The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. It was shrouded in a deep black shapeless garment, which concealed its form. Nothing beneath was visible. The figure glided to the side of Frank.
"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Curators Yet To Come?" said Frank.
The Spirit answered not, but emitted a strange electronic burble. A eerie light shone from beneath the robe downwards.
Frank feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him and he could hardly stand as he tried to follow it. The Spirit paused and waited, Frank sensed a tutting sound coming from beneath the cowl.
"Lead on," said Frank, "the night is waning fast. Lead on Spirit."
They scarcely seemed to be out of the flat when the vast expanse of the downtown metropolis of New Unreason spread before them. They swooped down to overhear a conversation.
"No," said a fat man with a monstrous set of chins, "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know it has closed."
"When?" inquired another.
"Sometime ago apparently, but nobody noticed for many months. It was only discovered last night when a couple of American tourists arrived searching for their ancestors. They had read on the internet that Unreason had a museum with the most magnificent archive in England of family records for unfeasibly rich Americans. They turned up, tried to open the door and the knob came off in their hands, closely followed by the door slowly falling outwards and covering the wife under a pile of woodworm dust. Inside they found his skeleton.
"It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said some speaker. This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
Speakers and listeners gradually strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Frank looked to the Curator for an explanation.
The Phantom whirred then glided on. Its light pinpointed to two persons meeting. Frank listened again.
"How are you?" said one.
"How are you?" returned the other.
"Well!" said the first. "I heard they've got rid of that boring, boring museum at last and that arse of a Curator whatsisname."
"So I am told," returned the second.
Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation and their parting.
Frank shuddered whilst, quiet and dark beside him the Phantom hovered and occasionally beeped. They left the busy scene and into an area of ill repute that Frank had only occasionally visited. In this den of infamy there was a low-browed shop where second hand goods were traded. Frank and the Curator came into the presence of a man behind the counter. He was talking to a couple of suited gentleman, clearly agents of a more wealthy client.
"Come into the back office, just wait until I shut the door of the shop." said the shop owner.
"There's not much I'm afraid, most of the good stuff has gone, the remainder are getting some bids on eBay. There are a few pieces, which he was keeping for himself, wicked old screw."
The man opened up a bundle. It was not extensive, a royal seal or two, a pencil case with Turner etched on the back, a pair of sleeve buttons worn by Winston Churchill on his only visit to Unreason and a brooch made by Rene Lalique. They were severally examined and appraised by the agents and a trade was made, whilst the old shopkeeper gently removed the accession numbers.
"I hope he didn't die of anything catching ,"said the shopkeeper, "but it is a shame he has gone, at least they are not housed in boring glass cases gathering dust in the museum for no purpose at all. No one cares."
"This is the end of it," he continued, "He frightened everyone away from the museum when he was alive, and sold items for his personal profit, and now we profit from his death and the death of culture in Unreason. Ha, ha, ha!"
Frank recoiled in horror, but the scene changed almost immediately, he was in a room - too dark to be observed with any accuracy. But a pale light emanated from the Curator and fell upon the body of a man whose rotted tweed jacket still had the pens visible in his breast pocket.
The body lay in the dark empty museum, with not a man, a woman, or a child to visit. There was only the sound of gnawing rats beneath the showcases.
'Spirit," said Frank, "this is a dreadful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson. Did anyone care about the loss of the museum?"
The Phantom spread its robe, to reveal a crystal clear HD screen in its chest. On it there was a mother and her children were. It was Rob Scratchit's house. They were clearly expecting someone.
At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door and met her husband. A man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was still young.
"It is the end of the dream," he said eventually, "He is dead and it is closed. The Job Centre Plus for me tomorrow. It will break Slimy Jim's heart."
Away the Phantom went with Frank at his side and at last the landed in the Unreason churchyard. Frank looked at the name on the gravestone, trembling as he wiped away the Mcdonald's wrappers and pizza boxes from in front of it. He read his own name, Frank Rasin.
"No, Spirit! Oh no, no! At least they could have gotten my name right," wailed Frank.
"Curator!" he cried clutching at its robe, "hear me. I am not the museum professional I was. I will not be the man I must have been. Am I past all hope?"
"From now on I will honour museums in my heart. I will ethically preserve the past in the present for future generations. I will not shut out the lessons of tonight!"
Turning to the Ghost, he saw an alteration in the Curator's hood and robe. It shrank, collapsed and dwindled down into a bedpost.
Next: chapter 5: The End of It.
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