Authors: Curtis Jobling
I followed my friend as he dashed from the empty classroom, leaving a host of unanswered questions hanging in our wake.
‘Danger Night! Danger Night! All rides a pound!’
The steady stream of kids crowded through the open gates before spilling giddily into the fairground. For fifty-one weeks of the year this was just a scrap of wasteland beside the railway
station, the domain of dog walkers and amorous couples. For that other week of the year it was transformed into a noisy, colourful world of spinning cups, posturing boys and shrieking girls. When
the fair came to town you were guaranteed excitement, especially on the opening night. It was named Danger Night on account of the rumour that none of the rides had been safety tested. The cheap
prices were a reflection on this. You took your life in your own hands on Danger Night, apparently.
Dougie was stood outside the arcade, the flashing lights of shoot-em-ups and racing games dancing across his back. Our roleplaying compadre Andy Vaughn stood beside him, blowing into his cupped
hands. It was a bitterly cold night, the weather having really turned since we’d fled the House earlier. If there
had
been anyone in the woods outside – and I wasn’t
convinced there was – then they’d clearly missed Dougie as he’d slipped out of the old building, skipping down the gravel drive on one leg before making good his getaway.
We’d got somewhere with Phyllis, of that there was no doubt. She’d explained a bit about being a ghost, and we’d pricked some distant memory which explained how she’d come
to haunt the House. The resultant revelations that had risen from the brief conversation had only spawned more questions. Did Phyllis know how she died? Did she know Borley? How were the two
connected?
‘Scooby Doo never had it this difficult,’ said Dougie, leaning against the tent wall of the arcade tent, a supporting post flat to his back. He had his little black notebook out,
scribbling away with his pencil.
‘Mystery solving? Aye, you’re not wrong,’ I replied. ‘It probably helped that there were no real ghosts in Scooby’s world. It was always some mad fairground worker
. . .’
‘Or a crazy janitor,’ added Dougie miserably, the dig not missed by me.
‘You’re talking to yourself again,’ said Andy, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. Dougie had bumped into Andy and Stu upon arrival at the fair, our friends having
already blown most of the money they’d brought in the arcade.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Dougie, winking at him.
‘Ah,’ replied Andy. ‘You’re talking to Will, then? He’s here, right?’
‘I’ve told you, he’s always here.’
‘Whatcha got there, then?’ asked Andy, peering over the top of the black book to see what Dougie was writing.
‘It’s my
Rules on Ghosting.
I find it’s the best way of getting my head round how this ghostly business works.’
‘And what have you put in there so far?’
The nerd in Dougie needed no more coaxing.
‘I’ve listed the different stages of “ghosthood” Will has gone through, from the earliest moment he realised he was dead. I’ve recorded every instance where
he’s made a physical connection with something in the living world. I’m also trying to make sense of the limitations that exist for him. At the moment I’m categorising the
different kinds of hauntings that are out there.’
‘This sounds more like a Dungeon Master’s rulebook,’ said Andy, excitedly, his own inner geek leaping proudly to the fore. ‘If you need a hand editing it, give me a
shout. Can I take a look sometime?’
‘Sure,’ grinned Dougie.
‘Nice to see you smile, mate,’ I said to him before turning to Andy. ‘Also good to see we have the sceptic on board. He’s finally warming to the idea I’m now a
ghost as opposed to a figment of your overactive imagination.’
Dougie smiled once more. ‘Is he finished in there yet?’
I drifted through the wall of the tent and took a peek, searching for our other friend. Stu was stood beside the coin cascade, a waterfall of ten-pence pieces threatening to spill over and hit
the win tray at any moment. The husky chap who worked the change till had an eye on him: the cascade had a way of attracting opportunist thieves, and Stu clearly had that look about him. The
torn-gut intestine spill T-shirt he wore hardly meant you could miss him. I watched as he kissed his final coin and posted it into the slot, the coin coming to a halt on the top shelf before
sending a further three down on to the next one. As the shelf slid back, the coins pushed against the amassed ledge of silver. I could sense Stu’s tension as he waited for the jackpot that
never came. I didn’t hang around to witness his temper tantrum, although his barrage of cursing could be heard from beyond the canvas walls of the arcade.
‘Is that him spent up then or what?’ asked Dougie, rubbing his thigh. Before I could answer we heard the ringing of alarm bells from within the tent. A moment later Stu appeared
around the side of the makeshift building, shoving handfuls of coins into his pockets.
‘For the son of an Oxbridge grad vicar, you can be an awful idiot, Stu,’ sighed Dougie.
‘Howay, Dougie, quit your gum-bumping and gimme your jacket,’ he said. ‘That fat lad with the moobs in the change booth saw what I was up to. He’s on his way. Need a
disguise, dude!’
Reluctantly, Dougie removed his parka and tossed it to Stu, who proceeded to slope off into the throng.
‘Cheers, big ears!’ he hollered.
‘I want it back,’ Dougie replied over the sea of heads. ‘I’m freezing my arse off here!’
This exclamation drew a crowd of heads turning our way, just as the change vendor came waddling out of the arcade, closing the tent flaps behind him. He looked one way and then the other, jowly
face fixed in a fierce frown before loping off into the mob in search of Stu.
‘I’m going to follow Stu,’ said Andy. ‘See if I can prevent him getting into any
more
trouble, ce soir.’
He made a gangster handshake with Dougie then bumped fists, the ungroovy duo’s parting gesture drawing a smile from me. If there was ever a pair of souls who shouldn’t engage in
street slang and stylings, it was this pair. Then Andy did something very sweet. He clicked his fingers and pointed at thin air. It wasn’t where I was stood but at least it was an
approximation.
‘Later,
dudes,
’ he said with a wink. He might not have been looking at me, but it was the thought that counted.
‘So,’ I said, as we watched our Dungeon Master disappear into the crowd, ‘what do we do about Borley?’
‘What
can
we do about him?’ Dougie asked, pocketing his notebook and setting off on a meander through the fairground. The Big Wheel turned as we passed by, screeching girls
adding to the cacophony of Danger Night as they went round in their swinging seats. Stopping by a sweet stall, Dougie picked up a toffee apple while I tried to figure out a plan of action.
‘You could report what we think we know to Goodman, although I’m not sure whether he’ll be in listening mood. He wasn’t a happy bunny when you left him and was quite
clear about you staying away from the House. Anyway, what do we really think we know? That Borley was involved in the death of Phyllis Carrington somehow? That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t
it?’
‘It’s a pretty safe leap if you ask me,’ said Dougie as he walked away from the stall, taking a bite from his apple. ‘Borley’s got something to do with Phyllis. How
do you think that creepy little shrine got there? We already know she can’t move things in my world, so she certainly didn’t set it up. It’s his handiwork, that’s my
guess.’
‘OK, so maybe seeing Goodman wouldn’t be the best course of action, not until we can get more evidence anyway.’
‘Evidence? Steady on, Miss Marple. Why the sudden need to turn detective?’
‘Well it’s not like I’m having much luck discovering why
I’m
still here – perhaps unravelling the mystery of Phyllis’ death is the first step toward
solving my own?’
Dougie shrugged and nodded, accepting my reasoning.
‘How can we do that? Where would we go for evidence?’
I thought for a moment as we came to a halt beside the Waltzers barrier, the cars whizzing by, their occupants threatening to throw up over us at any moment. Neither of us knew where Borley
lived. What did that leave us with?
‘His office,’ I said. ‘The caretaker’s office at school. That’s where we need to look.’
‘But he’s in there all day, and when he isn’t there it’s locked up.’
‘Then we go at night,’ I said. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time we had a scamper across the school rooftops, would it?’
Dares had been a rites of passage for all my friends over the years, climbing on to the roof of lower school in broad daylight in view of the staff room. We both knew there was a skylight over
Borley’s office. I say office, it was little more than a broom cupboard. But it was
his
domain. He near enough lived in that small room.
‘I feel sick, and it’s not the toffee apple,’ said Dougie.
‘Could be watching the Waltzers,’ I said as the ride came to a halt and the riders disembarked.
‘I know what it is,’ said Dougie, tossing the slightly chewed apple into the mud. ‘It’s the thought of climbing into Borley’s office. I’m afraid of what
we’ll find there, not least if he comes back.’
‘That’s why we go at night,’ I said. ‘The school’s like a graveyard after dark.’
‘Yet more death-related chit-chat,’ he mumbled. ‘You’re not helping my confidence, Will.’
‘Talking to yourself, Hancock?’
We both turned, realising all too late that Vinnie Savage and two of his moronic mates had crept up on Dougie. He trembled as they gathered around him.
‘You scared, Hancock?’ asked Savage, his big stupid grin crumpling the bum-fluff tash that sat on his lip.
‘Regretting lending my jacket to someone, is all,’ replied Dougie, giving his arms a rub as they stared him down. ‘If you’re going to do something, just get it over with,
will you?’
‘Do something?’ said Savage, looking to his cohorts as they guffawed. ‘Do you like getting a smack, or what? I heard you were a sicko but I didn’t know just how
sick.’
‘Sicko?’ replied Dougie.
‘Yeah,’ sneered Savage. ‘Hanging around in the bushes, spying on the girls playing hockey? I should beat you up for stalking my Lucy.’
Dougie suddenly raised his hands.
‘If you’re gonna beat me up, then do it for being a nerd by all means, but not for staring at girls. It’s not what you think! I just wanted to talk to her!’
‘And the rest,’ snarled Savage, stepping closer through the mud. The colourful lights of the fairground suddenly blinked out as the gang leader towered over my mate, plunging him
into shadow. He lashed out and Dougie went down into the mud, clutching his shoulder.
‘I didn’t know she was your Lucy!’ he moaned. ‘I thought you weren’t together any more!’
‘We will be again, before long.’
I’d heard enough. I couldn’t stand there and watch this bully, this idiot who had made my own school years a misery whenever our paths crossed, torment my best friend any longer.
Years of pent-up frustration boiled over, my fury at Savage for his reign of cruelty exploding in the form of a single punch. I caught Savage square in the stomach, up from below where he stood
over Dougie. His feet left the floor as he was propelled backward, landing with a mighty splash in a puddle. His mates stood to one side, looking down at him as he struggled in vain to rise before
falling back into the dirty water.
Dougie didn’t hang around to see what came next. He was off and running – not for the first time that night – finding the crowd once again. Within moments we were in the heart
of the sea of teenagers, carried away on a tide of candyfloss, working our way to the exit.
Racing ever closer to the train station.
The noises of Danger Night drifted through the darkness, carried on to the platform by a chill wind. The sounds of music and merrymaking pervaded the air, muffled and muted by
the old railway station building that loomed over the tracks like a monster. This old track linked Liverpool to Manchester, and as such saw plenty of traffic during the daytime. At night, it was a
different world, the occasional stopper calling in to deposit weary commuters after dark. For tonight, the last train had been and gone. The main gates were locked. The platform was deserted, the
station abandoned until morning.
Dougie remained flat to the wall, badly hidden in the alcove beside the entrance to the ticket office. His eyes shone, wide and fearful, as he peeked down the platform to where he’d
hurdled the fence. Voices could be heard, far closer than the fairground, his pursuers still clearly searching for him. If they decided to investigate the station, they’d be sure to find him.
Dougie was panting, his breath steaming like he’d swallowed a miniature steam engine.
‘Got it,’ I said, gesturing to the
chuff chuff
clouds that escaped his blue lips. ‘Thomas the Tank Engine. Next impression, please!’
‘You’re hilarious,’ he whispered. ‘I’m really regretting giving my parka to Stu right now. Make yourself useful. Take a step back and tell me can you see
them?’
I backed away from him, safe in the knowledge that nobody could see me. I was able to move perhaps twenty feet or so away from him, comfortably, before feeling the need to come to a halt. I
looked down the line to where the fence separated the car park from the platform. I could see shadows approaching, figures illuminated by the fairground at their backs. I recognised Vinnie
Savage’s voice instantly, his angry snarls peppered by a string of profanities. A hand grabbed the fence and gave it a shake. I held my breath, waiting for one of his bloodhounds to jump the
barrier and land on the platform, but he never came. Another voice called him away, leading the search elsewhere, off poor old Dougie’s scent.
‘We’re clear,’ I said, and instantly my friend collapsed against the wall, sliding down the brickwork until his bottom hit the floor. He placed his hand over his chest.