I smashed things. I broke things.
That was who I was.
SCANLON APPEARED AT my door. ‘Frankie,’ he said in a frazzled, tight voice, ‘Crawler says to let you know that you’re heading out this morning.’
‘Out?’ I said, confused.
I didn’t like the sound of out. I preferred in.
‘Why? Have I done something wrong?’
‘No, nothing like that. You’re not being booted out. You’re being hired out.’
I stared at him dully. ‘Huh?’
‘It’s a private booking. We’re doing those now. There’s a Lady Someone-or-Other who wants you to put in an appearance at her daughter’s twenty-first birthday party. Dad thinks this could be a lucrative side business.’
I shrugged. ‘Okay. Hey, what’s happened to your teeth?’
His cheeks went pink. ‘Dad paid for them to be straightened and whitened,’ he said. ‘I’m front of house now. I greet the guests, and I’m in charge of corporate booking and international sales. He said my smile was frightening the punters. Or, as he put it: “You’re not part of the show, Scanlon. You can’t look more frightening than the spooks.”’
‘What does corporate booking and the other … thing mean?’
‘International sales? Big bookings for large companies,’ he said. ‘Lots of business people have started coming for their office parties. People are travelling here from all over the world, and you wouldn’t believe what they’re paying.’
‘So you’re doing well then, I take it? I mean, the teeth whitening and the private bookings and the money?’
Scanlon busied himself straightening his cuff. ‘I guess.’
‘Are you still living in the caravan?’
‘Not any more. We’ve got a penthouse. A big one. With a pool. And staff. Someone cooks for us.’
‘That must be nice,’ I said.
His eyes met mine. After a pause, he shrugged. ‘S’pose.’
‘So it’s worked out for everyone then. I mean, you and Crawler are set up for life, and everyone’s happy downstairs?’
There was a flash of something in his face then, and for a second I was reminded of the scathing awkward boy I’d once known.
‘Depends what you mean by happy, Frankie.’
He had a confessional look. There was something inside him, I could sense, that he wanted to tell me, if I would only ask the right question. Some secret of his that he wanted me to break wide open, like a clam. But I’d lost the habit of friendship. Besides, why should I waste my energy on another of his riddles? Asking questions of Scanlon only led to disturbing answers.
So all I said was: ‘Are we going to this party then, or what?’
Scanlon closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, that look had gone.
‘The limo’s outside.’
A few hours later, our flying car lowered over a vast field before parking neatly outside a creamy stately home. We stepped out on to a crunchy path edged with twigs.
‘This way,’ said Crawler.
The ground was black with frozen leaves. A bird tried fruitlessly to peck at the hard ground. And a startling question flared into life inside me, for a moment.
‘Scanlon,’ I hissed.
He looked over his shoulder.
‘How long have we been open? The Haunted House?’
‘About eighteen months,’ he said, regarding me quizzically. ‘Why?’
Eighteen months? It didn’t feel like eighteen months – a month at the most. I stumbled on the path. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘What’s—’
‘No whispering,’ snapped Crawler, knocking on the wooden door in front of us.
It swung open.
‘Good morning,’ said Crawler. ‘I’m Mr Lane, from Lane and Son Spectre-cals? We’re expected.’
‘Yes,’ said someone.
We were ushered into a cool hallway.
‘Follow me.’
I had just enough time to observe how many dead stuffed animals were mounted on the walls before we were whisked off down a wide corridor, lined with portraits of men and women and inscribed with their lifespans. The Right Hon. Fancypants of Posh House, 2056–2117, that sort of thing. More dead people on the walls.
I rolled my eyes. Same old. You might as well take them down, chum. The people who live here can’t see them anyway. Trust me.
A vast ballroom lay before us. Overhead curved a domed turquoise ceiling, studded generously with golden cherubs. They reminded me of something. We regarded each other a moment, but their blank gold faces gave nothing away.
The smartly dressed crowd of young people within the ballroom chatted lazily, admiring each other’s clothes. Around them circulated catering staff, pouring drinks and dishing out snacks. At first glance you would have mistaken the waiters for humans, until you spotted the whirring silver discs that made up their lower halves.
Our escort said discreetly, ‘Madam?’
A tanned, red-haired woman with a wide, freckly face looked over unsmilingly.
Crawler gave a short bow. ‘Lady Craven,’ he said. ‘I have your order.’
‘How perfectly fleck,’ she said, clapping her hands together a little too loud. ‘Drixie! Drixie Tink! Mummy’s got you a birthday surprise.’
The young woman that slowly materialised from the crowd was even more tanned than her mother, and very thin, with big round eyes fringed by delicate pink feathers.
‘Mum, I thought we agreed – no more surprises,’ she said. ‘I still haven’t got over that ten-tonne tightrope walker you booked last year. No one sitting underneath him stood a chance. I still hear their screams in my nightma—’
‘This surprise is different,’ said Lady Craven quickly.
‘How?’ said Drixie.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Crawler.
At a nod from his father, Scanlon walked slowly around the ballroom, pouring out the poison.
TO SCANLON, CRAWLER said: ‘Get it in position.’
Scanlon looked at me, his cheeks reddening. ‘Fran—, er, Poltergeist, do you think you can go and stand on top of that box, over there?’
‘What?’ said Drixie. ‘Who is he talking to?’
‘You’ll see in a minute,’ said Crawler smoothly. ‘Now, has everyone got their Ghoul Aid ready?’
Scanlon was pointing to the middle of the ballroom. I saw a tiered plinth, the sort you’d find under a statue in a museum.
‘That box,’ said Scanlon again.
‘What – you want me to break it?’ I said.
‘All you’ve been
