Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

Kylie wasn’t the tree-sprite’s real name, or rather, she didn’t actually have a name, but the Welder had said she looked a bit like some pop star he had seen a picture of, and the name had stuck.

‘I’ve asked the Shortener to help me,’ she announced, as she floated into the centre of the ring of spectres. ‘He is going to play the human.’

The Shortener stood up shyly, and taking off his bowler hat he made a little bow. Then he concentrated very hard, and gradually the faint wavery luminescence that is normal for a ghost faded, and he became so firm that no one who met him on the street would ever suspect that he was an apparition and not solid flesh.

A wave of ghostly applause fluttered around the ring. And now the young sprite advanced towards him. She really was charming — beautiful big eyes, blonde hair that hung like a soft curtain around a heart-shaped face, a wide smiling mouth and even a little dimple in her left cheek.

With an enchanting smile she held out her hands towards the Shortener, and in a low breathy voice she murmured, ‘Oh, you handsome stranger — please come to my arms. I need to be held. I long to be embraced.’

The Phantom Welder muttered, ‘Blimey,’ but luckily for him he was on the other side of the ring from Goneril, who was completely focused on Kylie, studying her every move.

Then the sprite stopped, as though overtaken by shyness, and lowered her head. Her hair tumbled forward like a golden veil, covering her features. The Shortener had rather lost his concentration. He was a very fine materializer but a very poor actor, and he just stood there.

‘Now!’ hissed the sprite, from underneath her hair.

‘Ooh, er, sorry,’ said the Shortener.

Then he lifted his arms, spread them wide and advanced towards the Sprite. Everyone could see that he was a bit embarrassed, but they willed him to go on. He approached the magical figure before him, and when his arms were almost embracing her, she lifted her head and the curtain of hair fell back as she raised her face to his. It was covered in huge boils, some of which had burst, her nose was half eaten away by some rotting disease, her open lips were dry and cracked and between them her tongue could be seen, infested with yellowy green pustules.

‘Give us a kiss, then, sweetheart,’ she croaked.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ said the Shortener, as he had been told to. He wasn’t really horrified, that goes without saying, and he wasn’t any good at pretending to be horrified either, but he did his best, and the sprite’s performance was impressive.

Aspontaneous round of applause broke out among the ghostly group, with a ‘Jolly well done!’ from Ron Peabody.

The sprite’s boils disappeared in an instant, and with a satisfied smile she bobbed a little curtsy and joined the others.

‘Well, I must say,’ said Goneril, ‘you have obviously been putting your back into it… if you see what I mean,’ she added, remembering that the sprite didn’t have a back. ‘That was an excellent piece of work.’

The Public Inquiry into the Compulsory Purchase Orders for the Redevelopment of Markham Park and Environs was held in one of the county courtrooms close by City Hall. The room was fairly full. Some of the audience were just there out of curiosity, and there was a whole Year Eight class who were there as part of their Citizenship Studies course. Most of the residents of Markham Street had showed up, and a couple of reporters, and the front row was occupied by a lot of men in suits. In the middle of the row sat a man with his arms crossed and his stubby legs planted firmly on the floor. Daniel could only see the back of his head, his thick neck in a tight collar and his heavy shoulders.

‘That’s Jack Bluffit,’ said Peter Richards, when he saw where Daniel was looking.

Next to Jack sat Frederick Snyder, with a briefcase beside his chair. His eyes slid about the room, taking in the audience, and he looked very pleased with himself.

Lord Ridget entered, tall and thin and elegantly dressed in a well-tailored suit, and took his place at the front of the room facing the public. After him came the county clerk with a folder under his arm; he sat down in a chair slightly behind and to the side. Lord Ridget was wearing a pair of half-moon spectacles that his wife had told him made him look more intelligent. They didn’t help much. He had vague blue eyes that seemed about to pop out of his head, a long nose and almost no chin. None of this was his fault; these things happen in families where people marry their own relations over hundreds of years. He might have been a warm and thoughtful person in spite of it, but he wasn’t.

He opened the inquiry by flapping his hand at the clerk, who stood up and read aloud for a very long time about the proposed motorway and shopping centre. Then, one after another, the suited men in the front row stood up and spoke about how important it was to make way for modernization, regeneration, urbanization and a lot of other — ations.

The residents of Markham Street were sitting together in a row near the back. Daniel and Charlotte were next to Mrs Wilder. She had her best black coat on, and a pair of fur-lined boots. Her grey hair had been nicely done in a bun by Mrs Hughes. She looked very proper, not at all wispy and dressed-in-a-hurry as she sometimes did at home. She leaned forward with one hand on the handle of her stick and the other cupped behind her ear so as to catch what was said.

For a while Lord Ridget tried to look as though he was listening intelligently to everything, but fairly soon he gave up; there is only so much you can do with a brain that gets very little exercise. Soon he leaned back in his chair, looking sheepish, and closed his eyes. He tried wrinkling his forehead, so that the audience would suppose he was thinking, but nobody was taken in. He was bored to death and half asleep already. When at last the suits had finished, the clerk leaned forward and coughed in his ear.

‘Eh? Oh yes.’ Lord Ridget sat up. ‘The objections will now be heard.’ He slumped back into his chair.

Peter Richards stood up and made his way to the front. He was a fine violinist, and could have played in any orchestra in the country. But he had chosen to work in the city where he had been born and brought up. Now he made a moving speech about the beautiful old cityscape, its churches and chapels, its docklands, its terraced houses sweeping down to the river, so much a part of the northern industrial heritage.

‘This heritage must be preserved at all costs,’ he finished.

The Markham residents clapped.

As soon as he was done, the chunky figure of Jack Bluffit rose from the front row.

‘Now, my lord, I will make my report,’ he said, in his harsh no-nonsense voice. ‘This so-called heritage is on its last legs. The place is falling down and ripe for demolition. I have the surveyor’s report here.’

Frederick Snyder had opened his briefcase. He handed Jack a folder already open at the right page. Jack looked down at it.

‘There is subsidence, the buildings’ foundations are unstable, the sewage system is a hundred and fifty years old, the road surface is shot to pieces and needs major maintenance,’ he said, stabbing his stubby finger at the paper as he spoke. ‘We have estimated the cost of bringing Markham Street up to a reasonable standard, and it runs to millions. A lot of millions,’ he added for good measure.

Daniel and Charlotte looked at each other. Now they understood what that man with the pens in his pocket had been doing.

Jack Bluffit wasn’t finished. ‘And that’s not all,’ he said, his voice rising in indignation. ‘I have discovered that in Markham Street some very shady business goes on, conducted in a private residence: unsanitary, unsafe, child labour being used. It should be stopped.’ Bluffit looked around feeling pleased with himself. With a bit of luck those reporters would pick up on the child-labour bit; that was always newsworthy.