Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

‘Really?’

‘I know, frightfully silly, isn’t it? Clearly pressure of work, or a digestive problem perhaps. He is not as young as he used to be.’

‘No doubt you are right.’

A sharp-eyed observer might have seen a fleeting look in Great-Aunt Joyce’s eyes that said something else.

Mr Jaros didn’t give a fig for what Great-Aunt Joyce thought of him. He never had, and now she was as far from his mind as she could possibly be. So was everything else: violin bows, ghosts, Smetana… Jessie was dying.

She might last an hour, she might last a week, but this was the end. She lay quietly on his jacket in the workshop. He had lit a fire in the stove and laid a blanket over her. She took great big difficult breaths now and then — they were more like sighs. When he knelt down to stroke her head, she opened her eyes and looked at him. There was no fear in them, and no pain. Only trust. Sometimes she made the tiniest little movement with the tip of her tail. Mr Jaros was not ready to weep yet. That would come. Now he just tried to make her as comfortable as possible, stroking and stroking her old head and speaking quietly to her.

‘It’ll be all right, Jess. We’ve had a good time together. It has to end.’

And she looked at him, and without uttering a sound she agreed.

Night fell on Markham Street, and in number twelve Iphigenia, Ron and the Shortener prepared to depart for their evening’s work.

‘Shall I come too? I can haunt too,’ said Percy.

His mother looked at him kindly. ‘I think not, dear. There are some nasty men out there. But you could recite your little poem for Vera.’

‘Or do a few sit-ups,’ said Ron.

Before they left, the ghosts drifted down to the cupboard under the stairs, where Angus Crawe was softly crooning an old Northumbrian air to Doris.

‘Are you joining us, Mr Crawe?’

‘Nae. Aa’m savin’ mesel’.’

Ron shrugged his shoulders, and the ghosts departed.

When they were gone Percy said to Vera, ‘Why aren’t you out haunting?’

‘I’m… I’m not very good at it, Percy.’

‘Neither am I.’

Vera gave him her hand and they floated off through the wall. Percy needed to talk to Daniel, and Vera wanted another chat with little Mary.

Kylie left too. She had a little secret; she had found something absolutely wonderful in Markham Street. In one of the gardens was a silver birch, not a big one, but just big enough to be cosy in. It was such a joy to melt into it and feel herself become a part of its lissom beauty. And it whispered tales to her of her ancestral homeland, the land that she had fled when the ravishing of the forests, the clear-felling and industrialized logging, began. The birch too, it told her in its melodious whisper, had come as a little seedling to a foreign land. It understood.

The Druid remained at number twelve. He walked up and down the stairs, slowly and rhythmically reciting the ancient law of the Druids, the especially long one that he had had to learn for his initiation ceremony.

After a while Angus Crawe crept out of his cupboard and said, ‘Aa’ve had enough of this jabbering,’ and dematerialized.

Some of the night shift were having a tea break in the canteen. There were some Formica-topped tables, a cupboard with mugs and an electric kettle. A couple of scruffy posters adorned the walls. One of them was of a very curvy lady in a too-small swimsuit. The talk was of the events of the night before, particularly Jimmy’s experience.

‘I went to see him at the hospital, but I couldn’t go in there. The stink was unbelievable. All the nurses had masks.’

‘So what’s wrong with him?’

‘Nobody knows. But I heard him shouting, “I’ll never go there again.”’

‘Sounds like he’s been on the booze.’

‘Not Jimmy. He’s no big drinker. Always does a grand job.’

The last speaker, whose name was Gary, was sitting opposite the other poster, an old one advertising a film called Destructor IV — War of the Planets . There was a picture of a famous action film star with huge muscles and a headband. He was baring his teeth and looking ferocious.

Suddenly Gary, who had been slouching in his chair, sat up with a jerk. The film star had winked at him. He rubbed his eyes.

‘What’s up, Gary?’

Gary couldn’t speak. He only pointed with a trembling hand.

The picture was beginning to move, and the skin was falling away, revealing muscles and blood and nerves. The face became a grinning fleshy skull; but the eyeballs, they were the worst. They twisted around in the head, all the muscles expanding and contracting, seeming to search out the room. Then their gaze fastened on Gary, and a skinless arm with bloody fingers reached out of the picture, followed by the rest of the ghastly apparition.

Ron stepped down from the wall. ‘Evening, gentlemen. Who would like to go a few rounds with me?’

There was a headlong rush for the door. Pushing and shoving and even crying, the workmen threw themselves down the ladder, not caring if they fell or crushed each other in their panic. Once down, they started running, and one of them ran all the way back to his house, which was a good four miles away on the other side of the river.

Just after midnight Mr Jaros fell asleep. He was sitting in his chair by the stove, with Jessie on her jacket at his feet. Jessie was asleep too, breathing very shallowly. But Mr Jaros was instantly awake when he heard her make a little noise in her throat.

He sat up. The room was lit only by the reflected glow of the street lamp outside. Standing in the room was a tall, dark figure. It held a great sword. Both hands were cupped on the hilt; its point was resting on the floor. Mr Jaros did not really know whether he was awake or asleep. But he was not afraid.

‘Have you come for my Jessie? Are you the angel of death?’

‘Nae, aa’m Angus.’

‘Angus?’

‘Angus Crawe. Aa’m thinking of my auld Sal. She was the best. None better. Wept like a bairn, I did, when she left me. A man shuld ha’ a dog.’

‘When she went… how could you bear it?’

‘Aa couldn’t.’

‘But what did you do?’

‘Do? Nothin’. Aa just went on.’

Big Robby was in the site office talking to his foreman. They heard the thundering of footsteps from the canteen below, and the ring of heavy work boots on the metal stairs.

‘They’re keen to get back to work anyway,’ said Robby.

His foreman didn’t reply. He had had enough of this job. It was a shoddy piece of work from the start. He was no engineer, but he had lots of experience, and he knew that it was madness to put up huge buildings and build roads on this land, honeycombed as it was with old mine workings. He was hard-headed, but all these weird goings-on felt like a warning to get out while he could.

‘I’m chucking it in, Mr Mayhew. You’ll have to find another foreman.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish, man.’

‘I mean it. I want out.’

‘Well, forget it. I could make problems for you, and you know it.’

‘You wouldn’t do that. You promised.’

‘Wouldn’t I? You might get a knock on your door some day, someone asking where that old girl got to.’

‘It wasn’t my fault!’

‘Wasn’t it? Bit of a hurry you were in, to start demolishing those flats without checking properly.’

‘But you told me to get on with it. Not to waste time.’

‘I didn’t tell you to swing a wrecking ball through a pensioner’s bedroom window when she was taking her afternoon nap. She’s in the foundations of that high-rise car park, I suppose. You get to work, my lad, and see this job through.’

Robby pushed back his chair, stood up and walked out.

It was strangely quiet on the site. The foreman couldn’t hear the usual sounds of shouting and the roar of heavy diesel engines. He got up to go to the door, but just as he was about to open it he heard a tapping sound behind him.