by Claire Davis
Eyes to the ground, Johnny glided silently past reception and the art rooms towards E block.
“There you are! I can’t find my way.” A hand suddenly pulled his shirt. Finn Lyons. Kept his hand there, clinging on to Johnny’s elbow while he gabbled about school.
Oh, god.
“Here, have a crisp.” Finn ripped open a packet and started crunching, right there in public where you weren’t allowed. “Your favourite, right?” He waved the packet, which was indeed cheese and onion. Johnny watched the crisps for a few seconds, wondering how the hell Finn knew that. “Yummy yum yum.” It was outrageous. Everything about Finn was an affront. Short spikes of fluffy hair stuck up and out from his head like a duckling. Instead of looking smart like you were supposed to, pen marks covered his face and shirt, which billowed out. Both shoe laces were undone and the tie was missing. He burped loudly. “Oh, excuse me, I do declare.”
Johnny pointed at the sign, no eating, and tried to sidle away as if escaping wild tigers.
“What. Ever? I’d starve to death within hours. That’s not human rights, and anyway, they can’t see me. I am invincible.” Finn picked his teeth with a long finger. “And don’t worry, they can’t see you either. Not from under my breath of protection.” He beamed. Bits of crisp stuck between his teeth. A waft of cheesy onion breath puffed over Johnny. Against his will, he took a crisp and ate it.
Hah-hah hah-hah. Breath of protection! Your breath is nasty.
“I know. Cool, right? It keeps the vampires away. You wanna bunk off? I spied a river down the road. We can look for pondweed for the spell. I’m having a bit of a panic.” He fanned his face. “So many kids!”
Johnny shook his head, trying not to stare at the markings on Finn’s face. Trying not to let his mouth hang open or body sink to the ground, laugh hysterically, or any of the things his confused and shocked self craved. You’re crazy. Bloody mad.
“Well, plenty have said,” Finn chuckled. The bell rang. “But you know better.”
Get a move on. We’re going to be late.
“OK, OK. Can we go to the river after school, then? Thanks for the chat, though. I feel much calmer now. We wizards are skittish folk.”
Simply to get away, Johnny nodded and then scarpered down the corridor and into Science. It was only once inside he realised Finn had followed and was climbing—no other word for it—into the next seat.
“I’m in the same classes as you. I asked and they said yes but only for the first few weeks while they work out which sets. But don’t worry—we’ll be the same because I’m your wizard. Yours. I’m dumb as shit, but we can always cheat.” A foot curled around Johnny’s as if seeking a friend.
The teacher, Miss Hendry, was one of those who fired questions at Johnny and waited for several excruciating seconds for him to answer, before either answering herself or treating him in the same way she would a Nazi. His heart began beating in readiness for the register—thankfully, his name was towards the end—but she walked over and began talking to Finn instead.
“Are you Finn Lyons? The new boy?”
“Yes, Miss. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Finn said effortlessly. “How are you today?”
A few kids sitting near enough to hear began nudging each other and laughing. Miss Hendry drew back and laughed with one hand held to her chest.
“Oh, my! Someone with manners at last.”
“Yes, Miss. My friend Johnny has told me a lot about you.”
“Really?” She laughed nastily—“More than he’s told anyone else”—before stalking back to the front of the class to deliver the lesson.
Johnny waited and waited, but the register never happened, and for the first time in a year of science lessons, Miss Hendry didn’t ask him any questions.
Johnny’s list: Mum, photos of Mum, anything at all about Dad, Mum’s swimming award.
“Something to tell me?” the ghost asked.
Johnny drew the quilt further up his body and placed his hand against the glass. “Where do I start?”
“Finn.”
“God. Don’t even mention his name. He’s as mad as a box of frogs…” He remembered the burp. “Swears he eats frogs and is a wizard! Load of crap about seekers and findings.” He shook his head. “And he never stops eating.”
“The river?”
“Why bother asking me if you already know?” Johnny brought his knees up to his chest. “Yeah, I went to the river with him? No need to go on like it was India or somewhere. It’s a crappy river next to the school. Nothing special.”
“So?” the ghost prompted. “Protests too much, methinks?”
“I don’t know why I even went. Oh, wait—yeah. I felt sorry for him.” The ghost coughed, but Johnny carried on. “He never shuts up talking, has terrible eating manners and he knows—” He stopped to think about it. “I’m not sure.”
“Knows what you’re saying inside?”
“Yeah. Exactly. How can he know? He can’t know. It’s just guesses. And all that stuff about wizards and seekers is for attention. Yet another Windybank kid. Remember the goths last year? And that girl who collected little stones? He’s not the first new-age weirdo and he won’t be the last.” In some way he couldn’t pinpoint, the other kids were different to Finn, though. “I’m the only one he does all that wizarding rubbish with. To everyone else, he’s perfectly normal. Over-the-top polite, in fact.”
“The river?” the ghost chided.
“OK! We sat down and looked at fish and stuff. That’s it.”
There was a lot more. The day had been warm and quiet, bright with winter sun and a gentle breeze. The river was quite near the road where the kids got the school bus, yet Johnny had never been there before. It seemed a magical world, many miles away from the school bell and all that went with it. He struggled through the memory, both wanting to relive it and not.
“I don’t know—I just—we were meant to be there.” He stopped with a sigh. “It was—it was—nice.” He pulled his hand away. “Happy now?”
“You like him.”
“Not really.” Johnny shrugged. “Too weird. He’s going to get me into trouble at school if he keeps following me everywhere. And he keeps on—pulling at my elbow like a kitten needing reassurance.” People didn’t touch Johnny. They picked at him and shouted, but no-one touched unless it was a punch. He was the boy leprosy.
“Aw. Maybe he’s lonely. He’s only just arrived,” the ghost pointed out. “Doesn’t know anyone. Been ill.”
“Yeah, well, it’s shit for everyone—me too! I didn’t know anyone either, but you didn’t see me making up crap about wizards.” Actually, Johnny hadn’t said anything. Not one word since arriving here two years ago. Not to the therapists and teachers, or Anna and Greg. No-one except the ghost who lived in the cobweb.
“You do have a ghost, though. Pots and kettles.”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah? Hardly normal, is it?” The ghost laughed and the web wobbled precariously. As the threads shook, Johnny couldn’t be certain, but it looked like a few pine needles fell from its delicate pattern.
Johnny’s list: Mum, Nan.
“Morning,” Finn said cheerfully as he barged right in. “Another day, another spell.”
Johnny pulled up his school trousers quickly and zipped them under the watchful eye of Finn. Mortifyingly, it took a few attempts to fasten the button.
Busy!
Not entering a room where the board on the door said ‘busy’—Windybank code for naked—was an absolute rule. Anyone ignoring it could be subjected to three hours intense talks about boundaries, safety, and even worse. Red-faced, he shoved the white shirt into the waistband. What was so interesting about boxer shorts anyway?
Knock next time.
“Knocking on heaven’s door.” Finn began picking up items and nosing into everything. He opened the wardrobe and the little drawers on Johnny’s desk without asking. His easy actions were more those of someone who didn’t even know you should
ask than a boy trying to be a dick. The cuckoo clock pinged as he shook it. “Oh, that’s cool!” He sniffed at the deodorant Johnny had applied rather too liberally. “Urgh. That stuff clogs up your pores. Not good for your cortex energies.” That morning, his hair had been brushed across the top of his head in one sweep, then stuck fast with some kind of waxy goo. Like a kid about to enter a Halloween dress-up, or Tintin.
You’ve been in a wind tunnel. Stop touching my stuff!
“Oh, wow. Bona fide wow. You got a finding stick?” Finn picked up the wooden spoon with a face and waved it triumphantly. “Can we start now? When can we start?” He leapt up and down, landing as badly as a baby giraffe.
It’s a wooden spoon. A kids’ wooden spoon.
“Yeah, but not any wooden spoon! It’s imbibed with your power and light. Can we start now? We’ve got half an hour until school.”
Not imbibed with anything. I drew that face when I was five. It had wool hair and clothes, but they all fell off. It’s shit. Put it down and bugger off.
Finn laughed and pointed the spoon at Johnny’s face, which struggled not to slip into an expression similar to the painting of a scream. “Oh, I see! I like it. Nice. Trying to test me, are you? Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” He slapped his head. “I could be anyone, right? Just because I say I’m your wizard doesn’t necessarily mean I am. You need evidence.” He crashed to the floor on his knees. “You need to see—really see that I have the power to protect you.”
Johnny silently moved backwards so his body pushed against the wall. Realistically, he could easily escape the room and run to find Anna.
“It’s a job interview, right?”
It would only take seconds to write that the new boy, Finn, was a raving nutter under the illusion he was a wizard.
“I understand.”
Not only that, but he kept following Johnny, plus entered his room without knocking and touched things without permission.
“Gimme a minute.”
Finn unnerved Johnny like no-one else. Made him go to the river and skim stones, make reed boats and listen to the birds. Made him forget himself—forget everything except a drab strip of water near school and the wind blowing.
“It’s coming up. Be ready to get mummified.”
Anna and Greg would do something. They might even send Finn away, and then life would go on.
“Ommmmm.”
Boring and repetitive.
“Rivetus under the moon. Ommmm,” Finn sang.
Day after day of lessons and homework. No-one to talk to but the ghost.
“Ommm.” Finn looked up from the red carpet with big eyes and hair like a bees’ nest, and it was just so weird that Johnny didn’t make a run for it. “Oh my god!” Finn said dramatically. “I see it now.” He hid his face in his hands and began rocking. “Right here, in this room of sanctuary.”
What you talking about? See what?
Finn moved suddenly. With the speed of a frightened cat, he leapt up and shot across the carpet to the bed. He scrambled onto Johnny’s carefully smoothed quilt without a care.
What? What is it?
Finn beckoned. “Come. Come here.”
Probably not a single kid in Windybank would get onto a bed with a strange nutter with hair like a straw tepee, maybe no kid in the whole world. Johnny stood at the edge and hovered.
What? We’re going to be late.
“Come on, man. Here—right here.” Finn pointed at the corner of the window where the cobweb glistened in the sun. Johnny reluctantly edged onto the bed on his knees. Finn looked sideways. “Keep quiet. Sometimes they hate noise.” He slowly raised his hand towards the glass. “Nice and easy now.” He breathed noisily as if he were running, then placed his hand on the glass right where Johnny’s had been an hour before. “There’s a ghost here. The ghost of Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Johnny’s list: Mum, Nan, photos of Nan.
Walking home from school had never been interesting before, although it was marginally safer than getting the bus.
“Let’s walk,” Finn said firmly and grabbed at Johnny’s elbow. “There is much to be seen and discussed.”
Windybank was only a couple of miles away—not far as the crow flies. There was a shortcut through the ginnel, across the field and then the woods that bordered the garden and shed, where Anna kept the kids bikes.
OK.
“Do you know the way?”
Course.
“Then lead on, Macduff.” Finn offered bubble gum. Some pieces hadn’t been chewed. “Tell me about Napoleon.” He held out a piece, mangled as an old brain.
He’s not called Napoleon! What respectable ghost would call himself that?
“Durr. The ghost of Napoleon Bonaparte! What else should he call himself? I mean, when you die and turn into a ghost, won’t you still want to be known as Johnny Strong?”
Johnny considered. Maybe.
“He must have been drawn to your seeking presence—same way I was.”
You were sent to Windybank because your dad’s ill, Johnny pointed out. I heard Anna telling the others. It was nothing to do with me. He pointed across the park, where gangs of kids hung around smoking and laughing. We have to go through that lot. If we keep to the edges, they might not see us.
“Don’t worry about that. I shall protect you at all costs, because—”
You’re my wizard, yeah. So you keep saying. What does that mean, exactly? To his horror, Finn steered them right through the middle of the throng. He strode rather than walked and made no attempt to look down, cross his arms or do anything to minimise his bizarre appearance. What’s up with your dad? It wasn’t only the swept hair stuck into one peak. From somewhere, Finn had stolen or borrowed an old wooden walking stick, and was waving it around in front and to the sides, as if to clear a space.
“Long story.” Finn suddenly poked the stick into the ground. Around them, the other kids went on talking and laughing as usual, taking no notice. “I’ve been in care before. Long time ago. Short-term foster parents.” He spoke in bursts, punctuated by violent stabs with the stick. “This time, they said they can’t find any on account of my age and a general shortage of care. No care left.”
Carers, not care. Windybank is normally for kids in between placements. Or unplaceable.
“No, it’s care. But the real reason is because—wait for it—da—da—dah!” Finn stopped dead and thrust the stick upwards like a sword.
Because you’re my wizard. Yeah. You keep saying that.
“Stop asking, then, nosy parker,” Finn said sulkily.
Sorry.
“So the question you should be asking—Mister Unbelieving—is how powerful is my aura and when can we do the finding?”
Disbelieving.
“What?”
Disbelieving. Not unbelieving. Or maybe disbeliever.
“Well, do forgive me if my grammar isn’t good enough! I haven’t been to school much.”
Johnny had noticed in lessons that Finn could hardly write, and when he did, it was childish and terrible.
“Not all that much. It’s not that I’m stupid—just that I’ve forgotten. ’Cause, wizards have a lot of other very important stuff to do. You know? Writing is way down there, behind food and having a shower. I have to collect frogs and grass seeds, examine the wind and clouds and scrutinise the pee stains in the loo.” Johnny tried not to gag. “Writing is…” He stopped and picked at the lump of hair. “Yeah. I can’t do it.”
I’ll help you. Johnny regretted it the instant the thought popped out. Helping would mean hours of sitting together, looking at books. I’m good at writing and maths. Since I…came to Windybank, I’ve got much, much, better. I used to be bottom of everything, but now I get top marks. He gulped. Talking about since and when was not something he did. Not with the trick cyclist and not with Anna or Greg. Not ever.
“Except with the ghost,” Finn said. “You do talk to Napoleon.”
Stop listening! That was private, Johnny huf
fed.
“What am I meant to do? Cut my ears off? Stop being stupid and help me climb this tree. If we get up there, we could see for miles and miles.”
For a few minutes, Johnny struggled with resentment and mardiness. All day long, people tiptoed around trying to get him to talk, and yet this oaf had treated his confession so casually. He gazed up at Finn miserably. No.
“Oh, come on. Join your hands so I can use them as a step. Then I can climb on your shoulders and get on that branch.” Finn smiled. “I can pull you up and we can sit and talk.”
I don’t want to talk.
“Yeah, you do. You should see your face now—hah-hah. Gone all plokey, it has.”
What Johnny should have done was walk away and go home, back to Windybank where they treated him carefully and asked his permission fifty times a day. Last week, Anna made all the kids cheer over tea because he got eighty percent in science. It had been embarrassing. He’d got the biggest slice of cake and then, later on, Greg said he could have the rest over hot chocolate.
“You can have half my Snickers?”
Embarrassing, shit and gratifying. The other kids had cheered and hated him even more than usual. When he’d said goodnight to the ghost, Johnny had felt so powerful it was almost enough to send him to sleep. Almost.
Without realising, he was helping Finn up onto his shoulders. Be careful? I don’t even like Snickers.
“Wizards are always careful.” Finn burped loudly. “Oh my god, it’s amazing up here. Come on.” He swung over the branch precariously. “Gimme your hand.”
You’re mad. But Johnny did. He grabbed the filthy hands and used the trunk of the tree to walk up until he got to the branch.
“Pull up! That’s it!” Finn tugged and heaved and Johnny scrambled, and somehow he got up on the branch. The tree creaked and groaned.
What if it breaks off?
Finn laughed loudly. “Danger is ever around us, my seeker. Feel it and enjoy.” His hair moved as one in the wind. “And anyway, if we break our bones, we get time off school. Now breathe and look around.”
Johnny could see the school and away in the distance, the tall towers of the university buildings in the town centre.