Too Ghoul For School

by Barry Hutchison

  “Hey, that’s the church on Wiggins Street,” said Smithy, craning his neck so he could peer through the windscreen.

  Samara wilted under Boyle’s glare, and quietly cleared her throat. “Totally should have blindfolded them,” she admitted.

  She and Boyle opened their doors and jumped out. As soon as the doors slammed shut again, Smithy turned to Denzel. “We should jump them.”

  “We definitely shouldn’t,” Denzel said.

  Smithy grabbed the ball of litter. It was heavier than it looked. “I’ll chuck this at Lance.”

  “Boyle,” Denzel corrected.

  “What?”

  “His name’s Boyle. Not Lance.”

  Smithy frowned. “So who’s Lance then?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll chuck this at Boyle, then karate-chop the other one in the windpipe.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” Denzel hissed. The doors began to open.

  “Get ready,” Smithy whispered.

  “No, don’t! Don’t even think about it!” Denzel protested, but it was too late. Smithy took aim, then launched the rubbish-ball through the doors just as they opened all the way. Boyle caught the ball in one hand and tucked it under his arm.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Smithy smiled weakly. “You’re very welcome,” he said. “Excellent catch, by the way.”

  He and Denzel jumped down from the van and splashed, ankle-deep, in a puddle. Boyle smirked. “Watch your step.”

  Samara sighed. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s funny.”

  “Come on, that was pretty funny,” Boyle said. “They landed right in the puddle.”

  “Well, maybe if you weren’t also standing in it…” Samara said. Boyle looked down at the water seeping in through the lace holes in his boots. To Denzel’s amazement, Samara was floating a few centimetres above the murky puddle’s surface.

  Boyle muttered below his breath and backed out of the puddle. Samara closed the doors and pressed her hand against the metal. “Go with Boyle, I’ll catch you up in a second,” she said. “And stop looking so worried. We’re the good guys.”

  Denzel and Smithy followed Boyle towards a narrow path that led around the back of the church. After they’d gone a few paces there was a whoosh from behind them. Denzel turned to see Samara striding along, swinging her arms. The van, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Smithy leaned in to Denzel. “What are they going to do with us?”

  “I don’t know,” Denzel admitted.

  “I think Samantha likes me,” Smithy whispered.

  “Samara,” Denzel corrected.

  “I think Samara likes me,” said Smithy. “Watch this.”

  Smithy turned and walked backwards alongside Denzel. “Hey, excuse me. Miss? What’s your name again?”

  “Samara.”

  “Nothing!” cried Smithy. “What’s Samara with you?” He broke into a broad grin. “See what I did there?”

  Boyle glanced back over his shoulder. “Want me to shoot him?”

  Samara shook her head. “Um… No. It’s fine.”

  Smithy winked at her, then turned back to Denzel. “See?” he whispered.

  “See what?”

  “She could totally have had me shot dead there, but she didn’t,” Smithy pointed out. He began to sing quietly. “Smithy and Samara, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—”

  “This is it,” snapped Boyle, coming to a sudden halt beside what appeared to be a perfectly normal – if ancient – wooden door. There was a fearsome-looking iron knocker fixed to the wood at head height. It had been designed to look like the face of some freaky frog-like creature with bulging eyes.

  The door was tucked around the back of the church and was well hidden from the street, but Boyle still glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Once he was satisfied the coast was clear, he leaned closer to the frog-thing and stared into its eyes.

  There was a faint bleep and the door opened a fraction, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. Boyle stepped aside and gestured into the gloom with his gun. “Women and children first,” he said, eyeballing Denzel and Smithy.

  Smithy sniffed indignantly. “We’re not children,” he said. “Or women.” He glanced at Denzel. “We’re not, are we?”

  “Not women, but we are children, yeah.”

  “Oh. Right. Yes, so we are,” said Smithy. He nodded to Boyle. “In that case, thanks very much,” he said, then he and Denzel clutched each other by the sleeves of their school uniforms, and stepped through the doorway into the waiting dark.

  The room beyond the door was just a few paces long. Boyle and Samara stepped in after them and pulled the door closed, plunging the place even deeper into darkness.

  A moment later, a light above their heads clicked on and Denzel saw several versions of himself staring back at him. They were inside a narrow, rectangular space with mirrors covering every wall. The back of the door was also mirrored, and Denzel could see himself from virtually every angle without having to move his head.

  “Is this your secret base?” Smithy asked. “It’s pretty small.”

  “I think this is probably just the lift,” Denzel said. “Right?”

  Samara nodded and smiled her not-unpleasant smile. She jabbed one of just two buttons mounted on the wall. “It takes a while,” she said, crossing her hands behind her back as the lift began to creep downwards.

  Boyle still had the trash-ball tucked under one arm. His gun was lowered by his side, but the way he was holding it suggested he was ready to snap it up again at any moment. Denzel tried smiling at him, but it only made Boyle’s scowl deepen, so he stopped quite quickly.

  They all stood in awkward silence. Samara whistled softly until she spotted Boyle glaring at her. The whistle faded away, then petered out completely.

  “Here’s one for you,” said Smithy, breaking the quiet.

  Denzel shook his head. “Don’t,” he urged.

  “What would you rather have, right?” Smithy continued. “Hands where your feet are, and feet where your hands are, or, feet where your hands are, and hands where your feet are.”

  “That’s the same thing,” said Samara.

  Smithy shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”

  “She’s right,” said Denzel. “It’s the same.”

  “No,” Smithy protested. “So, listen. Pay attention. You can have hands where your feet are and feet where your hands are, or feet where… Oh yeah, it’s the same thing.”

  He rolled his eyes slowly, as if searching for something. “OK, what about this, then. Would you rather have the hands-and-feet-swapped thing like I said, right?”

  Denzel sighed. “Right.”

  “Or have a head made of onions?” Smithy folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. Boyle stared at him blankly for several long seconds, then turned to Samara.

  “Now do you want me to shoot him?” he asked, but before she could answer, the lift bumped to a stop and the door swung sharply inwards. The piercing screams of an alarm filled the narrow space.

  “On your knees! Move, move!” roared a voice, and the lift was suddenly packed full of angry people. A girl with closely cropped hair and a fiery scar running down one whole side of her face led the pack. She pointed a handgun directly at Denzel’s head, and he automatically put his hands up. The gun was so large it would have been comical, were Denzel not so busy being utterly terrified.

  The girl wore a uniform similar to Boyle’s, and behind her were two others – a boy and another girl – dressed in the same blue and silver camouflage.

  Further behind those two, Denzel was vaguely aware of some other people dressed in tunics and robes, but he was far more interested for the moment in the gun that was pointing directly between his eyes.

  “You heard me! On your knees!” the girl barked.

  “Don’t. It’s OK,” Boyle told Denzel. “Relax, Knightley. They’re with us.”

  Knightley didn’t take her eyes off Denzel. One of the other soldiers had a rifle tra
ined on Smithy, who, Denzel noticed, was already kneeling.

  “Sensors picked up a level four freeform phantom in this lift,” Knightley shouted. She really seemed to like shouting. “So I’m not prepared to take any chances. On your knees, boy. Now.”

  Denzel started to kneel, but Boyle’s gun swung towards him. “Denzel, if you get on your knees I swear I will shoot you myself.”

  “Oh … come on,” Denzel protested, freezing halfway to the floor. His eyes flicked between the two guns, trying to decide which of the two looked like it’d do the most damage. Boyle’s came out on top, but not by much.

  “Does that apply to me, too?” asked Smithy. “Because I’ve been kneeling for a while, so it doesn’t seem very fair if you shoot me now.”

  “Get up,” Boyle said.

  “Stay down,” barked Knightley.

  “Wow, I’m literally drowning in macho nonsense here,” said Samara. She yanked the trash-ball from under Boyle’s arm and thrust it towards Knightley. “Here.”

  Knightley tore her eyes away from Denzel long enough to glance at the ball. “What’s this?”

  “A level four freeform phantom,” said Samara. “We couldn’t gem it, but it’s all bound and ready for processing.”

  Knightley kept her weapon trained on Denzel, who was still frozen midway to his knees. His thighs now felt like they were on fire, and he had a nasty feeling he was about to fart.

  Samara raised the trash-ball higher. Knightley lowered her head enough for her to touch her tongue against a crumpled-up paper plate. Denzel and Smithy both recoiled in disgust.

  “Ew,” Smithy muttered. “Lips that touch bin-monsters will never touch mine.”

  Knightley rolled her tongue around inside her mouth, then lowered her gun. Denzel immediately straightened up with a groan of relief. Holstering the weapon, Knightley snatched the trash-ball from Samara and crisply about-turned.

  “You’re welcome, Knightley,” said Boyle. She hesitated, as if she were about to reply, then marched ahead, forcing the others to back hurriedly out of her path.

  “Well, she seemed nice,” said Denzel, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in. Boyle rounded on him.

  “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “Um… Just that she seemed nice,” said Denzel. “But, you know, sarcastically.”

  “Because she didn’t,” Smithy added, still down on his knees. “She didn’t seem nice at all.”

  “Why would she be ‘nice’?” growled Boyle. “She’s not here to be nice, she’s here to do a job. A job that keeps people like you safe.”

  “OK, OK,” said Denzel. “I only said it because I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “I don’t like her,” Boyle snapped.

  “No one likes her,” Samara confirmed.

  “Well… OK,” said Denzel, floundering badly. “Good. So… I mean… That’s all fine. Why are you shouting at me?”

  Boyle twitched with irritation, then wheeled around to face the door. The squeals of the alarm stopped and he swung his rifle strap over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go and see Quinn.”

  He stomped out of the lift. Samara turned to Denzel. “Don’t worry. He’s a pussycat when you get to know him. Just, you know, a really angry one. Like a tiger or a lion. With a big gun.” She smiled cheerfully. “Now, come on. Off we go.”

  After helping Smithy to his feet, Denzel followed Boyle out of the lift and into a brightly lit corridor. The walls were a gunmetal grey, and the floor had been polished to a mirror-like sheen. It all looked stark and clinical, aside from the enormous oil painting hung directly opposite the lift door.

  “Who’s that?” Smithy asked, peering up at the painting. It showed a middle-aged woman in a business suit, and would have been completely unremarkable were it not for her hands. In one hand, she held a handgun not unlike the one Denzel had recently had pointed at his face, while the other hand clutched what seemed to be a ball of blue fire.

  Her mouth was smiling, but the rest of her face wasn’t joining in. In fact, the longer Denzel looked at it, the less it resembled a real smile at all. It was the smile of someone who had tried to learn how to smile from a book, but had never read further than the first few chapters.

  “That’s Director Quinn,” said Samara. “That’s who we’re taking you to meet.”

  “Cool! Will her hand be on fire?” Smithy asked.

  Samara chewed her lip. “Let’s hope not.”

  “Why is her hand on fire?” Denzel wondered.

  “It’s supposed to symbolise her ability with magic,” said Samara. “And the gun symbolises—”

  “That she likes shooting people?” Smithy guessed.

  “That she’s equally as comfortable with technology and science,” said Samara. “She invented that gun she’s holding, actually.”

  “Whoa,” said Smithy. “Did she invent fire, too?”

  Samara stared at him for a moment, but saw nothing but genuine curiosity on his face. “Uh, no. No, I don’t think that was her.”

  “Hurry up,” said Boyle. He was waiting along the corridor, where it curved off to the left. The other direction curved to the right, and Denzel got the impression that if they walked far enough one way, they’d eventually circle all the way around.

  Samara gestured for the boys to follow Boyle. He marched at a ridiculous pace, and they had to half-walk, half-run to keep up. As they scurried along, they passed dozens of doors on both sides of the corridor. Each door looked more or less like all the others – same dull grey finish, same polished brass handle – with just a little plaque beside each one to tell them apart.

  They were walking too quickly to read most of them, but Denzel recognised a few words as they passed, like “paranormal”, and “spectral”, and, on one particularly wide plaque, “transpandimensional”.

  “What are all these places?” he asked. He gestured to a door just ahead. The plaque read: Spectral Storage 8.

  “That’s one of our ghost vaults,” Samara explained, as if it was the most normal statement in the world. “The ones in there aren’t too bad. Mostly just murderers. A few flesh-eaters.”

  “An eyeball-harvester,” said Boyle.

  “Oh yes, she was a fun one,” said Samara. “The really dangerous ones are kept way down below.”

  “Oh. Right,” Denzel squeaked, wishing he’d never asked.

  “So, that alarm thing?” said Smithy. “It detects any ghosts that come in here?”

  “It does,” Samara confirmed.

  “Like, all ghosts?” Smithy asked. “Like, could ghosts get in here without you knowing about it?”

  Boyle snorted. “No.”

  “Right. Good,” said Smithy. “Interesting.”

  “So how come all this is here?” asked Denzel. “And not in London or somewhere?”

  “Why would we be in London?” asked Boyle.

  “Isn’t that where all the, like, government stuff is?”

  Boyle glanced back. “We’re not part of the government.”

  “It’s all to do with spectral density,” Samara said.

  “I knew it!” said Smithy. “I was totally going to say that. Spectrum destiny.”

  “Spectral density,” Samara corrected.

  Smithy nodded and smiled. “Yep, that’s the one. Carry on.”

  “Basically, dotted around the world are a number of ghost hotspots. Places where the ghosts and spirits gather in greater than average numbers. There are Spectre Collector branches at most of them.”

  “Why?” asked Denzel.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do they gather in those places?”

  They stopped outside a set of imposing wooden doors that blocked the corridor ahead of them. “We don’t know,” Samara admitted. “We just know we’re here because that’s where the ghosts are.” She fidgeted with her robe and adjusted the rings on her fingers. Boyle raised a hand to the door and hesitated, knuckles poised.

  “One moment,” said a voice fr
om inside before Boyle could knock.

  They waited outside the door, Boyle standing to attention, the rest of them in various states of slouching. “Did you want to phone your parents or anything?” asked Samara in a hushed voice. “Give them some excuse in case you’re late?”

  “They won’t be home yet,” Denzel said.

  Samara turned to Smithy. “You?”

  “Me? What?” Smithy said. “I wasn’t listening.”

  “She was asking if you wanted to phone your mum and dad,” Denzel said. He hoped he hadn’t put his foot in it – Smithy had never spoken about his parents before, and Denzel realised he had no idea what his home life was like.

  “Nah, they won’t be around just now,” Smithy said.

  “Come,” ordered the voice from beyond the door.

  Boyle glanced briefly at Samara, then took hold of both brass door handles. The handles lit up for a fraction of a second, then gave a reassuring bleep. Both doors swung inwards all on their own, and Denzel was presented with a view of the most lavish office he’d ever seen.

  His parents had an office at home, but it was a broom cupboard compared to this one. Denzel could have kicked a football in here and there was a good chance it wouldn’t reach the other door at the opposite end of the room.

  The wood-panelled walls swept around in swooshing curves. On one side they were lined with bookcases, while the curves opposite were plastered with impossibly thin computer screens, all displaying reams of numbers and symbols.

  The bare floorboards had been varnished to such a brilliant sheen it was almost a shame they were mostly hidden beneath a red-and-gold-patterned rug. The rug looked big enough to carpet every room in Denzel’s house, with enough left over to make a good dent in the garden.

  High above the floor hung an antique chandelier. At least, Denzel assumed it was an antique. It was a big heavy thing and looked absolutely ancient, with lots of swooping metal curves and dangling bit of glass. The bulbs nestled in it seemed to be powered by electricity, though, so maybe it wasn’t as old as it looked.

  Slap bang in the middle of the room, at the centre of a horseshoe-shaped desk, sat the woman from the portrait. Her hair was a little more grey, but even without the gun and the handful of fire, Denzel had no problem recognising her. It was the not-really-smile that gave her away. The not-really-smile that was currently pointed squarely in Denzel’s direction.