A Three-Book Collection

by M. V. Stott

  Since being hexed, Rita’s whole life had been taken from her, her existence wiped away like words on a blackboard. It was all gone, and no one, friend, lover, or vague acquaintance, had any memory of Rita Hobbes having ever existed.

  And then Dan Waterson had appeared, her best friend and partner on the force, and he’d remembered. Yes, he’d been murdered and was now a ghost trapped in this earthly realm—bummer—but she’d got her friend back. A piece of her old life. No wonder she wasn’t exactly filled with giddy joy at the prospect of losing him.

  But still.

  He was her best friend, and Rita was, mostly, a good friend. So here they were. She would help him and try and bite her tongue.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Waterson, breaking Rita’s train of thought.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Is he drawing in his sleep?’

  Rita looked down at Bob, whose left arm was twitching. A small pad was sat on his lap, a pencil clenched in his hand, jerkily moving across the page.

  ‘Well, that’s weird,’ said Rita.

  ‘What isn’t weird these days?’

  Rita looked at the pages. Bob wasn’t just thrashing out random squiggles, there were clear, legible words there. Pictures too.

  Fear. Fear. Fear.

  Hungry. Will eat. Eat and. Will. Feast. The dark dark dark.

  Bob’s hand dropped and Rita could see now what he had been sketching. She stepped back and shivered.

  Rabbit ears.

  The tension was broken as Bob spluttered awake, coughing and wheezing and reaching into his trouser pocket to pull out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. As he lit one and drew deeply on it, his cough slowly abated. He waved at Rita and Waterson, apparently not at all perturbed to wake up and find two people had let themselves into his home.

  ‘Did you break my door again?’ Bob asked around the cigarette clamped between his thin lips.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry about that. But if you don’t answer, what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I can’t see any holes in that logic,’ he replied, causing Waterson to snort out of his nose. ‘I see you brought a ghost with you this time, then.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Waterson. ‘Yes, I am her dead friend. You keep a lovely home.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I died and didn’t, you know... ascend. To Heaven.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You’re connected to all this God stuff,’ said Rita, ‘do you have any idea how long it might take for Waters to be called up?’

  ‘Or if there’s any way to jump the line,’ added Waterson.

  Bob scratched absent-mindedly at the worn crotch of his trousers. It was not pleasant.

  ‘Murdered, were you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Killer been caught?’

  ‘Yup,’ replied Rita.

  ‘That should be that then.’

  ‘Well, it clearly isn’t, because,’ Waterson waved at Bob.

  ‘Ever heard the phrase, “God moves in mysterious ways”? Well, it’s true. Another, less known phrase is, “God is a forgetful son of a bitch”. You’ll get the go-ahead at some point – trying to force it will only slow things down. Probably.’

  Waterson sighed and turned away. Rita was glad he did as she was, briefly, unable to keep the smile from her face. Okay. So. He would leave her at some point, but not yet. For now, she had her friend.

  ‘How long can “at some point” take?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Not too bad.’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘A month?’

  ‘A decade, a century; can’t really put a timeframe on it.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  Bob stubbed his cigarette out on the tatty arm of his chair and flicked it into a darkened corner of the room before reaching into his pocket to fish out a new one. As he did so, the pad of paper on his lap was dislodged and slipped to the floor. Rita bent down to retrieve it.

  ‘What were you doing? When you were asleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Sleeping, mostly,’ replied Bob, sparking up his fresh smoke.

  ‘You were writing while you were conked out. In this pad. Drawing too.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just some automatic writing. It’s a thing. Sometimes it’s good to know what your unconscious mind is preoccupied by.’

  Rita turned the pad to him. ‘Fear.’

  Bob frowned, ‘Huh. Not that surprising. Been having a lot of bad dreams the past week. Shit your bed sort of dreams.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Waterson.

  Rita pointed at the rabbit ears sketch. ‘What about this?’

  Bob squinted at the drawing and shrugged. ‘Maybe a mutant rabbit was chasing me. I don’t remember the details of my dreams that well, as a rule.’

  ‘Are we done here?’ asked Waterson. ‘I like to spend as little time in places that horrify me as possible.’

  Rita nodded but didn’t take her eyes off the rabbit ears sketch.

  6

  Liam wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the ghost of his Uncle Waterson at the funeral. He’d seen plenty of ghosts before, and he thought if he were ever to turn into one, he too would visit his own funeral. He felt as though he had recognised the woman with him, too—the one with the red hair—though he wasn’t sure why, as he knew for a fact he’d never seen her before.

  He hadn’t seen too much of what had happened to Uncle Waterson’s body. Not after the coffin had fallen and the body had rolled out. They’d rushed him out of the church and hadn’t been that keen on discussing it further with him. All they’d said was that the coffin had obviously not been set down correctly. Somehow.

  Liam had felt weird looking at the dead body as it had spilled out of the coffin. It sort of looked like his Uncle, and also didn’t. Like it was missing some of him. Maybe that’s what the ghost was. The missing bit that made the body look weird without it.

  It was almost half-twelve, and Liam was sat in class, third row back, his table right next to the window looking out on to the playing field. It was maths, which meant Liam would usually be bored.

  Today he wasn’t bored.

  School had been weird.

  He’d felt it as soon as he’d stepped through the gates two days previously, and the feeling had only got heavier with each passing day.

  Nervous. Tired. That’s how everything felt. Each day more peoples’ eyes—kids and teachers—started to get a distant look to them.

  Today Miss Hethers, his maths teacher, had it.

  She was trying to talk to them about something boring, most probably fractions, but she kept stumbling over her words, forgetting what she was saying, her hands twitching on top of her desk like she was playing an invisible piano.

  Liam looked at the girl who was sat at the desk next to his. Her name was Molly. She had dark skin and an explosion of hair upon her head. She was scribbling something in her workbook over and over. Liam couldn’t quite make out her doodles as she was bent over her book, her left arm shielding it from curious eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Miss Hethers, as she lost her way again, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have a good night’s sleep.’ She reached into her handbag and pulled out a thermos of coffee.

  Billy Martin, head shaved, skin awash with a riot of freckles, was fast asleep, resting his head on his arms. He looked like he was shaking.

  Liam rose slightly from his seat and leaned over in Molly’s direction. From that angle he could see what it was she was working on. She wasn’t writing down what Miss Hethers was saying, wasn’t noting down numbers or equations or anything like that.

  She was drawing rabbit ears.

  Formby shuffled into Big Pins, nose twitching. Rita waved him over from a table in the back, and he hustled over, weaving a scenic route that took him past anyone sat with company. As he went, he snaffled up pieces of conversation, ears restlessly taking in anything that might be of value to others. It wasn’t purposeful behaviour, it was second nature. Formby was unaware tha
t he was doing it, though some of Big Pins’ patrons were, and clammed up as he neared them. Smart people knew to keep their lips sealed when an eaves was close by.

  ‘Got you one in,’ said Rita, as Formby finally finished his walking tour and joined her, Waterson, and Ben Turner at the table.

  He let out a little cheer and clapped his fingerless glove-wearing hands together, his exposed fingertips dark with dirt. He saw the full pint of beer and unopened packet of cheese and onion crisps sat waiting for him and lowered himself on to a stool, opening the crisps with one hand whilst raising the pint glass to his mouth with the other.

  ‘Multi-tasking,’ said Rita. ‘Impressive.’

  Formby grinned, exposing a mouthful of sharp, little, yellow and brown piranha teeth. His chin and cheeks were covered by bristles turned white with age.

  ‘Have you ever heard of toothpaste, Formby?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘Yes. Heard of everything, me.’

  ‘Anything for me yet?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Listening. Listening, listening, always listening.’

  ‘And what have you heard?’ asked Waterson.

  Formby frowned and scratched at his head, raising a little cloud of dandruff. ‘Dreams.’

  ‘Bad dreams?’ said Rita, leaning forward.

  ‘Very bad. Lots and lots of very bad dreams.’

  Rita reached into her coat and pulled out Bob’s pad of paper that she’d kept after leaving his squalid flat. She flicked through the pages, found the one she was after, and slapped it down on the table, pushing it towards Formby. ‘Well?’

  Formby leaned forward, squinting. He reached out and traced the rabbit ears drawing with a grimy finger tip.

  ‘Not dead and gone?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what I’m starting to wonder,’ she replied.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ben, ‘is this about those two mask-wearing, uh, things, you told me about?’

  ‘Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike,’ Rita replied.

  ‘Right. I thought you said you, sort of, killed them. Or something.’

  ‘I did something to them. I’ve no idea how it affected them. Maybe it killed them, maybe it just slowed them down. I don’t know. It got them out of the way for a while, at the very least. Maybe this is just a coincidence.’

  ‘Bad dreams, rabbit ears there, the little girl wearing them at my funeral,’ said Waterson. ‘It seems like the evidence is starting to stack up.’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence. That’s all it is for now. We need more so we know for sure.’ Rita grabbed the pad of paper, rolled it up, and slipped it back into her coat pocket. ‘If we know it’s them for certain, we can find them and we can stop them. Somehow.’

  Formby finished his pint and let rip a deep, bassy belch.

  ‘Good God,’ said Waterson. ‘I’m dead and even I feel like I can taste that burp.’

  Formby sniggered and began licking the now empty bag of crisps.

  ‘You good to keep on snooping?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Yes, yes, I will listen. Sooner or later, someone says something. Someone who knows.’

  ‘How can I help?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Oh. Ah…’

  ‘Rita, I’m going mad here. I haven’t stepped outside in over a week.’

  ‘I know, I know, but you’re still too hot.’

  Ben grinned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘Hilarious. You know what I mean. You murdered someone a matter of days ago and the police are still on red alert looking for you.’

  ‘I grew a beard, and I have this hat, look,’ Ben pulled out a blue baseball cap and put it on.

  ‘Eat your heart out, Scarlet Pimpernel,’ said Rita. ‘I still think, maybe, one or two of the more observant officers might see through your cunning disguise.’

  Ben sagged and nodded.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I really liked the funny cat vid. Keep that shit up.’

  Ben laughed, then sighed and took off his hat. ‘Fine. Okay. But I can’t stay in here forever.’

  ‘I know. We’ll work it out, I promise, okay?’

  Ben nodded, then headed off to the bathroom.

  Rita turned to see Waterson grinning. ‘What’s that shit-eating grin about?’

  ‘So, when are you two tying the knot?’

  Rita attempted to punch Waterson on the arm, but tumbled to the floor with a startled yelp as her fist passed harmlessly through him.

  Formby bent down to look at the fallen Rita. ‘More drinks now, please, yes?’

  Ben washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. After he grabbed a paper towel and dried himself, he balled the wet paper in his fist and threw it across the bathroom in frustration. He sighed and leaned against the sink. He knew Rita was right to keep him indoors and out of harm’s way. People might recognise him. The police definitely would. And he trusted her. More than trusted her.

  But it didn’t make his circumstances any less frustrating. He’d dodged one prison for another, and it couldn’t go on forever. There would have to be some sort of solution eventually.

  He thought about Sally, his ex. The girl who had dumped him. She’d have heard about what he’d done, of course. About how he’d torn a man to pieces. He wondered how she’d taken the news. If she thought that dumping him had been a lucky escape, or if she didn’t believe a word of it. She knew him better than just about anyone, surely she would never believe he would do such a thing? She might have thought him capable of boring a man to death, but not eviscerating.

  He thought about his little desk at Briers & Travers, the office he’d worked at as an accountant for more years than he cared to remember. He was surprised to feel a little pang of nostalgia for the place. That routine, that normality. The office banter, office drudgery, the people you looked forward to chatting to, the ones you looked forward to avoiding and chatting about. No doubt he would be the one they spoke about these days. The single topic of conversation. Steve would definitely be heading that up, Ben’s colleague, the man who’d bully him into going for an after-work pint or six. Steve would have a bunch of Google alerts set up so he caught any scrap of news on his friend the fugitive. Ben could picture him strutting about the office, doing the rounds, doling out every fresh morsel.

  Ben smiled. Turned out he missed that tosser, too.

  He sighed and pushed himself away from the sink, ready to rejoin Rita and the others. It was no good feeling sad about what was lost, it didn’t help, it was pointless. Time to accept, to move on, to embrace the crazy world he’d found himself in. The crazy people he now called friends. The crazy redhead who he might, maybe, call more than a friend soon. He took out his phone and started looking for new cute cat vids to send Rita.

  ‘They keep you as an indoor pet now?’

  Ben’s heart lurched. He recognised that voice. It was like that voice was part of him.

  He looked up to find Magda standing in front of the door, her long, black hair tied back, her brilliantly blue eyes boring holes through him.

  ‘No,’ Ben whimpered, back pressing up against the sink again, ‘this isn’t… you’re dead. I saw your body, you died.’

  Magda was a master werewolf, and the sole reason he was a fugitive. Ben was quite correct, Magda was dead. She’d fallen from the top of Blackpool Tower and had Rita’s axe buried in her for good measure. Magda’s soul had then—Ben had been told—been claimed by a demon. Yes, Magda the werewolf, who had infected Ben with her curse, was indeed deader than dead. And yet she was stood before him, a cool smile teasing at her lips.

  ‘Do you not miss my gift?’ she asked, and bared her teeth, large and sharp.

  ‘It wasn’t a gift.’

  ‘To be so free, so untamed. The smell of the hunt on the air, the excitement. I will give you that gift again, Ben.’

  ‘No, I don’t want it. I don’t want it!’

  He didn’t see her move, but Magda was pressed against him, teeth grazing his neck, ready to sink into his flesh and turn him into the beast.


  Ben’s heart beat so fast he thought he might have a heart attack. His stomach was a knot, his thoughts a cavalcade of wild terror.

  ‘Let the wolf out, Ben. Let it out.’

  ‘No!’

  Ben shoved Magda back.

  ‘I won’t be that thing again! I won’t kill again!’

  The top of Magda’s head began to bulge, and the sound of her skull cracking echoed around the tiled bathroom. Rabbit ears began to emerge from the top of Magda’s head, white fur slick with gore, blood pouring down her face.

  ‘Alan Crowther is waiting for you, Ben Turner, he is very, very cross with you.’

  Her rabbit ears twitched.

  And then Magda was gone.

  In the weeks since she had been freed from the nefarious clutches of the Magician, Alexander Jenner, Gemma Wheeler had seen quite a lot of Rita Hobbes, so she was not at all surprised to answer her front door and find the grinning Detective and her frowning partner stood before her.

  ‘Come in then,’ said Gemma, ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’

  ‘Cheers, ears,’ said Rita, and followed her inside, Waterson at her heels.

  Something about her experience at the hands of Jenner, Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike too, meant that unlike most normal people in Blackpool, Gemma was aware of both Rita and Waterson.

  Minutes later, Rita reached up from the couch to accept the mug of tea Gemma offered. ‘Nice one.’

  Waterson looked at the mug pointed in his direction. ‘I’m dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you not like tea when you’re dead, then?’

  Waterson thought about correcting her, then nodded instead. ‘That’s right. Gone right off the stuff.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Gemma placed the unwanted mug on the coffee table. ‘Extra cup for whoever wants it.’

  ‘How have you been?’ asked Rita.

  Gemma frowned and wobbled her head. ‘Pretty good, you know. All in all. All things considered. Alive and not murdered, so that’s good.’ Gemma looked at the mug of tea she’d placed on the coffee table, then over to Waterson on the couch. ‘Oh. No offence. Sorry.’