Haunt Dead Wrong (3 page)

‘You having a bite to eat, son?’ he asked, half-heartedly threatening to rise from his seat.

‘I ate with Andy in town, thanks.’ This was sadly typical of his father to be unaware of his movements, including where he got his last meal. ‘You want anything? A cup of tea?
Food?’

‘I’m alright, Douglas,’ said Mr Hancock, sniffing his nose and scratching his scrawny stomach. ‘I’m not really hungry at the mo. May get something later.’

‘Later?’ I said. ‘You
know
he hasn’t eaten today, Dougie.’

‘Let me make you some cheese on toast, Dad,’ said my mate, clearly concerned for his father’s welfare. ‘It’s not a problem.’

There had been a steady decline in Mr Hancock’s well-being over the last year. It was heart-breaking to see. My earliest memories of him, when we were little, was of a cheery chap who
would do anything for his son. Somehow, he’d begun to full apart recently. Miserable in his job, he’d all but jacked in driving for Mr Bradbury as far as we could tell, drinking away
his sorrows at home. The pills he took to help him sleep were a great cause for concern, Dougie felt, and understandably so, in light of the booze. Mr Hancock never went out, never socialised,
never invited his friends to call by. The man had become a recluse.

‘No, son, really,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘I’m fine. Where’ve you been, then?’

‘I already said, Dad. To town with Andy.’ Irritation in his voice.

‘Steady, mate,’ I said, my voice a whisper even though his father couldn’t hear me.

‘Right, yes, so you did. You need to get out and meet girls, Douglas. That’s what you need to do.’

Dougie looked at me. I’d witnessed this exact conversation many times in recent months. Mr Hancock had been told time and time again that Dougie was seeing Lucy, but it was pointless
discussing it when he’d been drinking. It went in through one ear and out the other. My friend just shrugged, shaking his head. As for Dougie’s girlfriend, that’s something else
I’d forgotten to mention. That girl who I’d loved from afar right through school, the one I’d stolen a kiss from the night I’d died? Lucy Carpenter. That’s right. My
best mate was now seeing her. I know. Some guys have all the luck.

‘See you later, Dad,’ said Dougie, slouching out of the room and down the hall. I watched him trudge upstairs, head bowed.

‘Now probably not the best time to ask him about Bradbury?’ I said.

‘Maybe wait until he’s sober,’ he replied, ‘whenever that might be.’

There was little I could say. I followed.

‘Get outta town, Sparky! Best gangster movie?
Angels With Dirty Faces
, every day of the week!’

‘Have a word with yourself, Yank,’ said Dougie, dismissing our friend with a wave of the hand. ‘
The Godfather
is the best.’

‘Jimmy Cagney!’

‘Al Pacino!’

‘Jim-mee Cag-nee!’

‘Al Pa-chee-no!’

This was how conversations often went between Dougie and the Major, inevitably descending into a slanging match. It could have been a number of things that brought them to loggerheads. Perhaps
it was the age difference. Maybe it was the cultural chasm, with the Major being American. More than likely, the biggest difference was: one was alive, the other a ghost. As always, I was torn,
unable and unwilling to take sides. I grinned as a couple of nurses walked by across the hospital lawn, looking our way with concern.

‘It’s no good talkin’ to you, Sparky,’ said the Major. ‘You get too emotional, shouting and making a scene.’

‘You’re shouting too!’ said Dougie, defensively.

‘Ah, yes,’ grinned the airman’s ghost. ‘But they can’t see me, can they? You’re the crazy son-of-a-gun sat on the grass yelling at himself. Making me the
winner.’

Dougie grumbled as I chuckled. ‘Whatever. You’re the loser as you’ve never seen
The Godfather.
’

‘And probably never will,’ sighed the Major. ‘The drawback of haunting a hospital and not a movie theatre.’

We had first encountered the phantom American last autumn, when our friend Stu Singer had ended up in hospital after a fall from the Upper School building. I say ‘fall’: he was
pushed, by our headmaster, who it transpired was a sadistic, murdering nutcase. That was all in the past now, Stu well on the road to recovery, and Mr Goodman dead and gone. The girl who he’d
killed had been haunting an old school house, and it was she who had first taught me how to control my powers. Phyllis had been her name, and she’d opened my eyes to the possibilities
haunting offered up. She vanished when Goodman died, leaving Dougie and me to seek out the Major for further guidance. It transpired the Major was a pesky soul, Dougie often the target of his
mischief.

‘I’m just kidding with ya, Sparky,’ said the airman, punching Dougie’s shoulder with a ghostly fist. He’d taught me the same trick, much to my friend’s
annoyance.

‘Quit it,’ snapped Dougie. ‘That is so not cool.’

‘So what do you guys have planned? You got the whole summer ahead of you. What do kids do round here? You got a beach house to head to? Catch some surf and rays?’

‘Beach house?’ I laughed. ‘Nearest beach is the Mersey. And catching rays? You’d more likely catch blood poisoning.’

‘I keep forgetting your British summers are different to real ones,’ said the Major.

The Major was coy, never telling us his real name, but he’d been haunting the General Hospital since the 1940s. Like me, he was stuck in the clothes he’d died in, and he hadn’t
got around to explaining the circumstances of his death either. Across the left breast of his uniform a string of multicoloured pips revealed his rank. He was actually a captain, but Dougie and I
had never let details stand in the way of a good nickname. ‘Major’ had stuck. When not hidden by his US Air Force dress cap, his jet-black quiff was slicked back over his head, topping
off his movie-star good looks. As officers went, he was fresh-faced to have been made a captain, but wars, deaths and field promotions will do that.

‘So tell me,’ said the Major. ‘What brought my favourite double-act here today? I wasn’t expecting you until the weekend.’

Dougie kindly visited the hospital each Saturday, allowing me the opportunity to spend time with the Major. Dougie would watch on while the American talked me through what he knew, passing on
tips and sharing his thoughts. We discussed everything, from how I’d ended up a ghost, the other spirits we’d seen or encountered, and what might have stopped me from moving on. The
Major’s ideas were just that: ideas. Neither of us had received an instruction book when we had become ghosts, although with Dougie’s help we were doing a fine job of writing one. My
friend would take notes on what we discovered, compiling a
Rules of Ghosting
handbook in the process.

Dougie reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled sheet of newspaper. He unfolded it, straightening it out, before laying it out on the grass before us.

‘Ah,’ said the Major, the spring taken out of his step. ‘Way to ruin a guy’s day, Sparky.’

We all looked at the headline:
AIRBASE TO BE DEMOLISHED
. This was where the Major had been stationed during the Second World War, one of many Yanks who had briefly made my sleepy little
town in the north-west of England their home.

‘What does this mean for you?’ I asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said the Major. ‘We’ve spent so long talking about what’s keeping
you
here, in the land of the living, that we’ve given little
thought to my own predicament.’

‘Maybe that’s it,’ said Dougie. ‘Perhaps when the old base finally gets bulldozed you’ll be on your way?’

‘You’re all heart, kid. There could be some truth in that. I left some memories there, for sure . . .’

He drifted off for a moment, his mood melancholic. This wasn’t like the Major at all. He was usually wisecracking, playing pranks and generally goofballing. Dougie and I shared a look of
concern. The Yank was often evasive when his past came up, but he’d never fallen silent before.

‘Should we head over there?’ I asked. ‘Is there something you’d like us to retrieve? After all, I think that’s why I’m still here, to help people out,
whatever their mortal state.’

The Major snapped out of it, a grin back on his face in a flash. ‘I thought it was your bromance with Sparky here that kept you spooking about?’

‘For the umpteenth time,’ Dougie sighed. ‘It’s
not
a bromance. We’re mates, that’s all.’

‘Mates with a beautiful, special, supernatural bond, eh?’ said the Major, grinning impishly. ‘Yeah, I got you two down pat!’

‘So that’s a negatory on visiting the airbase?’ said Dougie, not allowing him to wriggle off the hook as he’d done so many times before.

The Major stood and straightened his uniform. It was the strangest thing watching a ghostly man, glowing pale blue, dusting himself down.

‘Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m good. It’s this place I’m bound to, right? The hospital’s my home. There’s nothing for me at the base any more.’

‘But what do you
do
here?’ asked Dougie. ‘As far as I can tell you stand at the entrance like a sentry. Hardly seems productive. The Lamplighter, however, haunts the
railway station. His job’s pretty clear: he scares the crap out of anyone who gets close.’

I shivered at mention of the Lamplighter, the only other spirit we’d encountered. Dougie and I had found ourselves on the platform late one night. A crooked killer’s spectre that
oozed wickedness, the Lamplighter had left me fearful for my life. Quite a trick, considering I was already dead.

‘The Lamplighter’s an old-fashioned malevolent spirit, tied to the scene of his crimes,’ said the Major. ‘Springheeled Jack for a new generation.’

‘Exactly. He has a job description,’ said Dougie. ‘Even Will seems to have a purpose. He haunts the heck out of me, follows me around like a loveless, lonely, lost, little
puppy that’s been kicked up the butt.’

‘Cheers for that.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘You’re tied to the hospital,’ I said, picking up my pal’s thread. ‘But why? I haunt Dougie. The Lamplighter haunts the station. Why do you haunt the
hospital?’

The Major scratched his chiselled jaw. His teeth shone white as he flashed his ladykiller smile.

‘I’m here to help: the “meet and greet” for new arrivals.’

‘You weren’t here for me.’

‘You caught us
all
on the hop, kid.’

‘How long are you here for though?’ I asked. ‘It’s already been seventy years!’

‘I really don’t know when I’m supposed to clock off. I guess I’ll figure it out when it happens.’ He snapped his heels together and saluted me. ‘As ever,
it’s been an absolute pleasure.’

He turned to Dougie, salute dropping. ‘And you. Go away and watch some films. Good ones, this time. Preferably featuring Jimmy Cagney.’

With that, the Major strutted back toward the A&E, shouting,
‘You dirty rat!’
as he went.

‘What a colossal arse,’ said Dougie as we watched him go. ‘You really like him, don’t you?’ He didn’t answer, but I spied a smirk appear on Dougie’s
face too. He shrugged.

‘Suppose he’s OK. For a Yank.’

Dungeons and Dragons, so often the last bastion of teen male imagination, was no longer a sacred realm. Back when I’d been a living, breathing, dice-rolling young man,
roleplaying games had been a refuge for me and my mates. Donning our armour and pointy hats of wizardry, we could sally forth, tackling all manner of monstrous mayhem in our make-believe world.
Banter was bawdy and bloody, censorship crushed underfoot, as we submerged ourselves in our characters, playing out their adventures. There was only one thing could really upset the apple cart, and
it had happened since my passing. A girl had joined the party.

This wasn’t just any girl, either. This was Bloody Mary. When Dougie and I were first coming to terms with my haunting, we had enlisted the help of our resident school goth. Mary had been
in her last year at Brooklands, cutting an intimidating figure as she puffed away on her cigs behind the bike shed. Dougie had invited her back to his house under the pretence of seeking
supernatural advice. After all, she was supposedly a medium and had the afterlife on speed-dial. Kids said she was the real deal. Then again, kids say a lot of things. It hadn’t gone well.
Crossed wires led to Mary thinking Dougie had the hots for her. Chaos had followed.

‘OK,’ said Mary, picking up the die and blowing it in her cupped hands. ‘Momma wants a critical hit . . .’

The die flew, bouncing across the table past a bowl of M&Ms as Dougie, Stu Singer and Dungeon Master Andy Vaughn watched on. The multi-faceted icosahedron skittered to a halt.

‘Boom!’ she shouted, high-fiving Stu. ‘Twenty! How d’ya like them apples?’ Another roll of an odd-shaped die and Andy was left calculating the damage she’d
dealt to the goblin king.

‘Right,’ said the Dungeon Master. ‘Your battleaxe takes the king’s head clean off, his ugly mug flying across the cave and into the crowd of onlooking goblins. They
shriek and stampede, their morale broken.’

Mary whooped again, planting a sloppy kiss on Stu. That’s right; they were an item. Some things really didn’t need to be witnessed by others. The local vicar’s son and Mary
smooching topped that list.

Dougie seized his moment as the other two were distracted in celebration. ‘Andy, can I creep forward and try the king’s treasure chest? Firstly, I’ll check it for traps and
then—’

‘Whoa, whoa, Nosebleed,’ said Mary, pulling away from Stu’s embrace. ‘What do you think you’re doing? I killed the king. I get first dibs on treasure.’

‘Oops,’ I said. ‘You’ve awoken the kraken.’

This was how it went. Mary was full-blooded in her approach to gaming, wanting to win at all costs, even if that was to the detriment of others participating. Her half-orc barbarian only helped
her intimidate her fellow players. Specifically Dougie. Stu happily went along with all she did. It appeared he rather enjoyed being dominated by her, and he was terribly easily led. Dougie’s
poor little halfling thief, Filo Bigfoot, never stood a chance.