AFTER NEARLY AN HOUR OF TRAMPING through the old grim streets around St Fell’s, during which Felicity neither spoke to Molly nor picked up a single piece of litter, Molly wanted to throw her rubbish bag in the air and scream.
Then, at last, trudging past the apothecaries on narrow, steep Hesperus Street, Molly got so tangled in dark daydreams about pushing Felicity Quick down a well that an accident became inevitable. She tripped over a cobble and sent her bin-bag flying. Litter spewed forth and tumbled down the hilly street; Molly put out her palms to stop her head from bouncing off the road, and skinned them raw. She squealed with pain and frustration. The northern hills ahead looked down on her.
Felicity merely tutted and said, “Why d’you have to be so flipping clumsy?”
Molly got up and retrieved her grabber. She stuffed a fallen sweet wrapper into her bin liner. “Why don’t you help me?”
“My granddad’s going to find out about his housing development next week, and I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be bad news – so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t feel like helping the brat who’s ruined my family. Anyway, I’m too busy planning how I’m going to kill your cat. My dad’s a locksmith, so I might just use his tools to break into your hotel at night. I know how. I’ve broken into places before.”
“Why are you so mean?” Molly snapped, fighting the urge to cry. “Why did you turn mean?”
Felicity’s face bloomed purple. She marched forwards and gave Molly a shove; it was all Molly could do not to fall over. “Me? What about you! Nasty, nosy Molly Thompson with her miserable little scowl, snooping around in everyone’s business, starting rumours, not caring who gets hurt by her evil investigations! My granddad’s almost mad with fear, you horrible toad! He thinks he’s going to lose everything, and—”
“Hey! Felicity!”
Molly and Felicity turned to see Belinda and another of Felicity’s hound-like friends arriving with their rubbish bags from the direction of the cider orchards. “We finished quickly so we could go to the café. Are you coming? I reckon Thompson here has everything under control.”
“Definitely,” sniffed Felicity, slinging her empty bin-bag at Molly. “In fact, I think she could probably handle a bit more rubbish.”
Belinda took the hint. Grinning, she opened one of her bin-bags and dumped the rubbish over the cobbles. Gleefully Felicity’s other follower followed suit, emptying her bags along the street. Then, tittering like imps, they tore away, leaving Molly standing on Hesperus Street, stunned.
Nasty, nosy little Molly Thompson.
Snooping around, starting rumours, not caring who she hurts.
Was that how people saw her?
She remembered Furlock’s words: I can see why the people of this town despise you.
Suddenly somebody behind her spoke.
“At least they left the bin-bags.”
Molly jumped, dropped her bag, whirled around and found herself nose-to-nose with a boy in a parka jacket. He was standing lopsided on account of the heavy, moth-munched cloth satchel hanging from one shoulder. The fur-lined hood of the coat was up, the drawstring pulled so tight that his facial features were squashed together. He picked up the fallen bag and handed it to her.
“Carl! What are you doing sneaking up?”
“I need to talk to you,” said Carl, loosening the drawstring so that his face expanded. He rubbed his bright, hopeless eyes and nodded towards the top of the road, in the direction of Sibyl Hill. “I was just coming down Phosphorus Street and I saw you.”
Molly picked up a fallen bin-bag and began clearing up rubbish. “It’s Hesperus Street,” she said. “Not Phosphorus Street.”
Carl adjusted his satchel, grabbed a couple of the discarded bin-bags and joined Molly in her efforts. He picked up a torn chunk of bicycle tyre. “Haven’t you ever read the sign at the top? The road has a different name depending which way you go.”
Molly said, “I’ve never been that way.”
“You’ve never been to the end of this road?”
“No, Carl! Why is that such a shock? It’s a big town, you know.”
Carl shrugged and bagged a well-wrung toothpaste tube. “I thought you’d been everywhere and knew everything.”
“Well, I haven’t, and I don’t,” Molly said, reaching for a crisp packet with her grabber. A breeze puffed it away and she gave a grunt of annoyance.
Carl followed Molly as she tracked the fleeing crisp bag.
“Your dad’s up there, isn’t he? In Howlfair Old Cemetery?”
Molly tripped. The crisp packet escaped. “Yeah,” she said.
“My folks are up there too.” He looked to the hills. “I like it up there. It’s nice.”
“I’ve never been,” muttered Molly, stabbing ineffectually at some rubbish with the grabber.
“What, you’ve never—”
“I don’t see the point in visiting ugly bits of stone with writing on them,” she snapped – and then she flushed with sudden shame. “But I’m, um, sorry to hear about your parents…”
“It’s OK. I understand. About not wanting to visit the grave.”
Now Molly felt wretched again. She struggled to soften her face. “How long have you, um, been without them? Your parents?”
“They died in an accident when I was three,” Carl said, shrugging. “I’ve always had these amazingly clear memories of them, though. Really nice memories.”
“That’s good.”
“But one day at school I was telling a friend about my parents, and she started laughing and said that I was describing some parents from an old children’s television programme. And she was right. Somehow I’d taken some grown-ups off the telly and put them in my memories. I realized that I don’t remember my real parents at all. My friend thought it was hilarious.” Carl looked utterly bleak. “I suppose it is.”
“No, it’s not,” said Molly, angry. “And even if it was, your so-called friend didn’t have to laugh.”
Carl shuffled and shrugged again. “I gave up on having friends that day. I decided to stick to drawing comics. People can seem nice, but they’re usually nasty.” He stared at his shoes. “Then sometimes a person who seems nasty turns out to be the only person who gives a damn about you.”
Molly took a breath. “You mean Benton Furlock?”
Carl stamped on a drinks carton and put it in the bag. “He was at yours, wasn’t he, when you came to Mr Wetherill’s shop? He was at your guesthouse.”
“Yeah,” frowned Molly. “How do you know?”
“We all heard the commotion that night – the dog barking and running off with its chain, and Mr Furlock legging it off into the town. He came back afterwards and told us not to worry. He said that he’d chased off an intruder and that he was going to visit the young scallywag’s mother in the morning.”
“He actually said scallywag?”
Carl nodded. “He may also have called you a scapegrace.”
“A scapegrace? Whoa.”
“And a rapscallion. Anyway, that’s why I told you to go home.”
“But why would you want to warn me?”
“Dunno,” shrugged Carl, stooping to arrest the fugitive crisp packet. “I felt like I should.” He drew something invisible on the road with his foot. “And I just want it to end. I don’t want to help Mr Furlock any more.”
“Want what to end? How are you helping him?”
“I used to think he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Now I’m not sure. But I can’t escape. I owe him a lot, but I’m also scared of him.” He looked up. “I’m even more scared of him than I am of you.”
“I don’t want you to be scared of me!”
Carl snorted. “‘Maybe you and Mr Furlock can share a cell in prison’,” he quoted, affecting Molly’s tone. “‘You’ll wish you’d helped me instead of covering up for your precious Mr Furlock…’”
Molly picked up a milk carton and bagged it.
She thought: Nasty, nosy little Molly Thompson, not caring who gets hurt…
“I shouldn’t have tried to scare you,” she said at last. “I’m sorry.”
Carl seemed surprised by her apology. “Well … OK,” he frowned. “But listen, whatever it is that you know about him—”
“I don’t know anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was bluffing,” Molly confessed. “I accidentally found a letter from Mrs Quincy to Mrs Fullsway and it mentioned you and it mentioned ghouls and it mentioned something bad that’s going to happen, but I don’t know how the pieces fit together.” She picked up a crushed can. “I will find out, though, eventually. I don’t give up. If you let bad things hide in the dark, they grow stronger and stronger. I learned that from horror novels.”
Carl nodded almost imperceptibly and chewed his lip. “I never thought of it like that,” he said. “Listen, Molly, something awful’s happened.”
“Hey, hey!” came a shout. Carl jumped and grabbed Molly, then released her, embarrassed. They both turned to see Lowry climbing the steep street, holding a carrier bag that Molly could see contained books. “I thought I’d come and help you,” Lowry called. She drew near, looking miffed. “Turns out you’re here canoodling with the enemy.”
“We were just talking,” said Molly. “And he’s not the enemy.”
“If you say so,” said Lowry coldly. “Either way, it looks like I’m not needed after all.”
“Lowry, don’t be silly.”
“No, no, it’s fine, I understand. I’ll be off. You’ve got Carl to talk to, and Mr Wetherill, and then there’s your real best friend, Gabriel the wonder-cat.”
“At least Gabriel believes me about the ghouls!”
“Gabriel’s a cat, Molly. He doesn’t believe anything. That’s like me saying that at least Sheila the bull terrier believes me about the Kroglin Werewolf. Which she does, by the way.”
“Hey, maybe Sheila’s the Kroglin Werewolf!” Molly cried. “Makes as much sense.”
Carl cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me, but could you two stop bickering for five minutes?”
Lowry turned to Carl. “Grobman, what are you doing?”
Molly looked. Silent, grim-faced, Carl was pushing up the sleeve of his jacket.
Then he peeled off the grubby bandage that Molly and Lowry had spied in Mr Wetherill’s Weaponry Store.
“Satan’s socks!” Lowry cried. “What’s that?”
Carl’s flesh bore a curious black mark.
“Carl, did Benton Furlock do this?” Molly said.
Miserably, shamefully, Carl nodded. Something like sickness rose up in Molly. “Have you told anyone about this? Mr Wetherill? Or Mrs de Ville?”
“No.”
“What about your friends?”
“I don’t have any,” shrugged Carl.
“We’re your friends now,” Molly said. “And you have to tell us everything. I promise that—”
“I found out today about Mr Cromble,” Carl blurted.
“Stan?” said Molly, her innards suddenly roiling with dread. “I saw him yesterday. Carl, what’s happened to Stan Cromble?”
Carl looked like he was going to cry. “He’s in hospital. They’re not sure if he’s going to make it. He burnt himself. It was an accident with a deep-fat fryer.”
“Oh no!” cried Molly. “Poor Stan!”
“The thing is, it was all my fault,” sniffed Carl.
“How could it be your fault?” Lowry asked.
Carl just stared and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“Let’s drop off these bags and head to the Circuit,” said Molly. “I know the perfect place to share secrets.”