Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘You went to the Institute?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Only for a year. I never graduated,’ I said, keen to move on to another topic entirely. Something less embarrassing, like period pains or irregular bowel movements.

  ‘Why? What happened?’ said Dan. I felt my insides clench and muttered: ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘She got kicked out,’ interjected Tish, ‘for trying to run one of the lecturers over with her Ford Fiesta. In the staff car park. While drunk.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘Apparently not that long,’ I added. There was a lot more to it, obviously – an older man, a broken heart, some very bad poetry and even worse wine. It was years ago and it didn’t hurt any more, or Tish would never have mentioned it. But that didn’t mean I wanted to stick my shameful past under the spotlight right now.

  Dan looked at me long and hard, and replied: ‘Well, I’m sure Jayne will tell me the whole story when she’s ready.’

  Bless him.

  We were all silent for a moment then, letting the various new pieces of information settle in our minds. There was plenty to look at while we did. My grandad was in the middle of the ‘Cha Cha Slide’; a living testament to the benefits of a double hip replacement. Two little girls dressed as lemon meringues were doing skids on the dance floor, narrowly avoiding the trestle tables bearing the buffet. And my mum was swooping round with a black bin bag, filling it with paper plates of Black Forest gateau and cocktail sausages. Definite proof she found Father Dan’s presence disturbing – she was on a cleaning frenzy already, and it wasn’t even 10 o’clock yet.

  Tish was watching Kieran, all five foot four of him, sipping a legal pint at the bar, looking way too nervous for a boy on the verge of manhood. She stood up and walked over to him, looking especially foxy tonight in a pair of the skinniest of skinny jeans and a low-cut tunic top shimmering with sequins. Her hair was flowing down her back, glinting in the disco lights as she stalked towards my nephew in her five-inch platforms.

  Five minutes and one exhibition-standard dance routine later, Kieran was the envy of all his friends. The male ones anyway.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I said, when she sat back down next to us. ‘It wouldn’t have worked with me. I’m his auntie, that wouldn’t be good. Now he looks like the coolest kid in school.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t watch all those Molly Ringwald films for nothing. And he is the coolest kid in school – he just doesn’t know it yet,’ she said, sipping her drink. A Diet Coke – most unusual. She must be really into this story she was working on – she only ever goes tee-total when she’s in deep.

  ‘That was a nice thing to do,’ said Dan, smiling at her, his blue eyes vivid even in the darkness. He smelled delicious again, of wood and spice and clean cotton. Tish and I were both quiet. I suspect we were thinking the same thing. It went along the lines of ‘my God he’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m a nice person,’ Tish said.

  ‘She just hides it under several layers of bitch,’ I added.

  She stuck her tongue out, and I could tell she’d be casting around in her brain for new insults, so I decided to head it off with a pre-emptive attack.

  ‘How’s Mr Bean? And Tash?’ I asked. Ha. That foxed her. She didn’t know whether to smile or frown. Mr Bean was her dog, a ridiculous chihuahua she sometimes carries round in a handbag. The Paris Hilton of Liverpool. Tash was her younger and much better behaved sister, and Tish couldn’t tolerate her. Or at least pretended she couldn’t.

  ‘Mr Bean is fabulous, thank you for asking. He’s my dog, Dan, in case you were wondering. And Tash – my sister, though I don’t advertise the fact – is still ugly, boring and living at home.’

  ‘So much for being a nice person,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t mean it Dan – she loves her sister really. She’s just jealous because Tash was born without the pissing-people-off gene she inherited.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this nonsense,’ she said, standing up and flinging her hair to one side. ‘Do you want to dance, Dan? Do priests dance?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dan replied, ‘but after we’re ordained we have to go to special priest dancing classes to make sure our hips don’t do anything too suggestive.’

  We both stared at him, mouths open.

  ‘No, not really. You two are so easy…come on Tish.’

  He took her hand and led her off to the dance floor. They made a beautiful couple, it has to be said. I was fairly sure if they smiled, their teeth would glint as well. Heads turned as they started to move to the music. The bastards.

  My dad appeared, plonked a drink down in front of me. My dad’s called Trevor. His parents had aspirations for familial betterment that involved golf clubs and sitting on the Rotary. Sadly for them, he was always satisfied with home, hearth and a bit of political aggro – something you never go short of in Liverpool. He’s been kept on his toes for the last seventy-one years by supporting six kids, keeping the red flag flying and avoiding the wrath of Mary McCartney. Especially that last one.

  He has thick tufty grey, and equally thick tufty eyebrows sticking out at weird angles, giving him a permanently questioning look. I get my green eyes from him, but as he has the kind of face you’d make into a Toby jug, I’m glad to say that’s all.

  ‘Off dancing are they?’ he said, nodding towards the golden couple. ‘Shame. I fancied a…chat with Dan.’

  ‘You mean a fag. And you’re fooling nobody. You might as well bloody buy some, or you’ll end up as Billy-no-mates.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right, babe. But your mother’d fillet me with a blunt fish knife if she found out I was back on the ciggies.’

  ‘You think she doesn’t already know? Don’t be daft. She knows everything. She’s like the all-seeing eye.’

  He nodded, looked around nervously, as though she might appear any minute wielding a frying pan.

  ‘Nice bloke, that Dan,’ he said. ‘Anything going on there, love? You could do worse, you know.’

  ‘Dad, you said the same thing about Ronnie’s cousin, Ian. That one visiting from Manchester who’d just been released from prison and only had the one arm. For God’s sake give it a break, will you? You never hassled the boys like this.’

  ‘Never needed to, did I? All married and changing nappies by the time they were twenty-five at the latest. Shame about his sister, like.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, confused. ‘Whose sister?’

  ‘Dan’s of course,’ he said, frowning at me like I’d gone soft. ‘His sister. The one with the motor neurone disease who died. It’s why he left the Church, isn’t it? I’d have thought you’d have known that, being the smart-arse private eye and all. Missed out, did you, clever clogs?’

  I flicked him the Vs. It’s considered a term of endearment in my family. He was right though, and I was annoyed with myself. Snooping isn’t just a job with me – it’s a way of life. With most people, I’d have had a full life story within minutes. But something about Dan discouraged that. He seemed private; friendly but reserved, like it would take forever to get to know him. Whatever the reason – I’d never asked. Unlike my father, obviously, over the bonding power of a cigarette break.

  Tish and Dan arrived back at the booth. I looked up and smiled. I felt a tug of sadness for his loss, but now was clearly not the right time to raise it. For all I knew there might never be a right time to raise it – he’d slay the demons, save the planet, then disappear back off into the hills and I’d never see him again.

  ‘Swapsies – time to boogie, Dad Number Two!’ said Tish, grabbing hold of my dad’s cardiganed arm and pulling him to his feet. She’d practically lived at our place since she was fourteen, when she decided spending too much time with her own family might turn her into one of those high school students who starts firing a shotgun out of the chemistry lab windows.

  Dad made a pretence of objecting, then gave in and tottered off behind her. I stayed firmly on my backside in the booth, sipping my drink. Dan looked at me expe
ctantly. I glanced up, wondering what he wanted. Was it my turn to get a round in? Did he need directions to the loos? He’d like the loos. The ladies were called ‘Mary’ and the gents were ‘Joseph’, and each had little cartoon pictures underneath of a woman on a donkey and a bloke holding a hammer.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘This is a party, remember? Eat, drink, be merry?’

  ‘What about fighting the Prince of Darkness?’ I replied, feeling slightly nervous.

  ‘We can do that tomorrow. Everyone needs a night off.’ He held his hand out to me. ‘What are you afraid of? Are you a really bad dancer?’

  ‘No, I am not – I’m a shit hot dancer!’ I snapped back, standing up and stomping off with all the grace of a ballerina with blisters on her bunions. I am a good dancer. Especially when I’m plastered. I was a few pints off drunk at that stage, but I’d had enough to get into the groove, boy.

  Mystic Melissa gave me a little wave as we walked onto the dance floor, which was sticky from spilled lager and smears of marge from lost ham butties. He was wearing his skeleton frock. It was a truly terrifying sight. He clocked Dan and did a thumbs up, gyrating his bounteous hips like a bloated burlesque bunny as we started dancing to the tail end of a Scissor Sisters song.

  I couldn’t see my dad anywhere, and spotted Tish in the DJ booth. Or the canteen table with decks on it that passed as a booth for Disco Dave and his Party Playlist. Tish had manicured nails on Disco Dave’s shoulder and a mischievous smile on her face. A sense of foreboding that had nothing to do with psychic powers and everything to do with knowing Tish for the last twenty years swamped me.

  On cue, the lights dimmed, the glitter ball kicked in, and the opening bars of ‘Careless Whisper’ saxophoned their way out of the speakers. Oh. My. God. The absolute cow.

  I looked up at Dan, and he laughed. He knew what she was up to and found it amusing. I, on the other hand, was plunged back in time to the school disco when I was fourteen, asking Martin McGuirk for a slowie and being told to fuck off in front of the entire class.

  ‘Don’t look so scared,’ Dan said, slipping his arms round my waist and pulling me closer. ‘It’s only a dance. And it’ll give your mother something to talk about.’

  ‘Talk about? It’ll give her a heart attack. I bet she’s reciting the rosary as we speak. And you realise my Dad already thinks you’re good marriage material?’

  ‘That’s only because I gave him a roll-up and listened to him blame David Cameron for the broken glass in the bus stop. Now stop worrying. Don’t you know that guilty feet have got no rhythm?’

  I had to smile at that one, and relaxed into the music. He was a good dancer too, his movements slow and easy, his body leading mine on a languid shuffle round the dance floor. I slid my hands up his arms, over the firm contours of his biceps, and rested them on his shoulders. I thought it might be nice to twine my fingers in his slightly too-long hair, but my mother really would have a heart attack. Or charge at us armed with a soda syphon to put out the fire.

  I rested my cheek against his chest. Broad, solid, smelling so good I was practically inhaling him. Dan’s hands had settled on the hollow of my back, that low-lying dip before the flesh curves into hips and bottom. I closed my eyes and sighed, imagining those hands roaming downwards, imagined that chest with the shirt unbuttoned…

  ‘You’re vibrating,’ he said, whispering the words through my hair and into my ear.

  Christ. Was it that obvious?

  ‘I think it’s your phone,’ he added, a definite hint of laughter in his voice. Smug bastard.

  I tugged it out of my pocket and checked the caller ID. Will Deerborne. I hit answer, and straight away told him to hold on until I could go somewhere quieter. And ideally with less sexual tension.

  I headed over to the Mary, which was empty apart from two teenage girls putting on their lippie and adjusting the lycra belts that were masquerading as their skirts. Fanny pelmets, my mother called them.

  ‘Will! Sorry about that – I’m at a family do. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Jayne,’ he said, in that perfectly modulated voice that you’d never tag as originating from the same city as mine. ‘But there’s something going on at Hart House. It’s probably nothing, but there’s a light flashing on and off. In Joy Middlemas’s empty room. Should I get the security guard to check?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘Tell him to hold on. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Would you mind if I came?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to befall you as well.’

  Sweet as that sentiment was, I suspected Will Deerborne would be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard in an emergency situation. But I agreed that we’d meet him there – he owned the bloody building, after all.

  I marched back out, scanned the room until I located Dan and Tish.

  ‘Get your coats – you’ve pulled,’ I said.

  Chapter 19

  Tish drove us over to Hart House. She’s scary behind the wheel at the best of times, and cramming all three of us into a two-seater Mazda MX-5 made the journey even more fun. I’d been enjoying getting up close and personal with Dan a few minutes earlier, but sitting on his lap with my knees shoved under my chin and my face two inches from the windscreen wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

  Tish screeched to a halt outside the building, the car’s left-side tyres squelching into the lawn as she jolted us all forward with a sudden slam of the brakes. Dan kindly grabbed hold of my shoulders to stop my head flying into the glass, and I muttered my thanks as I ungracefully clambered out, forced to shove my arse in his face as I went.

  Will Deerborne was already there, standing outside the double doors with a bald-headed security guard in his sixties. He was the proud owner of several chins, and all of them were quivering nervously.

  Justin and Betty arrived a minute or two after us, despite their hotel being a lot closer. Betty was carrying a large black velvet bag draped over her shoulder. Maybe it was to keep their superhero costumes in.

  I made the introductions, and I have to hand it to Will – not a single double-take, even though he was clearly surprised at seeing Tish there. He must have gone to one of those posh schools that teach you to look unperturbed even when your moustache is on fire and axe-wielding hobbits are hacking away at your ankles.

  ‘What exactly has been happening?’ asked Dan, taking charge straight away. I had no objections – when it came to the spooky stuff, he was most definitely the boss. The guard flicked a twitchy look at Will, who nodded his encouragement.

  ‘Well, it started about nine, I’d say. Mr D here had asked me to keep a special eye on things, and when I was doing my, er, patrol round the grounds’ – fag break, in other words – ‘I noticed the lights. In that room. The one’s supposed to be empty, like. Going on and off, they were. I stopped some of the kids coming out, asked if they knew anything. Sometimes they lark about, you know, where they shouldn’t. Harmless enough. But since that thing happened last term – you know, with the girl, God rest her soul – nobody’s wanted to go near that place. It’s always a bit cold up there as well…’

  He drifted away, staring up at the window in question. The lights were still flicking on and off, on and off, over and over again in a strange rhythm. The window looked well and truly shut, though, and at least nobody was flying out of it.

  ‘Could it just be some kind of electrical fault?’ asked Tish, echoing my own thoughts. I think they call it ‘grasping at straws’.

  ‘Not with that kind of regularity,’ answered Justin, surprising me by actually using his vocal chords. Maybe he only spoke on matters relating to gas pipes and circuitry. The Handyman from Hell, dressed in his black leathers and covered in tats.

  ‘It’s Morse code,’ said Will, firmly, and we all turned to stare at him. ‘The lights. Look at them. Three quick flashes, three longer ones, three more short ones. Over and over. It’s Morse code.’

  He looked a little embarrassed and
added: ‘Navy cadets. It’s SOS. Someone up there is using those lights to flash for help.’

  Dan and Justin locked eyes, possibly exchanged some kind of Telepath Action Man message, and both ran for the door. Betty, Tish, myself and Will dashed off after them, and there was a bit of a logjam as we all tried to get in at once. Will, ever the gentleman, immediately stopped and held the door open for the ladies, and all three of us trooped in. I made it up the stairs first. Tish was banjaxed by the five-inch platforms; Will was too polite to push past me, and as for Betty, well, I was clearly a bit fitter than her, even if she did look like an Amazonian goddess. No situation is ever so serious that you can’t allow yourself a small, silent, ‘ner-ner-ner-ner-ner’ moment.

  Dan and Justin were pushing at the door, to no avail. The whole staircase was absolutely bloody freezing. Tish, who was wearing barely any clothes anyway, immediately started shaking, the rattling sound of her chattering teeth echoing off the walls. The security guard emerged from the lift, waving a bunch of keys big enough to sink the Titanic.

  We moved apart to let him closer to the door, and his jittering hand eventually inserted the right key into the lock. It took him longer than it had me the other day with a pick, and even then he couldn’t turn it.

  ‘Something’s jamming it, from the other side,’ he said, frowning and dropping the keys with a thud on the carpet. He looked around him and suddenly seemed to notice the chill factor, his barrel-like torso shaking despite the patches of sweat spreading in a moist semi-circle from the armpit of his white uniform shirt.

  ‘This isn’t right,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t like this before! What’s going on? Should I call the police, Mr D? Dear God, what should I do?’ His voice was so high-pitched by the end of the sentence, I feared for the light bulbs.

  Betty stepped forward, gave him a heart-stopping smile, stroked his arm and spoke to him so quietly he had to lean forward to hear her.