by the fact that its re-joined halves didn’t quite match, giving it a grotesquely lopsided appearance. ‘
I’m disappointed
,’ it whispered, ‘
that you didn’t heed my warning. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death – that’s what I said. Problem is: you’re stupid, Lucy. You’re blind to the evidence around you
.’
Far off in the kitchen I could hear the clink of cutlery. I moistened my lips. ‘That claptrap means nothing to me.’
The voice gave a groan. ‘
What, you want me to draw you a picture? Use your eyes and ears! Use your intelligence, girl. No one else can do it. You’re on your own
.’
I shook my head, as much to clear my brain as anything. Here I was, hands on hips, arguing with a face in a jar. ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not alone. I have my friends.’
‘
What, fat George? Deceitful Lockwood?
’ The face crinkled with merriment. ‘
Ooh yes, brilliant. What a team
.’
‘Deceitful . . .?’ Up until then there had been something almost hypnotic about the voice; I’d found it impossible to disregard. All at once the gloating quality of the whisper repulsed me. I backed away across the room.
‘
Don’t look so shocked
,’ the voice said. ‘
Secretive, deceitful. You know it’s true.
’
I laughed at the ludicrousness of it. ‘I know no such thing.’
‘
So go on, then
,’ came the whisper. ‘
There’s a door, it’s got hinges. Use them
.’
Too right I would. Suddenly I needed company; I needed the others. I didn’t want to be alone with the gleeful voice.
I crossed the room. My fingers reached for the handle.
‘
Speaking of doors, I saw you once on the upstairs landing. Standing outside the forbidden room. You were dying to go through, weren’t you?
’
I halted. ‘No . . .’
‘
Good job you didn’t. You’d never have left alive
.’
It was as if the floor beneath my feet tilted slightly. ‘No,’ I said again. ‘No.’ I fumbled for the handle, began to turn it.
‘
There are other things in this house to fear, besides me
.’
‘Lockwood! George!’ I wrenched the door open and found myself roaring the words right into their astonished faces. Lockwood was so surprised he spilled half his cocoa on the rug in the hall; George, who was carrying the tray, manfully juggled the crisps and sandwiches. I ushered them both inside.
‘It’s talking!’ I cried. ‘The jar is! Look! Listen!’
I gestured urgently at the glass. Needless to say, the ghost said nothing. Needless to say, the face was gone; the plasm hung there, dull and still, as interesting and active as muddy rainwater in a jam jar. In the centre of the mess, I could see the teeth of the skull grinning dimly between the metal clamps.
My shoulders sagged. I took a deep breath. ‘It was talking,’ I said limply. ‘
Really
talking to me. If you’d been here a minute earlier . . .’ I scowled at them, as if it was their fault they’d missed out.
They said nothing, just stood there. With the tip of his little finger, George nudged a sandwich back into position. Finally Lockwood moved across and put the mugs down on the table. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a splash of cocoa from his hand.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.
I stared at the grinning skull. Rage filled me. I took a swift step forward. If Lockwood hadn’t put out a hand, I believe I would have kicked that jar right across the room.
‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. ‘We believe you.’
I ran a harassed hand through my hair. ‘Good.’
‘Sit down. Have some food and cocoa.’
‘OK.’ I did so. We all did. After a while I said: ‘It was like the first time, down in the cellar. It just started talking. We had a conversation.’
‘A real back-and-forth conversation?’ Lockwood said. ‘A real Type Three?’
‘Definitely.’
‘So what was it like?’ George asked.
‘It was . . . irritating.’ I glared at the quiescent jar.
He nodded slowly. ‘Only, Marissa Fittes said that
I’m disappointed
,’ it whispered, ‘
that you didn’t heed my warning. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death – that’s what I said. Problem is: you’re stupid, Lucy. You’re blind to the evidence around you
.’
Far off in the kitchen I could hear the clink of cutlery. I moistened my lips. ‘That claptrap means nothing to me.’
The voice gave a groan. ‘
What, you want me to draw you a picture? Use your eyes and ears! Use your intelligence, girl. No one else can do it. You’re on your own
.’
I shook my head, as much to clear my brain as anything. Here I was, hands on hips, arguing with a face in a jar. ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not alone. I have my friends.’
‘
What, fat George? Deceitful Lockwood?
’ The face crinkled with merriment. ‘
Ooh yes, brilliant. What a team
.’
‘Deceitful . . .?’ Up until then there had been something almost hypnotic about the voice; I’d found it impossible to disregard. All at once the gloating quality of the whisper repulsed me. I backed away across the room.
‘
Don’t look so shocked
,’ the voice said. ‘
Secretive, deceitful. You know it’s true.
’
I laughed at the ludicrousness of it. ‘I know no such thing.’
‘
So go on, then
,’ came the whisper. ‘
There’s a door, it’s got hinges. Use them
.’
Too right I would. Suddenly I needed company; I needed the others. I didn’t want to be alone with the gleeful voice.
I crossed the room. My fingers reached for the handle.
‘
Speaking of doors, I saw you once on the upstairs landing. Standing outside the forbidden room. You were dying to go through, weren’t you?
’
I halted. ‘No . . .’
‘
Good job you didn’t. You’d never have left alive
.’
It was as if the floor beneath my feet tilted slightly. ‘No,’ I said again. ‘No.’ I fumbled for the handle, began to turn it.
‘
There are other things in this house to fear, besides me
.’
‘Lockwood! George!’ I wrenched the door open and found myself roaring the words right into their astonished faces. Lockwood was so surprised he spilled half his cocoa on the rug in the hall; George, who was carrying the tray, manfully juggled the crisps and sandwiches. I ushered them both inside.
‘It’s talking!’ I cried. ‘The jar is! Look! Listen!’
I gestured urgently at the glass. Needless to say, the ghost said nothing. Needless to say, the face was gone; the plasm hung there, dull and still, as interesting and active as muddy rainwater in a jam jar. In the centre of the mess, I could see the teeth of the skull grinning dimly between the metal clamps.
My shoulders sagged. I took a deep breath. ‘It was talking,’ I said limply. ‘
Really
talking to me. If you’d been here a minute earlier . . .’ I scowled at them, as if it was their fault they’d missed out.
They said nothing, just stood there. With the tip of his little finger, George nudged a sandwich back into position. Finally Lockwood moved across and put the mugs down on the table. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a splash of cocoa from his hand.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.
I stared at the grinning skull. Rage filled me. I took a swift step forward. If Lockwood hadn’t put out a hand, I believe I would have kicked that jar right across the room.
‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. ‘We believe you.’
I ran a harassed hand through my hair. ‘Good.’
‘Sit down. Have some food and cocoa.’
‘OK.’ I did so. We all did. After a while I said: ‘It was like the first time, down in the cellar. It just started talking. We had a conversation.’
‘A real back-and-forth conversation?’ Lockwood said. ‘A real Type Three?’
‘Definitely.’
‘So what was it like?’ George asked.
‘It was . . . irritating.’ I glared at the quiescent jar.
He nodded slowly. ‘Only, Marissa Fittes said that
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