“Well, beating the other team, actually …”
“Exactly! This is the other team we’re talking about. Win this one for the Gipper! Go, ghouls!” (Who is the Gipper anyway? wondered Milrose Munce. Why is he so inspiring to jocks? Milrose decided that he would probably despise this Gipper, were he to meet him.)
Harry was silent. Clearly he was wrestling with his cowardice. And yet—and this is one of those rare impressive attributes you find inherent in athletes—Harry won. It took courage for a little guy to ride a horse that scared him (almost literally) to pieces, and that was the kind of thing that made it possible for Hurled Harry to contemplate the uncontemplatable. He was going to conquer the first floor.
“Consider it done.”
“You’re a prince.”
“And I’m gonna bring an army.”
“You’re a prince and a general!”
“We’re gonna get you out of there, and we’re gonna reclaim what is ours!”
“A prince, a general, and an orator!”
“Yeah, well, I’ll do my best.”
Milrose thought for a moment. “Um, look Harry. I know this isn’t really your thing—hey, it’s not my thing—but do you think you could get to the second floor? I sort of think you should launch the war from there. Believe it or not, I think we could use a poet in this battle.”
“A poet?”
“Yeah, I know. Generally useless. But I think we can put this guy Percy to use in your military campaign. We’ve contacted him already, but he’s dragging his feet. It’s not going to be easy to get him fully on board. You might have to rough him up a bit.”
“I like that idea.”
“Thought you would. Okay, Harry, I gotta go. This is turning into kind of an epic shower, and our Helper is gonna get suspicious. Go, team!”
“Right on. I’ll try to get back to you a few showers from now.” He paused. “And, um, can you get the chick whispering again? Good for morale …”
“You got it.”
Milrose Munce emerged into the den, hastily dressed and with his hair dripping. Massimo Natica, who was busy exchanging fraternal words with the medieval mace, had apparently noticed nothing.
Unfortunately, this was merely appearance. Massimo looked up from his conversation with the mace and made his way—still carrying his beloved weapon—towards Milrose Munce.
“Milrose,” said Massimo, “were you having a conversation with a bar of soap?”
“Why yes I was,” said Milrose after some hesitation. “Is there something wrong with that?”
Massimo was swinging the mace, casually, as if it were a purse. His smiling face, however, did not bear a casual smile. No, it was the sort of smile you associate with unstable soldiers who have become crazed after weeks in the jungle, naked except for a thick layer of giant mosquitoes.
“Something wrong?” said Massimo Natica, smiling and swinging. “Something wrong?”
Milrose and Arabella regarded each other with mutual hysterical terror.
“No, nothing wrong,” said Massimo. “Nothing except the denial of weeks of Professional Help. The deliberate rejection of weeks of my Professional time. The undeniable fact of your refusal to submit to the greatness of my expertise.”
“Now Massimo,” said Milrose with a forced air of conviviality. “You know that’s not true. I’ve made tremendous headway. Look how rare these conversations now are! You’ve almost cured me. So very close, man. If you give up now, you will be depriving yourself—and me—of your greatest Professional triumph! This will make the medical journals. The history books. The epic poems …”
Massimo did not look entirely convinced. He swung the mace with slightly less vigour now, but his smile retained a twinkle of malevolent madness, and he had developed a twitch in his neck.
“You are trying my Professional patience.”
“I am, man. I’m trying my best. Let’s give it one more try!”
Massimo let the mace hang limply at his side. His twitch began to calm itself, with longer and longer intervals between jerks. His smile began to take on an air of sanity.
“Breakfast,” said Massimo with only slightly demented cheer.
After placing the mace on one of the comfy chairs—and Milrose made a note to avoid sitting on that chair without first clearing it of weaponry—Massimo walked almost steadily to the door. As always, that hideous brute was waiting behind the door, his tray laden with food. Milrose and Arabella had yet to set eyes upon that face, but they had mutually intuited a repulsive mug with disgusting eyes.
What perturbed Milrose Munce this morning—among many things, of course—was that the brutish arms of this silent servant now extended some seven inches past the cuffs of his medical shirt, and this indicated one of two possibilities. Either the shirt had shrunk (which Milrose desperately hoped was the case), or the arms had grown.
“Let us enjoy our breakfast this morning,” said Massimo Natica. He did not add “as this may be our last occasion to do so on this earth,” but Milrose detected the implication.
How Milrose missed ordinary life. He found that he even missed Mr. Borborygmus, that drooling idiot of a teacher. He would be happy, even, to lounge on the second floor, with Percy and poets. Or even in the basement, with Sledge. Okay, perhaps that was pushing it.
Still, his desires were definitely skewed. He desperately longed for Harry’s grating voice in the grate at the foot of the shower, and Percival’s pompous pronouncements through the ceiling above his bed. Neither of these could compete, of course, with the sound of Arabella whispering to the linoleum, but they did occupy a surprisingly prominent place in his daydreams.
Certainly the danger of the present situation was making the grass infinitely greener just about anywhere in the world. Milrose Munce could imagine a handful of prisons that might compete with the Den of Professional Help—in the Third World or Texas, for instance—but that was about it.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
A WEEK PASSED—SEVEN SHOWERS IN TOTAL—WITH NO WORD FROM HURLED HARRY. PERCY, SURELY, WAS NOT TO BE RELIED UPON, THOUGHT MILROSE, BUT HARRY WAS A DIFFERENT ORDER OF GHOUL.
Milrose went to bed, on the seventh night, perturbed. His dreams were unpleasant. But he was awakened by the sound of a magnificent explosion. This was followed by chunks of ceiling falling around and upon him, then fine plaster dust filling his nostrils.
Of course, an explosion—especially one so very close by—was always a welcome occurrence. Moreover, it often signified, to Milrose, the proximity of a certain friend. “Dave?” he inquired.
“Greetings!” There was no mistaking that demented voice. “I’ve been experimenting with temporary explosions. So far, so good, wouldn’t you say?”
“Uh, aren’t all explosions temporary?” asked Milrose. He sneezed.
“No. Not like this. I believe I have found a way to temporarily blow something up, so that it reverts to its unblown-up state in a couple of hours. We shall see, at any rate.”
The loathsome yet welcome head of Dave was now fully visible, floating above in a cloud of plaster dust.
“That doesn’t sound entirely possible, Dave,” said Milrose, who was feeling a bit odd about having such a calm scientific discussion, given the circumstances.
“And yet it is. This is ghost chemistry, my friend. All sorts of new techniques. I’ve been researching—”
“Ah. Ghost chemistry.”
“Known to the vulgar as ‘magic.’”
“Man that’s vulgar. ‘Ghost chemistry’ is vastly preferable.”
“I in fact prefer the technical term: ectoplasmic manipulation. At any rate, yes. According to my calculations, we have a bit less than three hours of exploded ceiling, after which it goes back to being an unexploded ceiling.”
“Marvellous. Thank you!”
“A pleasure.”
“So, uh, what now?”
“An escape. Well, a temporary escape. You have to return, of course.”
“Of cour
se. Yes.” Milrose thought for a moment. “Why?”
“Because I can get you out of here, but I can’t get you out of the place I’m taking you to. And you’d probably prefer to be in the Den.”
“Can’t wait to see this place.”
“Wish I could be more useful. But I’ve been doing a lot of research into this Help business as well—highly secretive stuff; nobody knows much about it—and it seems we dead guys are under a lot of constraints, when it comes to … interfering. Spells, counterspells … all very annoying. Now, we should get on with this, before my explosion deplodes—we’ve only got a couple of hours. Fetch the girl, and let’s move.”
Milrose climbed down the ladder until he was at Arabella’s bed, where she was still engaged in a tiny, charming, fragile snore.
“Arabella …” Milrose whispered urgently. “Arabella!”
The delicate snore turned into a delicate snort, and then a delicate cough, followed by a delicate sneeze. “Milrose?”
“Yes! Come on up and meet my friend!”
“Your friend?” she asked, sleepily.
“You’ll see. Come up to my bunk.”
Arabella sat up and rubbed her eyes. She frowned and examined Milrose, to determine whether he was playing an elaborate joke. He did look sincere. “Okay. A … friend. All right. You go up. I’ll follow.”
Milrose scrambled up the ladder, and Arabella followed far more gracefully. When her head cleared his mattress, she was pleased to see a tremendous hole in the ceiling, framing the floating ex-body of that pyrotechnic prodigy, Deeply Damaged Dave.
Introductions were made, as Dave lowered a rope ladder through the hole. “Kind of low tech,” he said, “but I wove it myself.”
“Hey, it’s a nice ladder,” said Milrose.
“You did a lovely job, David,” said Arabella.
“Thank you. Too bad you missed my temporary explosion.”
“Aren’t all explosions temporary?”
“He’ll explain later. Dave, where are we going?”
“I’m not sure. A place with obscure and perhaps useful information, according to my research. I’d go myself, but it’s one of those areas that’s … off limits to the dead.”
“Ah.”
“Spells, counterspells, ingenious boobytraps, et cetera.”
“How ingenious? Like, ingenious enough to snare a living kid?”
“Guess we’ll find out. Come on up.”
Milrose and Arabella climbed the rope ladder and scrambled awkwardly over the lip of the hole onto the floor above. Dave had not bothered to turn on any lights, and the second floor—whichever part they now occupied—was impenetrably dark.
Dave evaluated their chalk-dusted figures with his trained scientific eye, but did not seem to come to any conclusions. “So, when I got the message from your poet friend—man he’s annoying—”
“Oh yes,” said Milrose, “more annoying than friend.”
“—I figured I better get personally involved. He doesn’t seem like the most effective guy.”
“Magnificent understatement. But hey: you should team up with my buddy Hurled Harry in the basement. He’s potentially useful.”
“The basement? Hm. Will ponder that. Contacting the basement is not trivial.”
“He’s keen.”
“I’ll look into it. We must get moving, however. I can’t stick around for long—I’m really not supposed to be here. This, uh, temporary explosion … it’s considered, technically, an assault on the first floor.”
“For good reason.”
“And we’re expressly forbidden, you know, from using ectoplasmic manipulation against the first floor.”
“Actually, I didn’t know that.”
“The enemy’s got us pretty seriously tied down. I have to be back in the lab before this episode gets traced to me. And they have very sophisticated tracking methods.”
“Ghost-sniffing dogs?” inquired Milrose.
“Something like that.”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked Arabella.
“It’s complicated. And, uh, I can’t talk about it. They know when they’re being talked about. They can tune in the conversation and identify your precise location, and come at you with weapons too gruesome to be contemplated.”
“Right. So let’s change the subject.”
It was difficult to know where precisely Dave led them when they set out from the site of his magnificent explosion. He insisted that they not turn on any lights, as this too would be an invitation to “them.” Ghosts are quite good without light; living humans, however, tend to find it difficult to see.
“How are we expected to find our way back to the Den, Dave?”
“I think I have that covered.”
“You think? What’s the plan?”
“All shall be revealed.”
“Sure hope so.”
“Where precisely are we, David?”
“We are between the wall.”
“Between the walls, you mean.”
“No, between the wall. It’s complicated. Involves turning left where you could never turn left before.”
“Ah, that.”
“Which takes you to a place, as far as we can determine, which is neither on one side of the wall nor the other, but between the wall.”
“A lot more space between the wall than you’d expect.”
“Yes. Nevertheless, you’re not precisely outside. I can get you between the wall, but I can’t get you to the other side. Or I’d have no trouble freeing you.” Deeply Damage Dave shrugged apologetically. “And now,” he said, “we are here.”
“Here” did not seem like much of a place: it was a dead end. “This is a dead end,” said Milrose. “But then, you’re dead, so you probably approve.”
“This,” said Dave, “is the opportunity for another glorious if temporary disaster.”
“Wonderful!” said Milrose, thrilled.
“Oh,” said Arabella, worried.
“Watch,” said Dave, intent.
He leaned forward in the darkness and placed both of his dead palms against the wall in front of them. (A wall between the walls, thought Milrose. All very confusing.)
When Dave removed his palms, the wall glowed phosphorescent blue where they had touched it: bright and ghostly handprints. He mumbled a few words.
“Is that Latin, David?” asked Arabella.
“Older,” he said.
The words glowed in the air, just in front of the palmprints. Milrose and Arabella had never seen words glow before—neither of them had ever seen spoken words before, come to think of it—but there they were: mumbled expressions, in a language older than Latin, hovering in the air, quite visible.
Deeply Damaged Dave cleared his throat, as if to remind the hovering words that they had something to accomplish. Upon this hint, the words flowed into the handprints. It was like watching water from a tap enter a half-full sink, thought Milrose, thinking fondly of their aborted experiment with potassium. What followed was probably more exciting, even, than that experiment would have been if followed to its messy conclusion.
The handprints, as they filled with ancient words, began to grow. Slowly, they spread across and up the wall, like hand-shaped puddles of some glowing chemical. This was no ordinary chemical, Milrose knew from his profound experience of ordinary chemicals: must be a ghost chemical.
“Stand back,” said Deeply Damaged Dave, in a voice that combined drama and pride: the voice of a suave magician.
They stood back.
The hands blew up.
Actually, they didn’t so much blow up as in. Hand-shaped holes tore through the wall in front of them, but whatever had filled those holes exploded, conveniently, into the room on the other side: all Milrose and Arabella experienced was a percussive blast of air, accompanied by the appropriate noise.
“Nice,” said Milrose.
“Very impressive, David,” said Arabella.
They both clapped politely.
“T
hank you. Thank you. Now, this is a slightly more temporary explosion: you have approximately two hours before the hole deplodes. Which is to say ex-explodes. Which is to say, fills back in, and entombs you, if you don’t get out.”
“Approximately?” said Milrose. “Can’t you be more precise?”
“After further experimentation, I imagine I’ll have the timing down to a science. This is a preliminary investigation.”
“Ah. Which could, if we misjudge things, ‘entomb’ us.”
“Yes. Might want to err on the side of caution.”
“Gotcha.” Milrose glanced at his watch. “And the other hole? In the ceiling?”
“Oh, that was a different chemical process. I had a bit more space to work with, and fewer concerns about collateral damage.”
“You mean, killing us.”
“Yes. I suspect you have at least two hours and fifteen minutes before the hole above your bed deplodes. Must be off now. Good luck.”
“But,” said Milrose.
There was no point in finishing the sentence, or even starting it properly, as Dave had vanished. Milrose looked at Arabella, and smiled weakly. He shrugged. And then he stepped through one of the hand-shaped holes in the wall in front of him. Arabella stepped through the other.
“Where are we, Milrose?”
“Interesting you think that I might be able to answer that question.”
As their eyes adjusted, it became clear to both of them that they were in an enclosed space. Certain objects were glowing—not so much like the palmprints but more like tired fireflies: pinpoints of dim light—and these were sufficient to illuminate the room. What these objects were, however, for the moment remained a mystery. As did the room itself.
The wall in front of them was one huge filing cabinet. It was filled from floor to ceiling with closed steel drawers. To either side were rough concrete walls, stained with damp.
The room had no windows. It also had no door. Luckily, it had temporary hand-shaped holes in the wall behind them, or there would be no possibility of exit. Which led both of them to wonder what kind of room this was. (The word entombed occurred to both of them, in fact.) Dave was right: even the Den of Professional Help seemed hospitable relative to this place.
Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help Page 9