‘Really? That’s all? But I could throw it! Or chuck it at the window?’
He shook his head, checked the form in his hand. ‘Our client was very specific about ticking the “No Destruction” box when she booked. Doesn’t want any of the antiques broken.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Lady Craven. ‘They’re priceless.’
So she is happy to poison her daughter, but watch out for the furniture? Er, okay.
To Scanlon, I said: ‘But what shall I do instead?’
‘Just …’ Scanlon looked awkward, ‘stand. You’re a display. You’re just here to be looked at.’ He gave me a strained smile. ‘Please.’
I thought of those animals on the walls, the deceased people in their frames. These people, I thought abruptly, seemed to like their dead that way. Hanging about. Part of the furniture. Not quite around, not quite free.
‘Smash nothing?’ I checked, flustered and a little rattled. ‘You sure?’
Scanlon nodded. ‘Think of it as the easiest gig you’ll ever do. You won’t have to lift a finger.’
‘And … drink!’ shouted Crawler, with a flourish.
The guests, as one, downed their poison, swapping excited looks.
Something flapped in my head like a sheet on a washing line. If I wasn’t here to show off what I could do, why was I here at all? If all Lady Craven wanted was a dead thing for her daughter to gawp at, why not just buy her a pack of sausages?
Above the usual sound of people moaning with nausea as the first drips of poison trickled into their veins, I heard a terrifying, cold voice of doubt. Why am I doing this? What are we doing to ourselves?
What we did in the Haunted House had begun to feel almost routine. If you do anything long enough, it starts to feel normal; practice and regularity sand down any brutal madness into smoother shapes to swallow. But here, in this new place, lit by the stark light of winter? Suddenly what we did seemed very, very wrong.
Life needs to live, I thought wildly, unexpectedly. And if only the living could make the most of life, then the dead can be set free.
The sight of Scanlon made me feel desperately sad. My throat grew tight with regret, until I gave myself a little shake. I was forgetting my training. What had Crawler taught me? ‘It’s better when you don’t feel anything. Too much emotion can make you hysterical.’
‘Frankie?’ said Scanlon gently. ‘What’s going on?’
My lips worked but no words came out.
‘Is it on the box yet?’ snapped Crawler.
‘Nearly,’ said Scanlon. ‘Just making her – its – way now.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you need me to do anything, Frankie? I can try to postpone – ask if they want to reschedule …’
My thoughts were still rearing up in fright. I didn’t trust myself to answer. Instead I counted to three inside my head, nice and slow. Nothing happened. Everyone’s faces seemed to fill with an untold horror, and the world crackled with menace. What are we doing? I asked myself again. Madness opened its wings inside my mind, ready to swoop.
With a flash of inspiration, I glanced over at Crawler. Just one glimpse of his arrogant, inscrutable face helped my mind right itself. I remembered what he’d told us, that very first day in the Haunted House. ‘Most people really are happiest when they just have something to stare at.’ Why was I even questioning that? Everything was fine. Everything was normal. No need to panic. All I had to do was think of this place as just … another haunted house.
‘I’m fine,’ I told Scanlon, and I began to mount the steps.
Yet a trace of restlessness remained.
They had the only captive poltergeist in the world at their command, and all they wanted it to do was stand on a box? I mean, it seemed a tiny bit of a shame, didn’t it? A slight … waste?
Also … I threw a critical eye around the place. This party, not to put too fine a point on it, sucked. Lady Whatsit and her guests seemed ever so stiff. And I suddenly shivered all over. You know when you find a frozen puddle in a field and stamp all over it, just for the pleasure of hearing it crack? I wanted to do that. I wanted to do that right now. Things needed to break in here.
‘Look, whatever you’re thinking, Frankie, just … don’t,’ said Scanlon.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, sticking my nose in the air.
‘Yeah you do. You’ve got that look on your face. Listen, Dad’s been planning this booking for months. He’s really touchy at the moment. If we don’t do what he says—’
‘Chill out, Scanlon,’ I muttered, getting into position.
I patted my salt-crusted hair and faced the crowd, making sure to smile widely enough so that the cuts on my face split open a little. A nice touch.
‘I’ll give them what they want,’ I said.
A FEW SECONDS later, the guests began to nudge each other.
‘Look,’ they said. ‘Over there.’
The poison had entered their bloodstreams completely, and the show was on.
‘Wh-what’s that, Mother?’ said Drixie faintly, squinting in my direction.
‘Ah, it’s the latest thing, darling,’ said Lady Craven. ‘You’re standing right in front of the Cliffstones poltergeist. My treat.’
Drixie’s bloodshot eyes widened as she entered death’s waiting room, and at last her eyes took me in. ‘It’s … dead?’ she said.
‘Very,’ said Crawler loudly, from the other side of the room. ‘Drowned. But somehow stuck on earth. Isn’t it brilliant? Take a look at her injuries – awesome bit of detail …’
Any minute now, I thought complacently, she’ll start to shriek with excitement, just like they do back in the Haunted House.
But Drixie didn’t look excited. Drixie had spent approximately one nanosecond taking my appearance in before she averted her eyes, looking …
… disgusted. She actually flinched. As if I was a plate of something going off in the fridge. It was a small expression, not much more than a
