Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (13 page)

"Not to me, Dad!"

But my cheer is short-lived as the ink changes once more.

The bizarre hangman game has somehow reset itself. I hold it up for the others to see.

"Okay, so we know the identity of the Poltergeist," says Zara. "Now we need to find his residency. Then we can think about banishment."

It sounded like Zara just spoke in a different language.

"Residency?
Banishment? Anyone care to explain?"

"Every ghost has a residency," says Dad. "The place it haunts. We need to find Jack Ketch's residency and send him back to the other side. We need to banish him, for good."

The door to the room is flung open and I instinctively bury the hangman game in my pocket. I spin on my heels, hoping that it's simply a hospital orderly, but fearing it could be Blake. Thankfully, I recognise the dyed-red bobbed hair instantly.

"Kat!"

I couldn't be more relieved to see someone. I throw myself into
Katalina's arms, clenching my eyes tightly to stop the flow of more tears.

"What are you doing here?"

"I keep an eye on your dad. But who been keeping eye on you, Sash?"

She hugs me in the warmest way and kisses the top of my head, then looks beyond to Dad.
"Mr Hunter… you feel better?"

"Ah, yes,
erm much better thanks."

Dad is clearly embarrassed by his apparent miraculous recovery. No doubt
Katalina has sat by his bedside for much of the last few days as he has faked being comatose. I jump as Zara grips my arm; when I see her eyes closed in intense thought I know she's having a premonition.

"Someone is coming."

Aaron skids past the open door, breathless, and grabs its frame to pull himself inside the room.

"Don't worry," I reassure her, "it's only Aaron."

"I'm not talking about Aaron." Zara's eyes are still clenched shut. "Blake is here."

Aaron gasps, trying to speed up his recovery to speak.

"No time for family reunions. Menzies Blake just pulled up outside, and he's brought back-up!"

"
I already know," says Zara. "Let's go."

Dad slides his trousers on underneath his white slip, back-to-front, but with no time to correct them. It's a shame that back-to-front isn't quite as lucky as inside-out. All it achieves is a very convincing impression of an escaped mental asylum patient.

"Katalina, I need your help," says Dad. "Can you wait here and buy us some time?"

"Of course, Mr Hunter.
You well enough to leave?"

"I'm fine."

Dad reassures Katalina with a hug.

"We should go," says Zara anxiously, peering out of the room in both directions. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

Katalina squeezes me once more. "See you soon, Sasha."

The others are already out of the room and racing along the corridor. In the
background, I hear a nurse shouting, then a loud alarm echoes through the building. Over my shoulder I see a group of white-coated orderlies racing behind us, suddenly halted as Katalina rolls a hospital bed across the width of the corridor. Great work, Kat! Hopefully she can hold up Menzies Blake and Ludvig too.

We bolt out of the hospital's service
entrance, looking like four lunatics: Zara, in her dark suit and white doctor's coat, Aaron in his gym-wear, Dad in his hospital slip and trousers, and finally me, still damp from my dip in the pond. Aaron jumps behind Rover's steering wheel.

"Where to,
guvnor?" he asks in a mock London taxi-driver accent.

Zara slips into the passenger
side, none too pleased to see Aaron in the driving seat, as Dad and I belt up in the back.

"Let's go to the place where Jack Ketch did his work," says Dad. "Take us to
Tyburn."

Chapter 1
7

Wednesday 18 September 6:50am

London gradually starts to wake to a new day as Aaron drives us through the heart of the metropolis. We pass along Victorian terraced streets, hidden within the modern skyline where new tower blocks and skyscrapers compete for dominance. The heart of London is rebuilding following the devastation of D-Day's plane crashes, traffic accidents and explosions. Maybe the government thinks that if the heart continues to beat, the rest of the country will recover.

The morning dew settles like sweat over the newly built domed forehead of St Paul's Cathedral. It survived the Blitz during World War Two but fell victim to a raging fire on Dystopia Day. Further on, the low sun shimmers over the mirrored façade of the building known as the Gherkin. It rained glass when it was struck by a malfunctioning crane during the blackout.

My attention turns to the activity inside the car. Zara types furiously onto the screen of her smart phone, scouring the Internet for intelligence on Jack Ketch and Tyburn.

"I'm hungry," moans Aaron. "Any chance we can stop for some breakfast?"

Zara ignores his request and starts to read out the information from her mobile.

"Jack Ketch was appointed public hangman of London in 1663 by King Charles II. He became infamous for the brutal way he performed his duties."

"Sounds nice," I mutter under my breath, feeling sick at the thought of what we're dealing with.

"I'm not hungry anymore," says Aaron grumpily.

"That's what makes this ghost so dangerous," says Dad. "Ghosts are bound by the rules of their Earth lives. It just so happens that Jack Ketch's Earth life involved executing people. "

"He's taken more lives than any serial killer," adds Zara. "This makes him more dangerous than the Ghost of the Ripper that you banished last year."

I stare at Dad in amazement.

"The ghost of Jack the Ripper, the serial killer?"

"Long story," he says, avoiding the subject as usual. "One for another time."

It's always "another time" with Dad. I stare out the window, stewing in my own silence.

"So why are we heading to Tyburn?" asks Aaron.

I'm grateful for the change in subject: the mere thought of Jack Ketch makes me nauseous. Zara relates more information from her mobile.

"It says here that Tyburn was the primary location for the execution of London criminals. Eighteen-foot-high gallows — known as the Tyburn Tree — hung up to twenty-four people at a time. Over fifty thousand people met their death at Tyburn during the time it was used."

On reflection, the change in subject does nothing for my nerves.

"So it was a one-way destination for murderers and thieves," says Aaron.

"Not only dangerous criminals," adds Zara. "Several children were executed in its time."

It's hard to imagine that so many people, including children, lost their lives in such a dreadful way. I'm not exactly looking forward to visiting Tyburn. After all, we're searching for the ghost of Jack Ketch — the original perpetrator of death and misery. I'm not sure whether I feel like the hunter or the hunted.

Zara continues to tap away onto her mobile phone, pulling information from the virtual world. Ever since Dystopia Day, restrictions have been put on what you can access online. Historical material is one of the few areas least affected.
The past is considered "safe", unless you happen to be dealing with a ghost.

"It says here that the site of the gallows lies at the junction of Oxford Street and
Edgeware Road."

"That's west London." Dad knows the city of London inside out thanks to his commitment never to drive. "It's close to Marble Arch."

"Got it," says Aaron, slipping through some traffic lights as they turn red and taking a corner way too fast. "Scream if you wanna go faster!"

He laughs, and it irritates me that I like the sound of his laughter. Boys are such odd creatures sometimes.

+ + +

We edge through the rush-hour traffic, the squat white structure of Marble Arch gazing down at the cars swarming around its base. Giant cranes stalk the London skyline like steel dinosaurs. The physical rebuilding of London may only take a few
years, but the psychological rebuilding could take generations.

We pass along the
northeast edge of Hyde Park, near Speaker's Corner, and park up on a side road on double-yellow lines. Getting a parking ticket is the least of our concerns right now. According to Zara's instructions, a stone marking the spot of the gallows is located on a nearby traffic island.

Oxford Street still has the familiar feel of traditional London and what you'd expect of the busiest shopping street in Europe. It was the scene of mass hysteria on Dystopia Day; people trapped on tube trains and trampling on each other to get out of department stores. It was typical of what happened in every major city around the world that day. People seem to fall into two types in a moment of crisis: those who help others, and those who help themselves. Wherever my mother was that day, I am sure she would have tried to help those around her, probably at her own expense.

I can taste the pollution hanging densely in the air. We fight through the crowds of tourists and commuters and dodge cars and buses to reach the cobbled paved area opposite a cinema. Two workmen appear from a nearby tent-like shelter, removing their hard hats and lighting cigarettes as they cross the road toward a coffee shop. Left alone on the traffic island, we examine the cobbled ground more closely. As described, the spot is marked with an unassuming circular stone. Brushing away leaves and cigarette butts reveals the words "The Site of Tyburn Tree" around its inner circumference. The four of us stand solemnly, looking down at the small stone.

"Is this where the gallows stood?" asks Zara.

"We should check," suggests Dad. "Aaron, would you mind using your Empath skills to verify that this is the correct location?"

Aaron nods and drops to one knee, resting his palms on the small circular stone. He closes his eyes and bows his head. A few seconds pass, then Aaron pulls his hands back suddenly like he's been scalded.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

"So many lost souls calling out.
This is where Jack Ketch did his work. Ugh, I feel sick."

I can see he is troubled by the emotion in his face and my fingers itch to hug him in comfort.

"It makes sense that this area is his residency," says Dad.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"Check the hangman game?" suggests Zara.

I unfold the crinkled paper as the others huddle around and peer down over my shoulder. A new message is written across the top.

"Looks like we're playing a different game," says Zara.

As I stare at the
words, something familiar takes me back to my childhood.

"Hey, I know this one. Dad and I used to play this when I was a little girl. Dad would hide something and I'd have to find it while he gave me clues."

I move away from the stone marker, holding the paper out in front of me. As I near the edge of the traffic island the second of the two words morph from "warmer" to "colder".

"Let's be rational for a moment," says Dad, although "rational" is the last word I'd use to describe this ghostly game of hide-and-seek. "We should treat this like any other paranormal investigation."

"Step one: Reconnaissance. Assess the site."

Aaron's response is delivered in military style.

"Very good, Hart."

Dad seems impressed and Aaron smiles proudly but Zara simply scoffs.

"Spot the field rookie," she teases.

Aaron's smile
fades, clearly a little hurt by her comment.

"I might be new in the
field, but I know what I'm doing."

Aaron has started to intrigue me. Maybe I judged him too quickly? On the surface he's all muscle and
arrogance, but underneath the good looks and bravado is a sensitive young man. Maybe it's because he's an Empath and is so tuned in to other people's emotions that he feels the need to mask his own.

"Come on, let's focus," says Dad, enjoying the role of team leader. "So what have we got around here?"

I do a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation, scanning the area, but failing to identify anything of significance. Zara fixes her eyes on an old church a few hundred yards away.

"What about
Tyburn convent? It must be the oldest surviving building around here."

"Good idea," says Dad. "Religious buildings are always a likely location for afterlife activity."

"Hart and I will go and check it out," says Zara.

Aaron stares longingly at a fast-food restaurant across the road until Zara drags him off by the forearm.

"Come on, Hart, breakfast can wait. Watch and learn."

I watch their backs as they walk away and convince myself that I am not jealous of their time alone together.

As Zara and Aaron head toward the convent, I begin to walk in a slow circle, playing the frustrating game of "colder-warmer" with Jack Ketch via the old yellowed paper. I hop over the gaps between the pavestones out of habit; it's bad luck to step on a crack. Dad stands silently with a
hand gripped to his forehead and a world-weary expression etched on his face.

"We're missing something. I sense we're in the right area, but I can't feel anything."

"What do you mean, Dad?"

I'm desperate to know more about the sixth sense that he and I may share, yet only he understands.

"It's hard to describe, Sash. It feels like we're on a plane, flying over the area we're looking for, but we're high above it."

What's that supposed to mean? I kick a stone in frustration, which rolls over the cobbles and toward the small workman's tent. I wander over
idly, annoyed that I can't win the game I always won as a child. As I approach the work-tent the words on the paper change.

I duck underneath the plastic red and white barriers, too curious for my own good. As I peel back the tent sheeting it reveals an exposed manhole, its circular iron lid pushed back far enough to grant access. Dad joins me at the tent and
when he sets his eyes on the manhole it's a Eureka moment.

"Of course!
This modern road wasn't here hundreds of years ago. We need to go further down." He juts his chin torward the open manhole. "And that's how we get there."             

It's amazing how you can be surrounded by people, yet nobody seems to notice you. London has that ability to provide human camouflage; anonymity within a sea of heads. It's rush hour on London's busiest street yet Dad and I duck inside the small workman's tent without as much as a cursory glance from a passer-by. It's times like this that I'm happy to be small and plain-looking, not one to draw attention.

Dad's eyes widen as he slides the iron cover further back and stares into the dark abyss below the manhole shaft. The yawning hole is pitch-black and smells bad.