Graveyard Shift
Page 22
I want badly to see him again, fully recovered. I want to see the twinkle in his eyes. Still, there are times when I think it would’ve been better if we’d never met at all. Life would’ve been simpler, at least. I’m part of the eternal war now. I’ve made a target of Mum as well as myself, and I have to be watchful every second. You never know what’s waiting in the shadows.
“I’m not out of the woods yet,” Mum said the last time we spoke, but she’s slowly improving every day. Now that I think of it, she’s seemed better ever since the moment Dad looked into her eyes and touched her arm. Maybe what she’d needed most of all was a chance to see him one more time. Closure, Mr. October had called it.
There’s a postcard on the desk by the typewriter. Mum sent it over the weekend and it arrived in today’s mail. It’s from Lanzarote and pictures a rugged desert terrain, all gray and orange under a clear blue sky with palm trees and volcanic mountains in the distance.
Ellie’s still waiting to hear about the condo, but they went anyway, and the long days of sunshine are working wonders, Mum’s postcard says in very legible handwriting. She wishes I were there. She’d tried to persuade me to go, but my duties here will keep me busy until Mr. October returns. If he ever returns.
Mum isn’t happy about my involvement. She probably never will be. After that night at HQ, I had to tell her everything, and she still hasn’t come around to my way of seeing things. In time I hope she’ll understand, that she’ll support everything I have to do and be like Batman’s butler, Alfred Pennyworth, or like Iron Man’s confidante, Pepper Potts. But I don’t see it happening any time soon.
Before she flew to the island, we used some of Aunt Carrie’s money for Dad. It didn’t feel right, Mum said, to buy a marker for a cemetery or churchyard in his hometown where we’d never see it. So instead we paid for a bench with a brass nameplate in London Fields. It sits to one side of a tree-lined path with a view of the Pub on the Park in one direction, and in the other direction a view of the house they’re rebuilding on our street.
I sat on that bench on Sunday, a quiet morning, too cold for barbecues and sun lovers. I thought about Dad as I added him to my sketch pad, picturing him as I’d seen him for the last time, healed and at peace after four unspeakable years.
I missed him and I knew I wouldn’t see him again. He wouldn’t squeeze my hand again or read me bedtime stories, and he wouldn’t whisper to me on the wind with the dead, dry leaves blustering around me, because he wasn’t there anymore. We’re still recovering, Mum and me, we’re still coming to terms. We know it will take quite a while too.
During Mr. October’s absence, I’ve formed a close-knit team with Lu and Becky — one of the Ministry’s best in the field. It’s a punishing schedule, and now and again we see things we’d rather not see, such as the 63964 last night that none of us wanted to look at. But for the most part we keep good time and the work is rewarding.
At school it’s been harder on Becky than me. Her gang is distant toward her now, she isn’t part of the in-crowd, and they don’t invite her to their houses so often. She’s sad about that, but she knows that her true calling comes first. Most lunchtimes we go to the crypt and talk about things we’ve heard and seen on our shifts, but we never discuss Ministry business in school.
Raymond Blight gave Becky a push in the corridor the other day. I called him on it, but all I got in return was a look, that Raymond Blight look. And I thought, If you had half an idea what I can do, Raymond . . . you wouldn’t do that.
“But that would be an abuse of power,” Becky said when I brought it up. It sounded like something Mr. October might say. “People abuse the power they have every day, and it only gets the world into more of a tangle.”
She was right, of course. Gifts aren’t given out for no good reason. They’re supposed to be used with care, not wasted away, and not abused, either. Besides, there are more important things to worry about than Raymond Blight.
Things like the work we do unseen every day. The war we’re all caught up in. The threat Nathan Synsiter left me with before he jumped back inside the glass. It’s a threat that stays with me all the time, because I know he means business and I know I’ll see him again one day, and I know when I do we’ll have to settle the argument.
But I have to stop now. The telegraph is working again. Another list is on its way and the machine rocks and puffs and shakes the room. I sit watching and waiting for it to stop, but it keeps on going. That’s just the way it is sometimes. There’s always more work, there are always more calls to make — and it looks like another long night ahead.
This list goes on and on and on.
Although I wrote every word myself, I couldn’t have done it alone. I’m indebted to so many people for their support, encouragement, and patience while I worked on this book, and the chief suspects are:
Gill Wilkinson, who read it first and made many suggestions that helped so much with the final draft, and who introduced me to a London I hadn’t known before — the canal walks, parks, and alleyways that play so large a part in the story.
David Gamble, for an inspiring Saturday morning mystery walk to Highgate Cemetery East, where the idea for this novel first took hold; and his lovely wife, Alex Mackie, for offering me use of the study in their home, where the early chapters were written.
Liz Webber, Pete Stone, Anne Wilkinson, Anuree DeSilva, Tina Hetherington, Helene Oosthuizen, Craig McCall, and all my friends in London, and Amy Garcia in Mateca, California — a terrific writer with a spectacular future. Thanks for everything, folks. I’m lucky to know you.
Thanks to my tireless UK agent, Mandy Little, at Watson, Little, to Maurice Lyon and the rest of the team at Frances Lincoln for their enthusiasm and great goodwill, and to Steven Chudney of the Chudney Agency and Nick Eliopulos at Scholastic for making this happen in the USA, too!
A special thank-you to Eileen Gunn and all at the Royal Literary Fund, whose kindness and generosity know no bounds.
I’m also grateful to whoever sold their unwanted Olivetti Lettera 22 to Islington antique shop Past Caring. It was love at first sight, £30 well spent, and the first draft of this book was typed on the same splendid machine used by Ben Harvester. Ker-ching!
Last but by no means least, the biggest thank-you of all to my parents, Betty and Stan, who never doubted my crazy notion of becoming a writer and supported me all the way. They’re no longer with us and I miss them every day, but there’s still a big part of them here between the lines on every page.
Copyright © 2011 by Chris Westwood
Published in Great Britain as Ministry of Pandemonium in 2011 by Frances Lincoln.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
First American edition, July 2012
Cover art by Chris Appelhans
Cover design by Phil Falco
eISBN 978-0-545-51076-9
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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