The room is gloomy. I step inside, trying to make out the dark piles of clothes and books and God knows what else that lie scattered across Mikey’s floor. I can hear him from where I am, breathing heavily in his bed. As though he’s asleep. As though he’s pretending to sleep.
I creep over to his bed and then bend low so I’m at his head height. I pause for a second, try to figure out whether he’s really asleep, whether it was him that came into my room and opened the window. Whether he sent the text. Whether he wrote GUILTY on the mirror. Whether this is a sick joke that he’s playing. Even though that would make me angry, I hope to God it is. At least that would explain it. I could understand that. If it isn’t, then . . . Well, I don’t even want to think about what that means.
Mikey’s face is turned away from me. He’s breathing in deeply and breathing out with a kind of rasping sound. I can’t tell if he’s really asleep.
‘Mikey,’ I whisper. ‘You little idiot. I know you’re awake!’
There’s no reply. His breathing doesn’t alter at all.
‘I know you’re awake,’ I say slightly louder. ‘This isn’t funny, you little idiot.’
Still he doesn’t stir.
I reach out my hand and I touch his back, give him a push. This time his breathing changes. He mutters something under his breath. His breathing becomes shallower. Then he turns and opens his eyes. A look of sheer terror engulfs him. He jumps up in bed and pulls his covers around him.
‘Johnny! What are you doing?’ he shouts after a moment. ‘You maniac!’
I stand up immediately. And I realise I have no idea what to say. I can’t explain this away. What on earth am I doing?
‘Why are you in my room?’
‘I know it was you,’ I say. ‘I know what you did.’
He stares back at me, confused and scared. ‘What are you on about?’
‘My window,’ I say. ‘The text. The message on the mirror. I know it was you.’
He shakes his head, looking even more confused. I still can’t tell whether it’s real or an act.
‘I know what you’re up to,’ I say.
He just stares at me.
I start backing away, out of his room, stumbling over the piles of rubbish on his floor. ‘I’ll get even,’ I say. ‘You wait.’
He shakes his head again, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. ‘You’ve lost it. You need help, J. Seriously.’
I leave his room, shut the door behind me and then stand with my back against it and take a few deep breaths. I go to my room, to my bed. I try and work out whether Mikey could have done it. Now that I’ve been into his room and seen his reaction, I’m not sure it was him. He looked properly confused. I’m not sure he’s capable of acting so convincingly.
I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling. And I wonder why I’m the one that’s being haunted. I wasn’t the only one there that day. I wasn’t the only one who shot at the Poisoned Dwarf. What about Jake and Badger and Drac? Why not them? I decide I have to see them. I have to see whether this is happening to them too.
Summer
Mum told me off when I got home last night, said she was worried sick. She went on and on and on at me. I didn’t say a word. I knew that if I got into an argument I’d say too much. I’d tell her where I’d been and what I’d heard. So I said nothing. I stood and took it all till she went off to bed, shaking her head.
Then I went to my room and cried. I don’t know what about exactly. I just felt confused and hurt. I felt strange. Yesterday was a weird day. Too much stuff happened. Good things. Bad things. Things I don’t understand.
I thought about listening to Nan’s other tape. I went through to the lounge to get it, but it wasn’t there. Neither of them were. That was probably for the best. I don’t think I could have coped with anything else last night.
Instead I decided to try out a trick that Mum once taught me. She always says that when things are worrying you, when you have way too much on your mind, you should write it all down somewhere. It’s supposed to calm you down, to clear your mind and help you sleep. I sat up in bed and wrote down everything I’d been thinking of in my diary: what the medium said, everything I knew about Nan, everything I knew about Dad and everything I felt about Johnny and me.
By the time I’d finished writing everything down, I was more confused than when I’d started. I didn’t get the best night’s sleep. Everything still swirled around my mind. This morning I’m no clearer either. Just more tired. But I want to find out more. I need to find out more.
Johnny
Something strange is happening to me. I know this for sure. It’s about the only thing I do know for sure. When I woke up this morning and last night came flooding back into my mind, I grabbed my phone and looked at the message again to see if I could find some logical explanation for it. Only, the message wasn’t there. I went through all the messages in my inbox and the one that I got at 2.43 a.m. wasn’t there.
I went into the bathroom, locked the door behind me and breathed on the mirror. But that message wasn’t there either – there was nothing on the mirror at all. And I started to wonder whether those things really happened. Maybe I imagined them as a punishment to myself.
I tried to avoid Mikey when I got downstairs, but he sought me out. He had a real go at me – laughed at me, called me mad. I didn’t say anything, but I kind of agree with him. I definitely am losing my grip on what’s real and what’s not. I feel like when you step off a boat on to dry land and you still feel like you’re swaying with the waves.
Which is why, instead of going home after footy coaching, I came straight here, to Badger’s place. We’re in his lounge. The curtains are still drawn. Badger is in his boxers and a T-shirt, like he’s just got out of bed.
I look down at my feet and take a deep breath. I want to get all this off my chest, but I realise that it could sound a bit mental. I decide to come straight out with it.
‘Badger, I think I’m being haunted,’ I say.
He looks right back at me. ‘Haunted?’
I nod. I look down at my feet. ‘It sounds mad, I know . . .’
‘What? By a ghost?’
I move the edge of my foot along the grain of the wood in the laminate floorboards. I shrug. ‘Dunno. I don’t know if it’s a ghost or what. I just know there’s something there.’
I hear Badger blow out a deep breath. ‘Jeez, man. Are you serious?’
I look up at him, look him right in the eye. ‘Totally.’
He shakes his head, not like he doesn’t believe me, but like he wasn’t expecting me to say something like this.
‘It wakes me up at the same time every night,’ I say. ‘2.43 a.m.’
Badger looks at me again. His face doesn’t give much away.
‘Lots of little weird things keep happening,’ I say. ‘Like every night I know I’ve closed and locked the window in my room, but I wake up shivering and the window is wide open.’ As the words come out of my mouth, I realise it doesn’t sound as weird in the cold light of day as it does at 2.43 in the morning. ‘And every time it happens I get this feeling like I’m being watched or something, like there’s someone there with me. So I look around and I switch the light on, but there’s never anyone there.’
I pause. Badger doesn’t say anything. I look up at him. I can’t make out whether he believes me or not. I decide to carry on.
‘Last night I woke up. Same time. 2.43 a.m. My phone had just beeped to say I had a message. It said it was from the Poisoned Dwarf. It said, “It was you.” When I checked my phone this morning the message wasn’t there. And when I went into the bathroom last night, there was a message written in the condensation on the mirror: GUILTY. I tried to breathe on it this morning to see if it was still there, but nothing.’
Badger nods. He shifts on the sofa, ruffles his hair. ‘That’s weird.’
And we sit in silence. I fidget, praying that Badger doesn’t just think I’ve lost the plot.
‘You sure it
wasn’t Mikey messing about?’ he says eventually.
I shrug. ‘I checked his room. He was fast asleep. Besides, I have his number on my mobile. It would have come up as his.’
Badger sighs. He shakes his head. ‘You can’t think of anyone else that would have done it?’
I shake my head. ‘No way. They would have had to have been in my house at 2.43 a.m. every night for about the last two weeks. Who would have done that?’
‘Weird, man. You sure you didn’t imagine it?’
I shrug. ‘I’m positive. And that’s not all,’ I say. I take another deep breath. ‘I went out with Summer last night to a spiritualist church.’ I stop because I can see the look of disbelief on Badger’s face.
‘A church?’
I nod. ‘Summer’s dad died before she was born. She wanted to see if he’d send her a message through the medium.’
‘Right,’ Badger says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Of course. And did he?’
‘No, but a spirit spoke to me.’
Badger looks freaked out.
‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘It was a woman. She said she was from Exminster. She said that her death wasn’t an accident. That there was foul play. She said that she knew who did it and that it needed to be put right.’
Badger stares at me.
‘It was the Poisoned Dwarf. It had to be.’
‘But she’s not from Exminster. She’s from Raynes Park.’
‘Exminster Avenue.’
Badger’s face falls. ‘Oh. Right.’ Badger looks almost as scared and confused as I feel. ‘You sure?’
I nod.
‘Did you let on that the message was for you?’
‘Of course I didn’t. I’m not stupid.’
Badger shifts again on the sofa. He ruffles his hair with his hands. ‘This is mad,’ he says. ‘Something weird is happening.’
I don’t say anything. I just sit there and realise I don’t feel relieved. I thought sharing it would make things better, but I feel empty and confused.
‘You think it’s the old lady that’s been opening your window and waking you in the night?’
I shrug. ‘It makes as much sense as anything does right now.’
‘So what are you gonna do?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. What can I do?’
Badger shrugs.
‘There’s literally nothing I can do.’
Badger stares into space and screws his face up like he’s thinking of a solution, but I know it’s useless. He won’t think of anything and neither will I. What are you meant to do if you think you’re being haunted? Call the Ghostbusters? Get an exorcist? See a shrink? If only it were that easy.
He gets up from the sofa, goes over to the window and stares out across the estate through the gap where the curtains don’t quite meet in the middle. ‘Jeez, J, man. I don’t know what to say,’ he says. He turns back and looks at me apologetically.
‘Me neither,’ I say, ‘but I’ll tell you one thing for sure – if it doesn’t stop soon, I’m gonna lose it completely. I’ll go mad.’
Badger walks across the lounge. He doesn’t look at me. ‘I’m gonna get a drink. You want one?’
I follow him through to the kitchen and sit down at the small table as he opens the fridge and gets a bottle of cola out. He grabs a couple of glasses and pours us both a drink. He sits down and we both stare at our glasses for a bit.
‘I don’t think you should say anything about this to anyone else,’ Badger says. ‘Just in case.’
‘Course,’ I say. ‘You know what I find weirdest though?’
Badger takes a gulp of cola, looks at me and shakes his head. ‘What?’
‘Why me? Why am I the only one that’s being haunted? I wasn’t the only one that soaked her. It wasn’t all my fault, so why do I end up being the one that’s getting woken in the middle of the night? Why do I get the spooky handwritten message and the text from beyond the grave?’
Badger doesn’t answer. He takes another gulp and puts his glass down. ‘Maybe you are imagining it.’
‘Thanks a lot, Badger. So you think I’m just going mad? Is that it?’
He shakes his head and frowns. ‘No. I don’t mean it like that. What I mean is, maybe it’s guilt for, you know, for what we did. I’ve been feeling pretty bad about it too, man. I’ve had nightmares and stuff. Guilt’s a weird thing, J. It can make your mind play tricks on you. Know what I mean?’
Badger gets up from the table, scraping the legs of his chair along the floor. He goes over to the sink and rinses out his glass.
‘Maybe you need to forget about everything for a bit, J,’ he says. ‘We should go out and get wasted tonight.’
Getting so drunk that I literally can’t worry about anything sounds perfect.
‘Yeah, let’s do it. I’ll text Jake and Drac.’
Summer
So this is the list I came up with in the early hours of the morning. The things that I know for certain about my dad. No opinions. No hearsay. Just cold, hard facts. Things that can be proven. It’s in no particular order, just the order that things came into my brain.
• His full name is (was) James Michael Hornby.
• He was born in Kingston Hospital on 4th March.
• He had two daughters. Sky and Summer. He only ever met one of them. That one wasn’t me.
• He thought of himself as a bit of a hippy.
• He was a vegetarian.
• He owned a clapped-out Ford Fiesta.
• He had blond hair and deep blue eyes.
• He married my mum at the registry office in Tooting on 6th September.
• He worked for Surrey County Council in Kingston, in the department processing applications for student grants or something.
• He died of head injuries which he got in a road accident at 8.12 a.m. on 21st October.
That’s about as much as I know. I know nothing of who my dad really is. Who he was. I never even met him. So that’s what his life can be broken down to: ten emotionless bullet points. That’s all there is left of him. That and the things I have in my memory box. His copy of The Catcher in the Rye. His favourite records and CDs. Some photos. One of his diaries. A scarf. That is what I have.
When I look at the list, it brings everything into focus. I really don’t know who he was. All I know is what other people have told me. The closest I ever got to him was hearing his voice when I was in Mum’s womb. And it’s not like I can remember that.
I have memories of him which in my mind are real, but they must be built up from what I’ve been told about him. Events that I’ve heard about a million times. I’ve imagined what he was like, what he’d be like now if he was alive. That’s the nearest I’m ever gonna get to knowing who my dad was.
And everything that I do know about him, everything I’ve found out, I’ve had to scramble around to find out. But I’m gonna find out more. I have to. I’ll ask Mum and Grandad and Sky. I’ll listen to Nan’s other tape. And I’ll find out whether the message from the spirit was anything to do with Dad’s death.
Seeing as the tape isn’t in the lounge, I decide to explore another avenue first. The archives of the local newspaper. I’m gonna look them up to see if there’s anything from when Dad died.
As soon as my computer has warmed up, I go to the local paper’s website and I put the date of his death into the search engine. I scroll through the results. The top story is about some MP I’ve never heard of and there’s a story about how some school has banned Christmas. Halfway down the list of stories, there it is: Motorist killed by VAN.
My stomach knots as I read the headline. Underneath, there’s another sentence:
A thirty-two-year-old man was killed when his Ford Fiesta collided with a van in rush-hour traffic on Plough Lane on Tuesday morning.
I stare at the screen, hand on the mouse. I feel scared all of a sudden. I’m not sure I want to do this. Maybe Mum’s right. Maybe there are some things I’m best off not knowing. Maybe it’s b
est to keep making my own fake memories of Dad based on all the bland, nice things people have told me. What am I gonna get out of reading this other than upset and hurt?
But I hear the voice of the medium somewhere in the back of my mind. I remember the message that the spirit delivered, about how there was foul play, and I realise I need to do this. I have to find out the details about how Dad died because that might be what the spirit was trying to tell me. So I close my eyes and I click the mouse.
When I open my eyes, the screen has updated. And there, in big letters, is the headline again. Down the page a little on the right-hand side is a picture. I cover my mouth as I look at it. A part of me wants to close the page straight away. But I can’t. I stare at the picture instead. You can’t see much, just a policewoman standing in front of some police tape, and behind that there’s a police car and an ambulance parked next to a van and a crumpled car. Dad’s crumpled car. The van that killed my dad. Fortunately you can’t see anything else. You can’t see Dad. There’s no blood.
I don’t want to, but I start crying. The tears appear slowly, but soon my eyes are so full of tears that I have to wipe them with my sleeve. My chin starts to wobble. I close my eyes and bury my head in my arms and sob. It’s stupid, I know. It happened sixteen years ago. There’s nothing that can be done about it now. But seeing the picture just makes it seem real. It makes me wonder whether Dad was still there when the picture was taken, whether his body was lying on that bit of road just the other side of the crumpled car, or whether he’d been taken away already, whether he was already dead. I wonder whether Mum or Nan or Grandad or Sky even knew he was dead at the time the picture was taken. They were probably just carrying on in blissful ignorance as if everything was normal. I imagine the moment that someone had to break it to them. How on earth did they break it to Sky? What would she have been? Three? Four? How do you tell someone that young they’ll never see their dad again?
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