Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  I felt a vague tugging of my heartstrings, but knew he was doing it deliberately. And I really don’t like being manipulated.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, spare me the tales of woe and get on with it Bobby. Wigwam. Eugene. Geneva Connelly.’

  ‘Hard-faced bitch, aren’t you? At least you’re trying to be. Not true though, is it, deep down? Bit of a soft touch, you are.’

  ‘Bobby. Shut the fuck up, and talk,’ I said.

  ‘All right, all right, keep your wig on. So Geneva had been killed, fallen down the stairs. Her cousin Theresa was there as well, sobbing her mascara off, saying Geneva’d been having problems. With, you know, a ghost.’

  He looked up at me expectantly, obviously waiting for a reaction – disbelief, fear, amazement, I don’t know. He didn’t get any, so he carried on.

  ‘They took me to the building where it happened. It sometimes works with buildings or objects. Sometimes I can touch a thing and know stuff about it, or the people who’ve touched it before. Nothing that makes sense, just feelings, like. I have to be dead careful – bit like getting one of them static shocks, but in the brain.

  ‘Wigwam walked me through. We did it at five in the morning. He’d bribed the security bloke to go and have a fag, and in we went, while there was no bugger else around. All the pretty young things tucked up in their beds by then. Jesus, it was awful.’

  He reached for the cigarette from behind his ear, and tried to light it. His fingers were shaking so much he couldn’t strike the match, and I reached out to do it for him. I didn’t care too much about his upcoming emphysema, and I needed him calm enough to continue. He nodded his thanks and took his first drag. I thought he might inhale the lot in one go, he was pulling so hard.

  ‘I could feel it straight away. There was something evil in that place. As soon as we started going up the steps, my hair went up. Right up, floating in the air. Made Wigwam laugh, but I didn’t think it was very funny, ’cause I knew it meant something bad.

  ‘When we got to her room, it was there. That… thing. It was everywhere – getting up my nose, in my mouth, filling up my ears. Like… like cotton wool being shoved everywhere at once, all my senses were blocked with it. I couldn’t hear or see or smell anything else – and it was evil, it was all rotten, getting into every part of me, choking me. I thought I was going to die!’

  His hands were shaking so hard now that ash from his cigarette was zig-zagging off to the left and the right in black arcs. Tears were streaming down his face, and he was poking his finger into his ear, like he was trying to unblock it after a bath. He was falling to pieces in front of me.

  ‘Bobby! Calm down!’ I said, reaching out to hold his wrists steady. He stared up at me, and nodded. Like I’d reminded him of reality. His skin had faded from its ruddy, pock-marked glow to a putrid yellow, and his breathing was coming in short, sharp bursts. I swear I could hear his heart thumping – and mine along with it. Dodgy Bobby was no longer faking anything – this was genuine 100 per cent terror. And it was contagious.

  ‘All right, love, yeah, all right. But have you ever had that? That cold feeling? Goosebumps? Just knowing something’s wrong?’

  I nodded. I had. Many times. If you’re in the police, you soon learn to listen to that instinct. I associated it with the sound of my own footsteps on the concrete verandahs and walkways of the city’s more enterprising council estates. Always dead quiet, creepily silent, blank faces staring you down as you passed. Every corner you turned, every door you pushed, could be your last. We lived with goosebumps. It’s why we drank so much.

  ‘Well that’s nothing compared to what happens to me. With me it’s not just some feeling, it’s real, it takes over my whole mind. And this… this was like being held face down in a barrel of shit, little kids’ voices whispering in me ear all the time, telling me over and over again I’m going to hell… that they knew every bad thing about me, that I’m worthless scum and I’ll die screaming. Pictures of my ma, before she died, saying she was burning in hell as well. Of my little sister, saying she was next. She’s only twenty four for Christ’s sake, but in my mind, she’s there, hooked up to machines, no bloody hair. Fucking awful.

  ‘Then I fell over, legs couldn’t hold me up any more. I was lying on the carpet, face down, trying to block it out. Had burns on me face for days afterwards where I’d scraped the skin off, didn’t even notice at the time. And fucking Wigwam’s kicking me in the ribs and yelling at me. He got down next to me, slapping me round the head and shouting in me ear. Made no difference. Their voices were louder, singing and laughing. Louder than anything I’ve ever heard, straight into my brain, drowned Wigwam out completely. He was going nuts, effing and blinding at me, but it made no odds.’

  ‘What else were they saying, Bobby?’

  He was still crying, his whole narrow, malnourished body jerking with sobs.

  ‘They was saying they wanted her. Geneva. Saying she was theirs. Saying terrible things, about how they were angry because they didn’t get to finish their game…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what it fucking means, do I? By that stage I had blood coming out of me ears and nose, and frigging Wigwam dragged me out of there by me boots, banged me arse all the way down the pissing stairs! Next thing I knew we were out on the street. He had me lying down on the seat at one of them yellow bus stops, shaking me, like that was going to help. He was furious – with hisself I think, ’cause he was scared as well. He chucked me in the backseat of that wagon he drives round in and took me back where I was living then.’

  He sucked in breath, and I could hear it rattle round his blackened lungs. I’m not psychic – but I had the horrible feeling Dodgy Bobby wasn’t long for this world. Even as the thought crossed my mind, he looked up sharply.

  ‘You might be right, love. And I’m terrified of what comes next. I’ve been hiding out ever since, and I’ve been going to St Anthony’s every day and confessing. But none of it works – I can still feel it. Like smoke that’s got on my clothes and won’t wash out. It did something to me. It… claimed me. Like no bugger else has ever wanted to do.’

  He was staring at the fish tank again now. His hands had stopped jolting, and some colour was creeping back into his cheeks. I exhaled, without realising I’d been holding my breath. Fuck. What a horrible story. From a horrible man. In a horrible place. I needed a beer, and possibly a Valium.

  ‘Bobby,’ I said, ‘last question then I’ll leave you in peace. Where did Geneva live? Where did all this happen?’

  ‘You’ll know the place, love,’ he said, ‘big old building on the edge of town. Don’t ever go there if you can avoid it. Hart House.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘What do you mean I need to speak to the press office?’ I squeaked, annoyed that my lies weren’t working.

  It was just after 11 o’clock the next day, and I was on the phone to the Head of Archives at the Liverpool Institute.

  I’d made up a great story about working for the Gazette, and wanting to write a feature about the history of the Institute’s buildings, focusing on Hart House. My Land Registry search had come back listing a corporation called Stag Industries, which I’d never heard of. It was probably a commercial subsidiary of the Institute, but I was going to have to talk to somebody at Companies House later in the day to find out more.

  In the meantime, I used the local journalist ploy. It worked much better a few years ago, I can tell you. People were impressed and interested and wanted to get their names in the papers. These days they either wanted paying, signed up to Max Clifford, or referred you to some corporate relations guru with a 2:2 in Media Studies and perfectly manicured nails. The state of the bloody nation.

  There was a knock at the door, and I glanced up as it opened. Dan walked in. Father Dan, I mean. I had to really work on that Father Dan business, especially when he looked like he did today – sex on a stick, as my mate Tish might say.

  He nodded hello, and lingered in the doorway,
filling up the frame with Levi-clad legs, broad shoulders and a leather jacket, his dark blonde hair kissing the collar. I smiled and pointed at the phone in a ‘one minute’ gesture, while the Head of Archives continued to waste my time.

  ‘Well I don’t see what use the press office would be. I bet they don’t know about the history of Hart House, do they, not like you do with your experience? I’m sure they’d want you to talk to me – a feature in the Gazette would be a real boost for them and their fundraising drives… what? Are you sure? Oh. Okay, I’ll hold.’

  I didn’t. I slammed the phone down, hard enough to make my pencil holder shake. I had no desire to talk to the press office. They’d probably want to call me back at the Gazette. I could arrange for Tish to help me, she’s a writer there, but it’d take time to set up and I was hoping to not be arsed with it all. I was slightly aggrieved, and frowning deeply.

  ‘Isn’t there some kind of law against that?’ said Father Dan, easing himself down into one of the creaky leather chairs, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. He was wearing very nice brown suede boots, I noticed. Still with odd socks, though.

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘Impersonating a member of the free press?’

  ‘No, there’s not, and I’d know if there was, wouldn’t I? When did you get here anyway? Where are you parked? Does that T-shirt have a hole in it?’

  I was fudging it. There may well have been a law against what I’d been doing. Now was not the time to ponder.

  He looked down at his own chest – and who could blame him? – spotting the ragged tear that hovered over his stomach. He pulled at it a bit, then shrugged.

  ‘Looks like it does. Sorry – didn’t realise there was a dress code. Nice office, by the way. Pretty old, isn’t it? What was this building used for originally?’

  He gazed around, taking in the high ceilings, original coving, and the enormous picture window. Parquet flooring, dating back to the days when it was fashionable first time round; filing cabinets tucked away in an alcove that looked like it could originally have been home to a Roman bust or a priceless oil painting. Everything coated liberally with cobwebs to give it exactly the shabby chic air I was going for. Honest.

  ‘Oh, don’t start with that crap, we’ve got work to do,’ I said, bustling things around on my desk. I really didn’t want to have that conversation. When I arrived at the office that morning, I felt nervous, which in turn made me a bit pissed off.

  I’d opened the door, found my desk drawer sticking out, as usual. The pencils were out of the pot and scattered on the surface. The files all looked in place, but when I went in to the loo, the toilet brush was submerged in the toilet.

  ‘Okay, you fucker,’ I’d said, to the four walls and empty air and potential ghost, ‘stop messing me around. I am going to put my keys here, safely, next to the phone. And they are going to stay there Or Else – do you understand me?’

  I’d used my very best kick-ass voice, but couldn’t help feeling stupid. I wasn’t just talking to myself, I was shouting at myself. Things could go rapidly downhill from here. I’d be one of those people you avoid sitting next to on the bus, carrying a plastic bag full of documents and wearing my dinner.

  ‘All right, Little Miss Bossy,’ said Dan, apparently and annoyingly finding me amusing, ‘let’s do some work. Have you got the diary?’

  I pointed at a brown-paper wrapped package perched on the corner of the desk. It had come special delivery earlier that morning, but I’d been too busy to open it. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. I felt a reluctance to open it, if I was honest. Something was throwing me slightly off balance – Dodgy Bobby’s tale of terror; Father Dan’s assertion that the world wasn’t quite what I thought it was; the fact that my bloody office appeared to be haunted. Every time I’d reached out to tear off the packaging, my fingers had snatched themselves away and got busy with something else. Like my hands and the diary were two magnets, repelling each other.

  I felt embarrassed and ashamed about my reaction. That diary was a crucial piece of evidence in a case I was working on. I should be desperate to read it, not finding excuses to avoid it. I also had the full police file on Joy, snaffled from Corky Corcoran, to get through – but somehow that, with its safe science and familiar terminology and photos of a battered and bleeding teenaged body, felt less daunting.

  Dan was staring at me, his ice blue eyes slightly narrowed.

  ‘Do you want me to open it?’ he asked. I nodded in return, and he picked the package up.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re a lot more sensitive to this stuff than you want to admit. Do you feel edgy, like you don’t want to touch it?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ I snapped, getting up to do some dusting. It urgently needed doing – that bookshelf was an absolute disgrace. I used my shirt sleeve to wipe the top of it over, buying myself a minute to Get A Fucking Grip. I took a deep breath, and went back to sit down. I pulled out the police file, reassuring in all its manila-foldered glory, and started from scratch. I was aware of Dan unwrapping the diary, and frowning as he flicked through the pages.

  We both worked silently, with me occasionally sneaking a peek at him as he read. His face didn’t give much away, but for all I knew, he wasn’t at the juicy bits yet. Maybe he was reading about Joy’s nights at the local wine bar or her trips to the cinema with cute boys from the medical school.

  I, on the other hand, was reading about how she was seen cartwheeling from her window at 8.02 a.m. on June 13th. The poor traumatised witnesses – cleaners walking home from mopping floors in a city office block – saw her land on the concrete path that led up to Hart House. I turned forward to the photos, and the gory details that Mr and Mrs Middlemas wouldn’t have had access to.

  Joy was lying crumpled on the ground, one leg bent beneath her like a brutalised mannequin. Her head was surrounded by pooling red blood, her long brown hair trailing cobwebs through it. Not the best way to see someone for the first time, but you could tell she’d been a pretty girl. A touch of make-up. One high-heeled shoe on, the other flung a few feet away.

  Bleeding in the brain; fractures to the pelvis, arms, legs; crush injuries to the chest, a break in the spinal cord. I’ve seen fall victims survive bigger plunges than hers, but even if she had made it, she’d have been left paralysed and brain damaged.

  Forensics checked her room. Nothing out of place. The textbooks on the bay seat suggested she’d been revising for her second year exams. I made a note of the titles – ‘Dissection of the Dog’, ‘Clinical Anatomy of the Cat’, ‘Biochemistry of Domestic Animals’… perfect light reading. If I was ever suffering from insomnia, I knew which part of the library to head for.

  Joy’s window was open, banging to and fro in the breeze. No sign of a break, a push, a shove. It was unlocked, untampered with, no fingerprints other than Joy’s, and others who’d been accounted for, like cleaners and maintenance men and some of her friends. No indication at all that she intended to do herself in. Everyone seemed to have done a thorough job, from the first bobby on the scene through to the D.I who followed it through.

  D.I Alec Jones. I knew the name, but the computer in my brain hadn’t filed a photo next to it. Probably meant he arrived after I’d resigned, but I’d heard the others mention him. Maybe met him at a retirement do or something. I made a note of his number so I could pursue him later. I flicked on through the file. I noticed a new surge of activity towards the end, extra pages tagged in after the inquest date. No mention of a ghostly bad guy, but it timed perfectly with Mrs M reading Joy’s diary and getting a giant bee in her bonnet about it.

  From what I could see, the D.I had done his best. Re-interviewed, re-visited, re-thought. Still nothing to dissuade him from the theory that Joy had leaned back on the window, forgetting she’d left it open, and fallen to her death. Rose Middlemas was bitter and angry about the way the police had performed – but Alec Jones had gone above and beyond on this one, when he was probably struggli
ng with a leaning tower of Pisa of other cases at the same time.

  A few things were bugging me, though, and I jotted them down to talk to D.I Jones about as soon as I tracked him down. I was betting he’d be less than thrilled to have this one come back to haunt him. No pun intended.

  ‘How’s it going, Father Dan?’ I asked, looking up at the glowing hunk of sex appeal sitting opposite me.

  ‘Stop calling me Father Dan,’ he said, without even raising his eyes. It seemed to annoy him, which I found very enjoyable. Naughty me. He finished reading the page he was on, then closed the book and placed it back on top of the desk. It was a hardback journal, covered in a delicate purple floral design. A pretty book for a pretty girl who came to an ugly end.

  He looked agitated, and ran his hand through his hair, leaving it displaced in thick blonde furrows.

  ‘Let’s go to Hart House,’ he said.

  Chapter 10

  Half an hour later we were standing outside. It was another warm day, but we were in the shadow of Hart House, where the air was cool and breezy.

  It was even uglier in real life – all neo-Gothic red brick arches and gargoyles with ironically raised eyebrows. The top floor was edged by fake castellations, with a turret at each corner. There might have been a roof garden up there at one time, or an observation point for looking out over the Mersey.