Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘Look,’ said Dan, leaning towards me so his face was disconcertingly close to mine. ‘Why don’t you stay? There’s a lot to explain, and none of it’s easy. There are things you need to know if you’re carrying on with this. And if you’re not, I might take it over. But it’s not something I can fill you in on in the space of an hour.’

  I must have looked hesitant, and he added: ‘Don’t worry – there’s a spare room, your virtue’s safe.’

  Silly man. It wasn’t my virtue I was worried about. That went a long time ago, unless you believed my grandma.

  ‘Okay, thanks. I’ll do that. I keep a spare everything in the car anyway, in case I get called away for work.’ Or in case I get lucky and pull, I added silently.

  ‘Great. Now you’re staying, I’ll bring out the cool box. Believe me, you’re going to want to drink. A lot.’

  Chapter 6

  Three hours, several beers, and one chicken casserole later, I was lounging on one of Dan’s sofas, taking a trip into the Twilight Zone of his life.

  The sitting room was small, crammed with two couches and a collection of old books and carvings, piled onto cluttered wooden shelves. The walls were painted a very pale shade of lemon, and big, green potted plants the size of small trees were sprouting in the corners. No telly, though. That in itself was cause to question someone’s mental health – I mean, didn’t he ever need to watch ‘Songs of Praise’ or anything?

  Dan was lying stretched out on the sofa across from me, his long legs sprawled, feet propped up on the arm-rest. He had odd socks on, which didn’t surprise me. His arms were folded behind his head, and his biceps were winking at me.

  ‘So… let me get this straight. Katie Bell was killed by a ghost, and you think Joy might have been as well. And these aren’t one-offs?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and no,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of strange things. Maybe I was more willing to believe them than you, but even so, to start with I was cynical. The Catholic Church has conflicting views on it all. At the higher levels, there’s a Chief Exorcist, but on a local level, people are still likely to think you’ve got a screw loose.’

  I didn’t answer, and he turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow at my silence.

  ‘Sorry – I’m sure your screws are all fine,’ I said. Freudian slip. Quickly brushing over it, I asked eloquently:‘So are you trained to do all this… stuff?’

  ‘Technically, no. I suppose you could say I learned on the job, starting with the first time I encountered a problem.’

  ‘Like in “Ghostbusters”?’

  ‘Without the catchy theme tune. Or the fun. None of this is fun, and if you stick with it, you’ll find out for yourself. I’m guessing that Joy started to deteriorate before she died – uncommunicative, not taking care of herself? I bet her parents were already worried, weren’t they?’

  I nodded, wishing he wasn’t right.

  ‘You might find this is related to the building. It could have happened there before, and you should be able to find out with your contacts. Or it might be specific to her – she could have pissed off the wrong spirit.’

  ‘Are you telling me they have mood swings now? Undead PMT?’

  ‘Don’t be so sexist. But in a way, yes. All people are different – why assume that changes once they’re dead? You can come across spirits that exist perfectly happily with the modern world. Maybe a bit mischievous, but not harmful. What kind of place do you live in?’

  ‘A very non-haunted one,’ I replied firmly, hoping he wasn’t about to suggest a psychic sweep of my broom cupboard.

  ‘Is the building old, though? That increases the chances.’

  ‘Modern refurb of… yes, a pretty old building. But nothing spooky happens there, honest. Nothing much happens there at all.’

  Um. Not quite the successful woman-about-town image I was aiming for, but there you go.

  ‘Do you lose your car keys a lot? Find the answering machine’s cleared messages without you listening? Plants you’ve watered dry up and die?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. And I don’t do plants.’

  I was scowling at him now. I probably didn’t look very attractive. But I was starting to get a prickly feeling between my shoulder blades – because while none of those things happened in my flat, thank God, they did happen in my office. All the bloody time. Doors I leave locked are open the next day. Files I’ve organised alphabetically switch round so my Zebediahs are in my Aardvarks. And no matter how many times I decide on a ‘special’ place to put my keys, I always find them somewhere else. I’ve had that office for the last three years, and I’ve never once managed to leave it without a full-on purse search. All this time I put it down to me being a bit ditzy, and occasionally a bit pissed, and now rent-a-ghost over there was telling me it could all be down to some ‘mischievous’ spirit?

  I shivered a bit. The temperature had dropped right down; I must have been cold. It couldn’t possibly have been because I was spooked.

  Dan slinked off the sofa and on to his mismatched feet. I know ‘slink’ isn’t a word you often associate with six foot two inch males, but he does move in a way that’s… graceful, I suppose. He stretched, then headed out of the door, returning a few minutes later with mugs of tea and a packet of Hobnobs. God, the man knew how to live.

  A scrawny black cat followed him back in, weaving round his ankles. It sat and stared at me with narrowed eyes. One narrowed eye, to be precise – the other socket was empty, and grown over with grizzled grey fur. He only had one ear as well, and even that was sticking out at a funny angle, like it had been broken and reset by a drunk vet. It was the kind of manky creature you’d call Lucky for a joke.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I asked, staring it down.

  ‘That’s Balthazar. He’s my familiar,’ answered Dan. I felt a churn in my stomach.

  ‘Nah, not really,’ he added, looking at my stern expression. ‘Where’s that famed sense of humour you Scousers are supposed to have? That’s just Bert. No idea where he lives, or who thinks they own him. Appears now and then looking for food.’

  Bert gave me a cat sneer, and leapt up into the windowsill, keeping one careful feline eye on us in case we made any sudden moves.

  As well as bringing the tea, Dan had a multicoloured woollen blanket slung over his shoulder, which he brought over and threw across me.

  ‘It’s getting colder, and the heating’s bust,’ he said, tucking me in. I jumped as I felt his fingers accidentally brush the inch of bare flesh that was peeping between my T-shirt and my jeans.

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and retreated back to his own couch.

  Was he flirting with me? Or just taking the piss? I couldn’t tell, so I dipped my biscuit into the tea. Left it there way too long, until it fell to pieces, and I burned my fingers trying to scoop the biggest chunks out.

  ‘Do you want me to help you?’ he asked, expertly withdrawing his biscuit, totally intact.

  ‘No, I’m all right, ta,’ I said, ‘I don’t mind a few crumbs.’

  ‘I didn’t mean with the tea. I meant with the case. I have certain strengths, but I’m not a qualified investigator. Together we could make everything move along much quicker, and the sooner we sort this out the better. What do you say? We’ve got the right names for it. And I could even help you improve your dunking technique if you like.’

  Part of his face was obscured by the steam floating up from his mug. But I knew there’d be a grin lurking there.

  He was definitely, definitely flirting. And I was definitely, definitely enjoying it.

  What would Father Doheny say?

  Chapter 7

  ‘Pass us that bag of 50ps, love,’ my mum said, too tired to move off her armchair. It was a comfy armchair, old and squashy, covered in worn brown velour with burnt orange tassles dangling off it. It would have looked right at home in the living room of any granny flat, parked in front of the telly. Which is exactly where I
wished I was, after spending a restless night at Father Dan’s cottage.

  Instead, it was behind the counter in my mother’s ‘boutique’. The boutique in question was actually a set of trestle tables in Liverpool’s ‘famous’ Riverfront Market, down at the docks.

  The Market takes place in a barely converted former warehouse every weekend. It’s damp and cold and very, very old. But it’s still one of my all-time favourite places in the city, and judging by the crowds that flock there, I’m not alone. There’s nowhere like it for atmosphere, and you can buy anything from second-hand crime thrillers to brand new designer trainers. Not only can you furnish your whole house, you can get your eyebrows done and have your Tarot read, all under the one moist, cavernous roof.

  My mum, Mary McCartney, has had a stall there for donkey’s years. She’s like one of the fixtures, but less rusty. She sells what she terms ‘clubwear for the curvaceous clubber’. In other words, a lot of brightly coloured lycra for the bodyshape-challenged.

  She’d done a roaring trade that day – Halloween is a big clubbing night in town these days, and she’d had my creative cousin Susan whipping up a special range of low-cut mini-dresses with fluorescent skeleton bones painted on them. They glowed in the dark, and went up to a size 28. Who says we have no class in Liverpool? I suspected it was the first time some of these ladies had seen their ribs in a while, so I wasn’t surprised they were popular.

  The day was drawing to a close, and the traders were all packing up, boxing their gear and loading it into vans and storage. She was having her traditional post-business cuppa while she cashed up. I was in charge of fetching the tea, and counting copper – I get all the good jobs.

  She took the bag of coins from my hand, holding it in her palm – she always says she can guess how much just from the feel of it. The bag probably weighed more than she does – despite being a purveyor of plump party frocks, she’s built like a sparrow herself, with delicate features and jet black hair. The latter comes out of a bottle, the same brand she’s used since she was twenty-four. She has no clue what her real hair looks like underneath it all now (neither do I), and is convinced if she stopped colouring it, she’d go bald.

  ‘Twenty-eight quid,’ she pronounced, then tipped the coins out onto her lap and started counting. She can talk while she counts as well, which makes her some kind of savant in my eyes. I finished the tower of tuppences I was working on and sat down on a far less comfy bar stool, next to a plus-sized mannequin draped in a diamanté bikini and a feather boa.

  ‘So this fella claims the girl could have been killed by a ghostie, does he?’ she said, piling the coins up in small stacks on the bulky arms of the chair. I nodded, expecting a tirade of cynicism and warnings about lunacy being catching.

  ‘Well, you never know, hon. There are stranger things in heaven and earth, and some of them have stalls here. But be careful. Your Auntie Doreen always claimed your Uncle Les was possessed by a demon.’

  ‘Uncle Les was possessed by the bottle of Thunderbird he kept hidden in his glovebox, Mum, and we all know it. Don’t you think it’s a bit far-fetched?’

  ‘’Course I do. That doesn’t mean it’s not true. I know nothing about all this ghost crap, but I know you, and you’re a good judge of character. If you think he’s talking sense, he is.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I’m not sure he is. But then again, I have clients – paying clients – who want to know what happened. Even if they don’t like the answers, it’s my job to find them, which means working with Father Dan. At least he’s easy on the eye.’

  She snorted and finished her count, scooping the coins into individual bags ready for banking.

  ‘I was 50p out,’ she said, ‘must be losing my touch. Look, love, while I’m not sure about the spirit world, I am sure about one thing – fancying the priest is wrong. Knock it on the head, will you? I don’t want my only daughter sent to hell – it’s already going to be full of my offspring when the boys get there.’

  ‘He’s not a priest any—’ I started to protest. She cut me off by holding up her tiny hand and saying ‘Shhh, I’m counting’. Which was a lie – she was communing with a plastic bag of pound coins.

  ‘One hundred and two quid, dead on. Why don’t you ask Mystic Melissa? She’s heading over now. Must have sensed your presence.’

  I groaned and went back to the copper. Mystic Melissa – real name Clive Bottomley – was a psychic drag queen who ran a fortune-telling booth at the market. He was five foot eight in height, almost as much across, and was forever on the scrounge for suitably spacious gear at my mum’s stall. He also fancied me something rotten, and I can’t tell you how disturbing that was.

  He bustled over, sporting a ginger wig and wrapped in a sequinned fuchsia shawl. He was wearing more eyeliner than Twiggy in the sixties, and white shag-me stilettos that squeezed his feet so tight the fishnet stockinged flesh spilled over the edges. I tried to ignore him, but he made it hard for me by giving me a bear hug. Seriously, I’d rather have been hugged by a bear. With a flatulence problem.

  ‘Looking limber as ever, Jayne!’ he said, going for the lips and getting a slap, ‘and still feisty as fuck, I see!’

  ‘Clive, our Jayne’s got a bad case of the supernatural. Can you help her?’ said Mum, starting in on the chunkies, heaping them into ten-pound piles. I could happily have choked her.

  ‘Oooh!’ he said, raising his plucked-to-oblivion eyebrows. Shaped brows, mascara and five o’clock shadow. It just doesn’t work.

  ‘Depends what’s in it for me, doesn’t it?’ he said, giving me a coquettish wink and a nudge so hard I almost fell off my stool. I was about to tell him where to stick his sequins when Mum butted in.

  ‘That’s enough of that, mucky pup. You help Jayne, I’ll give you one of those sexy skeleton dresses for nothing. I saved one for you in case you came by. I must be a mind reader.’

  He eyed up one of the frocks hanging on the rail, glowing in the fading light.

  ‘It’s a deal. I’ll be irresistible to man, woman and beast wearing that thing. So, Jaynie-Waynie, sit on Mystic Melissa’s lap and tell me all about it.’

  He’d propped himself on the trestles, which groaned under his psychic power – that or the extra six stone he was carrying – and slapped his knees. I ignored the suggested seating arrangements, but did tell him about the case. I needed all the help I could get.

  As I drew to a close, I noticed an expression I’d never seen on Mystic Melissa’s face before – concern. Jesus, I was being taken seriously by a clairvoyant trannie. I really needed to get a new line of work.

  He pursed his big fat lips together. Like a pair of mating slugs, they were, with bright red gloss sluicing off into the tiny wrinkles around his smoker’s mouth. He blew out a breath and shook his head, ginger fringe waggling from side to side.

  ‘You need to talk to Dodgy Bobby,’ he said finally.

  ‘Who’s Dodgy Bobby? And why do I need to talk to him? And how dodgy is he?’

  ‘Nothing nasty, love – you wouldn’t have encountered him when you were working for Her Majesty, if that’s what you’re worried about. But he’s psychic, is Bobby. The real deal. So he’s used it the best way possible – dodging gainful employment for the whole of his life. At least the kind you pay taxes on. He does a bit of this, bit of that, all the time he’s on the sick. Claiming a fortune in benefits due to his bad back. It’s all a crock of shit, he’s fit as a whippet, but he never gets caught – always knows when those benefit types have their beady eyes on him. Always packs in whatever he’s doing, and starts wandering around with crutches and a neck brace. They know there’s something going on but they can’t catch him – nearly did once when he was doing some fork-lifting at the scrap yard, but he whipped on the collar just in time, made out he was visiting his uncle.’

  ‘Sounds like a very noble way to use his gift,’ I replied, narrowing my eyes at Clive. ‘And what do you mean, he’s psychic? What about you, Melissa?’

  �
��Don’t give me that face, love. I’m about as psychic as a horse’s arse and we both know it. My punters know it as well – they come for the drama, the giggle, the glamour. I camp it up and tell ’em they’ll meet a tall, dark stranger in the bogs at the Pan Am bar and they go off happy. Worth every penny, I am. But Bobby? He’s different.’

  ‘Okay, let’s say for argument’s sake I’m believing any of this – why should I go and talk to him?’

  It was a valid question. When had my life turned into something where I was considering taking advice from a man called Mystic Melissa about another one called Dodgy Bobby?

  ‘He’ll give you the details, Jayne, but a few years ago he got taken on by Eugene Casey. Well, taken on is too kind a way to phrase it – he got told he was going to help out.’

  Now he really had my attention. The Caseys were one of the biggest crime families in Liverpool. They’d been at it for generations – stolen goods, organised car theft, drugs, prostitution – and by now, they were getting really quite good at it. You were nothing on the Force if you hadn’t felt a Casey collar. But you were really something if you made it stick – witnesses had a strange way of becoming amnesiacs as trial dates drew closer, inevitably gaining a freshly sprayed motor to help them recover. If they were lucky. Some just ended up with a broken kneecap. The Caseys also had enough poke to employ one of the cleverest, nastiest lawyers around, a rat-faced little charmer called Simon Solitaire. Not his real name, we suspected.

  ‘What did Eugene want with him?’ I asked. Eugene was the Big Daddy of the lot – clan leader and self-appointed elder statesman of the city’s underworld. He wore sharp suits and ties, slicked his hair back like a 1950s wide boy, and talked a lot of pseudo-Krays crap about honour amongst thieves and the way the Caseys helped keep the streets clean. Yeah, absolutely spotless – if you ignored the crack whores and no-go zones and babies born addicted to methadone.