‘He does realise I’m standing right here, doesn’t he?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ Dougie asked Stu. ‘You make it sound like Will’s one of the Sopranos.’
‘Dad can exorcise him.’
‘He can do that?’
‘Oi!’ I shouted, my annoyance rising at an alarming rate. I might have been in limbo but I had a lot of questions that needed answering. I didn’t need Stu’s dad throwing holy water or whatever my way.
‘Deffo, he’s down with all that stuff, possessions and whatnot. Mate of his in Liverpool saw a bloke levitate once. They’re like Ghostbusters, these priests and vicars.’
‘Please tell me you’ve stopped listening to him,’ I said, as Stu’s imagination bounded off into la-la-land. Stu was famous for telling everyone that his grandpa was in the SAS when he really worked for Parcel Force. He was terribly bright and had a photographic memory, but for all those smarts, he was strangely naive. It was rumoured his stupidity would be the death of him. I thought Stu was an idiot savant, although Dougie reckoned he was just a common or garden idiot.
‘Exorcising? I thought that was only in the movies,’ said Dougie.
‘Nobody’s going to exorcise anybody!’ I shouted, my temper fraying. I struck out at Dougie and although I didn’t feel my hand connect, to my surprise I saw his shoulder bounce a little, as if gently patted.
He and I looked at his shoulder, both shocked by the apparent connection, and stared at one another. Stu walked through me as he made his way out of the wood-store and back into the design and technology classroom. A wave of nausea rippled through me with his passing.
‘Gimme a shout when you make your mind up, bro,’ he said to Dougie as he strutted off, knocking over a wood-pile in true Damage Squad fashion. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts . . .’
‘So you felt that?’ I asked excitedly when Stu had gone.
‘I felt . . . something.’
‘But you moved your shoulder when I lashed out.’
‘I saw you swing. Perhaps it was instinct? An impulse reaction?’
That wasn’t the answer I needed to hear. If I could touch something in the real world, then what else might I be capable of?
‘No, there’s got to be more to it than that. There’s a way I can connect with the living world. I just know it. I just need to tap into that. Find out how to . . .’
I noticed Dougie was staring out of the window, paying me little attention. A group of girls were making their way across the schoolyard and there, at the back of them, was Lucy Carpenter.
‘I wonder if she can see me,’ I whispered.
‘I doubt it,’ said Dougie.
I shivered. Dougie’s words had struck a chord. There was something I had to tell him. Something had slipped my mind. I was close to remembering what that was when Mr Russell interrupted.
‘Hancock,’ he said, catching Dougie by surprise.
I wondered how long the teacher had been standing there.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I think you might need to have a talk with someone, young man,’ he said, reaching out and patting Dougie on the shoulder.
Dougie glanced at me, rolling his eyes as Russell led him back to his desk, muttering something about the school nurse and post-traumatic stress disorder.
SIX
Head and Heart
Dougie sat slouched in the chair outside Mr Goodman’s office, Drumstick Lolly in mouth, feet tapping nervously on the carpet. The lolly made him look nerdier than ever. It had been a parting gift from the Mrs Jolly, the appropriately-named school nurse. Mrs Jolly was a lovely, plump, roly-poly lady with cheeks the colour – and texture – of strawberries. She was without doubt the one person you wanted to see if you had any ailment, from a grazed knee to a broken arm, such was her ability to put one’s mind at ease. Invariably a key component of all her medical remedies would be a lollipop, doled out from an enormous tub she kept on top of her filing cabinet. The lollies were a leftover from her previous job in a primary school.
You can’t underestimate the healing powers of a good lolly, regardless of your age. Dougie had devoured one while he’d sat with her, as she talked him through bereavement and depression. He’d left the room with two more stashed in his pocket, the first of which had already found its way into his mouth as he waited for the headmaster to call him in.
‘Why does he want to see you?’ I asked as we stared at Goodman’s door.
‘Hang on a minute. I’ll just turn on my psychic link.’
Mrs Jolly appeared down the corridor, passing from her office to the staffroom, winking and throwing Dougie a thumbs-up as she went by.
‘She’s ace, isn’t she?’ said Dougie quietly, keeping our chats as secretive as possible after the nurse’s pep-talk. ‘I wish she was my mum.’
‘You really want to consult your dad on that before you marry them off. He might have something to say on the matter. She’s twice his size!’
Dougie smiled.
‘A diet of Drumsticks and Double Lollies will do that.’
We both laughed as the headmaster’s door opened.
‘What’s so funny, Hancock?’
Goodman was a tall, rangy man, with an award-winning comb-over that swept across his bald head. Legend said it was backcombed up from his bum, though nobody was about to investigate. He always wore the same brown tweed jacket with leather arm patches, and mismatched trousers.
‘Nothing sir,’ said Dougie, recovering his composure instantly.
‘Hmm,’ said Goodman, standing to one side. ‘In you come, boy.’
I hummed the tune to the Imperial March from Star Wars as I followed them into the office, blissfully aware that my tomfoolery might set Dougie off again at any moment. I saw his shoulders shake a little as he sat down in front of Goodman’s desk, the headmaster settling on the other side and leaning back in his leather captain’s chair. His father’s old mining pick and lantern sat on one shelf of his enormous bookshelf, a reminder of where he’d come from. Goodman was big on tradition and roots. You can take the man out of Yorkshire, etcetera.
‘You’re not in trouble, Hancock, but you can lose the lollipop for starters.’
Dougie whipped the sweet out of his mouth and sat up straight. Goodman took the school very seriously, commanding respect from pupils and staff alike. You could often find him striding around the school on his spindly legs, barking orders like that demented bloke from Fawlty Towers. Parents, naturally, loved him.
‘I wanted to see you because I’ve been . . . made aware of your circumstances.’
‘I don’t follow, sir.’
‘This talking and muttering to yourself, boy: there’ve been a couple of mentions in the staffroom this morning, and now Mrs Jolly has got me up to speed. I just wanted to say, Hancock: we can make sure you get help, should you need it.’
It was at this point in time that ordinarily I might have whispered something insensitive regarding a trip to the loony bin, but it suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. Looking at it from the school’s perspective, one of their pupils was coming apart at the seams after a seriously traumatic experience. Dougie was having a tough enough time dealing with me being a ghost – now he had to convince the school that he wasn’t mad.
‘I’m all right, sir. Really.’
‘You sure?’ Goodman leaned over his desk, fingers knitting together as he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Don’t feel you have to bottle things up, Hancock. The best thing to do is talk about your feelings, understand?’
Dougie nodded, eyes wide and unblinking. This was Goodman trying to ‘be friendly’, and it reminded me an awful lot of a dog attempting to miaow. In all the years I’d been at school, the headmaster had been many things, but friendly wasn’t one of them. Intimidation was more his style, a fierce glare that commanded respect and produced toilet-related mishaps for those pupils with the weakest bladders. Dougie and I were used to Goodman’s gruff act now, so seeing him trying to play the ‘nice card
’ was slightly unnerving.
I walked around the headmaster’s desk – out of habit, really, as I could just as easily have strode through it – and across to the window. I really did feel like I was eavesdropping now. I shouldn’t be in here with Dougie as he had a heart-to-heart with Goodman. Maybe there was something Dougie wanted to say, but couldn’t with me being present. I glanced back and hooked my thumb towards the window, mouthing the question: ‘Want me to go?’
Dougie shook his head.
‘There’s really nothing you want to talk about, boy?’ With his dickie-bows and cravats, Goodman looked more like Doctor Who’s dad than a headmaster, but you wouldn’t dare ask him where he’d parked his TARDIS.
‘Not really, sir. Me and Will were best mates, and I guess . . . I don’t know what I’m thinking at the moment. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel.’
‘You’re struggling to deal with the loss, aren’t you? It’s perfectly natural to grieve, Hancock.’
If only it were that easy for Dougie, I thought. I was right there, I wasn’t going anywhere. If I was gone he could start to deal with it, but I was still there for him, and he was still there for me. Best mates through thick and thin. And through life and death . . .
I caught sight of Mr Borley, the school caretaker, raking the grass outside Goodman’s office window. Autumn was the busiest time of year for the old man, with every tree in the neighbourhood managing to dump its dead leaves onto his yards and playing fields. With a thick mop of greying hair on his head and mutton-chop sideburns, he reminded me of old photos of Dad I’d seen in the family album. Dad had been a bit of a rocker in his youth. Only he’d grown out of it. Didn’t look like Borley ever had. He glanced up towards me suddenly. Instinctively, I ducked out of sight.
He couldn’t see me, could he? I looked back at Dougie, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, What are you hiding from? You’re a ghost, stupid!
I stepped back to the window behind Goodman’s chair and peered out again. There was Borley, bent over his rake, seemingly oblivious. I shivered – ridiculous, I know, considering I was dead, but it was a deep-rooted nervous reaction. Something wasn’t quite right about Borley, but I didn’t know what.
‘I’m looking out for you, boy,’ said Goodman, standing up and walking to the door. ‘I want you to know that.’
He opened it as Dougie rose from his chair and turned to make his way out of the room. As my pal passed him, Goodman dipped into the chest pocket of Dougie’s blazer and whipped out the final lollipop.
‘Oh, Drumstick!’ he grinned. ‘My favourite.’
Goodman patted my friend on the back and propelled him out of the door, with me ghosting past in hot pursuit.
‘And remember, Hancock,’ he said as he shut the door, his voice echoing from beyond as he finished the sentence, ‘my door’s always open.’
SEVEN
Gardens and Graveyards
‘What on earth are you doing?’
Dougie jumped up in bed, suddenly awake, drawing his duvet up under his chin in shock.
‘Oh, don’t be so overdramatic,’ I said, waving his protestations away. ‘I was only watching you while you slept.’
‘Watching me sleep?’ he wheezed. ‘Oh, well that’s a relief. For a moment I thought you might be doing something really creepy.’
‘Creepy would be those underpants you’re wearing: The Incredible Hulk? How old are you again?’
‘They were a gift.’
‘When you were seven? Reckon you should’ve moved on by now . . .’
‘Can we move on, please? How do we get you to where you need to be? And by that I’m talking about the Great Hereafter or wherever it is you belong. You can’t stay perched on the foot of my bed like some phantom parrot, pal.’
‘Sorry to freak you out, buddy, but it’s not exactly a cakewalk for me either!’
‘Can’t you go and haunt Lucy Carpenter or something?’
‘Believe me, the last place I want to be is stuck in your room playing Casper the Friendly Ghost while you snore and fart your way to sunrise.’
‘Then why are you here?’
I had to think for a moment: it was a fair question. What was it that had drawn me to Dougie? I’d bimbled around his bedroom while he snored, eventually settling at the foot of his bed. And I’d been quite content there. I can’t say I’d slept – ghosts don’t sleep, I’d learned that very early on – but I felt at peace. Why had I stayed in his room, crouched over him like some spectral simpleton? There were certainly other places I’d much rather have been: his suggestion of haunting Lucy Carpenter wasn’t a bad one at all.
‘I wish I could tell you, mate, but I haven’t the foggiest idea. This limbo gig doesn’t come with a handbook!’
‘Then perhaps somebody should write one,’ said Dougie.
‘I’ll dictate, you take notes.’
We grinned momentarily before I continued.
‘Well, there’s nobody showing me the ropes. I really can’t put my finger on it, only to say that being here feels . . . right. Can’t be any clearer than that, as I really don’t get it yet. As for what I should be doing, who knows? What do your other ghost mates usually do?’
Dougie clicked his fingers, jumping out of bed and rushing to his bedroom window. Yanking the curtains back, he looked out into the night.
‘You might be on to something. There must be others like you.’
‘Others?’
‘Phantoms, lost souls, ghosts and ghouls; you can’t be alone.’
I joined him at the windowsill, our eyes searching the nearby cemetery. During the day it was a peaceful, restful place, a shortcut to school for many kids. At night, however, a transformation took place. Gravestones jutted from the thin mist like trolls’ teeth, beyond the back garden fence. It looked like the perfect setting for a haunting, a grim world of gloom and shadows, straight out of a horror movie.
‘Do you really believe you’re on your own? You can’t be the only restless spirit out there.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Let me grab a torch,’ said Dougie, dashing to the foot of his bed.
‘And your jeans,’ I suggested, catching an unwelcome glimpse of the unsightly superhero pants as he pulled on his trainers.
A loose fence panel enabled Dougie to slip from his garden through to the graveyard, while I simply stepped through the thin timber and materialised on the other side. I was gradually getting used to the sensation – moving swiftly was the best way to avoid nausea. Though not having a stomach to hurl with certainly helped. Still, going too slowly made my eyes feel like onions, layer after layer peeling away as I passed through.
‘So, what are we looking for exactly?’ I whispered as I moved alongside my friend, the two of us scouring the darkness for anything supernatural.
‘You tell me,’ he replied. ‘I assumed you’d be all tuned in to whatever frequency ghosts work on.’
‘It’s not like Bluetooth, you know? I’m learning on the job!’
‘You can’t see them?’
‘Tell you what, the minute I do, I’ll let you know.’
‘What, you’re a ghost who can’t see ghosts?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’ve never done this before!’
‘Have to say, mate,’ muttered Dougie, ‘your haunting leaves a lot to be desired. Mooching about all day and night hardly strikes me as constructive use of your afterlife. You should be out hooking up with some more ghostly folk.’
‘Of course,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘I just need to put my name down for Afterlife Anonymous, get along to the next meeting.’
‘I just think if you’d been searching for some other spirits you might be a little further along by now, uncovering why you’re here. They could help you move on.’
‘There you go again, saying you want me to move on,’ I replied.
‘Well, don’t you want to?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t reckon I do. This is my second bite of the apple: I doubt I
’ll get another one. If I move on, as you put it, I’m gone for good.’
‘So I’m stuck with you for the foreseeable?’
‘I love you too, big guy,’ I smiled.
‘Which brings us back to what’s actually keeping you here.’
‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m still here because I need to find the driver of the car that killed me. It has to be that.’
‘It has to be that?’ exclaimed Dougie, stopping in the mist beside a gnarled old tree. ‘I thought it was love that kept spirits from moving on.’
That was when it came to me, like a lightning bolt out of the blue. The nagging sensation at the back of my mind, that important thing that I had needed to tell Dougie on the night of my death: I had remembered it. The trauma must have buried the memory.
‘Lucy Carpenter kissed me.’
Naturally, my revelation caused Dougie to halt in his tracks, as if hit by an elephant gun.
‘You lying git,’ he said. ‘You’ve more chance of snatching a smooch off Mrs Jolly!’
‘It’s the truth!’
‘It’s a head trauma,’ scoffed Dougie. ‘That car hit you hard, dude!’
I shook my head, growing more confident with every passing second as my memory returned. The smirk gradually grew into a grin.
‘You think I’d lie about a kiss? What do I stand to gain?’
‘My undying admiration because you snogged the school hottie, for starters.’
‘Enough with the undying,’ I said, suddenly finding a spring in my stride. For the first time since my death, I was beginning to feel positive. ‘Look, I can’t find any other way of explaining this, but the answer to why I’m a ghost is directly connected to that night. I think it’s discovering the truth that’s keeping me here.’
Dougie glanced around the gravestones, casting his torch about in sweeping arcs. It was clear to the pair of us that the cemetery was devoid of supernatural activity. Whoever the dead beneath our feet were, it was clear they were resting in peace.
‘This is rubbish,’ he said. ‘We won’t be finding any answers tonight: there’s nothing here. If there are ghosts out there, we’re going to have to cast our net wider to catch one.’
Haunt Page 3
