There was a deep sigh. ‘I’d prefer it if you couldn’t see out,’ he said finally.
‘That’s not very nice.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. But … if you want an explanation, I’d rather I couldn’t see your face when I’m giving it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once you know the truth, you’ll look at me like you hate me.’
‘Scanlon, don’t be daft. You’re my friend. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me hate you,’ I said firmly.
When he spoke next, his voice was bitter and cold. ‘We’ll see.’
HIS WORDS HUNG over me. Memories from the summer scuttled through my mind.
‘Seen anything interesting, son?’
‘Please, Dad, not this one.
Please.
Please.’
An icy clamminess broke out on my corpse. What had I got myself tangled up with? Who was this boy? Desperately, I poked at the fading embers of my anger.
‘I demand to be able to see out. Scanlon. Please.’
For an awful second, there was no reply and my mind shimmered with dark doubt. How well did I know him, after all? What if he left me in the dark for ever?
Then he said, ‘Oh all right. Wait a sec’, and I nearly fainted from relief.
There was the sound of rattling. Moments later, something began to tap on the panel in front of me. After a few attempts, the tin buckled and flexed. Then a silver pointed tip appeared.
‘Screwdriver,’ explained Scanlon.
He pulled it out of the hole, and a tiny yellow dot of light broke in. When he’d made three peepholes, I pressed my face up to the nearest one, before gasping with fright.
‘What is that?’
In front of me was a huge dirty white ball, with pulsating red lines running through it.
‘Sorry,’ said Scanlon, moving me further away from his eyes. ‘Better?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Much.’
His face was haggard and miserable, with puffy eyelids from crying and a long line of snot hanging from his right nostril. Crawler’s blow on his cheek had come up as a painful-looking red weal.
‘I need some answers, Scanlon. Am I in a tin can?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was I sucked up by that computer-hoover?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I absolutely tiny?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘My dad compressed your ghost. He uses a hydraulic press for spirits – he invented it himself.’
There was silence as I tried to absorb the news. I failed.
‘Where am I?’
‘Our caravan.’
‘Is this your home?’
A bleak look crossed over his face. ‘It’s where we live.’
‘Where are we?’
‘About five miles south of the remains of Cliffstones.’
‘No, I meant – where are we in your caravan?’
‘Oh,’ said Scanlon. ‘Storage room.’ His voice sounded taut, and my senses pricked up.
‘Show me,’ I said.
He hesitated.
‘Show me.’
He spun the can around. I caught a dizzying blur of what looked like old books and a map. ‘There you go.’
‘Can I see a bit more than that? I want to, um, get my bearings.’
This was only partly true. Because despite the weird situation, his obvious despair and all the confusion in my head, I yearned to have a look around. This is the future.
Plus I was in Scanlon’s house! All this time, we’d only ever met at mine. Here was my chance to have a nose around his life, and perhaps all those blank spaces in his life could get filled in.
‘Can you walk around? So I can see it properly?’
‘Fancy a tour, do you?’ said Scanlon, curling his lips. And something inside him seemed to snap into life, and he quivered with a reckless, confessional energy. ‘Here you go.’
As he lifted me up and moved around the room, he slipped into a high, adult voice, which I soon realised was an uncannily accurate impression of the Historic Home sentries.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the Lane caravan, a mobile hole totally unsuitable for modern living,’ he said. ‘We are currently standing in the East Wing, also known as the Box Room, also referred to, by those in the know, as the most hateful, rankest place in the world.’
I gasped. He didn’t seem to care, and just went on spitting out his words.
‘Take a moment to appreciate the filthy carpets, heaps of mouse droppings in the corner …’
The room was very small, and barely lit by the solitary bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its light was so meagre that the yellow gleam it cast was almost greasy, an effect not helped by the squalor around us.
Meanwhile, Scanlon was getting into his stride.
‘May I point out the authentic damp stains on the walls, and those dead flies, boys and girls, which date all the way back to the Minging Dynasty …’
I stared at the shelves which were piled with dizzying jumbles of things: loops of wires, mildewed clothes, crates of beer. A row of cans, like mine, lined up on a top shelf, above old hunting traps, wide open, like jaws waiting to snap. Dusty bottles with labels that said:
POISON.
‘Inhale, if you will, the distinct aroma of the place, a mixture of stale air, unwashed humans and things going bad. Is there anything more atmospheric, more distinctly Lane, than the smell of their dirt?’
Even through the can, I caught that awful stench of rotting. It was very strong just then, and I gagged on it, then pretended to cough.
In the dim light, his eyes were black and desperate.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I said eventually. ‘It just needs a bit of a clean-up – could be quite nice … I like what you’ve done with the … erm …’
My voice tailed off under his scornful look.
I was about to turn away, having seen enough, when I caught a glimpse of a photo taped to one of the bottom shelves. The light was too murky to see all the details, but it looked like a young woman holding something little and baby shaped in her arms. There was also a dirty mattress on the floor, next to a
