Dan and the Dead (3 page)

We turn into a back alley and stop beside a rusty metal door. According to Si, this is the back of Carl Bagport's club. It smells bad enough for a scumbag's dive at any rate. I try the door but of course it's locked.

‘Allow me,' says Simon, and he reaches into the lock and does his party trick.

Mostly the dead are completely helpless, but Simon's been around a few hundred years and he's learnt a thing or two. There's a slight scraping from inside the lock, and then a satisfying ‘slunk' as the barrels tumble. Simon turns and bows low. I do one half of a high five all by myself – don't worry, no one's watching – and then open the door.

Inside it's about as scuzzy as it can get. There are boxes of crisps and booze, all damp and collapsing, and a manky armchair in one corner surrounded by about a million fag ends and crushed beer cans. On
the other side is a door, but this time Simon's not needed.

Outside in the corridor there's stairs going up, and here the red carpet begins. I creep up, silent on my fat heels, and stick my head round the door at the top. The room inside is all mirrors and gold gilt and plush furnishings, and no end of shiny knick-knacks. It's like a French lady's boudoir, only with a strong smell of Eau de Wide Boy aftershave and cigarettes. And I hear voices.

There's a man behind an enormous white desk, his feet up and his hands behind his head. Bagport. His tan's so fake he's almost orange, and his hair's as golden as the horrible furniture. He's talking at some scared-looking kid standing opposite him. I reckon he's a bit younger than me, this kid. He's emptying his pockets while Bagport's yacking on about being Mr Big, but I haven't come here to be a spectator. I walk straight in.

‘Barbie's on the phone,' I say, looking round the glitzy room, ‘and she wants her stuff back.'

There's a moment of astonished silence, then our man Bagport's on his feet.

‘What the…?' he shouts. ‘Who are you? How the hell did you get in here?'

‘I've come for Emeline,' I say, and he looks at me like I'm crazy.

‘Emeline? You mean that stupid bint who went under a bus? Give me a break!'

But I don't give him a break. I give him one of my special mystic looks and place my fingertips together. I can see he's about to start shouting again, so I give him my ‘I see dead people' speech too.

He's not impressed.

‘Get out of here now, kid, or the only dead person round here will be you.'

They usually say something like this, and it's Simon's cue to get busy. Peering over my purple glasses I lift my hand and point at Bagport's head, like I'm Darth Vader or something. Simon, who has taken up his invisible position just behind the desk, reaches one ghostly hand into Bagport's neck and applies the same pressure that opened the lock to close the blood vessels to the man's brain. It only takes a moment before Mr Big's reaching for his head and gasping. Then he's out cold on the floor, a look of disbelief frozen on his face.

The kid's out of the room in like one second flat.

‘Shame you weren't here to see that, Ems,' I say. ‘But I'm saving the best till last.'

Then I step over Bagport's sleeping body, sit down at the desk, and fire up his computer.

It's not going at all badly until it goes totally wrong. I'm sitting there at Bagport's computer, hacking past his feeble security measures, crawling all over his hard drive like a monkey on a cupcake, when I hear a click behind me. And it's a shame, that click, because it's all there: photos, orders, and enough incriminating evidence to make sure Bagsy gets busted big style. Yeah, some of the kids he's got working for him'll get into hot water too, but that's
what Social Services are for, right? I mean, they're
kids
. Anyway, there I am, downloading the lot, when I hear that click.

It's Bagport. They almost never wake up as quick as that, and it's a pity Bagport does, because the man's only got a gun, hasn't he?

‘Geagh…' he says, struggling to focus, but with his gun pointed right at me. That probably means ‘stick 'em up' or something – we all watch the same TV – so I lean back from the keyboard and stick 'em up as high as I can. Well, I'm not stupid, am I? I glance over at Simon, but Si's gone whiter than a seagull dropping, and he's hopping from one foot to another in old-fashioned distress, saying ‘Zooks!' over and over.

If I'm Batman, then Si's definitely Robin.

Bagport coughs his voice back as he stands, keeping the gun on me all the time. Then he lunges forward, pressing it into the back of my head.

‘You snivelling little runt!' he spits out. ‘I don't know how you did that, but I'm gonna make you wish you hadn't.'

Obviously, this is when Ems decides to drop in and see how the dynamic duo's getting on.

‘What's happening?' she says, then she stops, amazed at the sight before her. ‘Oh.'

Simon's too busy chewing his wig to speak, so it's up to me to reassure our client.

‘S'okay, Ems,' I manage to get out, even though my cheek's pressed into the computer screen. ‘S'all under control.'

‘What kind of sicko are you?' Bagport's hand is shaking now, which means his trigger finger'll be getting twitchy too. ‘There's no one here!' And then he seems to realize something, and chuckles darkly. ‘Hey, who knows that
you're
here?'

I glance at Si, and Si looks back. I know exactly what's going on in his mind.

You see, we've been over this whole question time and again, me and Si. What if someone pulled a gun on me? Would it be curtains for our hero? Or would Si be quick enough with his party trick to stop the firing pin? Simon's always said ‘Yes, probably, yes,' and yes is a good answer.

It's the ‘probably' part that bothers me.

But I know and Si knows that he's already done his trick twice in the last few minutes, and whatever spooky battery Si uses to move stuff with his mind gets flat pretty quick. And a gun's a gun, after all. Right now, I'm guessing I can't even count on ‘probably'.

Looks like it's up to me.

‘Now, Mr Bagport,' I say. ‘Don't go making another ghost. I'd've thought having Ems haunting you'd be enough.'

‘Oh, cut the crap,' says Bagport. ‘Who sent you?'

‘It's Ems. I told you. She's standing right there.' And I manage to tip my head towards the part of the room where Simon is still wringing his ghostly hands and Ems is shaking her head like she knew I was a doofus all along. I don't like her looking at me like that, but I'm too busy noticing something else to really mind: the memory stick is still in the computer, and I don't think Bagport's spotted it. Yet. I've got to keep him talking.

‘Emeline!' I cry, in my spookiest voice. ‘Give us a sign!'

The ghost of Ems puts her hands on her hips. Instead of a sign she gives me that ‘what-have-I-stepped-in?' look girls do so well, but that's okay because it's really Si I'm talking to. And fortunately, Si's finally getting it together.

There's a poncy great chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, and concentrating as hard as he can, Si manages to set it swinging with the last of his spirit powers. As the light turns and the shadows dance weirdly about, I hear Bagport gasp and swear and
step back in surprise. I grab the USB stick, yank it out, and stuff it in my shoe.

‘Behold, the sign!' I really love doing the spooky voice.

‘Impossible!' Bagport's crouching back, waving his gun at the swinging chandelier. ‘It's not possible!' But I don't hang around to argue. I'm up and running across the room.

The man shouts after me, swearing like Captain Potty Mouth, and I half expect to hear the gun go off, but I'm banking on him not wanting to make all that noise now, not without the back of my head as a silencer. Instead he's blundering after me as I slide down the banister. When I skid into the storeroom, there's some geezer there, lighting up, but he's not expecting a pale kid in purple glasses and a death's head coat, is he? I barge him down, and then Bagsy trips over him, and before you can say ‘scarper' I'm out and pelting down the back alley in a storm of wheelie bins.

It's only when I'm about a mile away and hiding in a skip that I reach into my shoe and find the USB stick's gone.

‘Zooking hell!'

‘A right pair of numpties, you are!'

It's the next day and we're in the toilets, the ones behind the school swimming pool. No one uses them, except me when I need to talk to Si, only today Ems is there too. And I'm not so worried about being caught talking to myself right now, because with Ems I can hardly get a word in edgeways.

‘I wanted revenge!' she's shouting. ‘Not Chuckles the clown and his dancing newt! And what does
“zooks” mean anyway? No, don't answer that, Frilly Knickers! Just tell me what you're going to do about it. God, if there was only someone else who could see me…'

‘Ems,' I say into a gap. ‘Ems, it's just a setback! We'll get him, don't worry. It's just going to take a bit longer than we thought, that's all.'

‘It was most unfortunate that Bagport was armed,' Simon puts in. ‘I should have searched him first. Emeline, please don't be angry with Daniel. The blame lies with me.'

‘Okay,' I say, before Ems can throw in any more insults. ‘Coolio. I'm thinking the memory stick's still the way forward. It's got everything we need on it. It must've fallen out when I was, er…'

‘Running like a chicken in Kentucky?' suggests Ems helpfully.

‘A chicken who'll live to cluck another day,' I reply. ‘Which is more than I can say for you two. Anyway, I don't think Bagport even knew there
was
a memory stick. We'll go back tonight and look for it.'

‘He'll catch you,' Ems says. ‘I know him. He won't let this go. If you go back there, he'll catch you.'

‘Nah,' I say. ‘It's all good. We'll find the stick and send it to the police with a note. The job's as good as jobbed.'

So it's agreed. Well, Ems doesn't have much choice does she, because who else is there? Psychic kids and gentleman ghosts don't exactly advertise in the Yellow Pages.

The meeting breaks up and I'm going back to class super slow (algebra'll do that to your feet) when I turn a corner and come face to face with the Harris. I try and moonwalk back round, but it's no good, he's seen me. That's more than you can say for Mrs Chalmsworth, though. I bump into her coming the other way.

‘Be careful!' hoots Mrs C. ‘But… oh yes, Daniel Dyer – I've been meaning to talk to you.'

The Harris stops to listen. I've got corduroy to the left of me and drama teacher swirls to the right, and suddenly being shouted at by Ems doesn't seem so bad.

‘Is the boy bothering you?' says the Harris, fixing his beady eye on me. But he's out of luck, because probably the only person in the school who isn't bothered by me is Mrs C. Mrs C actually likes me. I wonder if it's the purple glasses.

‘Not at all, he's just the person I wanted to see,' she honks in a voice that could bring down light aircraft. ‘Now, Daniel, have you had time to consider the school show?'

I have had time to consider it, and I consider that not even a basket of rap star gold and a slice of unicorn pie could get me on stage at the school show. I'm just rounding my lips to say ‘No freakin' way,' when the voice sweeps over me again.

‘Oh, I'm so glad! I knew I could count on you!'

‘But – '

‘It's the freestyle slot I'm having the most trouble with. No one wants to go on and improvise, though I can't think why. But a short act with you and your imaginary friends, and perhaps a little trick or two, would be just perfect.'

‘Him? On stage?' The Harris is aghast, but a look from Mrs C wipes him out.