‘Got any souvenirs you’d like to hand over?’ asked Crawler.
Scanlon shook his head. ‘No,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I’d tell you if I had.’
‘Would you now?’ Crawler said. ‘Would you?’
It was Scanlon who looked away first.
After a moment, Crawler said in a light voice, ‘I suppose you can’t win them all.’ And, clapping a heavy hand on Scanlon’s shoulder, he pushed him towards the front door.
If Scanlon walks out of that door, I may never have a conversation with another person ever again.
I stumbled after them both, past a father trying to strap his baby into a pram.
‘Scanlon! I overtook him and held my hands out pleadingly, looking him in the eyes. ‘P-please let’s talk about this …’
With a chilling look of foreboding, Scanlon looked to the right and left, but his father kept steering him straight towards me, and a second later he’d pushed Scanlon right through me.
Well, that’s torn it.
I stood there, gasping, spluttering at the taste of sweat and stale doughnuts all sour and stringent, and underneath that I tasted something else too, like cold ashes, the remains of a dead fire. And I should have paid more attention to that, really, but by then my temper was up and dancing about with gusto, and caution didn’t stand a chance.
I screamed, so loud that the air around us seemed to flex and change and the baby in the pram began to cry. ‘Scanlon Lane, don’t you dare walk through me.’
In a daze, I became aware that all the bulbs in the murky hallway around us were spluttering, as if an electric charge was messing with their filaments. Warty Ada looked up at them, bemused.
Scanlon’s face drained of colour, and Crawler slowly bent and started fiddling around with his old, stained, black leather bag.
I barely glanced at the odd contraption – a cross between a laptop and a Dustbuster – that Crawler had brought out.
I didn’t even care that Crawler had started muttering to Scanlon, ‘Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it, cos it seems to be working.’
All I could do was stand and shout at Scanlon, while he shook his head and plucked at his father’s arm and said something that sounded like: ‘Please, Dad, not this one.
Please.
Please.’
Crawler was ignoring Scanlon’s pleas and Warty Ada’s attempts at asking him to pack up because it was closing time. Instead he seemed intent at jabbing, with determination and shining eyes, at the buttons on his gadget. I glanced at it distractedly. There were metal tin cans sticking out of it. Weird. But my attention snagged on something else: Crawler’s face and how much it had changed. I forgot about the gadget.
Because he no longer looked like an affable geography teacher, not any more – how could I ever have thought he was mild and meek? His eyes were full of dark purpose and there was something sinister about the way his smile got wider the more Scanlon plucked, ineffectually, at his jacket.
Then Scanlon kicked the gadget with an awful angry cry, at which Crawler, without even looking, landed a hard flat blow on Scanlon’s cheek. Although I could see a bright red smudge appear where his father had hit him, Scanlon made no sound at all.
I stared with fury at the man who had hit my friend, and then out at the world I could just about glimpse through the doorway. Furious, I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, which happened to be the pram with the crying baby strapped in.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I yelled, and threw it as far as I could down the hallway.
The bottom step of the staircase halted its progress and when it landed on its side, both wheels spinning madly, the father ran over and lifted the baby out, his face ashen.
‘I’m so sorry,’ began Warty Ada, as the man and baby fled from the house.
I picked up the pram again and, marvelling with a white-hot surprise at how strong I’d become, threw it against the wall. All the light bulbs above us seemed to explode at the same time and then the hallway filled with a loud droning noise, like a hoover had been switched on.
Scanlon sobbed. ‘Dad, when is enough going to be enough?’
The world around me whirled and spun, and I felt something pulling and tugging at me, sucking and squishing me through a narrow tube, before I landed with a thump in what felt like a cramped metal box.
One which smelt suspiciously like tuna.
‘What’s happening?’ I shouted. ‘Scanlon? Are you there? Help!’
After a few moments, I heard the muffled sound of an engine starting, and a low continual throb as if from a vehicle.
Later – I lost track of when – there was a rusty squeak, the sound of a door opening then slamming, and Scanlon was asking, in a strange, flat voice, ‘Where should I put this one?’
‘Usual place,’ said Crawler. ‘Usual place.’
I WAS SWUNG upwards through the air. There was a clanging sound of metal meeting metal. Another door; the sound of it shutting. Then everything went still, as if time had stopped, as if the planet had grown tired of turning.
‘Scanlon?’ I said, my voice weak in the dark.
I stretched my arms out in the gloom as far as they could go. My hands met cold, ridged walls. I pressed my fingers against them, mystified.
Where was I?
One minute I’d been screaming at Scanlon and throwing that baby – I felt a flush of shame at the memory – and the next – whoosh! – I’d been jerked through the air like a trout on a line. And now I was trapped in a snug tin box. With no windows. Which would have been great if I’d been dead dead and looking for a coffin, but was not so great because I was dead-ish and liked being able to see and move.
How had any of this happened?
Had my rage somehow taken me into another dimension of the afterlife? Was death essentially a series of containers getting increasingly smaller, like Russian dolls? And if so, what next? A matchbox?
Or was something else going on?
Uneasily, I remembered the bizarre computer-hoover Crawler had been fiddling with during my hallway meltdown. Almost immediately after Crawler had pressed a couple of buttons on its display panel, my whole world had gone dark. I couldn’t have been – had I been? – forced up inside the pipes and into the cans? Had those pipes slurped me in? Was I somehow inside his computer-hoover? More specifically, inside one of those cans that had dangled off the end?
I shook my head at myself. I’d seen a few odd things since dying, admittedly, like buses full of dead children and reluctant death guardians, clothes made of mushrooms, holograms, and people drinking crushed-up and insect skeletons, but that would be taking it way, way too far. Of course Crawler hadn’t sucked me up like a dustball and squished me into a tuna can. Adults could be weird, but not that weird.
What I needed to do, clearly, was find someone who could tell me what was really going on.
‘Scanlon?’
My ears strained for a response. There were muffled sounds of life – music blaring out of a radio, a noise like the pop of a cork exploding from a bottle – yet Scanlon did not reply. The only person I heard was Crawler, whooping and cheering as if he was having a party. You’d think he’d just won the lottery or something. And he was saying the same puzzling phrase over and over: ‘Caught a whopper! Caught a whopper!’
In the few seconds of silence before he said it again, I became aware of another, much softer sound, coming from beneath me.
Someone was crying.
‘Scanlon?’ I shouted.
For a brief moment the crying stopped.
‘Scanlon?’
No reply. I’d had enough of his ignoring me. I smacked my hands ineffectually on the metal around me. This gave me a brilliant idea.
I went back over the day, starting with the moment Scanlon told me he was saying goodbye. I deliberately focused on all the things that had gone wrong, and spoke them aloud to make them more effective.
‘Not sticking around … glad he’d never see me again … trapped in a … no one tell
ing me where I am … how DARE … I deserve better …’
As the fury kindled, my arms and legs grew warmer and agile. I pushed against the walls around me once more, and this time my container wobbled slightly.
Yes!
I pushed harder, muttering to myself, ‘Reeks of tuna … worse than cat sick … absolute joke …’
A second later, like a beer barrel flung into a cellar, I flew through the air and landed on something hard with a clatter. There was a sharp intake of breath. After a moment, I felt a lifting motion, as if I was being picked up softly by hand.
Then everything went quiet again.
‘Scanlon, I know you’re there,’ I said. ‘Please can you get me out of this thing?’ I tried to keep my voice steady – the darkness was beginning to get to me.
‘I can’t,’ he said finally.
‘What do you mean you can’t?’
‘Crawler put you in there, and only Crawler is allowed to get you out.’
‘What are you talking about, Scanlon?’
A low but audible moan came from outside my box. Scanlon was crying again. I listened to it for a while, helpless, not knowing what to say.
‘Look, things can’t be that bad, Scanlon,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘Now, how about you help me get a bit of fresh air and some light in here? It’s so dark, and it stinks of tuna. If you can’t get me out, can you at least punch some holes in the walls?’
There was a deep sigh. ‘I’d prefer it if you couldn’t see out,’ he said finally.
‘That’s not very nice.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. But … if you want an explanation, I’d rather I couldn’t see your face when I’m giving it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once you know the truth, you’ll look at me like you hate me.’
‘Scanlon, don’t be daft. You’re my friend. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me hate you,’ I said firmly.
When he spoke next, his voice was bitter and cold. ‘We’ll see.’
HIS WORDS HUNG over me. Memories from the summer scuttled through my mind.
‘Seen anything interesting, son?’
‘Please, Dad, not this one.
Please.
Please.’
An icy clamminess broke out on my corpse. What had I got myself tangled up with? Who was this boy? Desperately, I poked at the fading embers of my anger.
‘I demand to be able to see out. Scanlon. Please.’
For an awful second, there was no reply and my mind shimmered with dark doubt. How well did I know him, after all? What if he left me in the dark for ever?
Then he said, ‘Oh all right. Wait a sec’, and I nearly fainted from relief.
There was the sound of rattling. Moments later, something began to tap on the panel in front of me. After a few attempts, the tin buckled and flexed. Then a silver pointed tip appeared.
‘Screwdriver,’ explained Scanlon.
He pulled it out of the hole, and a tiny yellow dot of light broke in. When he’d made three peepholes, I pressed my face up to the nearest one, before gasping with fright.
‘What is that?’
In front of me was a huge dirty white ball, with pulsating red lines running through it.
‘Sorry,’ said Scanlon, moving me further away from his eyes. ‘Better?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Much.’
His face was haggard and miserable, with puffy eyelids from crying and a long line of snot hanging from his right nostril. Crawler’s blow on his cheek had come up as a painful-looking red weal.
‘I need some answers, Scanlon. Am I in a tin can?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was I sucked up by that computer-hoover?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I absolutely tiny?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘My dad compressed your ghost. He uses a hydraulic press for spirits – he invented it himself.’
There was silence as I tried to absorb the news. I failed.
‘Where am I?’
‘Our caravan.’
‘Is this your home?’
A bleak look crossed over his face. ‘It’s where we live.’
‘Where are we?’
‘About five miles south of the remains of Cliffstones.’
‘No, I meant – where are we in your caravan?’
‘Oh,’ said Scanlon. ‘Storage room.’ His voice sounded taut, and my senses pricked up.
‘Show me,’ I said.
He hesitated.
‘Show me.’
He spun the can around. I caught a dizzying blur of what looked like old books and a map. ‘There you go.’
‘Can I see a bit more than that? I want to, um, get my bearings.’
This was only partly true. Because despite the weird situation, his obvious despair and all the confusion in my head, I yearned to have a look around. This is the future.
Plus I was in Scanlon’s house! All this time, we’d only ever met at mine. Here was my chance to have a nose around his life, and perhaps all those blank spaces in his life could get filled in.
‘Can you walk around? So I can see it properly?’
‘Fancy a tour, do you?’ said Scanlon, curling his lips. And something inside him seemed to snap into life, and he quivered with a reckless, confessional energy. ‘Here you go.’
As he lifted me up and moved around the room, he slipped into a high, adult voice, which I soon realised was an uncannily accurate impression of the Historic Home sentries.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the Lane caravan, a mobile hole totally unsuitable for modern living,’ he said. ‘We are currently standing in the East Wing, also known as the Box Room, also referred to, by those in the know, as the most hateful, rankest place in the world.’
I gasped. He didn’t seem to care, and just went on spitting out his words.
‘Take a moment to appreciate the filthy carpets, heaps of mouse droppings in the corner …’
The room was very small, and barely lit by the solitary bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its light was so meagre that the yellow gleam it cast was almost greasy, an effect not helped by the squalor around us.
Meanwhile, Scanlon was getting into his stride.
‘May I point out the authentic damp stains on the walls, and those dead flies, boys and girls, which date all the way back to the Minging Dynasty …’
I stared at the shelves which were piled with dizzying jumbles of things: loops of wires, mildewed clothes, crates of beer. A row of cans, like mine, lined up on a top shelf, above old hunting traps, wide open, like jaws waiting to snap. Dusty bottles with labels that said:
POISON.
‘Inhale, if you will, the distinct aroma of the place, a mixture of stale air, unwashed humans and things going bad. Is there anything more atmospheric, more distinctly Lane, than the smell of their dirt?’
Even through the can, I caught that awful stench of rotting. It was very strong just then, and I gagged on it, then pretended to cough.
In the dim light, his eyes were black and desperate.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I said eventually. ‘It just needs a bit of a clean-up – could be quite nice … I like what you’ve done with the … erm …’
My voice tailed off under his scornful look.
I was about to turn away, having seen enough, when I caught a glimpse of a photo taped to one of the bottom shelves. The light was too murky to see all the details, but it looked like a young woman holding something little and baby shaped in her arms. There was also a dirty mattress on the floor, next to a bundle of crumpled clothing.
Sticking out of the pile was a lurid stripy top. Pink and lime. My mind whirred.
‘What room did you say this was again?’
‘Storeroom,’ he said quickly.
‘What’s that mattress for then?’
He said nothing.
‘Is this where you sleep?’ I said, as softly as I
could.
My response was a fierce glare from his mossy eyes.
‘Scanlon,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
His throat worked a few times and finally he said, through lips as sharp as a paper cut, ‘It wasn’t always like this. When Mum was alive, it was much nicer. I had curtains, clean clothes, toys … She’d tuck me in. She loved me.’ He shot me an anguished look.
I nodded. ‘I believe you.’
‘But she died. A long illness, something to do with her heart. I was six.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Then she came back.’
‘What do you mean?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Her ghost came back. To the caravan. We talked to each other for ages – she played games with me.’ He nearly smiled. ‘She came for seven days in a row. She always waited till Dad had gone before she appeared though.’
He stared into the shadows. ‘I wish she’d never come back at all.’
‘Why?’
‘One day Dad came home early from the Alco-hole. He was so quiet, neither of us noticed him. He saw me chatting away, laughing and singing along with Mum.’ His jaw clenched. ‘I should have just lied and said I was playing a game, that she wasn’t really there, but … I was stupid. Me and my big mouth. “Guess what, Daddy? Mummy’s been visiting me. I can see her so clearly!”’ His mouth twisted into a grotesque leer as his voice changed into a mocking little boy’s voice. His hate towards himself was so thick the air around us thrummed with it.
‘What happened then?’ I whispered.
‘He made me ask her loads of questions. Things only she would know the answers to – like what my first word had been, when I started walking, things like that. Things I couldn’t possibly know. She kept trying to leave, but I thought it was just another fun game, and I begged her to stay and tell me.’
Scanlon seemed wrapped up in his desperate recounting.
‘After an hour of that, he believed me. He knew I could see her ghost. I started it all off.’
My can began to shake. Scanlon was trembling all over, from head to foot, a startling look in his eyes.
‘What do you mean, Scanlon? Started what off?’
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