Storm

by Nicola Skinner

  At the end of my victory lap, I found myself standing in front of the framed photo in the hallway.

  For a split second I couldn’t remember who any of the people in the picture were.

  Who is this suntanned quartet sitting on a hay bale, and why am I standing in front of them?

  Was this my favourite pop band or something?

  Then something clicked, the words poured into me in a relieved rush, and I gasped them out loud. ‘Mum, Dad and Birdie.’

  Of course it is. Of course. I’m just a little tired, that’s all!

  To distract myself, I glanced down at the visitors’ book.

  The comments were grumpier than usual.

  Not coming back ever again; chaotic, horrible vibe downstairs.

  Staff seem plus plus terrified – must be tripleshifted.

  Had quite a decent cup of ExoGrind in the café, but as we tried to leave there was a noisy outburst in the study. When we tried to find out what was going on, the door was slammed in our face. Unforgivably rude. NEVER COMING BACK.

  House falling to bits. There was a flood upstairs and a child must have broken something. We tried to explore, but we’d only just arrived and then we were told to leave! And we’d only just got here! Next time we’ll save our money for the World of Data in Worth Matravers, thank you very much, as you always know what you’re getting there (and the parking’s cheaper).

  I grinned at that.

  The last entry on the page was so small I nearly didn’t see it. The handwriting was cramped and jerky, like it had been scribbled down in a rush.

  It was just one word.

  It said:

  A FEW DAYS later, once everything had been fixed and repaired, Sea View opened to the public again. The tourists I’d terrified were given discount vouchers for the café as compensation. The general public was fed the official line that the damage I’d done had been caused by bad plumbing.

  I wasn’t looking for the limelight, particularly, so I didn’t mind the lie. All I’d wanted was for things to change. For my family’s history to be treated with a bit more respect. But …

  … everything remained the same. The comments, gasps for air, the endless chats about when to treat themselves to a CuppaGrubba. Oh, and I was still completely alone. I could smash the world to bits and I would still be completely alone. Nothing had changed at all.

  And that just made me even angrier than ever.

  Outside, in the garden, I glared at the crowds queuing up for lunch. I was in the kind of mood where I only had to glance at something to feel furious about it. That stupid café, for instance, where Dad’s shed should have been.

  I walked in through its open door. It was the café’s busiest time of day. Long queues. Harassed grown-ups bearing trays overloaded with bowls and plates and cups and mugs.

  Very overloaded trays. Brimming with stuff, they were.

  I mean, that was just asking for trouble.

  Sometime later, panting and covered in food, I finally stopped.

  I wasn’t sure at which point the café had emptied completely. Had I broken the coffee machine which now lay in a pathetic heap on the floor, burping out jets of steam and making a worrying hissing noise, or had it fallen over by accident? I could dimly remember screaming, but wasn’t sure if it had been mine or someone else’s.

  I couldn’t recall exactly if I’d opened the ice-cream counter and scooped out all the flavours and thrown them at the walls, but judging by my slippery multicoloured hands, I had to admit it was likely.

  Just as I was admiring how pretty the mustard and ketchup looked smeared on the windows, a stern voice behind me said: ‘You really need to stop doing this, you know.’

  I whipped around and found myself face to face with the skinny boy in the bright top.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ I said, an incredulous smile tugging at my lips.

  He looked around the empty café and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Who else would I be talking to?’ he said.

  ‘But … but … you’re …’

  ‘Alive?’ He spoke as if he was in a library and didn’t want to get told off – quietly, barely moving his lips.

  ‘And I’m …’

  ‘Dead,’ he volunteered.

  ‘Yeah.’ I felt all sorts of things: confusion, relief and panic, and underneath it all, like a golden precious egg, hope.

  ‘Have you … have you always been able …’ I gulped, ‘to see me?’

  He flushed.

  I held his gaze.

  Finally he gave a tiny nod.

  ‘Why haven’t you said anything till now? You’ve been coming here for weeks.’

  He shrugged. ‘Waiting for the right time.’

  I looked around the shattered café, at the toddlers screaming on the lawn, the grown-ups shouting at each other in confusion as they attempted to gather themselves and flee.

  ‘And this is it? This seems like the perfect time to introduce yourself?’

  A sharp row of yellow teeth appeared before he clamped down on them with his lips. Had that been a smile?

  All of a sudden the chaos outside felt a little quieter. As the mustard and ketchup slowly dripped off the glass and pooled on the floor, we stared at each other.

  Then the boy broke eye contact. He turned his head and scanned the thinning crowds outside. I occupied myself by contemplating the most complicated face I had ever seen.

  Looking at it was like stumbling into a prairie town just before a shoot-out. It was all angles and shadows and wide empty plains, taut with secrets. Sallow, almost waxy skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. A pair of narrow lips, as thin as if they’d been slashed into his face with a stub of crayon. His beaky nose looked like someone had half-heartedly grabbed a bit of flesh between his cheeks, given it a sharp pinch, then said: ‘That’ll do.’

  Nothing was soft or curved; there were no kind gradations. No wonder his face had that waxy unwashed look. If I had a face like that, I’d probably give it a wide berth too. Those cheekbones alone could give you a nasty paper cut.

  How old was he anyway? It was hard to tell. He was shorter than me, but he had a brutal crew cut and there was no puppy fat in his face. Then there was the way he held himself, the tense wiriness of his body, the way he stared out at the crowds with a weariness that hinted at a boy older than his years. From a distance, he could have been a fifty-year-old war veteran who’d seen terrible things on a battlefield that he could never talk about. On the other hand, he was still wearing that revolting pink and lime top, which any sensible child over the age of ten would refuse to wear, so that confused things.

  The only lovely thing about him at all, in fact, was the colour of his eyes. They were soft and palely green, like lichen on sea stones. But even those weren’t given gracefully, shrouded as they were by his lowered eyelids. As if the inside of his brain was like my cottage – full of vulnerable furnishings – and he didn’t want to let the daylight in.

  I tried to gather my thoughts. ‘So … if you’re alive, and if I’m dead …’ My voice tailed off helplessly. It had been so long since I’d talked to anyone, I’d forgotten how it worked.

  ‘How can I see you?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yeah.’

  A shrug. ‘I just can. See ghosts, I mean. Talk to them. It’s … something I’ve always been able to do.’ His lips darted to the side. ‘And you’re … well, you’ve become impossible to ignore, haven’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He raised a meaningful eyebrow at the dripping windows. ‘Not many ghosts can do that, you know. I’ve met a few in my life, but you’re the only poltergeist I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘How do you see me?’ I was curious. ‘Am I sort of washed out?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Most ghosts are quite flickery and faint. You’re not. You’ve got the strongest lines I’ve ever seen. It’s like you’re alive, to me.’

  My proud, astonished smile faded at the bleak look on his face.

&nb
sp; I glanced outside. Approaching swiftly across the garden were that nice-looking geography teacher and Olivine.

  ‘I have to go,’ muttered the boy in that ventriloquist way, staring at his shoes. ‘But … Listen, you can’t keep throwing things around, drawing attention to yourself. Just stop it.’

  I realised who’d been behind that entry in the visitors’ book. STOP.

  ‘Why?’ I said, puzzled.

  He was still talking hurriedly. ‘Take it from me, okay? It’s better if you quit.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Just trust me on this. It’s—’

  The door flew open and the boy pressed his lips together so tightly they went white.

  ‘Scanlon, my boy, we’ve located you. I heard there was a disturbance – I was so worried.’ The man rushed in and pulled the boy into a tight hug.

  So that was the boy’s name. Scanlon.

  Funny name.

  Funny boy.

  Behind him, Olivine smiled uncertainly. ‘Well, I’m just glad we were able to find him, Mr …’

  ‘Lane,’ said the man smoothly, pulling back at last so Scanlon was at arm’s length, but still holding on firmly. ‘Crawler Lane. Call me Crawler.’

  While Crawler certainly looked pleased to be reunited with his son – his grip on Scanlon’s shoulders was so tight Scanlon was practically wincing – I couldn’t help noticing that Crawler wasn’t looking at the boy he was so overjoyed to find safe. Instead he was more interested in what was around us. And the broken plates, overturned tables and steaming coffee machine seemed to have an effect on the shabby slight man in the soft faded clothes. It was as if some of that gentle absent-mindedness just peeled right off him, to be replaced by a bright-eyed alertness.

  ‘I do hope this won’t put you off returning to Sea View,’ said Olivine. She contemplated the wrecked café unhappily. ‘It can be easy to become a little, er, frightened of the, er …’ she glanced up at the ceiling, not quite meeting anyone’s eye, ‘draughts around the property, which can occasionally cause … disruptions.’

  ‘Draughts,’ said Crawler soothingly. ‘Of course.’

  They shared a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘We don’t mind a draught, Olivine. If anything, it’s draughts like this that just make us love Sea View all the more. There’s nothing like a historical house with a bit of life in it, eh? Stay away? We’ll be back tomorrow! You just try and stop us!’

  And, placing a hand on the back of Scanlon’s neck, Crawler guided the three of them out of the café, throwing one last look over his shoulder.

  ONCE THEY’D GONE, the kitchen staff tiptoed back into the café and began to sweep up the mess timidly, shooting glances around the room as if on the look-out for another flare-up from old Freaky Frankie Ripley.

  But they needn’t have worried. I was far too pleased to smash anything else up, for the time being at least. His name drifted into my mind and hung there, all sparkling, like someone had carried in a birthday cake with candles.

  Scanlon Lane. I rolled the words around in my mouth with delight.

  My new friend, Scanlon Lane.

  Well. I frowned. The candles spluttered. Perhaps friend might be too strong a word. I picked thoughtfully at one of the shells in my legs.

  He hadn’t said much. There had been just as many awkward silences between us as words spoken. All I really knew about the boy was that he had no sense of style. And saw ghosts. But even that he hadn’t told me with any real enthusiasm; he’d just muttered it reluctantly out of the corner of his mouth.

  In fact, the only thing Scanlon had shown any passion for was in telling me what not to do.

  ‘Listen, you can’t keep throwing things around, drawing attention to yourself.’

  Mmmm. Perhaps ‘friend’ was a stretch. Maybe he was more like an … acquaintance. Still, you had to start somewhere. It wasn’t a promising beginning, but it was a beginning at least.

  Anyway, I thought, stepping over the broken coffee machine and out into the garden, perhaps Scanlon had a point. As much as I enjoyed scaring the tourists and smashing stuff, it had its drawbacks too.

  All that destruction requires so much work – you really have to see things through to the end once you decide to trash a room. You can’t just throw a chair on the ground and leave it at that. No – that would look very slapdash. You need a concept. You need to commit to this concept, and give all your time and energy to it too. Like any other creative pursuit, being a poltergeist can take over your life. Also, it was quite alarming making so many people wet their pants all at once.

  So I could certainly think about stopping, as he’d suggested. If not wrecking the house meant I’d have someone to talk to, then I could stop.

  I might not know much about Scanlon, but I knew one thing: he was wise. Plus he was the only person who knew I existed. I couldn’t wait to see him again.

  Unfortunately, Scanlon didn’t seem to feel the same way about me. Even though he came back the very next day, with Crawler in tow, he acted as if our chat in the café had never happened. Worse than that – he acted as if I’d never happened.

  I’d gone to such an effort as well. Arranged my rotting rags as tidily as possible. Made a firm resolution to keep a grip on my temper, as requested. And then I’d curled up under the table in the hallway, and watched the front door like a hawk. When he appeared with the first lot of tourists at 9.01 a.m., I’d jumped up and shouted as welcomingly as possible, ‘Hello!’

  But Scanlon didn’t even bother to look in my direction. He blanked me. It was a brush-off, plain and simple.

  ‘H-hello?’ I stammered. ‘Remember me? Frankie? The, er, poltergeist? We met yesterday, in the café?’

  Nope. Not so much as the tiniest of flickers in my direction. Instead he bit his bottom lip and stared at the carpet. Just like every other time I’d seen him.

  Our friendship seemed to be regressing.

  For a second, I thought I saw him shake his head quickly. Left, right. Like he was saying no. Or stop again, knowing him.

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘No breaking stuff. I get it. I won’t, I promise.’

  But instead of replying, Scanlon’s behaviour went from rude to weird. He began to walk around the house, staring into the nooks and crannies of the rooms, in a noticeably artificial way, using exaggerated glances and weird, staged neck movements. It was like watching a very bad pantomime.

  Each time, Scanlon would shake his head in a disappointed way and say, ‘Definitely not here.’ His dad would sigh and say, ‘Very well. Swipe to the next room.’ And the whole peculiar routine would begin again.

  I had no idea what they were searching for, but they obviously wanted it pretty badly. Maybe they could visit the staff room and check Lost Property, and while they were at it, ask if anyone had handed in Scanlon’s manners.

  Back in the hallway, I lingered, half expecting Scanlon to at least write an explanatory note in the visitors’ book, but even that he neglected to do.

  ‘Bye then,’ I said sarcastically to his retreating back.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon puzzling over what had happened. Had I done something wrong? Had he changed his mind?

  Shame and embarrassment twisted through my cold body. Could I have handled our meeting in the café better? Maybe I should have promised straight away to do what he’d asked? Or should I have played it cooler? Maybe I’d laid it on too thick. Had I come across as … desperate?

  They returned twice more that week, and Scanlon ignored me each time. By the end, I’d given up. I was sick of the sight of him, sick of trying to work him out. Why had he talked to me in the café if he was going to ignore me afterwards? In fact, why come at all? He never cracked a smile, never seemed pleased to return. Even Crawler’s permanently amiable manner seemed to crack slightly, became a touch more strained with each repeat appearance.

  Why did they keep visiting if it made them so flipping miserable? I mean, did they
not have anything better to do with their summer holidays than repeatedly trudge around a badly lit cottage with a tragic past? I was there because I had to be. The staff were there because they were paid to be. But nobody was forcing them to come back. Why not just take their cue from all the other tourists, who only ever came once?

  As for their increasingly long faces, those puzzling terse exchanges between the two of them about finding ‘it’, the way Crawler stood with his arms folded while Scanlon peered into every corner of the cottage? Random! Weird!

  What were they trying to find? If it was that important, why wasn’t Crawler helping out occasionally, instead of letting his son do all the work? Just how special could one item of lost property be? What was it, another hideous top? Big deal. Who cares?

  Why couldn’t they just go away? Then I could begin the process of forgetting him – like I was forgetting them. And then everything would be simpler and less confusing all round.

  IT WAS LATE on Friday afternoon, in the first week of September. With just an hour to go before closing time, the house was quiet. Only a few stragglers remained. I was sitting in my room when I heard someone pounding up the stairs.

  ‘No running,’ shouted warty Ada.

  ‘Sorry,’ said a voice.

  A moment later, Scanlon appeared in the doorway, panting.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Poe from the corner of the room, not looking up from his poetry notebook.

  ‘Hi,’ said Scanlon.

  Then he looked at me, widened his green eyes, and jerked his head in the direction of the corridor.

  For a moment, I nearly got up to follow him. Then I remembered how he’d ignored me for an entire week, and how much it had hurt.

  He stared at me again. Bunched up his lips in what looked like an apologetic grimace.

  Too little, too late.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I said. ‘If you’re seeking another dead child to irritate, may I recommend you try elsewhere? I hear the local cemetery is very good at this time of year. I’m busy.’