Dead Scared (6 page)

‘And what
can
I do?’

‘You can speak to the dead.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Any true goth knows you’re the real deal,’ Dougie said, hitting her with his best compliment.

‘Why are you so interested, Nosebleed?’

‘I’ve a friend who died,’ said Dougie, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She clicked her fingers in sudden recognition.

‘
Now
I know you. You were mates with that lad who got killed by the hit-and-run, right?’ she asked, news of my death having clearly reached the darkest corners of the
school.

‘I still am,’ he replied. ‘He’s stuck here and doesn’t know how to move on.’

‘I don’t
want
to move on,’ I interjected, but Dougie carried on regardless.

‘I figured you might know how to make that happen.’

‘He’s here
now
?’ she said, looking around.

‘She’s staring straight through me, mate,’ I whispered to Dougie.

‘You can’t see him?’ he asked.

Mary shrugged. ‘I can reach the departed . . . sometimes. I just need to be in the right mood.’

‘I could help you with that,’ said Dougie. ‘I mean, getting you in the mood.’

‘You could, could you?’ she said huskily, her voice as smooth as broken glass. I don’t think Dougie realised what he’d just said.

‘Yeah, whatever you need, I’m there,’ said Dougie, his gothic mask slipping as his natural exuberance came to the fore. ‘How are you fixed tonight? My dad’s gonna
be out so we won’t be interrupted.’

Bloody Mary was smiling now, her tobacco-stained teeth shining dully from between her black lips.

‘Give us your address,’ she said, as Dougie rifled through his blazer to grab his marker pen and a used bus ticket. Scribbling the details down on the scrap of paper, he handed it
over, waving the black pen in the air with a rather-chuffed grin.

‘My eyeliner,’ he said. ‘Never leave home without it!’

‘That?’ she replied, nodding approvingly as she pocketed the ticket. ‘Hardcore, Nosebleed. I’ll see you later. After dark.’

With that she was off, shambling further into the shadow world behind the bike sheds like a behemoth. There she would wait, shrouded by darkness and biding her time, at least until the bell went
and she had to go to food technology. Dougie waved his marker victoriously in my face.

‘Hardcore, she called me! We’ll have this sorted this evening, mate, mark my words.’

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Nosebleed,’ I muttered, staring ruefully at the pen in his hand.

‘Why’s that?’

‘That eyeliner you’ve just applied is permanent marker.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve left her alone in your bedroom,’ I said as Dougie banged the fridge door shut with his bum, a couple of cans in his hands.
‘She’s probably rifling through your drawers at the moment, sifting through your smalls. Are you sure you binned those Hulk growlers?’

‘Very funny, Casper,’ Dougie muttered, walking straight through me as he made for the hall.

‘That’s very rude, you know?’ I called after him, quick to follow. ‘Ghosts have feelings too!’

With Mr Hancock out for the evening at the local pub quiz, the stage was set for Bloody Mary’s dark arts. I should probably say I felt entirely safe from the prospect of exorcism when she
couldn’t even see me. I was convinced the only way for me to move on would be to uncover the mysteries of my death. Mary had more chance of growing a pair of bat wings than banishing me to
the Great Hereafter. Dougie seemed cool with this too. I could be a pest, but he didn’t really want to see me gone. He too wanted to get to the bottom of why I was here, and he was convinced
Mary was the real deal. Me? I had doubts. Lots of them.

The air was thick with tension. Mary had arrived looking sombre and otherworldly, as though she’d just been beamed down on to the doorstep from her mothership. She’d changed ever so
slightly from her attire at school, black lipstick shifting to blood red while a big silver hoop had appeared through her nostrils. Standing to one side, Dougie had ushered her in, checking her
preference for drinks. When he’d told her Southern Comfort was not actually an option, she’d reluctantly agreed to try some Dandelion and Burdock, before stomping up the stairs and into
Dougie’s room. And there she waited, as my friend climbed the stairs towards her, his hands trembling with trepidation at the evening ahead.

‘What are you worried about? She’s only here for a bit of light exorcism,’ I joked as Dougie headed upstairs. He stumbled as he climbed, almost dropping the cans as he
regathered his footing.

‘I’ve never had a girl in my bedroom before,’ he hissed before arriving on the landing, nudging his door open with a tentative toe-poke.

‘You’ve never had a girl in your
house
,’ I corrected him sympathetically.

The first thing to hit us as we entered his bedroom was the pall of smoke that now hung in the air, Mary having wasted no time in sparking up. She was sitting at the foot of his bed, back
against the wall, casting her eyes over the plethora of Warhammer posters that cluttered his walls. To my horror, I spied her using one of Dougie’s chess club cups as an ash tray. I knew how
dear those old tin trophies were to him. Biting his lip, Dougie made his way around the bed, sitting at the head end some distance from Mary, placing the cans of pop on to his bedside table.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ I whispered. ‘She doesn’t bite. Much.’

Mary closed the remaining distance, bumping up against him. That was all it took to propel Dougie forward off the bed.

‘So, I’ve been reading up on it,’ he said to her, crossing to his computer desk and hitting the monitor button.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, a twinge of disappointment in her voice as he sat down in front of his PC.

‘Seances,’ he replied as the screen pinged into life, revealing a world of internet pages on spooks.

Mary’s feet thumped the floor as she crossed the room, coming to a halt behind him. Dougie was immersed in shadows as she leaned forward, her white face appearing across his shoulder. Any
hopes that his personal space might remain safe from invasion had been scuttled; the queen of the goths was not giving up so easily.

‘You
have
been busy,’ she said, clearly impressed.

‘You probably know more than any of the clowns I’ve been speaking to, but there seem to be a few things that are constants. I snaffled some candles from my dad’s garage –
apparently spirits are drawn to heat and light.’ He looked at me. ‘Am I right so far?’

‘Can’t say I’ve given it much thought, but if it helps then tell her what she needs to hear.’

‘You’re speaking to him right now?’ she asked, once again staring straight through me.

‘Course,’ Dougie replied. ‘Like I said, he’s here
all
the time. Right, what else is there . . .’ He started scrolling through one of the web pages that had
proved especially helpful. Mary continued to glance around the room, at no point registering my existence.

While there was no arguing with her gothic credentials – she certainly looked the part with her clothes, make-up and constantly surly attitude – I was finding it difficult to believe
that this girl had any real occult powers. If she was a spiritualist as she claimed to be, then surely she’d have seen me by now, or at the very least acknowledged I was present? As a
lifelong disbeliever in anything supernatural – especially so-called mediums – it was hard enough for
me
to believe in ghosts, and I
was
one! I noticed she was now staring
at Dougie, her eyes lingering over his still-spiky hair.

She clearly wasn’t listening as he rattled on enthusiastically, expounding his theories on what they needed to do in order for her to speak with me. Her eyes were now on the nape of his
neck, pale and exposed where his collar was open. Did she just lick her lips? I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

‘Um . . . Dougie,’ I said, but he was utterly in the zone as he imparted his newfound wisdom and paid me no attention.

‘Since you never actually met Will, you don’t know who you’re looking for,’ he said, tapping a shoebox beside the keyboard. ‘I’ve got some of his personal
artefacts here: school photographs, a couple of CDs he lent me, roleplay dice, a pair of shades I nicked off him in the summer, that kinda thing. I’ve also turned off my mobile phone –
you might want to do the same – as that’s just the kind of distraction I’d imagine might screw things up for you. Sorry – this is probably like teaching your granny how to
suck eggs, isn’t—’

Mary’s lips were suddenly on Dougie’s neck, her mouth clamped to his flesh. He let loose a yowl, tearing himself free and squirming out of his chair and on to the floor, the vacated
seat spinning behind him like an abandoned kiddie’s roundabout.

‘Did you just
bite
me?’ exclaimed Dougie in disbelief, checking that his neck was still intact. I snorted, torn between feelings of sympathy and hilarity as he scrambled clear
of Bloody Mary.

‘Oh come on, Nosebleed,’ she said, stepping closer to him, her voice now light and giggly. ‘I thought you were into the vampire stuff?’

‘Yeah, on the telly and in a book, not in real life!’ he laughed nervously, his face now flushed with colour. He backed on to the bed, his eyes panicked as she sat near him.

‘Sorry,’ Mary said, her husky voice at its flirty best. It really wasn’t working. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you want me to take a look at that? See if
I’ve . . . broken the skin . . .’

She leaned forward, her black fingernails reached for his collar. Did she actually think she was a vampire?

Dougie dodged out of her grasp once more. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ he gasped. ‘I thought we were here to get you to communicate with Will!’

‘Oh give it up, there’s no such thing as ghosts!’

‘But . . . but I thought you could speak to the dead!’ he stammered frantically.

‘Give over. Who really believes in any of that nonsense? Stop playing games, Nosebleed. I know why you invited me here tonight,’ she whispered, craning closer for a kiss.

‘Wait!’ he shrieked, making one last desperate bid to avoid snogging the most feared girl in school. ‘I’m not a goth and my name’s not Nosebleed! I’m Dougie,
I like Dungeons and Dragons, comics, cartoons and Eighties indie! My hair’s spiky because it’s full of flippin’ glue, and using a Sharpie for eyeliner wasn’t hardcore
– it was good old-fashioned haplessness! I’m really not into vampires!’

Mary glanced each way conspiratorially. ‘I’ll let you into a couple of secrets: neither am I! My favourite film is
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
and my iPod’s full of
Michael Buble.’

The panic was rising on Dougie’s face as he realised he was out of his depth, his face drained of colour. A ghost I may have been, but my insides were knotted, my friend’s anxiety
seemingly crossing over. Whatever discomfort he felt, I was getting it too, coming off him in waves. He seemed paralysed in the presence of Mary, but I wasn’t. I could have left him there to
his fate, with the older girl having clearly dramatically misread Dougie’s signals, but I couldn’t do it. He was my best mate. I did what any friend would do. I intervened.

‘Come on, Nosebleed,’ she whispered, puckering her lips. ‘Gimme some sugar.’

I lashed out, striking one of the cans of pop and propelling it through the air. How did I do it? I couldn’t tell you, I wasn’t even sure I could replicate it. The can exploded as it
hit the wall, ring pull rupturing and sending Dandelion and Burdock across the two of them. That wasn’t the alarming part though. A clear viscous gel oozed from the wall where the can had
impacted, rolling down the paper in slow, sticky trails. We were all big enough
Ghostbusters
fans to recognise ectoplasm when we saw it.

That was enough for Bloody Mary. She trampled Dougie on her way to the door, crashing out of the bedroom and down the stairs as she fled the Hancock house in quick time. We looked out of his
window, watching her go, wailing as she ran down the street, before turning our attention back to the wall and the ghostly goo.

‘How—’

‘I have
no
idea,’ I said, cutting Dougie off. ‘Sorry about the wallpaper, pal. That might take some explaining to your old man.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ he said with a sheepish shrug.

I put my arm around my friend to comfort him, only for it to pass right through.

I cursed. He laughed.

‘Well, I think it’s fair to say that my flirtation with the Dark Side’s been a total disaster,’ said Dougie, his voice laden with all the gloom a failed
goth could muster.

My mum had a well-worn proverb:
If you’ve nothing nice to say, best say nothing at all.
I was sticking with this at present. Ordinarily, Dougie would’ve been ripe for the
ribbing that only best friends can hand out, but even my wicked sense of humour opted out on this occasion. Don’t get me wrong, I was itching to say
something
, but nothing I
could’ve said would have been funnier than how Dougie already looked.

His hair was gone, shorn off that very morning once it had become clear that the PVA glue had been a distinctly bad idea. Bad because he hadn’t used PVA after all: the bottle he’d
swiped from his dad’s garage had actually contained wood glue. His hair had been the least embarrassing problem to resolve, though. A good half-hour had been spent in the bathroom before he
left the house, going through roughly five sink-loads of hot, soapy water as he relentlessly scrubbed at his eyelids to no effect. Two perfect black rings encircled his bleary peepers, giving him
the fixed expression of a world-weary panda. The pair of sunglasses he’d resorted to only drew more attention, especially with the grey November skies hanging overhead. And the humiliating
pièce de résistance was the love bite on his neck. I’d seen this before in school, usually relatively subtle, but Dougie’s wasn’t subtle in the least. The enormous
circular suckered spot made it look like he’d lost a fight with the Kraken.