Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  ‘Who the…’ hell are you, he completed in his head.

  (I’m Angus McMurray. Who the hell are you?)

  THE END

  MURDER IN MUD

  ONE

  ‘That’s your job!’

  ‘Are you serious? How on earth is that my job?’ Oliver stared at his wife.

  ‘It’s part of the process,’ Jennifer replied, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yes, your part of the process. I should just be able to put it in the machine and get it out again.’

  ‘And triple check while you’re doing it.’

  ‘Why on earth should I check the pockets of clothes that are already in the washing basket?’

  ‘Because sometimes people forget to look,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘And that’s my problem?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Jennifer gestured to the bed.

  Oliver looked at the pile of clean clothes on the bed and picked up a small fragment of white paper. ‘Are we seriously having an argument about who’s responsible for checking pockets for tissues?’

  ‘Of course we’re not,’ Jennifer said in a tone he easily recognised as thick with frustration.

  ‘Good, because that would be stupid.’

  ‘Are you calling me stupid?’

  He eyed the closed door and calculated his odds of leaving the bedroom in one piece. Their two children were safely parked in front of the television at the other end of the house, arguing over whose turn it was for the remote control. ‘Definitely not, but this obviously isn’t about washing.’

  ‘You think? Well? What does he want?’

  Oliver suddenly found folding washing the most interesting job in the world.

  ‘Have you even asked him?’ Jennifer continued.

  ‘Not yet,’ he admitted.

  She immediately gave him a look which he recognised as meaning, What are you waiting for?

  (Are yer gunna let the woman talk to you like that?)

  ‘Shut up,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Not you, honey.’ Oliver gestured to his head.

  Jennifer’s expression suggested she was unsure whether to believe him. Not for the first time Oliver wished he had told his wife about the last hitchhiker he’d picked up, while she was still around. Hitchhiker was the name for the spirits that sometimes took a ride in his head, at least according to one, possibly crazy old lady he met. Oliver had several other names for them, especially after the adventures with Violet, his only hitchhiker to date, had almost resulted in his death.

  Oliver hadn’t told his wife everything until it was all over. Partly because he didn’t want her to think he was crazy, and partly because he thought he was crazy.

  After Violet left, there had been peace for almost a year and a half.

  Until this morning, when the family had made their regular visit to the cemetery to visit Oliver’s mother’s grave. On the way out, his kleptomaniac six-year-old daughter had picked up some flowers from someone’s graveside and Oliver had picked up Angus McMurry, an elderly Scottish man, spirit, headache.

  Unfortunately Oliver hadn’t realised either of those things until they were on their way home.

  ‘I didn’t think this was going to happen again,’ Jennifer said as she sat down on the opposite side of the bed.

  He gave up trying to fold his son’s t-shirt and flopped on top of the pile of clothes.

  ‘Neither did I.’ He reached out a hand and rubbed her back. She didn’t move away which suggested a truce.

  ‘Is it going to be like last time?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what he wants.’

  She turned to look at him and he sat up quickly, understanding how close they were to starting the merry-go-round of questions again.

  He’d wracked his brain to try and remember the details on Angus’s headstone, but he’d only ever glanced at it briefly.

  ‘When did you die?’ Oliver started.

  (In 1960.)

  ‘And what do you want?’

  (I could do a whisky.)

  ‘Why is it that all you spirits want spirits?’ Oliver muttered.

  (Are you trying to be funny?)

  ‘Look, you’re dead, even if I did have whisky in the house, you wouldn’t be able to taste it.’

  (Ye Numpty. I know I’m dead. What’s that got to do with the price of eggs? Since I was a bairn, my pa used to give me a wee nip of whisky every night. And I did that right up until I died. Every night. I reckon I’ve missed the last 21,000 nights. So when I say I want a whisky, give me a damn whisky.)

  Oliver stared helplessly at Jennifer, who looked back questioningly, oblivious to the conversation taking place.

  ‘What do you want, Angus?’

  (Keep the heid, man. I’m dead for sixty years and you’re in a rush.)

  ‘What does that even mean, keep the heid?’

  (It means get me my damn whisky.)

  With a sigh, Oliver walked down the hallway, stepping over the kids’ shoes, which were supposed to have been put away nicely in their rooms, but hadn’t quite made the entire trip.

  Jennifer watched as Oliver poured a glass of red wine and took a sip.

  (What do ye call that?)

  ‘It’s the only alcohol in the house,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘He’s not happy with your preferred choice of refreshment.’

  ‘This is weird.’

  Oliver agreed. His encounter with Violet Tumbleton had been the strangest event in his life, but it had also changed him for the better. Eventually. After the almost dying thing.

  ‘Fine, you’ve had your drink. Now will you tell me what you want?’

  (It’s my useless son’s son’s son’s son.)

  ‘Excuse me?’ Oliver asked.

  (Are you daft? I just told you. My great, great grandson.)

  ‘Why didn’t you just say that? What about your great, great, grandson?’ A familiar headache began to form. It was a dull ache for now, but the one-man band in the back of his head was tuning up his instruments.

  (Got himself into a bit of bother, the daft numpty.)

  Oliver had a sick feeling in his stomach. One that told him he wasn’t going to like where this was going.

  The interruption of Oliver’s son was a welcome distraction when Reed crawled into sight. It constantly amazed him how many different ways an eight-year-old could find to enter a room.

  ‘Dad, I need to do my spelling homework.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll do it shortly,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘But we’ll forget shortly.’

  ‘Okay, spell favourite.’

  ‘F-A-V-O-R-I-T-E.’

  ‘No, that’s the American way of spelling it. We spell it F-A-V-O-U-R-I-T-E.’

  (What’s the difference between the American and English spelling?)

  Mostly extra U’s thrown into words.

  Oliver fired a few more words at Reed, who then hopped like a frog in the direction of the lounge. The proverbial swinging door returned Rose in his place. She was tall for her age, having sprouted up in the last six months, and moved with the confidence of a girl who was about to turn seven and thought she had a handle on this whole living thing.

  Rose went into the pantry, emerging with a container of crackers. She looked at her parents. ‘Have you figured out what Mr McMurry wants?’ she asked.

  One of the many surprises Oliver had encountered when Violet appeared (or didn’t appear) was that Rose somehow knew the spirit was there. They’d talked about it a little after Violet had gone, but when Oliver hadn’t picked up any new hitchhikers, the matter eventually became old and forgotten.

  ‘Not yet, honey,’ Oliver told her.

  ‘Well have you asked him?’ Rose said.

  Oliver glanced at Jennifer, who was looking at her daughter with a mix of amusement and discomfort at hearing the echo of her own words.

  Rose shrugged and went back to her televis
ion programme.

  (What’s that she’s eating?)

  ‘Crackers,’ Oliver told him.

  (And you let her eat whenever? She’ll ruin her dinner.)

  ‘Dinner isn’t for another two hours, and she’ll spend most of those hours eating.’

  Jennifer interrupted. ‘I get the impression you’re moving off topic.’

  (Quiet, woman!)

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Not you, honey. Angus,’ Oliver replied. ‘Angus, what’s happened with your great, great, grandson?’

  (Got himself arrested, didn’t he.)

  ‘What for?’

  (What do you think? I’m not coming back from the dead for a slap on the wrist. Damn fool is accused of murder.)

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘That life is about to get complicated, again.’

  TWO

  After several further exchanges with Angus, involving more words that he didn’t fully understand, Oliver was at least able to get a name: George McMurry. A quick internet search found multiple George McMurrys, but once he removed the ones living overseas and those the wrong age, Oliver was able to narrow it down to two possibilities living in Wellington. However, neither of them, from what he could tell, were currently under arrest for murder.

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do? Prove he’s innocent?’ Oliver asked.

  (Aye, of course he didn’t do it. I want you to make sure the coppers know that. Then I want you to give him a good thrashing.)

  ‘I am not going to walk up to some stranger and bop him on the nose and say, This is from your ancestor.’

  (Bop him on the nose! I dinnae say dance with him. Teach him a lesson, boy.)

  ‘Listen, I’m guessing you’re not going anywhere until I help you, so I’ll find George and figure out what’s happened, but there are some ground rules. Number one, I’m not going to hit anyone.’

  (Just my luck, I’m stuck with a…)

  ‘Number two, if you don’t have anything helpful to say, then don’t say anything,’ Oliver hurried on.

  There was a spluttering sound and Oliver pictured an old man with a wild red beard and an angry vein throbbing across his forehead.

  (That’s stupid. My hair was never red.)

  Jennifer continued tapping away on the computer. Her long black hair constantly fell across her face and she absentmindedly tied it back into a loose ponytail. Her glasses kept slipping down her nose, until she finally took them off and flung them onto the table. Oliver carefully picked them up and folded the arms in. He watched as she wrinkled her nose, a sure sign that she was about to make an important announcement.

  She glanced up to see Oliver watching and grinned. ‘One of the George’s posted a video this morning to his social media account, complaining about the food at his hotel in Sydney. So unless we’re going to hop on a plane to Australia, I think option B is our best bet.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘I’d say so. Although a holiday sounds nice.’

  ‘Oliver, the next time we take a holiday, it will be without the children, and most definitely without that thing in your head.’

  (What are you two blethering about? What’s that box thing with all the buttons?)

  Oliver sighed and briefly outlined the concept of computers, and the internet. Then he spent the following five minutes convincing Angus that he wasn’t trying to pull one over on him.

  Finally Oliver was able to study the picture Jennifer found. It showed a young man, in his early twenties, with pale skin, and a neat beard, with red hair.

  Aha, Oliver thought.

  Angus responded with a word that Oliver didn’t need to understand to know it wasn’t pleasant.

  In the selfie, George was sitting under a tree, eyes hidden by sunglasses. He had his arm around a girl, who looked roughly the same age. She had short black hair and a small silver nose stud. For a horrible second Oliver thought it was Jean Pagey, an unpleasant girl he’d encountered eighteen months ago. Then he blinked and realised it wasn’t her.

  ‘Are we sure this is him?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Do you mean are we sure this is the descendant of the obnoxious spirit in your head? No idea, but it’s a start.’

  (Oh I like her. She’s got a backbone, like my Josephine. Of course that’s him. I’d recognise that numpty face anywhere.)

  Oliver commandeered the laptop and opened a new search window. ‘If he’s been accused of murder there must have been something about it in the news.’

  ‘I heard something about an arrest on the radio this morning,’ Jennifer replied. ‘But I was too busy trying to untie the octaknot in Rose’s shoe to pay much attention.’

  ‘Octaknot?’

  ‘What else do you call a shoelace that has eight knots in it?’

  ‘I’d call you,’ Oliver responded with a grin.

  It didn’t take long to find the news item. The body of Ashley Trent had been found in her flat and police were treating her death as suspicious. The victim pictured was the girl in George’s selfie.

  ‘Lover’s spat?’ Jennifer suggested.

  (McMurry men don’t have spats, especially over a woman.)

  ‘Angus respectfully disagrees with your theory,’ Oliver said.

  There was another spluttering sound and Oliver mused that Angus probably wasn’t used to people disagreeing with his opinion.

  ‘How would he know? He’s been dead for sixty years.’

  (What’s that got to do with it? I know my own blood.)

  ‘Okay, let’s park that suggestion until we can gather some more information,’ Oliver replied.

  (You’ve found the useless sod. Let’s go to his house and you can give him my message. With your fist.)

  Reed shot out of the lounge, tripped over his own feet, and sprawled on the ground in the tangle of uncoordinated limbs common to a boy who’s just had a growth spurt. Before Oliver could ask if he was okay, his son leapt up, shoved his head into the fridge and reappeared with a mouthful of cheese. He started to wander away, leaving the fridge door ajar, then remembered and reached back to close it with enough force to send several fridge magnets flying. Ignoring the carnage, Reed went back to watch television.

  Normally Oliver would have demanded that he come back and pick everything up, but for now there were more important things to think about.

  (Good, get your priorities right, boy.)

  I’m not your boy.

  ‘So what now?’ Jennifer asked. ‘Go to the police and ask to speak with George?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘Like I said, we need more information, and the police aren’t going to give it to us. Maybe we need to start with the source most likely to know more than George realises.’

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow in question and Oliver smiled.

  ‘His mother.’

  THREE

  Angus wanted to start straight away, but after a long argument, Oliver managed to convince him that George could wait until morning to get a tongue-lashing from his dead ancestor.

  After dinner, Oliver supervised the bedlam that was shower time. The children used to share a bath before they got a little too big and bath time began to resemble something from a shark movie, with lots of thrashing about and water flying everywhere. Now they had separate showers, which was generally less stressful, but inexplicably still resulted in water getting places the laws of physics suggested it shouldn’t.

  Once the children were clean, dry, and in bed, Oliver and Jennifer sat down to watch television. They carefully avoided talking about the Scottish elephant in the room. Angus, however, felt the need to comment on everything, from the television, to the digital clock on the oven, which could be seen through the lounge door.

  (Whatever happened to listening to the wireless? How’re you supposed to think when everything is right in front of you?)

  That’s the point. We watch TV so we don’t have to think.

  (No wonder you’re soft. Why, I’d work a fifte
en-hour day, come home and eat cold dinner, then listen to quizzes on the wireless until it was time to go to bed. And I’d do that six days a week.)

  Sounds like a comedy sketch.

  (Eh?)

  Never mind.

  Later they switched off the television, and the lights, and went into their bedroom. Normally they would have undressed, put on their pyjamas, brushed their teeth, and jumped into bed. Tonight, Jennifer retreated to the ensuite, firmly closing the door. A few minutes later she reappeared with her night attire in place.

  Oliver cocked his head to one side.

  ‘It’s either that or you close your eyes every time I get changed. Because that thing in your head…’

  (Oi!)

  ‘...can see everything you can see, and there’s no way he’s seeing me naked.’

  (Give a man a break. I’ve been dead for decades.)

  Oliver had to admit she had a point, remembering how uncomfortable he had been with Violet riding around in his head seeing and hearing everything. Going to the toilet had been particularly trying.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he replied, while resolving to get rid of Angus as quickly as possible.

  (Aye, you’re no one’s idea of a blind date.)

  ‘That’ll do,’ Oliver snapped.

  ‘What?’ Jennifer replied.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he smiled.

  She held his gaze for a moment, and he felt her eyes boring into his head, as if she was trying to get a picture of Angus. Finally she sniffed, picked up her book, and ignored Oliver for the rest of the night.

  Oh this is going to be fun.

  FOUR

  Oliver was a writer, not only that, but an actual author with a real published book. Someone once told him that the difference between a writer and author was that anyone could write, but an author actually had a book out in the world.

  Oliver preferred to look at it in terms of real-world application. Being a writer meant he had no money coming in, and his agreement with Jennifer for staying at home put him firmly in charge of all the washing, cleaning, and cooking. Being an author meant he had a little money coming in and could afford a cleaner. Not a very good one, but a cleaner nonetheless. Oliver still paused when people asked what he did for a living. The automatic response (“I work in a bank”) rose to his lips, before he stopped himself and proudly declared he was an author. The response was varied, ranging from “Good on you, I’ve always wanted to write a book”, to “You’re young to be a writer” (at thirty-eight he never knew how to respond to that), to simply, “Why?”.