“How’s Nick?” asked Bod, as if nothing had happened.
“You know how he is,” she said. “He won’t even talk to me. Just shuts up in class, goes home and does his homework. Probably building model railways.”
“Good,” he said.
“And you,” she said. “You haven’t been at school for a week. You’re in such trouble, Bob Owens. The police came in the other day. They were looking for you.”
“That reminds me…How’s your uncle Tam?” said Bod.
Mo said nothing.
“In some ways,” said Bod, “you’ve won. I’m leaving school. And in other ways, you haven’t. Have you ever been haunted, Maureen Quilling? Ever looked in the mirror wondering if the eyes looking back at you were yours? Ever sat in an empty room, and realized you were not alone? It’s not pleasant.”
“You’re going to haunt me?” Her voice trembled.
Bod said nothing at all. He just stared at her. In the far corner of the room, something crashed: her bag had slipped off the chair onto the floor and when she looked back, she was alone in the room. Or, at least, there was nobody that she could see in there with her.
Her way home was going to be very long and very dark.
The boy and his guardian stood at the top of the hill, looking out at the lights of the town.
“Does it still hurt?” asked the boy.
“A little,” said his guardian. “But I heal fast. I’ll soon be as good as ever.”
“Could it have killed you? Stepping out in front of that car?”
His guardian shook his head. “There are ways to kill people like me,” he said. “But they don’t involve cars. I am very old and very tough.”
Bod said, “I was wrong, wasn’t I? The whole idea was to do it without anybody noticing. And then I had to get involved with the kids in the school, and the next thing you know, there’s police and all sorts of stuff. Because I was selfish.”
Silas raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t selfish. You need to be among your own kind. Quite understandable. It’s just harder out there in the world of the living, and we cannot protect you out there as easily. I wanted to keep you perfectly safe,” said Silas. “But there is only one perfectly safe place for your kind and you will not reach it until all your adventures are over and none of them matter any longer.”
Bod rubbed his hand over the stone of Thomas R. Stout (1817–1851. Deeply regretted by all who knew him), feeling the moss crumble beneath his fingers.
“He’s still out there,” said Bod. “The man who killed my first family. I still need to learn about people. Are you going to stop me leaving the graveyard?”
“No. That was a mistake and one that we have both learned from.”
“Then what?”
“We should do our best to satisfy your interest in stories and books and the world. There are libraries. There are other ways. And there are many situations in which there might be other, living people around you, like the theater or the cinema.”
“What’s that? Is it like football? I enjoyed watching them play football at school.”
“Football. Hmm. That’s usually a little early in the day for me,” said Silas. “But Miss Lupescu could take you to see a football match the next time she’s here.”
“I’d like that,” said Bod.
They began to walk down the hill. Silas said, “We have both left too many tracks and traces in the last few weeks. They are still looking for you, you know.”
“You said that before,” said Bod. “How do you know? And who are they? And what do they want?”
But Silas only shook his head, and would be drawn no further, and with that, for the time being, Bod had to be satisfied.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Every Man Jack