Soon after moving to Ashdale, she answered an advertisement for a third person to share an apartment, and met Kevin Keeley in a pub to discuss terms. When she learned that her potential flat mates were both male, she almost walked away, but Kevin’s gift for persuasive chatter soon convinced her that she was safe, and if Pete had never let up on his efforts to charm her into his bed, he was easy to hold at arm’s length.
Kevin was more interested in the profit potential of her psychic powers. Ghost hunting as a team had been his idea. He could supply the technical know-how, Pete would handle security, and Sceptre would provide the view from the Other Side. Somewhere along the line, he had also promised to think up a name for them.
“Something catchy,” he had promised her, “something people will remember.”
“Something like ‘Numpties R Us?’” Pete had asked.
Kevin had dismissed his best friend’s cynicism, assuring Sceptre that he had contacts in the TV industry. Sceptre begged leave to doubt that Kevin could be so persuasive, but he would not be put off by her doubts. He was confident that if they could put together a good enough presentation, he would be able to land them a lucrative contract with one of the cable or satellite channels.
“We need good footage of spooks in action,” he told her. “Noises, bumps, bangs, things moving around by themselves. You know the kind of thing I mean.”
Intrigued by the idea, caught up in his enthusiasm, she gave Fishwick instructions to monitor the astral comings and goings in and around Ashdale. Tonight was their first call out. It was exciting, exhilarating, and not a little nerve jangling.
She wondered whether Pete and Kevin felt the same mixture of emotions. Pete appeared calm enough as he turned into Rossington Terrace. In the front passenger seat, Kevin, too, appeared cool and collected while he fiddled with the settings on his digital camcorder.
Up ahead, Sceptre could see the flashing blue light of a police vehicle and a small crowd of people on the sidewalks. Pete pulled his car into the kerb and climbed out, moving immediately to the rear of the vehicle. Kevin also left the car, but he was now engrossed in fitting a halogen spot-lamp to his camcorder.
Sceptre paused a moment before getting out, her eyes fixed on the open door of number 16. That was where her future, all their futures, lay.
A police officer, dressed in a heavy, quilted, high-visibility overcoat, came rushing out of the house followed by a flying glass vase that shattered on the pavement. From inside the house came a fearsome roar and flashes of electric blue light.
Getting out of the car, she muttered, “Fishwick, are you there?”
“Right here, Madam.”
“Check the house.”
“Very good, Madam.”
Sceptre zipped up her coat and crossed the street, peering into the narrow hall, catching glimpses of a child’s bicycle illuminated in the intermittent flashes of light. She had had regular contact with Fishwick since childhood, but she had never seen, nor experienced any other form of manifestation from the spirit world. Indeed, she had never seen Fishwick. She had only spoken with him, and that was limited to his voice in her head.
“There are spirits, Madam,” her butler had once explained, “who will readily manifest themselves, but such apparitions can be unnerving, and I prefer to concentrate my energies on assisting, not frightening you.”
Further along the street, kept back by the police patrol cars, neighbours had turned out in various states of dress and undress, to see what was happening. On the pavement close by, with Police Constable Sandra Smedley for company, Angie stood shivering in her nightie, looking drawn and afraid, young Damon hiding in the folds of her nightdress. The sight evoked Sceptre’s sympathies. This woman needed help.
While Kevin aimed his video camera into the house and began filming, Sceptre addressed the police officer who had just run from the house: his jacket identified him as PC Robb.
“Good morning, constable,” she greeted. “I believe you’re having trouble with a restless spirit?”
Robb looked her up and down. “Just keep out the way, luv, there’s a good girl.” He made a move as if to head for his car.
“I,” she declared grandly, “have come here to put matters right, and kindly do not speak to me like that again. I’m not a child.” Sceptre’s tone, as stern as the dowager duchess who had instilled them in her, coupled with her air of aristocratic authority, had Robb nonplussed. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked her over as if assessing her, his frown indicating that he was wondering how to deal with her.
He adjusted his tone from patronising to practical. “Listen, missus, we don’t know what’s going on here, but whoever’s in there has just chucked a bloody great vase at me, so if you value your nut, keep out of the way.”
Sceptre dismissed him with a contemptuous snort and turned her attention to Angie. “Is it your house?” She waited for the woman to give a forlorn nod, then declared. “I am an expert in these matters, and I’m here to help.” Sceptre made the claim with a lot more confidence than she actually felt, but she was pleased to see Angie show the faintest sign of relief. It was no more than a tiny adjustment in her withdrawn stance, a slight turn towards Sceptre, as if pleading for someone to end the insanity. Sceptre gave her a smile of encouragement. “Tell me what happened.”
PC Robb tried to intervene again. “Now look, luv …”
“All right, Dave?”
At the sound of the new voice coming from behind, Robb twisted to his left. His face ran through a rapid series of emotions: irritation, recognition, contempt, and outright anger. “Well, well, well. Detective Constable Brennan. Ex-Detective Constable Brennan, I should say.” Robb’s voice oozed cynical pleasure as if he were anticipating something nasty about to happen. “What are you doing here?”
Pete nodded at Sceptre. “I’m with her.”
“I might have known. If anyone was capable of ferreting out the loons at this hour, it’d have to be you. Well, there’s nothing here that need concern you, so push off before I run you in.”
Pete smiled easily. “On what charge?”
“I dunno,” shrugged Robb. “How about interfering with the police officer in the course of his duties?”
“You’re the one who should be arrested, for impersonating a police officer,” Pete retorted. “And so far, we haven’t interfered with you. Seems to me you ran out of the house under your own steam.”
Robb glared. “One more crack like that, Brennan, and I will run you in. Nobody likes a bent cop, remember.”
“Yes, and nobody likes cops screwing around where they shouldn’t do, so just watch that your boss doesn’t find out about that tramp on the Rawstone Edge Estate you’ve been jumping for the last five or six years.”
Sceptre looked sharply at Pete, as if asking, “Huh?” Pete frowned, only the slightest shake of his head indicating that he would explain later.
He turned back to Robb. “Cut the empty threats, Dave, and let Sceptre sort this out.”
“Sort what out?” PC Robb looked wildly back into the house. “We don’t even know what’s going on. Angie called us for a burglary, we turned out, and the place was in chaos. I went in, couldn’t see anyone, and suddenly a jar of jam comes flying at me. Next it was salad cream, then salmon paste.”
“Midnight feast in the dorm?” chuckled Pete.
“Knock it off,” sulked Robb. “When I legged it, that bloody vase came after me. Honest, Brennan, I don’t know where the burglar is, but he’s in one helluva mean mood.”
“Then let us have a go?” Pete suggested.
“Tough guy, huh? I’m telling you, Brennan …”
Sceptre, who had been following their debate, now cut in. “Oh do shut up, constable.” She turned back to Angie. “My name is Sceptre Rand. I’m a psychic medium. Would you like to tell me what happened tonight?”
Angie looked to Robb for support, but the police officer merely tapped the side of his head to indicate his opinion on Sceptre’s sanity. Angi
e then looked to Pete, who smiled, and then to Kevin.
“Trust me, Angie,” he reassured her from behind his lens, “Sceptre knows what she’s talking about.”
Sceptre glanced sharply up at Pete, checking his reaction to Kevin’s assertion, but he simply shrugged at Angie and smiled again, as if encouraging her to take it all with a grain of salt.
Kevin, his eye still pressed to the viewfinder, panned the camera between Sceptre and Angie.
Frowning, shielding her eyes from the dazzling spotlight, Angie spoke to Sceptre, but her voice was edged with uncertainty. “We were in bed when suddenly all hell broke loose. We came downstairs, found the furniture moving on its own, the TV thrown on the floor, ornaments and stuff smashed, and I guessed we’d been broke in, so I brought my son out and belled the filth, er, law on my mobile.” She held her cell phone up to the camera as if giving evidence.
“And you can’t tell me anything else?” asked Sceptre.
Frightened and bewildered, Angie gave a shrug. “What’s to tell?”
Ignoring Kevin and his intrusive filming, Sceptre chewed her lip and looked at the house. It seemed peaceful enough at the moment. Turning back to Angie, she asked, “Has anything like this ever happened before?”
Angie shook her head. “Damon’s always telling us about an old man, but you know how kids are, with imaginary friends. But we do know that the bloke what lived here before us was in his eighties when he died.”
“There you are then,” said Sceptre with a degree of satisfaction. “It sounds as if something may have disturbed him. I’m going in to see if I can calm them down.”
Robb opened his mouth to protest, but Pete beat him to it.
“Hold on, Sceptre.” He, too, questioned the frightened householder. “Angie, where’s Bilko?”
Her face creased. “I don’t know, Pete. Honest,” She begged as if he were still a police officer seeking explanations. “He rang me earlier from Flutter-Bys, but the little sod still hasn’t come home.”
Sceptre was perplexed. “What’s Flutter-Bys?”
“Night club off Yorkshire Street,” Kevin reported from behind his lens.
“And who is Bilko?”
“Her husband. Steven Bilks. Small-time villain.” Kevin still did not take his eye from the viewfinder.
There was a moment’s silence while Sceptre considered her options. “Fishwick, are you there?”
Around her, the police and householders looked on with amused amazement as she entered into what was for them a one-way communication with her butler. Unable to see or hear Fishwick, PC Robb leaned close into Pete and asked, “Who’s she speaking to?”
Pete grinned. “Her great-granddad’s butler.”
Robb looked around at the night. “So where is he?”
“He died in 1916.”
Robb gaped. “Oh. So she’s a real fruitcake?”
“Fully qualified,” Pete agreed.
*****
The conversation between Sceptre and her deceased butler continued. “Can you add anything to what we have heard, Fishwick?”
“A little, Madam,” replied her butler. “There are actually two spirits in the house. One is the original owner who, it seems, crossed over about five years ago. He’s the old man the little boy has talked about. The other is newly deceased, and he’s very angry. He’s the one doing most of the damage.”
“Do we know who this newcomer is?” Sceptre asked.
“No, Madam,” said Fishwick. “He’s too angry to respond. All he can say is what sounds like ‘wigwam’.”
The comment was a puzzle to Sceptre. “And is he a North American Indian?”
“I don’t think so, Madam.”
The flat, matter-of-fact manner in which Fishwick delivered his responses irritated Sceptre. “Then it makes no sense, Fishwick.”
‘No, Madam,” agreed her butler.
Sceptre put aside the question of the violent spirit. “What about the old man?”
Fishwick replied, “The ravings of this newcomer have awakened him. As near as I can make out, he did not realise he was dead until the newcomer arrived. As a result, he’s only just realised how annoyed he is that the new owners have put up Arsenal wallpaper. He tore some of it off.”
“The Arsenal football team?” Sceptre puzzled over this “Why should that annoy him?”
“He was a devout Manchester United fan, Madam.”
“I understand,” said Sceptre, even though she did not. “Can you do anything with him?”
“Difficult to say, Madam,” Fishwick confessed. “As soccer hooliganism goes, ripping the wallpaper off is mild, and he does have a point. I prefer Manchester United, too. They play the game like it’s supposed to be played.”
Sceptre disapproved of his levity. “Your preferences do not enter into the debate, Fishwick. Do you have any recommendations?”
Her butler reverted to his pragmatic self. “It is impossible to get any sense out of the furious spirit, Madam, while the old man is with him. We need to get rid of the old chap so we can concentrate on the newcomer.”
“And how do you imagine we should do that?” demanded Sceptre.
“We should try to get the old fool to go through The Light, Madam, and that, I believe, is where you come in.”
She was satisfied. “Thank you Fishwick. Stand by.”
She could almost imagine Fishwick saluting as he responded, “Very good, Madam.”
*****
Sceptre terminated the conversation with her butler and, ignoring the bemused stares of those around her, addressed Robb. “I’m going in there, and this time, I mean it.”
The policeman tried to assert his authority. “Now listen, chicken, I can’t let anyone in there. Not even a well-meaning nut like you …”
Sceptre’s patience, which had been wearing thin ever since she first encountered Robb, finally snapped. She drew in her breath, squared her shoulders and faced him at her imperious best. “I’ve warned you about addressing me in such a casual manner. I am not your love, nor your darling. Neither am I a missus, nor a fool. I am Lady Concepta Rand-Epping, Countess of Marston, and I know what I am doing. Now kindly stand back. I am going in there.” She snapped her fingers. “Peter, Kevin. With me, please.”
In the face of her tyranny, Robb acquiesced and stood back to let them in.
*****
Sceptre stepped cautiously over the threshold with Pete at her shoulder and Kevin, still running his camcorder, right behind. “What was that you were saying about his superior learning of his affair with some woman?”
Her question was aimed at Pete, who explained, “A police officer is responsible for his conduct both on and off duty. Robb’s bit on the side sleeps around. If she whispered a few sweet nothings in the wrong ears, she could compromise Robb’s position.”
“What an appalling way to describe a lover. A bit on the side,” Sceptre disapproved. “Do you mean she could blackmail him?”
Pete nodded. “Not necessarily. But if she’s sleeping around, she may be jumping convicted felons and passing on information on Robb, his beat, his movements, and so on. If she’s in cahoots with a burglar, for instance, the burglar could pay her to keep Robb busy, while he rips off the local liquor store. You get the picture?”
“I think so.”
Her curiosity satisfied, Sceptre turned her attention to the task at hand and stared around the hall. The power was off, yet light from an unknown source flickered from the living room, lighting the faded, yellow wallpaper and dismal floor covering.
Just ahead lay the staircase to the upper floor and, beyond it, the kitchen entrance. Both were quiet: it was the living room, the first door to her left, that was the source of the disturbance. Angry lights in blue and red flashed and sparked; rumbling, grumbling noises came from within.
Sceptre edged into the room and surveyed the scene. The TV, as Angie had said, lay face down on the carpet; the armchair had stopped its dancing and, along with its twin, had been upended and dropp
ed onto the couch. The overall effect was that the suite had been made ready for the moving men. Like the hall, the walls were covered in flock wallpaper, which was hanging off in places. Above the fireplace, an Arsenal banner hung from a single drawing pin, as if someone had ripped the other end down. As she watched, the message Man. U. 4 Ever appeared across it as if sprayed by a hand wielding an invisible can of paint.
“Crikey,” said Kevin, following her in, his eye still pressed to the viewfinder. “What a mess. It looks like our place after a party.”
Ignoring him, Sceptre spoke to the room in loud, authoritative tones. “Spirit, I command you to go into The Light and cross over.”
Her announcement was greeted with a loud raspberry.
Taken aback, Sceptre called upon her butler. “Fishwick, did either of the spirits understand me?”
“The old man understood, Madam,” said Fishwick. “His reply was not very pleasant.”
“I had suspected as much, but do tell me, Fishwick.”
“Get stuffed.”
Her butler’s words annoyed her. “Fishwick, are you merely being impertinent, or was that his answer?”
“His answer, Madam,” Fishwick assured her with implacable calm.
Sceptre considered her options. Lacking any previous experience of helping a spirit cross the Great Divide, she had arrogantly assumed that the old man would obey her the way household servants had obeyed her mother. She had read of other mediums ordering spirits to go into The Light, and the spirits meekly obeyed. This old man would need more determined handling.
She injected more force into her voice this time. “Spirit, I will not tolerate your impudence. I command you to go into The Light, to cross over.”
Immediately in front of her, a ghostly body took shape, its empty eye sockets trained upon her, the lean body shimmering in the darkness. Sceptre’s heart beat rapidly, but she stood her ground. As she watched, the face changed, the jaw dropped, the mouth opened wide, and, taking on an almost lupine appearance, great jaws projected forward, snapping shut just centimetres from her face, bellowing loudly, the blast of its fetid breath blowing her hair back.
A Spookies Compendium Page 2