ONCE THEY’D GONE, the kitchen staff tiptoed back into the café and began to sweep up the mess timidly, shooting glances around the room as if on the look-out for another flare-up from old Freaky Frankie Ripley.
But they needn’t have worried. I was far too pleased to smash anything else up, for the time being at least. His name drifted into my mind and hung there, all sparkling, like someone had carried in a birthday cake with candles.
Scanlon Lane. I rolled the words around in my mouth with delight.
My new friend, Scanlon Lane.
Well. I frowned. The candles spluttered. Perhaps friend might be too strong a word. I picked thoughtfully at one of the shells in my legs.
He hadn’t said much. There had been just as many awkward silences between us as words spoken. All I really knew about the boy was that he had no sense of style. And saw ghosts. But even that he hadn’t told me with any real enthusiasm; he’d just muttered it reluctantly out of the corner of his mouth.
In fact, the only thing Scanlon had shown any passion for was in telling me what not to do.
‘Listen, you can’t keep throwing things around, drawing attention to yourself.’
Mmmm. Perhaps ‘friend’ was a stretch. Maybe he was more like an … acquaintance. Still, you had to start somewhere. It wasn’t a promising beginning, but it was a beginning at least.
Anyway, I thought, stepping over the broken coffee machine and out into the garden, perhaps Scanlon had a point. As much as I enjoyed scaring the tourists and smashing stuff, it had its drawbacks too.
All that destruction requires so much work – you really have to see things through to the end once you decide to trash a room. You can’t just throw a chair on the ground and leave it at that. No – that would look very slapdash. You need a concept. You need to commit to this concept, and give all your time and energy to it too. Like any other creative pursuit, being a poltergeist can take over your life. Also, it was quite alarming making so many people wet their pants all at once.
So I could certainly think about stopping, as he’d suggested. If not wrecking the house meant I’d have someone to talk to, then I could stop.
I might not know much about Scanlon, but I knew one thing: he was wise. Plus he was the only person who knew I existed. I couldn’t wait to see him again.
Unfortunately, Scanlon didn’t seem to feel the same way about me. Even though he came back the very next day, with Crawler in tow, he acted as if our chat in the café had never happened. Worse than that – he acted as if I’d never happened.
I’d gone to such an effort as well. Arranged my rotting rags as tidily as possible. Made a firm resolution to keep a grip on my temper, as requested. And then I’d curled up under the table in the hallway, and watched the front door like a hawk. When he appeared with the first lot of tourists at 9.01 a.m., I’d jumped up and shouted as welcomingly as possible, ‘Hello!’
But Scanlon didn’t even bother to look in my direction. He blanked me. It was a brush-off, plain and simple.
‘H-hello?’ I stammered. ‘Remember me? Frankie? The, er, poltergeist? We met yesterday, in the café?’
Nope. Not so much as the tiniest of flickers in my direction. Instead he bit his bottom lip and stared at the carpet. Just like every other time I’d seen him.
Our friendship seemed to be regressing.
For a second, I thought I saw him shake his head quickly. Left, right. Like he was saying no. Or stop again, knowing him.
I rolled my eyes.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘No breaking stuff. I get it. I won’t, I promise.’
But instead of replying, Scanlon’s behaviour went from rude to weird. He began to walk around the house, staring into the nooks and crannies of the rooms, in a noticeably artificial way, using exaggerated glances and weird, staged neck movements. It was like watching a very bad pantomime.
Each time, Scanlon would shake his head in a disappointed way and say, ‘Definitely not here.’ His dad would sigh and say, ‘Very well. Swipe to the next room.’ And the whole peculiar routine would begin again.
I had no idea what they were searching for, but they obviously wanted it pretty badly. Maybe they could visit the staff room and check Lost Property, and while they were at it, ask if anyone had handed in Scanlon’s manners.
Back in the hallway, I lingered, half expecting Scanlon to at least write an explanatory note in the visitors’ book, but even that he neglected to do.
‘Bye then,’ I said sarcastically to his retreating back.
I spent the rest of the afternoon puzzling over what had happened. Had I done something wrong? Had he changed his mind?
Shame and embarrassment twisted through my cold body. Could I have handled our meeting in the café better? Maybe I should have promised straight away to do what he’d asked? Or should I have played it cooler? Maybe I’d laid it on too thick. Had I come across as … desperate?
They returned twice more that week, and Scanlon ignored me each time. By the end, I’d given up. I was sick of the sight of him, sick of trying to work him out. Why had he talked to me in the café if he was going to ignore me afterwards? In fact, why come at all? He never cracked a smile, never seemed pleased to return. Even Crawler’s permanently amiable manner seemed to crack slightly, became a touch more strained with each repeat appearance.
Why did they keep visiting if it made them so flipping miserable? I mean, did they not have anything better to do with their summer holidays than repeatedly trudge around a badly lit cottage with a tragic past? I
