At times I wished I did, because that would have been a good, honest, strong feeling. A sign he still mattered. But the truth was, most of the time I didn’t feel anything about him at all. I certainly didn’t feel happier when he came into the room, not like before. Something had died between us, and I don’t just mean me. He wasn’t the person I’d wanted him to be. He wasn’t brave, or special, or wise. He was just … ordinary. An ordinary wretched coward. I hadn’t lost a friendship, because it had never been a friendship to begin with.
In fact, nothing much went on in my brain at all during those lightless days.
I wasn’t plotting my revenge on Scanlon. I wasn’t even working out how I could escape back home. What would have been the point in that? Home is a place where people miss you if you’re not there. But nobody would be missing me. Seriously, who would care that Frankie Ripley, long-deceased resident of Sea View, was now nothing more than a canned ghost? I mean, would they be putting out a Missing Poltergeist alert? Crying into their pillows at night, longing for my return?
My guess was no.
If anything, Historic Homes were probably breathing massive sighs of relief that doors weren’t being constantly slammed and prams weren’t being thrown and windows weren’t being smashed and Chrix’s hard-boiled eggs were safe from harm. Sea View belonged to them now, not me.
And another thing. Crawler had found it as easy as anything to kidnap me from Sea View. All it had taken had been that handmade ghost squisher of his. That Juvenile Corpse Barrier thing that had meant to protect me had been broken as easily as if it was made of butter.
No one had turned up, asking Crawler what his intentions were. No checks, no passport control, no ‘Mind if we take a look in your bag, sir? Anything to declare?’ He’d helped himself and smuggled me out and no one had done a thing to stop him. If Jill – or anyone else in the afterlife, for that matter – really cared about keeping dead children safe, they had a funny way of showing it.
It was time to wake up. I was completely alone. My friendship with Scanlon had been fake. And I had no one to blame but myself and those destructive feelings of mine. Let’s face it: every time I felt anything, it usually led to death or disaster.
Maybe the answer was just to feel nothing instead?
So that’s what I decided to do. I sat in the darkness, and let it drain me of myself.
After a while, it was as if my brain had been scraped out by a spoon, leaving just a big blank space where Frankie Ripley had once been, and very nice that was too. I felt light-headed at the beautiful emptiness inside me, like a terrible stomach ache had finally gone.
‘Right then, my trophies. Moving day. Up and at ’em. Time to stretch your legs.’
It was Crawler.
My can shook, was lifted through the air, and a few seconds later there was the sound of a lock snapping in place. Sluggishly, I peered around. Had Crawler just said we were on the move? But where to? Were we going to be released? Plopped back into freedom, like a crab returned to sea by day-trippers? And where on Earth would I go then?
An engine started. Things around me went whoosh and zoom. Everything shook, as if we were driving along a long dirt track. I was jolted around like popcorn in a pan.
Footsteps, a door opening. Lifting again.
Through my punched holes, I caught glimpses of fir trees, dancing in the wind. Birds sang.
I felt incredulous. Perhaps we really were about to be let loose? Maybe Crawler wasn’t that bad, after all. Who knew what went on behind that deceptively bland face of his? Maybe this was all part of some extremely complicated ghost rescue mission or something?
Then there were glimpses of something else. Man-made and dirty-bright. What is that? I pressed my face against the can and stared. In front of us was an ugly mishmash, a strange castle – a sprawling perspective-defying construction. It had turrets sticking out at mad angles and slanting windows in places that made no sense. It appeared to have been cobbled together from old bits and pieces: a jumble of wooden pallets, garden sheds, corrugated iron panels, splintered fence posts. It looked like it had been designed by a toddler and nailed together by a madman. Its overall lunatic design was enhanced by very rough brushstrokes of red and yellow and green paint.
I stared at it in confusion, not convinced. I thought maybe I was about to be released into the woods like an endangered rare panda? Unless the castle was to be my night shelter, or something? I eyed it warily. It didn’t look like something you’d want to sleep in at night – or even during the day, for that matter. It didn’t look like something that you’d want to close your eyes in at all. It would give a migraine to a blind man. It didn’t look like a haven.
It looked like a nightmare.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Crawler sounded as if he was contemplating a glittering cathedral, not the garish mess I saw.
There was no reply from Scanlon.
On the move again. The crunch of boots on gravel.
A door squeaking open. A low downward motion and, seconds later, I was still.
‘Come on then, Scanlon,’ said Crawler. ‘Bring out your dead.’
MY CAN SPUN quickly, like a weird carousel ride. There was a sawing sound, the grind of ripping metal, and then the top was lifted off. I blinked upwards, into the grey light above – and at a pair of sallow cheeks that could have been Scanlon’s, until I realised it was Crawler eyeing me. He’d skipped the blusher. Now I could see how pasty his skin really was. It
