A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “Whosat?”

  No one there.

  “Bloody job’s so boring I’m imagining things now.”

  He bent to the floor to pick up the cigarette. As he did so, his backside lifted slightly from the seat and someone whipped the chair away from under him. He sat down on the floor. Blood rushing to his cheeks, he leapt to his feet, whirled round and round again, fists already clenched into tight balls.

  “Where are you? Come on. I’ll rip your rotten head off. Come on out. Let’s see you.”

  The room remained as still and silent as before.

  Danny scratched his head, his dirty fingernails digging through the skinhead haircut, to the scalp. “Rum.”

  He bent to pick up the cigarette again. Something struck him square in the back and fell to the floor. Again he spun round. He stared down at a book. His eyes darted around the room. Thousands and thousands and thousands of books, but no one who could have thrown one at him.

  “You won’t come to me,” he hissed, “so I’ll come and find you and when I get you, I’ll batter you from here to Manchester and back.”

  This wasn’t like a proper library with aisles between the bookshelves. This was a school library, all the books arranged around the walls, and that meant there was only one place he could be hiding: behind the librarian’s counter.

  Danny hurried over, leaned across, his arm already reaching for the scruff of a schoolboy neck.

  Nothing. No one.

  His brow creased.

  “Vali.”

  It was no more than the faintest whisper, so distant it may have been the sough of the wind, but it set Danny’s senses on full alert. Still half bent over the counter, he straightened up and spun. He moved so fast that the books on the shelves were no more than a blur before his eyes.

  “Who is that?”

  The whisper definitely came from behind him, but there was nowhere to hide. He could see every corner of the room from here … except … except beneath the tables.

  He dropped and flattened himself to the floor. Still nothing. Still no one. He could see all corners of the room. If there was anyone here, he’d see them; if they had stood as he dropped, he’d see their feet at least, but all he could see were the chairs, neatly pushed into place beneath the tables.

  “Vali.”

  The very word sent shivers through him. This time it came from above. He rolled onto his back, expecting to see some jerk-off fourth former standing over him. All he could see were the fluorescent tubes and off-white polystyrene ceiling tiles.

  “I’ll kill you. Whoever you are, I’ll rip your heart out.”

  Rolling again, he pushed himself up to his knees. A heavy book struck him in the back. He fell flat to the floor again. Another book flew at him. It missed his head by inches. It was followed by another and another and another.

  When he half turned his head to see who was throwing them, a paperback novel hit him on the nose. Blood spattered his pale blue, Manchester City T-shirt. He yelled out a curse and crawled to the door.

  Still prone, a trail of blood marking out his track across the composition floor tiles, he reached up for the doorknob and the librarian’s date-stamp cracked his knuckles. He shouted in pain, reached up again, twisted the doorknob and yanked the door open.

  “VALI!”

  The roar followed him into the corridor. He dragged the door shut behind him, and grabbed at the wall to get to his feet. Standing up, using the hem of his T-shirt to soak up the blood, he pressed an ear to the wall. He could hear the ruckus still going on.

  It couldn’t be. How many people would know that terrible word? Even he had never heard it before …

  The upper half of the library door, a pain of frosted glass, shattered and a large hardback shot into the corridor.

  Danny ran.

  *****

  Norman Trent marched along the upper corridor, his features grim. Ivan Jarvis, the supervisor over the school’s contract cleaners, scuttled alongside, trying to match the headmaster’s longer stride and quicker pace.

  “I know you’re busy with these film people, Mr Trent, and I’m sorry to drag you up here but I thought I’d better show you before we get the blame,” said Jarvis. “I know Danny’s a bit of a bugger now and then, but he wouldn’t do this. Not this bad, anyway.”

  “It would never occur to me to blame him, Mr Jarvis,” Trent said. “Normally, one would look at the boys, but they’re all at home for the holidays.”

  They reached the middle of the corridor and the shattered upper half of the library door.

  Jarvis’s team stood by, their faces edged with apprehension. Standing well away from the door, Danny rolled a cigarette, his hands shaking, his pale blue T-shirt so badly stained with dried blood that the crest of his favourite football team was almost invisible. The headmaster acknowledged the cleaners with the barest of nods, his gaze lingering on Danny.

  Jarvis must have followed the headmaster’s stare. “Oi, Danny, I don’t care how upset you are, you don’t smoke in here.”

  Danny turned his head. His eyes briefly met Trent’s, then Jarvis’s. “I’m not smoking it. Just getting it ready for when we knock off.” He ran his tongue along the gummed edge, rolled the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, then tucked it in his pocket.

  Detaching himself from the exchange, Trent pushed open the library door and stepped in, Jarvis close behind him.

  It was a disaster area. Books were scattered everywhere, some face down with the pages open, others with pages torn. The date-stamp lay on the floor just inside the door, where it had fallen after cracking the back of Danny’s hand. Chairs were overturned, Danny’s broom was jammed, handle first, between two books on the shelves, sticking out as if it were a spear. As Trent watched, gravity took over and it dropped slowly to the floor, landing with a clatter when the two books could no longer hold it.

  “It’s him, isn’t it, Mr Trent, sir?” Jarvis asked. “The Reverend Emmet?”

  “I heard a voice.”

  Trent turned to find Danny stood alongside Jarvis. “A voice, Mr Corcoran?”

  “It said Vali.” Danny was no longer afraid. His assured gaze held the headmaster’s more puzzled stare.

  “Yes, well,” said Trent, as if snapping out of a trance, “I think we’d better just deal with the mess. Mr Jarvis, could you and your people tidy up in here? Just put the books back. Don’t worry about where they’re supposed to go. I’ll have the boys sort them out in the New Year.”

  Trent did not spare Jarvis or Danny another glance. Leaving the library, he made his way back along the corridor and down the stairs. The main entrance lay directly in front of him, but he turned left along the lower corridor, and entered the admin office. Once inside, with the door shut, he picked up the phone, punched 9 for an outside line, then dialled the number. He didn’t need to consult any directories: it was imprinted upon his memory.

  There was a delay while the connection was made. It rang out a couple of times before it was answered.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Trent. I think we may have a problem.”

  *****

  Tony Sherlock Holmes wandered through the crowd of people on the lawns and marvelled at the way order seemed to come out of the chaos. When they first started work, just after 5:30, it was still dark, and they began unloading the trucks, throwing scaffolding, rigging frames, lights, everything, haphazardly all over the grass, but now things were beginning to take shape. Tracks designed to carry dollies along in time to the music and dance, had been laid, gantries were taking shape, electricians and riggers climbed ladders to set up the lighting, and in one corner, a cameraman set up his equipment on the cradle of a cherry-picker.

  Sherlock counted himself a lucky man. Ten years ago he had been out of work, fiddling his benefit, and he had gone to prison for it. Five years ago, thanks to a little help from friends here and there, he had wangled a security licence, and now here he was officially guarding the Wicked Witches, the stage name of A
shdale-born sisters, Harriet and Naomi Lane.

  Sherlock remembered them from school, even though they were four years behind him. A right pair of scallies. Now they were the biggest thing in the world of pop music, with a fan base all over the world.

  Ambling towards his car (it had been a long night, and he was glad to be coming off shift) he wondered whether he would get a credit on the finished video. He doubted it. It wasn’t as if he was guarding the girls themselves; only their equipment. Still, it was a line he could tag to his company’s CV. Sherlock Security Services, Ashdale’s premier security group, providing 24 hour protection to the Wicked Witches.

  “I’m telling you, Phil, it’s not the camera.”

  The voice of a technician caught Sherlock’s attention. A few yards away, the director, an American named Phil Dunstan, was in conference with the technician.

  “For God’s sake what is it with this goddamn country?” Dunstan complained. “I’m freezing my ass off, the sun don’t come up until the middle of the goddamn morning and now the equipment is shot.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself,” said Lenny Ingham, “it is not the camera.” His classless English accent cut a fine contrast with Dunstan’s Californian drawl.

  Dunstan, tall, lean and wiry, pushed his baseball cap back and scratched his head. “Well what the hell is it?”

  Sherlock edged nearer so he could study the monitor they were watching. It showed a view of the school doors, with the crest, a knight resting one arm on his shield, his sword held high in the other hand, above the ornate entrance. To one side of the doors stood a man dressed from head to toe in black, his overcoat reaching below the knee. Sherlock looked from the monitor up to the school entrance. Everything was exactly the same, but there was no man in black. He checked the monitor again; man in black, checked the doors; no man in black.

  “Seen enough?”

  With a blush Sherlock realised that Dunstan was looking at and speaking to him. “Oh, er, sorry, Mr Dunstan. Just, you know, nosying.”

  “Well go nosy somewhere else. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Holmes, sir. Tony Holmes. Head of security. People call me Sherlock.” He offered his hand.

  Dunstan ignored the hand. “Well, head of security, go and secure the site and get the hell out from under my feet.” The director turned back to Lenny Ingham. “Put another camera on.”

  “We’ve used two already,” Lenny complained.

  Sherlock moved on. “American tosspot,” he muttered.

  Dunstan whirled on him. “What was that?”

  Sherlock blushed again. “Er, American Hotspot, Mr Dunstan. A tip for the three thirty at Kempton, this afternoon. You reminded me of it, you being American and all.”

  “Just get the hell out of my sight,” Dunstan ordered and turned back to pick up his argument with Lenny.

  Sherlock wandered on towards his car. He guessed that Dunstan wouldn’t even understand Kempton Park, never mind a non-existent horse called American Hotspot.

  With his watch reading 8:03, he unlocked the car door and another figure came hurrying towards him. It was the more familiar face of Danny Corcoran. Sherlock took in the blood-stained City T-shirt. “Wotcher, Danny boy. Been scrapping?”

  “Bit of a do in the library,” Danny said, and went on to explain what had happened earlier.

  When he had finished, Sherlock laughed. “Ghosts? Do me a favour. You been snorting again.”

  “I’m telling you what happened, Sherlock. Trust me, if you’d been there, you’d have needed clean underpants.” Danny climbed into his ageing Vauxhall, fired the engine, and drove off.

  Sherlock watched him leave. Ghosts? Well there had always been rumours that the Ashdalean was haunted. Sherlock wondered idly whether the papers would be prepared to pay for the information. He dismissed the idea instantly. Reporters would want access to the place, and for that they’d need a pass and they could only get those from the Wicked Witches’ manager. If there was any money to be made from the tale, Sherlock would never see it.

  Settling into the driving seat of his Ford Focus, he grinned to himself. The papers might not pay, but he knew a crew who could probably be persuaded. Bit early yet, but Kevin Keeley and his pals would be up and about in the next hour or so.

  Chapter Two

  The spirit of Albert Fishwick looked down upon the sleeping figure of Sceptre Rand and he felt something close to peace. It did not happen often. There were too many threats to her safety, both in the real world and here on the Spirit Plane. But for now, she was sleeping, there were no threats, and Fishwick could relax.

  His constant state of alert was one of the penalties of having a mistress with psychic abilities. The spirits rarely troubled those in the real world who could not sense them, but they were nothing short of a nuisance to those, like Her Ladyship, who could. A nuisance and often a danger.

  For almost a century, ever since his untimely death on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, Fishwick, butler to Lord Aigburth Rand-Epping, had watched over the surviving members of the family. Sceptre, Lady Concepta Rand-Epping, Countess of Marston, was the last of that line, and at the age of 26, she had yet to bear children. Her safety was vital to a family line that could trace its ancestry back to the English Civil War, and maintain her security was a matter of personal pride to Fishwick. And that terrible morning of July 1st, 1916, he and Lord Aigburth had gone over the top together, and were cut to ribbons by heavy machine gun fire within seconds of each other. Fishwick always felt that he should have done more to protect the master. Having failed to do so, he had done his utmost to ensure the safety of the lineage.

  Not that it had done much good. One by one the family died off, and the last of the line, Lord Simon Rand-Epping, had been killed in a climbing accident while Sceptre was still a child. Her mother, Lady Margaret had died in a motorway pile up while Sceptre was still a teenager. Fishwick was determined that Sceptre would not follow her parents to an early death. She would live to a ripe old age.

  His worries for her safety in the real world had diminished a little, after she moved in with Pete Brennan and Kevin Keeley. Brennan, particularly, was tough and resourceful, an ex-police officer who would not let harm come to either Her Ladyship or Keeley, and even Kevin, outwardly a wobbler, was tougher than he liked to admit. Add to them Sceptre’s innate reserves of courage, and it was a winning threesome, even if they occasionally sailed a little close to the fine line between life and death.

  Spookies, the name they had given to their absurd efforts at chasing up ghosts, brought Madam more and more into contact with malfeasant souls this side of the great divide, and that demanded greater vigilance from Fishwick.

  For now, however, he could relax. Brennan and Keeley were out, on their way to some stadium in West Ashdale, Her Ladyship was sleeping soundly, and all was quiet.

  But not quite all.

  Looking across the town he detected a crimson glow over to the west; the kind of glow the living had never seen. An angry spirit.

  Time and distance had no meaning on the Spirit Plane. Fishwick merely had to think of a place and he was there, and it did not matter whether the place was New Side Way, here in Ashdale, or New South Wales in Australia. Concentrating on the orange glow, he moved to the location and found himself hovering above the Ashdalean, its grounds awash with lorries and caravans, and a large crew of people busy about their various and disparate jobs.

  An American stood arguing with a younger Englishman about something appearing on his little TV set.

  “For the last time, it’s not the bleeding camera,” said the English lad.

  “Well change it anyway,” insisted the American.

  Fishwick checked the screen and saw the image of the school entrance and the man in black stood by the doors. When he checked the actual doors, a giant ball of crimson energy stood where the man in black appeared, and Fishwick understood at once. The man in black was the manifestation of this angry soul.

  “S
o what’s your story, me old china?” Fishwick asked.

  “Vali.”

  “What about valleys?”

  “Vali.”

  If Fishwick were able, he would have frowned. “Welsh were you?”

  “VALI.” With a roar the spirit shot off across the ether.

  “And Vali to you too, mate,” said Fishwick before returning to watch over the mistress.

  *****

  Kevin Keeley’s old Bedford van rattled along Arena Way, the stadium growing larger in his windscreen. Giant banners proclaimed, Ashdale Arena completed a year ahead of scheduled by Ashdale Construction PLC. Taking a final drag on a cigarette before throwing the stub out of the window, Kevin wondered how much of that early completion was down to cheap materials, cheap, immigrant labour and the slave driving tactics of men like Alec Minton, site foreman for Ashdale Construction.

  The question only occurred to him because Minton could be seen in the entry tunnel, a hundred yards ahead, with the squat, gorilla-like figure of his right hand man, Ginger Green, at his side.

  Kevin dropped into third, bunching the gears with an awful grinding sounds. “Gangsters, Kev, that’s what they are.”

  In the passenger seat, Pete Brennan woke up. “Huh? You say something?”

  “Talking to meself, Pete.” Touching the brakes, Kevin gestured through the windscreen. “Alec Minton and Ginger Green. “Just wondering how much they bullied the workers to get the place finished early.”

  Pete yawned. “Who cares. As long as they don’t try bullying us.” He shuffled into a more comfortable position, and closed his eyes again.

  Kevin wound his window all the way down and stopped alongside the pair. “Morning Alec, how’s it going Ginger?”

  Minton, wearing a customary frown of disdain looked across at Pete’s apparently sleeping form before concentrating on Kevin. “What do you want, Keeley, and why are you bringing scum with you.”