Charlie Bone and the Invisible Boy Read online

  “There’s always room for another spy,” said Charlie thoughtfully. “And Billy might not be any use to them, now that we all know. Besides, I feel kind of sorry for Billy, being an orphan and having to live in that dark old building all the time. Never going home, ever. Imagine!”

  “Can’t,” Gabriel admitted with a shiver. “See you tomorrow, Charlie!”

  Gabriel loped away with a gerbil clinging to a clump of his floppy hair. It looked so funny Charlie couldn’t help smiling, but then his thoughts turned to Belle and his smile faded.

  On Sundays, when most children were spending a comfortable night at home, Billy Raven roamed the dark passages and empty grounds of Bloor’s Academy. The only other child in the building was Manfred Bloor, but he was now eighteen, hardly a child, and on weekends he shut himself away in the west wing with his father and old Ezekiel, his great-grandfather.

  Sometimes, if Billy gave Manfred an interesting piece of news, something about Charlie Bone, for instance, Manfred would reward him with a bar of chocolate. And if he did what Mr. Ezekiel asked, the ancient man would give Billy a late-night mug of cocoa.

  Today was Billy’s eighth birthday, but so far no one had remembered. Last year Cook had made him a cake, but the Bloors had let the day pass without so much as a “Happy birthday, Billy!”

  You might wonder how Billy knew it was his birthday; after all, no one had spoken of it since he was a year old. Billy knew because the date was fixed firmly in his head. He knew because the animals knew, and they had told him.

  Billy was a baby when his parents died. He was brought up by an aunt who was kind but strict. When Billy was two, a beautiful cake had arrived in the mail. The aunt’s dog ate it, candles and all. For this the dog was beaten, and so was the cat, for good measure.

  On May fourth, when Billy was three, the dog and the cat said, “Cake day, Billy!” But no cake arrived. The same thing happened when Billy was four and five. By this time, out of the aunt’s hearing, Billy and the animals had been having long conversations. When Billy turned six, he said to the aunt, “Am I going to get a cake today?”

  The aunt said, “Who told you that it was your birthday?”

  “The dog and the cat,” said Billy.

  The aunt gaped at him. At last she said, “You can talk to animals, then?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Billy, thinking that this was something everyone could do. “I talk to them a lot.”

  The aunt said no more, but the very next week, Billy was sent to Bloor’s Academy.

  He felt lonely in the dark, massive building. He kept getting lost, and he began to think that people were trying to keep things from him. They didn’t want him to know who he really was. Cook was kind, though, and he often talked to the dog, Blessed, an old fat creature with a hairless tail.

  Blessed might have been ugly, but Billy loved him all the same. The old dog always had time to listen to him.

  Last semester Billy had kicked Blessed, but he hadn’t meant to. It had just happened and Billy regretted it bitterly. Blessed wouldn’t speak to him, and there were only the mice and an occasional rat to talk to. Mice were boring; they were only interested in food and babies. Rats were better. Mr. Boldova had a rat that told jokes. Its name was Rembrandt.

  Today Mr. Boldova had taken Rembrandt for a walk. Billy wondered where they had gone. Hoping for a treat of some kind he began to make his way to the top of the west wing, where Mr. Ezekiel lived. The old man had a huge, musty room crammed with ancient stuff: urns and pots, bones and swords, and jars full of dead things. Mr. Ezekiel was a magician but not a very good one.

  Billy had just reached the top of a rickety staircase when he heard a scream. He peered down the long gaslit passage that led to Mr. Ezekiel’s room. Something was coming toward him: a short fat dog howling its head off.

  “Blessed!” Billy grunted in the dog’s language. “What’s the matter?”

  “Tail! Tail!” cried Blessed. “Tail hurt!”

  The old dog rushed up to Billy. “Can you see?” he begged.

  Blessed used to have an ugly bald tail. What he had today was even worse. A tiny pink stub stuck out from his bottom.

  “Not much tail left, I’m afraid,” said Billy. “What happened?”

  “Snake,” said Blessed. “Blue snake. Blessed bit snake. Mr. Zeke said no. Snake squeezed tail. Blessed ran.”

  “Looks like he bit it off,” Billy observed.

  “No, no, no! Tail still there,” whined Blessed. “Squashed. Squeezed. Hurt.”

  “Honestly, it’s not there,” said Billy.

  “Liar!” cried Blessed. “Tell Cook.”

  Billy didn’t like the sound of this blue snake. He decided to give Mr. Ezekiel a pass. He would go and look for Cook instead.

  Billy would never forget his eighth birthday. He didn’t get a card or a present. He didn’t even reach Cook in her kitchen. Something happened on his way there. He was walking across the landing above the entrance hall when the new girl, Belle, appeared. She came from the small door that led to the music tower. Almost at the same time, Mr. Boldova walked out of the green coatroom at the other end of the hall.

  The girl and the art teacher stared at each other for some time. All at once, Belle said, “Good evening, Samuel Sparks.”

  The art teacher said, “And you are …?”

  “No prizes for guessing who I am,” cackled Belle. Her voice was old and deep.

  “Yolanda,” the teacher whispered as if he was afraid of the name.

  “Yesssss!” The girl flung out her arms, and as she did this a veil of gray, like thin smoke, began to swirl around her body. “Now you see me, now you don’t,” she snickered.

  “I can see you, unfortunately,” muttered the art teacher.

  “Sad Samuel. You’ve come to find your little brother, haven’t you? Well, you never will.” Belle was changing shape. White hairs drizzled into the blonde curls, her pretty features stretched and sagged, and she was growing taller and taller. Now she was an ancient woman with yellow skin that hung in folds beneath her chin and a huge crag of a nose.

  Billy didn’t want to go on watching, but he couldn’t help himself. He sank to his knees and peered between the oak railings.

  Mr. Boldova approached the hag. He pulled something out of his pocket and opened his fist. A cluster of small stones lay in his palm; gradually they began to glow, and then fierce red sparks flew out of the teacher’s hand.

  Billy gasped, his spectacles slid off his nose, and he only just managed to catch them. The people below were too intent on each other to notice him.

  “Those won’t help you, Mr. Sparks,” sneered Yolanda. “Ollie was a wicked boy; he had to be punished. And now I’ve got to punish you.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Mr. Boldova raised his fist and flung the burning stones at the old woman. She screamed as her hair and bits of gray clothing began to smolder, and then, in a deep, chilling voice, she said, “You’ve done it now!”

  She stared at the teacher. Stared and stared. He took a step toward her and faltered. He took another and stopped. His face was white and his eyes looked frightened and faraway. Desperately, he felt in his pocket, searching for more sparkling stones, but he couldn’t withdraw his hand. He couldn’t move. He seemed almost to have stopped breathing.

  “That’ll teach you,” said Yolanda. She patted her hair and the scorch marks on her dress, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared through the door to the music tower, leaving Mr. Boldova as still and silent as a statue.

  Suddenly, with a loud squeak, a black rat jumped out of Mr. Boldova’s pocket and ran across the hall. He began to leap up the stairs, and when he got to the top he came racing up to Billy.

  “Help!” squeaked the rat. “Help! Help!” He gazed up at Billy imploringly. “Help Rembrandt,” he wailed. “Help master.”

  “I’ll try,” said Billy. He picked up the rat and walked slowly along the landing. The art master hadn’t moved. Billy descended the wide staircase. The
burning stones lay scattered across the hall and Billy had to step between them. The stones were losing their color now; some were already ash-gray, like dead coals.

  Mr. Boldova didn’t appear to see Billy. The white-haired boy moved closer and said, “Sir, your rat.” He held Rembrandt out to him.

  “What?” Mr. Boldova stared at Rembrandt. “What’s that?”

  “Your rat, sir,” said Billy.

  “I haven’t got a rat.”

  Rembrandt gave a squeak of distress.

  “Honestly, it is yours, sir. It’s called Rembrandt.”

  Mr. Boldova began to move, but he clearly wasn’t himself. He turned and walked in the opposite direction. “Take it away!” he shouted. “Trash it!”

  If rats could pass out, Rembrandt would have done just that. As it was, he went quite limp. Billy tucked him under his sweater and ran up to his dormitory.

  “Gone,” muttered the rat as Billy sank onto his bed.

  “What’s gone?” said Billy. “Do you mean Mr. B?”

  “Dead,” said Rembrandt. “Light gone out.”

  Billy realized what the rat meant. “You mean his real self, don’t you? His soul?”

  Rembrandt sighed.

  Billy was so shaken by what he had seen, he couldn’t stop shivering. Belle wasn’t a girl at all but an old, old woman. She had changed her shape, but she had also done something terrible to Mr. Boldova. Belle was a hypnotist, like Manfred Bloor.

  “Two endowments,” Billy murmured. He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. He wished he could go home and talk to someone. But there was no home to go to. Mr. Ezekiel had promised he would be adopted, but the kind parents he mentioned had never turned up.

  “Tell Cook,” said a voice.

  Billy opened his eyes. The rat was sitting on his chest, staring at him.

  “Tell Cook,” the rat repeated. “Cook knows many things.”

  At the mention of Cook’s name, Billy realized he was very hungry. He slipped off the bed and, tucking Rembrandt under his sweater, he left the dormitory and made his way downstairs.

  When he reached the hall, he found that the lights had come on and the burning embers had been removed. It was hard to believe that, only an hour ago, a battle of shifting shapes and flying sparks had taken place. Billy hurried on toward the dining hall. But as he passed the prefects’ room, Manfred Bloor emerged.

  “Ah, there you are, Billy,” said the head boy. “You look startled. Anything been happening?”

  Billy hesitated. He felt that Belle’s shape-shifting was something he shouldn’t have seen. “N-no, Manfred.”

  “Nothing to tell me, then?”

  Billy wanted to talk about Belle and Mr. Boldova, but he’d have to mention the rat. And he desperately wanted to keep him. He shook his head. “No.”

  “Nothing? No tidbits about Charlie Bone?” Manfred’s coal-black eyes glittered.

  Billy couldn’t be hypnotized. He had found this out soon after he had arrived at Bloor’s. Manfred had tried to practice his horrible skills on him, but it had never worked. Perhaps it was because of his dark-red eyes. “Nothing to report,” he said.

  Manfred looked disappointed. “What’s that under your sweater?”

  “My gloves. I was feeling cold.”

  “Aww!” said Manfred in a mocking voice.

  “It’s my birthday today,” said Billy.

  “Too bad. I haven’t got anything for you. Now, if you’d got some news for me, well, I might be able to find a bit of chocolate.”

  Billy loved chocolate. And it was his birthday. All he had to do was to tell Manfred what he’d seen and hand over the rat. But what would Manfred do to Rembrandt? Billy gave a small shudder and said, “As a matter of fact I’ve had a very boring day.”

  “You’re a hopeless case. Did you know that, Billy?” said Manfred scornfully.

  “Sorry, Manfred.” Billy scuttled away from the head boy.

  “I’m afraid I can’t come to your birthday party,” Manfred shouted after him.

  “What birthday party?” Billy muttered as he sped past the portraits, past three cafeterias, and down and down into the underground dining hall.

  And there he found that someone had remembered his birthday. A large iced cake sat at the end of the music table. It had Billy’s name on it, surrounded by eight flaming candles.

  Billy gasped and took a seat beside the cake. Rembrandt poked his head out of the top of Billy’s sweater and said, “Oh, my! Cake and candles.” And then Cook appeared, singing, “Happy Birthday,” in a high, trembly voice.

  “Thanks, Cook.” Billy blew out the candles, made a secret wish, and cut himself a large slice of cake.

  “You’ve brought a guest, I see.” Cook nodded at Rembrandt. “Where did you find him?”

  Billy looked at Cook’s kind, rosy face and suddenly it all came pouring out: Blessed’s tail, the flying sparks, shape-shifting Belle, and the horrible battle he’d just witnessed.

  Cook wiped her pink brow with the hem of her apron and sat beside Billy. She looked worried but not surprised.

  “So it’s her,” she muttered. “I knew there was something not right about that girl. But whatever possessed Samuel Sparks to come here?”

  “He came to find his little brother,” Billy told Cook.

  “Ollie Sparks? Is he still here, then?” Cook seemed very surprised.

  “Yes. That’s what the old woman said. And she said no one would ever find him.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Where’ve they hidden the poor boy? I was always worried about him. What’s he been eating? If only I’d known.”

  “Do you think they’re starving him?” said Billy.

  “Oh, I hope not, Billy. Dear, oh dear. What’s to be done?” Cook got up and straightened her apron. “I advise you not to eat all of that cake, Billy. When you and the rat have had what you want, I’ll come and put the rest away for next weekend.”

  As Cook made her way toward the kitchen, Billy called out. “I know people think I’m a spy, but I won’t tell Manfred or Mr. Ezekiel about what I saw. I promise.”

  Cook turned and looked at Billy. “I’m sure they know already. As for you being a spy, I don’t blame you, Billy. One day you’ll get the parents you want; if the Bloors don’t see to it, then I will. But right now I’d better go and find the poor dog that’s lost its tail.”

  As Cook hurried up the corridor of portraits, a cold draft rushed around her ankles. This meant that the main doors had been opened. She reached the hall in time to see a figure slip through the doors before Mr. Weedon slammed them shut.

  “Who was that?” asked Cook.

  “What’s it to you?” said Weedon sourly.

  Cook drew back her shoulders and said, “I asked a civil question. The least you could do is to give me a civil answer.”

  “Ooo!” mocked Weedon. “Hoity-toity!”

  “Are you going to tell me?” asked Cook.

  “No.” Weedon bolted the doors and walked off.

  Cook, who was extremely intuitive, knew another victim had been led into a trap. And from what Billy had told her, she could guess who that victim was.

  She was right.

  Mr. Boldova, carrying a suitcase, walked across the courtyard and under the arch between the two towers of Bloor’s Academy. He descended the steps into the cobbled square, and there his gaze was drawn to the fountain of stone swans in the center. The cascade of water glowed gold in the last rays of the sun.

  Mr. Boldova frowned. Why was he here? Where was he going? Who was he?

  A black car pulled up at the other end of the square. The driver, a gray-haired woman, beckoned to Mr. Boldova. He walked over to her.

  “Can I give you a lift?” asked the woman.

  “Er …” Mr. Boldova scratched his head. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “I do,” said the woman. “I’m clairvoyant. Jump in, Samuel.”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Do hurry up. We haven’t got all day
, have we?” The woman’s laughter was cold and shrill. “My name’s Eustacia, by the way.”

  Mr. Boldova passed a hand over his eyes. There didn’t seem to be anywhere else to go. He walked around the car and got into the passenger seat. There was something he ought to do next, but what?

  “Forget the seat belt!” Eustacia gave another wild laugh, and the car roared off at an alarming speed.

  At first break, on Monday morning, when Charlie and Fidelio were hanging their capes in the blue coatroom, Billy Raven came in with a bulge under his sweater. The bulge moved and Charlie asked Billy what he was hiding.

  “Nothing,” said Billy, turning pink.

  “Come on, Billy. It can’t be nothing,” said Fidelio. “It squeaked.”

  Billy was about to deny this when the head of a black rat appeared at the top of his sweater.

  “That’s Rembrandt,” said Charlie. “What are you doing with him?”

  Billy pouted, and then he mumbled, “Mr. Boldova gave him to me.”

  “I bet he didn’t,” said Charlie.

  Billy rushed out and ran along to the garden door, with Charlie and Fidelio in pursuit.

  “It’s OK, Billy,” Charlie called out. “We’re not accusing you of anything. That rat’s always escaping.”

  Billy didn’t stop. He kept on running until he was lost in a sea of bobbing figures. Out of that same sea, two girls came rushing toward the boys.

  “Something awful’s happened,” Emma panted.

  “What?” said the boys together.

  While Emma gulped for air, Olivia said, “Mr. Boldova’s left the school.”

  “He can’t have,” said Charlie. “He’d have told us.”

  Emma got her breath back. “Exactly. Something awful’s happened to him. I just know it. And I’ve got a horrible feeling those two are responsible.” She looked over at Dorcas and Belle, who were sitting on the grass, whispering to each other.

  Having missed the meeting in the Pets’ Café, Fidelio hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. So the four friends walked around the grounds while Charlie filled Fidelio in. They were soon joined by Gabriel, who announced that he’d just seen Billy Raven feeding bits of toast to a black rat. Could it be Rembrandt?