Haunt Dead Wrong (4 page)

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m the thief, you’re the fighter. Knock lumps out of the bad guys, but step aside when there’s a chest to open. That’s my area of
expertise. Unless you fancy disarming a trap if there’s one in there?’

Dougie waited for a response from a glowering Mary but none was forthcoming. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Since the ‘misunderstanding’ on his and Bloody
Mary’s one and only date last autumn, each would have happily never set eyes upon the other again. For Stu Singer to then start seeing her had really put the cat amongst the canaries. There
were certainly less volatile, incendiary girls out there that Stu might have pursued, but beauty was in the eye of the beholder. It was tough to argue with love.

Dougie nodded and dipped his hand into the dice bag, retrieving his lucky twenty-sided die. ‘I’m going to investigate the chest for traps.’

‘Right,’ said Andy, revelling in the building atmosphere. ‘You stalk carefully across the chamber, the sound of screaming goblins disappearing into the tunnels at your back.
Your bare, furry feet step lightly across the ground until you arrive at the chest. Crouching, you open your lockpick kit as Priest of Pelor, Father Ivor Biggun—’

Stu laughed, but Andy ignored him, continuing.

‘—and the hulking barbarian, Red Mary, watch on . . .’

Dougie kissed the die, shaking it in his hand. He prepared to launch it. We all craned in, waiting with bated breath.

‘So, you and Will go and see the Major today then?’ blurted Stu. As mood-killers went, it was one of his best. I chuckled, Dougie ceased his die roll and Andy groaned.

‘You do this
every
time, Stu,’ sighed Andy. ‘Can’t you stay
in character
for just one session?’

‘Pfft,’ said Stu. ‘Where’s the drama? We all know what’s coming. The chest will be trapped and he’ll cark it in some way or another. Happens every time.
I’ve lost count of the number of times my priest has had to raise Filo Bigfoot back from the dead.’

‘You really are the worst holy man ever,’ said Dougie.

‘He has a point,’ I said. ‘You do make a lousy thief.’

‘Shut up, you,’ said Dougie, turning to where I hovered on his shoulder.

‘See, even Will agrees. He does, doesn’t he?’ Stu laughed. ‘So, did he tell you his name yet?’

Ghost I may have been, but my existence was no longer a secret. Dougie may have been the only living soul who could see me, but I’d proved to the others – including Bloody Mary
– that I wasn’t just the fevered ramblings of Dougie’s addled mind. I may have been invisible, but they certainly knew I was there. And they were cool with that.

‘As it happens, we did go to see him, but no sign of his name yet,’ said Dougie, putting the die down for a moment as he grabbed a handful of the M&Ms. ‘Told him
they’re demolishing the airbase. It seemed to throw him.’

‘You think that’s it?’ asked Andy. ‘The air base gets flattened and
poof
, he’s out of here?’

‘No idea. He thinks he’s waiting for a sign. His connection’s with the hospital.’

‘We should do some digging,’ said Andy. ‘Find out who he is. A captain in the US Air Force who died while stationed over here?’

‘Get looking, pal,’ said Dougie. ‘He’s not spilling the beans any time soon.’

‘Is he going to roll the dice or what?’ asked Mary.

‘It’s
die
, singular,’ said Dougie, smiling at this small grammatical victory.

‘You want to meet my
fists
, plural, Nosebleed?’

Dougie brought his attention back to the twenty-sided gem die.

‘Detect traps roll please, Dougie,’ said Andy.

‘Come on, mate,’ I said. ‘Break the habit of a lifetime. Show them how it’s done. Don’t muck it up.’

Dougie kissed his lucky die once more, praying to his own deity, perhaps some little-known God of Hapless Hobbit Thieves. The die flew, bouncing off the bowl of M&Ms before coming to a halt
in the table centre. We all peered at the number. It was decidedly middling: ten. This was either a good or bad thing for Dougie. Stu sucked his teeth as Mary giggled, Andy referring to his
script.

‘You don’t detect any traps, Filo, your eagle-eyes searching for a needle within the lock. Your pick slips into the mechanism and after a few deft jiggles and cranks, you hear it
click. It’s open!’

Dougie grinned at the other two.

‘Sadly,’ continued Andy, ‘you hadn’t noticed the pressure plate on the flag you were crouched upon. The paving stones give way around you, dropping you into a thirty-foot
pit trap on to a dozen five-foot iron spikes. Saving throw versus death please.’

‘Well, he opened the chest,’ said Stu.

‘Can we search through the treasure now?’ asked Mary.

‘Sod this,’ said Dougie, standing and scooping up his die and character sheet. ‘I’ve got better people I could be with.’

‘Oh yeah, who?’ asked Stu.

‘Lucy Carpenter, for one,’ said Dougie, storming for the door.

‘Fair point,’ said Andy.

Dougie strode back, reaching between the two lovebirds to snatch up the bowl of tiny colourful chocolates from the middle of the table. He emptied them out into his jeans pocket.

‘And I’m taking my blooming M&Ms with me, too!’

It was crisp, clear summer evening, the sky scattered with diamonds. A night for romance, without a doubt, which made my proximity to Dougie and Lucy Carpenter all the more
uncomfortable. The sound of their lips smacking would curdle the hardiest of stomachs. If I’d been remotely corporeal then my breakfast would have been making a sudden and violent
reappearance. I couldn’t even slope off; Dougie and I were connected via our ghostly umbilical cord, destined to never be apart. This was the worst part, where my spectral scenario really
felt like a curse. I groaned as they chuckled over some private joke outside her front gate.

‘Give it a rest, you dirty pigeons,’ I called. ‘Just say good-night and be done with it!’

Dougie shot me a dark look that Lucy missed. I’d got things wrong with Lucy. She was still a good person, no doubt, but my feelings toward her had never been reciprocated. I was just her
mate, good old Will Underwood. After the incident with the wicked headmaster and the local celebrity that had followed, Dougie had been momentarily thrust into the spotlight. Everybody wanted to be
his friend, nobody more so than Lucy. The idea that he was haunted by me had faded in her mind, and Dougie didn’t overegg that point. It wouldn’t have helped the relationship, knowing
that a ghost hung around your boyfriend like a bad smell.

‘Put him down, Lucy,’ I added. ‘You don’t know where he’s been!’

They were whispering sweet nothings. More subdued laughter. The jingle of the charm bracelet Dougie had bought her to celebrate six months as boyfriend and girlfriend. A couple of more smooches
and hugs. Then she was trotting up the garden path to her door. There was a movement in the lounge window as a tall, stern-faced man appeared: Mr Carpenter. He glowered at Dougie, who smiled back
politely. Lucy waved to my pal, the door closed and he strutted back to me, the king of all he surveyed. His grin made the Cheshire Cat look like a manic depressive.

‘You’re done eating her face?’ I asked, falling in alongside him.

‘For this night, yep.’

‘For this night?’ I groaned. ‘Does that mean you want to see her tomorrow as well?’

‘That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do, Will; see each other. Sorry, mate, but I didn’t write the rules. I didn’t plan for any of this to happen, and I’m sorry
you have to see it. But life goes on. I fancied her too, you know. Everyone fancies her.’

It was true, Lucy was an incredibly popular girl. Clever, pretty, game for a laugh and from a good family. Foolishly, I’d assumed that just because I was infatuated with her nobody else
could be. Dougie had clearly been terribly fond of her. I’d imagine Andy Vaughn was, too. Stu Singer . . . well, Stu was a fan of pretty much anything that moved. He wasn’t fussy,
present choice of girlfriend proving the case in point.

‘I need to find someone for you, pal. Get you a date with some groovy girlie ghostie. We should ask the Major if he knows of anyone.’

‘He’d probably hook me up with the Lamplighter, just for the giggles.’

Five minutes later and we were turning down Dougie’s street, heading to his house. Dougie was still bumping his gums about Lucy. Gloating was so unseemly.

‘You know, there
will
be somebody out there, Will. We already know you’re not alone. We need to keep looking.’

‘I’m not looking for love, mate. I’m looking for answers, specifically about what I’m doing here.’

‘Haunting me, as far as I can tell.’

‘But what’s my
purpose
? Why am I still here?’

‘Unfinished business seems the best bet. Whatever that is. And then you get to move on and join the Big Man upstairs and his choir invisible.’

‘Who said I wanted to move on? I’m just after some answers, is all. And besides, aren’t you too? I thought you were going to have a word with your old man about
Bradbury?’

Dougie rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘Not sure where to begin on that front. It’s his job, isn’t it? And Dad hasn’t worked for ages. What do I say to him?’

‘Hi Dad, met your boss yesterday – he’s a real creep, isn’t he?’ I replied. ‘Something like that, maybe?’

‘He
was
odd, wasn’t he? I know he saved me from Vinnie Savage, but I never asked for his help. And the manner in which he did it really weirded me out.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘Savage is a horrible cretin, but that was hard to watch. I know he’s a bully, but Bradbury made him look like a kitten. Which begs the
big question . . .’

‘Which is what exactly?’ he asked as he opened the front door and entered his house. We could hear the television set, loud as ever.

‘How does your dear old dad end up working for a man like Bradbury? And why isn’t he working any more? Bradbury didn’t seem nice, but better the devil you know and, as you say,
a job’s a job, eh? I wonder what the deal is.’

‘Let’s ask, eh?’ whispered Dougie as he opened the glass-panelled door into the lounge. ‘No time like the present.’

Mr Hancock almost jumped out of his armchair at the sudden appearance of Dougie in the doorway. He looked as dishevelled as ever, but his smile was still on show for his son.

‘Hi, Douglas. Everything OK?’

‘Yeah, thanks. I met Mr Bradbury the other day.’

The smile was gone.

‘Who?’

‘Mr Bradbury. Your boss.’

Mr Hancock’s red rheumy eyes squinted. ‘How do you know it was him? How did he meet you?’

‘I ran into him by accident in town. Dropped my wallet and he caught me up to give it back. How come you don’t work for him any more, Dad?’

‘It won’t have been Mr Bradbury,’ said the weary man.

‘He told me to tell you he said
hello
. How did he recognise me, Dad?’

‘He didn’t recognise you,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘Must’ve seen your library card in your wallet or something.’

‘He knew me,’ said Dougie.

‘If you see him again, ignore him,’ said his dad, rising from his armchair for the first time in forever. He sidled by, towards the kitchen.

‘Ignore him? That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t want you talking to Mr Bradbury. Not ever.’

‘Why?’

Dougie followed him, his father filling the old stove kettle at the sink. He popped it on to the hob and lit the flame beneath. Then back across the kitchen, taking a mug from the sink, rinsing
it out before dropping a tea bag in. He was doing everything but answer his son’s question.

‘Dad, why shouldn’t I speak to him? He’s your boss, isn’t he?’

Mr Hancock placed a palm to his head as if attacked by a migraine. He was irritated, the words spat out fast. ‘Not any more, he isn’t! Is this an interrogation? Just do as I say,
Douglas!’

‘You might wanna back off,’ I said, stepping in front of Dougie. ‘Have you ever seen him like this? He’s properly lost his rag.’

Mr Hancock was famously mild-mannered and quietly spoken. I’d never known him to show his temper. Maudlin, yes; depressed, often; but never furious. Dougie, however, was having none of it.
This had been building for a while.

‘Since when did he stop being your boss, Dad? You used to have a job, remember? You used to get up, go out to work, come home with money. You didn’t sit in that damned chair drinking
yourself to death. Is our life really so bad?’

‘You don’t understand, you’re just a child.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Dougie. ‘I’m the only one acting like a grown-up. You’re not even eating any more. If social services got a whiff of what’s going on here,
they’d take me off you . . .’

‘Go away,’ his father muttered, beneath his breath.

‘I’ll be gone away soon enough, Dad, once I hit sixteen. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair.’

Dougie stormed into the living room, slamming the partition door as he went. At the limit of my spectral tether to him, I remained in the kitchen, watching his father in front of the sink. Was
he crying? I was useless at times like this, unsure of how to react and comfort somebody. It was especially difficult when you were a ghost.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, my words unheard. ‘He’ll come round. You will too. You have to get out of this funk, for your and Dougie’s sake. Have a shower, a
shave, put on a clean shirt and a smile. Call Mr Bradbury and ask for your old job back.’

He looked up. Did he hear me? I waved my hands to no reaction. Stupid to think he could.

He sniffed back the tears and reached across the counter, picking up the telephone. He paused, clearly considering what he was about to do. Then his finger was punching a number into the
handset. He glanced at the lounge door; still shut. Taking a deep breath he lifted the phone to his ear. I could hear it ringing a few times before it was answered.

‘Mr Bradbury?’

Had
he heard me? He’d only gone and rung the bloke, hadn’t he? Was he asking for his old job back? As it happened, the conversation took a very different turn.

‘You don’t speak to him again,’ whispered Mr Hancock. His eyes were wet as he stared at the lounge door. ‘Leave my boy alone, you hear?’