He shrugged. ‘Waiting for the right time.’
I looked around the shattered café, at the toddlers screaming on the lawn, the grown-ups shouting at each other in confusion as they attempted to gather themselves and flee.
‘And this is it? This seems like the perfect time to introduce yourself?’
A sharp row of yellow teeth appeared before he clamped down on them with his lips. Had that been a smile?
All of a sudden the chaos outside felt a little quieter. As the mustard and ketchup slowly dripped off the glass and pooled on the floor, we stared at each other.
Then the boy broke eye contact. He turned his head and scanned the thinning crowds outside. I occupied myself by contemplating the most complicated face I had ever seen.
Looking at it was like stumbling into a prairie town just before a shoot-out. It was all angles and shadows and wide empty plains, taut with secrets. Sallow, almost waxy skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. A pair of narrow lips, as thin as if they’d been slashed into his face with a stub of crayon. His beaky nose looked like someone had half-heartedly grabbed a bit of flesh between his cheeks, given it a sharp pinch, then said: ‘That’ll do.’
Nothing was soft or curved; there were no kind gradations. No wonder his face had that waxy unwashed look. If I had a face like that, I’d probably give it a wide berth too. Those cheekbones alone could give you a nasty paper cut.
How old was he anyway? It was hard to tell. He was shorter than me, but he had a brutal crew cut and there was no puppy fat in his face. Then there was the way he held himself, the tense wiriness of his body, the way he stared out at the crowds with a weariness that hinted at a boy older than his years. From a distance, he could have been a fifty-year-old war veteran who’d seen terrible things on a battlefield that he could never talk about. On the other hand, he was still wearing that revolting pink and lime top, which any sensible child over the age of ten would refuse to wear, so that confused things.
The only lovely thing about him at all, in fact, was the colour of his eyes. They were soft and palely green, like lichen on sea stones. But even those weren’t given gracefully, shrouded as they were by his lowered eyelids. As if the inside of his brain was like my cottage – full of vulnerable furnishings – and he didn’t want to let the daylight in.
I tried to gather my thoughts. ‘So … if you’re alive, and if I’m dead …’ My voice tailed off helplessly. It had been so long since I’d talked to anyone, I’d forgotten how it worked.
‘How can I see you?’ he prompted.
‘Yeah.’
A shrug. ‘I just can. See ghosts, I mean. Talk to them. It’s … something I’ve always been able to do.’ His lips darted to the side. ‘And you’re … well, you’ve become impossible to ignore, haven’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
He raised a meaningful eyebrow at the dripping windows. ‘Not many ghosts can do that, you know. I’ve met a few in my life, but you’re the only poltergeist I’ve ever seen.’
‘How do you see me?’ I was curious. ‘Am I sort of washed out?’
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Most ghosts are quite flickery and faint. You’re not. You’ve got the strongest lines I’ve ever seen. It’s like you’re alive, to me.’
My proud, astonished smile faded at the bleak look on his face.
I glanced outside. Approaching swiftly across the garden were that nice-looking geography teacher and Olivine.
‘I have to go,’ muttered the boy in that ventriloquist way, staring at his shoes. ‘But … Listen, you can’t keep throwing things around, drawing attention to yourself. Just stop it.’
I realised who’d been behind that entry in the visitors’ book. STOP.
‘Why?’ I said, puzzled.
He was still talking hurriedly. ‘Take it from me, okay? It’s better if you quit.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Just trust me on this. It’s—’
The door flew open and the boy pressed his lips together so tightly they went white.
‘Scanlon, my boy, we’ve located you. I heard there was a disturbance – I was so worried.’ The man rushed in and pulled the boy into a tight hug.
So that was the boy’s name. Scanlon.
Funny name.
Funny boy.
Behind him, Olivine smiled uncertainly. ‘Well, I’m just glad we were able to find him, Mr …’
‘Lane,’ said the man smoothly, pulling back at last so Scanlon was at arm’s length, but still holding on firmly. ‘Crawler Lane. Call me Crawler.’
While Crawler certainly looked pleased to be reunited with his son – his grip on Scanlon’s shoulders was so tight Scanlon was practically wincing – I couldn’t help noticing that Crawler wasn’t looking at the boy he was so overjoyed to find safe. Instead he was more interested in what was around us. And the broken plates, overturned tables and steaming coffee machine seemed to have an effect on the shabby slight man in the soft faded clothes. It was as if some of that gentle absent-mindedness just peeled right off him, to be replaced by a bright-eyed alertness.
‘I do hope this won’t put you off returning to Sea View,’ said Olivine. She contemplated the wrecked café unhappily. ‘It can be easy to become a little, er, frightened of the, er …’ she glanced up at the ceiling, not quite meeting anyone’s eye, ‘draughts around the property, which can occasionally cause … disruptions.’
‘Draughts,’ said Crawler soothingly. ‘Of course.’
They shared a conspiratorial smile.
‘We don’t mind a draught, Olivine. If anything, it’s draughts like this that just make us love Sea View all the more. There’s nothing like a historical house with a bit of life in it, eh? Stay away? We’ll be back tomorrow! You just try and stop us!’
And, placing a hand on the back of Scanlon’s neck, Crawler guided the three of them out of
