Haunt

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I hissed, exasperated. ‘But we need to leave this room as we found it. Come on. Get it closed. We should put our heads together and trap Borley red-handed.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Blues and Twos

  When the police cars descended upon our high school the next day, it was fair to say Dougie and I shared feelings of absolute unadulterated delight. Here was the reward for our sleuthing and dogged determination. From the first moment we’d spied him at the House we knew something was awry. As time went on, he’d revealed himself to be irrevocably connected with Phyllis Carrington’s abduction and death. Perhaps now, with the police questioning him, they might get to the bottom of what had happened to our poor friend in the Sixties. This was our moment of triumph and, sitting on the bench by the school gates, we’d got ringside seats to enjoy it. In true Scooby-Doo style, he would’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for us pesky kids.

  Andy Vaughn sat on one side of Dougie, while I attempted an approximation of chilling out on the other side of him. This is incredibly hard to do when one considers that my buttocks carry all the weight of an air biscuit, but still, I wanted to be by my best mate’s side when they hauled Borley out of the school in handcuffs.

  ‘All credit to you chaps,’ said Andy, who’d helped us put the finishing touches to our case. ‘I can’t quite believe you’ve done it. That’s some going. You really think those printouts will have helped?’

  ‘Deffo,’ said Dougie. ‘Those documents, alongside our letter, will be what stirred Goodman into calling the rozzers. He wouldn’t have picked up the phone without them, I reckon.’

  First thing that morning, at stupid o’clock, Andy had been rudely awakened by Dougie. Sidestepping Mrs Vaughn’s protestations, he’d sloped up to Andy’s bedroom and fired up the laptop. Andy had very kindly printed off the various documents about Phyllis’ disappearance from the local history website, including newspaper stories and those old school photos. Alongside a carefully worded letter from us that spelled out what Borley had been up to, and how he’d inevitably been the one responsible for the attempted murder of Stu Singer, it had proved a damning dossier. Delivered in a brown, A4 envelope, Dougie had declared he’d felt like a cold war spy when he slid the folder under Mr Goodman’s office door first thing in the morning.

  ‘You’re sure Goodman didn’t see you deliver the letter this morning?’ asked Andy.

  ‘Nah, he rocked up after we’d done it, his car wasn’t in the car park.’

  ‘He’s going to know it was from you anyway, matey,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to be Sherlock to work that out. Goodman knows you were snooping around the House, remember?’

  ‘Well,’ said Dougie with a triumphant sigh. ‘I don’t feel the need to get involved now. Let the professionals run with it from here. Doesn’t matter if Goodman knows it’s me behind the package, it’s the cops who can take care of the rest now. I’m glad to be shot of the terrible business.’

  The letter hadn’t gone so far as saying what exactly was in the desk, or indeed that Borley’s desk held the key to the old crime, but we’d laid a series of subtle breadcrumbs that Goodman – and in turn the police – would be able to follow. We were at pains to make it clear that we hadn’t been into the office – that would have weakened our case immeasurably. Once they got into the office, they were bound to turn it over searching for the incriminating evidence, and the bundle of letters with the big red ribbon would finally, fantastically reveal themselves to them. The discovery would be all down to Mr Goodman. He was welcome to the publicity that would no doubt follow. The last thing Dougie craved was the limelight. He just wanted his life to go back to normal. Well, as normal as it can be when your best friend’s a ghost.

  ‘Does this mean you get to go and tell Phyllis the good news?’ asked Andy.

  ‘I guess it does,’ smiled Dougie. ‘I’ll probably leave that honour to Will though. She’s his girlfriend after all.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I said as deadpan as I could muster. ‘My sides. Please. They’re splitting. Incredible, even when I’m dead you can find the time to tease me about talking to girls. Heaven help you the day you finally snare yourself a girlfriend. And heaven help her for that matter.’

  I rolled my eyes as Dougie elbowed Andy, pointing at me (that is, the thin air beside him).

  ‘I’ve ticked him off with that,’ he said. He slapped his leg tearfully, guffawing at his own joke. It was then my turn to laugh as he doubled up in pain, holding his thigh where he’d cut it at the House.

  ‘Actually,’ said Andy, ignoring how Dougie’s tears had shifted suddenly from ones of hilarity to discomfort. ‘Do you reckon I can come along when you next go to see her?’

  Dougie gradually composed himself and sucked his teeth. ‘I don’t know about that, Andy. Form tells us that Phyllis doesn’t play well with others, certainly not on first meeting. Let us run it by her first?’

  Andy nodded while I spoke up, for Dougie’s ears only. ‘You’re also forgetting the fact that it’s unlikely he’ll see anything anyhow. He can’t see me, after all. The only reason you can see her is that you’ve hooked into my ghostly vibes somehow, nicking my spooky broadband.’

  Dougie nodded to me and winked to Andy, slowly and gently massaging the life back into his injured thigh. He’d aggravated the injury last night as he’d struggled out of the skylight, causing it to open again and bleed through his jeans, but it had been worth it. We turned back to the school office as the front doors opened and one of the uniformed policemen stepped out, speaking into his radio. He had a see-through zip-lock evidence bag crooked under his arm. From this distance it was hard to tell what was inside, but I thought I saw a flash of dark green before he placed it inside his coat. I glanced toward the squad car that was parked at the front of the school, an officer waiting expectantly by an open back door.

  ‘Things are beginning to get interesting,’ said Andy, sitting up straight as two plain-clothes officers stepped out of the school, leading Mr Borley between them. A jacket had been thrown over his wrists, no doubt hiding the handcuffs beneath. The old caretaker’s head was dipped low as he left the office, avoiding eye contact with the others gathered there. The teachers fell silent as he walked through them, their banter halting when faced by the sight of Borley’s shameful promenade.

  I could feel my chest swelling with pride as he was marched ever closer to us. They’d have to walk him past the bench we were sat on as they exited the gates. He glanced at us as they passed. As much as I hated the old man for all he’d done, I was struck by the sadness in his eyes. He was led away, broken, and placed into the back of the squad car. The blue lights flashed, the siren whooped once, and they were off, heading down the road in the direction of town and the main police headquarters.

  The crowd of teachers and support staff had followed, all standing nearby as the car disappeared out of sight. Mrs Jolly was closest to us, the bubbly nurse coming over to tell the boys to get inside.

  ‘It’s freezing out here,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch your death!’

  ‘Why’ve they taken Mr Borley away, miss?’ asked Andy, knowingly.

  ‘He’s done something very bad, it appears,’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘The police want to talk to him about what happened to Stuart Singer. There, I’ve already probably said too much!’

  ‘Stu Singer?’ said Dougie. ‘Why do they want to talk to him about Stu?’

  ‘Because they found something in his office, Hancock,’ said Mr Goodman, appearing beside Mrs Jolly as if by magic. He glowered at the nurse. ‘Isn’t there somewhere you should be, Mrs Jolly, as opposed to gossiping with pupils?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry sir,’ she said, blushing furiously and suitably admonished as she set off back toward the office, the other teachers alongside her. Goodman had a way about him: the teachers were as intimidated by him as the pupils were! He turned back to Dougie.

  ‘That jacket, lad,’ said Goodman. ‘The police w
ill be needing that as they build a case against Mr Borley. That’s evidence you’re wearing.’

  Reluctantly, Dougie shook off his parka and was coatless, not for the first time that week.

  ‘Is that what they want him for then, sir? Stu’s fall from the Upper School roof?’

  ‘Indeed. Seems Mr Borley’s been a very naughty boy.’ He leaned in close, his voice a whisper. ‘I know it was you, Hancock: the tip-off. Good work, my boy. Now for your own health and sanity you need to step aside and let the police get on with their business. Don’t make me sign that letter to the psychiatrist, you hear me?’

  Dougie nodded and Goodman gave him a wink.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What was it they found, sir?’ asked Andy, finding his voice before the head at last.

  ‘Evidence, lad,’ said Goodman. ‘One telltale little thing that Borley tried to hide. One miserable item that’ll put him behind bars where he belongs.’

  ‘Just the one item?’ I said, and Dougie heard me. ‘It was a big pile of cuttings and the ribbon. That was the damning evidence!’

  The newspaper bundle was what should point the police in the direction of Phyllis and the House. I began to wonder now what it was the police had taken in the evidence bag.

  ‘What was the evidence they took away, sir?’ said Dougie, echoing Andy’s earlier question.

  ‘The hood to this jacket, lad,’ said Goodman, flinging the torn green garment over his shoulder and setting off back toward the school office as if he were strolling on a sunny summer afternoon.

  ‘You never mentioned the hood,’ hissed Andy when Goodman was out of earshot.

  ‘That’s because we never saw the flaming hood!’ said Dougie frantically. ‘They have to have found the cuttings and the ribbon too. It’s the ribbon that ties him to Phyllis! That’s where this all began!’

  We were off, running through Lower School in the direction of Borley’s office. Turning the corner, we spied one of the Year Eleven prefects standing to attention outside the closed door. You’d think he’d been charged with guarding the Ark of the Covenant the way he was standing, chin out, eyes ahead. A serious soul, but thankfully, easily fooled by the oldest ruse in the book.

  ‘Quick!’ said Andy, running up to him and tugging his elbow. ‘Madamoiselle Pasquale has fallen over on the ice on Upper School playground! She’s hurt her ankle!’

  And with that the perfect prefect was off, keen to be the knight in shining armour. The lure of aiding the damsel in distress – on this occasion, the stunningly beautiful French student teacher – was too great to resist. The only thing missing was the Superman cape as he disappeared around the corner and left his post unmanned.

  Dougie tried the handle to Borley’s office: locked. The pair of us were alarmed now, worried that somehow the police had missed the main clue we’d left for them, the one that implicated the caretaker in the initial crime. I slipped through the door, my heart racing, fear taking hold of me at the prospect of a police oversight. I punched the desk, focusing my anger into the blow. Sure enough, the leatherette top shuddered as the sprung stationery drawer flew open.

  It was empty. The evidence was gone. That could mean only one thing: the police had found the evidence and taken it with them. Well, that or somebody else had.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Winners and Losers

  It felt weird to be able to walk down the moonlit driveway that led to Red Brook House without fear of being followed by Borley. It had been the longest few days of my life – well, un-life, but you know what I mean – and I was relieved they were finally drawing to a close. A fight in a fairground, an encounter with a wicked ghost, an attempted murder and the capture of a killer. And all before the school had broken up for Christmas! God only knew what awaited Dougie and me in the New Year.

  ‘I wonder,’ I said as we strolled triumphantly over the snow-covered gravel toward the red-brick building. ‘Do you think Phyllis will be able to move on, now?’

  ‘Why?’ replied Dougie breezily. ‘Because Borley’s been caught? I dunno, mate. Hope so. Still not sure how it works.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure we’re here until we solve the circumstances of our untimely deaths. Perhaps she can rest in peace now.’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  I mumbled as we neared the doors to the House, fresh snow beginning to fall.

  ‘I recognise that monosyllabic grunt,’ said Dougie. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I shrugged, a little shamefaced. ‘I’m going to miss her, is all. We had a connection.’

  ‘You’ve got a connection with me, regardless of how much I try and shake you off!’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. She’s the one person – the one and only ghost – that I could talk to about my predicament. We’re in the same boat. That’s a pretty unique perspective.’

  Clambering on to the broken windowsill, Dougie eased his legs round and into the building, carefully avoiding further injury. He landed with a thump as I materialised through the wall by his side.

  ‘Will, you’re going to have to let her go, mate. If she gets her chance to move on, you have to encourage her to take it. You can’t be selfish on this one. Think about how you’d feel if you had the chance to rest at last?’

  ‘I know, mate,’ I said as we set off up the staircase into the House.

  Now that Dougie had mentioned it, I afforded myself a moment to consider what I’d do if my chance came along. Would I take it? Could I?

  ‘She might not even be here,’ I said as we reached the second-floor landing and set off down the corridor. ‘She could’ve gone already.’

  ‘Without saying goodbye to her boyfriend?’ grinned Dougie wickedly. ‘Don’t think she’d do that to you, mate.’

  Dougie jumped suddenly as a rat scuttled out of the skirting board and across his path, sending him clattering into the wall. I didn’t even attempt to hide my smug grin as I continued on ahead.

  ‘That’ll learn you,’ I said as we turned the corner of Phyllis’ classroom and entered.

  There she was, standing by the window, looking outside as the snow slowly fell. Her pale hand hovered over the sill, her other one placed in approximation against the glass. She looked our way as we entered, our smiles slipping as we saw her weary face.

  ‘I feel a great sadness,’ she whispered. ‘And I don’t know why.’

  ‘Could it be,’ I said, walking through the desks to be beside her, ‘that whatever sorrow has haunted you, kept you here all these years, has lifted?’

  ‘I don’t know. Surely I’d feel my misery disappear if that were the case?’

  ‘You’re feeling more unhappy?’ asked Dougie, joining us in the moonlight.

  ‘All I know is I feel a weight, like never before, growing all around me,’ she said, her hand going to her throat and massaging her ghostly flesh. I reached out and took her other hand in my own, feeling immeasurable comfort in the sensation.

  ‘Can you explain it?’ I asked.

  ‘The air feels thin,’ she whispered, ‘as if I’m being pushed down and crushed, deafened and drowned. Why should that be?’

  Could that be what I should expect? Was this what it would feel like for me when I finally moved on? A sickening, awful sensation to endure? I squeezed her hand.

  ‘It’ll pass, Phyllis, I promise you. Whatever happened to you, so long ago, it’s being resolved now at last.’

  ‘He faces justice as we speak,’ added Dougie.

  My smile was victorious, Dougie’s grin mirroring my own. She glanced at the two of us, trying to comprehend what we were telling her.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘We mentioned him to you before, and I recall you wigging out,’ I said. ‘It’s Borley, isn’t it? Do you remember him?’

  ‘Eric Borley,’ she whispered, looking across to the fireplace. She walked across and knelt on the floor before it, casting her eyes over the eerie shrine of books and candles. ‘I remember Eric Borley. He was my . . . friend.’

  �
�And it was he who . . . was responsible for your death,’ I said, stopping short of reminding her that she’d been murdered.

  ‘Eric wouldn’t have done that,’ she replied, her hand still around her throat. ‘Eric was a good lad. You’ve got him wrong.’

  ‘You’re his terrible secret, Phyllis,’ I said, crouching beside her. ‘Don’t you see that? He did something awful, something unimaginable, that left you this way. You might have thought he was your mate, but you got him all wrong. He was a bad lad—’

  ‘He was not,’ she shouted, angry now, turning on me. ‘Don’t talk about him that way. These mementos – the candles, my books, my precious things – they’re all here because of him. He tends to this shrine. He keeps it safe. He keeps the House safe.’

  ‘Out of guilt!’ I said.

  ‘Out of love!’ she replied, shamefully. ‘He loved me from afar throughout my life, my mate who played by my side but could never tell me how he truly felt. I’ve seen him return here, every week, for fifty years, saying his prayers, speaking to my memories, wishing he could’ve changed what had happened. Wishing he could’ve been there for me.’

  ‘Wishing he hadn’t done what he’d done, you mean?’ said Dougie.

  ‘He didn’t do anything,’ she exclaimed. ‘I swear, you’ve got him all wrong. He wasn’t with me that night. He was at home, full of the flu.’

  ‘You remember what happened?’ I said. ‘You seem sure enough that Borley wasn’t involved, now.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Dougie. ‘He seemed awful guilty. All that business chasing me, coming after me, pushing Stu off the roof: he even keeps one of your ribbons in his desk, you know?’

  Phyllis lifted a hand to her pale yellow hair and trailed it through a faded bow.

  ‘He was protecting me, protecting my memory. Eric Borley’s a good man. He’s my friend.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think we should have gone straight to the police and not Goodman,’ said Dougie with a grumble.