Dial a Ghost

Aunt Maud lay close to her husband, her face turned towards him as it always was when she wanted comfort. Oliver picked up her hand and felt none of the lovely, slithery lightness he was used to. It felt heavy and curdled and when he let it go, it dropped like a stone.

‘I can’t bear it,’ said Oliver, and gritted his teeth because he was being sorry for himself and there might be hope still, and something he could do.

He moved on to Sir Pelham. If anyone could survive an attack it would be him – but when he turned the hairy, pock-marked face towards him, the head lolled back and the sightless eyes were like black pits of nothingness.

‘It’s to do with that smell, I’m sure,’ said Trevor. ‘If we could get them outside into the air . . . ’

But Oliver had found Adopta. She lay between Aunt Maud and Lady de Bone, and both spectres had stretched out their twisted limbs towards her as though even in their final agony they’d fought for her. No, he’d got that wrong. Their arms were sheltering her, not grasping. They had made an arch round Addie’s head; they had had time to make their peace.

Oliver knelt down beside his friend. The sponge bag had dropped from her fingers; her tumbled hair was spread out in a halo behind her head. She was so frail that he could make out the pattern of the carpet beneath her shoulders.

‘Addie, you can’t go away, you can’t. I need you so much. Remember all the things we were going to do? Please, Addie, please.’

As he tried to call her back, to prop her up, his tears fell on her upturned face. But nothing woke her, and to Oliver suddenly it was as though the end of the world had come. Everything bad that had happened to him: his parents dying, the year he had been shunted between people who didn’t want him . . . everything got him by the throat.

‘It’s my fault,’ he sobbed. ‘It’s because I went away and left them.’ And then: ‘I don’t want to live.’

Trevor had been trying to comfort him. Now he got up and tiptoed to the door. ‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘Someone’s just come in. Two people. I can hear them talking.’

Fulton and Frieda stood in the hall at Helton and gloated.

‘We’ve done it! We’ve got rid of the spooks and Oliver is dead! Helton is ours, Frieda! It’s ours. It’s ours!’

But Frieda had stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Are you sure it’s safe? They’re all done for, the creepy-crawlies?’

‘Of course it’s safe. You heard what Dr Fetlock said when I handed over the money. “Wait till morning to make sure their ectoplasm’s properly eaten and then you’ll be fine,” he said. And anyway the Ectoplasm Eating Bacterium doesn’t hurt living people. I’ve told you.’

‘No. But I don’t want to bump into half-chewed legs and fingers and things. Even if we can’t see them we might feel them. And there’s a funny smell.’

‘Now, Frieda, you’re always whining. The spooks are done for and Oliver is dead! There’s nothing to stop us now. Nothing.’

‘Yes, Oliver is dead—’ began Frieda. Then she stopped and pointed with a trembling hand towards the top of the stairs. ‘It’s his ghost,’ she said with chattering teeth. ‘It’s Oliver’s ghost!’

It was something anyone might have thought. Oliver was as white as a spectre and he held something that real boys do not often hold: a great throwing spear with a black wooden handle and a point as sharp and lethal as only the Indians of the Amazon could make it. An assegai which he had plucked from the wall and carried as if it weighed no more than Grandma’s umbrella.

And he had gone mad. Trevor saw that at once. This slight, shy boy stared down at Fulton with such hatred that the Snodde-Brittles stood hypnotized like baboons in front of a leopard.

‘I am not dead as you see,’ said Oliver. ‘But you will be in a minute because of what you have done to my ghosts.’

He lifted the spear and began to walk down the steps – and Fulton took a step backwards and fell over Frieda so that both of them rolled down on to the marble floor.

‘I too am a Snodde-Brittle,’ said Oliver, still in that level voice. ‘And I Am Going To Set My Foot On My Enemies. Now.’

He took another step and lifted the spear, and as Fulton and Frieda tried to disentangle themselves, he brought the point down to touch Fulton’s throat.

‘No!’ screamed Fulton. ‘Stop! I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry! Don’t kill me, don’t!’

‘But I’m going to,’ said Oliver. ‘I’m just looking for the best place.’

Trevor had come round behind him. ‘Here, steady, Oliver. They’ll put you away if you kill him, and you don’t want that.’

Oliver didn’t even hear him. He brushed the tip of the spear against Fulton’s throat and the scratch filled up with blood. No, not Fulton’s Adam’s apple – his heart . . .

Frieda was trying to scramble to her feet and Trevor moved towards her and kicked her hard in the shins. If he couldn’t stop Oliver, at least he could see that the woman didn’t run away and squeal.

Fulton was grasping his throat, screaming with terror as his hand came away dipped in crimson.