Dead Scared (17 page)

One solitary light shone from the entire school, the warm yellow glow from the headmaster’s office illuminating the snow that was banked up outside. For Goodman to stay late wasn’t
unusual. For him to stay late on this particular night was testament to his guilt that such a terrible thing should happen to one of his pupils – a child in his care – on his watch.

‘Keep your eyes open,’ Dougie said as he placed his gloved hands either side of the drainpipe that led to the roof of the Lower School. An expansive, single-floor building,
Borley’s office was in the heart of this maze of classrooms. Up Dougie went, using bricks and brackets as foot and handholds. Reaching up he took hold of the lead flashing on the roof,
hauling himself the remaining distance until his belly slid over the edge. The snow crunched beneath his gut as he rolled forward, his legs swinging after him.

Looking up at the stars overhead, Dougie took a moment to compose himself, his breath clouding in front of him before dissipating.

‘Another cold one,’ I said as he struggled to his feet. ‘You put your thermal long johns on?’

‘Yes. Thanks for your concern, Mother,’ he said as he trudged through the virgin snow along the rooftop. ‘I hope Stu comes through this. I can’t help but feel responsible
for what’s happened to him.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up. It was Stu who chose to climb up there like a lunatic in the first place. Admittedly he didn’t choose to swan dive off the roof, but he was daft to be
up there.’

‘He’d never have been pushed if he wasn’t wearing my jacket.’

I had nothing to say about that. Dougie was right. It was a case of mistaken identity that had sent Stu over the edge. If he hadn’t been wearing the green parka he’d probably still
be goofing around like the grade-A clown he was.

We crept across the rooftops, clambering over low walls, stepping around air conditioners and hurdling pipes and gutters. We were thankful for the clear sky: bitterly cold as it was, it afforded
us a great view of the school and where we were heading.

‘It should be here,’ I said, the floor crunching beneath Dougie’s feet. ‘Hang on, fella.’

Walking in any direction was a relatively easy notion for me, following the same principles that were second nature to me in life. Although I didn’t exist in the living world, I
instinctively knew how to move through it, the memory of it deeply ingrained in my psyche. Stepping through a wall had taken some getting used to, but it was simply an extension of walking forward.
To force myself down, through the floor, felt deeply unnatural, and not a small bit sickening, but it had to be done. I tipped my body and directed my mind and spirit through the ground, my body
sinking like a diver might in a pool. I slipped beneath the snow-covered floor, through the bitumen- and felt-coated roof and timbers, until I materialised in Borley’s office.

I took a quick look around the dark room, a faint light within from the snow-covered skylight above. Popping skyward once more I took a moment to gather my bearings. I wagged my finger at a spot
a few feet away.

‘There,’ I said. ‘A skylight.’

Quickly, Dougie was on his knees, scooping the ice to one side, clawing at it with his gloves. I stood to one side, looking around frantically, feeling very much like the accomplice in some
terrible crime. Was it really a crime, though? We knew what we were doing was righteous. There had to be a clue within Borley’s office that connected him to not only Phyllis’ death in
the House, but also the attempted murder of our friend, Stu.

The domed perspex sheet was now visible, Dougie scraping the snow away from around its edge. He felt around, trying to find a way in. Reaching into the pocket of his parka, he whipped out a
long, flathead screwdriver, wiggling it under the rubber seal and working it against the latch. Sawing it back and forth, he ripped his gloves off as he struggled for traction. He grunted as he
forced the screwdriver to its limit, eyes bulging, until the latch inside suddenly popped. The skylight gave, rattling in its bracket as more snow was shaken loose from its sloping summit. Easing
his fingers beneath the rim, Dougie pulled hard, the window suddenly groaning as it extended to its limit, a metal arm holding it open. There was a gap of about a foot that could be navigated
through. It was going to be a squeeze.

‘I know it’s your lucky jacket and you’ve only just got it back, but you’re gonna have to take the parka off, D,’ I said. ‘There’s no way you’ll
fit through there with that on.’

Begrudgingly he shook it off, taking the mini torch out of one of its deep pockets.

‘How far to the floor?’

‘About ten feet,’ I replied.

‘Joy. How will I get back up?’

‘He’s got a swivel chair down there, plus there’s a filing cabinet to the side of the skylight. You’ll be OK, I reckon.’

‘You reckon?’ he said incredulously. ‘Oh, to share your optimism!’

‘Stop gassing, let’s get on with it. Some of us have got homes to go to!’

‘Yeah, mine!’ he replied before popping his torch into his mouth, switching it on and wiggling down through the open skylight.

His landing would’ve looked cool and catlike if it hadn’t been for the crusty layer of snow on the soles of his boots. His feet shot out from beneath him, sending him thumping on to
his rump with a yowl.

‘Shut it!’ I said. ‘Goodman is in his office, remember?’

I was already looking around the office as my mate righted himself. I took a glance out of the wire-meshed window that opened out on to the pitch-dark Lower School corridor. A large cork board
filled one wall, covered in a multitude of Post-its, notes, sheets of paper and memos. A big old oak desk dominated the room, littered with screws, nails, tools and trays. The leatherette top was
scored and slashed, peeling around the edges and curling at the corners. A giant pile of manuals was stacked at the back, topped by a filthy, tea-stained mug.

Instantly Dougie was into the filing cabinets while I scoured the notice board. It was surprisingly light in the office now with the window clear and the stars lighting the room, plus the
occasional sweeping arc of Dougie’s torch provided added illumination too. There were phone numbers with names alongside them pinned to the cork, none of them sending my Spidey sense
tingling. Instruction pamphlets sat alongside menus for takeaway delivery firms and the like. After I’d been over the board twice I turned to see how Dougie was getting on, my friend now on
the final drawer of the filing cabinet.

‘Nothing here, mate,’ he said. ‘Which leaves us with the desk. There won’t be anything there, will there? If he does have any mementos, he probably keeps them at home
like any good serial killer.’

It was a glib, throwaway comment, inspired by the many horror movies we’d seen, but he wasn’t too far off the mark. Borley was a dangerous man. Who knew what he was capable of?

The side drawers of the desk opened easily, revealing more of the same clutter within. Dougie sifted through it all, looking for a clue that might help us catch Borley out. There was nothing.
Fed up, Dougie collapsed into the chair and spun about.

‘Nothing. What a waste of time.’

‘Not entirely,’ I said. ‘We’ve ruled out his office. Next thing to do is try his home.’

‘You’re having a laugh, dude! I’m not breaking into his house, wherever it is. This is bad enough, sneaking into the school. I’ll be expelled if I get caught here. No
way, Will. I’m done with this.’

He reached out and started picking at the leatherette.

‘Dougie, we’re so close, mate.’

‘So close to what? Stu nearly died today! What next?’

He was right. We were walking a line that was growing more dangerous by the second. I shrugged and nodded as Dougie suddenly stopped scratching at the desk’s surface.

‘Hang about,’ he said, snatching his torch and throwing the light below the desktop’s rim. ‘There’s another drawer here, set back.’

I crouched and looked. Sure enough there was. ‘It’s a stationery drawer. For pens, paper and all that.’

Dougie tried to feel for a handle but found none. He squinted. ‘There’s a keyhole here.’ He jabbed his screwdriver into it, trying to prise it open.

‘Locked?’ I asked, as Dougie nodded. ‘What on earth are you hiding, Mr Borley?’

My friend moved the tool round to the drawer’s edge and hammered it into the thin gap with the palm of his hand. Then he gave it a whack. The drawer popped open on a spring, Dougie’s
fingertips awaiting it as it extended forward over his lap.

While the top of the desk was in utter ruination, the interior of the stationery drawer was in immaculate condition. Lined in green baize, there was a pile of neatly stacked newspaper cuttings.
A glance at the top article told us all we needed to know. It was dated the nineteenth of December, 1964, and was about the disappearance of one Phyllis Carrington. Her face was there, a sweet
family portrait with her head dipped to one side, blonde pigtails bobbing. There was Phyllis, staring back at us. And there was the school photo – an original though – the one
we’d found online with Andy. Every cutting, every article: each was about the disappearance of our ghostly friend, a scrapbook of horror.

The cuttings weren’t the most shocking thing though. I tried to find the words, to tell Dougie what we’d discovered, but I didn’t need to. His trembling fingers brushed the
long red ribbon that had bound the newspaper articles together, tied neatly in an elegant bow.

‘We need to get out of here,’ I whispered. ‘Now.’

Dougie made to pick up the bundle.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We need to leave it here. If we take them, it’s not proof at all as to his involvement. The clippings and the ribbon: they need to be found here by an
authority figure.’

‘Who, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ I hissed, exasperated. ‘But we need to leave this room as we found it. Come on. Get it closed. We should put our heads together and trap Borley
red-handed.’

When the police cars descended upon our high school the next day, it was fair to say Dougie and I shared feelings of absolute unadulterated delight. Here was the reward for our
sleuthing and dogged determination. From the first moment we’d spied him at the House we knew something was awry. As time went on, he’d revealed himself to be irrevocably connected with
Phyllis Carrington’s abduction and death. Perhaps now, with the police questioning him, they might get to the bottom of what had happened to our poor friend in the Sixties. This was our
moment of triumph and, sitting on the bench by the school gates, we’d got ringside seats to enjoy it. In true Scooby-Doo style, he would’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for us
pesky kids.

Andy Vaughn sat on one side of Dougie, while I attempted an approximation of chilling out on the other side of him. This is incredibly hard to do when one considers that my buttocks carry all
the weight of an air biscuit, but still, I wanted to be by my best mate’s side when they hauled Borley out of the school in handcuffs.

‘All credit to you chaps,’ said Andy, who’d helped us put the finishing touches to our case. ‘I can’t quite believe you’ve done it. That’s some going.
You really think those printouts will have helped?’

‘Deffo,’ said Dougie. ‘Those documents, alongside our letter, will be what stirred Goodman into calling the rozzers. He wouldn’t have picked up the phone without them, I
reckon.’

First thing that morning, at stupid o’clock, Andy had been rudely awakened by Dougie. Sidestepping Mrs Vaughn’s protestations, he’d sloped up to Andy’s bedroom and fired
up the laptop. Andy had very kindly printed off the various documents about Phyllis’ disappearance from the local history website, including newspaper stories and those old school photos.
Alongside a carefully worded letter from us that spelled out what Borley had been up to, and how he’d inevitably been the one responsible for the attempted murder of Stu Singer, it had proved
a damning dossier. Delivered in a brown, A4 envelope, Dougie had declared he’d felt like a cold war spy when he slid the folder under Mr Goodman’s office door first thing in the
morning.

‘You’re sure Goodman didn’t see you deliver the letter this morning?’ asked Andy.

‘Nah, he rocked up after we’d done it, his car wasn’t in the car park.’

‘He’s going to know it was from you anyway, matey,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to be Sherlock to work that out. Goodman knows you were snooping around the House,
remember?’

‘Well,’ said Dougie with a triumphant sigh. ‘I don’t feel the need to get involved now. Let the professionals run with it from here. Doesn’t matter if Goodman knows
it’s me behind the package, it’s the cops who can take care of the rest now. I’m glad to be shot of the terrible business.’

The letter hadn’t gone so far as saying what exactly was in the desk, or indeed that Borley’s desk held the key to the old crime, but we’d laid a series of subtle breadcrumbs
that Goodman – and in turn the police – would be able to follow. We were at pains to make it clear that we hadn’t been
into
the office – that would have weakened our
case immeasurably. Once they got into the office, they were bound to turn it over searching for the incriminating evidence, and the bundle of letters with the big red ribbon would finally,
fantastically reveal themselves to them. The discovery would be all down to Mr Goodman. He was welcome to the publicity that would no doubt follow. The last thing Dougie craved was the limelight.
He just wanted his life to go back to normal. Well, as normal as it can be when your best friend’s a ghost.

‘Does this mean you get to go and tell Phyllis the good news?’ asked Andy.

‘I guess it does,’ smiled Dougie. ‘I’ll probably leave that honour to Will though. She’s his girlfriend after all.’

‘Ouch,’ I said as deadpan as I could muster. ‘My sides. Please. They’re splitting. Incredible, even when I’m dead you can find the time to tease me about talking to
girls. Heaven help you the day
you
finally snare yourself a girlfriend. And heaven help her for that matter.’

I rolled my eyes as Dougie elbowed Andy, pointing at me (that is, the thin air beside him).