Ghosts on Board Page 9

  Some of the audience are shuffling in their seats. I can’t work out if they’re really enthusiastic and would like to get up and see more, or if they’re appalled.

  ‘So the other important issue is the relocation of the birds from this … ’ – another picture of the bird reserve flashes onto the screen, this time showing a rusty anchor and some bed springs – ‘ … to this!’ A picturesque, possibly airbrushed, photo of the Bywater Regis Lighthouse fills the space, seagulls wheeling above it in a blue sky and waves gently breaking over the rocks.

  ‘As you know, the lighthouse is no longer manned, and is on its own rocky outcrop – perfect for the birds – although it is a little smaller than the area they have now. We –’

  ‘It’s tiny!’ shouts someone. ‘They wouldn’t all fit on there – and there’s no beach.’

  ‘Ah, yes, we know there’s no beach, but I’m sure the birds will adapt.’

  ‘Adapt??!’ shouts Mr Worthy. ‘The Little Tern has been nesting on shingle for thousands of years – why would it adapt?’

  ‘Any questions?’ says Mr Suit.

  ‘There were twenty-seven nesting pairs of Little Terns on the reserve last summer!’ shouts Mrs Worthy. ‘They’re endangered, and there’s no way they’d live on that rock.’

  Someone else shouts, ‘They can only nest in shingle! It would be a gross act of environmental vandalism!’

  The mayor holds out his hands for silence. ‘Please,’ he says and turns to the Whizzo pair.

  Mrs Suit is sweating now. ‘And the ordinary seagulls will probably find somewhere to live quite quickly. We envisage the link road passing through this piece of marsh –’

  ‘Where the Marsh Harriers live!’ mutters Eric.

  ‘And the car parks could be constructed on this piece of derelict swamp land –’

  ‘The home of the Black-tailed Godwits!’ shouts Mr Worthy.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mr Suit. ‘I think you should have a look at the model. It’s self-explanatory.’

  ‘Look!’ says Mrs Suit, glancing towards the mayor. ‘If you want your lido, you’re going to have to put up with this.’

  ‘The lido’s great but we don’t want to have it at the expense of the birds,’ says Mr Worthy.

  Mrs Suit raises an eyebrow and looks towards the mayor. ‘Really? I thought the lido was very important.’

  The mayor looks confused and drops his phone. ‘Yes … no. I mean, obviously … ’

  ‘Admit it! You want the lido refurbished because you share a roof with it!’ shouts a man from the back.

  A murmur goes around the audience. ‘Of course,’ says Grandma, standing up and addressing the mayor. ‘It’s all for your benefit, isn’t it?’

  ‘One hundred thousand pounds to restore the lido – and how much of that is the roof?’ asks Mr Worthy.

  Mrs Suit is smiling, although I don’t totally understand why, and then she speaks. ‘But the deal is signed,’ she says, taking a piece of paper from her inner jacket pocket. ‘Like it or not, Bywater-by-Sea is going to have a theme park – it says so here, signed, witnessed and contracted.’

  Everyone stares at the piece of paper, and then, a millisecond later, everyone stares at the mayor.

  He goes red, then white, then red again, and sinks his head turtlewise into the top of his jacket, so that only a pair of bright-red ears are visible.

  We continue to stare at him.

  ‘So everyone,’ says Mrs Suit, brightly, ‘I think Birdy World is going to replace bird reserve – which is obviously a bit of a pity, but … ’ She shrugs.

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Eric stands up.

  Mr Suit stares in amazement. Whether at Eric or Eric’s hair is not clear.

  Eric pokes me, and I poke Jacob. We all stand, reddening, as all the faces that were staring at the Whizzo couple stare at us.

  ‘Instead of the bird reserve, we’d like you to use Mystery Smoke Island.’

  The audience mutter, as if they don’t know where we’re talking about.

  ‘The island about four miles off shore – the abandoned, haunted island?’ says Eric.

  People nod and look at us, waiting for something. I wish we had some photos.

  ‘Well, Mystery Smoke Island is quite big,’ says Jacob. ‘And in a shocking state.’

  ‘Much bigger than the bird reserve,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says Eric, unfolding a crumpled map and pointing to it. ‘And it’s already got lots of the things we need to –’ He stalls, as if he’s just noticed that everyone’s looking at him.

  ‘Build a ghostly theme park,’ says Jacob, pushing the egg box that represents the Lilac Lake back into position and nudging me.

  ‘It would make Mystery Smoke Island THE attraction in the South West. It would put Bywater-by-Sea on the map as a serious tourist destination AND it would prevent any development in the town itself,’ I say – slightly too loudly.

  ‘Yes,’ says Jacob, butting in. ‘And it could have its own sweet shop selling scary sweets, like headless jelly babies and screaming gobstoppers.’

  ‘It would help the ferry companies and ensure the preservation of the existing, very satisfactory, bird sanctuary,’ says Eric.

  ‘It could open all night on Halloween,’ says Jacob. ‘We could have boats with pumpkins crossing the channel to the island.’

  We look into the audience. People are screwing up their faces in doubt, sighing, checking their phones, picking their nails.

  ‘It would be the only haunted-house themed park anywhere around. We could rename it Nightmare Island,’ I say desperately. ‘And if you’ve been there, you’d know how convincing it would be.’

  ‘Oooooooooh,’ comes a long slow wail from nowhere.

  Most of the audience jumps. The rest blink and turn up their hearing aids.

  ‘Aaaaaaaahhghghghgh.’ A strangled cry echoes across the ceiling and the lights flicker.

  ‘Goodness,’ says a woman in the front row, pulling her husband a little closer.

  ‘Miiiiiaaaaooowwwwwwww.’ Shipwreck James lets out a long mournful yowl.

  ‘Oh woe is meeeeeeeeeeee … ’ Flora Rose races around the chairs, leaving a shiver in her wake and the lights go out properly.

  ‘Aaagh!’ screams a woman from the back. ‘Something just brushed my leg and there’s nothing there!’

  ‘I say!’ says Grandma. ‘Very good.’

  The jam jar on the table turns silver and wobbles violently. ‘Listen to them … ’ squeaks Victor.

  The audience gasp and stare upwards as a purple blobby light appears in midair over their heads. It shimmers and flickers, wafting back and forth just below the ceiling. I can just make out Billy’s hat and a big smile. It hovers for five whole seconds before he turns his mouth to a scream and swoops down over the seats.

  ‘AAAAAAArghghghgh!’ Mrs Suit grabs her bag and races for the exit.

  ‘Aaaarghghghg!’ chorus the front row, scrabbling over each other to get to the back of the hall – but before they get out of the doors, the lights flick on and the noises stop.

  The escapees pause, look around at each other and no doubt feel foolish.

  ‘Good show!’ says Grandma, clapping furiously.

  ‘Bravo!’ shout Mr and Mrs Worthy. Slowly all the people find their seats and laugh and clap each other on the back, red faces all round.

  ‘So?’ I say when the chattering dies down. ‘What do you think?’

  The mayor puts it to a vote. ‘Yes, yes, a vote then, everyone,’ he says, looking up from his phone. ‘We’ll start by asking: who would like to see the development of Mystery Smoke Island as Nightmare Island theme park?’

  I close my eyes. I can’t bear to open them – in spite of Flora Rose’s best efforts, they’ve probably all voted for the Birdy World park on the bird sanctuary.

  A ripple of laughter runs through the room and I crank one eye slightly open.

  They’ve all got their hands up, every single one of them. Grandma’s got a huge smile on her face and i
s nodding at me.

  Next to me, Eric’s standing with his mouth open.

  I feel 100 per cent good.

  ‘Can it have a hall of mirrors?’ whispers Flora Rose.

  ‘I’m sure it can,’ mutters Eric. ‘Especially for you.’

  We celebrate with Grandma’s curdled cocoa and some slightly soft biscuits that Jacob jams into his mouth all at once.

  Victor sits on a cotton reel and eats tiny slices of biscuit. He reminds me of a mouse, not just because of the way he eats, but also because of his colour. He’s grey all over – his face and hands are grey, he might almost be covered in grey fur.

  ‘So do we live on the island with the builders?’ asks Flora Rose. ‘Or stay here with you?’

  ‘Island,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, island,’ says Eric.

  ‘Here,’ says Jacob, prodding Victor with a cocktail stick. ‘Hey – can you feel that? Are you still not quite a ghost?’

  ‘Yes I can. Stop it, you imbecile!’ says Victor, grabbing the end of the cocktail stick and giving Jacob a shove back. ‘What about my castle? How do we know they’re going to put one in? And how do we know it’ll accommodate us as well as all the … ’ – he winces and flaps his hands dismissively – ‘tourists.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Grandma, landing a warm fruit cake on the table. ‘I’ve been asked if you can advise on the plans.’

  ‘Yes, and we can be there every weekend and every evening, talking to the men who are building it,’ I say. ‘AND they’ve said we can put all the scary things in ourselves.’

  ‘So we can use real skeletons?’ asks Jacob.

  ‘And real blood?’ asks Flora Rose.

  ‘Um,’ says Eric. ‘We’ll see.’

  Epilogue

  It took six months for the theme park to be built. It was open just in time for Easter, and people flocked onto the ferries to visit the new, deeply terrifying Nightmare Island. The effects were universally acknowledged to be very special. No one could explain the howling that took place whenever anyone crossed the bridges, or the disembodied voices they heard, or the way things moved unexpectedly, or the extreme cold in the Tunnel of Ghastly Delights.

  But although the dark, creaking castle was always terrifying, the tea shop was often cosy, the gardens bursting with beautiful flowers, the children’s crèche warm and jolly and full of happy chatter. The island thrilled because it wasn’t predictably ghostly – no one knew what to expect from one day to the next.

  But the thing that made the visitors gasp above all else was the strange laughing girl’s face that would appear suddenly in the hall of mirrors – one day there, the next, gone.

  And at night, every night, the ghastly green glow of a television screen shone from a window high in the castle, accompanied by cackling laughter and electronic pings and whizzes. A voice would call, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! I’ve levelled up! I am the supreme master.’ And sometimes it would shout, ‘No one alive or dead can beat me – I am invincible!’

  Special thanks to:

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  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hot Key Books

  Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT

  Text copyright © Fleur Hitchcock 2015

  Cover illustration copyright © Ross Collins 2015

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or d
ead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-4714-0347-7

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