Pour Rose et Hubert
Contents
1 Paris Or Bust (…Or Maybe Just Bust)
2 ‘This Eurostar Contrivance’
3 Hotel Cafards
4 Squatters’ Rites
5 ‘What Is It, That It Is?’
6 The Empire of the Dead
7 My Inner Ninja
8 Death by a Thousand Cheekbones
9 Grim Developments
10 The Caverns of Bone
11 Danse Macabre
12 What’s the French for ‘Aaargh!’?
13 Breaky and the Bogeyman
14 I Get Decisive (Sort Of)
15 Styx and Stones
16 Lifeboat Or Deathboat?
17 The Light at the End of the Tunnel
18 The Boy Who Cheated Death
19 Last Mango in Paris
1
Paris Or Bust
(…Or Maybe Just Bust)
I’m that kid, remember? The one who sees dead people?
Hey, don’t freak out – it’s cool! Okay, it’s also pretty spooky, I know, but I’ve had the whole ‘unquiet grave’ thing sussed for years, ever since Simon came along.
Who’s Simon? Well, he’s like my shadow, or my ghostly guardian if you like, though if he’s an angel, he’s a pretty shabby one. While you’re chatting to me, he’s the one you can’t see, lingering just behind your head in a veil of eighteenth-century ectoplasm, watching your every move, ready to strike.
Or gazing at the flowers. With Si, it could go either way.
Point is, though, Si’s one of them – a dead person, I mean. He’s the sidekick only I can see, my partner in crime. I’m the talent, he thinks he’s the brains, and together we’re pretty damned awesome. In a skin-of-my-teeth kinda way.
‘Daniel.’
‘Wait a mo, Si. I’m just getting to it.’
The thing about my line of work, though, is it’s dead exhausting. I mean, here I am having to go to school every day and keep my eyes open and pretend to be normal, when every midnight – POP! – there’s another one of them in my room, wailing about how they died too soon, moaning for my help. What’s a psychic kid got to do to get a bit of feet-up time these days?
‘Daniel, I must insist…’
‘Stick your pony tail in it, Si, I’m getting there.’
Anyway, when I heard about the school trip to Paris, the first thing I thought of wasn’t ‘sacre bleu’ or ‘ooh la la’, or even ‘brunettes’ (honest!). Nah, all I could see was the chance for a bit of a holiday. Some down time from all the phantom freakery that follows me about London. ‘See ya in a week, Si’ – that kind of thing.
But Simon was all, ‘Ah, Paris, the City of Light!’ and even passport control at St Pancras Station couldn’t stop him from coming too. So here I am, wearing my trademark purple sunglasses and death’s head coat, waiting to board the Eurostar to Paris with Si still wittering on in my ear. Because, as ever, there’s a problem.
‘Daniel, I simply must ask you one last time.’ Si’s hopping from one foot to the other – never a good sign.
‘Just give it a rest, Si. You’ll be fine,’ I mumble. I can’t speak too loudly now because some of the other kids have shuffled closer. They didn’t want to, I can see that. No one ever wants to get too close to the weirdo who talks to himself, but the platform’s filling up and there’s nowhere else to go. I see in their eyes that they’re all hoping someone else will have to sit next to me on the train.
‘T’is just…’ Si says, ‘… is it really necessary to ride the locomotive? Could we not sail? T’is said this Eurostar contrivance conveys one deep beneath the earth, through some manner of tunnel. That sounds most disagreeable.’
I slap my face into my hands. He’s only scared of travelling on the train. I mean, he’s a ghost for crying out loud! What’s the worst that could happen? You see the kind of thing I have to deal with?
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ says Si. He’s embarrassed, I can tell, because the ectoplasm leaking from the bullet hole in his head is dribbling down like poo from a squeezed nappy.
‘You don’t know what it’s like to be buried, Daniel. The bowels of the earth are no place for the living.’
‘But you’re dead,’ I say for about the hundredth time, though I immediately regret it because a couple of nearby girls exchange looks and then edge away. Something tells me I won’t be making any friends on this trip.
‘I am sure we would have a more diverting time without your classmates,’ Si goes on, ‘and I would show you a Paris your school master couldn’t even dream of.’
‘Si, you just don’t get how school trips work, do you?’ I more-or-less whisper. ‘I have to go with everyone else, and I have to go on the train. If it’s such a problem for you, don’t come. Take the week off! Go powder your wig or something.’
‘Est-ce que tu vas faire ça toute la semaine?’ says a voice, and I rotate on my heel. Slowly. Our French teacher, Mr Phelps, is right behind me, and I just know he’s been earwigging in on my onesided conversation. But why’s he got to talk to me in French? That’s just sticking the boot in, that is.
‘Er…’ I say, trying to make the ‘r’ sound all Gallic. ‘E-rrrr…’
Frenchy Phelps fixes me with his beady eye.
‘I’m watching you, Dyer. And I’m sick of seeing your name at the bottom of my class, especially when you get straight A’s in everything else. Why do I get the feeling there’s something a bit fishy about that?’
‘Je ne say pah what you mean, sir,’ I say. Well, at least I’m trying.
‘Don’t get smart with me, boy. You may have your classmates rattled with this talking-to-someone-who-isn’t-there act, but you don’t impress me. If I don’t see some improvement in your French by the end of the week, I’ll squeeze you with extra homework until I do. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say, ‘I mean oui, sir.’
Typical! I’m rubbish at French, and he takes it personally. But it’s not like I’m trying to wind him up – I really am rubbish at the old parlez-vous. It gets my tongue in a tangle just thinking about all those kilos de pommes I have to pretend to order. With Phelps on my case and Simon in a flap, this trip to Paris is looking less like a holiday by the minute.
2
‘This Eurostar Contrivance’
When we finally get on the train, I have to slide past a girl called Tanya to get to my window seat. Her face is a picture when she realizes she’s drawn the short straw. But that’s nothing compared to how she looks when Si settles down next to me, in the same seat as Tanya!
She can’t see him of course, but some part of her must sense his presence, ’cause within twenty seconds she’s gone green and is running to throw up in the toilets.
‘Talk about invading someone’s personal space,’ I say. ‘Can’t you be more careful?’
‘I apologise, Daniel.’ Si arranges his frills and ponytail. ‘But I thought you liked to be alone.’ And he smiles his skeletal smile.
I give him the eye and say nothing. Yeah, I just love not fitting in and never having anyone who isn’t dead to talk to.
The two seats opposite me – across the table – are booked for the school trip too, but no one turns up to claim them. I look down the aisle and see two kids sitting on their suitcases at the end of the carriage. Business as usual then, as we ease out of the station.
So it’s a bit of a surprise when, after five minutes, someone does come and sit opposite me after all.
‘Brian, isn’t it?’ I say, thinking I might as well pretend to be sociable with the freckled, rabbit-eyed kid who’s suddenly there. ‘Come for a bit of quiet time in the spooky seats, have you?’
Brian jumps when I spea
k. He’s one seriously freaked-out kid, but surely I’m not that bad. But then I clock what’s going on. Baz, the class gorilla, is eyeing up Brian from a few seats away. And now I see why Bri’s come to sit near me. Even Baz keeps away from the kid who talks to himself.
Mostly.
‘Brain Cabbidge!’ shouts Baz from the safety of his seat, and laughter ripples round the train.
Brian shrinks down into the corner and hides his head in his hands. That’s his actual name, you see: Cabbidge. He’s good at maths too, the poor kid.
And I thought I had problems.
A ball of scrunched-up paper flies over and lands on the table. I think for a moment it’s a bit lame of Baz to be chucking paper pellets, but then I realize what it is: a screwed-up paper aeroplane. And I remember that paper planes are Brian’s obsession.
‘Yeah, that flies!’ shouts Baz. ‘You little freak!’
Brian picks up the ruined plane, and, even screwed up, I can see it was fantastically complicated. But no good ever came of being clever around Baz – Brian should know that by now. He gives me a wretched look for a moment, then buries his head in his hands again. His shoulders heave, and I think I hear a sob.
Fancy paper engineering and a tendency to cry? I really wouldn’t want to be in Brian’s shoes now Baz has him on his radar. I give Si a glance, but Si doesn’t return it. He’s too busy glaring at Baz. Ectoplasm is puffing out of his head like smoke from a steam engine, and I see I’m in for trouble of my own if I don’t rein him in.
‘Easy, Si,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s not get involved, yeah? Baz’s all mouth and no trousers.’
‘Trousers? Zooks, Daniel! This poor child is being persecuted –’
‘Yeah, bullies do that,’ I interrupt. ‘But we’re on holiday, remember? Baz’s just a big wuss in Wookie’s clothing, that’s all. He wouldn’t dare come over here.’
And that’s when Baz comes over here.
He looms over our table, all zits and bumfluff on a stack of un-earned muscle. What was Mother Nature thinking of?
‘Did you just call me a wuss, spooky boy?’ Baz says to me, and I find it’s gone very dark in my corner.
I let my purple sunglasses fall back down over my eyes, and hope that looking mysterious will have its usual effect.
It doesn’t.
Baz carefully removes my specs, puts them on the floor, and stamps on them.
I notice that Frenchy Phelps is suddenly very engrossed in the Eurostar magazine.
‘And as for you, Brain Cabbidge…’ Baz clips poor Bri round the head, ‘your sorry hide is mine this trip. If you don’t do my maths homework for the rest of the year, there’s gonna be grilled Cabbidge en croûte for breakfast. Every. Single. Day.’ He raps Bri on the noggin to emphasis each full stop. ‘Get it?’
Brian whimpers, and tries to shrink even further. Oh, he gets it, all right.
And that’s when I decide I’ve had enough.
I look round at Si, and give him my now-we-can-get-involved look. Si’s been quivering like a dainty firework waiting to go off anyway, and he leaps from his seat in fury, filling the space above us like an elderly angel of justice.
What a shame only I can see that.
Now you might be wondering what exactly he can do, what with him being just a ghost and all, but Si’s got a little trick up his frilly sleeve. Telekinesis is a fancy word, I know, but there’s no other that fits. Yup, you’ve guessed it – Si can move things with his mind.
Well, small things anyway.
Like a button, for example. And a belt buckle. Just like he’s doing now.
Then, in front of everyone, I snap my fingers.
This isn’t just for show, it’s Si’s cue to go in for the kill. Using more of his spook powers, he yanks Baz’s secretly undone jeans downwards, letting them settle round his ankles. As far as everyone else is concerned though, the class bully’s trousers have just fallen down all on their own, at my magical command.
There’s a moment of stunned silence in the carriage. Then there’s an explosion of laughter. Baz is frozen to the spot – it’s a full five seconds before he shouts, ‘What the…?’ and begins scrabbling to hide his embarrassment.
And his Ben 10 boxers.
He shuffles back to his seat in panic, still struggling to get his jeans back above his knees. And that’s when he nearly knocks over a speechless women in a Eurostar uniform, who was just coming down the aisle.
Well, Frenchy has to put the magazine down now, doesn’t he, as the woman finds her voice – a French one, as it happens – and proceeds to lecture him on class discipline and the rules of travel and such. All the time Baz is cringing in his seat, and we can all hear the tinkle of metal as he tries to do his belt up again.
Simon settles back in the seat beside me with an aura of ghostly satisfaction. And, yeah, it is a triumph of sorts. I doubt we’ll be bothered by Baz again in a hurry. Nice one, Si!
Brian Cabbidge stares at me for a long time It’s like being studied by a neurotic squirrel. Then he bends down, scoops up the remains of my purple specs and puts them on the table in front of me like an offering. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything, but I have a horrible feeling I don’t need to. It feels like something’s just been agreed between us.
After a while Brian gives me a nervous smile and then fishes a pad of fancy paper out of his bag. In a moment he’s pulled out a sheet and is folding it, twisting and pleating as a complex paper aircraft begins to take shape between his fingers. No one dares interrupt him now, and a look of bliss settles on his face.
I glance at Si and he glances back.
‘It would appear you have a protégé, Daniel,’ says Si.
‘Oi, easy with the French,’ I mumble. But it’s hard to escape the conclusion that Brian is now under my protection. That’s all I need. I fold my arms, lean back, and try to enjoy the view out the window.
The train enters the Channel Tunnel.
3
Hotel Cafards
When we get to Paris – or ‘Paree’, as Simon says it – a wheezy old bus picks us up at Gare du Nord and whisks us in cut-price school-trip style to our hotel. As we gaze out of the window, we see the wonders and delights of the centre of Paris spread before us like French Fancies on a tea tray – only to see them all vanish again as we enter the dark and dodgy streets where our hotel is. When we see the hotel, it’s the girls who make the most fuss.
‘Aw, sir!’ comes the chorus. ‘We’re not staying in that dump, are we?’
‘Be quiet!’ Frenchy snaps, his normal charming self. ‘Hotel Cafards is actually very well placed for exploring the city.’
Looking up at the crumbling, leaning façade, I’m thinking it’s mostly just well placed for falling down. We were expecting something flashier, what with this being Paris and all.
As I get up to leave the bus, I spot someone in the shadow of the door of the neighbouring building. A girl in black, with a braid of bleached blonde hair over one shoulder. She flashes a pair of stunning eyes at me before vanishing inside, leaving me feeling a bit on the tingly side. But then Brian pokes me in the back, reminding me I’m blocking the aisle, so I stroll off the bus like nothing’s happened.
In the hotel, Frenchy Phelps skips to reception to check us in – making the most of his first big chance to show off his grasp of the lingo with the natives. I guess he’s still a bit miffed at being shouted at by that French woman on the train. But as he speaks, rolling his Rs and waving his hands like a rerun of Inspector Clouseau, the receptionist seems more interested in her newspaper sudoku. She doesn’t look up at all until he has stammered to a halt.
‘It iz not nececelery to make thiz str-r-range noise,’ says the woman. ‘I speeek Ingleesh.’ And she hands over several sets of keys.
Behind her, a tall and morose porter with scarily long hands glares darkly from beneath a single eyebrow.
‘We do not toler-r-rate noises at ze ’Otel Cafards,’ the woman goes on. ‘You will at all times b
e silent. Your childr-r-ren will be silent!’
One end of the porter’s Frankenstein monobrow raises in our direction and we all take a step back.
‘Oh, er, merci!’ Frenchy manages. ‘I see. But, er…’ He cocks his head as if listening. ‘…isn’t that music I can hear? Loud music?’ And sure enough, we can all hear a steady thump thump thump from somewhere.
The woman slaps down her newspaper as if squashing a spider. She glares at Frenchy like he’s next.
‘It iz not us making zis noise, it iz not ’Otel Cafards! It iz…’ and she pauses, before saying ‘…next door,’ in exactly the same voice a strawberry farmer uses when he says the word slug.
Frenchy, despite being a grade A dufus, knows when to back away, and he backs away now, waggling the keys and smiling with his teeth only. The woman subsides into her sudoku again, like a disappointed lobster returning to its rock. But the tall and dismal porter never takes his eyes off us as we retreat. We’ll be carrying our own bags then.
‘Now, listen,’ Frenchy says, as we reach the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s four to a room, I’m afraid…’ *loud groaning* ‘… now, now, settle down. You’ll just have to get together in groups. There is one small extra room for just two though, and I think we all know who’s getting that. Dan, here’s your key.’
‘I’ll be your room mate!’ squeaks Brian.
‘That’s not actually necessary,’ says Frenchy, as surprised as everyone else that someone is volunteering. ‘There’s enough space in the other rooms.’
‘Yeah, he can share with me, sir,’ says Baz, breathing noisily through his mouth and cracking his knuckles.
I give Baz the eye. It looks like his humiliation on the train is already wearing off, but then, I suppose that’s the advantage of having the brains of a goldfish. Whatever, though – I’m missing my purple specs, and I’m not inclined to let the likes of Baz have their way. I’d love to have a room to myself, but I decide to do the decent thing.
Dan and the Caverns of Bone Page 1