‘Can you?’ asks the voice. ‘Can you really see me?’
‘Yes,’ says Jacob.
‘No,’ I say, because I’m not sure if the thing I saw was a person, or a lump in the dungeon wall.
‘Maybe,’ says Eric. ‘I can certainly hear you.’
‘Can you do it again? That spark thing – it was … lovely.’
‘Of course.’ Jacob sends another spray of sparks over the puddle. This time I do see the outline of someone reflected in the puddle, but it’s so brief and so dark I couldn’t really say what he or she looked like, or if there really was anyone.
‘I say,’ says the man in the cage. ‘I rather like you – all of you. I sense that you might prove somewhat interesting. In fact, I think I know you’re going to prove interesting.’
I stare at his red eyes, flickering behind the bars, and shudder.
All I know is that I feel really uncomfortable.
Chapter 7
‘I’m Jacob Devlin,’ says Jacob loudly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
‘I’m Flora, by the way,’ says the girl’s voice from the darkness beside me. She sounds close, but at the same time, distant. Her words are muffled. ‘Flora Rose.’ She must be really small or really good at hiding.
‘I’m Eric Threepwood, and he’s Tom,’ says Eric. ‘Who are you? In there?’
‘Oh, let me introduce myself – I’m Victor. So pleased to meet you.’ The man sticks his hand between the bars. Jacob shakes it. I stand back, trying to work all this out and feeling anxious. In fact, I’d say about 70 per cent anxious. ‘So glad you’ve come.’
We could run away but the man in the cell is still talking and Eric and Jacob are still listening. ‘I’m wondering – Master Devlin, isn’t it? – as you’re so clever and you can make such wonderful sparks, if you could let me out?’ He taps the bars. ‘It’s just that in the last few minutes, I seem to have become stuck.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ asks Flora Rose, who seems to have moved to the other side of my head, although I still can’t actually see her.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘She doesn’t mean anything – stuff and piffle!’ interrupts Victor. ‘Now, Jacob Devlin, show me what you can do, you remarkable child.’
Jacob puffs. His ego inflates and he gazes at the lock.
‘Don’t,’ says Eric. ‘Sparks … dust.’
‘Oh yeah,’ says Jacob, as if he understands. ‘Soz, Vic, can’t let you out. Too dangerous.’
So we call the fire brigade.
While we wait, Jacob tells Victor about the theme park, and Eric tells Victor about the birds and I draw pictures in the dust with my toe and think that perhaps we shouldn’t tell him anything. I’m also beginning to think that Flora Rose is an invisible person. I’ve peered into every corner and I can’t see her.
‘So,’ says Victor. ‘Have I got this right – you’d like to keep the bird asylum, Mr Threepwood? But you don’t care about it, Mr Devlin? You would rather build this fairground of curiosities?’
‘Theme park,’ says Jacob. ‘With rides and –’
‘Yes, yes,’ cuts in Victor. ‘Park of curiosities and whatnot.’ He screws up his face in concentration as if he’s really interested, but I can’t help feeling that, as a total stranger, this is essentially weird. ‘So the bird hideout is in some way paramount?’
‘Sanctuary,’ says Eric. ‘Yes, it’s terribly important. It’s the last refuge of a number of fragile coastal species.’
Victor nods his head. His eyes, still unusually red, cast from side to side. I don’t think he’s really listening to them. He’s thinking about something else and making the right noises, like headmasters do. ‘So you need an idea for the preservation of this bird stronghold?’
‘We do,’ says Eric. ‘Quite badly.’
‘On the other hand, Bywater-by-Sea is the most tedious place EVER, and we badly need SOMETHING to liven it up,’ says Jacob. ‘Anything, really. But Snot Face is dead set against the idea of FUN!’
‘All I’m doing is thinking of the long term, Jacob,’ says Eric.
‘Ah yes, the long term,’ says Victor, sagely. ‘Very important.’
‘And I,’ says Jacob, letting off a couple of sparklets, ‘am thinking of the rest of the town.’
‘So you seek a mutually agreeable solution to this conundrum?’
Eric says, ‘We do.’
Jacob picks some melted gobstopper from his shorts and jams it in his mouth.
Once again, Victor glances from side to side, this time letting his gaze linger on Jacob. A broad smile spreads across his face. ‘I might, just possibly, be able to help you there, young gentlemen. I might have the beginnings of an idea. But stuck in here, I’m not going to be able to help anyone. So get me out, feed me – I’m frightfully keen on cake by the way, and it’s been an age since a fine Victoria sponge passed these lips – and let me expand my mind. Oh! And most importantly, let me see more of those marvellous sparks.’
Chapter 8
It took the fire brigade most of an hour to get Victor out and they kept asking him how he got in.
‘Oh dear chaps, it was easy. I just walked through.’
‘Pull the other one,’ said the giant fireman with the huge bolt cutters.
But Victor didn’t have a better explanation.
‘Why exactly couldn’t I get him out?’ asks Jacob, jamming a gobstopper in his mouth.
‘Because the sparks next to the dust could have done untold damage – you might have blown yourself up,’ says Eric.
I know I shouldn’t, but my heart leaps just a little at the idea of a giant underground firework display with Jacob as the central attraction.
‘Well,’ says Eric. ‘Let’s see what Victor has in mind, now that he’s out and about.’
‘Yes, he seems like someone with a few ideas,’ says Jacob.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘There’s something fishy about him. And I can’t work out how he did get in there. The keys are well hidden.’
‘He’s not as fishy as that disembodied voice,’ says Eric.
‘The girl?’ I say. ‘Well, Victor could be a ventriloquist – good at throwing his voice – or perhaps she was a recording of some sort?’
‘Hmmm,’ says Eric. ‘Why would anyone bother to lock themselves in, and then have a recording of a voice outside in the corridor? I mean think about it, Tom. It’s not logical. I agree, there’s a lot that’s unanswered about him, but if he can possibly help with the bird sanctuary, then I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.’
We’re walking back to Grandma’s now. Although I’m really doubtful about Victor, Eric’s hopes have been raised by him, and I don’t like to dash them flat before we’ve tried every avenue. Personally I’d have left him behind bars, but Eric’s usually right about things.
I study Victor as we walk through the village. He looks utterly mad. His clothes are grey and battered, as if someone’s been rubbing them with a stone for a hundred years, and he’s got sprouty bits of beard and red starey eyes and he’s weirdly grey and bloodless. There’s this smell of damp wood around him, and mushrooms – a slight whiff of decaying sheds that reminds me of dustbins. I suppose I agreed to take him home sort of hoping that Grandma might turn up.
As we walk back through the village, he keeps on glancing around, checking over his shoulder and then grinning at Jacob like Jacob is some sort of god.
Jacob loves it. ‘Why are we bringing him to your house, Model Village?’ he says. ‘We should’ve taken him back to mine – we could have played Sharks v Cup Cakes on the games box.’ He punches the air. ‘Awesome.’ He turns to Victor. ‘Where do you come from, Victor?’
Victor picks a flower and sniffs it, as if he’s never seen one before. ‘Oh, such fragrance,’ he says, ignoring the question.
We walk past a van parked outside the town hall offices. Whizzo Fairground Projects it says on the side.
‘That’s the third one I’ve noticed
today,’ says Eric. He sighs.
‘What is Whizzy Fairground Projects?’ asks Victor, leaping back as a man bounces over the cobbles on a motorbike. ‘Good gracious, what a racket!’
‘Whizzo are the people who want to build the theme park, on Snot Face’s precious bird reserve,’ says Jacob, racing around with his arms outstretched. ‘By the time we’ve finished with them, it’ll have roller coasters and death rides and death-defying drops – you know the sort of thing. It’ll be mega awesome.’
‘Oh?’ says Victor, raising an eyebrow. ‘Awesome, what an interesting word – how … excellent.’
He stops for a minute and stares at his hand. He flexes his fingers as if he’s never seen them before. ‘Is awesome … powerful? I mean, would one bow down before awesome?’
Jacob does an inelegant cartwheel. ‘Totally. Awesome is like this!’ Jacob sends out a bolt of fire that annihilates the village noticeboard.
‘Oh yes, that is awesome,’ says Victor.
And I wonder just what’s going on inside his head.
Back at Grandma’s, Victor checks under the kitchen table, looking for something.
‘Is that other person – Flora Rose, the invisible girl – with us?’ I ask.
Victor looks towards me, a flicker of panic crossing his face. ‘I’m not entirely sure. I seem to have lost my ability to see her. Flora Rose, are you there, dear one?’
I hear a tiny gasp, but no one actually speaks and then the kitchen door swings a little and I get the feeling that someone has left the room.
I lean forward to whisper to Eric. ‘She’s either invisible or she’s … ’ And I think of my conversation with Grandma. ‘A ghost?’
‘Both are, of course, impossible,’ says Eric, under his breath. ‘And yet … ’ Eric raises his voice. ‘So Victor, what’s your idea about the birds?’
‘Ah – dear boy – well … ’ He examines the jam jar on the table. ‘Was hoping to get the lie of the land, as t’were. I feel, as a newcomer to your fine town, that I don’t know the full details, so to speak.’
Eric narrows his eyes. ‘Do you want to come and see the bird reserve?’
‘No, no. I can totally imagine it – birds, seabirds. I’ve seen quite a few in my time. Lots in fact. You could draw a map of it – that would give me the general notion.’
‘Oh, have you lived by the sea?’ I ask.
‘You might say that,’ he says, eyeing Grandma’s cooling blackcurrant scones. ‘I say, can one help one’s self?’
‘Sure,’ says Jacob. ‘I always do. So Victor, tell us about yourself. Are you from round here? Are you really old?’ he asks, popping one of the scones into his mouth and showering me with crumbs.
Victor stares intently at the TV. ‘I was born at 21 Twissel Street, Tooting Bec, a long time ago, dear boy, an absurdly long time.’ He holds his hands out towards the screen. I wonder if he’s expecting to warm them. ‘Does this have a large lantern inside?’ Although he has a smile on his face he doesn’t look terribly happy. I’m not sure if he’s really fascinated by the telly or avoiding any difficult questions.
‘No, it uses electricity. So where are you from – recently – not where you were born?’ asks Eric. ‘Are you a traveller of some sort?’
‘Ow!’ Something buzzes in my ear, not quite like a fly, more like Chinese whispers. ‘Did you hear that?’ I say, swiping at the air.
‘No, um, not precisely a traveller, more a person that has … come and gone.’ Victor smiles cheerily as if he’s come up with something brilliant and pokes one of the buttons on the TV. ‘This light really is quite fantastic. I’d love one of these.’
‘It’s not a light, it’s a television. Haven’t you seen one before?’ says Jacob. ‘Everyone’s got a telly but this one’s really old-fashioned – no one has big tellies like that any more.’
‘How fascinating!’ says Victor. ‘So do those people live inside that object? Are they your prisoners?’ He turns to Jacob. ‘Did you put them there with your … extraordinary ability?’
Jacob’s not listening. He’s got one of Grandma’s scones embedded in his bubble gum and is trying to separate them. I glance across at Eric. He scratches his chin and pulls up his socks. I glare at him, trying to catch his attention, but he’s staring at the tabletop.
‘I mean, Jacob, are you the only one who can … ’ Victor waves his arms in an expansive manner, presumably trying to convey sparks. ‘Or can you all … make fiery things?’
‘Wouldn’t you like another scone?’ I say, helplessly, kicking out at Jacob, just stopping him from saying anything else.
‘Scone?’ says Jacob. ‘I’ve already got one in my mouth. What are you on about Tom?’
‘I … ’ I stare from Eric to Jacob to Victor, desperately trying to think of a way of telling Jacob to keep quiet without telling Victor what I’m telling Jacob to be quiet about. All I come up with is, ‘Um.’
And then Grandma comes in.
Chapter 9
‘More paint,’ she says, bowling into the kitchen through the back door, crashing and cranging bin lids and flinging wellington boots across the porch. ‘I’ve done six placards, but I need some red pa—’
She stops dead, staring at us one by one and fixing on Victor. ‘What’s going on – and WHO ARE YOU?’
He leaps to his feet, bows deeply and a wide smile sweeps over his face. ‘Dear lady, Victor Isabella De Macoy at your service.’
‘Don’t you dear lady me! What are you doing in my kitchen?’
Victor isn’t remotely worried by Grandma – in fact he seems livelier now that she’s appeared, as if she might be some kind of adversary. ‘These charming young urchins invited me in. They rescued me from the castle in fact, and brought me here for’ – he waves at the scones – ‘sustenance. Are these your superior bakes?’
‘Rescued?’ says Grandma, dropping her paintbrush in the kitchen sink.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Victor was INSIDE the cell at the end of the dungeons.’
Grandma takes off her rubber gloves and turns to face him. ‘Were you indeed? And how did you get in there?’
Victor shrugs. He does a very good innocent face. ‘I don’t know. I just walked in – it didn’t seem to be an inconvenience.’
‘He’s going to help us with the theme-park-versus-bird-park problem,’ says Jacob.
‘Is he indeed?’ Grandma strolls over and circles around him, sniffing and poking. She stops behind his back and sniffs really strongly. ‘Graveyards,’ she says. ‘I smell graveyards.’
Victor wriggles his shoulders and laughs. He doesn’t actually say anything.
‘Well, you can’t stay here,’ she says. ‘We haven’t the room.’
‘He can stay at mine,’ says Jacob, flicking a spark towards Grandma. ‘My mum and dad won’t mind.’
‘If you say so, dear,’ says Grandma, staring into all the corners of the room. ‘I have a feeling there are a couple more here like you … Anyway, Mr Victor, just so you know, this village is not what you think. Not a sleepy seaside little isthmus, more a cauldron of hidden talent.’
She turns back to the sink, pries the lid off a tin of paint and walks back to the garden door. ‘Remember Tom, remember what I said earlier – and take care.’
She goes out of the door and I watch her back as she disappears off to the tool shed.
‘What does she mean?’ Eric asks. ‘About what I said earlier?’
‘Dunno, not much,’ I say, remembering her words. Ghosts can be unpredictable.
‘Oh!’ Eric cries, jumping away from the table. ‘Sugar – how did that get there?’ He reaches for a damp cloth and clears it off the tabletop. ‘How surprising.’
Something that could be a snarl crosses Victor’s face before he replaces it with the charming smile and renews his interest in the television.
‘So,’ says Tilly, sitting on the kitchen table. ‘I was rearranging my bedroom, my new, gorgeously-redecorated-no-old-pieces-of-Grandma’s-furniture bedroom. Sorting out
my Woodland Friends and punishing the ones who wouldn’t stand up properly. When something came in.’
She widens her eyes and looks around us as if we should all fall down in amazement.
‘And?’ I say.
Tilly screws up her face. She’s irritated. I’m obviously not sufficiently impressed.
‘It was an invisible person.’
No one even gasps.
‘Whaaat?’ She stares at us all. ‘I mean, how many invisible people have you ever met?’
‘Not very many,’ says Eric. ‘How do you know it wasn’t the wind or something?’
‘Because it spoke,’ says Tilly, nodding her head. ‘It was a girl and it spoke to me, just me.’
‘Flora Rose?’ says Victor, moving slightly sideways. ‘Are you here?’
‘How did you know?’ says Tilly, disappointed. ‘She appeared in my bedroom.’
‘We came together,’ says a girl’s voice straight out of the middle of nothing. This time, everyone does gasp. I mean, it’s startling when a voice comes out of nowhere. It’s disturbing. ‘I asked her for a mirror – I told her I was a ghost and she told me about everyone’s powers.’
‘Powers?’ says Victor.
‘A ghost!’ says Jacob.
‘And,’ Tilly says, helping herself to a family-size packet of crisps, ‘did you know there are three ghosts here? Yes.’ Tilly is obviously enjoying her moment of importance. ‘My friend, Flora Rose –’
‘The voice,’ interrupts Eric.
Tilly glares at him. ‘Yes, the voice. And she says there’s another one, Billy, who we can’t see and we can’t hear because he hasn’t learned to throw his voice like Flora Rose can but who could be standing right next to you.’ Everyone jumps, including Tilly. ‘And that he,’ she points at Victor, ‘is a ghost too – except, he’s been changed in the castle dungeon, somehow.’
‘Me? A ghost? How preposterous!’ Victor laughs and turns beetroot. ‘I’m just a traveller, an innocent traveller.’
I look across at Victor. It would explain his greyness and how he got inside the bars. And it would explain his age – the fact that he looks Victorian, or even older. And it would explain Grandma – she must have guessed.
Ghosts on Board Page 3