Dan and the Caverns of Bone (2 page)

I let my purple sunglasses fall back down over my eyes, and hope that looking mysterious will have its usual effect.

It doesn't.

Baz carefully removes my specs, puts them on the floor, and stamps on them.

I notice that Frenchy Phelps is suddenly very engrossed in the Eurostar magazine.

‘And as for you,
Brain
Cabbidge…' Baz clips poor Bri round the head, ‘your sorry hide is mine this trip. If you don't do my maths homework for the rest of the year, there's gonna be grilled Cabbidge
en croûte
for breakfast. Every. Single. Day.' He raps Bri on the noggin to emphasis each full stop. ‘Get it?'

Brian whimpers, and tries to shrink even further. Oh, he gets it, all right.

And that's when I decide I've had enough.

I look round at Si, and give him my
now
-we-can-get-involved look. Si's been quivering like a dainty firework waiting to go off anyway, and he leaps from his seat in fury, filling the space above us like an elderly angel of justice.

What a shame only I can see that.

Now you might be wondering what exactly he can do, what with him being just a ghost and all, but Si's got a little trick up his frilly sleeve. Telekinesis is a fancy word, I know, but there's no other that fits. Yup, you've guessed it – Si can move things with his mind.

Well, small things anyway.

Like a button, for example. And a belt buckle. Just like he's doing now.

Then, in front of everyone, I snap my fingers.

This isn't just for show, it's Si's cue to go in for the kill. Using more of his spook powers, he yanks Baz's secretly undone jeans downwards, letting them settle round his ankles. As far as everyone else is concerned though, the class bully's trousers have just fallen down all on their own, at my magical command.

There's a moment of stunned silence in the carriage. Then there's an explosion of laughter. Baz is frozen to the spot – it's a full five seconds before he shouts, ‘What the…?' and begins scrabbling to hide his embarrassment.

And his Ben 10 boxers.

He shuffles back to his seat in panic, still struggling to get his jeans back above his knees. And that's when he nearly knocks over a speechless women in a Eurostar uniform, who was just coming down the aisle.

Well, Frenchy has to put the magazine down now, doesn't he, as the woman finds her voice – a French one, as it happens – and proceeds to lecture him on
class discipline and the rules of travel and such. All the time Baz is cringing in his seat, and we can all hear the tinkle of metal as he tries to do his belt up again.

Simon settles back in the seat beside me with an aura of ghostly satisfaction. And, yeah, it is a triumph of sorts. I doubt we'll be bothered by Baz again in a hurry. Nice one, Si!

Brian Cabbidge stares at me for a long time It's like being studied by a neurotic squirrel. Then he bends down, scoops up the remains of my purple specs and puts them on the table in front of me like an offering. I'm not sure what to say, so I don't say anything, but I have a horrible feeling I don't need to. It feels like something's just been agreed between us.

After a while Brian gives me a nervous smile and then fishes a pad of fancy paper out of his bag. In a moment he's pulled out a sheet and is folding it, twisting and pleating as a complex paper aircraft begins to take shape between his fingers. No one dares interrupt him now, and a look of bliss settles on his face.

I glance at Si and he glances back.

‘It would appear you have a
protégé
, Daniel,' says Si.

‘Oi, easy with the French,' I mumble. But it's hard to escape the conclusion that Brian is now under my protection. That's all I need. I fold my arms, lean back, and try to enjoy the view out the window.

The train enters the Channel Tunnel.

When we get to Paris – or ‘Paree', as Simon says it – a wheezy old bus picks us up at Gare du Nord and whisks us in cut-price school-trip style to our hotel. As we gaze out of the window, we see the wonders and delights of the centre of Paris spread before us like French Fancies on a tea tray – only to see them all vanish again as we enter the dark and dodgy streets where our hotel is. When
we see the hotel, it's the girls who make the most fuss.

‘Aw, sir!' comes the chorus. ‘We're not staying in that dump, are we?'

‘Be quiet!' Frenchy snaps, his normal charming self. ‘Hotel Cafards is actually very well placed for exploring the city.'

Looking up at the crumbling, leaning façade, I'm thinking it's mostly just well placed for falling down. We were expecting something flashier, what with this being Paris and all.

As I get up to leave the bus, I spot someone in the shadow of the door of the neighbouring building. A girl in black, with a braid of bleached blonde hair over one shoulder. She flashes a pair of stunning eyes at me before vanishing inside, leaving me feeling a bit on the tingly side. But then Brian pokes me in the back, reminding me I'm blocking the aisle, so I stroll off the bus like nothing's happened.

In the hotel, Frenchy Phelps skips to reception to check us in – making the most of his first big chance to show off his grasp of the lingo with the natives. I guess he's still a bit miffed at being shouted at by that French woman on the train. But as he speaks, rolling his Rs and waving his hands
like a rerun of Inspector Clouseau, the receptionist seems more interested in her newspaper sudoku. She doesn't look up at all until he has stammered to a halt.

‘It iz not nececelery to make thiz str-r-range noise,' says the woman. ‘I speeek Ingleesh.' And she hands over several sets of keys.

Behind her, a tall and morose porter with scarily long hands glares darkly from beneath a single eyebrow.

‘We do not toler-r-rate noises at ze 'Otel Cafards,' the woman goes on. ‘You will at all times be silent. Your
childr-r-ren
will be silent!'

One end of the porter's Frankenstein monobrow raises in our direction and we all take a step back.

‘Oh, er,
merci
!' Frenchy manages. ‘I see. But, er…' He cocks his head as if listening. ‘…isn't that music I can hear? Loud music?' And sure enough, we can all hear a steady
thump thump thump
from somewhere.

The woman slaps down her newspaper as if squashing a spider. She glares at Frenchy like he's next.

‘It iz not
us
making zis noise, it iz not 'Otel Cafards! It iz…' and she pauses, before saying
‘…
next door
,' in exactly the same voice a strawberry farmer uses when he says the word
slug
.

Frenchy, despite being a grade A dufus, knows when to back away, and he backs away now, waggling the keys and smiling with his teeth only. The woman subsides into her sudoku again, like a disappointed lobster returning to its rock. But the tall and dismal porter never takes his eyes off us as we retreat. We'll be carrying our own bags then.

‘Now, listen,' Frenchy says, as we reach the bottom of the stairs. ‘It's four to a room, I'm afraid…' *loud groaning* ‘… now, now, settle down. You'll just have to get together in groups. There is one small extra room for just two though, and I think we all know who's getting that. Dan, here's your key.'

‘I'll be your room mate!' squeaks Brian.

‘That's not actually necessary,' says Frenchy, as surprised as everyone else that someone is volunteering. ‘There's enough space in the other rooms.'

‘Yeah, he can share with me, sir,' says Baz, breathing noisily through his mouth and cracking his knuckles.

I give Baz the eye. It looks like his humiliation on the train is already wearing off, but then, I suppose
that's the advantage of having the brains of a goldfish. Whatever, though – I'm missing my purple specs, and I'm not inclined to let the likes of Baz have their way. I'd love to have a room to myself, but I decide to do the decent thing.

‘S'okay, Bri,' I say. ‘You stick with me.'

Baz narrows his piggy eyes at me. I present him with the back of my head.

As we all make our way up the creaking, greasy stairs to the cheap rooms on the attic floor, Simon swoops about approvingly.

‘I'm very pleased you have decided to take on a case while we're away, Daniel. The poor boy needs a friend.'

‘I only do ghosts, remember?' I whisper. ‘I don't mind standing up for him, but Bri's
not
my client.'

But then I can't help thinking about that. You see, if there's one thing I've learnt from helping the dead, it's that it would have been much better if someone had helped them out when they were still alive. I mean, I'm not saying Brian will actually do anything desperate, but with someone as sensitive and picked-on as he is, you never know. So maybe Si's got a point. Maybe I
am
on the case. And if he's sharing my room, at least I can keep an eye on him.

But when I see the room, I think I'll be keeping more than just my eyes on him: it's tiny!

Bri doesn't mind, though. He's just glad to get in there and shut a door between him and Baz.

Our room is higher up than all the others, at the top of a creaking iron spiral staircase. It's actually in a turret of some kind, and gives a view out over Paris in all directions, across a jumble of rooftops, spires and domes.

And suddenly I get a glimpse of what it is people mean when they rave about the place – the view is stunning.

‘La belle Paree!' declares Simon in a torrent of ectoplasmic curlicues.

Then something brushes past me, and I turn to see Bri squeezing onto one of the dinky fold-down beds. In a moment he's got his pad out and is at his planes again. I sigh, but only so I don't say something rude. Instead, I open the window and climb out onto the roof of the hotel.

The sky above is leaden, but the setting sun pours beneath the cloud, picking out chimneys and the gold of monuments. I sit on a crooked stone gargoyle and inhale deeply, tasting the bready kitchen fumes and ripe carbon monoxide of ‘la belle Paree', and for the
first time, I'm daring to think this might turn out to be a holiday after all.

And that's when I notice I'm not alone.

There's someone on the roof of the building next door – a black-clad figure, with bleached blonde hair. Yup, you've guessed it – it's the girl, the one with the knock-me-sideways eyes I saw in the street below. We look at each other for a moment, before she calls out to me.

‘
Bonjour
.'

Oh, great!

‘Er… bon jewer?' I say, and try not to touch my hair. I'm using the grin for all it's worth. Don't get me wrong, I like girls – really like them, actually – but, well, they're
girls
, aren't they? Complicated. And this one's French!

‘You are English?' she says, with a lovely accent, and I'm thinking my James Bond moment is already over, if it had even begun.

‘Wee. I mean, yes,' I say. Then I add, ‘School trip,' which is probably just about the dumbest thing I could say. But the way this girl looks at me with her big dark eyes makes it hard to think straight. So then I just take a deep breath, tell her my name and wait to see what happens next.

What happens next is she jumps over onto my roof and sits down next to me. She really is dressed mostly in black, with a line of accessories that pretty much covers the entire blackness spectrum, especially against the shock of her white-blonde hair. Her nails are like beetle backs, her lips are smoked rosebuds, and her eyes… well, they'd give even Edward Scissorhands something uncomfortable to think about.

‘
Salut
, Dan,' she says, holding out her hand. ‘My name is Lucifane.'

‘
Bonjour
, Lucifane,' I say. ‘Er… is that your real name?'

She turns the eyes on me, full beam.

‘Are you staying in the hotel, Dan? If yes, then we will be neighbours for a while. So, maybe we will also be friends?'

I somehow manage to nod and keep the grin in place at the same time.

‘But I wonder if new friends should tell all of their secrets so quickly.' And she looks away across the rooftops. ‘What do you think, Dan?'

Oka-a-ay. I glance over at Si and see that he's as baffled as I am. But, since being confused by girls is one of the things I do best, I just look out
across Paris too, and wait for Lucifane to do something else. A paper aeroplane shoots out of the window behind us and loops the loop, before gliding away into the evening sky. Brian's keeping busy then.

‘And I do 'ave a secret, Dan,' says Luci eventually, and I guess that keeping quiet was the right thing to do after all. She looks back at me. ‘One that maybe I can only tell a stranger.'

I return the look as best I can and arrange my eyebrows into the ‘?' position. Even Si drifts in a little closer to hear what she's about to say.