A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  Without opening his eyes, Pete said, “luckily for you, Minton, I’m in a good mood. Otherwise, I might be tempted to come over there and rip out your tongue.”

  Heading off a potential argument, Kevin explained, “I’ve a consignment of clips and screws and stuff for Ashdale Electrical Installations. They told me to deliver ’em to their site foreman, here.”

  Minton pointed along the access tunnel. “You’ll find ’em through there, on the left as you come to the sports field. Don’t drive on the grass or we’ll bill you for relaying it. Get in, get your gear unloaded and get out again. We’ve a lot to do between now and Friday and we don’t want jerks like you hanging around.” He glared across at Pete. “And tell him to keep his nose out of things that don’t concern him.”

  Now Pete opened his eyes and returned the glare. “You really are making an effort to get up my nose, aren’t you, Minton? It’s not wise, you know.”

  Ginger Green poked his head into the window space. “You’re not filth anymore, Brennan.”

  “That’s right, moron,” Pete agreed, “and it means I don’t have to play by the rules, so if you speak to me, you keep a civil tongue in your head or I might jam my fist down your throat to teach your vocal cords a lesson.” He glowered again at Minton. “And the same goes for you.”

  Minton spat at the floor. “Just get in there, and get out sharpish.”

  Kevin gave Minton an obsequious smile, crunched the gears into first and pulled away, into the tunnel. “You go out of your way to look for trouble, don’t you?”

  “Not especially,” Pete replied with another yawn, “but I won’t bow and kowtow to nurks like Minton and Green.”

  “He’s the site foreman, Pete.”

  “He’s pure muscle, Kev, and you know it,” Pete argued.

  “He’s respectable now,” Kevin returned.

  “He may be mister respectable these days,” Pete agreed, “and he may be the senior explosives man for Ashdale Construction and Demolition, but he started out in armed robbery with the mobs.”

  Kevin clucked irritably. “Leopards never change their stripes, eh?”

  “Leopards have spots, not stripes. You’re thinking of Cheryl Sanford and the stripes she gives you if you’re a naughty boy.”

  Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know where this rumour started. I don’t see that much of Cheryl.”

  The tunnel opened out onto the sports field, surround by the vast stands, looking even larger with their empty seats.

  Turning left and bringing the van to a halt, Kevin took in the scoreboard blazing out its message from above the North Stand: Ashdale Arena Grand Opening Ceremony, Friday December 11th, starring Ashdale’s very own Wicked Witches.

  “You got your ticket, Pete?” Kevin asked climbing out.

  Pete got out the other side. “Not likely. I can’t stand that crap.” He opened the rear doors. “Did you know I nicked Haz Lane a couple of times for possession?”

  “I remember,” Kevin said, looking around for sign of an electrician. “She don’t do drugs no more.”

  “Leopards and stripes, Kev,” Pete said as a familiar face ambled towards them. “Hey up, it’s Baz Chorley. How’s it hanging, Baz?”

  Tools on his utility belt wobbling this way and that, Baz’ bearded features split into a broad grin. “Hiya, Pete, Kev. What you two doing here?”

  “Looking for leopards with stripes,” Pete replied, to Baz’ total mystification.

  “Just ignore him, Baz,” Kevin suggested. “He’s just had an argument with Alec Minton. I have a consignment of clips, screws and bits and pieces for you. Your gaffer said to deliver ’em here.”

  Baz indicated the side of the running track. “Just drop ’em here. I’ll get the lads to shift ’em.” He grinned at Pete. “You’ve been hassling with bossman Alec, have you?”

  “Bossman?” Pete laughed.

  “He’s driving us nuts, man. This place opens on Friday and it’s nowhere near ready. Half the lights don’t work, neither do a good percentage of the khasis, and you see that roof?” Baz gestured at the North Stand. “Anchored with only half the bolts it’s supposed to have.”

  “And they’re going ahead with the concert?” Pete asked, catching a carton as Kevin threw it to him.

  Baz nodded. “It’s only for the one night. We’ll be back in on Saturday, and there’s nothing else booked here until Ashdale Athletic play an exhibition match against Man U in February.”

  Kevin threw another carton. Pete caught it and stacked it on top of the first. “Could be worse then,” he said with an eye on Kevin. “They could be playing an exhibition match against City.”

  He grinned, Kevin blew him a raspberry and hurled a third carton, harder and faster than he had thrown the first two. Pete caught it just as easily and stacked it up.

  “So what’s with you two?” Baz asked. “I read about that do out at Melmerby Manor when Ronnie Wilcox copped it.”

  Pete stacked up a fourth carton. “Scumbag. Got what he deserved.”

  “Yeah, but they was talking about ghosts and all sorts in the papers, man.” Baz said.

  “They were for real,” Kevin said, tossing a fifth carton to his partner. “I know. I saw some of them.”

  Baz raised an eyebrow at Pete. Stacking up another carton, the ex-policeman said, “Things happened, Baz, but we don’t really know what. Kev and our other partner, Sceptre, reckon it was ghosts from the spirit world.”

  “As opposed to ghosts from this world,” said Kevin throwing a seventh carton.

  “And what did you reckon it was, Pete?” Baz wanted to know.

  Catching and stacking the eighth carton, Pete shrugged. “I dunno. All I do know is I’d want serious investigations into every possibility before I started laying the blame on ghosts. But tosspot here,” he caught the ninth carton and indicated Kevin with a nod of his head, “is determined that the action at Melmerby Manor is our ticket into TV.”

  Baz chuckled. “You two? On the telly?”

  Kevin carried the tenth carton over, stacked it with the others, and dug into his fleece for the docket. “And why not?” he asked. “Sceptre’s got the front, I’ve got the knowhow and the contacts.”

  “What about Pete,” Baz asked checking the delivery note against the parcels.

  “He’s just mindless muscle.” Kevin handed over a pen, Baz signed the note and Kevin took both back.

  “Someone has to keep these superstars out of trouble, Baz,” Pete said climbing back into the van.

  “Hey, talking of superstars,” Baz said, “have you guys got tickets for this Friday?”

  Kevin patted his hip pocket. “North Stand,” he said. “Bought it off the internet the minute they came on sale.”

  “What about you, Pete?” Baz asked. “I can get you a good discount.”

  Pete snorted. “And listen to that racket the Lane sisters put out? They’d be overpriced at free. Catch you later, Baz.”

  Kevin got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. He took out his mobile and checked the menu window. “Text,” he said. “From Sherlock.” He read it with approval, and passed the phone to Pete. “Take a look at that,” he said and slid the van into reverse.

  Pete read the text. Got gen on a goast 4 u guys met me in the Jolly Carter at 1 sherlock.

  “Ghost?” Pete asked. “Are you sure he didn’t mean goat?”

  *****

  In the lodge attached to the school, Trent watched the grey-suited figure of the High Master pace the threadbare carpet. For all that he wore a business suit rather than his usual blood red robes, he had lost none of his authority.

  Trent sat edgily on the settee while on the other side, idly rolling a cigarette, Danny Corcoran waited for the High Master’s conclusion.

  When it came, it was precisely what Trent had expected.

  “You misheard.”

  It was obviously what Danny had expected too. His cheeks coloured and he puffed out his breath. “I know what I heard, Master.” Danny’s
insouciance , so familiar to Ivan Jarvis, the rest of the cleaning crew, and Trent himself, was carefully controlled in the presence of the High Master. “It said Vali.”

  Both men had exercised great care in arriving at the lodge. A man in Trent’s position could never be seen consorting with one of his cleaners, so Danny had arrived via the back door. Ten minutes after him, the High Master, another one who could never been seen in public with Trent, Corcoran, nor, indeed, any of the disciples, had arrived by the same, circuitous route, ten minutes later.

  The High Master turned sombre eyes on Trent. “Have there ever been incidents like this before?”

  “The school is over a century old, Master, and there have always been tales of hauntings. The chapel and crypt, for example, are supposedly troubled by the spirit of James Emmet, a headmaster from the days of World War Two. But I’ve never seen anything such as the mess in the library this morning.”

  Danny held forward the hem of his stained Manchester City T-Shirt. “You think I dreamed this, Master?” He aimed a finger at his blood spattered nose. “Or this? It said Vali, and Swede said Vali the night we topped him.”

  Trent could not bury a feeling of respect for Danny’s courage in facing up to their chief.

  But the High Master was not impressed. He stopped his pacing, eyes burning into Danny. “You misheard.” There was no mistaking the determination in the voice.

  “Let the power of Vali give my spirit the strength to avenge this injustice,” Danny intoned. “That’s what Swede said just before you cut his throat.”

  “An old curse,” Trent said, “linked to the original VDL.”

  “I’m not interested in old curses,” the High Master declared, “and we are too close to our goal to be distracted. You,” he pointed a finger at Danny, “must have misheard, and if you didn’t, I will not allow us to be distracted by ghosts throwing library books around.”

  “I agree, Master,” said Danny, “but I thought we all ought to know.”

  “I will inform the others when I contact them,” the High Master agreed, “but it changes nothing.” He paced to the window and looked out across the school greens where the movie crew were hard at work setting up for the arrival of the Wicked Witches. “By Friday night, our groundwork will be complete and we can all look forward to the future.” He glanced back at the clock reading 9:30. “In the meantime, I have other business to attend. Out there.”

  Trent and Danny watched him leave. “I’m sure the Master’s right, Danny.”

  “He’d better be,” Danny agreed. “Cos if he ain’t we could all be in the poop.”

  *****

  At just after 10:30, a black BMW drove through the gates and down towards the caravans. In the rear seat, their faces hidden from the outside work by deep-tinted windows, Harriet ‘Haz’ Lane and her sister, Naomi, known to millions of fans as Nag, sat in silence, Haz quietly fuming to herself, Nag a picture of dejection.

  From behind the wheel, their manager, Sonny Briscoe, glanced into the mirror and grinned. “How is it that two of the richest bitches in the world can be so glum?”

  Haz glared at the back of his bald head. Sonny was a big man; English by birth, descended from Caribbean stock, when he stripped to the waist, his black torso gleamed with health and power. But he was still an employee of the Wicked Witches bandwagon.

  “Anything from the cops?” Haz asked.

  “Nothing,” Sonny replied. “I told you, the guy has taken a hike.”

  Tears formed in Nag’s eyes. Haz fumed. “He wouldn’t do that, Sonny. He might walk out on me, on you, but he wouldn’t walk out on Nag.”

  “Sell it to the tabloids,” Sonny grumbled. He turned between two trailers, stopped and yanked the handbrake on. “Home for the next four days.” Turning, his powerful left arm resting on the seat back, he said, “The guy was a bum. He got what he wanted and walked.”

  Nag glared, snapped open her door and flounced out of the car.

  Haz watched her, then rounded on Sonny. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Haz, you pay me to arrange the shows, the sessions, the contracts, and collect what’s due to you. I can’t do that if one of you is living in some fantasy world. Nag has to come to terms with what is, not what she wants, and your millions won’t bring Nordqvist back.”

  “Find a private eye,” Haz ordered.

  “Haz …”

  “We pay you, Sonny. You just said so. You may have found us warbling in pubs for our beer money, but we’re the big stars now and we pay your wages. Get around the local yokels and find me a private eye. Someone who can look for Gus.”

  “In this town?”

  “We come from Ashdale.” Haz insisted. “It’s not the best place in the world, but it’s not the back of beyond, either. Find us a private eye to look for Gus.” She followed her sister out of the car.

  As Sonny climbed out to join her, she collided with one of Sherlock’s day guards.

  “Oops. Sorry Ms Lane,” he apologised.

  Haz smiled. “Hey no problem.” She watched him wander on his way. “Clumsy idiot. If he’s working here tomorrow I’ll wanna know why. See to it.”

  Sonny sighed and followed her into the trailer. “Yes, ma’am.”

  *****

  At just after one o’clock, Pete and Sceptre walked into the bar of the Jolly Carter, where Kevin was already in conversation with Sherlock.

  “Why would Sherlock be so secretive?” Sceptre had asked when getting out of Pete’s car. “I mean why not just tell you over the phone?”

  “He probably thinks we’ll pay him for the information,” Pete said.

  “If the information is valid, I’d be happy to pay him,” Sceptre confessed as they entered the pub.

  Pete headed for the bar. “If Sherlock has information, it’ll be about as valid as Kevin’s tax disc.”

  “Kevin has taxed his van,” Sceptre assured him as she made for the table. “I insisted.”

  At the bar, while pulling drinks, landlord Mick Chadwick asked, “No work, Pete?”

  “Never busy at this time of year, Mick,” Pete replied. “But wait while after Christmas. Plenty of bad debts need chasing up, and divorces by the dozen after Christmas and New Year shenanigans.” Handing over the money, Pete eyed a couple of women sat at a window table. The blonde ignored him, but the brunette ran an appreciative eye over his powerful, 6’4” frame. Pete smiled at her and she smiled back. “If she played her cards right, she could have me,” he said as Mick came back with his change.

  Mick tutted. “And what about your girlfriend?” he nodded at Sceptre.

  “She’s my business partner, not my girlfriend,” Pete said. “Besides, she doesn’t like beefcake.” He collected his drinks and joined his friends. “Hiya, Sherlock, how’s it hanging?”

  “Down and a bit to the left,” Sherlock replied. “Busy, busy though. I landed a plum contract. You know I have the permanent contract for night security at the Ashdalean, when the kids aren’t there? Well, the Wicked Witches are there right now, making a new video and I got the security contract. Not only that, but I’m looking after the new Arena when it opens, Friday night.”

  Pete laughed. “I wouldn’t trust you to guard sweets in a nursery. And what use are you to the Wicked Witches? They’re both tougher than you or those muppets you call guards.”

  “What’s the Ashdalean?” Sceptre asked sipping on a gin and tonic.

  “Posh school over the west side,” Kevin explained. “I thought you’d have heard of it, Sceptre.”

  She looked down her nose at him. “I don’t know every tinpot, private school in the country, Kevin. And you, Sherlock, you’re providing security for the place?”

  “Like asking your dog to look after the fillet steak,” Pete muttered.

  “That’s not fair,” Sherlock protested. “I’m straight as a dye these days. Anyway, I’m not guarding the school, only the film company’s gear while they’re making this new video. Besides, there’s nothing worth nicking i
n that place. Only books and stuff.”

  “Books are a treasure in their own right, Sherlock,” Sceptre told him. “They contain information and information is priceless.”

  “Yeah?” Sherlock looked at Pete and then Kevin. “So how come you hang around with these two losers? The last book Pete read was the police disciplinary code, and the only book Kev is interested in is a price on City winning the Premiership.”

  “Never mind trading insults,” Kevin said taking a large swallow of his lager. “You said you had the bottom line for us on some ghosts, Sherlock.”

  “First off,” Sherlock said, “how much is it worth?”

  Pete shrugged. “Depends on the information and how much of it we can confirm.”

  “Granted,” Sherlock agreed. “But it has to be worth, like, a ton or two up front.”

  Pete shook his head. “I wouldn’t hand you a fiver on the strength of your usual form. Give us the inside story and we’ll work from there.”

  “Yeah, but I’m brassic, Pete.”

  “You’ve just said you have a plum contract,” Sceptre pointed out.

  “I do, I do,” Sherlock confirmed with a vigorous nod. “But it’s a pukka job. Ninety days settlement. This is not a back hander from the Lane sisters when they worked the pubs in Ashdale town centre. These chickens are worth, like, bazillions these days. I have to invoice ’em and they pay up three months after the end of the contract. In the meantime, I have guards to pay, overheads to meet.”

  “And choccies and beer for the girlfriend if you want your legover,” Pete said.

  “Now you’re getting the picture,” said Sherlock.

  Pete stared him in the eye. “Give us the general drift, Sherlock.”

  The security man sighed. “All right. I was coming off shift this morning when I bumped into Danny Corcoran. He’s a cleaner there. He told me they’d had a shemozzle in the library. Books chucked everywhere, window smashed in the door and stuff, and this voice kept talking to him.”

  Pete’s features darkened. “If it came from Danny Corcoran, it’s twaddle. Is he still doing coke?”