Haunt Dead Wrong (16 page)

‘It doesn’t matter where we are, Dad, so long as we’re together. Right? You used to say that, when I was little, before all this happened. We could be living in a hole in the
ground and so long as we were together you’d be happy. That hasn’t changed. We can be that happy again.’

‘I just worry, son. What might happen to you, should Bradbury ever discover—’

‘Please, stop worrying, Dad. It’s over. It’s done. Dusted. You’re free. We can move on with our lives.’

Mr Hancock stood there, unsure of what to say, one hand clutching the mantel to keep steady.

‘For God’s sake, don’t just stand there gawping at him,’ I said. ‘Go give your old man a hug!’

Dougie threw his arms around his father, Mr Hancock returning the embrace twofold. He lifted his son off the floor, Dougie’s toes tapping at thin air as his dad squeezed with all his
might. All his anger, shame and sorrow flooded out of him in that moment of pure and perfect love. The two of them wept freely while I shifted from one embarrassed foot to another. His dad might
not have been able to see me, but Dougie certainly could. I felt like the king of all gooseberries so turned my back, affording them what privacy I could – no mean feat considering the
spectral bungee. I watched the news instead, wondering what would become of Bradbury.

The monster who had killed me was off the streets at last and behind bars. I could see why Mr Hancock was anxious, but there was no way they’d let Bradbury walk free. He had a list of
crimes as long as the Mersey, if the rumours were true. He’d be away for a long time. Things were looking up for the first time in ages. My mate and his dad were reunited. The beast was in
chains . . . yet still, I felt a nagging concern about how it affected my predicament. Would I now move on at last, with justice done? Or was I cursed to hang around until Bradbury himself shuffled
off the mortal coil? Did I need to pass the baton to him? How exactly did limbo work? The Major had given me no such answers; he was as clueless as me in that regard, in an equally rudderless boat.
I was as lost as ever.

Dougie and his father pulled apart, each snorting back snotty tears. My mate jabbed his father in the chest.

‘Here’s an idea. Go take a shower. You smell rank.’

Mr Hancock laughed, sniffing his pits through the stained shirt. ‘I suppose I do. Thanks, son.’ He kissed him on the forehead. ‘Love you.’

We watched him disappear upstairs, his trademark trudge replaced by a springing stride.

‘Things are looking up,’ I said. ‘You must feel super chuffed. Everything’s going your way.’

‘Not everything,’ he said, checking his mobile phone.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Lucy. I must’ve sent her a dozen texts, and she hasn’t replied to one. Nothing. Not a sausage.’

‘She’ll come round, mate. With this Bradbury mess behind you now, perhaps you can start to enjoy life again. You may even be able to come completely clean with her too.’

‘Completely?’

‘If there’s one thing we should’ve learned from recent shenanigans, surely it’s that secrets are
very bad things.
’

‘Hark at you with your sudden attack of morals.’

‘It’s as close as I come to telling cautionary tales. You and I, you and Lucy, you and your dad.’

‘Hang about, I’m sensing a pattern emerging here!’

We both laughed.

‘Honesty’s the best policy, especially with your loved ones. Here endeth the lesson.’

Dougie whimpered as he pocketed his mobile into his jeans. He wobbled unsteadily.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Get get the cigar box and grab your keys. You’ve divved around enough. All roads lead to the hospital. You’ve got a date, pal.’

‘I have?’

‘Three, actually. Show the box to the Major, check in on Ruby and get stabbed in the bum by a needle.’

Dougie snatched up his keys from the mantelpiece. ‘My day gets better. Howay then, Casper. Let’s go.’

‘So you’re Mrs Hershey’s great-grandson, then?’ said the ward sister, holding the door open for Dougie. ‘The district nurse told us you’d be
coming by. I’m sure your gran will be pleased to see you.’

Dougie limped into the geriatric ward, ears pricked at the good news. His messenger bag was slung over his shoulder, the cigar box safe inside. At no point in time had either of us contemplated
opening it. We were quite often guilty of being impatient, impulsive teens but not on this occasion. The box was precious to the Major and whatever was hidden inside it was between him and Ruby
Hershey.

‘She’s awake?’

The sister smiled as she led him down the corridor, past numerous shared rooms full of the elderly. ‘Intermittently. She’s very poorly. There are moments of lucidity, but then she
returns to a deep sleep. We’re doing all we can to make her comfortable.’

‘What happened, exactly?’

‘Your gran suffered a cardiac event, probably exacerbated by the weather. As you can see, we’re pretty much full to capacity here and many of the elderly have been coming in with
heat-related illnesses. We’re ensuring she has plenty of fluids and we’re managing her pain relief.’

‘Mate, this doesn’t sound good,’ I said as I drifted along beside Dougie, my eyes flitting through each side-ward in search of Ruby.

He and I had visited the hospital on countless occasions to meet with the Major, so much so that it had become like a second home, but geriatrics was one of the wards we hadn’t visited
before. There was something about the elderly that gave Dougie the shivers. Perhaps it was the inevitability of it all. Myself? I’d be forever young, to coin the Major’s favourite
saying, never growing old. Dougie was mortal, flesh and blood, and time waited for no man, not even my buddy. He had this to look forward to if he lived to a ripe old age.

Unlike Dougie, I experienced no such awkwardness here, in fact quite the opposite. I felt a closeness to the patients, a connection with them I hadn’t experienced elsewhere in the
hospital. Perhaps it was because many were so close to the end of the road. They weren’t afraid of death. A good proportion would no doubt be welcoming it when the time came, their lives
full, long years well spent. There was a colour to the geriatric ward that was missing from the others. Sunlight streamed in through every window, each room decked out with great bouquets of
flowers. It was times like this that I missed my beating heart, envied the sense of smell which the living took for granted.

‘Straight ahead,’ said the sister, directing us toward a private room off the main ward. ‘You’re welcome to sit with her for a while. Visiting time ends in half an hour,
lovely.’ She smiled sweetly and went on her way, leaving us to enter the bedroom.

It was as if we’d stepped into another world, an altogether more solemn one at that. Ruby Hershey lay motionless in her bed, surrounded by a collection of medical paraphernalia. I recalled
Stu’s time in hospital after his fall from the Upper School roof. Those same pinging, blinking machines that he’d been hooked up to were now getting used on dear old Ruby. She looked a
shadow of the woman we’d first met. Her cheeks were hollow, eye sockets dark, the misting of her face mask barely noticeable. There were no flowers on show, no stacks of get-well-soon cards,
no shafts of daylight cutting through the gloom. This was a calm, quiet place. In that moment, I realised there was only one way Ruby was leaving the hospital. She was approaching the end.

The Major stood at the foot of her bed, his blue glow invisible to all but Dougie and I. I’d never seen him like this; he shone like a beacon, bright and beautiful, light rippling from him
like waves from an aurora. He stood to attention, hands behind his back, keeping vigil over his love. He glanced our way as we approached, nodding solemnly before turning back to Ruby. The air was
charged, death and desire, love and loss, swirling about us in a maelstrom. I looked down, my own palms throbbing with that same azure illumination, fingertips humming with an electric white fire.
Was I feeding off the strange, heady atmosphere that came close to the moment of passing?

The Major spoke.

‘I knew she was coming before she’d even arrived. I . . . sensed her. Knocked me sick, like a punch to the guts. By the time the ambulance pulled up I was on my knees.’

‘We would’ve come sooner,’ said Dougie. ‘We wanted to tell you what had happened, at least warn you in advance, but something popped up. Stuff with my dad. And
Bradbury.’

‘It’s alright, Sparky. I know how it is. These things are out of our hands. Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs. Besides, you couldn’t have changed what had happened.
Ruby would still be lying here, flitting in and out of consciousness.’

Dougie cleared his throat nervously. ‘Is she . . . going to be OK?’

The Major smiled at the frail figure in the bed. ‘Yes, Sparky, but not in the way you think.’

Dougie scratched his head, confused by the American’s cryptic words, but I understood. The ghostly airman shared my certainty, a sense that Ruby wasn’t long for this world. As if in
an attempt to directly contradict our thoughts, the old lady stirred, turning her head on her pillow and releasing a soft moan. Dougie looked to the door, searching for the duty nurses as the Major
dashed to Ruby’s side. My friend was about to set off and call for help, when I reached out to grab him.

‘The cigar box,’ I said, snatching for his wrist.

It connected.

‘What the—?’ Dougie looked down to where my hand clutched his arm, eyes bulging with disbelief. I could feel his flesh within my hand, his skin against mine. Until this moment
I’d forgotten that sensation, so real, so alive. It all came back in that split second, hitting me like a runaway bus. Every ounce of human contact I’d ever enjoyed – my parents,
my brother, Dougie, Lucy. I kept hold, refusing to relinquish my grip, worried that if I did I might never feel that bond again.

‘Bring the box, Dougie,’ said the Major. ‘Quickly!’

That was the one and only time I recall him ever using my friend’s real name. It jolted Dougie into action, a lightning bolt to the brain. I let him go, my friend hopping to the bed on one
leg and fishing the box from his bag. He gave it a quick polish with his T-shirt as the Major watched on, his expression caught between anticipation and anxiety. He fumbled with it, all too aware
of the American’s gaze upon him.

‘Young man.’

Dougie almost dropped the box. Ruby’s rheumy eyes had flickered open. They were fixed on my friend with a look of recognition.

‘Mrs Hershey,’ said Dougie, managing an awkward grin. He looked at the Major, who nodded with keen approval.

‘Go on, Sparky. You can open it.’

‘What do you have there, child?’ asked Ruby, the mask misting as she spoke, obscuring her lips from view.

‘It’s a box of chocolates,’ grinned Dougie, unable to resist joking as he fiddled with the latch.

‘Chocolates? The ward sister
won’t
be pleased. That’s contraband!’ She began laughing, but within seconds it had shifted into a fit of coughs.

‘You stupid sod,’ I said. ‘You’re going to give her another heart attack before you’ve opened the blooming box. Get on with it, you muppet!’

Ruby began to rise in the bed, the spluttering hacks threatening to fold her in two. The Major was there instantly, his hand upon her chest, connecting as surely as my own had moments ago with
Dougie. The effect was instantaneous, relieving the old lady’s painful attack. Gradually, Mrs Hershey eased back in her bed, comforted by that bright blue hand across her breastbone, slowly
relaxing once more.

‘The box,’ whispered the Major without looking at us. Dougie’s fingernails caught the little brass clasp and unhooked it, flipping the lid open.

I couldn’t help but look. It reminded me of a time capsule, like the kind people buried beneath buildings. I remembered them doing something similar when I was in primary school and the
new library was opened. The teachers wanted us to pick something thoughtful and worthy. Our class voted on what should go in there, each child trying to get their pick chosen. Thanks to democracy
and bribery, that particular container – to be opened in years to come – would reveal an eclectic selection of treasures. The most notable item was a whoopee cushion that Stu Singer had
campaigned for. This would be a warning to our descendants: never let children choose the contents of a time capsule.

The cigar box was a treasure trove from the Major’s past. There was a pack of dog-eared playing cards. A bundle of letters were tied up with an old shoelace, the faded handwriting barely
visible. Loose change, a pack of matches and a petrified bar of chocolate rattled around in the bottom, alongside other ephemera picked up on his travels: British beer mats, train tickets, a couple
of bottle caps. There were even the obligatory photographs of ladies in varying states of undress, just as Dougie had hoped for.

‘What am I looking for?’ hissed Dougie, rifling through the contents and tipping the box so we could all look inside.

‘Where did you get that?’ whispered Ruby, the Major’s pale blue hand still resting upon her chest, somehow bringing her peace and comfort.

‘There was a man, Mrs Hershey,’ said Dougie, glancing to me for approval. I nodded and he continued. ‘Do you remember . . . Chip?’

Ruby’s mask stopped misting. She froze where she lay, still as a statue. She didn’t even blink.

‘Flippin’ Nora,’ I said. ‘You’re the Grim Reaper!
Please
ask her to breathe!’

‘Mrs Hershey?’ said Dougie, and that was enough. She gulped at the air, breathing again, ragged and uneven. She closed her eyes, and through that misted mask I caught her smile.

‘Captain Chip Flowers, from Columbus, Ohio.’

The Major gasped, his free hand going to his mouth to stifle the traitorous sound.

‘He was my first love,’ said Ruby. ‘What a fellow he was. So handsome, such a rogue. He flirted with all the girls, you know? But it was just that; teasing and toying. He only
had eyes for me.’

‘Do you know why I’m here?’ asked Dougie.

Her eyes opened again. ‘I never said goodbye to him. I never told him how I truly felt.’