handed her the file; she took it and left the room. Mr Beeston walked to the window, looked out over the busy city street, stretched, yawned, returned to his desk, and took up another file from his in tray.
He folded back the Manila cover and glanced at the page in front of him.
‘The Ministry of Ducks,’ the title page read.
‘Ministry of Ducks,’ Mr Beeston muttered. ‘This sounds like another one. This sounds like another load of dead wood we’ll be able to get rid of. What do we need a Ministry of Ducks for? I’ll have to pay them a visit.’
‘Where?’ Tim Legge said. ‘The what?’
They were in a confidential corner of the playground, to which Thruppence Coddley had dragged him, though he would rather have been kicking a ball with his mates.
‘The cemetery,’ she said. ‘The graveyard.’
‘The graveyard! Why do we want to go hanging round graveyards?’ Tim said. ‘Not very lively there, is it?’
‘Because that’s where we’ll stand a good chance of catching a ghost.’
He looked at her.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because that’s where the dead bodies are, of course,’ Thruppence said. ‘It stands to reason. Dead bodies – ghosts. You know, walking the midnight hour and all that.’
‘Walking the midnight hour? You mean we’d have to go there at midnight?’
‘Well, ghosts are hardly going to turn up during the day, are they? Not in broad daylight. And even if they did, how would you see them in bright sunlight? You couldn’t.’
‘Well … ’ Tim said. ‘I don’t know … ’
‘Unless you’re scared, of course.’
‘Scared!’ Tim said indignantly. ‘Me? Scared? I’m not scared. I’ve spent loads of nights in cemeteries, loads of them. I used to sneak out and go down there all the time. Me and my mate Steve, we’d go down and have picnics and late night feasts. We’d sit there on a tombstone, with a bottle of lemonade and a bag of crisps. Done that many a time, I have.’
‘Then it won’t bother you to do it once more, will it?’
‘Eh … no.’
‘So what about tonight?’
‘Tonight! Isn’t that a bit, well, sudden?’
‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ Thruppence said.
‘What iron?’
‘No time like the present,’ she said.
‘You know it’s my birthday soon,’ Tim said, ‘talking of presents … ’
‘So are you coming or not? Or do I have to do it on my own? Which means I’ll get the bonus on my own and all for me.’
‘Hang on. Who said I wasn’t coming? I didn’t say … only thing is, Thruppence, how do we catch it?’
‘We’ll pick up one of those thick glass jars with the big glass stoppers on our way home. We’ll get it from the Ministry.’
‘And how do we get the ghosts to turn up? What if there aren’t any hanging round the cemetery? What if they’ve – I don’t know – gone off on their holidays or something?’
‘Then we have to think again. But I noticed there’s a section in that book –’
‘Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting?’
‘That’s it. And it tells you how to summon ghosts up with incantations.’
‘What are they then?’
‘Chants and special words and ritual sayings and stuff. And we need a candle and some drops of water and –’
‘I hope we don’t need any eye of newt,’ Tim said. ‘Have you heard of that? Eye of newt? They’re always going on in books about eye of newt when it comes to ghosts and things. But I haven’t got a clue where you’d get any eye of newt from. Maybe I could get a bit of frogspawn, or some budgie droppings, but as for eye of newt –’
‘We don’t need any eye of newt,’ Thruppence snapped, her patience wearing thin. She began to think that maybe Tim Legge was not the ideal ghost hunting partner, at least not the kind she would have wished for, and that as a Saturday Boy, he was a dead loss.
‘It says in the book that we just need something alluring,’ she continued. ‘Something fragrant or pungent, to remind the ghost of its past life and to tempt it in. It also says a lot of ghosts have unfinished business.’
‘I’ve heard of that – unfinished business,’ Tim said. ‘It’s a bit like unstarted homework, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Thruppence said. ‘It’s when ghosts have things on their minds from when they were alive, and they want to come back to fix them and to put things right. Like to search for justice. Or to apologise for bad behaviour they may now regret. And they can’t move on until they’ve done this. And that’s why they’re ghosts, trapped on the earth, and why they can’t move on to other dimensions.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Tim demanded.
‘I read the flipping book!’ Thruppence said. ‘The one we had in front of us yesterday. You were sitting right next to me. What were you doing?’
‘I was more looking at the pictures,’ Tim said. ‘Did you see that drawing of the ghost with his head under his arm and his ear in his back pocket?’
The whistle blew for the end of break.
‘Look, we can’t talk any more about it now. Are you up for tonight or not? Can you sne
ak out of bed and meet me at the cemetery at midnight, or can’t you?’
‘I should think so,’ Tim said, not wishing to appear a wimp. ‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘Okay. We’ll need the equipment first and all the gear. And we’ll need to write down the incantations. I don’t expect they’ll let us take the ghost hunting manual with us. It would be far too heavy anyway. I’ll see you outside the Ministry after school this afternoon.’
‘All right. I’ll see you there.’
‘Don’t be late,’ Thruppence told him. They went back to their class.
Cemetery, Tim thought. Midnight. Ghosts. Dead people. What if there were zombies, even? Or vampires? Or werewolves? Or badgers?
It was a scary prospect. But he wasn’t going to chicken out. (There wouldn’t be chickens, would there?)
No. It might be scary, but he’d do it. Tim Legge was only human, and human beings feel fear, but he would persevere, and overcome it.
Tim Legge would be there. You could depend on that.
15
A Visit to the Cemetery
They knocked first, wondering if anyone would be there, or if they would all have gone home early, as they had yesterday.
But the staff were in, and the front door creaked open to reveal Mrs Scant, who smiled at the two young visitors.
‘Oh, our Saturdays!’ she said. ‘Do come inside.’
They needed no second asking, and in they went, and the door, which seemed to have a propensity to close of its own accord, clicked shut behind them.
‘Is it Mr Copperstone you want to see?’ Mrs Scant asked. ‘Because – to be honest – I suspect he may be napping. But I can easily –’
‘No, please don’t disturb him, Mrs Scant,’ Thruppence said. ‘We just need to get some ghost hunting stuff from the tackle room, and to make a few notes from the manual.’
‘Oh, then go straight down and help yourselves,’ Mrs Scant said. ‘You know the way. And will you be wanting a cup of tea … ?’
But both Thruppence and Tim knew that even if they had answered yes, their chances of ever getting any were slim. So they declined and said they would press on with matters in hand.
