Chapter 107

THE GHOST

“Do you want me to drive?” said Jasmine.

Spencer said, “I can do it.”

“Well, you can’t. You’ve had five goes, and you’ve stalled it every time.”

“You’re ten—”

“Eleven and a half, and my mum’s going to get killed.”

Jasmine was trying to be calm. Inside, she was frantic, but her voice remained steady and she wasn’t shouting or screaming. She was doing her best to concentrate. But it was difficult for many reasons. First, the car was stolen, and the owner could storm out of his house any second. Second, Spencer didn’t have a clue what he was doing, and letting him drive might be dangerous. Third, she might never see her mother again.

Finally, Spencer got going. The car jerked and jumped a lot, but they made it to Commercial Street. It was late at night, but pedestrians and traffic still made the road busy.

“Which way, then?” said Spencer.

She pointed right, and Spencer joined the traffic. He drove nervously. He was sweating, Jasmine could smell it. But she tried her best to ignore him. Her heart was about to explode. She trembled but tried to master her fear.

If she lost her cool, she would lose her mum.

Jasmine knew what being psychic meant. Everyone at school believed in it. Why shouldn’t it be true? Why shouldn’t she be one? Some girls had mums who were mediums or clairvoyants. One girl had a mum who ran a New Age shop selling crystals and tarot cards and incense. So it was obvious that being psychic was possible. Jasmine had never thought it was possible for her.

But it was.

I’m special, she thought. I’m gifted.

A little voice inside kept trying to say she wasn’t special. But she had to believe she was. She had to believe she could see things with her mind.

She could see evil.

She gasped for breath. Spencer drove badly. Cars horns blared. A cabbie mouthed “wanker” at him. But he kept going, licking his lips and whimpering.

Jasmine closed her eyes and concentrated. In her mind, she trawled the streets. Somewhere in the distance, darkness waited for her. She could sense it. The coldness of it made her shake. The blackness of it made her sweat.

Something that felt like electricity suddenly flooded her veins, and she opened her eyes. On the left stood a pub. It was the Ten Bells. It looked rough.

Jasmine’s heart thundered.

“Stop here,” she said to Spencer.

“Here?” he said.

They were in the middle of the road.

Before he could do anything, she started to open the door. He shouted at her not to. The car veered to the right. The door flew open. Jasmine rolled out, hitting the asphalt hard. She jarred her shoulder, and it hurt for a second, but she quickly forgot the pain and leapt to her feet.

Spencer ran the car into the side of a bus. Everyone was shouting and screaming. Horns wailed. Tires skidded. Curses flew. Jasmine kept going, entering Fournier Street, which ran alongside the Ten Bells.

She sensed the havoc she’d left behind. Spencer was caught in the middle of it. She felt sorry for him, but her mother was more important. She never turned back to look.

Although she had no idea where she was going, Jasmine started to head down Fournier Street.

But as she went, ghosts appeared.

She stopped in her tracks, terrified.

Despite the shouts and screams filling Commercial Street as a result of Spencer’s accident, her eyes were locked on another unreal scene of chaos.

There was a riot. But it was silent. And those fighting were transparent.

They were ghosts.

They wore old-fashioned clothes. Men with cloth caps battled with big, burly policemen. Women with long dresses and hats clawed at each other. Fists and boots flew.

Jasmine stepped forward, and it was as if she walked right through the figures.

They’re not here, she thought. Only in my mind.

It scared her. And when she moved into the brawl, she could feel the ghosts pass through her—cold and clammy in her bones and blood.

A man bleeding from beneath his flat cap knelt over a policeman. The copper was big, with red whiskers. His eyes were wide and glittery, and his mouth was open, panting for breath. The bleeding man pressed something into the officers belly, and Jasmine heard him say, “Keep your hands there.”

Then he leapt to his feet, a knife in his hand. He spun round, ready to escape the scene.

But he looked straight at Jasmine and stopped.

She was frozen to the spot. He stared right at her. He was seeing her, she could tell. His eyes flashed. He reached out a hand to her. She reached out to him. It was as if Jasmine knew the man. She felt a connection with him. She felt like she was part of him.

He said, “Go and save her, little seer.”

And then he ran past her, looking into her eyes. She turned, her gaze following the ghost, and he headed into Commercial Street, where he faded away. Jasmine faced the brawl again, wondering if the policeman was all right. But he, like the ghost who spoke to her, had gone. They had all gone. Just Fournier Street with its cars and its buildings remained.

The ghosts voice echoed in her head.

Go save her, little seer.

Jasmine turned and ran back into Commercial Street and through the chaos left by Spencer.