Sticking out of the pile was a lurid stripy top. Pink and lime. My mind whirred.
‘What room did you say this was again?’
‘Storeroom,’ he said quickly.
‘What’s that mattress for then?’
He said nothing.
‘Is this where you sleep?’ I said, as softly as I could.
My response was a fierce glare from his mossy eyes.
‘Scanlon,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
His throat worked a few times and finally he said, through lips as sharp as a paper cut, ‘It wasn’t always like this. When Mum was alive, it was much nicer. I had curtains, clean clothes, toys … She’d tuck me in. She loved me.’ He shot me an anguished look.
I nodded. ‘I believe you.’
‘But she died. A long illness, something to do with her heart. I was six.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Then she came back.’
‘What do you mean?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Her ghost came back. To the caravan. We talked to each other for ages – she played games with me.’ He nearly smiled. ‘She came for seven days in a row. She always waited till Dad had gone before she appeared though.’
He stared into the shadows. ‘I wish she’d never come back at all.’
‘Why?’
‘One day Dad came home early from the Alco-hole. He was so quiet, neither of us noticed him. He saw me chatting away, laughing and singing along with Mum.’ His jaw clenched. ‘I should have just lied and said I was playing a game, that she wasn’t really there, but … I was stupid. Me and my big mouth. “Guess what, Daddy? Mummy’s been visiting me. I can see her so clearly!”’ His mouth twisted into a grotesque leer as his voice changed into a mocking little boy’s voice. His hate towards himself was so thick the air around us thrummed with it.
‘What happened then?’ I whispered.
‘He made me ask her loads of questions. Things only she would know the answers to – like what my first word had been, when I started walking, things like that. Things I couldn’t possibly know. She kept trying to leave, but I thought it was just another fun game, and I begged her to stay and tell me.’
Scanlon seemed wrapped up in his desperate recounting.
‘After an hour of that, he believed me. He knew I could see her ghost. I started it all off.’
My can began to shake. Scanlon was trembling all over, from head to foot, a startling look in his eyes.
‘What do you mean, Scanlon? Started what off?’
He lifted his face to mine. ‘Oh, Frankie, do I have to spell it out? Once Dad realised I could see ghosts, he made me hunt them. That’s why you’re here. You’re our latest catch.’
HE MADE A quick, angry gesture at the room. I stared at the map I’d seen, the mildewed books haphazardly piled up on the shelves.
‘Guides to Britain,’ he said quietly. ‘A map showing places of historical interest.’
He spoke as if the words were thorns in his mouth. ‘Anywhere ghosts might roam. Castles, ancient battle sites, old mines … seaside villages where everyone tragically drowned at the same time …’ He shot me a look. ‘You name it, we’ve raked it.’
Despite what he was telling me, I couldn’t help but feel a flare of pity for Scanlon. Had he really been dragged to those spooky places looking for dead people? As a six-year-old? When I was six, the only things I’d hunted were Easter eggs.
Scanlon was on a roll now. His face was lit up in a horrible way, like a lump of radioactive waste inside him had started to glow.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t believe the excitement when Crawler found out about Sea View.’ His mouth split open in the gloom and it was the abysmal smile of a boy who hadn’t smiled for a lifetime. ‘I was surprised the caravan didn’t catch fire, the speed he tore down the motorway.’
He flapped another arm at the shelves. ‘At the beginning, he tried hunting traps. Muzzles. Not very effective. Too slow. Slid off them. Then he built his machine. The Suck ’Em and Press ’Em. Works every time. Been doing it for years. Perfecting our technique.’ His lips curled around the last word.
‘I’m the bait,’ he said finally. ‘I lure them. That’s what that stupid colourful top is for. It’s meant to draw attention to me. Works with young children …’ he closed his eyes for a moment, ‘really well. They love the colours. It reassures them. There’s a little girl in one of the cans up there …’ His voice faltered. ‘She loved it the most.’
He swiped roughly at his nose. ‘And Crawler – well, you saw his clothes, that nervous blink? It’s fake. Those pink cheeks? He uses blusher. It’s all calculated, all part of the trap.’
I wanted to pull his vile story out of my ears and throw it away like a tapeworm, but there was nothing to do except listen.
‘He’s the mastermind,’ he went on. ‘He does the research, locates the sites. He can’t see ghosts, so he uses me to make friends with them and reel them in. Then – well, you know the rest.’ Scanlon closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Mum never came back. Not once she saw what we were doing.’
‘You … hunted me?’ I said, after a while.
Scanlon hung his head.
‘You have to understand,’ he muttered, sounding younger. ‘I didn’t want to. It’s his idea. It’s always been his thing, not mine. I just do what I’m told.’
‘Oh, well, that makes it all better, Scanlon. If you just do as you’re told. You’re off the hook there then.’
He flinched. ‘I tried to warn you. I didn’t want you to be caught. Don’t you remember?’
Dimly, I did. The warning in the visitors’ book. Stop. That afternoon in the café. ‘You really need to stop doing this, you know. Take it from me, okay? It’s better if you quit.’
‘That was why I ignored you when we first turned up. You have to believe me, Frankie. I pretended I couldn’t see
