“Uh, thanks,” said Denzel, shaking the director’s hand. “Do you have to, like, wipe my memory now or something?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Quinn.
“What?” said Boyle. “But—”
Quinn held a hand up to silence him. “That won’t be necessary. Denzel can go. I trust him to keep our secrets.” She was still holding Denzel’s hand, and tightened her grip on it as she leaned closer. “We can trust you, can’t we, Denzel?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I wish you all the best, and pray that the Allwhere may always watch over you.”
“Uh, OK. Thanks. I guess I’ll be off, then,” he said. “Oh, but I meant to ask… My dads?”
“What about them?”
“When you told them I wasn’t going to be home, what did you say?”
“Don’t worry about it. That’s not important,” said Quinn. “The important thing is, it won’t pose you any problems. In fact,” she added, her smile returning, “I’d be very surprised if they even noticed you were gone.”
Denzel stepped out of the lift and blinked in the mid-morning sunshine. The air felt cool and sharp against his skin. He breathed it in deeply, enjoying the freshness of it.
Stepping round the corner, he collided with someone lurking right on the other side. “Wah! Get off!” Smithy yelped, swishing his arms around wildly. He stopped when he realised who had bumped into him. “Denzel! It’s you! You’re alive!”
“Of course I’m alive,” said Denzel. “What are you doing here? Have you been here since yesterday?”
“Of course not! I definitely haven’t spent the whole night just wandering around a creepy old church, no siree,” said Smithy. “I was just coming to check on you, in case you were in danger or anything.”
Denzel shook his head. “Thanks, but I wasn’t in danger. Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Yeah, but so should you,” Smithy pointed out.
“Director Quinn said she’d sorted it so I don’t get into trouble,” said Denzel.
“That’s handy,” said Smithy. “Did she sort it for me, too?”
“I doubt it,” said Denzel.
Smithy shrugged. “Ah well. Want to hang out?”
Denzel yawned. “Hmm? Oh, no, not right now, sorry. I’m exhausted. And starving.”
“I’ve still got some scrambled egg, if you want,” said Smithy, pulling the crinkled paper bag from his pocket.
“No, I’m all right, ta,” said Denzel. “I think I’ll just head home.”
“Oh. OK,” said Smithy, folding the bag up again. “Hey, Denzel, here’s one for you…” he began, but Denzel stopped him.
“Not now, Smithy,” said Denzel.
Smithy’s smile faded. “Oh. Yeah. OK.”
“It’s just… It’s been a bit of a weird couple of days.”
“Yeah. Of course,” said Smithy. He rallied his smile. “See you at school on Monday?”
“Yeah. Definitely. See you at school,” Denzel said, then, with a final wave to his friend, he turned and hurried around the side of the church.
Wiggins Street, where the church was, was on the opposite side of town to his house. A bus would get him home before his dads got in, and so avoid lots of awkward questions, but he didn’t have any money on him.
He decided just to run. He darted along Wiggins Street and weaved through the leafy housing estate it stood on the edge of. He speed-walked through the more densely packed town centre. Now he was further away from the church and surrounded by people, the underground bunker had begun to feel like a strange dream.
By the time he turned on to his road twenty minutes later, he had a spring in his step. Yes, he’d been attacked by a giant litter-monster, had several guns pointed at him, almost been snared by a rampaging poltergeist, been hit on the head by a haunted supermarket till and come face-to-tentacles with a terrifying ghost-pensioner, but all that was behind him now. It had been a mad couple of days, but tomorrow was the weekend and, statistically, it was more or less guaranteed to be better.
Even the sight of his dads’ car outside the house didn’t dampen his mood. If anything, it made his smile widen. He wasn’t sure what Quinn had said to them, and probably should have pressed her for an explanation, but she seemed pretty persuasive. If anything, he might just get a bit of a telling-off, and he wasn’t too bothered about that. He’d welcome a telling-off, in fact. A telling-off was normal, and a healthy dose of normality was just what he needed after the past twenty-four hours.
Mrs Grigor, the old woman who lived across the road, was at her window when Denzel passed. He gave her a wave and was a little surprised when she didn’t wave back. Mind you, her eyes weren’t what they used to be, and she wouldn’t have been expecting to see Denzel passing so early in the afternoon.
Denzel whistled as he strolled up the path, bouncing a finger along the top of the fence beside it. When he reached the door he fumbled in his pocket for his key, then looked up when the front door opened. Owen, the younger of his dads, stood in the doorway, still dressed in his short-sleeved work shirt and tie. To Denzel’s relief, he was smiling. It looked like Quinn had provided him with a convincing story, just as she’d promised.
“Hi there!” said Owen. “Spotted you coming up the path, thought I’d beat you to it!”
“Yeah, sorry about last night,” said Denzel. He moved to duck past, but Owen quickly placed a hand on the doorframe, blocking the way.
“Uh… Last night?” Owen said.
“Yeah,” said Denzel. “You know, not being here.”
Owen nodded slowly. “Right. Yeah. Gotcha,” he said. “So… How can I help you?”
Denzel blinked. “Well, you could start by letting me in.”
Owen looked him up and down. “Uh, and why would I do that?”
“Because I live here,” said Denzel.
A range of expressions crossed Owen’s face, like it couldn’t figure out which one it should be aiming for. It finally settled on something that was equal parts amusement and confusion. “Sorry, I think you must have the wrong house.”
The fine hairs on the back of Denzel’s neck tingled. He tried to speak, but on the first attempt the words snagged at the back of his throat.
“Very funny, Owen. Now, come on, let me in,” he eventually managed. He tried to squeeze through the gap between his dad and the doorframe. Owen quickly moved his body to block the space.
“What are you…? Stop it,” Owen said. “You’re not coming in. You’ve got the wrong house.”
“Owen, it’s me! Stop messing around,” Denzel said. “Let me in!” he demanded, trying to force his way into the hall.
“Jack! Jack!” Owen cried, gripping the doorframe and shoving Denzel back with his hip. “Home invader! Home invader!”
There was a thudding from the stairs as Jack, the older of Denzel’s adoptive parents, took them two at a time. His shirt and tie covered his top half, but on his bottom half he wore his gym shorts and battered old running shoes.
“What’s the matter?” Jack demanded. “What’s going on?”
“It’s this kid,” said Owen, frantically trying to shove Denzel back out into the garden. “He’s trying to get in.”
“All right, easy, easy,” Jack said, taking hold of Owen’s arm and guiding him aside. Denzel stumbled through into the hall, only to find the much larger Jack blocking the way. “Are you OK, son?” Jack asked. Denzel felt a surge of hope. “You know me?” he said.
“Tell me you recognise me.”
Jack smiled and put a hand on Denzel’s shoulder. Denzel let out a big pent-up breath of relief. “You do. You recognise me,” he said. Jack gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.
“I’m sorry, son,” he said softly. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The world spun. The doormat beneath Denzel’s feet seemed to turn to quicksand, pulling him down. His heart raced. His stomach tightened. He began to tremble as hot tears f
illed his eyes. “No. No, it’s me. It’s me. You can’t have forgotten. You can’t have!”
Jack crouched down, keeping the hand on Denzel’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey, it’s OK,” he soothed. “Don’t get upset. Do you want us to call your parents?”
“You are my parents!” Denzel cried. Owen and Jack looked at each other in surprise, and Denzel saw his chance. With a shove, he knocked Jack off balance and raced for the stairs. He scrambled up them on his hands and knees, his pulse pounding, his back slick with panic-sweat.
He could already hear footsteps behind him as he reached the top, but his bedroom door was dead ahead now. He hurried for it, throwing it open and diving inside.
Denzel stopped.
He sunk to the floor, and his knees thudded against the bare wooden floorboards. He could hear Jack’s voice, sterner now, but his heart was crashing too loudly in his ears for him to be able to make out the words.
His room was empty. The bed was gone. The walls were bare. He couldn’t even see the pinholes where his posters had been, let alone the posters themselves. It was as if he had never been there at all.
“My room,” Denzel said, and the words echoed strangely in the empty space. “They took my room.”
Jack was still talking, but it was Owen’s voice that Denzel heard. “I’m calling the police.”
Denzel stood and turned. “What? No. Owen, no. Don’t. Please. Why would the room be empty? Why do you have a completely empty room inside your house, if it isn’t mine?”
Owen opened his mouth to reply, but a frown flitted across his brow. He glanced across the bare walls. “Because … we haven’t got around to decorating,” Owen said.
“Look, you’re not in trouble, son,” said Jack. “But you’re upset. We need to find your parents.”
Denzel looked at them both for a long time. He knew their faces better than he knew his own, but he felt the need to commit every line, every detail to memory. Finally, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “They won’t find them,” he said, his voice cracking. “They’re gone.”
He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “But I swear, I’m going to get them back.”
Denzel ran, leaving his bedroom, his house and his dads behind. His eyes blurred with tears again as he looked back to see Jack closing the front door. He kept watching the house for as long as he—
WHAM! Denzel crashed into something hard and metallic. He bounced off and landed on his bum. He looked up at the white van he’d run into the side of. From inside, he could just make out a frantic muttering.
Jumping up, Denzel banged his fist against the van’s sliding door. “Boyle! Samara! Open up, I know you’re in there!” Denzel shouted. The door stayed closed, so Denzel spun away from the van and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Secret ghost-hunting society! Come and see the secret ghost-hunting society! Hiding in this van!”
The door opened. A hand caught Denzel by the back of his school jumper and yanked him inside. “Shut up,” Boyle hissed, as the door slid closed again. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Change them back,” said Denzel. “Change them back. Now.”
Boyle and Samara exchanged a glance. “Change who back?” Samara asked.
“My parents. My dads. Change them back!”
“Back to what? What have they been changed into? What are you talking about?” Boyle barked.
“They’ve forgotten me,” Denzel said. “You did that thing you do, and they’ve forgotten me!”
Samara’s hand went to her mouth. Even Boyle blinked in surprise. Denzel looked between them both, his head flicking back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. “It wasn’t you,” he realised. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“No,” Samara said. “No. I’m sorry. It wasn’t us. It must’ve been Director Quinn.”
“That’s enough, Samara,” Boyle said.
“She must have sent someone. Knightley and Rasmus, maybe, to—”
“I said that’s enough!” said Boyle, raising his voice.
“It doesn’t matter who did it,” Denzel said. He rounded on Samara, taking her hands in his and squeezing them tightly. “You can fix them, right? You can make them remember?”
Samara cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Denzel,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do. Once their memory has been wiped, there’s no way of putting it back.”
“You mean … they’ve really forgotten me?” said Denzel.
“Yes,” said Samara softly. “They’ve forgotten you, Denzel. Forever.”
Denzel sprinted along the corridor, leaving Samara and Boyle trailing behind. When he reached the doors to Quinn’s office he raised a fist to hammer against them, but the doors swung inward before he could connect.
“Ah, Denzel, you came back,” said Quinn. She was sitting on a high-backed leather chair beside a small table. “Tea?” she asked, holding up a delicate china teapot.
Denzel hurried into the room, and the doors swung closed behind him before Boyle and Samara could catch up. “You wiped their memories,” he said. “You stole my parents!”
“A rather dramatic way of putting it,” said Quinn. She gestured to the chair opposite her. “Please, sit down. Let’s discuss it like grown-ups.”
“Discuss it? There’s nothing to discuss,” said Denzel. “You used that magic powder stuff and you wiped me from their heads.” He dug his fingernails into his palms to stop his voice cracking. “And you’re going to put me back.”
Quinn raised a cup of tea to her lips and blew gently on it. “First of all, there was no ‘magic powder stuff’ involved. That would have been utterly impractical. If we used that on your parents, then what about your neighbours? Your school? They’d still remember. We’ve tried that approach with others before, but it’s always an administrative nightmare. You can’t begin to imagine the paperwork.”
She took a sip of her tea, then set the cup back down in her saucer. “Luckily, I devised a much simpler method a few years ago. Picture your life like a thread, Denzel. A shining golden thread that weaves through the world, finding an anchor point in the minds of each and every person you’ve ever met. It criss-crosses, left, right, up, down, hopping cities and counties and countries, spreading the knowledge of your existence throughout the Earth. A shining web, with you at the centre.”
She took a sugar cube from the bowl, popped it in her mouth, then crunched it. “Removing all those anchor points would be impossible,” she said. “But pull the thread…” She mimed doing just that. “And the whole web unravels.”
Denzel shifted on the balls of his feet. “What do you mean? What have you done?”
“I mean it isn’t just your parents who have forgotten you, Denzel. Everyone has. Everyone who isn’t a Spectre Collector, at least. Your life was a stitch in time. I have unpicked that stitch. It’s like you have never even existed. Your parents don’t remember you, Denzel, because to all intents and purposes, there was never anything for them to forget.”
“But … Smithy. He remembered me.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow then shook her head. “Not any more.”
“No!” cried Denzel. “No, that’s not true. You’re lying.”
Quinn raised a hand, fingers splayed, then snatched at the air. An invisible force grabbed Denzel by the front of his school jumper and dragged him across the floor. He gasped as he was forcibly slammed into the chair, knocking the wind from him.
The director leaned in closer and stared deep into Denzel’s eyes. He felt a dull ache behind his eyeballs, and as Quinn’s stare intensified, the ache crawled all the way upwards into his brain.
“Now, Denzel, as I said yesterday, I believe you could be a useful addition to our ranks,” Quinn purred, and Denzel felt his arms and legs become too heavy for him to move. “So what say you and I have a little chat about your future?”
Denzel lay on his back on his uncomfortable bed again, gazing up at the ceiling, and trying to think about the world beyond. A world which had completely f
orgotten he’d ever been part of it.
Of course, that was for the best. Quinn had explained it and made him see that the work of the Spectre Collectors was important, and that he had a vital role to play in it. People’s lives depended on it. The safety of the whole world depended on it.
And yet…
He thought that maybe, just maybe, he missed his dads. Quinn had told him not to, and for a while, at least, his brain had obeyed. He remembered them, of course, but Quinn had instructed him not to miss them, and the sense of longing and loss he felt had quickly faded like shadows in the morning sun.
Now, though, lying in his room in the half-dark, he could feel it stirring again. Everything the director had said had made sense at the time. Now he was alone, her words were twisting around so he couldn’t quite remember why he had been so convinced by them.
And yet, it was for the best. It was all for the best.
His head spun and his breath came in short gulps. Quinn had done something to him, he knew. He hadn’t minded at the time. He’d welcomed her taking his pain and sadness away, in fact. But now…
But now…
Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t pleasant. He closed his eyes, hoping it would pass as quickly as it had arrived. He tried to calm his breathing. Quinn’s voice rolled like a marble inside his head, telling him not to worry, not to be afraid, not to get upset.
“Yes,” he mumbled. “It’s for the best…”
“Denzel!”
“Wha—”
Denzel opened one eye and swivelled it around, trying to make sense of where he was and what was happening. Samara stood just inside the door, looking down at him. His vision was blurry and there was a string of drool dangling from his lips.
“Did I wake you?” Samara whispered.
Denzel forced his other eye to open, then stretched. “What? No. No, I was awake,” he said. He yawned. “What time is it?”
Too Ghoul For School Page 9