First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © 2015 Curtis Jobling
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Curtis Jobling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN: 978-1-47111-579-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47111-580-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To Pastor Matthew Norris, the funniest, most mischievous minister to ever come out of Warrington
Contents
ONE: Heroes and Villains
TWO: Mums and Dads
THREE: Past and Present
FOUR: M&Ms
FIVE: Friends and Family
SIX: Dances and Dogfights
SEVEN: Telltales and Truths
EIGHT: Dames and Names
NINE: Beggars and Blackmailers
TEN: The Staff and the Shadows
ELEVEN: Memories and Masquerades
TWELVE: Pride and Joy
THIRTEEN: Cornettos and Conundrums
FOURTEEN: Victims and Vengeance
FIFTEEN: Out and Open
SIXTEEN: The Truth and the Terrible
SEVENTEEN: The Major and the Mission
EIGHTEEN: Bases and Boxes
NINETEEN: Errands and Errors
TWENTY: Listen and Learn
TWENTY-ONE: Schemes and Dreams
TWENTY-TWO: Done and Dusted
TWENTY-THREE: Chip and Ruby
TWENTY-FOUR: Right and Wrong
TWENTY-FIVE: Crime and Punishment
TWENTY-SIX: Loving and Leaving
TWENTY-SEVEN: Meet and Greet
ONE
Heroes and Villains
School’s out for summer, as a mad-man in make-up once sang. It was the first day of the holidays and six weeks of sunstroke, mindless mayhem and misadventure lay ahead. It truly felt like anything could happen, the world our playground. Who knew what scrapes and hi-jinks awaited us? As it happened, it wasn’t Enid Blyton who penned what was to come. It felt more like Stephen King had seized our world and turned it upside down.
I should probably help you get up to speed. My name is Will Underwood, and I’m a ghost. Not some freaky-deaky, spooky-ooky, malevolent spirit-type thingie, I should add. I’m the same nice guy I was before I died, only now I’m hopeless at ping pong, pottery and playing pattycake. Being an ethereal free-roaming vapour really does put a dampener on the everyday shenanigans one takes for granted. The only person who can see me is my best friend, Dougie Hancock. Poor lad. The night I died, he lost a friend and gained a phantom. You see, I haunt Dougie; wherever my pal goes, I follow. We’re mates through thick and thin, through life and death.
That first day of the summer break saw Andy Vaughn, Dougie and I hit the town and our local haunts (pardon the expression). The comic shop got hammered, the lads picking up their latest issues of essential superhero reading: The Walking Dead, Hellboy and whatever the latest incarnation of Spider-Man was. We loitered around Waterstones for nearly half an hour before outstaying our welcome. Apparently, the staff weren’t fans of Dougie knocking books off the shelves. Admittedly, that was my doing, channelling my power to send them tumbling whenever my pal walked by.
Have I not mentioned the power? Oh yeah, it isn’t all bad.
There were a few little tricks I was learning, such as ‘the push’, where I could focus my ghostly energies into an act of force, causing effect in the living world. This had at first been triggered by emotions – fear, hate, love, all the rich stuff – but lately I’d been learning to channel it at will. It helped having a mentor – and we’ll come to him later. Having been kicked out of the bookshop, we enjoyed the parkour boys pulling tricks in the Town Hall gardens before the police moved them on. We went gloom-spotting, watching the pocket-punks and mini-goths mope outside the alternative lifestyle boutique. With the leather, metal and tattoo paraphernalia on show in the window, ‘boutique’ was the last word I’d have used to describe that particular shop.
We even managed to bang on the window of Games Workshop before the manager gave chase. I know, what hell-raisers! That’s right, even roleplaying gamers have their nemeses, and for us it was the thirty-something guy who ran that place. The world of fantasy gaming was as diverse and feudal as any other; tabletop-troopers and dungeon-dwellers just don’t mix. Even we could be bigoted and close-minded. The tabletoppers no doubt also suffered bullying because their hobby was deemed nerdy or whatever label the brainless wanted to stick it with. We should have been brothers-in-arms, standing shoulder to shoulder in the name of geek liberation, not bickering with each other like dingbats.
We had taken the bus into town, the bus stop not being haunted like the train station. The Lamplighter’s ghost cast a long shadow over those platforms, and Dougie was in no hurry to return there. Having enjoyed our morning’s mischief and merriment, my mates had retired to the local burger joint to fill their faces. This consisted of nugget-shaped bites and buns packed with hosed-off cow-lips and bum-holes. I’d never been a fan of fast-food joints in life, and watching that pair scoff it down made it no more appealing in death. Food devoured and milkshakes in hand, the three of us exited the restaurant, in search of our final port of call for the day: the computer game store.
‘Listen to this, too good to miss,’ said Andy, heralding the arrival of a belch that made his teeth rattle. This would ordinarily have been resident clown Stu Singer’s job, but in his absence, Andy had manfully stepped into the breach. A trio of girls walked past the other way, disgusted.
‘It’s a wonder you haven’t found a girlfriend yet,’ said Dougie. ‘Truly it is.’
‘I’m waiting for the right one to come along. It’s not easy being this desirable.’
‘Yeah, you’re beating them off with a stick.’
Andy had never really had a girlfriend before. He snogged a girl at his thirteenth birthday party, but rumour had it that was his cousin (second removed as he’d once remarked in his defence). It would take quite the lady to distract him from his true love: roleplaying. Andy was married to his hobby. He had a clutch of new rulebooks and modules in his carrier bag, and was itching to rip into them.
‘Hello girls.’
All three of us turned, our stomachs churning when we discovered Vinnie Savage and his henchmen were following us. Vinnie once dated Lucy Carpenter, Dougie’s girlfriend, and he and my friend had come to blows not long after I’d died. It had been during Danger Night when the fair came to town, and Savage had received a punch to his guts – possibly his undercarriage. We were hazy about where the blow had landed. Dougie and he had disliked one another long before Lucy had entered the equation, Vinnie being a stone-cold bully of the lowest order. This was the first time Dougie had encountered him for a great many months.
‘Vinnie,’ said Dougie, his voice a strangled croak. It was worth remembering th
at, when the fabled fairground fight had taken place, it had actually been me who had punched Savage. It was my ghostly fist that had propelled him off his feet and into the mud, one of the first times I’d truly used the push to any effect. Dougie had taken the plaudits from everyone at school, but the punch hadn’t been his.
‘Scrote,’ said Vinnie, ushering my friends back into the boarded doorway of a closed-down shop.
‘Touché,’ said I, before turning to Dougie. ‘Any time you want to leg it, I’d suggest you start running.’
‘I know,’ said Dougie under his breath.
‘What’s that, Hancock?’ said Savage, taking a step closer. ‘Talking to yourself? I’d heard you were tapped in the head. Seems the rumour’s true.’
Andy shifted anxiously beside Dougie, face drained of colour, eyes flitting for an escape route. Savage looked Andy up and down.
‘This your girlfriend then, Hancock?’
Chuckles from the thugs at his back.
‘No, she’s at home.’ The words were out of Dougie’s mouth before he could help it.
‘Way to wave the red flag at the bull,’ I said as Savage’s face contorted into an ugly snarl.
‘You’re still seeing my girlfriend, then?’
Dougie swallowed hard. Now he was up to his neck in it. ‘She stopped being your girlfriend ages ago, Vinnie, before she started seeing me.’
Andy slurped nervously on his milkshake, drawing Vinnie’s attention. The bully reached forward and took hold of the cup.
‘That’s mine,’ said Andy, nervously, the straw pinging from his lips.
‘And now it’s mine,’ said Vinnie, his voice a menacing whisper as he pulled the straw out and flicked a glob of milkshake at Andy. It hit him square on the forehead. ‘See how that works?’ He towered over Andy, making sudden aggressive movements with his head like some demented cockerel. He was intimidating our friend, who looked Dougie’s way fearfully.
‘Tell him not to fret,’ I said. ‘It’s not like he’s going to do anything here.’
Dougie echoed my comment. ‘Don’t worry, Andy. He won’t do anything. Not in broad daylight.’
‘No?’ said Savage. ‘You and me have unfinished business, Hancock. I don’t know what you did on Danger Night, but it wasn’t a fair fight. A sucker-punch to the guts is—’
‘I thought it were your knackers, Vin,’ said one of his sidekicks.
Savage glared, silencing him, before continuing. ‘Hitting me unawares. That was a coward’s trick. How’s about we go for round two, now?’
Dougie was looking for a way out, past the three idiots, but my eyes were locked on Savage. The stolen milkshake juddered in his hand, white knuckles threatening to crush the cup in his grip, his face alive with twitches and tics. I’d seen him do it before, beating up kids in the schoolyard, building himself up to throw the first punch. The adrenaline was coursing through him now, sub-normal brain sending messages to his free hand: make fist. Dougie was still busy seeking an escape route. I found one for him.
‘Now, Dougie!’
I shoved Savage hard in the chest, a powerful push that propelled him into his two cohorts. The gap was there and Dougie and Andy bolted for it. They were off up the road, fear adding fire to their stride as they weaved through the high street crowd. As I was pulled along after him, I could feel the sick nausea washing over Dougie and into me, the terror that they would catch him and what they might do. Andy peeled away, ducking into a coffee shop, while Dougie ran on, glancing back all the while. Savage was closing, charging through the sea of shoppers like a bloodhound. Dougie was so busy looking back that he didn’t see the curly-haired man step in front of him, exiting the bank.
My friend crashed into him, causing the fellow to spin. The two were engaged with one another briefly, a mess of limbs as my pal tried to disentangle himself. Wallet, keys and loose change tumbled from Dougie’s pocket, coins scattering the pavement as they danced. The man was rangy, wearing a smart black suit and pointy shoes. A businessman, no doubt, popping in to see his bank manager at lunch. Now accosted by a frantic teenager.
Dougie tore free and dashed out of the daylight into the dead-end alley beside the bank, slipping under the fire escape gantry and hiding in the shadows. I was by his side, poking my head back round the corner as my mate squealed for air.
‘I feel sick,’ said Dougie.
He wasn’t alone. The push had exhausted me, the connection with the living world sapping me of my ghostly energies.
‘Hush,’ I said, stepping out to check the coast was clear. It wasn’t. ‘Crap.’
Dougie’s frantic gasps were stifled instantly, but it was hopeless. Savage’s hulking shadow approached down the alley. He must have seen Dougie dive into the little lane.
‘Little pig . . . little pig . . .’ chuckled the bully, also out of breath.
There was nowhere for Dougie to hide. He stepped out from beneath the fire escape, reluctantly accepting what was to come. I would have done anything to help him, but I was a spent force. I too felt sick; at that moment I wondered if ectoplasm might actually be ghost-barf. I suspected I was about to find out.
‘You’re the big bad wolf, are you, lad?’
All three of us stopped. We looked to the head of the alleyway. It was the man with the mop of dark curly hair my mate had just crashed into. He was strolling towards us, dusting down that fine black suit. He picked a fleck of lint off his cuff and flicked it on to the breeze. I don’t believe for a moment there was an actual piece of fluff there; he did this for effect, a show of cool, calm composure. He was gangly, wiry, a touch of the Cumberbatch in his ice-cold eyes as he glared at Savage.
‘Cat got your tongue, Mr Wolf?’ The man’s accent was thick Liverpudlian. It sounded guttural to my provincial ears; aggressive. I knew instantly he was dangerous. With the sharp black suit and pointy black boots, he looked like a gangster. Or a Beatle. I was undecided.
Savage smacked his lips. ‘It’s between me and him.’ He gestured at Dougie with a sloshing wave of the milkshake. The man’s hand darted out and seized the drink from Savage.
‘And now it’s between you and me.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked Dougie. My friend didn’t answer. He stood transfixed, a statue as the tables were turned.
The Scouser took a slurp on the milkshake, his face contorting as he copped the taste.
‘Blueberry? That’s mingin’!’ He popped the lid off the cup and tossed it aside, slowly moving the drink over Savage’s head. The bully could have run at any point in time, but he also remained frozen fearfully in place. The man tipped the cup and the freezing contents slopped out on to Savage’s head, pouring over his face, into his ear, down his T-shirt, all over.
I heard our favourite bully cry at that moment. It didn’t make me feel happy. I felt sorry for him. God knows why. You reap what you sow, that’s the saying, isn’t it?
‘Run along home, Mr Wolf,’ said the man as Savage loped off down the alley, sobbing as he went.
‘Thanks,’ whispered Dougie, still in shock. He began to edge around the man who remained where he stood, grinning all the while. The smile made me shudder. His teeth were bright, brilliant white. I was instantly transported back to my childhood, sat on the sofa, hiding in my old man’s armpit as JAWS played on the telly.
‘You dropped these,’ said the man, his hand jingling with change as he extended his curled fist to Dougie. My mate opened his palm as the man emptied the wallet, keys and cash into it. In addition there was a crumpled twenty-pound note. For a fleeting second, he looked my way, past Dougie. Did he sense I was there? Could he see me? Or was my mind playing tricks? The man then set off back to the head of the alley.
‘Um, the note isn’t mine,’ Dougie called after him.
‘It is now,’ said the man, as he stepped back into the sunlight. ‘Tell your dad Mr Bradbury says hello.’
Then he was gone, carried away by the crowd.
‘Who’s Bradbury?’ I asked Dougie.
My friend blinked and gulped.
‘That’s his boss, Will,’ he said. ‘Bradbury’s his boss.’
TWO
Mums and Dads
The bicycle I’d received for my fifteenth birthday had been my favourite gift ever. It was all the more galling to see it now, completely bent out of shape, suspended from the shed wall by a couple of rusty nails. This was the bike that I rode religiously every day. The bike I was riding the night I was killed.
As presents went, it was undoubtedly the best. There had been stiff competition, of course, in particular the LEGO Death Star from my eleventh birthday. That was spectacular. Constructing a fully operational battle station with Dad’s help had been a magical experience, that magic only shattered when I discovered he’d used superglue to construct his half of it. Dad never really did understand the appeal and versatility of the plastic bricks, bless him, much less the irreversible bonding power of industrial-strength adhesive.
Like the Death Star after Dad’s bright idea, the bike was a ruin. The electric blue paint was peeling in places where the metal frame had twisted and buckled, the steel showing beneath. The front wheel was almost bent in two, while the rubber grips on the handlebars were still torn up from where they’d scraped along the tarmac. The fact that my parents had kept the bike meant an awful lot to me: almost every other sign that I’d lived there had been obliterated. My bedroom was now a home gym, most of my belongings donated to the local kids’ hospice. That said, I’m sure Mum had a box of personal stuff stashed away in the loft. That’s if Dad’s model train set hadn’t swamped it entirely by now. We never got to play with it as kids, but our mates’ dads could often be found up there. As big boys’ toys went, my father’s choo-choos were da bomb.
I could hear Dougie talking to my old man in the garden, beyond the shed walls. I couldn’t help but smile. Very kindly, he had agreed to pay my parents a visit on our way home from town, for the first time in many months. It gave me the opportunity to have a mooch around my old home, reminisce about my childhood and see what my folks had been up to. Poor old Dougie was presently locked into history’s most boring conversation. He really was the best friend a lad could ask for. It was small talk of the smallest variety, as any chat with your mate’s dad would be. It’s hard to find common ground when one of you is a fifteen-year-old roleplaying game fanatic and the other is a forty-four-year-old postmaster whose only interests are steam trains and gardening. I heard Dad grunt as he dug up the vegetable patch, Dougie pursuing a futile choice of topic.
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