The The Name of the Star

by Maureen Johnson

  “You have phones full of diamonds?”

  “One diamond each. These wires run a current through it. When we press the one and the nine at the same time, the current runs through the diamond and it emits a pulse that we can’t hear or feel, but it . . .”

  “Explodes ghosts.”

  “I prefer to think that it disperses the vestigial energy that an individual leaves behind after death.”

  “Or that,” I said. “But diamonds?”

  “Not as strange as it sounds,” Stephen replied. “Diamonds make excellent semiconductors. They have many practical uses. These particular three diamonds are highly flawed, so they aren’t really valuable to most people. But to us, they’re priceless.”

  He carefully snapped the cover back onto the phone. Once he had made sure the phone was closed correctly, he handed it to me.

  “They have names,” he went on. “This one is Persephone.”

  “The queen of the underworld,” I said. I used to have a book about myths when I was little.

  “Described by Homer as the queen of the shades,” Stephen said, nodding. “The one Callum carries is Hypnos, and the one I carry is Thanatos. Hypnos is the personification of sleep, and Thanatos is his brother, death. They get the poetic names for a reason. All secret weapons have code names for the files. What I’ve just given you is an official secret, so please be careful with it.”

  I looked at the phone in my hand. I could still smell that smell from the Tube tunnel. I could still feel that wind, see the light . . .

  “Does it hurt them?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “That question has bothered me in the past, but not now. You need to take that, and if the time comes, you need to use it. Do you understand?”

  “I’m never going to understand this,” I replied.

  “One and nine,” he said. “That’s all you have to remember.”

  I swallowed hard. There was still a burning in my throat from the vomiting.

  “Go on,” he said. “Try to get some rest. I’ll be right here. Just keep that with you.”

  I got out of the car, gripping the phone. I tried to remember what Jo said about young people defending the country as I looked at Stephen. He looked tired and there was just a hint of five o’clock shadow along his chin. I had him. I had Callum. I had an old phone.

  “Night,” I said, my voice dry.

  29

  AGAIN, I WOKE UP AROUND FIVE IN THE MORNING. I’d gone to sleep with the terminus in my hand, but I’d let it go in my sleep. I had to look for it for a few seconds. It was under the duvet, down by my feet. I don’t know what I’d been doing in my sleep to kick it down there. I dug it out and held it tightly, pressing my fingers on the one and nine. I practiced this several times, setting it down and grabbing it back up again as fast as I could, putting my fingers on the buttons. Now I understood why they used old phones—no smart buttons. When the time came, you had to find them and feel them under the pads of your fingers.

  I got up and leaned against the heater under the window. Stephen’s police car was parked just outside. It was the only thing I could see very clearly, since the sun wasn’t up—it had yellow reflective squares all over the sides, alternating with blue, and orange and neon yellow on the back. English police cars were serious about being seen.

  For everyone else at Wexford, this was just a normal Thursday—mostly. As on the last Ripper day, we would be on lockdown starting after an early dinner. A few police cars were now parked along the side of the building, and some news vans were joining them.

  That afternoon, I went to the library. The carrels were all full—people seemed to be going on as usual, working away, cramming down the material for when classes started up again next week. I went directly upstairs, to the stacks. Alistair was in his usual position, draped all over the floor, book in front of him. Today, it was poetry. I could tell from the wide white margins on the page and his particularly languid pose.

  I sat down nearby and put an open book on my lap, so I at least had the pretense of reading if anyone found me. We said nothing to each other, but he seemed fine with my presence. A few minutes later, though, a library assistant came by with the cart. He pointed to the book on the ground in front of Alistair.

  “Is that yours?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  I should have realized why he was asking, because he reached down and took it away, dropping it on the cart. Alistair looked sour as his reading material rolled off.

  “What’s your problem?” he asked. “You look miserable.”

  When Alistair said it, it almost sounded like a compliment.

  “Is it bad?” I asked. “Dying?”

  “Oh, please don’t,” he said, flopping flat on the floor.

  “I’m afraid of dying,” I said.

  “Well, you probably won’t for a while.”

  “The Ripper wants to kill me.”

  That made him pause. He lifted his head from the ground to look at me.

  “What makes you say that?” he said.

  “Because he said so.”

  “You serious?” he asked. “The Ripper?”

  “Yup,” I said. “Any advice? In case it happens?”

  I tried to smile, but I know it didn’t look like a smile—and there was no hiding the quake in my voice.

  Alistair sat up slowly and tapped his fingers on the floor.

  “I don’t even remember dying. I just went to sleep.”

  “You don’t remember it at all?”

  He shook his head.

  “I thought I was having a really strange dream,” he said. “In my dream, the IRA had put a bomb in my chest, and I could feel it ticking, and I was trying to tell people it was going to explode. Then it went off. I saw the explosion come out of my chest. Then that part of the dream faded, and I was in my room, and it was morning. I was looking down at myself in bed. For all I know, this is all part of that dream. Maybe I’m still having it.”

  “Why do you think you came back?”

  “I didn’t come back,” he said. “I just never left.”

  “But why? I mean, don’t they say that ghosts come ba—stay around—because they have unfinished business or something?”

  “Who says that?”

  That was a good question. The answer was television shows, movies, and Cousin Diane. Not exactly the most reliable places to get information.

  “I hated this place,” he said. “All I wanted was to get out. Death should have taken care of that, and yet here I am. Over twenty-five sodding years at this sodding school. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know why I’m like this or what happens to other people. I just know I’m still here.”

  “Would you go, if you could?”

  “In a second,” he said, lying back down. “But that doesn’t seem to be happening. I don’t even think about that anymore.”

  I squeezed the terminus in my pocket. I could make Alistair’s dream come true, right now. In a second. The enormity of it just made it funny. Don’t want to exist anymore? Okay! Zap. Done. Puff of smoke and you’re gone, like a magic trick. I ran my finger over the buttons. Maybe this was how I was meant to spend this day—setting someone free.

  But this was Alistair, whom I’d come to think of as someone who went to my school—not just some shadow in a tunnel. Or what did they call it? A shade.

  I took the terminus all the way out of my pocket and put it on my lap. I’m not actually sure what I would have done if Jerome hadn’t appeared and sat down next to me. Luckily, he took my opposite side, or he would have ended up right on top of Alistair.

  “What’s that?” Jerome asked, nodding at the phone.

  “Oh . . . Boo’s phone.”

  “That’s her phone? How old is that thing?”

  He reached for it, but I moved it aside.

  “Shouldn’t you be studying?” I asked.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting with my Latin group. But there are only five of us, and thre
e left school.”

  “Chickens.”

  “Audaces fortuna iuvat.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Fortune favors the brave,” both he and Alistair said at the same time.

  Jerome shifted around a bit so that we were arm to arm and leg to leg.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Why are you up here sitting on the floor?”

  “It’s quiet,” I said. “And I just like floors.”

  I think Jerome was prepared to take anything I said at that moment as a flirtatious remark. He had that look on his face that indicated that hormone levels were high and the time was right. Under any other circumstances, I would have been delighted. At the moment, I wasn’t feeling much of anything. I’d exhausted my supply of emotions.

  “Oh, God,” Alistair said.

  “Sorry,” I replied.

  “Sorry for what?”

  That was Jerome.

  “I thought I . . . scratched you,” I lied. “With my nail.”

  “Just do it,” Alistair said tiredly. “It happens all the time. I’m used to it.”

  “Are you all right?” Jerome asked, his face close to mine. He sounded so English. Awl riiight. I didn’t answer. I kissed him.

  Our previous making out had been a little frenzied. Today was different. We pressed our lips together and held them there. I could feel the warm air from his nose as he breathed in and out. We kissed each other’s necks. I started to warm up a bit and gave in to the slow molasses that was creeping back through my veins. Kissing is something that makes up for a lot of the other crap you have to put up with in school, and as a teenager in general. It can be confusing and weird and awkward, but sometimes it just makes you melt and forget everything that is going on. You could be in a burning building or a bus about to fall off a cliff. It doesn’t matter, because you are just a puddle. I was a puddle on the library floor, kissing the guy with the curly hair.

  “Could you not roll on top of me, though?” Alistair asked. “I was here first.”

  When the bell went off, signifying what would have been the end of the period had it been a normal school day, we both jumped a little and blinked. Alistair had gotten up and moved away to another corner, and I heard some sniggering in our general direction. We emerged from the library bleary-eyed and collars crooked. The three police cars had turned into two police cars and four much larger vans. There were also people coming in twos and threes and fours carrying signs and candles.

  “There’s going to be a vigil tonight,” Jerome said, adjusting his prefect’s tie. “On the Mary Kelly murder site. It’s just a few streets over. Supposed to be thousands of people.”

  The sun was already retreating, and the crowds were coming. The Ripper, the Ripper, the Ripper.

  We went right next door to the refectory. Jerome held my hand. This did not go unnoticed. It wasn’t mentioned either. But I saw it register. I was suddenly starving and took a heavy helping of fish pie. I ate with one hand, and with the other I held Jerome’s hand under the table. There was just a trace of sweat on his brow. It made me proud. I caused that sweat.

  And life was good for about half an hour.

  “So there’s some speculation on where tonight is going to happen,” Jerome said. “Because it’s going to be indoors, right? A lot of people are saying hotel, because of all the tourists . . .”

  My good mood exploded. Pop. Gone.

  He went on for a good ten minutes about the various odds on locations for that night’s murder. I took it as long as I could.

  “I have to call my parents,” I said, getting up. I shelved my tray roughly and joined the many people who were heading out.

  The stupid misting rain had started up again. I could see it under the orangey glow of the lights along the green and in front of the school. Loads more people were around the school now, the people with their signs and the police officers and the handful of press people who had decided to use the previous murder site as a place to broadcast.

  “Hey!” Jerome called. “Wait! Rory!”

  “It’s not a game,” I said, turning around.

  “I know that,” he replied. “Look, I know you were a witness. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know anything,” I snapped.

  I regretted it even as I said it, but the simple fact was—something had to give. The kissing had distracted me for a little while, but reality was back.

  Jerome looked at me in confusion and shook his head, unable to come up with the words.

  “I’m going back,” he said. “I’ve got desk duty all night.”

  I watched him as he cut across the square, turning up the collar of his blazer against the rain and stopping only to adjust his messenger bag.

  Stephen was standing by the door in his uniform. I noticed Callum as well, also in a police uniform. It took me a moment; the helmet was low over his face. Usually, Stephen wore a police sweater, a dark V-neck with epaulettes on the shoulders. Tonight, he and all of the other officers, including Callum, were wearing heavy tactical vests covered in tiny pockets. Stephen gave me a nod as I went in.

  There was a mild commotion in the common room. It turned out to be a group of people gathered around Boo, who had triumphantly returned in a wheelchair. It’s not that Boo had been hugely popular or anything, but she had been hit by a car and she had come back in a wheelchair. That kind of thing draws a crowd. Jo, I noticed, was standing just behind the chair, her arms politely crossed. I didn’t even go in to greet them. I went right upstairs.

  I had promised my parents a call after dinner, so I went upstairs to take care of that. They extracted some very serious promises from me that I would remain in the locked building surrounded by all the police officers. Bristol, from the sound of it, was also under a state of high alert, as were most of the major cities. Would the Ripper suddenly cross the country? Would copycat killers join in? It seemed like people didn’t want London to have all the fun. Everyone deserved to share the fear.

  I got off the phone as soon as I could and shut my eyes. I heard Jazza come in.

  “Did you see Boo?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “You didn’t come in to say hello. And Jerome was wandering around out in front of the building looking upset.”

  “Argument,” I said.

  “You’re not saying very much.”

  I felt her sit on the end of the bed.

  “Everyone is scared, Rory,” she said.

  The impulse to scream was very great, but I held it down. Screaming at Jazza would be bad. I just kept my eyes closed and rubbed my face.

  “You should go down and say hello,” she said.

  “I will.”

  Jazza was disappointed in me. I could tell from her light-asair sigh and the way she got up and went out without saying another word. I’d managed a trifecta—Alistair, Jerome, Jazza. Really, the only three people at Wexford I had any special bond with. If this was going to be my last night, I’d done a great job so far.

  The dark had come, and Ripper night was here.

  30

  IT WAS A LONG NIGHT, AND I WASN’T SURE WHAT WAS worse—the terror I was just managing to keep at bay or the boredom. We sat in that study room for six straight hours. Boo tried to keep me entertained by reading to me about celebrities, mostly English ones that I’d only recently learned the names of. My butt went numb from sitting. My back hurt from the chair. The air in the tiny study room got stale, and I grew to hate the powder blue walls.

  It seemed to me that things should be more dramatic—not just sitting around with the ever increasing weight of time on my shoulders.

  “You can go to sleep if you want,” Boo said, just after one in the morning. “Not to bed, but if you want to lie down.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I can’t do that.”

  She rolled herself back and forth in her chair.

  “You’ve seen Callum and me, yeah?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure what this que
stion meant. I’d seen Callum, and I’d seen Boo.

  “Do you think . . .” Again, she said fink instead of think. “Okay. I . . . I really like him. I have for the whole time, yeah, but I’ve had no one to tell. One year with no one to tell. And maybe he just doesn’t think we can date because we work together. The two of them, they take it harder, you know? They were more messed up by whatever happened to them. Callum’s angry. And Stephen . . . well, Stephen is Stephen.”

  This sudden insight into Boo’s love life was confusing.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “He’s smart—like, proper smart. He went to Eton. Proper posh. But something about him . . . I mean, I know something bad happened. I know he doesn’t talk to his family. He doesn’t do anything outside of this job. I mean, they must have picked him for a reason to be the person to restart it all. And I love Stephen. I do. I didn’t ever think I’d have a friend as posh as him, you know? He’s dead sweet. He just has no life. He reads. He makes phone calls. He sits in front of his computer. I don’t know if he has hormones.”

  There was something in what Boo was saying. Of all the guys I’d ever met, Stephen seemed the most . . . I wasn’t sure what the word was. But I took Boo’s point. You never got the feeling that Stephen had those kinds of thoughts.

  “Callum has hormones,” Boo continued. “I’ve seen him in action when we’ve gone out—I mean, as friends. We go out and he meets someone almost as soon as we get in the door of the club or whatever. But he doesn’t date anyone, ever. Maybe we can’t. Maybe that’s part of it. I mean, we can’t say what we do. But that’s what makes me perfect, you know? You need to help me with this, yeah? It’s good to have a girl around.”

  She sighed and smiled a little.

  “And you have hormones,” she said. “You and Jerome, always snogging each other’s faces off.”

  Jerome. He was just over in Aldshot, but he might as well have been on the moon. I could have texted him or called him or sent him a note, but this wasn’t a night where I could have a conversation like that. So maybe there wouldn’t be more snogging of faces.

  “Yeah,” I said sadly.