Ghost and Bone Page 14

  “And fewer ghosts means less work for me! We’ll come out smelling of roses!” Northcote’s eyes were glazed and wild, and he kept fiddling manically with one of the watches hanging from his jacket. Oscar remembered what Sally had told him once, how ghosts can become fixated from doing the same thing, over and over, for hundreds of years. They could lose perspective. But Northcote had done more than just that. He’d gone completely insane.

  The two ghosts cackled. Oscar was happy for their good humor to go on. He’d nearly reached the glass jars. One more step and he was there.

  “Hold it right there, Oscar.” Jones’s voice lashed out like a whip. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re doing. Move again and Sally gets it.”

  Oscar froze.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Sally said. “Do— Aaaaaargh!”

  Sally started screaming. Jones had pressed the button and the trumpet was starting to hoover her up.

  “How interesting,” Northcote said, watching her die. “These weak ghosts vanish so terribly fast.”

  “Stop!” Oscar shouted.

  Sally was growing faint already. Oscar couldn’t bear it. “Stop!” he screamed again. “Kill me instead! That’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

  “No!” Sally sobbed, but her voice was very faint.

  Jones pulled the trumpet away from Sally and advanced on Oscar.

  “I’ll make this easy for you,” he said. “Just close your eyes. It’ll be nice and quick.”

  “Promise me you’ll let her go,” Oscar said. “Untie her!”

  “You have our word,” Northcote said. He started working Sally free from the ropes that bound her. “As a gesture of good faith, I will release her too. There’s something poetic about this. Your father did the same for you. Such a noble sacrifice. Quite heartening, when you think about it.”

  Sally slumped to the ground, mumbling something. She was hardly there at all, so faded that barely a shadow remained.

  Oscar didn’t close his eyes when Jones raised the trumpet. He watched. Even though it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he had ever experienced before.

  The awful shrinking, shredding feeling tore bits of him away. With a kind of dumb horror, he watched worms of phantasma wind out of his body. His phantasma was a lighter color than Mr. Mortis’s—a kind of pearly gray, with bursts of iridescent light curling inside it—quite beautiful, really. It twisted out of his body and whooshed up into the trumpet. The awful jar that Jones was carrying around his waist filled quickly.

  Oscar could smell himself dying. A raspy gasoline stink. His vision grew dark.

  He began to fade. He fell to his knees, and then his legs gave way and he slumped to the floor. He tried to hold on. He had to save himself for as long as he could.

  He was getting thin now. Thin and stretched and the sucking, ravenous hunger never stopped gnawing him away.

  He might have been screaming, but it was hard to tell. His ears were long gone.

  Jones, very far away, gave a tsk of disgust. He’d filled the jar and needed to change it for a new one. The sucking stopped.

  It was glorious.

  It was like an angel had suddenly appeared and taken away all of Oscar’s pain. He lay there, watching Jones methodically unscrew the Hungry Bottle and turn to find a new one.

  This was the moment he’d been waiting for. With the very last scrap of himself that remained, Oscar drew his crutch from where he’d kept it strapped to his back, trembling with the effort. It felt good in his hand.

  It felt right.

  This is mine. This is me.

  Northcote shouted something, but Oscar couldn’t hear anymore because he didn’t have any ears. He could hardly see either—but he could smell. The stench of Mr. Mortis’s jars was like a beacon.

  Oscar lashed out as hard as he could. The crutch connected solidly. The glass smashed. Dark ghost energy spurted into the air. Most of it fell straight onto the engine, which roared to life with a deafening scream.

  The blast of air splintered the remaining phantasma into a fine mist. It sprayed on Oscar, and his strength rushed back. Suddenly, he felt better than he’d ever felt before. The rush was overwhelming—a wave of good energy that drove everything bad or weak away.

  Oscar felt like he was shining.

  He knew exactly what was going on. Jones and Northcote were running toward him. The propeller was screaming like a jet plane about to take off. Jones was raising the trumpet and Northcote wanted to grab him, but Oscar didn’t care about them. He knew exactly what was going to happen next.

  He turned toward them, smiling. He was careful to keep his head low.

  Three, two, one…, he counted down in his head.

  Just as he knew it would, the propeller went into overdrive, spinning so fast it sheered away from the engine.

  Jones dived out of the way with catlike grace. Northcote was much less lucky. The propeller caught him in his ample, tweed-jacketed belly and drove him backward.

  He smashed into the array of pipes and trumpets that were ranged around Mr. Mortis.

  The end was very quick. Just as Northcote himself had said—when a weak ghost is confronted by one of those terrible devices, they vanish pretty quickly. Well, Northcote was weak, and there were at least five Hungry Bottles ravening for his soul.

  He disappeared in seconds. He hardly had time to scream.

  The remains of the engine exploded, smoke and debris filled the air, glass shattered. Something was burning, but Oscar ignored it. He sprinted over to Sally.

  He could barely find her in the smoke—and when he did, he almost missed her, she was that faint.

  “Sally!” he shouted.

  She didn’t reply.

  Oscar grabbed one of Mr. Mortis’s bell jars full of phantasma and threw it over her. It swirled across her body and disappeared.

  “Sally!”

  Something magic was happening. Oscar watched her grow more solid. She was filling in, growing thicker and bolder. She was actually there.

  There was another huge explosion, but Oscar ignored it.

  He grabbed her hand.

  “Sally!” he shouted. “Can you hear me? Can you see me?”

  Sally opened her eyes. She sat up so fast that she almost head-butted Oscar.

  “Course I can, you dolt,” she said. “Where’s Jones?”

  “I don’t know,” Oscar said. There was no sign of the villain, and Oscar couldn’t remember what had happened to him. “Should we look for him?”

  “No—we need to save Mortis!”

  Sally bent over the long form of Mr. Mortis. He was still lying motionless on the floor. She pointed to the bell jar that remained unsmashed.

  “You pour that on him,” she said. “Lucky you didn’t smash it all. Be sharp now. He hasn’t got long left.”

  Oscar didn’t dawdle. Mr. Mortis’s phantasma jumped out of the jar as he tipped it over, as if it was eager to get back home. It splashed down on his body like lumpy rain. There was a little flash of golden light as the drops hit, before they were instantly absorbed into his dark suit.

  Mr. Mortis gave a long, slow sigh and opened his eyes.

  He blinked with surprise. “I’m not dead?” His voice was weak—but there was something familiar about it too. Oscar was sure he’d heard it before.

  “No,” he said. “You’re not.”

  “And who are you?” Mr. Mortis said. He frowned. “What are you?”

  “I’m…” Oscar looked for Sally—she’d be better at explaining what had happened, but the detective was gone. She had run over to the shelf of bottles and was searching through them as if her life depended on it.

  “What are you doing?” said Oscar, who was still more than a little bewildered by everything.

  Sally ignored him and kept on hunting
through the shelves.

  “Yes!” Suddenly, Sally was screaming in triumph. With great care, she removed two of the bottles from the shelf. “I can save Mum and Dad, Oscar! You did it! We did it!”

  “Can someone please explain what is happening?” said Mr. Mortis again. “I thought I was going to Fiji.”

  It turned out that the God of Death took two sugars in his tea.

  “Well, I won’t say all of this doesn’t come”—Oscar’s mum’s voice wavered, but she fought on bravely—“as a…teensy bit of a shock.”

  She was already on her third cup and had taken the unprecedented step of nibbling on a second cookie. She only did that in moments of the highest stress. The last time Oscar had seen her do it was when their dog had died.

  “It’ll make sense soon, Mum,” he said. “I promise.”

  It was just about starting to make sense to Oscar. Bright sunshine was streaming into the kitchen. Everything was exactly where it had always been; the striped bread bin with the chipped lid; the dish towel with the picture of the juggling elephant; the very mixed assortment of mugs hanging on hooks beside the sink; the green-and-white-checked tablecloth, still stained where Oscar had spilled a bowl of mushroom soup.

  Oscar wanted to lie back and take a bath in the wonderful ordinariness of it all. Everything was in the right place, at last.

  His mother reached out, grabbed his hand, and gave it a quick squeeze.

  “It sounds like you’ve been so brave, Osk, and I’m very sorry I called the police on you.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mum,” Oscar said.

  “Memory wipes are very powerful, ma’am,” added Sally. “It was not your fault at all. Very good work from Northcote.”

  “Well, that is…reassuring,” said Mrs. Grimstone, sounding less than totally convinced. Mr. Mortis had granted Mrs. Grimstone the power of phantasmic sight, so she could see him and Sally. She hadn’t quite got used to the fact that a ghost detective, who also happened to be a child, was drinking tea at her kitchen table. But that was fair enough. It was a lot to take in. It’s not every day that you discover the God of Death is your father-in-law.

  “But, my dear, you should be reassured!” Mr. Mortis said, beaming. There was a definite skully quality to him, and although he had a kind face, you were aware of every bone under his skin. “Your son has proved himself in the fiercest of trials. Were it not for him, none of us would be here! Indeed, the world would be in terrible danger. Perhaps ending as we speak, who can say?”

  After that dramatic statement, a thinking silence fell on the table. Mr. Mortis took another slurp of tea as they all contemplated the apocalypse that Oscar had narrowly averted.

  “I’ve always known he was special,” Mrs. Grimstone said.

  The pride in her voice made Oscar blush. “I’m not special, Mum. Don’t be silly. It all just happened.”

  “Poppycock!” Mr. Mortis said, shaking his head.

  “Don’t listen to him, ma’am,” Sally said. “He’s done us all proud.”

  “Oh, Osk!” Mrs. Grimstone was beaming with pride.

  “Zounds!” Mr. Mortis leapt to his feet so fast that his chair fell over backward. He was slightly too tall for the room. He was staring at a photograph on the mantelpiece.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Sally asked.

  Mr. Mortis had turned white. As he was already pretty pale, he looked almost transparent now. He walked carefully across to the mantelpiece.

  “Barbara was very special, just like you, Oscar.” The photograph showed Oscar’s father as a toddler. He was being held by Granny Grimstone. Both of them were grinning out at the camera.

  “The only woman I ever loved,” Mr. Mortis said. He sounded close to tears. “When I first saw her in the Christmas market in Vienna…I knew for the first time what love was. Imagine! Ten thousand years on Earth—but I’d never felt that fire! That agonizing joy!”

  His eyes were very far away.

  “Vienna?” Oscar’s mum asked. “But Granny said she never left the country!”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Grimstone—she traveled extensively in her youth….” Mr. Mortis shook himself. “But that is an old story for another time. Now is the time to talk of Oscar’s future! Which is bright!”

  Oscar wasn’t sure that was strictly true.

  “But first,” continued Mr. Mortis, warming to his theme, “we must talk a little about the past. I want to talk about your husband, Mrs. Grimstone, my son, Julian.”

  “Oh,” Oscar’s mum said, pulling her mug of tea a little closer. She still hadn’t let go of Oscar’s hand.

  “I loved Julian very much,” Mr. Mortis said. “I deeply regret that I could not spend more time with him growing up. My dearest memories are the moments that I snatched to be with him and Barbara. He was a good man.”

  “I know,” Oscar’s mum said. Her voice was tight. “Jules was the best.”

  Oscar gave her hand a squeeze.

  “He loved you, Oscar, as much as I loved him. And when the car crash happened, it was an awful choice he faced. He had no hesitation in choosing to save your life, Oscar, and sacrificing his own.”

  Tears were running freely down Oscar’s mum’s cheeks.

  “Julian did that?” she murmured. “He saved Osk?”

  “He did,” Mr. Mortis said. “I could not persuade him otherwise.”

  “I would have done the same,” Oscar’s mum whispered.

  Mr. Mortis turned to Oscar. “Julian used to believe that he was cursed, you know. Just like you. You both had the same problems.”

  “Things died when he touched them?” Oscar asked.

  “Just so.” Mr. Mortis nodded. “Both of you carry death in your blood, you see. My gift to you, if you like.”

  “Some gift,” Mrs. Grimstone said.

  “Oscar’s pretty amazing, ma’am,” Sally said. She grinned at Oscar. “You should see him jumping on buses. He’s bonkers!”

  “Oscar, it is very important,” continued Mr. Mortis, “very important indeed, that you learn how to control your powers. And you must learn to extend them too!”

  “Well, I can try,” said Oscar. There was something a little worrying about the intense way that Mr. Mortis was looking at him.

  “Good.” Mr. Mortis smiled an awkward, rigid grin. Again, it wasn’t very reassuring. “Because I have learned something during these recent events. Something rather disturbing. Or liberating. It all depends how you look at it.”

  Mr. Mortis had been pacing restlessly about the kitchen, but now he returned to the mantelpiece and picked up the photograph of Granny Grimstone again.

  “The recent unpleasantness wasn’t the first time that some angry ghost has tried to kill me, you know. It’s happened many times before. Staying a ghost for so long can turn some ghosts a little…single-minded, as you can tell from Mr. Northcote. One loses a sense of perspective. The poor man went quite mad. Willing to stop people dying ever again, because he felt underappreciated! There are things that can keep you grounded: spending time with other ghosts, tea, holidays, doing things you enjoy. That sort of thing.”

  Mr. Mortis seemed to be looking at Sally as he was saying this. He rubbed his chin and continued. “But those other attempts on my life never stood even the slightest chance of succeeding. I am…or I should say, I was immortal. But Northcote and Jones nearly managed it. In fact, they would have succeeded if you hadn’t intervened. I was moments away from the big jump. Moments away from joining Barbara once more. How I long to see her again.”

  Mr. Mortis closed his eyes and clutched the photograph to his chest.

  “As you know, some of my power flowed into my son when I became a father—part of my power was lost. It has had an unintended consequence. It has made me mortal.”

  Sally gasped. Mrs. Grimstone looked baffled. Oscar had a cold feel
ing in the pit of his stomach.

  “I am aging. My bones ache a little more every morning. I have lived, you know…a very long time—and I am getting tired.”

  “No!” Sally breathed.

  “I am going to die,” said Mr. Mortis cheerfully. He sounded as if he was announcing that he was popping out to the garden center to pick up a couple of rhododendrons. “It has been a long run—but I am ready. That was the realization I came to in that awful chamber, as they sucked the life out of me. I did not mind, you know. I was quite happy to go.”

  “You can’t!” Sally cried. “You can’t do this, sir!”

  “I will have to,” Mr. Mortis said. “Even I can’t cheat death, you see. That’s why I need to make some preparations.”

  He turned to Oscar and smiled at him. It was the least reassuring smile that Oscar had ever seen.

  “I need a successor. Would…would you, Oscar, consider taking over the Ministry after me?”

  The first thought that Oscar had was that this would really put Lady Margaret’s nose out of joint. The second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts were all different colors of utter panic. Purple panic was the worst.

  “Urk…,” he stammered. He felt like he was going to be sick.

  “Of course, I would stick around for a while, to ease the transition,” said Mr. Mortis. “You wouldn’t be starting cold. But I understand—it’s a lot to think about. I’ll give you a bit of time to ponder my proposal. Can you let me know by tomorrow morning?”

  Oscar Grimstone was pondering all right. He felt like someone who had jumped out of an exploding plane in midair, only to discover that his parachute was made out of lava.

  “Would anyone like another cup of tea?” Oscar’s mum asked. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “If you like, you can work with Sally in the GLE,” Mr. Mortis continued. “She’s getting a promotion.”

  “I’m starting the Hieronymus Jones Squad,” said Sally. “My parents have agreed to join it. Just as soon as they’ve properly recovered. We’re going to hunt him down like a pack of ravening hyenas. And we need you, Oscar. You’re the only ghost—I mean, person—to beat him three times.”