Dan and the Caverns of Bone (5 page)

Frenchy Phelps tugs his tiny goatee in desperation before filling the silence himself.

‘Well, class, you see, beneath Paris is a vast network of tunnels, quarries and natural caverns. When the city graveyards became overcrowded at the end of the eighteenth century, human remains were collected together in some of these tunnels, and, well… you will see for yourselves.'

Le Commandant
walks through the doorway and vanishes into the blackness. No one seems too keen to be the first one in after him, so I decide it had better be me. After all, who better to have a shufti round the Empire of the Dead than the kid who sees dead people?

But what I see when I get into the next chamber is not only an eye-opener, it also explains some of the weirder stuff that's been happening lately. Because the walls of the next chamber aren't made out of stone at all. They are made out of bones.

Human bones.

Long leg bones are arranged lengthways so that the nobbly ends are like mildewed flints in an old church wall. Only this is a wall topped not with bricks but with pelvises. Every few paces a skull stares blankly out. And where have I seen a lot of skulls recently? Yup – Luci's place. Suddenly an explanation for the blocked-up cellar door in the squat presents itself. But what can they be worried about down here? And how does it all fit in with the ghost of Jojo la Mouche?

‘Sir,' I say, giving Commander Lavache the eyebrow. ‘Are there other entrances to this place? I mean, do some people have private ways in, from their houses?'

The Commander stalks over and casts his eyes over me with unconcealed disdain. He reaches out and flicks his finger tips at the Tippexed skulls on my coat.

‘If I 'ad my way, your type would not be allowed down 'ere. Death is not a game. But yes, there are
still some unofficial ways in. We sometimes find pee-pul down 'ere oo should not be down 'ere.' Then he leans in close. ‘We dee-eel with zem.'

Frenchy jumps over and starts nodding ingratiatingly.

‘Yes, as I explained, class,
le Commandant
is none other than the head of the police department charged with protecting the catacombs. Trespassing is a growing problem, I understand…'

‘What, people actually come down here on their own?' cries one of the girls, staring aghast into the grinning face of a skull. ‘But, sir, it's horrible down here.'

‘Well, some people are funny that way,' says Frenchy, and I notice him flicking a glance my way. ‘There are many in Paris who enjoy these tunnels and galleries – they aren't all filled with bones. In French, these people are known as
les cataphiles
– those who love the catacombs. I believe that the police who guard them are called
les cataflics
…'

Frenchy tails off as he sees the thunderclouds gathering over the brow of
le Commandant
's nose. If he thought he was going to impress the Frenchman with his knowledge of the lingo, he's obviously miscalculated.

‘I see zat you know all about ze catacombs, Monsieur Phelps. So, I will leave you to ze rest of your vis-eet. I 'ave business to attend to. There 'as been an act of vandalism 'ere recently, and… somezing else.'

And with that he stalks off toward two policemen who are waiting in the shadows of the cavern. They snap to attention as he approaches.

‘Sir, can we just say we've seen the skulls now and get out of here?' says the girl called Tanya.

‘Yeah, let's quit this dump,' come the murmurs of agreement.

But Frenchy's having none of it. He starts leading us around, pointing out strange carvings here and freakish arrangements of bone there. The Empire of the Dead is well named, but I wonder what all these people would have said if they'd known in advance they'd one day end up as wallpaper in some creepy-kitsch tourist attraction.

And that's when I see him. The ghost of Jojo la Mouche, that is.

At first I'm not sure – in such a place I'm half expecting to see spirits wandering all over the place – but there's no mistake. I'd recognise that soggy ectoplasmic look anywhere. Down a dark
passageway that has been grilled off with rusting iron bars, the empty-eyed teenage ghost from Lucifane's kitchen drifts toward me.

‘Er… hi!' I say, as he sweeps through the bars. Then I add ‘
Salut!
', copying the greeting I heard yesterday in the squat. He doesn't answer, he just floats down the corridor, right through a group of my classmates. I see them gasp and shiver at his passing, and then hurry away. The only thing they can see which accounts for their strange feeling is, of course, me.

Alone again, I jog after Jojo for a little longer, but he's starting to fade now. I make one last attempt to communicate, but it's no good. Simon has often explained that the newly dead take a few days to become aware of themselves again, and if Jojo isn't ready yet, there's nothing I can do about it.

Then he's gone, splashing through the wall of bones in a burst of ectoplasm only I can see.

I'm staring at the wall where he was, wondering what to make of it all, when I hear a squeak I have come to know all too well. It's coming from the next chamber. I peer round and see – in a dark corner – something both horrible and grotesque.

It's Baz.

He's the grotesque part. What's horrible, though, is the fact that he's standing on top of Brian Cabbidge, and zooming poor Bri's paper plane around like a giant five-year-old playing with a new toy. Brian squeaks with every move of Baz's feet. Baz goes, ‘hur hur hur' with every squeak.

I sigh, and for a moment I wonder about just dropping this whole business with Brian – I really don't need this, not with having to sort things out with Luci. Maybe I should just leave Brian to his fate – after all, what can
I
do against the boy mountain and his zitty biceps? I mean, I'm not exactly built for the rough stuff.

But hey, I'm the kid who sees dead people, remember? And I've learnt a thing or two from my spooky clients over the years, including some pretty nifty martial arts moves. I may not have my spectral sidekick to back me up right now – so yeah, I'm going to have to do this the old-fashioned way – but if Baz comes at me, I reckon I can get the better of him. And what Baz really needs is to be brought down a peg or two. It's almost an act of kindness.

I straighten the lapels and set the specs for action.

‘Baz, I was wondering,' I ask, strolling up to him. ‘Have you always looked like a monkey's bum, or does your mum do your make-up?'

Baz looks confused for a moment, his mouth falling open. The paper plane zooming slowly stops.

‘I like the way she's left a little fuzz on your top lip though,' I continue, keeping my arms loose and ready. ‘Girls love that. And whatever you do,
don't cover up those zits either. If you took a pen and joined them all up, I reckon they'd spell “Pineapple Pizza”.'

Whoosh!

The plane is flying for real now, zooming straight at my face, its paperclip tip gleaming. I drop, letting it pass over me. Then I pull the classic karate stance and start weaving about, ready to unleash my inner ninja and turn Baz's every move against him.

But there's a problem.

Baz doesn't actually throw a punch. He doesn't aim a kick or a head-butt, or do any of the things he's supposed to. He just piles straight into me like the entire New Zealand rugby team. The wind is knocked clear out of my lungs and I'm carried through the air. When we hit the wall, I can hardly see it for flying bones.

And my inner ninja? Well, I doubt there's
any
martial arts move for getting out from under half a tonne of bully.

I try to get up anyway, but all I do is free my head enough for Baz to lock his arm around it. I manage to say something, though only just:

‘Crapsticks… cof!'

The sound of the collapsing wall echoes round the chamber. Absurdly, even though my nose is being pressed into the shingle, my attention is caught by something white in the air above. It's the paper plane, still looping around in the cavern.

Then there are footsteps running towards us.

In a flash, Baz leaps up. For a moment I think he's after Brian again, but then I realise it's not that. By the time Commander Lavache has burst into the chamber with the two policemen, Frenchy and the rest of my class just behind, Baz is standing innocently in a corner, pointing at me like he's shocked by the terrible mess I've made.

Lavache strides towards me as I lie in a heap of skeletal ruin, his face a mask of outrage. But before he can say anything, before
anyone
can do
anything
at all, something completely unexpected happens.

Remember Brian's plane? Well, it finally runs out of zoom and stops looping around. It levels gracefully and comes in for landing.

Right into Commander Lavache's left eye.

In any other circumstances this would be hilarious. But it looks as if even desecration of a monument to the dead is not as serious as poking a French police chief in the eye with fancy paper
engineering. I swear, Lavache is almost purple with fury as he snatches the dart and looks wildly about with the other eye.

‘Ooo…. ooo…?' he splutters, a vein throbbing on his forehead. ‘Oo is it oo 'as done zis?'

Thing is, when it comes to paper planes,
everybody
knows oo it is oo 'as done zis.

‘Brian Cabbidge!' shrieks Frenchy Phelps, who leaps forward and grabs Bri by the ear. ‘You and your idiot paper folding! Look what you've done!'

Then, while Brian is still opening and shutting his mouth – no doubt in the hope that something clever will come out to save the situation – one of the policemen grabs him too, and he is marched over to Lavache. The Commander, his hand over his left eye, screws the plane into a ball. Just as Bri looks like he's finally going to speak, Lavache proceeds to demolish him with a torrent of horrible-sounding French. I get to my feet, but everyone seems to have forgotten about me in their eagerness to pour anger and derision onto poor Bri. And all the time, Baz looks on.

‘Hur hur hur.'

Then the Commander announces that 'zis vis-eet is over!' and Brian is led away. Only once does he
look up. He catches my eye and gives me a look of despair. Then he's gone. The rest of us are ushered out past the spilt bones in silence.

I'm about to head for the exit too, musing on how spectacularly badly my attempt to help Brian has gone, when a big beefy hand grabs me by the shoulder and spins me round.

‘That was classic, that was!' says Baz. ‘But before I forget…'

He reaches up, removes my new purple specs, and grinds them into the shingle floor.

‘Aw, don't look so down, spooky boy,' Baz says, before I can speak. He gives me a pretend hug that knocks all the air out of my lungs once again. ‘The best is yet to come, eh?'

Then he lopes off like an ogre who's late for a ballet class.

‘What's that supposed to mean?' I call after him, but all I get in reply is ‘hur hur hur' echoing back down the corridor. And I have no choice but to follow it.

Well, it's all about as bad as it can be for poor Bri. What was I thinking of, trying to deal with Baz with brawn instead of brain? And what exactly did Baz mean by ‘the best is yet to come'.
What
best?

I've got a nervy back-of-the-mind feeling that this disaster isn't over yet, that I've missed something important.

Back upstairs, we can't leave straight away though – there's a queue at the exit. I join it and glance down the line of kids, wondering what the hold-up is. There are more policemen ahead, and beside them, on a desk, is a red velvet cushion with something on it.

It's a small pile of bones.

And everyone is having their pockets and bags searched.

‘People actually steal them?' I say out loud. But then I already knew that, didn't I? How else would Luci and her friends have so many skull candle holders around? It's kind of weird, though, isn't it, stealing bones? And that's when – as I reach the head of the queue myself – I understand with a turn to the stomach what Baz meant by ‘the best is yet to come'.

I try to slip back down the corridor, but it's no good. Everyone can see I'm next and there's nowhere to hide. A policeman's beckoning me over. Baz has got me good and proper this time.

The shoulders sag. I don't even wait to be searched.

I reach into my coat pocket, pull something out and hand it over.

It's an arm bone, one of the ones that got knocked to the ground when Baz torpedoed me into the wall.

And what's the French for ‘I didn't put it there, Honest! It was the class bully, when he pretended to give me a hug!'?

No, I don't know either.

A gloved hand grabs me by the coat and then I'm outside at last, blinking in the sun, being marched toward Brian who is cowering beside a police van. Commander Lavache, holding a hanky over his left eye, lays off shouting at Bri when he sees me coming, but when he hears what was found in my pocket he erupts like Mount Indignant once again.