Haunt Dead Wrong

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Captain Chip Flowers? So he wasn’t a major after all?’ asked Stu, rifling through the DVD library beside the computer terminal.

  ‘Try and keep up,’ said Dougie.

  My former best friend might have been ignoring me, but at least he’d returned to the topic at hand. The Major was a mate to both of us, and Dougie had never been one to shy away from a challenge. There was investigating to be done. He leaned on the back of Andy’s chair, peering over his shoulder, our Dungeon Master working his magic on the keyboard. His fingers were a blur, searching through the Births, Deaths and Marriages website.

  ‘Says here twelve men died when the base was bombed,’ said Andy with a shiver. ‘Maybe that’s how the Major kicked it? Have to say, though, this is like searching for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Chip’s a nickname for Charles, right?’ said Dougie.

  ‘Right, but there’s no point in looking for him. He’s not the focal point of my search. There’ll be nothing connecting him to any local woman. All I have to go on is Ruby, and there were forty of them alive in the town around that time.’

  ‘She’d have been somewhere between fifteen and thirty-two years of age I reckon,’ said Dougie. ‘The Major said she was younger than him.’

  ‘That brings the number down to twelve lovely ladies.’

  ‘How many were married?’ asked Stu. ‘I mean, during the war years.’

  ‘Before or during? There’s quite a difference.’

  ‘I dunno. Look for both.’

  The fingers tapped away, Andy squinting through his glasses as he inspected the monitor.

  ‘You think the Major’s still here because of this Ruby lass then?’ said Stu.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Dougie. ‘The pattern seems to be great love or great trauma keeps ghosts here.’

  ‘Or both together,’ I added, but he didn’t respond.

  ‘Alright,’ said Andy. ‘Six were married before the war had begun and three more of them married during the war years.’

  ‘What years were they married?’ asked Dougie, thinking hard now, his brow knotted.

  ‘Two in 1940 and one in ’42. Is that important?’

  ‘Yes. We can rule those three out also. The Major told Will that he was born in 1910 and died when he was thirty-three years old. So the Ruby he was in love with must have been single in 1943, by my reckoning.’

  ‘Good work, Sherlock,’ I said, hopeful for a reaction, but got zilch back. Dougie continued talking.

  ‘So, we have three left. What happened to them?’

  Andy shrugged. ‘Two of them married after the war, the other remained a spinster until her death in 2001.’

  ‘So,’ said Stu, spinning the DVD rack, ‘our mystery lady’s one of those three?’

  ‘Can we rule out the one who passed away?’ asked Andy.

  ‘Why?’ asked the vicar’s son.

  ‘Well, if it is love that’s keeping the Major here, then doesn’t it make sense, with that Ruby having died, that he’d have joined her? Crossed over to the other side when she did?’

  ‘We can’t rule her out,’ said Dougie. ‘If it was her, and we can’t be sure, then it doesn’t necessarily hold true that with her passing the Major could move on. I don’t think ghosting’s as simple as that. He could be here until the next millennium, patrolling those hospital corridors.’

  ‘She sounds dodgy to me,’ said Stu, as I manoeuvred closer to Andy, beside Dougie. My old mate glowered at me briefly, disapproving of my proximity, but I ignored him.

  ‘Dodgy?’ asked Andy, leaving the three remaining ladies highlighted on the screen. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Imagine, not telling someone your name? What was she hiding?’

  ‘She may have been hiding nothing,’ said Dougie. ‘Just being flirtatious. Mysterious.’

  ‘Perhaps she came from an important family,’ said Andy. ‘Could’ve been controversial if folk knew she was seeing a GI. After all, not everyone welcomed the Yanks.’

  I was half listening to them as they discussed the various possibilities, but my attention was focused on the computer monitor, specifically the women’s names.

  Stu smiled smugly and shook his head. ‘You two muppets aren’t seeing the big picture. What if she was married? Have you not thought about that? Her bloke could’ve been overseas, fighting. Or he could’ve been the local butcher, who knows? What I’m saying is that the fact she never told him her surname casts a massive question mark over who it might be. We could be back to looking at twelve again.’

  ‘Call off the search,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve found her.’

  ‘You what?’ said Dougie, his first words to me for three days. ‘What makes you think it’s her and not any of the others?’

  I pointed a shimmering blue finger at one of the three we’d whittled it down to. Of those three, it was one of the women who had married after the war.

  ‘Ruby Hershey,’ I said. ‘Like in the chocolate.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Dougie.

  ‘Is that Will?’ asked Andy.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ said Stu.

  It was the one piece of information I’d failed to pass on to Dougie after my heart-to-heart with the Major. I didn’t think it had been important, hadn’t figured upon it having a piece to play in the puzzle until it was there before my eyes.

  ‘Hershey as in Josh Hershey,’ I said, sighing as I recognised the tragic parallel. ‘He was the Major’s best mate, the guy who asked Ruby to marry him but she turned him down for Chip.’

  I turned to Dougie, his face pale as he caught the irony too. When he spoke to our friends, his voice was fragile.

  ‘She married the Major’s best mate.’

  ‘The Major’s mate,’ tutted Stu. ‘Worst. Friend. Ever.’

  NINE

  Beggars and Blackmailers

  I don’t know whether it was my inspired catch on the whole Hershey thing that did it, but a distinct thaw in my relationship with Dougie followed. He no longer ignored me, answering questions in a fashion, either with nods, single-syllable words or reluctant grunts. So long as we stuck to the topic of ghostly mysteries, we were on safe ground, but anything regarding family or friends was strictly off limits. For me to bring up Lucy Carpenter or Mr Hancock would’ve been insane. We weren’t best mates – I doubted we ever would be again – but we were talking, and that was something.

  Dougie stood by the hob, the saucepan of beans bubbling, as he pasted butter over four slices of toast, two for each plate on the work surface.

  ‘So we’re calling in on the Major at some point in the next few days?’ I asked optimistically.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘We need to tell him what we’ve discovered about Ruby.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I was also wondering – and shoot me down if this sounds too stupid – could we revisit the railway station? Perhaps in daylight? Check out the theory that the Lamplighter’s cursed to remain there and can’t leave? It’d be good to know for sure.’

  Dougie said nothing, taking the saucepan off the heat and carrying it over the plates of toast. He poured the gloop out on to the slices of steaming bread as I yammered on.

  ‘See, I’m wondering if there’s some way we can banish him? Exorcise him like Reverend Singer suggested that time? Stu says his dad knows people, right? Getting an evil spirit vanquished once and for all has to be a good thing. I’d call it a win for us if it worked.’

  Dougie clattered the pan on to the hob. He turned to me, his face humourless.

  ‘There is no “us” any more, Will. You were always the bright one, surely you can see this? We’re stuck together, like it or lump it. We can move on, but I can’t forgive and forget what you said.’

  ‘Mate, we’ve both made mistakes, said some dumb things—’

  ‘Stop calling me “mate”, Will. We’ll go and see the Lamplighter, like you suggested.’ He picked up the two plates, cutlery in his shirt pocket. He cocked his head and smiled. ‘Who knows? If we can banis
h his ghost, perhaps that’s the good deed that finally sends you on your way, eh?’

  I didn’t reply as he walked away. It seemed he took a touch too much pleasure from that last comment.

  ‘You can but hope,’ I whispered, before following him through to the lounge.

  Mr Hancock was already hunched forward in his armchair, cutting a corner off a slice of bean-topped toast. He was putting it away, clearly hungry. I wondered when he’d last had a meal. The empty bottles were visible behind the chair, as were the pills he took, the bottle sitting on the cabinet beside him.

  Dougie sat on the sofa, plate in lap, less enthusiastic with the feast before him. They ate in silence for a minute, Mr Hancock’s gaze fixed upon his plate.

  ‘When are you going back to work, Dad?’

  Mr Hancock’s knife screeched as it cut along the plate, causing me to jump. He smacked his lips, clearing his mouth of mashed-up beans and bread. He was in no hurry to answer, carefully considering a response.

  ‘I’m not sure, son. Perhaps I’ll pop along to the surgery tomorrow, see what the doctor can prescribe. These pills help me sleep, but I need something to wake me up, I reckon. Then maybe I’ll be good to work.’

  ‘You could always try drinking coffee instead of booze.’

  There was no instant comeback from his father. He sawed at his second slice of toast, as if he hadn’t heard Dougie.

  ‘I’m sure I can get back into work, Douglas, just as soon as I clear my head.’

  ‘Your head’s been fogged for ages, Dad. The only way you’re returning to work is by quitting drinking.’

  ‘I know, son, really I do. I promise, I’ll knock it on the head once I’m done with what’s in the house.’

  ‘You’ve promised me that before.’

  ‘Well, I mean it this time.’

  Dougie placed his plate on the floor, the food barely touched.

  ‘Just because they’re in the house, doesn’t mean you have to drink them, Dad. You could pour them down the sink right now.’ He rose from the sofa. ‘I could help you. Come on—’

  ‘Sit down, son. Maybe later, eh?’

  Dougie shook his head. ‘It’s always later. Why won’t you get out of that armchair? What’s really stopping you from going back to work? Why do you no longer work for Bradbury? What happened?’

  Mr Hancock slammed his cutlery down. ‘I’ve told you already, we’re not going to talk about Mr Bradbury.’

  ‘You’re wrong. That’s exactly what we’re doing.’

  I could see tears in Dougie’s eyes. I’d never seen him make a stand against his father like this. He’d never had to. Mr Hancock had always been such an easy-going, mellow chap. It was only recently that he’d fallen apart, in the last few months. He was a mess of the man he’d once been, his own son now his nursemaid. If Dougie didn’t cash the disability cheques and dip into the old man’s bank account when needed, there’d be no food on the table. The situation was dire – and Dougie had reached breaking point.

  ‘I know about the phone call, Dad.’

  Ouch. He’d brought that up. And he’d said he hadn’t believed me!

  ‘What phone call?’

  ‘Your one with Bradbury that you tried to hide from me.’

  ‘How the hell—’

  ‘Does it matter how I know? You’re keeping something from me. What is it?’

  I could see Mr Hancock was getting angry, his knuckles white as they gripped the plate in his lap. He hadn’t been prepared for this line of questioning. Dougie had the scent and wasn’t stepping down.

  ‘Is Bradbury blackmailing you? What hold does he have over you? What did you do for him? Is he into something dodgy, or what?’

  ‘Douglas, it’s better if you don’t—’

  ‘But I want to know. I need to! Whatever’s gone on affects us both, clearly. Why are you so dead set on not working for him. If it isn’t something dodgy that’s stopping you, then what is it?’

  ‘You don’t understand—’

  ‘Then help me understand, Dad,’ said Dougie, rushing to his father’s chair to beg at his feet. ‘I want to help you. But there can be no secrets. I need to know what’s happened.’

  ‘Stop it, son,’ whispered Mr Hancock.

  ‘We can do anything when we work together. I can see what it’s doing to you. Let me—’

  ‘I said, be quiet!’

  Mr Hancock stood so suddenly that Dougie fell over. He smashed the plate into the fireplace, sending toast crusts and shards of porcelain across the hearth. His hands made fists at his sides. I did the same, stepping between father and son, channelling my energy. Should his old man do something stupid and out of character, I’d try and protect my friend.

  Instead of striking Dougie, he grabbed a couple of bottles from beside his chair and left the room. We heard the key turn in the door that led from the kitchen into the garage. Mr Hancock slammed it behind him, locking himself away in there. Dougie wept where he lay as I stood stunned.

  ‘Well,’ I whispered. ‘At least you got him out of his armchair, mate.’

  There were no smiles. There was no laughter. It didn’t look like there would ever be laughter again.

  TEN

  The Staff and the Shadows

  I’d expected Dougie to head to Lucy’s house after such a ruckus with his dad, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps it was too late for a sudden appearance on her doorstep. Or she was out with her girlfriends. Maybe the last person he wanted to see when he was feeling so angry was Lucy. Whatever his reasons, we found ourselves heading somewhere altogether more thrilling. Ghost I may have been, but my heart still trembled with anticipation.

  ‘It’s not you, Dougie. It’s Bradbury, like I said.’

  ‘It must be awful being a smartarse.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like to bang on about these things, but I was right.’

  ‘Yeah, buggerlugs,’ he grumbled. ‘Pays to be an eavesdropper, eh?’

  The fight with Mr Hancock had brought the two of us closer again. The monosyllabic grunts had given way to actual conversation now, as Dougie let off steam. He didn’t want to hear that I’d been right all along, of course, so I tried to go easy with the gloating. Tried. I may not have succeeded.

  ‘This doesn’t change what I said about Lucy, you know?’ he said. ‘You’ve been a royal pain in the butt when she’s been around.’

  ‘And I’m doing something about it, I promise.’

  ‘Pie-crust promises. They break awfully easily.’

  ‘So why here, tonight?’ I wanted to get his mind away from the unhappiness at home and on to the bowel-shattering, gut-scrambling, squit-inducing horror that possibly awaited us.

  ‘Seemed as good a time as any. There are a lot of questions about him that need answering. Maybe he’ll be in a talkative mood!’

  ‘Talkative?’ I choked on the word. ‘I thought we were visiting in the daytime though?’

  ‘You’re a ghost who’s scared of ghosts now?’

  ‘Of this one, deffo.’

  ‘I can’t see us finding him in daylight. The station’s used during those hours. It’s busy, full of people, unlike now. It’ll be closed. Remember, it was Danger Night when we saw him.’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  Danger Night was the scam pulled by the fairground that came to town once a year; one night in which all rides were half price because they hadn’t been safety checked. Preposterous to anyone with a smidgeon of intelligence, but the neighbourhood kids got a buzz out of that frisson of peril, and even we managed to get swept away by it. As it happened, that night really did turn out to be dangerous. We had hidden on the railway platform from Vinnie Savage and his gang, only to discover something far scarier awaited us: the Lamplighter’s ghost. I shuddered, recalling his awful apparition.

  ‘So,’ said Dougie, halting on the road at the top of the embankment. The footpath led down to the station. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  He strolled down the incline and I followed. We l
eft the safety of the streetlights behind us, the bridge’s dark arch threatening to swallow the tracks below. I could sense Dougie’s anxiety and no doubt he got a bucketload of mine. My stomach was in knots, nausea hitting me as we neared the platform. See, it had been me the Lamplighter had come for that night, not my mate. The Hancock lad wasn’t the object of the ghost’s hatred, its ire. It had a hankering for Underwood and nothing else would do.

  Dougie came to the gate at the bottom of the footpath. He turned to me, arms folded.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Off you trot.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Get in there, go see if your pal’s knocking about. Let’s test the Major’s theory that he’s tied to the station and can’t leave.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t kid about this, Will. I’m not going in there unless I really have to. At least on this side of the gate I’m clear for a quick getaway, should the need arise.’

  ‘Should the need arise?’

  ‘Aye, if things go pear-shaped. It’s alright for you, you can slip through ’owt. Not so easy for me. I’d rather have a clear sprint if he doesn’t fancy visitors.’

  ‘Because he was so welcoming the last time we met him,’ I said, phasing through the gate and on to the platform.

  The station was empty, the ticket office locked up for the night, shutters down, door padlocked. I looked down the tracks in each direction. Eastbound toward town, the tracks disappeared through the bridge arch, the road running over the top of it. To the west, the rails shone in the moonlight, cutting through the natural woodland that crowded the train line. I walked along the platform, peering into every nook and cranny within the station house, searching for any sign of the Lamplighter. I looked up at the old gas lamps, rusting and redundant. I was waiting for them to spark into life, just as they had on Danger Night, but they remained dead and dull. I stared down the shimmering tracks, searching for movement and finding nothing. I turned back up the rails toward the bridge, squinting into the gloom. Two lights approached down the line, no doubt the last express on its way through the village to Liverpool. You never got stoppers at this time of night. I stepped away from the platform’s edge as the lights neared, keeping my focus fixed upon the station.