The Prankster and the Ghost Read online

  ‘I thought you’d prefer some distraction.’

  ‘I'm invisible, aren't I? What's the point in going to a school if no-one can see me?’

  ‘I can see you.’

  ‘Duh. Obviously. But no-one else can.’

  The nurses were staring at the inspector. It must be creepily weird to see a short fat stranger arguing at herself.

  ‘Imagine a teacher’s face,’ Tayla put on a high voice, trying to sound like the inspector. ‘Here Mr Smith. Meet Tayla. He’s really here. Honestly.’

  ‘There is a school that will take you.’ The inspector looked around, like an eagle seeking prey, and fixed Angela with the Glare. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? Where no-one can see us?’

  Angela pointed at her chest. ‘Me? You want to talk to me?’

  ‘Not you,’ said the inspector sternly. ‘Him.’ She pointed at Tayla.

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ Angela backed away as though the inspector had grown two heads. ‘You can use the relatives’ room.’

  * * *

  The relatives’ room had a tiny window set high in the wall, and chairs around the edge of the thin carpet. Their vinyl coverings were cracked and bits of stuffing poked through. The room was empty, which was a shame; it would have been fun to watch everyone’s faces when the inspector started talking to herself.

  The little woman stared around and sniffed. ‘Not much to look at,’ she muttered.

  Tayla thought it was interesting. It was the first time he’d been out the doors of Intensive Care. A whole hospital to explore! What fun he could have, flying through corridors, poking into storerooms. He hovered up against the roof, checking out the sprinklers, and wondered if he could set them off.

  ‘I'm going to tell you a great secret.’ The inspector sat down with a thump. She pulled her glasses out of her bag and looped them around her neck. They glittered in the light and looked like extra eyes. ‘And you have to promise not to tell anyone.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tayla floated over to the window. There wasn’t much to see outside, just a few clouds and a seagull flying past.

  ‘When someone dies, they usually disappear,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Disappear? Where?’

  ‘Heaven, I imagine. I don’t know for sure. Sometimes, though people don’t die properly. They hang around, just like you.’

  ‘I’m not dead, though.’

  ‘But you’re not properly alive, are you? You know which spirits are the worst?’ She frowned at him. ‘Children. I’m not saying it’s their fault,’ she added quickly. ‘But quite often children want to stay with their families; they don’t want to move on. Understandable, I suppose. Unfortunately, though, young ghosts quickly become bored. And a bored ghost is a problem. So,’ she smiled brightly at Tayla, ‘the Government opened the Ghost Schools.’

  Was she serious? She looked serious.

  ‘After all, it’s everyone’s right to have an education,’ she added.

  ‘Not when they’re dead. That’s just dumb.’

  ‘You said you were bored,’ the inspector said. ‘And then I remembered the Ghost Schools. Ideal for you, really. You can go to one for a week or so, until your mother starts to wake up.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was bored. I said there was nothing to distract me. I’m happy here.’ Well, happy-ish. ‘Anyway, how come you can see me? No one else can.’

  ‘That is an excellent question, Tayla.’ The inspector sounded pleased, like a teacher who thinks, “finally, someone is interested in this really boring subject.”

  ‘And that old man could, too.’

  ‘Aha, yes. Mr Stibbens,’ the inspector peered over her glasses. ‘There’s two types of people who can see ghosts. The first is people like me. I was born being able to see them. It’s a bit like being left handed, or having blue eyes. Just something you can do. And then there are people like Mr Stibbens. Did he tell you about the war?’

  Tayla nodded.

  ‘Sometimes, if people nearly die, or have someone close to them die very suddenly, they learn to see ghosts.’

  Tayla thought about this. ‘Will I be able to see the ghosts, then?’

  ‘Of course. And the school will be good for you, Tayla. You’ll have children your own age to play with.’

  ‘Dead children.’

  ‘Well, yes. True. But at least they’ll be company.’

  ‘I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of dead kids,’ said Tayla. ‘What if they’re weird? Like, they might turn their heads right around on their necks. Or take their heads off; put them under their arms. Ghosts do that, I’ve seen it in the movies.’

  ‘They’re just children,’ said the inspector. ‘They’re fairly normal. Most of them.’

  ‘Most of them? No thanks.’ Tayla floated upwards.

  Tipping her neck, she glared up at him. ‘I don’t understand. Do you have some sort of a prejudice against the dead?’

  ‘A prejudice?’ Was she calling him a racist or something? ‘I’m not against ghosts. But I kind of prefer my friends to be breathing.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand, Tayla. You either come to the school with me, or you go back into your body.’

  She made it sound like a threat. ‘Are you like Ghostbusters?’ Could she shoot him with an amazing ray gun and make him splatter into a thousand pieces?

  ‘Let’s just say … we have measures. To manage difficult manifestations.’

  Wow. That was a long word. It sounded like a disease. Was he a disease?

  ‘What’s a manifestation?’

  ‘A ghost that’s got out of hand,’ she said grimly.

  ‘I keep telling you,’ said Tayla. ‘I’m not a ghost. You have to be dead to be a ghost. And I’m not dead.’ He wasn’t sure he wanted to be alive, though. Not if being alive meant no more of Dad’s crazy jokes, or Mum’s secret smiles. Not if being alive meant you ached everywhere. ‘I’m breathing. My heart’s pumping. Go and see.’ He waved his hand towards the doors of Intensive Care.

  ‘I thought it would be good for you, stop you worrying about your mother.’

  ‘I want to stay here,’ said Tayla.

  ‘I’ll let you know the minute she starts to wake up.’

  Tayla shook his head, folded his arms.

  The inspector sighed, and picked up her bag. ‘I’m very sorry, young man,’ she said sternly, ‘but sometimes, you can’t just have your own way.’ She took her glasses off.

  ‘You’ve broken them …’ Tayla started to say, as the inspector pulled the two eyepieces of the glasses apart. Too late. Beams of light shot out from the rims, freezing him into place.

  I knew her glare was evil, he thought, frantically trying to get away.

  But she opened her purse, tapped the glasses once, and bang! There was Tayla, trapped in a dark and dusty little space.

  Desperately, he looked for a way out. Thinking thoughts of ooze and slime, he tried to creep through the gaps. Long and stretchy: spaghetti, noodles, string. Tayla felt his legs and arms growing. Ouch! He lay, tangled around himself like a strange, knitted monster.

  Dimly he heard the inspector saying, ‘I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble now. But call me, won’t you? The moment there’s any change with Mrs Johnson. Here’s my number.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sharon.

  She didn’t sound as if she thought the inspector was mental; she sounded grateful. Could she be pleased he was going? That wasn’t fair. Tayla had always been nice to her, he hadn’t stolen her pen much. She should sound sad that he had gone. But then, she couldn’t see him, could she? All he was to her was a weird damp nuisance; a broken air conditioner.

  I don’t want to be invisible any more, Tayla thought, all curled up in the darkness like a ball of wool. I want people to see me. I want a friend.

  9

  Stink Bombs

  ‘Sit down, Jamie. Sit down.’ Mr Potts rested his elbows on his desk. ‘How are you finding it here, eh? How are you settling in?’

  Jamie shrugged.
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br />   ‘Excellent, excellent,’ beamed Mr Potts, as though a shrug meant something. ‘There’s one thing I wanted to ask you.’ He paused, as though not sure how to begin.

  That’s it. I’m dead. Jamie looked at his feet in their black school shoes. His classroom stunk, and it was all his fault.

  He had been trying to frame Jayden Hayden, but it hadn’t worked, had it? No, because Mr Pressick, horrible tidy Mr Pressick, had found the stink bomb, and somehow worked out who was to blame. And so Jamie had been sent to Mr Potts’ office. And Mr Potts would probably tell his parents, and then they’d be mad at him. Again. He sighed. Worse still, Bernice and Hayley would laugh; they were always happy when he was in trouble.

  ‘How are you settling in?’ asked Mr Potts again. ‘Mr Pressick …’ he paused, and the phone rang.

  Phew, thought Jamie, as the principal answered it.

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ Mr Potts ran a hand through his tufty hair, as if trying to make it sit flat. ‘What, now?’ He swallowed. ‘No, no,’ he said, faintly. ‘Not at all. That will be fine. Yes. Look forward to seeing you.’

  Mr Potts put down the phone, stared out the window. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Was he sick?

  ‘Um, Mr Potts?’ Jamie asked.

  Mr Potts jumped, as though he’d forgotten Jamie was in the room. ‘Ah Jamie. Yes. Very nice to see you, it’s great you’re settling in so well.’ He stood up, opened the door. ‘I’m glad we had this little chat.’

  Jamie stared at the principal. The man looked totally freaked out, as though someone had rung up and said, “We know where you live.” Not that that would be a threat, not in Longridge. Everyone knew where Mr Potts lived. Two doors down from the fish and chip shop.

  ‘Goodbye, Jamie,’ Mr Potts said.

  Jamie, who knew a quick escape opportunity when he saw one, scrambled for the hallway.

  Mrs Hays looked up and smiled. ‘Hello Jamie dear.’

  Jamie didn’t answer. Because if he said anything it would be, ‘What was that again, Jamie?’ and then he’d have to repeat it, and she’d say, ‘What was that Jamie? Let me find you a pen, dear,’ and he’d have to write it down. And “Hello Mrs Hays” was a pretty stupid thing to have to write.

  A car pulled up outside the gate. It was an ordinary, everyday Ford; red, nothing special; not flash or old or anything that would normally make him look twice. But it was a car, and that was enough.

  ‘Oh my!’ Mrs Hays stood up, put a hand on her chest. ‘Isn’t that – ?’

  ‘Aye. It’s a car,’ said Jamie.

  She blinked at him. ‘Sorry, dear. What did you say?’

  Mr Prescott came out of his office, just as a woman, shorter and fatter than Mrs Hays, climbed from the car.

  ‘Oh sir,’ said Mrs Hays. ‘I thought it was her. It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Prescott said gloomily.

  ‘Oh my lord!’ Mrs Hays sat down with a thump. ‘Oh no! Bless my soul! Bless my soul!’ She picked up a piece of paper and fanned herself with it.

  The woman trod heavily up the ramp and pushed the office door with a bang.

  ‘Ah, Mr Potts. I’m glad I was able to catch you.’ Her voice was clear and bossy. Gold-rimmed glasses rested on her chest, like ornaments on a shelf. She carried a red bag.

  The visitor put her glasses to her eyes and peered over them at Jamie. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jamie,’ Jamie put his hands behind his back.

  ‘Hello, Jamie,’ she smiled. It was the smile of the witch in Hansel and Gretel. It said: Come on little boy, see what I’m cooking for dinner. ‘I am the inspector.’

  ‘Um, hello,’ Jamie backed down the hall.

  The inspector turned to the principal. ‘Mr Potts. I have another student for you.’ She patted her bag.

  Quick, disappear! Get back to class, before Mr Potts starts talking about the smell, and about being Responsible and all the other things principals always say.

  * * *

  Inside the classroom, the smell hit Jamie like a brick wall. ‘Wow!'

  ‘Jamie,’ Mr Pressick licked his lips. ‘So glad you could join us.’ He stalked around the classroom like a praying mantis, opening doors and windows. ‘Do you know anything …’ he put a red canister on Jamie's desk with a click, ‘about …’ He stopped and stared out the window.

  Jamie turned. The inspector was getting back into her car.

  ‘Oh my!’ Mr Pressick leapt out of the room.

  It’s not every day a teacher runs away instead of telling you off. All the kids scrambled to their feet and peered through the window. Everyone except Jamie. He picked up the stink bomb’s canister and put it in his pocket.

  ‘You’re in trouble, Scotty,’ hissed Jayden Harris.

  * * *

  Jamie dropped the canister behind the recycling. It landed on the concrete with a clink.

  Becky stood behind him. ‘Are you trying to get rid of the evidence?’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘You know that smell?’ Becky sounded cross. ‘The teachers thought it was rats. Mr Pressick made me crawl about under the floor of your stupid classroom. Do you know how many spiders live under there?’

  ‘Were there any rats?’

  ‘Course not. Because that smell wasn’t from a rat, was it? Lots of spiders, though. Hundreds. Thousands. Some really big.’ She held her leather gloves in one hand and banged them on her chest as she talked. Tap, tap, tap. It was vaguely worrying, that noise. As though she was building up to something. Jamie ducked.

  ‘I’m not going to hit you,’ said Becky, crossly. ‘Much as I’d like to.’

  Before Jamie could stop her, she picked up the metal container, holding it between finger and thumb as though it was infected.

  ‘Smitherson’s Stupendous Stink,’ she read, turning the can around. ‘Ah, and what does this say?’ She pointed at the smaller writing on the back.

  Jamie put his hands in his pockets and stared at the recycling bin. It was a grey shade of green, like the colour of a tank. Recycling is a Good Thing. Look, there’s a hole for paper, and one for cans. And another one for glass! Isn’t it grand for the environment to have recycling at school?

  Becky shoved the can into his face, spoiling his concentration.

  ‘It says: Made in Scotland,’ she hissed. ‘And who’s just come from Scotland, I wonder?’

  Jamie stared up at the sky. Today, the clouds were like fluffy balls of cotton wool. Could you sit on a cloud, or would you fall right through it?

  ‘Jamie McCready!’ said Becky, and he jumped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you thick or something?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said grimly. ‘For once, I agree. You must be stupid. Because only a complete and utter moron would try to stink out his entire class.’ She was standing so close that little droplets of spit hit him in the face. ‘On your first week! And you left the evidence behind. Why did you do it, Jamie? Mr Pressick’s already mean. Don’t give him an excuse.’ She rested her hand on her water bottle as if she was planning on shooting him with it.

  ‘I wanted to get …’ he stopped. No. Don’t admit you’ve been trying to set up Jayden Harris. Shame it hadn’t worked; it would have been grand if the other kids had thought Jayden was smelly.

  ‘I thought it would be funny,’ Jamie said weakly.

  Becky sniffed. ‘It would be funny if I liked crawling through spider webs. Or if Mr Pressick had a sense of humour. But he doesn’t. What would have been funny, though…’ She stopped, staring at something behind Jamie.

  He followed her gaze. It was Mr Potts, heading down the hill, towards the bushes by the old schoolhouse.

  ‘That’s funny,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’ Girls were so confusing.

  ‘He never goes there.’ She waved a glove at the headmaster. ‘Scared of the ongaonga.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Stinging nettle. Ever since you jabbed him with your buzzer – which, by the way,
is another example of your totally pea-size brain – he’s become paranoid. Keeps wanting me to go and pull it out. Have you ever tried to pull out stinging nettle?’

  Jamie shook his head. His hand tingled at the memory of that buzzer. He could understand why the principal didn’t want another sting.

  He squinted at Mr Potts. Another man was walking up the hill towards him. He looked vaguely familiar. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘What?’ Becky stared into the sunlight and shook her head, as if to say Jamie was officially insane.

  The man climbing the hill wore a flat-topped hat, tipped back on his head, and a waistcoat. Its buttons glinted in the sun. He looked like someone straight out of a black-and-white photo. And what was that beside Mr Potts? Was it a shadow, or a puff of steam?

  The man in the hat reached out, seemed to touch the end of the cloud and for a moment, just for a moment, Jamie was sure there was a kid there, a boy his own age, with his hands in his pockets, his head bent forward. Jamie blinked, and then there was Mr Potts, walking back up the hill in the sunlight. The principal walked faster now, as if he’d left something behind.

  Jamie shivered. A breeze stroked his neck. A girl giggled, high pitched and annoying. ‘Stinky poo, stinky poo!’

  ‘Go away,’ said Jamie.

  Becky huffed.

  ‘I didn’t mean you,’ he said.

  Too late. Becky stomped back towards the caretaker’s shed. Jamie pushed the canister into the recycling bin. Now the evidence was hidden.

  IV

  Jamie and Tayla Take Turns

  10

  The School

  Tayla felt lonely. Even before the accident, he hadn’t had many friends. He liked fixing stuff, so instead of hanging out with other kids, he spent most of his time with Dad, down at the workshop.

  Dad. No. He didn’t want to think about Dad now.

  In a way, it was a relief to be here in this little space with nothing to do, nothing to see. He could just zone out for a while. Like being asleep, but without the dreams. It was almost annoying when the inspector’s bag clicked open and daylight flooded in.