A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  Wilcox and his wife disappeared up the attic stairway; Tate and Nicky carried on along the landing and into the master bedroom.

  Nicky perched herself on the edge of the four-poster, while Tate took a look in the wardrobe.

  “No one here,” he declared.

  Nicky smiled up at him. “Nice bed, though.”

  Tate took the hint, sat next to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and half-turned her to face him, then pushed her gently back onto the mattress. He followed her, and their lips met in a passionate kiss.

  *****

  Sir Henry looked down on the couple. His irritable orange to red drifted to scarlet fury. “Not on my bed, tha doesn’t.” He made for the dressing table.

  *****

  The couple were oblivious to anything but each other, lost in the throes of passion, when it began to go wrong.

  First, a wood-backed hairbrush on the dresser flew at them and hit Tate in the back. He broke the kiss and looked sharply at the dresser just in time to duck away from the comb flying through the air at him. The corner of the antique bedspread rippled, then flipped up and over their heads. Something pummelled Tate in the ribs. He threw the bedspread off in time to see one of the pillows rise into the air and batter Nicky around the head.

  “What the...?” he gasped.

  If Tate was puzzled, Nicky was terrified. “Never mind the questions,” she yelled. “Let’s get out of here!”

  They ran from the room, out onto the landing ... and straight into Keynes and Pete.

  While Keynes tackled Nicky, Pete squared up to Tate with a smile on his face.

  “Hello, Johnny. Fancy your chances now, do you? Now that I’m not wired up?”

  Trapped, with nowhere to run, Tate threw an accurate right at Pete’s jaw. Pete blocked it. He lashed his own right into Tate’s abdomen. Winded, Tate doubled up. He wrapped his arms around Pete’s waist, locking his hands and pushing forward, slamming both of them back into the oak-panelled walls. Pete clasped his fists together and brought them down hard on the back of Tate’s neck. At the same time, he brought his knee up into Tate’s chest. Tate gasped; his grip slackened. Pete grabbed his hair and pulled back. With a yelp, Tate let go of Pete’s waist and reached up for his own hairline. Pete straightened him up by the hair, smiled again and landed a head butt on Tate’s forehead. Johnny Tate crumpled and fell to the floor, where he lay still.

  “God, that felt good,” said Pete with a satisfied smile.

  *****

  Fishwick was impressed with Sir Henry’s intervention. “I thought you weren’t going to help.”

  “They can do as they like with yon strumpet of thine,” declared Sir Henry, “but I’ll not have them defile my bed.”

  *****

  “You okay?” Keynes came to Pete wringing her right wrist with her left hand. On the floor lay Nicky Tate, not moving, aside from the even rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Keynes gestured down. “Tough cookie.”

  “A pussycat.” Pete nodded with satisfaction. “Hurt your hand?”

  Keynes shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  “We’ve run out of handcuffs,” Pete advised her.

  “There must be something we can use,” said Keynes.

  He eyed Tate’s belt, a stout leather affair. Exchanging a glance with Keynes, he unhooked it and removed it. Crossing to the two inert bodies while Keynes turned Nicky round, Pete clasped her hands behind her back, then ran the belt round her wrists and tightened it. He dragged Tate along, sat him back to back with Nicky, and tied him, too, with the rest of the belt.

  “That should keep them quiet until we get back.” He nodded to the attic door. “Shall we?”

  Keynes nodded.

  “Ladies first.”

  She grinned. “Oh, no. Age before beauty.”

  *****

  “There’s been a bit of a do in the master bedroom, Madam.”

  Sceptre tutted at her butler’s vernacular. “A bit of a do? Explain yourself, Fishwick.”

  “Well, Madam, two of our visitors were about to use Sir Henry’s bed for -ahem- unseemly purposes and the old man got a bit miffed over it. He threw a few things at them, and they ran for it.”

  Sceptre smiled. “So can we count upon his help after all?”

  “I doubt it, Madam. Sir Henry was only annoyed because they were using his bed. However,” Fishwick pressed on more optimistically, “Miss Aggie is close by and has promised to do what she can.”

  Sceptre remembered her manners. “Make certain you thank Aggie and Sir Henry for us, Fishwick. Where is everyone?”

  “Right now, two of the enemy are making their way along the attic landing, Madam. I’m ready for them.” Fishwick’s tone suggested that he was standing to attention and saluting.

  Alongside Sceptre, Kevin was shaking. She tried to sound encouraging. “We’d better get ready. They’ll be here any minute.”

  They listened in silence and heard a door open and close again, just along the landing.

  “Arm yourself, Kevin,” said Sceptre, checking a box of toys and picking up a bag of glass marbles. “These will do nicely.”

  Kevin, too, checked the box and came out with a child’s pinwheel on a stick.

  “What are you gonna do with that?”

  “I’ll think of something,” he said with a shiver.

  “Jam it against your backside and see if you can make the sails turn,” suggested Sceptre, and promptly wondered why she had delivered such a crude comment. “I’m sorry, Kevin. I shouldn’t have said that. I must have been channelling Pete instead of Fishwick for a moment.”

  Kevin quaked even more and gave out a nervous laugh. “That’s what comes of living with a couple of ratbags like me and Pete.”

  The door burst open. Wilcox and Sylvie came in; Wilcox raised his pistol at Kevin, but before he could squeeze the trigger, it was dashed from his grip by Fishwick’s unseen hand. While Wilcox stared in disbelief, Sceptre began to throw marbles at him.

  Sylvie threw herself at Kevin, who began to beat her about the head with his toy. She backed off and threw a punch; Kevin ducked and broke wind with a loud raspberry. Sylvie screwed up her nose in disgust. Perfectly accustomed to such a reaction, Kevin had anticipated it and took the opportunity to poke her in the eye with his stick.

  Wilcox fought through the rain of marbles and struck out at Sceptre. She crashed to the floor, and he slipped on one of the marbles and fell upon her. Automatically, his hands went around her throat.

  Sceptre was taken by surprise. She had anticipated some help from Fishwick as soon as Wilcox attacked. “Kevin,” she croaked as she struggled, “Fishwick, anyone. Help!”

  Kevin lashed out and flattened Sylvie. He turned to the others, wrapped his arms around Wilcox’s throat and yanked him back. Wilcox lammed out a single punch. It did little damage but knocked Kevin sideways and to the floor, where Sylvie leapt upon him. He poked at her with the pinwheel stick, but, enjoying the advantage of her superior position, she avoided the stick and rained blows down on him.

  Across the room, Wilcox’s grip tightened around Sceptre’s throat again. She sucked in her breath with loud whoops. Her vision was beginning to blur. She knew she had lost. The idea did not so much frighten as disappoint her. For all his powers, Fishwick could not help her.

  Similar thoughts occupied Kevin’s mind. His consciousness began to fade under a flurry of blows from Sylvie’s hard fists, and the thought crossed his mind. “Pete, you’ve let me down.” He knew it was selfish to blame his best friend, but he could not help it. Pete had been there all his life, and now, when Kevin needed him most, he was not.

  *****

  When Bilks rushed towards the struggling figures of Sceptre and Wilcox, Fishwick’s first thought was that he was after Sceptre’s body again, so he put himself between his mistress and the furious spirit. Bilks collided with him in a shower of light. Fishwick was knocked to one side, and Bilks bounced off obliquely and through the wall onto the landing.


  Across the room, Aggie’s spirit arm extended and began to rock the rocking horse back and forth, giving it a harder strike with every oscillation. As Fishwick watched, she set the toy into frenetic motion until finally, its front legs left the floor altogether, at which point Aggie shouldered it slightly to the right, aiming it at the fighting bodies of Kevin and Sylvie.

  As Bilks came back through the wall, Fishwick heard Sceptre’s strangled gasps and, turning quickly, launched himself at Wilcox.

  *****

  Above Kevin and Sylvie, the rocking horse began to rock. Then, without warning, it reared up as if its legs had broken free of the rockers. Sylvie caught the movement from the corner of her eye, turned, and looked up in terror as the heavy toy came crashing down on her. The rocker caught her on the shoulder and threw her off Kevin, who, though just as terrified as she, had the presence of mind to roll quickly out of the way. Spotting his opportunity, he jumped at her and sat on her abdomen. With a sly grin, he let rip and deliberately forced out the wind. From beneath him came a satisfying “ugh”.

  Fishwick collided with Wilcox and knocked him from his position astride Sceptre. The mobster rolled across the floor, unable to comprehend what had happened. He stopped within reach of his pistol. Gripping it, he got to his knees, levelled the gun at Sceptre and smiled evilly.

  “You lose.” He squeezed the trigger.

  Sceptre stood her ground, expecting nothing but death.

  *****

  “WIGJAM!” roared Bilks and rushed at Wilcox, dashing the pistol from his hand.

  The furious spirit scooped up the marbles and began to throw them at the mobster, the glass balls hurtling at Wilcox as rapidly as the ammunition of an unseen machine-gun.

  Fishwick, aware now that he had misread Bilks’ earlier attack, kept his distance, permitting Bilks’ absolute fury free reign.

  *****

  Wilcox threw his hands up to protect his face. When the supply of marbles was exhausted, other toys flew from the box. A teddy bear, dolls, farm animals moulded from lead: all attacked the gangster.

  “WIGJAM!” They all heard Bilks’ roar.

  His mind a whirl of frightened confusion, aware of nothing other than the need to be out of this madhouse, Wilcox fled the room. The rain of toys followed him. He burst onto the attic landings ... and rushed straight into Pete and DS Keynes.

  The collision knocked the Detective Sergeant to the floor. Pete grabbed Wilcox, who lashed out with a flailing arm. They hit the deck, rolling and tussling across the bare floorboards. Pete got the upper hand; Wilcox threw him off, stood and ran. Pete stretched out a hand and, with a superhuman effort, grabbed Wilcox’s ankle. Wilcox crashed back to the floor. Pete leapt for him. Wilcox struck out with a foot, caught Pete in the midriff and knocked him to one side.

  Leaping to his feet again, Wilcox ran for it.

  Pete checked on the dazed DC Keynes. “You okay?”

  “I’ll be all right,” she gasped, clutching at her ribs. “Get after him.”

  “He’ll be in that truck and away before I can catch him.”

  Digging into her pocket, she held up the ignition keys and grinned. “Not without these, he won’t.”

  Pete smiled and ran off after Wilcox.

  *****

  Wilcox fled down the stairs, through the Long Gallery, the terrible voice following him.

  “WIGJAM... WIGJAM... WIGJAM...”

  It filled his ears and his mind. He did not understand it, but he knew it meant something dreadful, and if he did not escape it, that dreadful something would take his life.

  He dashed out into the stable yard, where he slipped on the icy ground and skidded under the front of his lorry. Ignoring Groom’s pleas for release from his handcuffed position at the passenger door mirror, Wilcox picked himself up, leapt into the driver’s seat and reached for the ignition key.

  “WIGJAM... WIGJAM... WIGJAM...”

  The voice was there with him.

  No keys.

  He dived out of the truck and ran to the rear gates, out onto the snowy moorland. The electric blue lights of several police cars lit the landscape. Scared half to death, Wilcox looked frantically out at the woods. He would never survive. Not in these freezing temperatures. He turned back into the courtyard and hurried to the truck again.

  “WIGJAM... WIGJAM... WIGJAM...”

  As he opened the driver’s door, it slammed shut again. Once more, Wilcox stared around in terror. The warehouse.

  He hurried into the stables and looked around. He needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere they’d never find him. He made for the racks and the narrow alleys between them. He could hide where they had left Bilko’s body.

  The engine of the forklift truck roared into life. The shift slipped into forward and the machine roared at the racking.

  “WIGJAM... WIGJAM... WIGJAM...”

  When the forklift struck, the whole structure rocked and folded. Wilcox had time for one last scream before the tangle of steel and palletised goods crumbled and crushed the life from him.

  *****

  Wilcox looked down upon his crushed body in astonishment. He did not understand what had happened. One moment, he was suffering terrible pain as the metal grid structure collapsed upon him, and the next, something had dragged him from under it and the pain had vanished.

  “That lot could have killed me,” he said aloud.

  There was something wrong. He knew he had spoken aloud, but he had not heard his voice. He had felt it.

  “It did kill you, chum,” said Fishwick.

  Wilcox looked around and could not believe his surroundings. It was dark, the sky crystal clear, yet there were no stars. When he looked down, he could see the forklift truck and hear its chugging engine. He could see the mangled wreckage of the warehouse racking, a tangle of steel and wooden pallets, with a hand protruding from underneath. It looked like his hand.

  He looked away, unable to comprehend. Opposite him was a bright light, as dazzling as the sun, but white. An attractive light, it seemed to be beckoning him.

  “I’m dead?” he asked.

  “Afraid so,” said Fishwick. “Your life weren’t saved, matey. It’s over.”

  Wilcox took a moment to let the fact sink in. He looked around. “So what’s with the spotlight?” Wilcox’s energy form gestured at The Light and the steady stream of other forms passing into it.

  ‘That’s the way to the next life, mate,” Fishwick explained. “That’s where you will learn to atone for your sins before you’re born again ... I think.”

  Wilcox sounded dubious. “So how come you’re here?”

  “I don’t want to go to the next life,” Fishwick replied simply. “I haven’t finished with this one.”

  The form that had been Wilcox gave the impression of a malicious grin. “Let me get this straight. I don’t have to go through The Light unless I want to. I can choose to stay here and carry on hassling nurks like Brennan?”

  “You can,” Fishwick agreed, “but you’d only end up fighting me most of the time, and trust me, I’ve been a here a long time. I know what I’m about.”

  Now Wilcox laughed. “You think I’m impressed. Think again.”

  A white-hot blur hurtled towards him. “WIGJAM!” it roared.

  Suddenly, Wilcox understood that message. He knew that he was WGJAMW and WIGJAM, and that the roar came from the deceased Steven Bilks.

  “Now Bilko, that’s no way to speak to your betters.” Wilcox’s form wafted as if he were goading Bilks.

  Bilks roared and rushed. Wilcox quickly learned that by an effort of will he could avoid the oncoming spirit with little effort. He laughed. “You were never quick enough to take me when you were alive, Bilko.”

  Bilks looped and came at him again from a narrow angle. Wilcox waited until the last second and ducked back.

  “Olé, toro, toro, toro.” He laughed again.

  Once more Bilks swooped, and once more Wilcox ducked back, getting closer to The Light. Again and again Bilks
came, and each time, Wilcox laughed and got closer to The Light, without realising he was being shepherded.

  He was almost on top of The Light when Bilks shot straight at him. Wilcox flinched for the last time, tottering on the edge. Fishwick gave him a nudge, then looked away, calmly whistling to himself as if he had had nothing to do with it. With a cry, the gangster disappeared into The Light.

  The raging spirit of Steven Bilks calmed instantly. The blaze of energy settled, took on the more human-esque form Fishwick was accustomed to in other spirits.

  “What... How... wh-where am I?”

  “The Other Side, my friend,” said Fishwick, emanating waves of friendship. “You’ve squared the circle, and you’re at peace now. It comes to us all sooner or later.” He looked down on his dishevelled mistress in the attics of Melmerby Manor. “Well, almost all of us.”

  Understanding dawned on Bilks. “He killed me, didn’t he? Wilcox? I remember.”

  “I’m afraid he did,” Fishwick tried to send out waves of sympathy.

  “Funny,” said Bilks, “I don’t feel sad. I’m not happy, but not sad.”

  Fishwick understood. “At least you’re not angry anymore.”

  Bilks looked around, took in his strange surroundings. “Where has he gone? Wilcox? Somewhere peaceful? I hope not.”

  Fishwick gave the impression that he was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Now, there’s a thing. Truth is, me old china, none of us really knows. Some say it leads straight to the next life, some say it leads to a place of judgment and then onto the next life, where we’ll pay for the sins we committed in this life. What we do know is that once you go into The Light, you can’t come back. Wherever it leads, wherever he’s gone, Wilcox can never bother anyone again.”

  Bilks’ form wavered slightly back to an angry red, but he brought it quickly under control. There was, nevertheless, a good degree of indignation when he spoke. “So Wilcox, who’s been a hardened criminal for most of his life could start afresh, with the slate wiped.”

  If he had been human, Fishwick would have shrugged. “We don’t know.” He waved vaguely at the whole spirit plane. “The Universe has a way of ironing things out, my friend, so it’s likely that in the next life, Wilcox will be born into poverty.” He tried to sound more encouraging. “It’s time for you to stop worrying about Wilcox, and consider yourself.”