Dead Scared (3 page)

I took the route the crows flew, in the direction of Dougie’s house. He had seen me, hadn’t he, back in the funeral home? What are best mates for, if not to be there for you when
you’re dead? I pushed on through every obstacle that stood in my way – tree, gate, fence and phone box – battling through the nausea that came with it.

I passed our school, Brooklands, and thought of all the years I’d spent there, japing with my mates, fawning after Lucy Carpenter, fleeing from bullies. Beside the school was Red Brook
House, the predecessor of Brooklands. I paused to look at the monstrous mausoleum to a time long gone. Neighbourhood kids had always said the old condemned building, known locally as ‘the
House’, was haunted. I’d scoffed at the notion. Until now. I stared at the ancient red brickwork, choked by dark ivy, creepers crawling through glassless windows. Although I felt no
cold, I shivered. I left it behind, flitting across the playing fields as I raced into St Mary’s cemetery.

There was nothing to scare me in the graveyard any more, so far as I knew, nor provide any obstacle. I found myself slowing, considering the words and epitaphs on the graves as I wandered
between headstones and carved monuments of marble. There was the war memorial, the bright red garland of poppies at its base where old servicemen had placed it. I’d come here countless times
with my local scout group, but never truly considered the sacrifice those lads had made decades – a century – ago. I traced my fingers over their names. I might have felt no physical
connection, but something stirred in my heart. I walked past the memorial to the wall of remembrance, where the wreaths of the recently passed were placed. I recognised mine from my funeral
instantly, my gurning portrait placed dead centre. There was a note from Mum and Dad attached:
Our beautiful boy, so sorely missed.
I choked up. Couldn’t help myself. I needed to be
out of the graveyard now. I set off at a pace.

I ran straight through the fence at the rear of the cemetery and skidded to a halt in Dougie’s back garden. I paused for a moment to gather my senses and my stomach: the
passing-through-solid-objects thing wasn’t getting any easier, but I was sure as dammit going to master it. I could see the light on in Dougie’s bedroom, could hear the hypnotic beat of
his stereo. What was that he was listening to? One Direction? This had to be a cry for help. My hand wavered over the back door handle.
What was I thinking?
I stepped clean through it.

I passed the glass-panelled door to the living room, catching sight of Dougie’s dad through the mottled glass, slumped in his armchair. Dougie’s mum had passed away when he was
little, his dad now the only family he had. Mr Hancock had always struck me as a sad soul, working awful hours as a driver for a local businessman and struggling to bring up his son alone. It was a
miracle Dougie had grown up to be so well-rounded, and that was in no small part thanks to the love of his father. All the while the sound of Dougie’s (disturbingly poor taste in) music drew
me closer, my feet creeping up the stairs towards his bedroom. I stepped into Dougie’s den, trying to ignore the odd sensation as I passed through the door.

He lay flat on his bed, feet hanging off the end and balancing on his drum-kit stool. His eyes were closed, hands resting on his belly, fingers drumming along to
Teenage Kicks
. He was
still wearing the grey suit he’d worn at the funeral home, the tie yanked loose into a knot around his throat. I stood over him for a moment, trying to decide what to do, what to say.
Had
he really seen me earlier? Was I just wasting my time?

I opened my mouth to speak. ‘Best mates through thick and thin?’

Any lingering concerns I’d had about whether Dougie had seen me vanished in an instant when he flicked open his eyes. He shrieked once – a sound familiar to anyone who’s ever
been suddenly and horribly surprised – before rolling off the bed, hitting the floor with a clumsy
thunk
.
His stool tumbled forward, clattering into the drum-kit and sending his
cymbals toppling over with a
clash.
When Dougie emerged from the other side of his bed he held his drumsticks in each hand, crossed over one another in the sign of the crucifix.

‘Get back!’ he cried, his face white with horror.

‘This isn’t
Buffy
, you idiot,’ I said. ‘I’m not a blood-sucking vampire.’

‘Look . . . look at you!’

I lifted my hands, turning them over before my eyes. They were pale and deathly white, and with each movement they left a phosphorous blue shimmer trailing in the air. I looked like Ben
Kenobi’s spirit in
The Empire Strikes Back
, only instead of being aglow with Jedi magic it was the cold chill of death.

‘Is everything all right up there, son?’

It was Mr Hancock, calling from the foot of the stairs. I stared at my best friend and shrugged.

‘Your call, mate:
is
everything OK?’

Dougie chewed his lips, the drumsticks rattling against one another as he held them before him, warding me away.

‘Fine thanks, Dad!’ he called over his shoulder. He smiled, throwing me a hopeful look as if asking if he’d said the right thing.

‘Dougie, I’m still Will. I haven’t changed that much.’

‘Haven’t changed?’ gasped Dougie, killing the stereo with a flick of a switch. ‘You’re dead.’

‘But I’m still me. Anyway, you can talk about change: One Direction? What’s with that?’

‘It was on the radio.’

‘I can
see
the CD box, dude!’

Dougie glowered at me as the thumping of footsteps on the stairs warned us that his dad was on his way up to investigate.

‘You’re a flippin’
ghost
, Will!’

‘You saw me this afternoon, Dougie, back at the funeral home. You’ve got to see; I’ve nowhere else to go.’

‘Your folks live over the way: can’t you go there?’

‘You don’t understand, mate. I’ve been there, but it just felt wrong. They were all so sad, so miserable. I couldn’t be near them.’ I shrugged. ‘I’d
rather just hang out.’

The door opened and the haggard face of Mr Hancock appeared around the corner.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Douglas?’

I was standing directly between father and son. Ordinarily, this might obscure the line of sight of one to the other, but that wasn’t really a problem any more. Dougie looked straight
through me towards his dad as his old man smiled back sadly.

‘Yes . . . thanks, Dad,’ whispered Dougie. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘It’s been an exhausting time, son, for you as much as anyone. Don’t make it a late one, eh? You’ve got school tomorrow.’

Dougie’s dad’s pale face was etched with concern, the worry lines more pronounced than ever. He didn’t look well at all, clearly my loss and its effect on his son having hit
him hard too. Mr Hancock was Dougie’s sole caregiver and still treated him like a kid, though his heart was definitely in the right place. Now he pulled the door closed, leaving the two of us
alone once more.

‘I completely forgot it was school tomorrow,’ I said, sitting down beside Dougie on the end of his bed.

‘I know: double science first thing. I hate Thursdays.’

‘You’re not alone,’ I sighed.

Dougie did a double-take suddenly.

‘This is insane, Will. You’re a ghost! Why are you here?’

‘I thought that once they’d shoved me in the oven at the funeral home I’d be on my way, but I appear to be stuck here.’

Dougie laughed.

‘The oven. I like that.’ Then as he remembered the gravity of the situation he added: ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Forget it.’

‘So how does this ghost thing work? Are you not destined to haunt your own family for all eternity?’

‘No, thank God, and I can’t say that’s not a relief! It’s not much fun there right now.’

‘How about the graveyard? Surely that’s where you belong?’

‘Nope, apparently not. I didn’t get stuck there either.’

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Dougie, shaking his head, still struggling to believe the strange turn of events.

‘Well, for starters, you’re going to go to school tomorrow.’

‘And what will you do?’

‘Reckon I’ll start the day with double science.’

‘Huh?’

I smiled and shook my wrists, jazz-hands stylee.

‘I’m coming with you!’

‘He’s standing next to you
right now
?
’

Stu Singer’s face had never been more animated. His eyes were wide and his grin looked like it might tear his face in two. Dougie nodded as Stu slapped a hand to his brow and shook his
forehead.

‘This is mad!’

‘Are you sure you can’t see him?’ asked Dougie.

Stu pointed directly at me.

‘He’s here?’

Dougie nodded again, as Stu threw his hand out, his fingers passing straight through me harmlessly. Stu sent a punch my way next, the fist disappearing into where my stomach should have been but
connecting with nothing. He threw a few more punches and karate chops as Dougie and I looked at one another, unimpressed. I stepped away, walking round the other side of Dougie, leaving Stu to
knock lumps out of thin air.

‘So
nobody
can see me except you?’

‘Seems that way,’ whispered Dougie as he watched Stu effortlessly unbalance himself with a high kick that sent him tumbling to the floor of the wood-store. Mr Russell, our design and
technology teacher, was oblivious to our presence in the storeroom. So long as he had a bit of wood to whittle away at on the lathe in the machine-room, he was happy.

‘Did I get him?’ asked Stu from the linoleum.

‘Yeah, you got him,’ lied Dougie, turning away.

I stepped past Stu, who was clambering back to his feet, and joined Dougie by the window that overlooked the schoolyard. Clouds of dead leaves swirled through the air, tiny twisters of red,
yellow and brown whirling across the playground.

‘They’re going to think I’m mad, you know,’ he said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘All these conversations I’m having with myself. I look and sound like a proper nutter. Cheers for that, you div!’

‘They can’t see me; they can’t hear me. You’re the only one who’s paying me any attention. You’re the special one, D!’

‘So special that I get to be haunted by my best mate? Winner!’ he said, punching his fist feebly in the air.

‘You know what, Dougie,’ said Stu, having now righted himself, ‘my dad could take care of this for you. He’s a vicar, remember? Man of the cloth and all that. He knows
stuff.’ Stu stepped up and whispered, possibly trying to ensure that I couldn’t hear him: ‘He can make Will go away.’

‘He does realise I’m standing
right here,
doesn’t he?’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ Dougie asked Stu. ‘You make it sound like Will’s one of the Sopranos.’

‘Dad can exorcise him.’

‘He can do that?’

‘Oi!’ I shouted, my annoyance rising at an alarming rate. I might have been in limbo but I had a lot of questions that needed answering. I didn’t need Stu’s dad throwing
holy water or whatever my way.

‘Deffo, he’s down with all that stuff, possessions and whatnot. Mate of his in Liverpool saw a bloke levitate once. They’re like Ghostbusters, these priests and
vicars.’

‘Please tell me you’ve stopped listening to him,’ I said, as Stu’s imagination bounded off into la-la-land. Stu was famous for telling everyone that his grandpa was in
the SAS when he really worked for Parcel Force. He was terribly bright and had a photographic memory, but for all those smarts, he was strangely naive. It was rumoured his stupidity would be the
death of him. I thought Stu was an idiot savant, although Dougie reckoned he was just a common or garden idiot.

‘Exorcising? I thought that was only in the movies,’ said Dougie.

‘Nobody’s going to exorcise anybody!’ I shouted, my temper fraying. I struck out at Dougie and although I didn’t feel my hand connect, to my surprise I saw his shoulder
bounce a little, as if gently patted.

He and I looked at his shoulder, both shocked by the apparent connection, and stared at one another. Stu walked through me as he made his way out of the wood-store and back into the design and
technology classroom. A wave of nausea rippled through me with his passing.

‘Gimme a shout when you make your mind up, bro,’ he said to Dougie as he strutted off, knocking over a wood-pile in true Damage Squad fashion. ‘I ain’t afraid of no
ghosts . . .’

‘So you felt that?’ I asked excitedly when Stu had gone.

‘I felt . . . something.’

‘But you moved your shoulder when I lashed out.’

‘I saw you swing. Perhaps it was instinct? An impulse reaction?’

That wasn’t the answer I needed to hear. If I could
touch
something in the real world, then what else might I be capable of?

‘No, there’s got to be more to it than that. There’s a way I can connect with the living world. I just know it. I just need to tap into that. Find out how to . . .’

I noticed Dougie was staring out of the window, paying me little attention. A group of girls were making their way across the schoolyard and there, at the back of them, was Lucy Carpenter.

‘I wonder if she can see me,’ I whispered.

‘I doubt it,’ said Dougie.

I shivered. Dougie’s words had struck a chord. There was something I had to tell him. Something had slipped my mind. I was close to remembering what that was when Mr Russell
interrupted.

‘Hancock,’ he said, catching Dougie by surprise.

I wondered how long the teacher had been standing there.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I think you might need to have a talk with someone, young man,’ he said, reaching out and patting Dougie on the shoulder.

Dougie glanced at me, rolling his eyes as Russell led him back to his desk, muttering something about the school nurse and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Dougie sat slouched in the chair outside Mr Goodman’s office, Drumstick Lolly in mouth, feet tapping nervously on the carpet. The lolly made him look nerdier than ever.
It had been a parting gift from the Mrs Jolly, the appropriately-named school nurse. Mrs Jolly was a lovely, plump, roly-poly lady with cheeks the colour – and texture – of
strawberries. She was without doubt the one person you wanted to see if you had any ailment, from a grazed knee to a broken arm, such was her ability to put one’s mind at ease. Invariably a
key component of all her medical remedies would be a lollipop, doled out from an enormous tub she kept on top of her filing cabinet. The lollies were a leftover from her previous job in a primary
school.