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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Spectre Specifics

By the time Morrigan had been chauffeured by swan boat to Ogden Town Station, then taken the Wunderground to Old Town on her own (changing lines twice), then frozen on the Brolly Rail up to Wunsoc in the North Quarter, then hunted down Miss Cheery for her new timetable, THEN gone to the Commissariat for a clean uniform … she’d already missed her first lesson and was fifteen minutes late for the second.

Luckily, the first was a looping ghostly hour she could revisit at lunchtime, and the second was a Spectre Specifics lecture with Conall O’Leary, who waved her in without fuss or comment. Unit 919 possessed no such restraint, jumping up to give a sarcastic standing ovation as she hurried to join them.

‘Well, LOOK who’s here, lads!’ Thaddea heckled, her voice rebounding in the near-empty lecture theatre. ‘The wayward, wandering Wundersmith returns.’

‘Is it her?’ Mahir gasped dramatically. ‘ The Morrigan Crow?’

‘I’d forgotten what she looked like!’ said Lam.

‘I thought she was a MYTH!’ boomed Hawthorne.

‘Rehearsed all this, did you? Well done.’ Morrigan rolled her eyes good-naturedly, flushing pink with embarrassment. At least nobody seemed annoyed with her.

‘I thought we were going to have to stage a rescue mission,’ said Cadence, before leaning over to whisper, ‘Did you get the photos?’

‘The negatives are in my bag,’ Morrigan whispered back. She’d been relieved to find a thick envelope of film strips beneath the pile of printed photographs, knowing they’d be easier to smuggle out of Darling House. Hopefully their absence would go unnoticed until she could return them.

Cadence gave a small, satisfied nod. ‘Good job, Detective.’

‘Miss Crow, Miss Blackburn,’ said Conall, clearing his throat loudly. ‘This lesson will be our most important so far. I’ll be needing your full attention.’

The girls mumbled their apologies.

‘Certain, er, recent events, have created something of a quandary for the Society, and the Elders have decided it’s necessary to bring all hands on deck to help resolve it.’ From the disapproving set of his jaw, it was clear to Morrigan that Conall didn’t agree with the Elders. ‘Next Wednesday, you and the other junior scholars – excluding Unit 920, of course – will join the rest of us in the Gathering Place to discuss a proposed solution to this problem and reach a democratic agreement . I’ve been instructed to brief you in preparation for making an informed vote.’

Conall looked around the unit, his bright gaze landing on each of them in turn. They straightened in their seats.

‘So, let’s jump in. You’re already familiar with these nasty beggars, of course.’

He pointed a clicker upwards, and a familiar grotesque image of the Unresting was projected into the darkness above his head. Morrigan looked away instinctively. She felt Unit 919 collectively wince.

‘Now. The thing about the Unresting is, strictly speaking they shouldn’t be our problem, being a natural rather than Wundrous phenomenon,’ he continued. ‘You may wonder, then, why we trouble ourselves to gather them up every year on Hallowmas? There are so many messes in Nevermoor we are responsible for, after all, it would seem an imprudent allocation of resources to clean up those we aren’t.’ He held up a finger. ‘ Unless doing so would directly benefit one of the Society’s actual missions, in which case it’s sensible to kill two birds with one stone.’

Something pinged in Morrigan’s memory, and she suddenly knew exactly what Conall was going to say. She’d already heard it from Squall, and so much had happened since Hallowmas, it had completely fallen out of her head for a while. But now, of course, the Guiltghast was fresh in her mind again.

‘You already know that once a year on Hallowmas we sweep the Unresting from the seams of Nevermoor and relocate them to a quiet part of Eldritch. But I didn’t tell you what happens after that.’ He paused to take a deep, reluctant breath. ‘The reason we gather the Unresting in the Black Parade, children, is to use them as food. They’re the chum we throw in the water to satisfy a great big shark, so to speak. And this … is our metaphorical shark.’

He clicked through to the next image and Unit 919 fell silent, trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

‘Pretty cute shark,’ Francis said finally, frowning in confusion.

‘Looks more like a jellyfish,’ Cadence observed.

‘A jellyfish with puppy-dog eyes,’ agreed Anah.

Thaddea snorted. ‘Look’t the wee face on it!’

Morrigan felt they weren’t really getting a sense of the terrifying size of the thing, but she could sort of understand what they meant. Now she was seeing it from the safety of a well-lit lecture theatre, instead of the spooky depths of Eldritch Moorings, there was something vaguely sweet about the Guiltghast. Its big eyes looked sort of sad, but the lower curve of its enormous, blobby, jelly-mould body made it seem like it was smiling with chubby cheeks. She could almost forget the sight of it thrashing against the side of a fishing boat and trying to kill Barty. (Almost.)

‘Meet the Guiltghast,’ said Conall. ‘Of all the monsters and terrors and problems we in the Wundrous Society face on a regular basis, I have to tell you … the Guiltghast frightens me more than almost any of them.’

‘Why, sir? Do you have a jelly phobia?’ asked Mahir, and the rest of the unit erupted into giggles. Only Morrigan stayed quiet, watching their teacher closely.

This was interesting, she thought. Conall was a clairvoyant medium, though he no longer used his knack for speaking to the dead. The rumour was that something bad happened to him once when he was contacting the beyond, and he’d simply refused to do it ever again. When she’d heard that story, Morrigan had found it hard to believe anything could scare such a stalwart, sturdy man. But now, as he spoke about the Guiltghast, she could see real fear in his eyes.

‘The Guiltghast was created by a Wundersmith, a couple of hundred years ago,’ Conall went on, ignoring Mahir’s cheeky question. Morrigan was grateful for his matter-of-fact tone when he said this, and that he didn’t so much as glance in her direction. ‘We’re not quite sure what its original purpose was, or frankly if it ever had much of a purpose. But put simply, it likes to skulk around Nevermoor and eat people’s guilt.’

The unit fell silent again at this, staring at the huge three-dimensional image floating above them. Morrigan had to bite her tongue. If Conall didn’t know what the Guiltghast was made for – to extract confessions from criminals – that probably meant its origins didn’t feature anywhere in The Book of Ghostly Hours, the source of almost all the Sub-Nine Academic Group’s knowledge of Wundersmiths and their creations … which would make it highly suspicious if Morrigan revealed what she knew.

‘I’m not talking about small guilt, like you might feel if you nicked a sweetie or told a fib. I mean the kind of guilt that permanently marks someone who’s committed a festering, bedevilling, stain-on-your-soul kind of crime. That is what the Guiltghast has an appetite for.’

‘Like murder?’ asked Cadence.

‘That would do it.’

Hawthorne wriggled in his seat. ‘How exactly—’

‘I won’t go into the nauseating details, Mr Swift,’ Conall said grimly, ‘but suffice to say it’s an excruciating process for the victim.’

‘Why guilt ?’ asked Francis, looking intrigued.

Conall’s mouth turned down. ‘Sure I don’t know. Why did my Great Uncle Alan eat fried lamb’s brains on toast? Why do some folks wear socks with sandals? Personal taste is a strange thing.’

‘What happens to its victims afterwards?’ asked Mahir.

‘Some die instantly from the shock of it. Some keep their lives but lose their minds. But if they manage to survive unscathed? Well, aren’t they the lucky ones! They can move on feeling quite splendid. Their guilt has been taken away; they’ll never feel it again.’

Mahir cleared his throat. ‘So, er. Once their guilt is eaten, these people don’t remember what they did?’

‘Oh no, Mr Ibrahim, it’s much worse than that,’ said Conall. ‘Their memory remains intact. But they have no feeling whatsoever about their crimes. No guilt. No shame. Which makes them some of the most dangerous people in the world. That’s why this creature is so frightening. It’s not the Guiltghast itself that most worries me. It’s the monsters it leaves behind.’

Morrigan frowned. Squall hadn’t mentioned this disturbing aspect of the Guiltghast problem. She supposed the idea of a monster creating more monsters probably wouldn’t bother him much.

‘And that, ’ Conall went on, ‘is why we take advantage of Hallowmas to tempt the Guiltghast out of hiding, offering up a feast it cannot possibly resist: the Unresting. We give it so much guilt to gorge on that it slips into a peaceful hibernation until the following year, when we present it with its next meal. No need for it to hunt living prey. It’s a win-win situation.’

‘Not for the Unresting,’ Arch pointed out.

‘I’m afraid we disagree there, Mr Tate,’ said Conall, tapping his cane smartly on the dais. ‘It certainly is a win for the Unresting, who get to end their eternal torment. Guilt is all that’s left of them in death, remember? Once the Guiltghast consumes that, they cease existing. Believe me, if you were Unresting, you’d prefer it that way.’

Morrigan could almost hear Squall’s voice in her head … miserable, desperate imprints of miserable, desperate energy. Do them a favour and put them out of that misery.

‘All of which brings me to our aforementioned quandary,’ Conall continued. ‘This past Hallowmas was the second year running we’ve failed to gather the Unresting and feed the Guiltghast. Foiled one year by our troubles with the Ghastly Market, and the next by a group of placard-carrying wastrels with an inflated sense of self-importance.’ Once again, to Morrigan’s relief, he didn’t even glance in her direction. ‘We have monitoring devices in place to remotely track the Guiltghast’s vitals and any significant activity, and, as of right now, the creature is still in hibernation. But our most recent readings suggest it won’t stay that way much longer. It’s hungry, and it’s dangerous, and it’s up to the Wundrous Society to fix those two problems.’

‘How?’ asked Morrigan, remembering the immense size and power of the Guiltghast as it breached the water, the way it had smashed against the boat so hard that the vessel had almost been submerged. She was glad to know they were monitoring things, but she couldn’t help thinking of Squall’s dire warning.

Believe me, the Wundrous Society is not up to the task of containing a hungry, fully conscious Guiltghast.

‘That’s precisely what we’ll be debating in the Gathering Place next week, Miss Crow,’ Conall said, as a distant bell rang to signal the end of class. ‘Brace yourselves. It’s going to be a doozy.’

The second they were dismissed for morning break, Cadence took the envelope full of negatives from Morrigan and fled without a word, clutching it to her chest like treasure. Morrigan waved off Hawthorne and the others with a promise to meet them in the dining hall, and hung back to tell Conall what she’d seen the night before, just to clear her conscience.

She was careful to frame the story in a way that suggested she just happened to be in the vicinity, and of course hadn’t known what the strange creature was until he’d shown them the Guiltghast in class. Conall seemed to accept her account (or at least was polite enough to pretend), and assured her that it lined up with what they already knew from the activity readings on their remote monitors.

‘I’ll have the Beastly Division send someone to take a look in person, but it’s likely the residual Wunder soothed it back to sleep somewhat. You might even have bought us a smidgeon more time,’ he said with an approving nod. ‘But you and your friends stay well clear of Eldritch Moorings from now on, understand? It’s too dangerous, even for a Wundersmith. Off you go, now.’

Morrigan was halfway up the aisle when an idea occurred to her. A possibly wonderful, potentially ludicrous idea. She returned to the dais, hovering nervously while Conall gathered his things.

‘Something else on your mind, Morrigan?’

She hesitated. Conall O’Leary had a way of looking at you as if he was seeing through you. It was both warm and slightly frightening at the same time.

‘I was just wondering,’ she began, then paused, looking down at her feet and regretting her question before she’d even asked it. She could sense Conall’s impatience for her to spit it out. But he waited quietly. ‘I was thinking about … about your knack.’ She looked up when he didn’t answer. ‘You can speak to the dead, can’t you?’

‘I can,’ he said simply. ‘But I don’t do that anymore.’

‘Oh … right. Of course.’ Morrigan nodded, feeling foolish.

‘Is this about that dragonrider who was killed?’ Conall asked. ‘I heard he had something to do with your family.’

‘Dragonrider?’ Morrigan was startled to realise the possibility of talking to Dario hadn’t even crossed her mind. Perhaps it should have. ‘No, it’s not about him.’

Conall stared at her for a moment. ‘Lost someone else, did you?’

‘Sort of …’ she said slowly. ‘Not exactly. Can’t technically lose someone you never had.’ Conall stayed quiet until finally she added, ‘My mother died when I was a baby.’

The old man nodded and made a faint little noise of sympathy in his throat. ‘Now, that is a shame. That’s a terrible shame. And what was it that took her?’

‘Um. Me, I think. Or, I don’t know … I used to believe that. It’s what my father told me.’ Morrigan made her tone nonchalant, her words blunt. Don’t feel sorry for me. ‘He said she died the day I was born, because I was cursed.’

‘Did he, now?’ Conall’s voice was soft. They stood in silence for a moment. ‘Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but sure your father sounds like an eejit.’

A surprised little laugh bubbled up out of Morrigan’s mouth. ‘No, I don’t mind. He is … an eejit .’

‘We’re agreed then.’ Conall nodded, his eyes twinkling. ‘Now, I’ll tell you why I no longer speak to the dead. I lost someone, too – like everyone does eventually.’ He took out his gold pocket watch and opened it, holding it out for her to see. Opposite the clock face was a faded photograph of two young men in smart suits. One of them was unmistakably Conall, with his piercing eyes and kind face. The other Morrigan didn’t recognise. He had a handsome, roguish grin, and dark curls that fell across his forehead.

‘When my husband died,’ Conall continued, ‘I tried for years to contact him on the other side. He never answered me, the cheeky beggar, not even once. Every time I tried to reach out and couldn’t find him, it was like he’d died all over again. Heartbreak after heartbreak. Like being knocked down by waves on a beach. It took me a long time to accept that what I was trying to do was futile …’ He paused, pressing his lips together as tears sprang to his blue eyes. He cleared his throat and smiled, and when he spoke again his voice was a little hoarse. ‘Because we’d already had such a lovely life together. Daniel had already done so much with his time here, and left so much good in the world, there was nothing more for him to do. Nothing left unsaid between us. No reason for him to be still there, stuck in some miserable void with all the other half-gones and their unfinished business. Selfish of me to hope for it, really.’

He went quiet, staring at the photograph. Morrigan hastily wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her white shirt. The moment passed, then Conall inhaled sharply and snapped the watch shut, tucking it back into his pocket.

‘So that was it for Conall the clairvoyant, I’m afraid. If I’m never to hear my Danny’s voice again, I’ll not be listening to what any other dead folks have to say, either. I live fully in this world now. Just trying my best to make it count, until I meet him in the next.’

Morrigan reached out instinctively to give Conall’s wrist a gentle squeeze. He looked up in surprise, then smiled warmly and covered her hand with his own.

‘I was lucky. I got to love a marvellous person for a long time, and I’m so very sorry you didn’t have that same chance with your mother. She’d have been lucky to know you, too.’ He fixed his eyes on hers, bright and earnest. ‘But don’t make an old man’s mistakes, Morrigan. Don’t go looking for misery where there ought to be peace. If she’s resting, you let her rest.’