Ways to See a Ghost

perhaps echoes in time.”
    Isis gave up trying to ignore him.
    “Are there lots of types of ghost?” she whispered, despite herself.
    Mandeville arched one of his eyebrows. “Have you observed nothing as a psychic?”
    She shook her head, minutely. “I try to ignore any ghost I see. I don’t want them noticing me.”
    Mandeville chuckled. “Oh, they notice. But to answer your question, I have categorised many forms of spirit, referenced their form and awareness. Apart from those like our bending lady, there are the phantoms who lurk in graveyards and crypts, chattering their last words. One can’t get any sense out of them either. Then we have the screaming-heads who melt out of walls. I
have
managed simple conversations with them, but they don’t have much to talk about. I suppose you wouldn’t, stuck in a wall. And of course there are the classics, such as white-clad ladies and headless horsemen. They can converse, but it’s all rather melodramatic. Curses and cruel fate, that sort of thing. Then—”
    “What about birds?” said Isis, cutting him off.
    He looked at her in surprise. “Are you asking if birds have ghosts?”
    She nodded.
    “Well they have spirits of course,” said Mandeville thoughtfully. “The after realm is filled with the flutter of life turning endlessly into death. But birds as ghosts? I wonder if they would even have the desire to? As I have said, ghosts are driven by their own tragedies. Only some of us join in the haunting.”
    Mandeville pointed one of his fingers at an area of the shopping centre near the escalators. “Like your little ghostling.”
    Mandeville’s withered finger was aimed in the direction of Angel, who was flitting amongst the to and fro of shoppers, near the bottom of the escalators. A toddler-shaped shadow, standing still with her arms out. Every time someone walked through her, shivering in the unexpected chill, Angel let out a shout of delighted, noiseless laughter.
    “Rather childish behaviour, I must say.”
    “She
is
a child,” said Isis.
    Mandeville turned his blue gaze back to Isis.
    “No, she is a phantom. And she can be devoured, like the rest of us.”
    He dropped the words like pieces of ice. Isis forgot there might be people watching, and spun on the bench to face him.
    “Is that a threat?” she hissed.
    “I am only pointing out what could happen, if you do nothing.”
    Isis felt a shiver at her back, like something was already watching, and she wanted to rush over to Angel, grab her into safety. But she didn’t move. “I can’t help you,” she whispered.
    “Won’t, you mean,” said Mandeville. “I know you
could
help, if you chose to. Your power is so strong, your mind so clean and open.”
    Isis turned away, and the ghost stood up from the bench, sending a plume of murky dust into the air.
    “Please,” whispered Mandeville. “By saving us, you would be saving yourself.”
    “You caused the problem, not me.” she whispered back. Mandeville sighed, and then he funnelled down into the tiles, leaving only a fading stain.
    Isis sat motionless, her heart thrumming. For some reason she kept glancing up at the glass ceiling.
    “Hello, Isis.” A voice from behind her. She spun round,knocking her book from the bench onto the floor. Gray was standing a metre away, holding a carrier bag with a shoebox inside it.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked. Isis blinked, trying to bring herself back to normal, but before she could answer, Gray noticed Cally over by her tent, and the sign saying F ORTUNE -T ELLER.
    “Oh…” His face was sympathetic.
    Isis hunched a little. “She made me come along…”
    “Because she couldn’t get a babysitter?” Gray finished the sentence for her.
    Isis smiled. “That’s right.”
    She looked past Gray. “Are you here with your friends?” She tried to ask it normally, even as her stomach twisted at the thought. If anyone from school saw her, if they saw Cally…
    Gray shook his head.
    “I’m here with Mum. She said I had to get new school shoes.” He pointed with his bag, and Isis saw a slim black woman near the shoe shop, talking into her mobile. It was instantly obvious she was Gray’s mum – her features joined up all the parts of Gray’s face that didn’t look like his dad. She was wearing a blue patterned shirt and linentrousers, and her straightened hair was cut into a bob. She looked fashionable, respectable, the kind of mum who just brought you out to buy shoes.
    Isis was