Too Ghoul For School

by Barry Hutchison

Both cannons opened fire. Denzel gasped as the ghost-armour sunk backwards through the ground to safety.

  “Thanks,” he managed, before the surface of the road exploded, and the Spook Suit loomed above him again.

  “You can’t escape me, Denzel,” Quinn hissed. “This thing can track your every move. It’s the ultimate weapon, completely unstoppable.”

  “No, it’s not,” Denzel realised. “There’s something even more powerful.”

  “The power of friendship!” Smithy cried.

  Denzel ignored him. “The time bomb.”

  “That was going to be my next guess,” said Smithy.

  Quinn’s face fell. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Let’s find out,” said Denzel, then he spun on to his feet, bounded twice along the street, and launched himself over the heads of the screaming crowd below.

  Denzel rocketed across the sky, sending a sonic boom rolling off in all directions. In seconds, he could see the church again, or what was left of it, at least. His heart soared. He was going to make it. He was going to make it!

  “Crazy lady at six o’clock!” Smithy cried.

  The ghost-armour banked Denzel sharply to the right, dodging a rocket that whistled past. A jet of blue flame erupted from the Spook Suit’s left shoulder-cannon – the one Boyle had boasted could shoot gods. The air around Denzel crackled and scorched, and the ghosts all wailed and writhed in pain.

  The punches, explosions and high-speed pavement collisions hadn’t hurt the ghosts, but whatever the blue flame was, the effect was instantaneous. The shimmering glow of the armour flickered, and Denzel suddenly found himself at the mercy of gravity again. He plummeted down, down, down, screaming as he fell.

  “Smithy! Smithy, what’s happening?”

  Somewhere inside the armour, Smithy groaned. An indistinct ghostly shape peeled away from Denzel. Then another. Then another. As more and more spirits left Denzel’s protective coating, the faster he fell.

  “Smithy? Smithy, are you still with me?” Denzel shouted.

  The only reply from Smithy was another sleepy moan. The road was racing up to meet them, and impact was only a few seconds away.

  “Smithy, what would you rather do, right?” Denzel cried. “Wake up right now, or let your best friend splatter against the—”

  Denzel suddenly changed direction. He heard Smithy grit his teeth, which, considering Smithy didn’t currently have any teeth, was really quite impressive. They were still falling, but now they were falling backwards towards the hole in the church car park.

  Quinn roared towards them in the Spook Suit, the rocket boots churning the air behind it. More blue flame billowed from one of the guns on her shoulder. It flared around Denzel like a cocoon, the heat searing his skin and scorching his eyebrows.

  Suddenly, Denzel could see the black tendrils of the poltergeist again. He watched them unravel from him one by one, before the ’geist was whipped away by the wind.

  With a start, Denzel realised the armour had gone. He was free-falling, the air ruffling his hair and flapping his clothes as he plunged helplessly through the hole the Spook Suit had torn through the Spectre Collectors’ HQ.

  A pair of arms wrapped feebly around him from behind. “Hold on,” Smithy whispered.

  “To what?” Denzel yelped.

  “Good point,” said Smithy. “Well made.”

  His arms went limp.

  Denzel tensed.

  There was a boom as they hit the floor.

  Denzel’s eyelids fluttered.

  There was quite a lot of noise going on. Shouts. Explosions. The high-pitched whine of laser fire.

  That sort of thing.

  Part of his brain was telling him he should open his eyes and get up, but another, much larger, part reckoned that probably wouldn’t be in his best interests.

  He opened them anyway.

  The rip leading through to the Spectral Realm was still there, he noted, almost absent-mindedly. The enormous clawed hands had gone, though, so that was nice. The entire squadron of Vulterons was pumping round after round of gunfire into the hole, while dozens of Oberons wove their hands through the air as they worked to knit the tear back together.

  It wasn’t something you got to see every day, and Denzel would’ve quite liked to just lie there and watch it all unfolding, but he had a nagging thought that he was supposed to be doing something else. Something important.

  An enormous robot battle suit dropped from the sky and landed on its four feet beside him.

  Oh, yes. That was it.

  “Waaaargh!” Denzel kicked frantically, scrambling backwards across the floor. He looked around for Smithy, but his friend was nowhere to be seen.

  Quinn advanced and the floor trembled with every footstep. “It’s almost going to be a shame to kill you, Denzel,” she crackled through the suit’s speakers. “You really are fascinating. You would have been a valuable ally, going forward, and we never did find out how you could see poltergeists. How can you do that, by the way?”

  Denzel’s back hit the metal door of the vault. He stopped. There’s was nowhere left to go. “I don’t know,” Denzel admitted. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  The Spook Suit shrugged along with its occupant. “Honestly? I don’t care any more. You’ve ruined everything. And now you’re going to pay.”

  Something flat and smooth, like a large silver pebble, emerged through the door of the vault, followed a moment later by a familiar face. “Is this the bomb thing you were after?” Smithy asked.

  Quinn stumbled backwards. “Don’t! Don’t touch that!”

  “I reckon that’s probably a ‘yes’, then,” said Denzel. He stood and took the time bomb from Smithy. It was a small circle, and easily fit in his two hands, but the weight of it pushed his arms down.

  “Cor,” he said, pretending to drop it. “It’s heavier than it looks, innit?”

  “Stop it!” Quinn hissed. “You have no idea what it could do!”

  “Yeah, but neither do you, do you?” Denzel said. He smiled calmly up at her. “Why don’t we find out together?”

  “No!” Quinn said. “It could destroy us all! It could shatter time itself!”

  “It might, yeah,” Denzel said. He waved the time bomb in her direction. “So you’d better surrender now, Quinn.”

  Quinn nodded slowly. “I suppose I better had,” she said. She held her robotic arms out in front of her, as if waiting for handcuffs to be slapped on. “I mean, obviously you must know all the necessary incantations required to activate it.”

  Denzel shuffled awkwardly. He swallowed. “Hmm?” he said.

  “The incantations required to activate the Quantum Nullifier,” Quinn said. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m assuming you’ve learned them all.”

  Denzel nodded, his throat suddenly dry. “Yep,” he said. “Definitely know all them.”

  Quinn’s laugh spat at him through the suit’s speakers. “Idiot child,” she sneered. “Did you really think you could threaten me with something you don’t even understand?”

  “Probably not,” Denzel admitted. “But then I wasn’t threatening you with it. Not really. I was distracting you with it.”

  Quinn snorted. “Distracting me? From what?”

  “From him,” said Denzel, pointing to Quinn’s left. The director turned and let out a gasp of shock.

  “Cosy in here, innit?” Smithy said, tucked into the suit right beside her. He grinned, then held up a handful of something that looked a lot like glitter. The air above it seemed to shiver in anticipation.

  Quinn’s eyes went wide. She shook her head.

  And Smithy blew.

  “Almost out of ammo here!” Boyle warned, unleashing a volley of crackling energy into the narrowing void.

  “Nearly … got it,” Samara managed through gritted teeth. Two arcane symbols glowed blue in the palms of her hands. They left a sparkly trail as she waved them around, and she began chanting under her breath.
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  Behind her, dozens of other Oberons were doing the same, all moving in perfect time, their voices echoing as one.

  Slowly – ever so slowly – the tear in reality began to close. Boyle and the other Vulterons kept firing for a few more seconds, before their weapons started to splutter and die.

  Knightley reached to her belt for more ammunition, then groaned. “I’m out.”

  “Me too,” Boyle announced, tossing her gun back.

  “It’s OK. We’ve got it,” Samara said. “Closing in three … two…”

  “Wait!”

  Denzel stumbled over, pulling Smithy behind him. “Don’t close it. Not yet,” Denzel panted.

  “What? Why?” Boyle demanded.

  Denzel ignored him and turned to his friend. “The Spectral Realm, Smithy,” he said. “It’s what you’ve been searching for, isn’t it?”

  Smithy stared in wonder at the swirling lightshow on the other side of the hole, like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Or death, for that matter. The tear itself was barely a metre high now, but had stopped narrowing for the moment.

  “Hurry up! We can’t hold it like this for long,” Rasmus warned.

  “We’ll hold it as long as we have to,” Samara said.

  Denzel put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’ve been alone for hundreds of years, looking to find your way here.” He tried to smile, but his face was having none of it. His voice cracked. “You don’t have to be alone any more, Smithy. You’re home.”

  Smithy tore his eyes away from the Spectral Realm. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he threw his arms around Denzel and hugged him.

  And then, pulling away from his friend, Smithy turned, at last, towards the light.

  Denzel stood between Samara and Boyle in Quinn’s office, watching her work at her desk. She was drawing a fire engine in crayons.

  “The thing with memory dust is that you have to really carefully measure it out,” said Samara.

  “Gotcha,” said Denzel.

  “Just a pinch is usually enough, unless you’re trying to wipe decades off someone.”

  Denzel nodded. “Right.”

  “A big handful … that’s too much,” Samara explained.

  “Yep.”

  “Like, waaaay too much.”

  “Yep, I realise that now,” said Denzel, watching Quinn stick her tongue out in concentration as she tried to colour within the lines. “What’ll happen to her?”

  “That’s up to the Elders to decide,” said Boyle. The office door swung open. Boyle snapped to attention. Even Samara straightened up. “Speaking of which, here they come now.”

  Three short figures entered, all dressed in matching purple robes that stretched from their necks to the floor, without any apparent holes for their arms to go through. Denzel frowned, then looked at both Samara and Boyle in turn. “Wait… That’s the Elders?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” hissed Boyle through the side of his mouth.

  Denzel looked the diminutive figures up and down. “Are you winding me up?” he said. “They look about nine.”

  “Ha! If only,” laughed the lead Elder. She was the shortest of the bunch, and the only female of the group. Her eyes sparkled like blue gemstones, and her skin was smooth and flawless. “Very flattering of you, Denzel,” she said. “But I assure you, we’re much older than that.”

  “Twelve?” Denzel guessed, and the Elder woman smiled again.

  “In centuries, perhaps.”

  She tilted her head from left to right, studying Denzel closely. “I am sorry,” she said.

  “For what?” Denzel asked.

  “For what was done to you. For what was taken from you, and from those who knew you.”

  Denzel nodded. “Uh, thanks,” he said.

  “You have a question you wish to ask me,” the Elder said.

  “No,” said Denzel, frowning. “No, I don’t really.”

  The Elder smiled. “Ask. Please.”

  Denzel swallowed. “Can you make them remember me?”

  The Elder woman’s smile didn’t change shape, but somehow became sadder. “We cannot. I am so very sorry.”

  Denzel felt his eyes sting. He dug his fingernails into his palms. “Right,” he managed. “Gotcha.”

  “But know, Denzel, that you will always have a home here,” she said. Her smile widened, then fell away as she cast her gaze across at Quinn. “It seems we are in need of a new director for this chapter of the organisation.”

  Denzel blinked. His jaw dropped. “What … me?”

  All three Elders snorted. “Ha! Oh my goodness, no,” the leader said. “I’m sure we can find someone a little more experienced for the role.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief,” Denzel breathed. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  One of the male Elders leaned in and whispered in her head. She nodded slowly. “Yes, good point,” she said, then she turned back to Denzel. “While we can’t offer you the role of director – yet – there is the matter of placing you in a division.”

  She looked Samara and Boyle in turn. “Oberon or Vulteron? Has he shown any aptitude for either role?”

  “None whatsoever, ma’am,” said Boyle.

  “Thanks a bunch,” Denzel said.

  “Not really,” Samara admitted.

  “I made fire! From the ring!” Denzel protested.

  “After about twenty attempts,” Samara said. “It’s literally the most basic spell in existence. The average two-year-old can make it work by about their third try.”

  “You give fire rings to two-year-olds?” Denzel spluttered. “That sounds very irresponsible!”

  The Elder woman’s delicate features dipped into a frown. “Hmm. So no aptitude for either division. That is problematic,” she said.

  “I can teach him. We’ll do extra work,” Samara said.

  “I’d be prepared to put in extra training also, ma’am,” said Boyle, to Denzel’s surprise. “If required. He could, I suppose, be a valuable asset to the team, and it would be a shame to lose—”

  The Elder woman held up a hand for quiet. She spent several long seconds studying Denzel, before the silence was broken by Quinn pretending to be a tractor. “No. Kind as it is for you both to offer, he is neither a Vulteron nor an Oberon. That much is clear.”

  Denzel felt his heart drop into his stomach. “So… What are you saying? I have to go?”

  “We have to change,” said the Elder. “You have a gift, Denzel. A gift that, as far as I’m aware, no one else has ever had. You belong here. From this day forth, the Cult of Sh’grath will be split into three divisions, not two,” she announced. “Vulteron. Oberon. And Denzel.”

  Denzel blinked. “Whoa. Really?”

  “Really,” said the Elder. Her smile flickered, just for a moment. “I mean, we might not stick with that name. It sounds pretty stupid alongside the other two, now that I say it out loud, but, you know, we’ll come up with something.”

  She nodded at Denzel, Samara and Boyle in turn. “And now, we must depart. Rest assured, former Director Quinn shall be well taken care of.”

  “Great,” said Denzel. “Thanks, and nice to meet you.” He held a hand out to shake, but the Elder just glanced meaningfully at her sleeveless robe. “Oh, yeah, right,” said Denzel, withdrawing his hand. He stepped back to let the Elder pass, then hesitated.

  “Uh, before you go,” he said. “Can I ask for one teensy little favour?”

  Denzel sat in the front of the van, wedged between Boyle and the passenger door. Samara sat behind the wheel, watching him closely. “You sure about this?” she asked.

  “Yes. No. Maybe,” said Denzel. He inhaled deeply through his nose, then nodded. “Yes. I can do this.”

  “Want us to wait for you?” Boyle asked.

  “Nah. It’s fine,” Denzel said. He opened the door and stepped out on to the street. “I’ll see you back at base, OK?”

  “OK,” said Samara. “
See you soon.”

  Denzel closed the door. Samara and Boyle both watched him as he walked along the road, his hands in his pockets. He stopped outside a gate, then turned and gave them a wave.

  Samara started the engine. Denzel watched them pull away, then turned and gazed along the path to the front door of his house.

  No, not his house. Not any more.

  Slowly, he walked along the path, bouncing a finger along the fence like he’d done so many times before. He stopped when he reached the door. It took him quite a long time to raise his hand, and an even longer time to knock.

  “I’ll get it,” shouted a voice from inside, and for a moment, Denzel thought about running. He stood his ground, though, and even managed a smile when Owen pulled open the door. “Hi,” said Owen, before his face fell. “Wait, it’s you. You’re that kid from yesterday,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Denzel began, but Owen’s shouts drowned him out.

  “Jack! Jack! That crazy kid from yesterday is here!”

  “No, Owen, I’m not crazy,” Denzel began. There was a commotion from behind Owen, and Jack appeared.

  “Hey. It’s you,” said Jack.

  Denzel nodded. “Yeah. It’s me,” he said, his throat tightening.

  “What can we do for you?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing,” said Denzel, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s why I came round. I just wanted to say that … you don’t need to worry. I’m OK.”

  Jack smiled. “Well, that’s great to hear. Thank you for letting us know.”

  “No problem,” said Denzel. He started to back away, then lunged forward and threw his arms around his dads. He hugged them, and neither of them pulled away, even though he held on until his arms began to ache.

  At last, he stepped back. “Take care of each other,” he said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He about-turned, and was halfway along the path before he turned back again. “Oh, and have you guys ever considered adopting?”

  Jack and Owen glanced at each other. “We’ve thought about it,” said Jack.

  “Go for it,” Denzel said. “You’ll be amazing parents.”

  With that, Denzel turned and strode out of the garden.