I put my head in my hands. ‘Sorry. Had a hallucination, a really bad one. Nothing like I’ve ever had before. One minute I was standing in front of the bookshop, next I was back in the 1940s. Then your boys found me.’
‘So how did you get through two locked doors into the storeroom? You scared the manager of the bookshop half to death, poor woman.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I replied.
‘Bill, I know you’re not well, but you need to help me. The other side of that storeroom is a jeweller’s shop. If I wanted to, I could make this look very bad for you.’
‘I know. Listen, it was a hallucination. There was no bookshop, no jewellers, just a grotty old hotel. I walked through the front door, down the steps into a bar, someone bought me a beer and I had a funny turn. Then your boys arrested me. That’s all I can remember.’
‘Have they taken blood or urine samples?’ Grimes asked.
‘Both.’
‘How much had you drunk?’
‘A pint and a half at most.’
‘Did you mix drink and pills?’
‘No.’
‘Well that’s something at least,’ he replied. ‘I should be able to get you off with a caution, but for Christ’s sake, go back to the doc and get some stronger pills. One minute you ring me up saying you’re fine, and the next thing I know my boys have nicked the only safe cracker in the business who goes tooled up with a pint of flat bitter.’
I suppose an analogy about moths and flames would be suitable, but as soon as the police released me I got in my car and drove out to Leckonby. The light was fading by the time I arrived but I reckoned I had at least half an hour. A walk would clear my head and let me do some thinking. I parked in my usual spot and set off around the perimeter track towards the bomb dump. I usually reckon to cover a mile every fifteen minutes and by the time my watch told me that it was time to turn back I had almost reached the shooting butts where the gypsy encampment had been. The burned-out remains of the caravan were still there, as were the heaps of rubbish left behind. The piles of cartridges had gone as had all evidence of the police presence, but I spent far longer than I had intended, poking about in bushes and in the shell of the old brick building that had once supported the giant sand banks into which the aircrafts’ guns were fired.
By the time I turned to retrace my steps it was clear I wasn’t going to make it to the car before night fell and I quickened my pace accordingly. As the sun set a chill pervaded the air and a thin layer of mist settled over the old airfield.
I was just passing the bomb dump, not five minutes from the car when I heard it. A low, rumbling growl, close at hand from somewhere just in front. I stopped, hairs bristling on the back of my neck. Whatever it was, it was between me and the safety of the car. I peered into the gloom, trying to see what had made the sound – guard dogs turned loose on the airfield to deter thieves and vandals seemed the most logical answer. I hoped that if I just kept on walking slowly, they would ignore me. I edged away from the perimeter track, trying to skirt round what I hoped was only a single dog and not a pack, but the growl came again, closer now and louder. A voice in my head told me what I feared to admit. Whatever was making that unearthly sound, it wasn’t a dog. The growl came once more, but from behind. I spun round and saw a monstrous black shadow emerge from the mist towards me, as tall at the shoulder as a pony. This was no dog. Two red, glaring eyes fixed me and the creature moved closer, a vile, snarling coming from its jaws. I turned to run, but in the dark I didn’t see the raised edge of the concrete slab and sprawled headlong, winding myself as I fell. I felt rather than heard the beast approaching and turned to face it.
‘Snipe! Leave.’ A man’s voice, from where I couldn’t see. The creature stopped at once, lowered its tail and turned away from me, disappearing into the darkness from which it had come. Too shocked to move, I lay where I was. Standing over me, his features just visible in the moonlight was Colonel Cavendish. He looked down at me with contempt. ‘You don’t listen, do you? This place isn’t safe for you. And now it’s too late. You’ve looked him in the eye.’ Like the dog, he too seemed to have grown to outlandish proportions and now stood over seven feet tall. A vague smell of burning with a hint of sulphur seemed to surround him.
He stretched out a bony hand to help to my feet. His grip was inhumanly strong and his flesh as cold as steel. I looked up into his features. His face wore the look of someone who had been mummified – waxy skin and lips pulled back over yellowing teeth in a death-mask’s grin. Worst of all were his eyes. The sockets were empty yet it was clear he could see me. This had to be another hallucination. Nonetheless, I found myself compelled to respond to this nightmare product of my own damaged mind. Somehow I found my voice. ‘What was that thing? Who have I looked in the eye?’
‘A twelvemonth at most and then you must join the others,’ he answered. This made no sense.
‘What others?’ I asked, emboldened now, still uneasy, but ready to play along with the hallucination.
‘You will find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘Come, Snipe.’ From somewhere uncomfortably close, I heard the creature rumble in reply. I turned instinctively towards it, fearing its return. When I turned back, Cavendish had gone, the mist had cleared and not far away I could see the moonlight reflecting from the roof of my car. From the spot where he had stood, I saw what at first I took to be rising mist, then my nostrils caught the burning smell again. Smoke and sulphur.
When I got into the car and made to put the key in the ignition, to my irritation I found my hands were shaking and it took me several tries before I could get the engine started and turn the car towards Leckonby village and the road home to Lincoln. As I drove, a little cussed demon on my shoulder taunted me for cowardice. The old airfield had somehow wormed its way into my subconscious which was now having a fine old time conjuring all manner of imaginary bogeymen into being. Well, I reasoned, they weren’t real, and they weren’t stopping me from finding out who was trying to frighten me away from coming back there. And what was all the nonsense about having to join the others within twelve months? Which others? No, I decided, it was a hallucination and I wasn’t going to let anything put me off: if anything, it made me more determined to go back. How could I have been so stupid?
***
A few days later, Martin Watson, chairman of The Leckonby Action Group phoned me in the office. He sounded a far happier heron than the one I had met in the pub. I didn’t follow the exact details, but from what I could gather, The Lags’ lawyer had found a vital omission in the planning documentation and had successfully applied for an injunction to halt all building work at RAF Leckonby. A public enquiry would now have to be held.
Later that evening I drove to the airfield once more. It was already dark but this time I had a torch with me. It was a clear night and frosty grass crunched underfoot as I retraced the route I had taken during my previous visit. Stopping just short of the bomb dump, I turned on the torch and looked all around me. Out of devilment I called out to Cavendish and to Snipe but answer came there none. I had already taken two of my blue and white pills as a precaution against unwanted visits from whatever horrors the genie of my hallucinations might produce from his lamp. Satisfied that I was alone, I followed one of the overgrown runways, picking my way between the foundations of the chicken sheds that had been removed in preparation for the building work. I could see the control tower and the roofless shell of the operations block silhouetted against the sky and turned the torch off. If anyone was hanging around, waiting to frighten the credulous then I didn’t want them to know I was coming.
For the moment all seemed quiet. I followed the wall of the operations block as far as the bricked-up doorway opposite the control tower. There I waited, hoping to remain unseen. I’m not a patient man at the best of times, and standing in the freezing cold in the dark in the middle of a disused airfield lost its appeal after only a few minutes. I was about to leave my hiding place when I saw a light flickering t
hrough the glassless windows at the base of the control tower. Was this going to be a repeat of the episode with the Very flare? I wondered. Leaving the torch switched off and keeping to the shadows I crept towards the light. My question was soon answered. I had only covered half the distance when I heard a loud pop and a brilliant green ball of fire lit up the night sky. I watched it trace a graceful arc before bouncing on the concrete taxiway and going out, leaving my night vision temporarily ruined. I closed my eyes but the glowing image stayed fixed on my retina for several moments. When I opened them, my reverie was broken by a muffled bang and the sound of an engine. For an instant, my imagination ran riot and I thought it was the sound of a Lancaster starting up, but then I saw headlights approaching along the taxiway and prosaic reality in the form of a Land Rover drew to a halt outside the tower. I flicked on the torch so as not to alarm what I assumed was a security team. The door of the Land Rover slammed shut and a figure, rendered bulky by a thick anorak over several layers of clothes, appeared out of the darkness waving a torch beam ahead of him. I called to him and shone my torch to indicate my presence.
‘Over here,’ I called. ‘I saw the flare too.’
He came closer, uncomfortably close, and shone the light in my face, blinding me for an instant. Putting my hand up to shield my eyes, I saw in the background another figure approaching.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ asked the first man. I noticed as he lowered the torch that he had the logo of a security firm on his jacket.
‘Bill Price from the Lincoln Post,’ I replied. ‘Some of the locals reckon Leckonby’s haunted. I’m writing a piece on it.’
‘Well you’ve no business here. This is private property –’
‘He’s doing no harm. Leave him be.’ The second man had now joined us, standing slightly further away, making it difficult for me to see him properly. ‘He didn’t fire the flare. It came from the top of the tower. It’s the signal to start engines.’
‘I don’t care what it is. Whoever did fire it must still be up there.’
‘Oh, beyond all doubt. Pretty obvious I’d have thought.’ It seemed a slightly odd reply but I made no comment.
‘Well we can’t spend all night gassing, I’m going up. I’ll bet it’s those bloody pikeys again.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, regretting the words as soon as I’d spoken them.
With the security guard leading the way I followed him up the irregular concrete steps. Of the second man there was no sign. I had expected him to join us but my mind was entirely focussed on not slipping and trying not to think about how high up we were.
We reached the balcony in front of the wrecked visual control room and our torches lit up the same picture I had seen before – piles of rubble, graffiti and broken window frames. ‘There’s nobody here,’ I said.
‘You sure you didn’t fire that thing?’ he asked, his tone making it clear he thought I had.
‘No, I was fifty yards away, by the ops block.’
‘Hmm. Well whoever it was must’ve run down those steps pretty bloody quickly.’
‘Not me. I’m terrified of heights.’
‘Very convenient.’
We turned to go back down. I swept the balcony with my torch, hoping to find another cartridge case, but without success. We descended the steps with me in the lead, gingerly feeling each tread for ice before putting any weight on it.
If I’d been expecting any thanks for accompanying the security guard I was to be disappointed. ‘Right,’ he said, once more standing uncomfortably close and towering over me. ‘I’m not going to report you because I can’t be arsed to do the paperwork. But if I find you on this site again I’ll give you a fucking good kicking. And the same goes for the muppet who was with you. Got that?’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I thought he was with you.’
‘Nah. On me own tonight. Short-staffed.’
‘But if he wasn’t with either of us, who was he?’
The security guard seemed unperturbed. ‘Fuck knows. Whoever he was, he’ll get a shoeing if I get dragged out for nothing again. Now fuck off and don’t come back.’
Any disappointment I may have felt in not getting a look at the culprits this time was more than offset by the knowledge that I had at least worked out how they were operating. I’m a creature of habit, and always park my car at the same spot when I visit Leckonby, thus making it easy for anyone to know when I visit the airfield. Twice now they’d pulled the same stunt with a Very flare and twice they’d worked the tertium quid routine, first with the pale young man at The Lags meeting and now with the second security guard who clearly wasn’t any such thing. I’d fallen for the same “I thought he was with you” trick twice now – mentally I kicked myself for being so gullible and promised that they wouldn’t fool me again.
My resolve not to get caught out led me to ignore good advice and so began the long descent into the hell of my current predicament. Allow me to explain.
It took me several days and a heavy dose of my anti-hallucination medication to summon the courage to visit the bookshop in Lincoln again. I stood, hesitating in the doorway, looking out for the manager who had found me in their basement store room clutching a half-finished pint of bitter, but seeing no trace of her I decided it was safe to go in. I chose a book, paid for it and turned to leave, pleased with myself at overcoming my irrational fears, yet at the same time feeling guiltily pleased that the bookshop showed no signs of morphing into The Saracen’s Head Hotel.
I suppose I must have been so preoccupied that I didn’t see the man coming. We collided and I stumbled and fell, dropping my new book.
‘I’m most awfully sorry,’ he said, picking up my book and helping me to my feet. ‘Are you hurt?’ There is something irredeemably English about apologising for things that aren’t your fault and his voice came straight from an old black and white film.
‘No, not at all,’ I said, brushing the dust from the knees of my trousers. ‘It was my fault. Terribly sorry. Head in the clouds, I’m afraid.’
‘How very prophetic,’ he replied. An odd reply I thought.
‘What do you mean…’ my voice trailed away. We had met before. The collision was no accident. Angry now, I thrust my hands into my pockets and glared at him. ‘Hang on a minute. I know you, don’t I? We met at The Lags meeting in the Rose and Crown at Leckonby.’
He brushed the dark fringe away from his pale features and gave a half smile. ‘Indeed we did.’
I couldn’t believe they were trying it on again, and this time in broad daylight. I took a pace towards him. ‘So tell me, what the fuck are you trying to achieve by pissing around with flares and playing games of hide and seek? Trying to frighten people? If you are, it’s not working. Just give it up.’
If I had expected a reaction, I was disappointed. He smiled once more and I could swear I saw pity in his eyes. ‘You have actually seen me plenty of times before,’ he replied. ‘I suppose you just didn’t notice. People don’t now.’
‘Look, stop talking in riddles…’ I realised I was shouting when a passer-by turned to look at me and hurried away. Others were making exaggerated detours round us. The row was attracting attention.
He put his hand on my arm, his touch gentle, almost feminine. ‘Shush, not so loud. I’m trying to help you, Tommy.’
‘My name’s not Tommy. I’m Bill Price,’ I shouted into his face. Then I realised. In a ghastly pantomime of déjà vu, over his shoulder I could see my reflection in the bookshop window. In the mirror world of Lincoln High Street, behind me was a bank, people walking and doing their best to avoid an angry, middle-aged man, all alone, hands on hips, and shouting to himself. Of the young man in front of me, solid flesh and bone, his hand still on my arm, there was no sign. My jaw fell open and I thought for a moment I was going to be sick.
‘I think you had better come with me,’ he said.
‘If it’s the storeroom of the bookshop again you can forget it.’
Th
at gentle smile once more. ‘No, Tommy, not the downstairs bar in the Snakepit. If you take my advice you’ll steer well clear of that place.’
‘Well that shouldn’t be a problem,’ I snapped back at him as we walked down the High Street together. Once more, passers-by stared and veered away from the madman shouting to himself.
‘Let’s go in here.’ He nodded towards a coffee shop. ‘And let me do the talking. You’re beginning to attract attention.’
Inside we were met by a welcoming atmosphere of coffee smells and warmth. Mothers with pushchairs were clustered round tables, chattering and trying to keep their infants occupied. Nobody looked up. ‘Afraid you’ll have to pay for this one, Tommy. Oh, and don’t bother buying anything for me.’
I paid for my coffee and found a corner table for two. Picking up a newspaper from the rack, I set it down on the table and sat facing the wall with my mysterious new friend opposite me. ‘So how do you do it?’ I growled, trying, like an amateur ventriloquist, to keep my lips from moving.
‘Do what?’
‘Muck about with my hallucinations like this. I can see you, but nobody else can.’
‘Not so loud, Tommy. The lady behind you is staring. Bad show, Tommy. Bad show.’
‘Just stop calling me Tommy.’ The last word came out as ‘tongy’.
‘You’d better let me talk. If you listen and do as I say there’s still time. If you don’t…. well, that’s not even worth thinking about, even if you believed me. Which you probably won’t.’
‘Go on.’
He put his elbows on the table and fixed me with his gaze. ‘You’ve got yourself mixed up in something you cannot understand and you’re in danger of ending up like me. Just because I’m picky about who can see me and who can’t doesn’t mean I’m one of your hallucinations. Do you follow me?’
I shook my head.
‘Keep away from Leckonby and you’ll be all right. You saw what happened to the gypsies.’
Bomber Boys - a Ghost Story Page 8