Haunt Dead Wrong (2 page)

My friend crashed into him, causing the fellow to spin. The two were engaged with one another briefly, a mess of limbs as my pal tried to disentangle himself. Wallet, keys and loose change
tumbled from Dougie’s pocket, coins scattering the pavement as they danced. The man was rangy, wearing a smart black suit and pointy shoes. A businessman, no doubt, popping in to see his bank
manager at lunch. Now accosted by a frantic teenager.

Dougie tore free and dashed out of the daylight into the dead-end alley beside the bank, slipping under the fire escape gantry and hiding in the shadows. I was by his side, poking my head back
round the corner as my mate squealed for air.

‘I feel sick,’ said Dougie.

He wasn’t alone. The push had exhausted me, the connection with the living world sapping me of my ghostly energies.

‘Hush,’ I said, stepping out to check the coast was clear. It wasn’t. ‘Crap.’

Dougie’s frantic gasps were stifled instantly, but it was hopeless. Savage’s hulking shadow approached down the alley. He must have seen Dougie dive into the little lane.

‘Little pig . . . little pig . . .’ chuckled the bully, also out of breath.

There was nowhere for Dougie to hide. He stepped out from beneath the fire escape, reluctantly accepting what was to come. I would have done anything to help him, but I was a spent force. I too
felt sick; at that moment I wondered if ectoplasm might actually be ghost-barf. I suspected I was about to find out.

‘You’re the big bad wolf, are you, lad?’

All three of us stopped. We looked to the head of the alleyway. It was the man with the mop of dark curly hair my mate had just crashed into. He was strolling towards us, dusting down that fine
black suit. He picked a fleck of lint off his cuff and flicked it on to the breeze. I don’t believe for a moment there was an actual piece of fluff there; he did this for effect, a show of
cool, calm composure. He was gangly, wiry, a touch of the Cumberbatch in his ice-cold eyes as he glared at Savage.

‘Cat got your tongue, Mr Wolf?’ The man’s accent was thick Liverpudlian. It sounded guttural to my provincial ears; aggressive. I knew instantly he was dangerous. With the
sharp black suit and pointy black boots, he looked like a gangster. Or a Beatle. I was undecided.

Savage smacked his lips. ‘It’s between me and him.’ He gestured at Dougie with a sloshing wave of the milkshake. The man’s hand darted out and seized the drink from
Savage.

‘And now it’s between you and me.’

‘Who
is
he?’ I asked Dougie. My friend didn’t answer. He stood transfixed, a statue as the tables were turned.

The Scouser took a slurp on the milkshake, his face contorting as he copped the taste.

‘Blueberry? That’s mingin’!’ He popped the lid off the cup and tossed it aside, slowly moving the drink over Savage’s head. The bully could have run at any point in
time, but he also remained frozen fearfully in place. The man tipped the cup and the freezing contents slopped out on to Savage’s head, pouring over his face, into his ear, down his T-shirt,
all over.

I heard our favourite bully cry at that moment. It didn’t make me feel happy. I felt sorry for him. God knows why. You reap what you sow, that’s the saying, isn’t it?

‘Run along home, Mr Wolf,’ said the man as Savage loped off down the alley, sobbing as he went.

‘Thanks,’ whispered Dougie, still in shock. He began to edge around the man who remained where he stood, grinning all the while. The smile made me shudder. His teeth were bright,
brilliant white. I was instantly transported back to my childhood, sat on the sofa, hiding in my old man’s armpit as
JAWS
played on the telly.

‘You dropped these,’ said the man, his hand jingling with change as he extended his curled fist to Dougie. My mate opened his palm as the man emptied the wallet, keys and cash into
it. In addition there was a crumpled twenty-pound note. For a fleeting second, he looked my way, past Dougie. Did he sense I was there? Could he see me? Or was my mind playing tricks? The man then
set off back to the head of the alley.

‘Um, the note isn’t mine,’ Dougie called after him.

‘It is now,’ said the man, as he stepped back into the sunlight. ‘Tell your dad Mr Bradbury says hello.’

Then he was gone, carried away by the crowd.

‘Who’s Bradbury?’ I asked Dougie.

My friend blinked and gulped.

‘That’s his boss, Will,’ he said. ‘Bradbury’s his boss.’

The bicycle I’d received for my fifteenth birthday had been my favourite gift ever. It was all the more galling to see it now, completely bent out of shape, suspended
from the shed wall by a couple of rusty nails. This was the bike that I rode religiously every day. The bike I was riding the night I was killed.

As presents went, it was undoubtedly the best. There had been stiff competition, of course, in particular the LEGO Death Star from my eleventh birthday. That was spectacular. Constructing a
fully operational battle station with Dad’s help had been a magical experience, that magic only shattered when I discovered he’d used superglue to construct his half of it. Dad never
really did understand the appeal and versatility of the plastic bricks, bless him, much less the irreversible bonding power of industrial-strength adhesive.

Like the Death Star after Dad’s bright idea, the bike was a ruin. The electric blue paint was peeling in places where the metal frame had twisted and buckled, the steel showing beneath.
The front wheel was almost bent in two, while the rubber grips on the handlebars were still torn up from where they’d scraped along the tarmac. The fact that my parents had kept the bike
meant an awful lot to me: almost every other sign that I’d lived there had been obliterated. My bedroom was now a home gym, most of my belongings donated to the local kids’ hospice.
That said, I’m sure Mum had a box of personal stuff stashed away in the loft. That’s if Dad’s model train set hadn’t swamped it entirely by now. We never got to play with it
as kids, but our mates’ dads could often be found up there. As big boys’ toys went, my father’s choo-choos were da bomb.

I could hear Dougie talking to my old man in the garden, beyond the shed walls. I couldn’t help but smile. Very kindly, he had agreed to pay my parents a visit on our way home from town,
for the first time in many months. It gave me the opportunity to have a mooch around my old home, reminisce about my childhood and see what my folks had been up to. Poor old Dougie was presently
locked into history’s most boring conversation. He really was the best friend a lad could ask for. It was small talk of the smallest variety, as any chat with your mate’s dad would be.
It’s hard to find common ground when one of you is a fifteen-year-old roleplaying game fanatic and the other is a forty-four-year-old postmaster whose only interests are steam trains and
gardening. I heard Dad grunt as he dug up the vegetable patch, Dougie pursuing a futile choice of topic.

‘So the mail goes from the post office straight to where it’s addressed?’

‘No.’ An exasperated sigh.

‘Really?’ Dougie’s voice was incredulous. Worst. Actor. Ever. ‘I always imagined that’s what happened.’

‘No, it goes to the sorting office first,’ said Dad, as he turned over the soil with his fork.

‘And that’s where the postmen sort it?’

Another grunt from Dad. ‘Clue’s kind of in the name, Dougie.’

‘Yeah.’ Awkward chuckles. ‘Fascinating.’

‘Sheila,’ Dad called, clearly wanting to escape the exhausting chat, ‘how are you getting on with that cordial? A man could die of thirst!’

I brought my attention back to the busted mountain bike. My smile faded. I had been cycling to Dougie’s house that night, keen to gloat with the news that I’d stolen a kiss from Lucy
Carpenter, the girl I’d fancied from afar throughout high school. I never saw the car that hit me. It came from behind, out of nowhere, the bike and I crumpling with the impact. The next
thing I recalled was waking up at the General Hospital. Only I wasn’t waking up in a physical sense. Seeing my dead body lying there on a trolley in A&E had been a big fat clue that
I’d shuffled off my mortal coil. Since then, I’d been learning how to control my powers, as well as coming to terms with being a ghost.

‘Here you go, Geoff!’ Mum called. I heard ice cubes tinkling in the cordial as she approached. Was there ever a nicer sound on a hot summer day? We were in the middle of a heatwave,
not that I’d have known. I was cursed to wear the clothes I’d died in: winter coat and Doctor Who scarf (knitted by Mum) trailing down to my feet.

I stepped through the shed walls, out into brilliant sunlight. Dougie caught my eye instantly, sandwiched as he was between my folks as the tall glasses of juice were handed out. He took one
gratefully.

‘A lovely refreshing drink for you hardworking chaps,’ said Mum, happy to be fussing them.

‘If talking incessantly counts as hard work then Douglas must be parched,’ said Dad, a wink breaking the barb of his comment.

‘So how are you doing, young man?’ asked my mum, ruffling Dougie’s hair as he supped at his juice. ‘It’s been too long since we’ve seen you, Douglas.
What’s happening?’

It was never going to be easy for my mate to return here. It was no secret how close he and I had been in life. He was as dear to me as my own family and, for many years, Mum treated him as an
extended part of our little clan. I often joked that he was the brother I’d never had – this had often just been to get a rise out of my actual brother, Ben, who was a couple of years
my senior. This often led to a dead arm, but was always worth it.

‘I’m good, thanks, Mrs Underwood. It’s been a busy year at school.’

‘How’s that going?’

‘Well, thanks. As in all subjects except for the D in Art.’

‘Ooh, that’s great news,’ said Mum, patting Dad’s shoulder and causing him to spill his cordial. ‘Isn’t that great news, Geoff?’

Another grunt from Dad, part acknowledgement, part irritation. Of course, the upturn in Dougie’s grades hadn’t been on account of his hard graft. Academically, it had proved
beneficial for him to have me hovering over his shoulder like some ghostly Google app. I’d always worked hard at school and, team that we were, I passed on what I knew to him. Alas, even I
couldn’t help him with Art. There were preschoolers with better fine motor skills and mark-making ability.

‘And how’s your dad?’ said Mum. Dougie flinched, imperceptible to my folks but I saw it. ‘I haven’t seen George in forever.’

‘He’s really well,’ Dougie lied. ‘Busy with work.’ Since we’d bumped into Mr Bradbury in town, a cloud had gathered over my friend’s head. It was clear
he wanted to speak to his dad about the man.

‘Is he still driving?’

Dougie polished off the drink, eyes fixed on me.

‘Yes, mate,’ I said to him with a nod. ‘We can go. I’m done.’

Dougie wiped his arm across his mouth, handing the glass back to Mum and completely dodging her last question. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mrs Underwood. Appreciate it.’

‘Don’t be a stranger, Douglas,’ she said, giving him a big hug. ‘Will may be gone, but that doesn’t change how we feel about you. Isn’t that right,
Geoff?’

Dad smiled and reluctantly nodded. To be fair, he was the same with me when I was alive. It had always been tricky coaxing a conversation from him. That wasn’t to say he didn’t love
me, and I don’t doubt for a minute he was still fond of Dougie.

‘It’s been lovely to see you, Douglas,’ said Mum as she escorted Dougie up the garden and down the path beside the house. ‘Do pass our best wishes to your dad.’

‘I shall, Mrs Underwood,’ he said as she opened the gate. I leaned into Mum, kissing her lightly on the cheek. Whether I consciously used the push or not, I can’t say, but she
brushed her fingertips across her face.

Dougie set off down the street, saluting her as we went, whispering to me all the while. She continued waving, as was her way, at least until Dougie was out of sight. ‘You took your merry
time in there.’

I waved to Mum too. Silly, as she couldn’t see me, but old habits die hard. ‘It’s nice to go back and see they’re doing so well. They kept the bike, you know?’

‘Good on ’em. It’s the least they can do since they turned your box room into a multi-gym. I love them and everything, but I’m glad to be out of there.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning on dragging you back every week.’

‘Twice a year is more than enough. Listening to your dad drone on is torturous. The United Nations should investigate him.’

‘Seemed to me it was you doing all the talking!’

‘Were you listening to a different conversation to me? Did you
hear
him bang on about the post office? Watching paint dry is more thrilling.’

We walked on to Dougie’s house in fine spirits, laughing and joshing, but as we passed the graveyard and turned down his street, there was a noticeable deceleration in his pace. His strut
transformed into a shambling trudge, his mood darkening, that familiar feeling leaking out of him and into me. Our connection never failed, each of us sensing the other’s emotions, no secrets
to hide. I sensed his trepidation as we approached his home, pausing momentarily outside the empty drive. We could hear the television’s din within, its volume woefully high. What the
neighbours thought of Mr Hancock I dreaded to think.

‘He’s in then,’ I said.

‘He’s always in,’ said Dougie, walking up to the front door and entering the house. ‘I’m home, Dad,’ he called over the noise, stopping by the glass-panelled
door into the lounge.

‘Hang on, son,’ came the voice from within, rough and weary. We both heard the clinking of glass as his old man quickly tried to hide whatever bottles he’d been drowning in.
Drinking in the day came as no surprise to us. We could see him moving through the mottled glass, reaching around the side of his armchair. Dougie rolled his eyes, pushing the door open, fed up of
the pantomime.

Mr Hancock smiled from his seat, though his eyes told a different tale. They were bloodshot and watery, his face unshaven, and he’d been wearing those clothes since the previous week. I
walked past, invisible to Dougie’s dad, catching the empty brown and green bottles that had been stashed behind the armchair. The floor was littered with unopened bills and letters, the
living room a pigsty.