by Alex Shearer
‘We can’t go home together, Tim.’
‘Well, you see me home first and then –’
‘I can’t. But you’ll be all right. It didn’t see us. It probably just lives in the cemetery anyway and that’s where it stays.’
‘But what was it? A zombie? A vampire?’
‘I don’t know, but I tell you one thing, I’m not going back to see.’
Tim realised that one of his belongings was missing.
‘Thruppence,’ he said. ‘My wooden leg! I left it behind.’
‘Well, you’re not going back for it, are you? Didn’t you say your dad wouldn’t miss it?’
‘Hmmm, I guess not.’
‘Then leave it, don’t worry about it. Right. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have to think of another plan.’
‘You’re going on with it then?’
‘Of course,’ Thruppence said. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Eh … yeah, of course. If you are.’
‘If at first you don’t succeed … ’
‘Yeah, all right. Well, I’m going to run home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Okay, Tim. See you tomorrow. And, Tim … ’
‘What?’
‘Watch out for monsters.’
Tim Legge did not reply. He just hared off down the road and did not stop until he was back at The Legge Works. Soon he was in bed and safely under the covers, his heart pounding and his nerves frayed, but he had survived, he had lived to tell the tale. And soon he was asleep.
Thruppence ran home too. She too was soon in bed and her eyes were closing.
I wonder what it was, she thought, as she drifted into dreams. I wonder what that creature was, to cast such a shadow, and to have such heavy, plodding steps. Its breath sounded so awful too, so guttural and harsh, like the breathing of some ghastly, horrible thing. But I suppose I’ll never find out now. Never.
Only Thruppence Coddley was wrong in her supposition. She was to see the monster again. Oh yes. She was to see it all too clearly.
It was to visit her; it was to come to her very home one day; it was to stand on her very threshold, and look down upon her from its height with its dark, piercing eyes.
But fortunately she did not know that.
And so, while she was still able to, she slept.
16
Who? Or What?
The terrors of the night often fade to nothing with the coming of the day. The sun seems to bleach and to diminish them. Giants shrink; monsters shrivel; zombies look like nothing more than ordinary commuters, bleary-eyed, and a bit short of sleep.
What had terrified Tim Legge the night before did not frighten him so much the morning after. He awoke emboldened by the daylight and by the sun shining through the curtains.
It wasn’t a zombie at all, he thought to himself. It was probably just …
He found himself a bit stuck there. If not a zombie, what had it been? It had been big and flat-footed, and wide and bulky, and it had moved with slow but deliberate and unstoppable menace.
Maybe it was … a policeman, Tim thought. And the more he thought so, the more he convinced himself that was what it had been. Yeah. It was a policeman who’d seen the candle glow and heard the incantations and stuff and so stopped off to investigate.
That would be right then. Yes. Of course it would. And it was just as well they had run for it, even though it probably had just been a policeman. Because a policeman would have demanded an explanation.
‘What’s going on here?’ he would have said. (Policemen always said that. Tim had seen it on TV.) ‘What are you two up to after midnight round the back of the church with a kipper and a wooden leg?’
It would have been tricky to have come up with a convincing explanation. The truth would certainly not have done. You can’t go telling policemen you’re hunting for ghosts. There’s probably a law against it.
‘Do your parents know you’re out?’
That would have been the next question. Then it really would have got complicated. So it had been a good thing that they had legged it.
But it couldn’t really have been a monster – could it?
Tim got dressed and went down for breakfast.
‘Did you hear any bumping and banging late last night?’ his mother asked him.
‘No,’ Tim said. ‘Not a sound.’
‘Funny,’ she said. ‘Your dad and I thought we heard something. Like a door banging, or something like that.’
Tim set off to school early. He had already made his mind up to return to the cemetery and see if he couldn’t retrieve the wooden leg. For Tim was not the kind of boy to turn his back on a perfectly good leg. He may have run away from his leg the night previously, but now he was coming back for it.
As he approached St Bindle’s Church, he spotted a figure already moving among the gravestones. He halted in his tracks. But then, seeing that the figure was about his own size and closely resembled Thruppence Coddley, he carried on walking and entered the cemetery.
‘Oi, Thruppence.’
‘Less of the “oi”,’ Thruppence said, looking up from a gravestone. ‘If you want to talk to me it’s not “Oi, Thruppence”. It’s “Hello Thruppence, how are you today?” That’s a far better start.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Tim said.
‘My kipper,’ Thruppence said. ‘I’m not the kind of girl to leave a kipper behind. Or if I have to due to circumstances, I come back for it. I was worried a small animal might eat it and get a bone stuck in its throat.’
‘Well I’m looking for my leg,’ Tim said.
‘You’re standing on it,’ Thruppence told him.
‘The wooden one.’
‘Well, I can’t see it anywhere. Nor my kipper either. I reckon that whoever has got your leg has got my kipper too.’
‘That thing last night, you mean?’ Tim said.
‘Exactly,’ Thruppence said. ‘Only what was that thing last night?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that –’ Tim began. But before he could elaborate, Thruppence interrupted.
‘So have I,’ Thruppence said. ‘And you know what I think it was –’
‘It was a policeman,’ Tim said.
‘It was,’ Thruppence corrected him, ‘one of the undead.’
All the fear and terror of the night before returned, and with a vengeance. Tim felt his chest grow tight; his windpipe felt constricted.
‘What do you mean … the undead? You mean it was what we were looking for … a ghost?’
‘No,’ Thruppence said. ‘Ghosts are all right. That is, they can be trouble, but they’re not a patch on the living dead. Because you have to die to be a ghost. But the undead, well, they’re neither one thing nor the other. They aren’t dead and they aren’t alive either. They’re just sort of half-and-half and slowly going mouldy with the odd bit dropping off – like a couple of fingers or a toe. And if they get you in their clammy embraces –’
‘Clammy embraces?’ Tim said. ‘I don’t like the sound of them.’
‘No, you want to avoid all that if you can,’ Thruppence told him. ‘Because if they get you in their clammy embraces, they slowly squeeze half the life out of you, and you turn into one of the undead yourself.’
Tim felt his hand clutching his throat, as if to reassure himself that he was still breathing.
‘But I thought it was maybe … just a policeman.’
‘Policeman!’ Thruppence sneered. ‘You have got an imagination, haven’t you, Tim?’
‘But where did it come from?’
‘It probably lives round here somewhere.’
‘I thought you said it was one of the undead. So how can it live round here?’
‘All right, it dies round here somewhere, if you’re going to be picky. But it was the undead, if you ask me. You take my word for it. And look … ’
Thruppence pointed down. There, in the soft earth of a flower bed, was a huge – no, an immense – footprint.
‘That,’ Thruppence said, ‘has to have been left by the creature we saw last night. That,’ she said again, and with some authority, ‘was left by one of the undead. That’s an undead footprint if ever I saw one.’
‘S-so what about the things we left behind us when we ran for it? I mean, the undead couldn’t eat a kipper – could they? They wouldn’t want a wooden leg. All they’d want’s a dead leg.’
‘Probably just hurled them away somewhere, in anger and frustration. Like up onto the roof of the church. I bet they’re up there on the top of the bell tower.’
Tim looked towards the bell tower. All the unease of darkness had returned to him.
‘Of course, the undead don’t come out during the day, do they, Thruppence?’ he said.
‘Who told you that?’ she said.
‘You mean they do? How come you know so much about them?’
‘It was all in one of those books at the Ministry of Ghosts. It said in there that you can run into the undead any time. Morning, noon or night. In the park. On your way to school . . .’
‘We’re on our way to school,’ Tim said.
Thruppence looked at her watch.
‘Yes, we ought to be going,’ she said. ‘Or we’ll be late.’
‘Tell you what,’ Tim said, looking down at the enormous footprint. ‘Let’s run.’
‘Yeah,’ Thruppence said, following his gaze. ‘Not a bad idea.’
So, just as they had the night previously, they turned and they fled from the graveyard as fast as they could go.
17
Man in Black
A man in dark clothes, the sombreness and severity of which were only broken by the whiteness of his collar, marched down Bric-a-Brac Street with the air of one on a mission.
Approaching the door of the Ministry of Ghosts, he broke his stride, stopped, hesitated, almost raised his arm to ring the bell or to pound the knocker, but felt uncertain.
What made him pause were the instructions by the door, which still read, as they always had: VISITORS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. DELIVERIES – PLEASE RING BELL.
The man did not have an appointment, nor was he delivering. So what to do? How did one make an appointment without knocking? No telephone number was advertised. And if appointments could not be made, then how did anyone ever get to speak to those inside?
But then again, on the other hand, perhaps he was delivering, after all. He was the bearer of tidings, was he not? He came with news. He carried in a large holdall in his hand two curious objects, which might be of vast interest to those inside. So yes, maybe he was in the delivery business. The bell then. That would be the thing.
So he rang it. He heard it burble away in the depths of the building, and he waited for someone to respond to its summons.
As he waited, the man looked up and down the street. In appearance, he was prepossessing. He was large, and had a thick neck, and he had the build of a bruiser, a wrestler, or a heavyweight boxer. His features matched his dimensions, for his jaw hung like a lantern, his nose appeared to have had past encounters with various fists, his teeth had gone missing here and there, and there was a scar above his eye. He also had one ear like a cauliflower, while the other ear was more like a beetroot.
All things considered, the man was not one you would have cared to encounter when alone on a dark night.
And yet appearances may be deceptive.
The man reached up and rang the bell again. His first summons had not been answered. Maybe it had not been heard.
As he waited, he studied the gleaming brass plate upon the wall.
It was an odd thing, but the man, though something of a newcomer to the area, having been there only a matter of weeks, had already walked down Bric-a-Brac Street on several occasions. He had walked back up it too. Yet he had never realised that such a place as the Ministry of Ghosts was right there, in his own neighbourhood.
He had noticed the cobwebbed windows and the dusty half-shutters and he had always assumed the building to be empty and derelict, awaiting redevelopment, or to be the subject of some disputed will.
It was only a couple of days ago that the man had noticed the shiny brass plate. The sight of it had stopped him, and he had stood wonderingly, raising a thick, stubby finger to trace the lettering engraved there.
‘The Ministry of Ghosts … ’ He had said the words out aloud. ‘Well, fancy that.’
For the large man in the dark suit had a personal and a vested interest in that line of work. But he had reason to call beyond mere curiosity. For in the bag he held was possible evidence of supernatural visitation, and he needed to consult with the experts.
Thus, losing hope of the bell, he turned his hand to the knocker, and such was the strength within his large boned knuckles, that his summons could no longer be denied.
The door swung open. Its creak had all but gone. Oiled by the entries and exits of ever more frequent visitors, it had become smooth and silent.
‘Good morning. Can I assist?’
Mrs Scant found herself looking up at a man who towered above her like some piece of recently erected scaffolding, which had not been there earlier when she had arrived for work. She noticed the contrast between his rough build and features and the smoothness of his apparel – his neat black suit, his bright white collar. And then there was the large bag in his hand.
‘Good morning,’ the man said. ‘The Reverend Reggie Mangle, vicar of St Bindle’s – just down the way. Our local church.’
‘Oh, charmed, I’m sure,’ Mrs Scant said, though she wasn’t actually that sure at all. For the Reverend Mangle may well have had the clothes of a cleric, but he had the look of an armed and dangerous bank robber.
The Reverend seemed immediately aware of this. Perhaps it was a prejudice he had encountered before. He spoke, anxious to put Mrs Scant at her ease.
‘Please, good lady,’ he said, ‘do not be off-put by this rough and ready exterior. Inside, I assure you, is a man of faith. True, I once followed the road of ease and dalliance, and took what was not mine, wherever I fancied. But I long since saw the light –’
‘Oh, the light. Saw that did you?’ Mrs Scant said. ‘It’s good to see the light.’
‘Better the light than to stumble along in the darkness,’ the Reverend Mangle said.
‘Absolutely,’ Mrs Scant said. ‘Or you could whack your shins, on the furniture.’
‘I’m afraid I do not have an appointment,’ the Reverend Mangle said, ‘but I would like, if possible, to make one. Or, better still, to consult with your top man, or woman of course, straight away – should they have a few minutes to spare.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t know –’ Mrs Scant began.
But then the Reverend Mangle leaned his bulk forward, raised a large, hairy hand to the side of his mouth, exposed one or two gold fillings, and said, in closest confidence, so that no one else might hear, ‘I believe I may have some evidence of ghostly activity,’ he said.
Mrs Scant’s eyebrows arched high in astonishment, like caterpillars doing aerobics.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘You’ve … seen a ghost?’
‘No,’ the Reverend Mangle said. ‘But I may have heard them. And I have possible evidence in this bag here of their presence and their mysterious doings.’
‘Oh, mysterious doings,’ Mrs Scant said. ‘Well, that’s what we’re here to investigate. I think you’d better come in for a moment, and I’ll see if Mr Copperstone is free.’
‘Thank you ma’am,’ the good man said, and he followed her inside, into the cool shade of the Ministry, and Mrs Scant left him to wait in a small anteroom, while she went to see if Mr Copperstone was awake enough to welcome visitors.
‘Mr Copperstone … ’
But he was fully conscious and not nodding off at all.
‘Mrs Scant?’
‘Gentleman, sir, a
t the door just now. A tall, reverend gentleman, of the cloth –’
‘The cloth, Mrs Scant?’
‘Vicar of St Bindle’s, he says. The local parish church.’
‘I know it well, Mrs Scant, I was b—’ But then Mr Copperstone stopped in mid-sentence for some reason. ‘But please continue, Mrs Scant.’
‘He says he might have some evidence with him of … ghostly activity, sir.’
‘Ghostly activity, Mrs Scant? Really? Well, that’s splendid. You must show him up immediately. And ask Miss Rolly and Mr Gibbings to come up too. This could be exciting news, Mrs Scant. Our jobs … the Ministry … ’
‘We could be saved, sir?’
‘We could indeed. Please – show him up at once.’
Mrs Scant did as requested, and she too was invited to remain for the interview. So she took her place in Mr Copperstone’s office, along with Miss Rolly, Mr Gibbings and the Reverend Reggie Mangle – his large, imposing self, and his large, imposing holdall.
‘Please,’ Mr Copperstone said, once the introductions and formalities were complete, ‘tell us what is on your mind.’
‘Very well,’ the Reverend said. ‘It’s like this. For the past ten years, since I got out of pris— that is, since I saw the light, I have worked and studied to become a minister, and was given the parish of St Bindle’s a little while ago.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Copperstone said, trying to look interested, though he wasn’t. He just wanted the vicar to get to the ghostly bit.
‘The afterlife and the world beyond have always been an interest of mine, and I have long suspected that ghostly activity has been going on in St Bindle’s parish, but I was never able to track it down.’
‘Really?’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Ghostly activity? Hereabouts? You feel that?’
‘It’s a kind of sixth sense I’ve got,’ the Reverend Reggie said. ‘I’ve always had it. That’s why I was so good in the boxing ring. I could tell where the punches were coming from before they arrived … ’ He ruefully touched his slightly flattened nose, and his hand moved to his cauliflower ear. ‘Except for a couple of times,’ he said.
‘Please go on,’ Mr Copperstone said.
