Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

‘Time, Fjodor, time. Sam Norton needs time. We must frighten the politicians. They are the ones who decide in the end, and they are always terrified of people not voting for them. That’s all they care about. Most of the time they do what Bluffit wants, but if they think that people might not vote for them, they will do anything.’

And so the plans were laid for the Markham Street March.

Mrs Wilder invited everybody over the next day, and Karin Hughes brought huge amounts of cinnamon buns. She had, she said, made far too many. It was something that happened to her sometimes when she was sad and homesick.

While they chewed, Mrs Wilder told them about Sam Norton and read out a declaration that she had written, saying that there was corruption in high places, and that the council members of all parties were abusing the rights of the citizens by not doing something about it. Everybody signed it, and then Daniel and Charlotte spent the whole afternoon trudging round the neighbourhood knocking on doors and getting as many signatures as possible. They got very wet and cold, because although it was early summer they were in England, and the grey skies that hung above them like a damp woollen blanket had still not wrung themselves dry.

At last the rain got bored and moved on to soak the Lake District instead. The day of the march dawned chilly but clear.

There were not very many of them; some of the residents of Markham Street had already decided to take their compensation money and move. But there were one or two people from other streets close by the park. The Patels from the corner shop opposite the park joined them. Their business was finished if the plans went through. Daniel’s parents greeted them and they walked along together.

Charlotte’s mother had stayed at home with Alexander and the baby, but Jonathan and George had come along on their bicycles. Daniel and his friend Mike had made some placards in Daniel’s father’s allotment shed, and Charlotte had painted slogans on them, saying ‘Save Markham Street’ and ‘Big Business is Bad Business’ and ‘Bluffit is Bent’.

She had done one saying ‘Ridget is a Nitwit’, but Jim Dawson had said that they shouldn’t use it, because it wasn’t Ridget’s fault he was an idiot.

‘I mean, you don’t go around mocking slugs because they don’t know their seven times table, do you?’ he said, and Charlotte had to admit that there was some justice in this. The writing was a bit wonky in places, because Charlotte had had quite a lot of help from Jonathan and George, but the placards made it seem like a proper protest march, and not just a crowd of people on their way to a match (Mike was wearing his football scarf).

They headed off towards City Hall. It wasn’t really freezing, more brisk, but Mrs Wilder was taking no risks with her circulation, and she was properly muffled up. She had her astrakhan hat on, and her long winter coat, and looked quite fierce and determined Inside each of her woollen gloves she carried a small round stone that Karin Hughes had heated up in the oven before they set off.

‘That was how we kept our hands warm when we walked to school in winter,’ Karin had told her.

They didn’t walk very fast, and to everyone’s surprise they were soon caught up by the Bosse-Lynches.

Mr Bosse-Lynch was wearing his business suit and a club tie, and Mrs Bosse-Lynch had a hat on and a string of pearls and looked a bit like the queen. Peter Richards walked beside them for a while.

‘Good of you to come,’ he said.

‘Well, we don’t want them thinking that Markham Street is only inhabited by eccentrics and…’ Mrs Bosse-Lynch hesitated, looking down her nose at Peter, ‘Odd people.’

‘No indeed.’

There was quite a long way to go — too far for Mrs Wilder really, who struggled a bit towards the end and did the last bit with her hand on Daniel’s shoulder — but at last they reached the imposing entrance of City Hall.

Jack Bluffit looked down from the window of his office at the crowd gathering on the steps below.

‘What a bunch. Not many of them, are there?’

‘No, sir,’ Snyder replied.

‘Have you called the commissioner?’

‘Yes, sir. He is sending a police officer.’

‘ A police officer? One? What good is that? I want the riot squad. Knock some heads together and send them home.’

‘He seemed to think that was unnecessary, sir. He mentioned the right of peaceful protest.’

‘Stuff the right of peaceful protest. Get him on the phone.’

But just then the phone began to ring.

‘That’ll be him,’ said Bluffit. ‘Out of the way. I’ll take it.’

He snatched up the receiver. As he listened, his face changed to a furious scowl and his mouth set in a grim line.

‘Yes, I got that,’ he muttered at last, and slammed the receiver down again. ‘That, Snyder, was the council chairman,’ he snarled. ‘Now I have to go down. I told you to fend him off, tell him I wasn’t in.’

‘Well, sir,’ replied Frederik smoothly, ‘you picked up…’

‘Oh, be quiet, clever clogs. An assistant is supposed to assist.’

Bluffit stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t see Frederik Snyder sticking his tongue out at him behind his back.

He emerged on the steps of City Hall looking less furious. He knew that there would be reporters there. That rat-faced creep Norton wouldn’t miss a chance like this.

He had taken some deep breaths in the lift and forced his face into what he thought was a smile, although in fact he looked as though he had just come from a rather painful session at the dentist.

As he appeared the protesters struck up a chant that Jim Dawson had composed.

‘Hey, hey, Mister J, how many homes have you wrecked today?’

Bluffit held up a meaty hand, and the chant faded away. ‘Citizens, what can I do for you?’

He glanced to one side and twisted the corners of his mouth up even more as a photographer from the local paper raised his camera.

Mr Jaros stepped forward and walked up the steps towards Jack Bluffit. He looked very distinguished, with his mane of silver hair and his dark intelligent eyes. He had borrowed his jacket back from Jessie, brushed off the hairs and ironed it, so he was wearing a whole suit.

‘We are here to protest against the destruction of our homes and demand an investigation into the conduct of the inquiry. We wish to present this petition to the chairman of the county council.’

Mr Jaros looked every inch the English gentleman, and could easily have been mistaken for the Honourable Somebody or even Sir So-and-So. But he was very nervous, and his normally perfect English let him down. He said ‘vee’ instead of ‘we’ and ‘vish’ instead of ‘wish’.

Jack Bluffit looked at him, and stopped pretending to smile.

‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ he said. ‘It’s all legal, and in this country we obey the law. Any true Englishman would know that.’

From the grown-ups in the crowd there was a sharp intake of breath. Peter and Jim exchanged looks.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Peter.

Mrs Wilder was fairly deaf, but Bluffit had a loud voice and she hadn’t missed a word. ‘Is there no morsel of decency in that man?’ Daniel heard her say, and he turned to look at her. He saw her take off her right glove, and in her hand was a small stone. With all her strength she hurled the stone at Jack Bluffit.

All her strength was not very much. The stone flew in a gentle curve and bounced harmlessly off Bluffit’s well-filled waistcoat.

This time the smile that spread over Bluffit’s features was not the strained mask he had put on for the reporters’ cameras. It was a real beaming smile of satisfaction. He pointed at Mrs Wilder and shouted at the policeman who was standing quietly on the other side of the street: