Dan and the Caverns of Bone (4 page)

When I climb back in through the hotel window, I'm breathing so heavily I'm lucky not to wake Brian. Well, so would you be too if you'd just run up four flights of stairs with a horde of angry French Goths on your tail.

‘What in Death's name just happened, Si?' I gasp. The teacup – amazingly still in my hand – is
rattling wildly in its saucer. ‘She couldn't see him, could she? She couldn't see
you
!'

‘I fear we may have misunderstood the situation, Daniel.'

‘Misunderstood? When someone says they can “see dead people”, that sounds pretty clear to me!'

‘Ah, but only because you actually
can
.' Si's got his annoying I've-worked-it-all-out-now face on. ‘Consider it from Lucifane's point of view. She was trying to tell you something, but never expected you to take what she said literally.'

‘Okay, Einstein's Grandad,' I forget to whisper. ‘What
was
she trying to tell me, then?'

Brian rolls over and stretches. I hold my breath and put the teacup down. I could do without him waking up and asking where I've been.

‘Daniel,' Si continues, ‘something terrible has happened next door, in the squit…'

‘Squat, Si, it's a
squat
! The last thing I need right now is a squit.'

‘Very well, something terrible has happened in the
squat
. Somebody has recently died and his spirit is trapped, unable to pass on to the Hereafter. That someone – Jojo la Mouche – needs our help, and Lucifane clearly needs it too.'

‘Now stop right there, Si. I've got enough on with babysitting Brian here. I don't need another job.'

But Si's giving me that mega-arched-eyebrow look only someone in eighteenth-century makeup can pull off. He knows I'm burning to find out what's going on next door, just as he is. But I'm not in the mood to give in to him right now. So when he opens his mouth again…

‘Daniel?'

…I roll away into my blanket, fully clothed.

‘Just buzz off, Si. Go and bother a badger. I need to think.'

And I've got a lot to think about: the palatial squat with its cooler than ice-cream kids, the cellar door barricaded on the outside (what is
that
all about?), the candle skulls (again,
huh
?), the teenage ghost in the kitchen…

Lucifane.

Yeah, it's a long time before I get to sleep.

The next day, as we risk our teeth on the bullet-hard breakfast croissants served at the Hotel Cafards,
Frenchy Phelps goes over the programme for the day. And if I'd thought I could somehow sneak back to the squat and make things right with Lucifane, then an extensive guided tour of something called ‘the catacombs', followed by a written test (to make sure we were all paying attention), will put paid to that.

In no time at all, we're trooping onto the flea-bitten bus again.

‘Si, what exactly are these catacombs?' I manage to ask without attracting too much attention. Bri is so close that he can't help but hear, and he looks at me with curiosity.

‘A catacomb is an underground graveyard,' says Si. ‘There are ossuaries and tunnels beneath Rome that are known as the catacombs, but if there is such a thing in Paris it must be from after my own time.'

‘Si, “after your time” covers about two hundred and fifty years, so that's not very helpful.'

‘Then I can only suggest we wait and see.' Si puffs a cloud of his more superior ectoplasm at me. ‘This will be an education for us both.'

The bus gasps to a stop. Frenchy jumps to his feet and starts yelling at us to wait and settle down. He's
wearing his black polo neck pullover again, but with a red waistcoat this time, and I swear, he's started growing a little goatee in his eagerness to fit in.

On the pavement, we gather before a windowless stone building with a pair of wide wooden doors. There are a few tourists milling about and blinking in the sun, and it's then that I realise that we really are going to be spending time below ground. Si seems to realise it too, and he starts quivering in his stockings again.

‘Perhaps you can just tell me about it afterwards, Daniel. I'm feeling a little off colour.'

‘Si, the last time you had any colour in your cheeks, it was painted on with arsenic and whiter than a vampire's bum.'

‘When…' comes a little squeaky voice beside me. I'd almost forgotten Brian. ‘…when you talk to yourself like that, is it…? I mean, is it really…?'

‘Spit it out, Bri,' I say. ‘Is it because I'm loopy, is that what you're asking?'

‘No, no!' he answers, just a bit too quickly. ‘It's just… well, it must be weird to have an imaginary friend.'

I sigh.

‘Yeah, Brian. It's a bit weird.'

‘It's just, I was thinking… well, what with all this trouble with Baz and everything, I wonder if maybe, you'd… sort of…'

I sigh again. And it takes some effort, too, because my lungs are still empty from the last one.

‘You'd rather I didn't talk to him?

Because of Baz?' Brian nods so vigorously I can almost hear his eyeballs rattling.

I can't believe this. But I really don't have time to argue about it, so instead, I just speak out loud to Simon, right in front of Brian and everyone.

‘Okay, my weird imaginary friend, why don't you take the morning off. Go put your heels up and blow smoke rings till I get back.'

Si looks a bit surprised to be spoken to openly like this, but he's so keen to avoid going underground again that he just gives a quick bow and then vanishes in a puff of ectoplasmic relief.

I turn back to Brian.

‘Is that better?'

Brian – who obviously didn't see any of that – looks a bit dubious, but nods anyway. Then he looks down at a half-finished paper plane in his hands.

‘And I suppose I'd better stop making these. I'm drawing too much attention to myself.'

I look at the plane. Its design is fabulously complex. And suddenly I'm angry, though it takes a moment before I realise why.

‘Brian, do you
want
to stop making your planes?'

‘No, but…'

‘Then don't! Baz doesn't get to decide who you are, does he? Or what you do?'

‘No, but…'

‘Button it, Bri. Just leave him to me and finish your plane. Something tells me today is the day we deal with Baz for good.'

‘Do you really think so?'

I adjust the coat and my new purple specs. Brian looks wide-eyed for a moment, then a little smile appears and he starts folding his paper masterpiece again. But he doesn't get far. Before I can react a big beefy hand slaps down onto his shoulder. Another slaps down on mine.

‘Morning, losers,' come the lumpen tones of Baz. ‘Did I hear my name? Can't get enough of me, eh? Had time to think about my overdue homework, have we,
Brain
Cabbidge? Good man!' Then he clonks Bri round the head and laughs, ‘Hur hur hur.'

I shrug the slab of fingers and thumb off my shoulder.

‘Watch it, Baz,' I say, doing the spooky eyebrow thing for all I'm worth. ‘Wouldn't want to see your jeans at half-mast again, would we?'

I'm hoping there's still a bit of protection to be had from his embarrassment on the train, but when Baz opens his denim jacket, I see that I'm out of luck on that score. He's wearing a belt
and
braces.

‘I don't know how you did that yesterday, spooky boy.' Baz leans over me, so close that his bumfluff tickles my forehead. ‘But try any funny business today, and you'll be seeing the rest of Paris from a wheelchair. Got it?'

And he pokes me in the chest so hard I actually sit down on the pavement.

I'm just about to see red – quite a feat for someone wearing purple specs – and get all paranormal on him again, when I remember I've sent Si off for the morning.

Crapsticks.

I get to my feet, but what can I do? Baz is about twice my weight, and he knows it. He simply grabs Brian in a headlock and walks him away, as if everything I've just said means nothing. The last I see of Brian is his helpless little ferrety face looking at me pleadingly, the plane still
clutched in one hand, before he's lost in the crowd of tourists.

But as I straighten the coat and flick the lapels back up, I quietly promise Bri I won't let him down. I meant what I said: I'll find a way to stop Baz bullying him for good, with or without Si.

As for Frenchy, he's almost quivering with excitement. As he gets us to group together, I see that he's got one of the natives captive, and it's quite a specimen: a tall, hook-nosed man is standing beside him, wearing some kind of uniform. Police, it looks like, and judging by the splendour of his hat and lapels, pretty senior. Frenchy's fawning over him.

‘Now class, we are incredible lucky today.
Mais oui!
For our guided tour of the catacombs, we are extremely privileged to be shown around by none other than
le Commandant
Lavache, head of the special police force charged with protecting this unique part of the city's heritage.
Quelle chance!
'

Commander Lavache turns his impressive nose on Frenchy, peers down at him along it, then turns it back to us. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere on the planet but here with a bunch of British school kids and their prancing teacher.

‘Sir,' says the girl called Tanya. ‘What's this catacombs, then? A shopping centre?'

There is an exaggerated gasp of horror from Frenchy. But it's
le Commandant
who speaks, and in an accent as thick as Dijon mustard.

‘You ask, what is it that it is? This is really what it is that you are asking? Ignorant child! It is a monument to the glory of the dead of Paris, is what it is.'

There's a murmur round our group as everyone tries to untangle such interesting grammar, but me, I'm mostly just stuck on the mention of the dead. If I'm going to tackle Baz today, at least it sounds like I'll be doing it on home territory.

Le Commandant
waves a perfectly manicured hand at the entrance to the Catacombs.

And then, whether or not we've actually understood what it is that we are about to see, we're all shuffling inside.

There are steps going down. As we descend the air gets heavier and cooler, and we all go a bit quiet, not really sure what to expect. Even Frenchy clams up.

When we reach the bottom
le Commandant
tells us to walk in single file, setting off ahead of us at
a military pace. I try to get nearer Baz and Brian, but the passage we're in is too narrow. The stone of the walls is white-gone-to-green and clammy, and I button the coat up. Nice place!

The corridor ends, and we find ourselves below the vaulted rock ceiling of a rectangular chamber. There is a stone doorway opposite, in an old-fashioned style that Si would probably go for if he wasn't too much of a wuss to follow me down here. Above the doorway, in curling letters of lead, is an inscription:

By now we're all seriously huddled together. The girl called Tanya even clutches my arm for a moment, before realising whose arm it is and dropping it with a squeal of fright. I give her the grin, and she vanishes in an instant.

Le Commandant
sweeps his nose-mounted gaze across us all before speaking.

‘'Ere, you are at the door to the Empire of the Dead. This is what it is saying, 'ere.' And he points to the inscription. ‘I will be watching you. You touch
one
thing, you misbe'ave, and I will ‘ave you strung up by the – '

‘Thank you,
Commandant
!' Frenchy gasps. ‘Please be assured that my class will be on its best behaviour. Perhaps, before we go in, you could give us a quick history of the catacombs? I'm sure we would all benefit from your years of wisdom as guardian of this place.'

Commander Lavache looks at Frenchy like an eagle regarding a lame rabbit it just can't be bothered to catch. There's an awkward pause as it becomes clear that the Frenchman is going to do no such thing.