Ghost and Bone Read online

  But that wasn’t the strangest thing about them. It took Oscar a while to work out what was troubling him.

  “Why are they all eating and drinking?” Oscar asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, they don’t need to, do they? Do ghosts get hungry?”

  Sally shrugged. “Not strictly speaking, no…Ghosts don’t need anything to survive, except phantasma, of course, but what’s better than a hearty meal after a long day’s work?”

  As Oscar had never had a job, he couldn’t answer that—but he had to admit that his shandy was surprisingly refreshing, even if it had the same dusty, dry feel on his tongue as the tea he’d had earlier.

  Something else was troubling him too. “How is the food made, though?” he asked, pointing at a plate of beef being eaten by a ghost wearing a tight bodice with a pearl necklace. “Are ghost cows reslaughtered to make these?”

  “We’re not that cruel.” Sally chuckled. “It’s all phantasma. Any ghost can use it to make replicas of stuff from the living world—and the better a ghost’s knowledge of what it’s creating, the closer the match. So ghosts that were great tailors cut the finest ghost suits, ghost builders build the sturdiest ghost buildings, ghost chefs whip up the most delicious ghost meals. And master ghost brewers”—she took a long, lip-smacking swig of her pint—“make the most refreshing shandies. This was brewed by Gustav ‘Three Nose’ von Klimt, and what that wonderful Hun doesn’t know about brewing ain’t worth knowing.”

  As Oscar and Sally chatted away, Oscar began to feel an unfamiliar sensation. Maybe it was the slight buzz from his phantasma shandy, but suddenly he realized he was feeling decidedly hopeful. With Sally on his side, things would be okay. They would get to the bottom of things, together.

  Oscar turned to Sally and finally asked her the question he’d been dying to ask.

  “How did you die, Sally? And what’s it like?”

  Sally paused, glass halfway to her mouth.

  “That’s rude to ask a ghost, you know,” she said, frowning.

  For a terrible moment, Oscar thought he’d insulted her, just when he thought they were getting on so great. His stomach plummeted into his boots like an elevator with a broken cable. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d said the wrong thing. Right now, Sally looked just like how Toby Smith had looked back in history class when Oscar had told him that he preferred putting makeup on dead people to playing soccer.

  But then Sally sighed, staring into her fizzing drink. “My dad was a policeman, one of the first detectives in London. I loved his stories and the detective stories I read, and I wanted to be like him.”

  Sally paused and took a deep swig.

  “And then?” said Oscar.

  “And then I got a little too involved. My father was investigating Hieronymus Jones, the famous villain. A genius inventor. He started out with bank robberies and robbing jewels from aristocrats. Soon he was smuggling opium and selling guns to anarchists. Blackmail, forgery, rebellion! The whole works. He was the most wanted man in London.” Sally’s eyes narrowed. “And I was at home that day, when the police messenger came. They’d spotted Jones in Leather Lane! But Father was out—so I said I’d tell him.”

  “You went after him yourself, didn’t you?”

  Sally nodded. “I was foolish. I thought I’d spy on him. Track him down. I thought I’d make Father proud.”

  “What happened?”

  “He shot me with one of his inventions—a harpoon blunderbuss. And laughed as he did it.”

  Slowly, Sally opened up the top of her shirt. She’d always worn a high collar, tightly buttoned. Oscar had never wondered why till now.

  There was a neat round hole in her chest, just below her throat. Oscar could see right through her.

  “But that’s not even the worst of it,” said Sally. “A few weeks later, Jones killed my mother and father too. He diverted a steam train so it ran right into our house. He said he wanted all of us dead, to complete the set.”

  Oscar was speechless.

  “I’m sorry,” he said eventually. He wanted to say something more, but nothing seemed right.

  “It’s okay. That was a long time ago.” Sally’s eyes left his, darted around the room, and fell, at last, with gratitude, on his crutch strapped to his back in the holder that she’d given him. “How’s the strap working out?”

  Even Oscar could tell that Sally was trying to change the subject.

  “Fits well,” he said. “If I ever need to turn living, the crutch will be on hand. I’ll be ready next time Ernie Hoy or Jessie Mur or whatever they’re called tries to extinguish me in an unusual way.” Oscar thought more about it. “And I just don’t feel right without it. Like it’s not me.”

  “Yes! That’s just it,” Sally said. “You’re just like the rest of us ghosts. We don’t feel right either without our human habits. That’s why we hang on to all the clothes and the beer and the pork rinds. That’s why we eat and sleep—”

  “You go to bed?” Oscar asked.

  “I try to catch a good seven or eight hours every two nights. And so should you, Oscar. Sleep keeps ghosts sane and healthy. You’ve got to remember that the less human you act, the less of your humanity remains. And if you stop sleeping, it takes a big toll: you can slip away from yourself, turn into a shadow, or even a real ghoul, a soul feeder.” A shadow passed across her face. “You really don’t want that to happen. So it’s good that you keep your crutch. It is you. Have you had it ever since your accident?”

  “Well, ever since I could walk,” Oscar said. “And Mum always made me take it to school, even when I begged her not to. But…”

  Oscar suddenly realized something else. Sally had been honest with him. Completely honest.

  “Sally,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it, Oscar. You’re always sorry.”

  “No, I mean…” Oscar hesitated. Even now he could hardly get the words out. “I am really sorry. See, I haven’t been telling you the truth.”

  “At last.” Sally smiled. “I wondered when you’d get round to telling me whatever it is that you’ve been hiding, Oscar.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve thought about telling you loads, but it’s my biggest secret and I’ve never told anyone. And—”

  “Out with it, Oscar!”

  Oscar took a deep breath. “Sally…I’m cursed.”

  As soon as the words were out of his lips, Oscar felt a wave of intense relief, and also more than a little ridiculous.

  “Cursed?” Sally asked.

  Oscar’s throat tightened. At first, the words just wouldn’t come out. But then he took a deep breath, and it was like a kink in a hose had been released and it all flooded out of him. “Yes! When I touch flowers, they die. And once, when I fed some goldfish, they died too. Any small life-form gets its life totally sucked out, and the more angry or upset I am the worse it seems to be. And—”

  “That’s not a curse,” Sally interrupted. She seemed interested.

  “Well, it is a bit of a curse,” Oscar said defensively.

  “Not a bit,” Sally said. “You’re amazing, Oscar. There is nothing like you. No human, no ghost. I don’t think you realize how special you are. So tell me everything.”

  Sally had a way of asking questions that made Oscar want to answer, so he did. He told her how he had begun to worry his Curse might have made his dad die. About the bullies who’d tormented him. About everything bad and good that had ever happened to him.

  Oscar had never realized how much it helped to share a problem.

  They talked long into the night. It was certainly in the top five best evenings of Oscar’s life, possibly even top three. Finally, last orders were called. Sally got to her feet.

  “Last one. What can I get you?”

  O
scar thought for a second. “Chocolate and cornflake.”

  Sally frowned. “Why would you want corn in a ghost shandy? Honestly, modern tastes. I’m getting a marzipan and mint.”

  Oscar watched her ordering, and his hopeful feeling returned stronger than ever. Of course, realizing that you’re feeling hopeful tends to remind you of all the reasons why hope is a bad idea. In Oscar’s case, that meant he remembered his powerful enemies, who liked to blast him with creepy Ghoul Eyes, and his new life-warping, mystery ghost powers, but even all that worrying stuff wasn’t enough to chill the warming glow of Oscar’s optimism.

  Yes, his life had changed in many ways, mostly for the worse. But one thing was different. And that one thing made almost everything bad worthwhile.

  Sally was his friend.

  Oscar had never had a real friend before, not really. He ran through a checklist in his head to make sure he wasn’t getting the signals wrong. Doing that kind of thing was one of the reasons Oscar didn’t have friends. He did it anyway.

  For one, she laughed at his jokes, even when they were bad.

  She seemed interested in what he had to say. She didn’t say he was crazy. She didn’t call him the Death Dork, or the Four-Legged Cripple.

  Although she definitely thought he was odd, she hadn’t thrown rocks at him.

  She wasn’t pretending to be his friend in order to stick mean messages on his back with Post-it Notes. This was what had happened the last time Oscar thought he had a friend, three years ago.

  Most important, Oscar got the distinct impression that Sally actually liked him. Oscar wasn’t very good at judging this, because it hadn’t really happened before. But it felt true.

  Sally returned with the drinks. “But get these down us quick. Five minutes until closing.”

  “But we need to go through the case some more.”

  Sally smiled. “You’re a marvel, Oscar—tight-lipped for days and then, once you’ve started, you won’t stop. But after all that nattering, it’s time for bed, don’t you think? I need some sleep and you don’t want to turn into a soul feeder.”

  “Can I stay with you?”

  “No, better you stay here. It’s safe—and my house might be watched by Lady M. The GLE have records of where their workers live. If she’s the one who wants to get rid of you, she might ambush you in the night. No way you can escape being extinguished if you’re in cuckoo land. Here—I’ll get you a room.”

  She paid the barman for a room for the night with a strange assortment of currency—a gold florin, a couple of shillings, and some modern pound notes—that she pulled from her purse. The barman gave Oscar his key and pointed toward the stairs.

  Before he went up, Sally gave him a hug.

  “Don’t worry too much, Oscar,” she said. “We’re going to sort all this out.”

  There was no doubt in her voice.

  Oscar grinned. It was good to feel hopeful.

  It was even better to have a friend.

  * * *

  Dutifully, Oscar did as he was told.

  He opened the door of his room with a crooked iron key. The room had a thick carpet and heavy furniture. An old coal fire glowed without any heat in the grate. He turned on the gas lamp by his bed and fiddled with the chunky old-fashioned television. It was showing reruns of old shows from the seventies. He tried the bed. It was springy and did not creak. The pillows were soft.

  He undressed and found that if he kept his crutch and shoes close enough to him, they stayed ghostly and didn’t fall through the floor. He stowed them under the bed and climbed in.

  He looked around and realized there was no ghost bathroom.

  Oscar found himself wondering if ghosts still had to use the toilet or brush their teeth. Maybe there were some parts of being alive you were happy to let go of when you died.

  He turned out the lamp.

  In the thick, soft darkness, he found himself wondering about a lot more things. It was very hard to go to sleep. Not just because his brain was pinwheeling about inside his head, Oscar felt like he’d actually forgotten how to be tired. Sleep was a distant dream.

  He was worried about his mum. He was worried about being a ghost forever. He was very, very worried he was never going to go back home. What if his mum was stuck not remembering him? What if Jessie Mur or Ernie Hoy or whatever that criminal in a hat was called had messed with her mind permanently? What if they came back and used the mist to kill her, to try to draw Oscar out?

  After fifteen minutes alone in the darkness, Oscar sighed and turned on the lights again. The records that they’d taken from the Archive were on the bedside table. Oscar began to flip through them. If he couldn’t sleep, he might figure out what was going on. Maybe he’d see something that Sally had missed.

  He reached for his dad’s file. His hand shook a little as he turned the first page, and then he started to read and forgot all his worries. It was amazing. He felt like he was getting to know his father for the first time.

  Even better, his dad was awesome. Julian had grown up—just like Oscar—in a funeral home—but unlike Oscar, he’d had loads of friends and done well at school and even had trials to play soccer for Arsenal. But he hadn’t taken it up, because he wanted to help his mum—Oscar’s awesome granny—who’d run the funeral home all by herself all that time. Reading through, Oscar kept on hoping that he might find out who his grandfather was, but that was the only thing that wasn’t in the file.

  The story of how Oscar’s parents met and fell in love was very romantic. She was working as an optometrist, and his dad had gone in for some new glasses. There was an extract from Julian’s diary in the file:

  She was looking at me through these big, goggly glasses—and I saw her eyes and I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her….

  Oscar felt a bit embarrassed about reading the next few pages, so he skimmed his parents’ courtship and the early days of their marriage. There were a few photos in the file. They both looked so blissfully happy.

  Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t take it anymore. The fact that his mum couldn’t even remember any of this made it much worse. He snapped his father’s file shut—whoever had done the wipe on her memory had killed his father again.

  He’d never really realized it before, but the time that you really die is when no one alive remembers you. No one remembered his dad anymore but him.

  He looked at his own file.

  No one remembered him either. That meant Oscar was dead. He opened the file—and flicked through it. Although he knew it all already, he had a sneaking suspicion there must be something, somewhere, that they were missing. There must be a reason.

  It wasn’t a fun read. Unlike his dad, Oscar hadn’t had a full, or happy, life. He’d spent most of his time in his room, moping. It was heartbreaking, really.

  Oscar read on. At last, he came inevitably to the torn back page. His death page.

  He ran his finger over the sliced edge and was just pondering if a ghost could get a paper cut, when his hand brushed over something else. Something he hadn’t noticed before.

  The back leaf of the file had small, looping indentations etched deeply into the thick cardboard. Oscar blinked at them for a second, trying to work out what might have caused them. It looked as if someone small, like a mouse, had gone ice-skating across it—or maybe like…

  Oscar gasped.

  He ran over to the fire and scrabbled about in the grate until he found a piece of soft charcoal. He wasn’t quite sure that this would work. He’d seen it done once in a Scooby-Doo episode, which was hardly reassuring.

  He fully exposed the gray back leaf of the folder. He took a deep breath. He knew he’d only get one chance.

  Slowly, carefully, he began to rub the charcoal over the cardboard.

  Like magic, writing appeared on the page. But Oscar’s joy was shor
t-lived. He couldn’t help reading Mr. Mortis’s flowery handwriting as it was revealed, and by the end, his tears were smudging the charcoal.

  Addendum to Contract

  I, Mr. Mortis, bear witness to the bargain made today by Julian Grimstone. I declare that his life is forfeit, and in return, I grant new life to his son, Oscar, who should have died on this day. Julian Grimstone will die in his place.

  Signed,

  Mr. Mortis

  Julian Grimstone

  Oscar’s father’s signature was crisp and firm and certain. As if he had no doubt what sort of a person he was.

  In a daze, Oscar checked the back of his father’s folder. It was just the same: the charcoal revealed a second, duplicate contract scratched into the cardboard.

  But even as the words appeared, Oscar’s mind wasn’t there. It had been transported back to a dark country road. It had been an icy night, his mother had said once. A hard frost and a sharp corner.

  He saw the car’s wheels spinning, upside down.

  His father and Mr. Mortis had made the bargain, somehow. And then with the horrible bureaucracy of death, Mr. Mortis—the Grim Reaper—had written that bargain down twice, his pen pressing so hard he’d scratched it right into the cardboard beneath. He’d made it official. He’d made it happen.

  Oscar saw his father standing by the burning car, signing away his life.

  He imagined the little baby boy in the wreckage starting to cry as his father fell to the ground beside him.

  Oscar’s heart broke.

  It should have been me.

  It was a long night.