‘Oh for goodness sake,’ began Addie.
But she caught Uncle Henry’s glance and said no more. Clearly something would have to be done about Fulton Snodde-Brittle, but not till Oliver could be got away to safety.
‘Mr Tusker thinks Oliver’s drowned,’ said Eric when Oliver had fallen asleep at last. ‘I heard him going round the lake with Miss Match before he left. He’s going to tell Fulton.’
‘Good,’ said Uncle Henry. ‘In that case it won’t be long before Fulton’s back.’
‘And we’ll be ready for him,’ said Sir Pelham – and this time the Wilkinsons were glad to hear the crack of his whip and see the hatred in his hollow eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
To decide that Oliver should be got out of the way was one thing; to get him to go was another. He didn’t want to leave Helton even for a couple of days. He knew how worried Aunt Maud was about losing Adopta, and how Addie fretted about the budgie, and he wanted to be with them and help.
It was Grandma who persuaded him to go. ‘I’m worried sick about Mr Hofmann,’ she said. ‘And if you mean it, I’d like to ask him down to Helton – and Pernilla too. But I want you to come too, so it’ll seem like a proper invitation.’
What Grandma started, Trevor finished by writing to ask Oliver if he’d come up for his birthday. So they took the housekeeping money which Miss Match had left in the kitchen drawer and set off for London, and everyone in the Home was so pleased to see him, and so excited to have a ghost to stay, that Oliver couldn’t be sorry he had come.
Now they were on their way to Mr Hofmann, but there was something Grandma wanted to show him first.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘This is the place.’
Oliver stared through the plate glass windows at the knicker shop.
‘Is this really where you lived?’ he asked. ‘Honestly and truly?’
‘Honestly and truly,’ said Grandma. ‘Eric slept up there above the bikinis and Henry was in with the Footsies and we put Adopta in the office – that’s through that door there.’
Oliver was amazed. ‘I didn’t realize it was so small.’
‘Small and stuffy and daft,’ said Grandma, snorting at the Wonderbras, and they crossed the arcade and made their way towards the bunion shop.
Mr Hofmann sat in his wheelchair as he had done every day for years. His eyes watered, his chest wheezed, his head wobbled. Above him was a picture of a stomach with lumps on it. Bowls for spitting into and rubber tubes for pushing down people’s throats and packets of bandages were piled round him. The leather bunion was still there, but dusty, and he was extremely sad.
Then the door opened and a boy came into the shop. He was a nice boy and he looked healthy and Mr Hofmann was sure he had come to the wrong place. But the boy came forward and smiled and said: ‘I’ve got a surprise for you!’
And then there she was, slowly becoming visible, his dear friend, the only woman who understood him and his suffering! There were the cherries trembling on her hat, there were the kindly wrinkles, the umbrella . . .
‘Is it you?’ croaked the spectre. Tears sprang to his eyes; he tried to get out of his chair. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Now, Mr Hofmann, you’ve let yourself get in a dreadful pother,’ said Grandma. ‘Just look at you, you’re the colour of cheese and you shouldn’t be sitting under that stomach, I told you before.’
‘Ah yes . . . but I am so weak … I am so useless . . . what matters it if I sit under stomachs or no.’
‘It matters a great deal,’ said Grandma sternly. ‘And now listen, because I’ve come to take you away. This nice boy lives in a beautiful house in the country and he’s invited you down to live with us. For good.’
But Mr Hofmann only shook his withered head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Such things do not happen to old useless German professors who are dead. I shall stay here alone and suffer. It is my fate.’
But Grandma wasn’t having any of that. ‘That’s quite enough, Mr Hofmann. I’m coming back the day after tomorrow to take you down, so make sure you’re ready. Pernilla’s invited too, so we’ll make a party of it.’
They found the Swedish ghost drooping over her harp in the music store. She was overjoyed at the thought of living where there were forests and fresh, clean air, but she was worried about the jogger on the A12. They had become friends and tried to Keep Fit together, and she felt bad about leaving him alone.
Of course Oliver soon settled that. ‘He can come too, honestly,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room,’ – and the smile that came over her face was wonderful to see.
When they got back to the Home, Grandma thought she might have a little lie down or perhaps have a go with the Space Invaders games she’d learnt the day before, but it didn’t turn out like that. The children clustered round her and pestered her for stories.
‘Tell about the time you held down the Nazi parachutist with the tip of your umbrella,’ said Trevor.
‘And the one about how you pushed Mrs Ferryweather into a flower bed because she wouldn’t draw her blackout curtains,’ begged Nonie.
‘And the one where the bomb fell and you found you were a ghost,’ said Tabitha.
‘Yes, tell about that,’ cried all the children. That was their favourite.
Oliver, meanwhile, had been called into the office, where Matron and the two adoption ladies had been having a meeting.
Miss Pringle and Mrs Mannering had been frantic when they heard that the Shriekers had gone to Helton. They thought that if anything had happened to Oliver they would have to shut the agency and go and save whales or start a cat shelter, so when Grandma called in and explained that Oliver was safe, they were overjoyed. But like Matron they did not feel that Oliver should be at Helton with only the ghosts to protect him from Fulton Snodde-Brittle.
‘Of course we could get hold of the police,’ said Matron. ‘But it’s a strange story and suppose we hit on someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts? There’s no doubt in my mind that Fulton’s a villain, but you can’t really arrest someone for giving a home to spooks. I think we must somehow keep Oliver here till his guardian comes. That lawyer seems to be worse than useless. It’s monstrous that the boy should have been alone there without an adult all this time.’
‘Is there no news of the Colonel yet?’
‘Well, yes. I sent a fax to the British consul in Costa Rica and it seems he’s on his way back to Britain. Till then Oliver will be safe here and the children will love having him.’
But when she told Oliver what had been decided, he shook his head. ‘I can’t stay away that long; I just can’t. Helton’s my home now and Addie needs me.’
Matron looked at his troubled face. ‘Yes, I quite understand that, Oliver. Look, would you stay till Trevor’s party? It’s only a few more days and it would mean a lot to him.’
Oliver nodded. It meant letting Grandma go ahead with the ghosts, but Trevor had always been his special friend.
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ he said, and Matron was relieved. If Colonel Mersham had not returned by then, she would try to find someone to go down with Oliver.
When he went back into the garden, Oliver found the other children still sitting listening to Grandma, but Trevor had left the circle and was waiting by the climbing frame. Trevor was tough: he’d had to be, losing his parents, losing one hand, finding that his relatives in Jamaica didn’t want him. He was a boy who hit out first and asked questions afterwards. But when Grandma came to the bit of her story where they’d found out that Trixie wasn’t with them, he always got a lump in his throat. That poor spook in her flag lost in space for ever . . . It was more than anyone could stand.
‘I’m staying for your party,’ said Oliver. ‘But after that I’ll have to go even if Matron doesn’t give me permission. I’ll have to.’
Trevor nodded. ‘Maybe I’ll come with you,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Think of roast kidneys dipped in icing sugar,’ said Adopta. ‘Or marshmal
lows fried in Marmite. Go on, think of them,’ she ordered the snake.
But the python didn’t. He was still draped over the towelling rail and he wouldn’t be sick whatever she said to him. She could see the bulge where the budgie was, and since the python had swallowed him whole she was hopeful that he might be all right, like Jonah inside the whale, but whatever she said to the wretched snake he just hung there with a blank look in his eye, refusing to throw up.
Addie had spent a lot of time in the bathroom since the Shriekers came, because her long-lost parents were driving her mad. They popped up behind bushes begging her to call them ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’, or crawled about in the flower beds asking her to forgive them. Sabrina called her ‘Little One’ and Sir Pelham wanted her to sit on his knee. But what made Addie really angry was the way they kept on snubbing the Wilkinsons. They called Uncle Henry ‘that tooth puller’ and sneered at Eric’s woggle, and they thought it terribly funny that Aunt Maud had been a Sugar Puff.
And she was missing Oliver badly. She knew it was right that he should be out of the way till they had dealt with Fulton, but life was not the same without her friend.
Uncle Henry now came in, as he had done each morning, to look at the snake.
‘I could operate, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but there’s always a risk.’
‘Let’s wait a bit longer,’ said Addie. She was cross with the python, but it was hard to think of a hole being cut into his side. ‘I’ll go and see if Mr Jenkins wants any help.’
It was the farmer who was in charge of making it look as though Oliver had drowned. He saw to it that Oliver’s shoes bobbed up occasionally, and that there were footmarks leading into the water such as might be made by a boy running in terror from something evil. Mr Tusker had been quite certain that Oliver lay at the bottom of the lake, and the ghosts were sure that Fulton would think the same.
But when she reached the water, Addie found Lady de Bone dripping bloodstains on to Oliver’s torn shirt, and at once the fuss began.
‘Ah there you are, darling Honoria,’ she cried, trying to rub her nose stump against Addie’s cheek. ‘Have you come to tell your mother that you love her?’
‘And tell your father that you love him?’ said Pelham, rising from the bullrushes.
‘No, I have not,’ said Addie. ‘Where’s Aunt Maud?’
The de Bones looked at each other. ‘She’s in the walled garden smelling the flowers,’ sneered Lady de Bone.
But Aunt Maud was only pretending to smell the flowers. What she was really doing was trying not to cry.
‘Have they been beastly to you?’ asked Addie. ‘Because if so—’
‘No, no. Not really. It’s just . . . I mean, it’s very silly of me not to know what a lobster claw squeezer is, but you see we never had them at Resthaven. And I didn’t realize it was common to say “toilet”. One should say “loo” but I never have, Adopta. And honestly I think it might be better if I just gave up and let them have you. I’m not really grand enough to haunt a place like this.’
‘Now, Aunt Maud.’ Addie was very cross indeed. ‘That’s enough. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times that I’m a Wilkinson. You and Uncle Henry are the only parents I want and if they go on sneering at you, I’ll do them in.’
But when they started to rehearse the attack on Fulton and Frieda, even Aunt Maud had to admit that the Shriekers were impressive. When they stopped grovelling to Adopta and did their proper haunting, the de Bones were something to watch. It wasn’t just the flickering tongues of light and the evil stench with which they kept tradesmen and passers-by from coming to the Hall. Sabrina could raise her skinny arms and decayed owls came tumbling down the chimney in droves, and when Sir Pelham cracked his lethal whip, the hardiest person felt his skin crawl and the flesh shrivel on the bones.
And since they expected to ambush Fulton by the lake, when he came to make sure that Oliver was dead, they had their special outdoor effects. They could make great branches crack and fall; they could bring up a swirling fog that would blind any man, and call up shapes that writhed and snatched and gibbered in the undergrowth. The Wilkinsons meant to help, of course, but when it came to punishing Fulton Snodde-Brittle once and for all, they couldn’t do without the Shriekers.
But it wasn’t Fulton who came next to Helton Hall.
The ghosts were all in the drawing room having a sing-song. Grandma had brought Mr Hofmann down the day before with Pernilla and the jogger, and he’d been resting ever since, but Aunt Maud thought they should have a bit of a party to show him how welcome he was. He couldn’t eat – his intestines had gone completely to pieces in the bunion shop – but he loved music. Pernilla knew some splendid songs about mad trolls and screaming banshees, and though she would rather have been outdoors roaming in the woods, she stayed and sang to them in her lovely mournful voice.
Of course the Shriekers thought that sing-songs were vulgar – they didn’t have them in de Bone Towers – but that didn’t mean they stayed away and left the Wilkinsons in peace. Even the farmer had come up from the lake. Only the ghoul still slept on his tombstone in the church: every other ghost at Helton was gathered in that room.
No one looked out of the window. No one saw a red van with some dreadful words painted on the side draw up in front of the house. No one saw the people who got out: a woman with white hair, a youth with an ugly scar on his face; a man with pop-eyes and long black hair.
No one saw what they took out of the van: hose-pipes with nozzles, face masks, canisters of liquid gas . . . no one saw anything until the door opened – and then it was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Is this all yours, honest?’ asked Trevor as he and Oliver made their way up the drive. The roof and towers of Helton in the sunrise looked like an ogre’s castle in a book. ‘No wonder you didn’t want it. What a pile!’
Oliver didn’t answer. Now that he was back, he was wondering why he’d been in such a panic to come home. It had come over him suddenly after Trevor’s party; sitting up in bed it got so strong, the feeling that his ghosts needed him, that he’d started to dress almost without thinking. He’d meant to creep out alone and take the night train, but Trevor had ears like a lynx. It was horrid, deceiving Matron, but nothing could have stopped Oliver.
But why had he felt like that? Everything was peaceful and quiet.
‘They’re probably still asleep,’ he said, and pushed open the big oak door.
It was very peaceful and very quiet. Addie would probably be in the bathroom trying to make the python sick, and Uncle Henry would be doing his exercises. He liked to get through them before Aunt Maud got up and told him not to strain himself.
Was it too quiet?
‘There’s a funny smell,’ said Trevor.
Oliver had noticed it too. A sweet, sickly smell, drifting down the shallow marble steps towards them.
‘Best prop the door open,’ said Trevor and tugged at the heavy bolts.
Oliver did not help him. He was walking like a zombie towards the drawing room door. He had reached it somehow . . . opened it.
The ghosts were inside, all of them. And they were asleep. Oliver said this aloud so as to make certain that it was true.
‘They’re sleeping,’ he said to Trevor.
He wouldn’t ask himself why they were lying like that . . . like sacks waiting to be dumped . . . like those piled-up bodies he had seen in pictures of war.
Trevor put an arm round his friend’s shoulders. He’d known at once what Oliver would not admit: that something was terribly wrong.
They began to move about among the ghosts; to call them.
Not one of them stirred. Not one of them opened their eyes.
Grandma lay under a carved wooden table. Mr Hofmann’s sad old head was in her arms; she must have tried to shelter with him under the table like people did in air raids. But what had happened here was nothing as simple as a bomb.
Eric had slithered to the ground beside his
father and both of them had brought their hands up to their foreheads in a salute, as if they wanted to meet what was coming like soldiers or like Scouts.
Only what had come? What had turned this room into a battlefield?
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.