Dead Scared (12 page)

‘You’re new to ghosthood, aren’t you?’ she said. I nodded as she continued. ‘The scares comes with the territory, for me, anyway. I like my own company. I
don’t need people snooping around here. For anyone to return even after I’ve given them the old “black eyes” routine tells me they’re serious about wanting to meet me.
I wouldn’t have harmed you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’

‘You froze me half to death!’ Dougie was glaring at her in disbelief, but I found myself smiling. I was warming to her, and quickly too.

‘So that was all for show?’ asked Dougie.

‘Seemed to do the trick,’ she sighed, perching herself on the edge of one of the desks. ‘Must be some big questions you need answering to have come back after that.’

‘But you knew I was a ghost, right?’ I said. ‘Yet you were still happy to put the frights on me and see me disappear with my mate?’

‘You’re green,’ she said. ‘It’s written all over you, I saw it straight away. You’re still thinking like a lifer. You haven’t been cold long enough to
get your head round it all, but it’s not my job to walk you through it. I had to muddle my own way along. You can learn the ropes yourself.’

‘The ropes?’

‘How to control your powers.’

‘I don’t need you to show me how to control anything. I just want to find out why I haven’t moved on and left this limbo behind me.’

‘And you think I can help you?’ she giggled. ‘Don’t you think
I’d
have moved on if I knew what it was that was stopping me? We’re all trapped here for
whatever reasons, with our own curses keeping us tethered to the living world. No one ghost is in the same boat as the next, friend.’

I considered her words as Dougie stepped across to the window and peered outside.

‘So it’s Phyllis, right?’ I asked. ‘Do you really have no idea why you’re here? Not even a suspicion? It seems like you’ve been here a while. How did you . .
. die?’

Phyllis opened her mouth as if she were about to answer, and then paused. Her face was deathly pale already, but if it was possible to drain of colour any more, it did so right then. Her playful
expression was gone in an instant, replaced by one of fear and anxiety.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said, reaching out to brush her arm with my fingertips. There was an actual physical sensation as we touched, Phyllis looking up as I gave her a squeeze
of encouragement. Dougie interrupted before I could say anything more.

‘He’s back,’ gasped my mate from where he stood at the window. ‘We need to go, and now!’

Dougie was off and running, not waiting to say goodbye to Phyllis, and I was torn away from her as he sped off down the corridor, only able to shout one last thing back at her as we ran.

‘We’ll be back, I promise!’

Dougie was bounding down the stairs two and three at a time now, hugging the banister as he hit the first and then ground floor.

‘Where is he?’ I gasped as he stumbled across the lobby of the House, past the double doors. Dougie pointed frantically at the entrance, his eyes wide with terror at the sound of a
key sliding into the lock. The mechanism rattled before a sudden
clunk
told us the door was unlocked. Dougie was already in the side room, waiting to leap out of the window and be on his
way. Timing was everything: Borley had to be entering into the House at the very moment Dougie was exiting. If Dougie got it wrong, he was bound to be caught.

As the double doors opened, groaning on their hinges, Dougie was on his way. Down he went, dragging his legs over the splintered windowsill, face first towards the ground where he landed with a
crunch, half the frame coming away with him. He scrambled to his feet, shaking loose the shards of rotten wood before heading for the drive. His run was stumbling, a limp dogging his escape as he
clutched his right thigh.

‘You there!’

He was hot on our heels, the old man skipping down the steps on spry feet before giving chase.

‘He’s catching you up,’ I warned Dougie, alerting him to the caretaker’s pursuit. ‘The woods!’

Immediately he peeled away from the gravel drive and ducked between trunk and branch, heading deeper into the undergrowth.

‘C’mere, boy!’ shouted Borley, following us into the woods.

Limping, Dougie slipped between the trees, picking his way towards the railings that encircled the grounds. I looked back all the while, keeping my eye on my friend’s hunter, unhindered by
the trees and bushes that blocked the path. I could see Borley’s face twisting with anger as he tried to catch up, cursing as the branches and brambles lashed his flesh.

‘How’s your leg?’ I asked.

‘A mere scratch,’ Dougie whispered, removing a six-inch dagger of wood that had punctured through the fabric of his jeans. I knew instantly that with a slashed leg he’d have
little chance of making it over the railings.

‘Follow the fence round to the gate; try and lose Borley in the undergrowth.’

‘Easier said than done,’ he panted, resting his back against a tree. ‘Where is he?’

I looked past him, spying the old man maybe twenty feet away, drawing ever closer. I could sense Dougie’s anxiety coming off him in waves, and I shared his fear. I couldn’t allow
Borley to find him; I had to do what I could to help him escape. An idea was slowly forming.

‘Stay where you are,’ I said, drifting away from him directly toward Borley. ‘Run when I shout.’

I was past the caretaker in an instant, moving as far away as possible from Dougie. Although our special bond gave me strength, it also proved a hindrance. I’d been happy to become
Dougie’s shadow, close by at all times, but it seemed I now depended upon him. My friend had become the centre of my world and the further I strayed from him, the weaker I became. Just as I
felt the elastic connection between us stretched to its absolute limit, I braced myself, letting my anger build. I stared at Borley, my eyes drilling into the back of his head as he scoured the
woods for my mate. The connection between the caretaker and Phyllis was all too obvious to me. He
had
to know about Phyllis: why else was he here, at the House? Was it his shrine? And what
part had he played in her death? The misery at my own fate was now surging to the fore, my anger at the driver of the car who stole my life away clouding my emotions. I let it build to a crescendo,
the snapping of a twig bringing my focus back to Borley.

My hand lashed out, striking the branches beside me and sending them rattling against one another. The strange ectoplasm flew from the twisted twigs like threads of a spider’s web, coating
the gnarled branches where I’d struck them. Instantly the caretaker’s head spun about.

‘That you, lad?’ he called out, weather-beaten face wrinkling as he narrowed his eyes. He set off in my direction, picking his way over to where the noise had sounded.

‘Go now!’ I shouted, confident that Borley had taken the bait.

As Dougie set off, I followed after him. I drifted past the caretaker as he continued toward where I’d been, snarling at the old geezer as I passed him by. Dougie hurried on, not daring to
look back, as he flitted and fell between tree and bush on his way to the exit. The distraction had bought him just enough time to get out of the woods, and a few more precious seconds to navigate
through the chained gates. He hit the grille and pushed hard, the metal links once again straining as he forced them apart.

‘C’mere!’ shouted Borley, as he burst out of the undergrowth at our backs, hurrying towards us. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the fur of my mate’s hood as
Dougie collapsed between the gates and through to the other side. He bounced off the bonnet of the caretaker’s van, which was parked at the head of the drive, leaving a bloody handprint on
its side. Borley rattled the gates before searching his pockets for the keys, cursing out loud. He’d have no luck finding them: I’d seen him leave them in the door to the House.

‘Now would be a good time to get going, Dougie,’ I said.

‘I saw you, boy!’ Borley shouted as my friend hobbled down the road, putting distance between us and the horrible old man. ‘I saw you!’

‘You done something to your leg, Hancock?’

Dougie winced as he sat down in the chair before the headmaster’s desk. We’d spent the previous Sunday afternoon cleaning up his injury. I say we, but it was basically me wittering
in his ear while Dougie washed, cleaned and dressed the wound. A thick layer of bandage – enough to clothe an Egyptian mummy – encircled his right thigh, his trousers now stretched to
ripping point.

‘It’s nothing, sir. I took a bang to it falling out of a tree in my garden.’

‘Are you sure it’s not a sport injury from, say . . . hockey?’ asked Mr Goodman, raising an eyebrow as my friend settled.

‘Phew,’ I said, voicing Dougie’s relief. ‘He’s heard about your chat with Lucy.’

Initially, we’d assumed he’d been called into Goodman’s office to explain what he’d been doing at the House. We’d spent the night talking it over, going through the
various events that might occur. Most worrying had been if Borley had gone straight to Goodman, reporting my mate for breaking and entering. An angry Goodman was a thing to behold: legend had it he
once picked a boy up by his sideburns and threw him into a bin for answering back. Borley keeping our sneaking secret had been the best possible outcome, at least until the old man eventually
challenged Dougie over his shenanigans. That would no doubt be out of earshot of Goodman, and would bring its own problems. As it transpired, invading Miss Roberts’ hockey session had been
the reason for the summons.

‘That’s right, lad,’ said the headmaster, turning his back to Dougie as he looked out of the window. ‘I heard all about your nonsense on the hockey field. There are few
things in life that I’m scared of. Being buried alive is one.
Jaws
has stopped me from swimming in the sea since a Christmas cinema trip in 1975. And an irate Miss Roberts: the thought
of that one tops the lot. You mind telling me what business you had interrupting her hockey trials?’

Dougie cleared his throat, stalling for time. He glanced to where I stood by the door. I shrugged. This line of questioning hadn’t been something we’d considered.

‘I had to speak with Lucy Carpenter, sir,’ he said. ‘It was important.’

‘So important it couldn’t wait until you got out of school?’ shouted Goodman, spinning round and hitting the desk with his fists. ‘I hear you were hanging around the
girls’ classes last week like a dog sniffing out a bone. Am I running some sort of dating service here now or what? Last time I looked it was a high school I was charged with managing, unless
you know better, Hancock? Well? You so keen on the poor lass that you’d risk irritating me?’

Everything about Goodman’s voice told me that Dougie was in serious trouble here. The string of quick-fire questions was the headmaster’s favourite style of attack, the challenges
issued in such rapid succession that the victim had no chance of answering them.

‘Spit it out, boy! Cat got your tongue? Getting shy all of a sudden? Girl talk not something you’re used to, Hancock? Preferring spying on them from the bushes than talking to them
in person? Is that it?’

‘It’s . . . it’s not like that, sir!’ Dougie said at last, finally getting a word in edgeways. ‘I wasn’t stalking her! Whatever Miss Roberts said, it’s
not true—’

‘Miss Roberts a liar now, is she, Hancock? That’s quite an accusation, lad!’

‘No, sir, that’s not what I’m saying at all. She’s just got the wrong end of the stick!’

‘You’re lucky she didn’t give
you
the wrong end of the hockey stick. If she catches hold of you, she may yet still!’

‘I don’t get the chance to speak to Lucy during school-time, certainly not alone, as we aren’t in the same classes for everything, and when I
do
see her she’s
always got her mates around her.’

‘So during a hockey match was obviously the next best opportunity to chat her up?’

Dougie shrugged hopelessly. Goodman had a point. I’d warned Dougie at the time that his plan was as about as foolproof as his goth impression, but he hadn’t listened. It wasn’t
even like Dougie intended to return to Lucy anyway – she’d made her feelings about me known quite clearly. The headmaster continued.

‘Can’t talk to her outside of school either, Hancock? Are you some kind of mumbling halfwit who’s scared of anything that giggles?’

I snorted at that, and Dougie briefly glared my way before returning his gaze to the headmaster.

‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m done talking to girls. It won’t happen again.’

‘Good lord, Hancock,’ gasped Goodman, raising his hands to his cheeks and pulling a pantomime face of fear. ‘Not
scared
of girls, are you, lad?’

‘No, sir,’ Dougie replied, his face crimson with embarrassment. ‘It’s not like that. Vinnie Savage is always hanging around her anyway. He used to date her.’

Goodman’s face slipped now, his mocking tone fading as he frowned. ‘Right. Well. Savage is a toe-rag, I can see how that might provide problems.’ He sat down and leaned back in
his leather captain’s chair, staring hard at Dougie who cowered across the desk from him.

‘I’ll give you a tip, lad,’ said Goodman at last. ‘A pointer from my own arsenal of how to deal with people. Next time you see a lass and like the look of her, stop
cowering and sneaking about like some timid wee muppet and go straight up to her. Faint hearts never won fair lady and all that.’

‘But what about the Savages of this world?’

‘That lad’s a bully, Hancock. If he gives you grief, you tell me and I’ll see how he likes it when the boot’s on the other foot.’

‘And what if he hits me?’

‘You hit him back, Hancock. Good grief, I can’t do everything for you. You need to stand up for yourself, lad. Stop being such a pushover. Stop letting other people walk over
you.’

Dougie shifted nervously.

‘Am I still in trouble with Miss Roberts?’

‘I’ll see if I can tame that particular beast,’ Goodman replied, shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘A bit of well-placed flattery and the promise of an early finish might
douse that fire. You don’t get to where I am without knowing how to treat the ladies. Don’t let me see you back here, Hancock.’