Haunt

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘So long as he’s the nice kind of ghost as opposed to another Lamplighter, eh? Did you not see him last time you were here?’ he asked as we entered the building, staring at the wall that the old soldier had disappeared through.

  ‘I was kind of preoccupied, chum, what with having just died and all that fun and nonsense. There could’ve been all manner of spooks walking around that night and I wouldn’t have noticed. That said, it seems Phyllis was right: you are tuned in to some ghostly wavelength now. Whatever I’m seeing, you’re getting it too.’

  Dougie stepped up to the receptionist.

  ‘Hiya, I’ve come to see my mate—’

  ‘Have you taken a ticket?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Have you taken a ticket?’

  ‘I just want to check up on—’

  ‘You need to take a ticket.’

  ‘Can’t you just check—’

  ‘Take a ticket.’

  With a sigh, Dougie stepped to one side and took a stub from the machine. It was a dozen shy of the number on the readout above the receptionist’s head.

  ‘Can’t be chewed waiting for the honour of speaking with that old dragon again,’ said Dougie, screwing up the ticket and chucking it into a waste bin. ‘Let’s see what we can find out for ourselves.’

  Dougie hopped over to a water fountain and bent his neck to rub water into his eyes.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked, but he paid me no attention.

  Backing out of the sliding doors, we spied a lady paramedic and her driver sat on the back step of their ambulance, supping plastic beakers of tea. The woman looked up as Dougie approached.

  ‘You all right, son?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m looking for my brother,’ he sniffed, wiping the faux tears from his eyes. ‘He was brought in this afternoon, had fallen from the school roof.’

  ‘Oh, you poor love,’ she said, placing the cup on the step and rising to give him a hug. ‘You’re in a right state. I know who you’re on about, we were the responders. Tom, stay here and keep an eye on my brew. I’ll be back in a mo. You can come with me.’

  She took Dougie by the hand and led him back indoors, my mate throwing me a wink as she set off through the A&E. Leading us to a lift at the back of the Casualty department, we were soon up on the second floor and travelling down a long corridor, passing wards on either side. The paramedic made small talk with Dougie, trying to sound positive as we drew ever closer to our destination.

  ‘Your dad’s the Reverend Singer, isn’t he? Lovely fella. He’s here already,’ she said.

  ‘He is?’ asked Dougie, suddenly worried that his cover would be blown at any second.

  ‘I’m told he’s helping the police answer some questions at the moment, back downstairs. Wouldn’t you prefer I take you straight to them?’

  ‘I’d rather see my brother first,’ said Dougie, chancing a reply.

  ‘Try not to worry, love,’ she said, squeezing his hand tightly. ‘Try not to worry.’

  I could tell by the way she was speaking and her body language that whatever had happened to Stu had been pretty grim. The sick feeling in my belly returned, twice as bad as before, my guts in knots. Two large, automatic doors stood at the end of the corridor, adorned with badly illustrated paintings of Disney characters. After a brief chat through the intercom, the doors opened and we walked in.

  ‘Sit yourself there, lovely,’ said the paramedic, pointing Dougie to the waiting area. ‘I’ll go see what I can find out for you. Back in a mo.’

  With the ambulance worker gone, there was no need to hang around. Dougie joined me as we looked down the corridors that made up the ward. We set off, passing rooms where kids of all ages lay in beds, some with arms or legs in plaster, raised from their mattresses, others hidden beneath their sheets, feeling sorry for themselves. It quickly became apparent that he wasn’t on one of the open wards. The only other place he could be was in a side room.

  Moving quickly down the corridor that housed the private rooms, I dipped my head through each door. After three peek-and-see head-bobs I found him. The blinds were down over the windows in the room, including over the panel in the door. Stu lay on a bed covered in pristine white sheets, hooked up to all manner of medical paraphernalia. I popped back into the corridor and beckoned Dougie, who slipped into the room as quickly as he could.

  We stood over Stu’s body on the bed. A collar was fastened firmly around his neck, keeping it motionless. His right leg and arm were both in plaster, suspended from the ceiling by a network of cables and pulleys. The pings, bleeps and beeps of the machines provided an odd electrical chorus, as we watched Stu’s chest slowly rise and fall.

  ‘Thank God,’ I said, relieved that I wasn’t encountering a ghostly incarnation of my mate in the room.

  ‘Stupid sod,’ muttered Dougie, shaking his head.

  ‘Takes one . . . to know one . . .’ wheezed Stu, his eyes still closed. Dougie and I both jumped to hear him speak, the revelation met with shock and joy.

  ‘What were you thinking, daft arse?’ asked Dougie, reaching out and taking Stu’s left hand in his own. He gave our friend’s palm a squeeze.

  ‘Have you got Will with you, then?’

  ‘He’s right here,’ grinned Dougie.

  Stu opened his bloodshot eyes and glanced my way, guessing my whereabouts. ‘Tell him he’ll have to wait. I’m not ready for that reunion just yet.’

  ‘He’s smiling at that,’ said Dougie, and he wasn’t lying. A tear rolled down my cheek, I was so happy to see Stu was alive. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Arm and leg broken, and they’re waiting for test results on my back,’ Stu grimaced. ‘Reckon they’ll be putting plates and rods and stuff in there. I’ll be more machine than man when I’m done.’

  ‘More muppet than man,’ I said.

  ‘You do realise what a complete member you were, climbing on to the roof when it was covered in snow?’ said Dougie, his voice serious now. ‘I get that you like showing off, but that sounded like a death wish.’

  ‘I only peeked over the edge, Dougie, I swear,’ said Stu with a grunt. ‘I’m not that daft that I’d risk my life. I had hold of the air conditioning vents up there, I wasn’t going to fall.’

  ‘Yet you did fall, Stu,’ corrected Dougie. ‘And it’s only by blind luck and a very healthy blanket of snow that you’re still alive.’

  ‘You ain’t listening,’ said Stu. ‘Your coat’s over there, pal. You can have it back, whatever condition it’s in.’

  His clothes were piled up on a chair beside the bed. There was Dougie’s parka, the green jacket draped over its back. My mate picked it up, shaking it out, droplets of meltwater from the snow flicked across the floor.

  ‘What the hell did you do to it?’

  The distinctive hood was gone, torn free, the padding sprouting out in tufts from the ripped material.

  ‘Like I said, you haven’t been listening,’ spluttered Stu. ‘I didn’t do that to the jacket. It happened on top of the Upper School. He tore it!’

  ‘Who tore it off?’ asked Dougie as I felt a chill seize my heart.

  Stu’s red eyes were wide now.

  ‘Whoever pushed me off the roof.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rooftops and Revelations

  With all eyes on the hospital and the fortunes of an injured daredevil, Brooklands High was quiet as a crypt, entombed in snow. Dougie and I stared at the sprawling expanse of buildings from the wrong side of the gates, my friend having just hauled himself over the railings. Inevitably our gaze lingered upon the top of the science block, scene of Big Stu’s awful accident. Only it wasn’t an accident, was it? Our friend reckoned he’d been shoved, his plummet intentional at the hands of another. And that would-be-killer was still out there. Perhaps he’d killed before?

  Dougie crept across the car park, sidling along the low wall that ran along its edge, sticking to the shadows as he covered the distance to the buildings. His old parka was back o
n – minus the hood – while the bobble on his woolly hat shook with every step. I sensed two emotions rolling off him as I drifted along at his side: fear and anger. Fear that he might get caught, and anger that someone might have tried to harm our friend. It was too much of a coincidence that Stu was wearing that coat when he was pushed from the rooftop. Dougie had been the target, and it scared him witless.

  One solitary light shone from the entire school, the warm yellow glow from the headmaster’s office illuminating the snow that was banked up outside. For Goodman to stay late wasn’t unusual. For him to stay late on this particular night was testament to his guilt that such a terrible thing should happen to one of his pupils – a child in his care – on his watch.

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ Dougie said as he placed his gloved hands either side of the drainpipe that led to the roof of the Lower School. An expansive, single-floor building, Borley’s office was in the heart of this maze of classrooms. Up Dougie went, using bricks and brackets as foot and handholds. Reaching up he took hold of the lead flashing on the roof, hauling himself the remaining distance until his belly slid over the edge. The snow crunched beneath his gut as he rolled forward, his legs swinging after him.

  Looking up at the stars overhead, Dougie took a moment to compose himself, his breath clouding in front of him before dissipating.

  ‘Another cold one,’ I said as he struggled to his feet. ‘You put your thermal long johns on?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for your concern, Mother,’ he said as he trudged through the virgin snow along the rooftop. ‘I hope Stu comes through this. I can’t help but feel responsible for what’s happened to him.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up. It was Stu who chose to climb up there like a lunatic in the first place. Admittedly he didn’t choose to swan dive off the roof, but he was daft to be up there.’

  ‘He’d never have been pushed if he wasn’t wearing my jacket.’

  I had nothing to say about that. Dougie was right. It was a case of mistaken identity that had sent Stu over the edge. If he hadn’t been wearing the green parka he’d probably still be goofing around like the grade-A clown he was.

  We crept across the rooftops, clambering over low walls, stepping around air conditioners and hurdling pipes and gutters. We were thankful for the clear sky: bitterly cold as it was, it afforded us a great view of the school and where we were heading.

  ‘It should be here,’ I said, the floor crunching beneath Dougie’s feet. ‘Hang on, fella.’

  Walking in any direction was a relatively easy notion for me, following the same principles that were second nature to me in life. Although I didn’t exist in the living world, I instinctively knew how to move through it, the memory of it deeply ingrained in my psyche. Stepping through a wall had taken some getting used to, but it was simply an extension of walking forward. To force myself down, through the floor, felt deeply unnatural, and not a small bit sickening, but it had to be done. I tipped my body and directed my mind and spirit through the ground, my body sinking like a diver might in a pool. I slipped beneath the snow-covered floor, through the bitumen- and felt-coated roof and timbers, until I materialised in Borley’s office.

  I took a quick look around the dark room, a faint light within from the snow-covered skylight above. Popping skyward once more I took a moment to gather my bearings. I wagged my finger at a spot a few feet away.

  ‘There,’ I said. ‘A skylight.’

  Quickly, Dougie was on his knees, scooping the ice to one side, clawing at it with his gloves. I stood to one side, looking around frantically, feeling very much like the accomplice in some terrible crime. Was it really a crime, though? We knew what we were doing was righteous. There had to be a clue within Borley’s office that connected him to not only Phyllis’ death in the House, but also the attempted murder of our friend, Stu.

  The domed perspex sheet was now visible, Dougie scraping the snow away from around its edge. He felt around, trying to find a way in. Reaching into the pocket of his parka, he whipped out a long, flathead screwdriver, wiggling it under the rubber seal and working it against the latch. Sawing it back and forth, he ripped his gloves off as he struggled for traction. He grunted as he forced the screwdriver to its limit, eyes bulging, until the latch inside suddenly popped. The skylight gave, rattling in its bracket as more snow was shaken loose from its sloping summit. Easing his fingers beneath the rim, Dougie pulled hard, the window suddenly groaning as it extended to its limit, a metal arm holding it open. There was a gap of about a foot that could be navigated through. It was going to be a squeeze.

  ‘I know it’s your lucky jacket and you’ve only just got it back, but you’re gonna have to take the parka off, D,’ I said. ‘There’s no way you’ll fit through there with that on.’

  Begrudgingly he shook it off, taking the mini torch out of one of its deep pockets.

  ‘How far to the floor?’

  ‘About ten feet,’ I replied.

  ‘Joy. How will I get back up?’

  ‘He’s got a swivel chair down there, plus there’s a filing cabinet to the side of the skylight. You’ll be OK, I reckon.’

  ‘You reckon?’ he said incredulously. ‘Oh, to share your optimism!’

  ‘Stop gassing, let’s get on with it. Some of us have got homes to go to!’

  ‘Yeah, mine!’ he replied before popping his torch into his mouth, switching it on and wiggling down through the open skylight.

  His landing would’ve looked cool and catlike if it hadn’t been for the crusty layer of snow on the soles of his boots. His feet shot out from beneath him, sending him thumping on to his rump with a yowl.

  ‘Shut it!’ I said. ‘Goodman is in his office, remember?’

  I was already looking around the office as my mate righted himself. I took a glance out of the wire-meshed window that opened out on to the pitch-dark Lower School corridor. A large cork board filled one wall, covered in a multitude of Post-its, notes, sheets of paper and memos. A big old oak desk dominated the room, littered with screws, nails, tools and trays. The leatherette top was scored and slashed, peeling around the edges and curling at the corners. A giant pile of manuals was stacked at the back, topped by a filthy, tea-stained mug.

  Instantly Dougie was into the filing cabinets while I scoured the notice board. It was surprisingly light in the office now with the window clear and the stars lighting the room, plus the occasional sweeping arc of Dougie’s torch provided added illumination too. There were phone numbers with names alongside them pinned to the cork, none of them sending my Spidey sense tingling. Instruction pamphlets sat alongside menus for takeaway delivery firms and the like. After I’d been over the board twice I turned to see how Dougie was getting on, my friend now on the final drawer of the filing cabinet.

  ‘Nothing here, mate,’ he said. ‘Which leaves us with the desk. There won’t be anything there, will there? If he does have any mementos, he probably keeps them at home like any good serial killer.’

  It was a glib, throwaway comment, inspired by the many horror movies we’d seen, but he wasn’t too far off the mark. Borley was a dangerous man. Who knew what he was capable of?

  The side drawers of the desk opened easily, revealing more of the same clutter within. Dougie sifted through it all, looking for a clue that might help us catch Borley out. There was nothing. Fed up, Dougie collapsed into the chair and spun about.

  ‘Nothing. What a waste of time.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ I said. ‘We’ve ruled out his office. Next thing to do is try his home.’

  ‘You’re having a laugh, dude! I’m not breaking into his house, wherever it is. This is bad enough, sneaking into the school. I’ll be expelled if I get caught here. No way, Will. I’m done with this.’

  He reached out and started picking at the leatherette.

  ‘Dougie, we’re so close, mate.’

  ‘So close to what? Stu nearly died today! What next?’

  He was right. We were walking a line that was growing more dangerou
s by the second. I shrugged and nodded as Dougie suddenly stopped scratching at the desk’s surface.

  ‘Hang about,’ he said, snatching his torch and throwing the light below the desktop’s rim. ‘There’s another drawer here, set back.’

  I crouched and looked. Sure enough there was. ‘It’s a stationery drawer. For pens, paper and all that.’

  Dougie tried to feel for a handle but found none. He squinted. ‘There’s a keyhole here.’ He jabbed his screwdriver into it, trying to prise it open.

  ‘Locked?’ I asked, as Dougie nodded. ‘What on earth are you hiding, Mr Borley?’

  My friend moved the tool round to the drawer’s edge and hammered it into the thin gap with the palm of his hand. Then he gave it a whack. The drawer popped open on a spring, Dougie’s fingertips awaiting it as it extended forward over his lap.

  While the top of the desk was in utter ruination, the interior of the stationery drawer was in immaculate condition. Lined in green baize, there was a pile of neatly stacked newspaper cuttings. A glance at the top article told us all we needed to know. It was dated the nineteenth of December, 1964, and was about the disappearance of one Phyllis Carrington. Her face was there, a sweet family portrait with her head dipped to one side, blonde pigtails bobbing. There was Phyllis, staring back at us. And there was the school photo – an original though – the one we’d found online with Andy. Every cutting, every article: each was about the disappearance of our ghostly friend, a scrapbook of horror.

  The cuttings weren’t the most shocking thing though. I tried to find the words, to tell Dougie what we’d discovered, but I didn’t need to. His trembling fingers brushed the long red ribbon that had bound the newspaper articles together, tied neatly in an elegant bow.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ I whispered. ‘Now.’

  Dougie made to pick up the bundle.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We need to leave it here. If we take them, it’s not proof at all as to his involvement. The clippings and the ribbon: they need to be found here by an authority figure.’