Dougie took hold of the wire fence. He carefully pulled it back in gloved hands before slipping through, gently allowing the severed mesh to fall back without rattling. The last thing we needed was to alert the security guards to Dougie’s presence.
He looked the business, decked in his stealthiest subterfuge gear. Dougie was all too aware that this was a potentially dangerous task he was undertaking: ‘ninja black’ was the dress code he’d insisted upon. He stopped short of saying he may not return alive. Admittedly the effect of his outfit was lessened somewhat by the Iron Maiden T-shirt, but all things considered it was a fair effort. Furthermore, my knowledge of ninjas was admittedly limited, but I doubted they usually took man-bags on missions with them, Dougie’s messenger bag bouncing jauntily upon his hip.
‘We need to cut across this field,’ I said, indicating straight ahead with my hand. ‘Mind your step, though. The barracks used to be situated across this meadow. Goodness knows what’s underfoot.’
Knowing what the plan was, we’d wasted no time in scouring the internet for information on the air base. Photos and plans of the site had been examined, the farmhouse located, and the quickest, safest route to it decided. The enormous shadow of an aircraft hangar loomed large nearby.
‘According to the maps, the farmhouse is at the back of that hangar. Just need to watch out for the security patrols.’
Right on cue, a beam of torchlight flashed close by to our right, an approaching guard doing his rounds of the perimeter fence.
‘You might want to move,’ I said, but my pal needed no prompting. He was off, staying low to the long grass. I sped after him, pulled along by Dougie’s invisible tether, my eyes never leaving the torch beam at our backs. He leapt suddenly, hurdling a crumbling low wall that had appeared out of nowhere from the weed-riddled field. There was a clanging as his feet hit something metallic, hidden in the grass. He cursed aloud as his trainers went from under him, the uneven surface sending him sprawling through the air.
Dougie hit the dirt and spluttered as I hovered over him. Back the way we’d come I caught sight of the guard’s torch sweeping the darkness in our direction. Had he heard our din? He’d need to be deaf to have missed it. I crouched beside Dougie.
‘You OK?’ I asked. He winced.
‘My ankle. Think I might’ve sprained it.’
‘Can you walk on it?’
‘I’m going to have to, aren’t I?’
He set off, stumbling through the grass and drawing nearer the hangar. Behind us, the torch cut through the night, closing in, searching for the cause of the commotion.
‘Come on, D,’ I said, urging him on. ‘Imagine you’ve got a pack of zombies at your back. Better still, imagine it’s Vinnie Savage and his cronies!’
That did the trick. Dougie found an extra gear, opening his stride as he loped painfully toward the hangar. Soon we were slipping into its towering shadow, my friend hugging its wall breathlessly as I scouted our surroundings.
‘We’ve shaken the security guard, mate, for now. But we need to keep moving.’
Dougie nodded, his face contorting like he might barf. Then he was moving again, hobbling along the edge of the aircraft hanger, making his way to the rear. I looked up as we went, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the thing. This was the last giant standing, the others long gone, just like the Major and his old comrades. Only ghosts remained.
We slowly turned the corner of the hangar, searching for guards and, more importantly, a farmhouse. I hadn’t expected it to still be standing. Surely that would’ve been the first thing to go, a clapped-out, crumbling building. Yet there it was, a ruin rising from the wasteland, bedecked in rubble. Dougie wasted no more time, skipping clumsily across broken tarmac to the farmhouse, wincing as he went.
The front door hung open crazily, the timber green with lichen. Dougie squeezed through the gap, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
‘It’s like a giant dumpster,’ I said.
Once home to Air Force officers, the ground floor had gone through a makeover. The building had been used as a landfill in recent years, a dumping ground for all manner of debris. Bricks, bags of mortar and busted construction materials cluttered one wall, while more residential waste filled the remainder of the large room. A knackered toilet sat beside the staircase, its porcelain cracked and riddled with mould. Bin bags were piled high in one corner, the buzz of flies and Dougie’s contorting nostrils telling me something nasty was within. Pizza boxes, crumpled cans and broken bottles were a popular decoration, popping up all over the place. An ancient-looking television set stood proud in the room’s centre, its screen smashed, audience long departed.
‘Upstairs,’ I said, and Dougie was off, struggling up the creaking staircase as he made for the next floor. The landing was cluttered with more junk but we pressed on through, swinging around to find the attic steps. Up he went, the rotten, twisted timbers groaning beneath his weight. I held my breath for Dougie, hoping the staircase would hold out and not plunge him into the chaos below. Finally, he reached the summit.
‘He lived here?’ whispered Dougie.
‘Suspect it was more homely back in the day,’ I said.
Half the ceiling was missing, revealing jagged joists, shattered roof-tiles cluttering the ground where they’d landed down the years. Great holes pockmarked the floor where the exposed wood had been worn away by the weather, eventually falling through to the rooms below. There was the rusting French stove, balanced precariously beside one such hole, suicidal on its fragile perch. Only the occasional beam remained. Dougie stepped forward, jumping with fright as half a dozen crows took flight from the shadows, disappearing through the splintered roof.
‘The round window,’ I said, pointing ahead across the dangerous ground. There it was, in the centre of the gable-end wall, the only sheet of glass still intact in the farmhouse as far as we could tell.
‘It would have to be on the far side of the attic, wouldn’t it?’ grumbled Dougie.
‘Can’t make it too easy for you.’
Dougie inched forward across the beams, slipping occasionally on bird poop that had been kindly deposited upon the mulchy timber. His arms remained out on either side of him, body lurching occasionally as he battled for balance. I’d seen better tightrope walkers at the circus, but none so brave as my mate as he struggled on, effectively on one leg. I drifted beside him, unhindered by earthly restrictions, floating freely across the air.
‘There!’ I said, jabbing a finger ahead and instantly regretting it.
Dougie jumped with alarm. His body twisted as he tried to remain upright. It was no good. His bad foot went out from under him, causing him to spin round. Both feet flew out to the sides, causing him to land astride the beam with a groin-crunching thud. The French stove fell, crashing into the darkness below. Dougie didn’t have time to hurl, instead sliding off the timber and into space. It was only the messenger bag that saved him; the handle caught a jagged outcropping of wood that had once been a joist, leaving him dangling in midair, halfway between two floors. He recovered his senses, clutching his man-bag and looking to me in a justifiably exasperated fashion.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I can see it though, dead ahead!’
Dougie squinted and followed my pointing finger. There it was, the unmistakable sight of a cigar box, jutting precariously from the wall between broken boards. Dougie groaned, his forearms looped through his strap, hopeless and helpless, so close to our prize. The spur of wood he was suspended from looked like it might give at any moment, plunging him to the floor below. ‘I’m kind of preoccupied,’ he grunted.
A noise below caused us both to start; the front door was creaking open. Even from the attic we could see the torch’s beam flickering through the crumbling building below.
‘Who’s there?’ A gruff, angry voice.
‘He doesn’t sound happy,’ I said.
‘Deep joy,’ whispered Dougie, forehead glistening with sweat as he began to slip through th
e loop of his messenger bag.
I looked back to the cigar box where it sat proud of the broken attic floorboards. I drifted across, our umbilical connection humming as I went. It was a strange sensation; the air charged with electricity the further we moved apart. Even in ghostly form I felt my skin prickle, hair standing on end, and I knew Dougie felt the exact same way. I hovered over the box, my heart like a jackhammer, so close to what we were searching for. I heard the guard’s footsteps on the stairs as he began to climb, boards straining loudly beneath his feet.
‘Can you grab it?’ Dougie grunted, shoulders almost dislocated as he continued to slip free, strap edging closer to coming free from the joist.
‘I heard that, you little sods!’ called the security guard, catching Dougie’s question. ‘You’re in a world of trouble!’ His footsteps were swift now as he rushed up the flights.
I snatched at the box, but my hand went clean through, failing to connect. I closed my eyes, focusing for a moment, channelling my emotions and energies into my hands. I reached back slowly, hooking my palms behind the cigar box, and took a breath.
It all happened at once.
The guard arrived at the attic landing, cast his torch beam across the room. It lit Dougie’s face up like a jack-o-lantern. Dougie panicked, his strap tore free from the splintered joist, and he plummeted. I was yanked away, our connection as tight as a rope about my waist. My fingers snatched at the box before I was hurtling down through the farmhouse after my friend. Dougie crashed through the rotten timbers of the first floor before hitting the pile of stinking bin bags. As I arrived beside him, so did the cigar box, landing in his lap, covered in a light coating of fresh ectoplasm.
‘Sorry about that,’ I muttered as he wiped the spooky jelly from his hands and shoved the box in his messenger bag.
‘No time for gassing,’ he said, rolling off the rubbish sacks and scrambling for the exit. We were out the door, cutting across the tarmac and past the corner of the aircraft hangar. Behind, we heard the security guard shouting as he gave chase.
‘Which way?’ cried Dougie, his bearings lost in the heat of the moment, his body pushed to its limits.
‘That way,’ I said, giving him a shove and connecting, buffeting him in the direction of the ruined barracks.
The torch light illuminated the grass around us now as we ran, accompanied by others as more guards joined the pursuit. Dougie was sobbing now, terror driving him on, fear of what the men might do should they catch him. I shared that horror as the shouting of the guards drew closer. He hopped and fumbled his way through the ruined buildings once more, this time grazing a shin on a sheet of rusted corrugated metal. His jeans tore along with the skin, causing him to cry out in pain. He went down, landing on all fours, struggling for breath. The messenger bag spilled open, wire cutters, can of Coke, Mars bar and cigar box all tumbling into the dirt.
‘Get up!’ I screamed at him, begging him to move, but at that moment he was done. I looked back as three torch beams converged upon the old barracks. Was this it? Only now did I realise the world of trouble my friend would be in if he was caught. School, the police, his future, his dad, the Major . . .
Dougie looked up, his panting ceasing, his face agog. I followed his gaze toward the cigar box.
The box radiated a pale blue light, growing brighter by the second until it shone brilliant and white. Shapes materialised around us, thin glowing slivers breaking free of the darkness. They coalesced before our eyes, stepping through the rubble, taking shape slowly. The one closest shifted into the form of a military man, not unlike the Major. His body was made of the same ethereal mist, translucent and spectral, the approaching security men visible through his form. He said nothing, saluting us once before turning toward the approaching guards, his companion ghosts gathering around him. They blinked out of existence as the atmosphere changed, the warm summer evening transformed in a heartbeat.
The wind blew up out of nowhere, swirling around and through the ruined barracks like a dust devil, tearing up grass and whipping it through the air. Dougie and I were in the eye of the storm; the guards suddenly ceased their advance, throwing their hands up before them. Dry earth took flight, caught on the tiny twister’s thermals as the wind changed direction. It was sudden and savage, directed hard and fast at the security men, knocking them off their feet and sending them stumbling away.
I shouted at Dougie over the roar of the storm. Whether he heard me or not, he was up and moving again, snatching up the cigar box as we covered the remaining distance to the fence.
‘What the hell was that?’ I gasped, as Dougie squeezed through the severed mesh.
‘Run,’ he said. ‘Just run.’
We dashed into the darkness, the panicked cries of the guards chasing us through the night.
NINETEEN
Errands and Errors
‘Where are we going again?’ asked Lucy, fingers entwined in Dougie’s, the sun blazing overhead.
‘It’s just an errand, for my dad,’ said a limping Dougie, the cigar box tucked into his waistband out of sight. ‘He wants me to drop something off for a friend.’
Lucy nodded, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. We were walking through a neighbourhood he and I had only recently visited. Houses gave way to bungalows as we passed through an oasis of sheltered homes for the elderly. My eyes were drawn to the gardens. Many were well kept; lawns freshly mowed, shrubs manicured, rose bushes in bloom. Loved ones had clearly called by, taking care of these tasks for their infirm relatives. But what of those gardens that were jungles, overgrown by weeds and ivy. Where were their loved ones? These gardens were forgotten and unloved, as were those who hid behind the closed doors.
I sighed, and Dougie heard it. He caught me looking. Maybe he felt the same way. Perhaps I had a unique perspective, having passed over. Well, almost passed over, anyway.
‘So your leg; what’s with the limp?’
Dougie managed a smile as he hobbled along. ‘Oh, this? Just an accident. I was playing football. No big deal.’
‘You playing football?’ I laughed as I shadowed them. ‘Your encounter with a platoon of ghosts was more believable!’
He smiled and ignored me, and Lucy didn’t doubt him. She rested her head on his shoulder as they walked on. I had to admit it: they made a great couple. They were hardly boyfriend-girlfriend material, looking in from the outside, but something had drawn them together. He was a big old geek, just like me, sharing the same oddball sense of humour. Not for the first time I was left wondering if things could have turned out differently if Bradbury hadn’t got behind the wheel of Mr Hancock’s Bentley. I shook my head and decided to let it go. These things could eat away at you. I never wanted to be in that situation again. I was happy for my pal, and he was happy with Lucy. The hot, foxy, drop-dead gorgeous Lucy who I’d fancied like mad throughout high school. Yeah, let’s just say that their relationship was a work in progress for me and leave it at that, eh?
‘Is something the matter, Dougie?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘With us? You’ve seemed . . . distant. Preoccupied.’
‘Oh. There’s just stuff going on at home, with my dad. Family stuff. I wouldn’t want to bore you.’
‘It wouldn’t be boring, Dougie. You could tell me anything. If something’s bothering you, please know I’m here for you.’
‘Word to the wise,’ I whispered. ‘Probably not a good idea to mention me. Last time you did she conveniently blanked it from her memory, like it never happened. I’d stick with the family alibi if I were you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dougie, answering the both of us. ‘It’s just family stuff. Please don’t worry.’ He kissed her. ‘I’m fine, just a bit stressed out with stuff my dad’s going through.’
She looked up. ‘You can tell me, you know?’
Dougie stared into her eyes. I could see from his goofy expression what he was thinking.
‘Don’t spill your beans, pal.’
‘My dad . . . is in a bit of a fix.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Mate, if this doesn’t send her running, nothing will.’
He continued, regardless. ‘He’s been pretty low lately, not well at all. It’s all on account of this guy he used to work for.’
‘Used to? Is he no longer working?’
Dougie shrugged. ‘It’s difficult. He’s been off work sick for a while now, but this guy wants him to do another job for him. Only I don’t want him to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘His boss is a bad bloke. Very bad.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ she said quietly.
‘You don’t know the half of it. He makes Vinnie Savage look like Mickey Mouse.’
‘So why doesn’t your dad just tell him “no”, then? Nobody can be made to work for someone. There are laws against that rubbish.’
‘It isn’t as simple as that. Dad’s being blackmailed.’
‘Blackmailed? With what?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Dougie, his voice cracking with emotion and relief to at least be partially coming clean with Lucy. ‘But it’s something awful, trust me. I honest to God can’t tell you, Lucy, you have to believe me!’
‘I do believe you,’ she said, squeezing his hand earnestly. ‘Then surely he should go to the police and report this man?’
‘No, he really can’t. What Dad’s implicated in . . .’ He glanced at me, fleetingly. ‘It’s about as bad as it gets. And it’s all untrue,’ he added, aware that he might be painting Mr Hancock as a villain too.
The two of them walked on in silence. I strode beside my pal, sucking my teeth.
‘Well. This is awkward. I did tell you not to tell her.’
Before he could answer, Lucy spoke up. ‘I’m here for you, Dougie. And when you’re ready to tell me what’s really gone on, you will. Believe me, I can be more use to you if you tell me the whole truth, not snippets. Friends shouldn’t keep secrets from one another.’
There was that word again: secrets. The Major had told me never to hide things from my friend, and here was Lucy using the exact same phrase. Coming clean with Dougie had hardly been a great idea at the time, resulting in a punch-up and prolonged period of ignoring one another. Would my friend face the same fate if he told Lucy what had happened? Before I could warn him, we were coming to a slow, staggered halt outside Ruby Hershey’s bungalow. My heart sank.
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