Authors: Curtis Jobling
‘I know you’re there, Will.’
I faltered, my focus thrown. Did he
really
just say that? I stepped back unsteadily, fists unclenching, the bright light fading in my palms. How could he see me? Scratch that; how
long
had he been able to see me for? All this time? Since I died? The tables had turned suddenly, the element of surprise gone, and I had no idea how to react. My confidence leaked away, as
swiftly as blood from a knife wound.
‘You can
see
me?’ I hissed.
‘I just hope you’re listening, lad,’ said Mr Hancock, lifting his bottle in the direction of the Bentley and sloshing its contents about. ‘You know, it’s been a
while since we last chatted.’
‘A while? Try autumn. Around the time you killed me.’
He didn’t respond to my barbed comment, rambling along his own train of thought. ‘Dougie copes, but it must be difficult. I guess that girl Lizzie helps.’
‘Lucy,’ I corrected him.
‘Lucy,’ he clicked his fingers. ‘She must take his mind off you not being there. Not met her yet myself.’
‘She’s lovely,’ I whispered. The anger simmered, but my scheme had stuttered to a halt. The last thing I’d envisaged was being drawn into a conversation.
‘I don’t suppose he’s in a hurry to introduce her to me. I mean, look at me. I’m a bloody shambles. I’ve let him down. He’d be better off without
me.’
‘Do the right thing, Mr Hancock,’ I said. The words caught in my throat as I found myself trying to reason with him. ‘Turn yourself in. Confess to what you did. That’s
the only way you’ll regain your son’s trust.’
Dougie’s dad reached forward and ran his fingertips along the buckled metal wing of the Bentley. He flinched as he touched it, before flattening his palm against the busted bodywork.
‘I haven’t driven this car since it happened. I couldn’t even bring myself to take it to the garage, get it fixed. I’m afraid they’ll ask me what happened, and I know
I won’t be able to lie.’
‘Then don’t lie. Tell the truth!’
‘I’ll start blabbing, and blubbing, and I won’t be able to stop.’ He was sobbing now. He took a swig from the bottle and shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Will.
So very sorry. I think I’ve cried out all my tears, but there’s always more.’
‘Call the police, Mr Hancock. Explain what happened.’
His laughter was sudden and harsh. ‘You know what, Will? You know what I’d give anything for? A moment. Just one moment where I got to say sorry to you for what happened that night,
for the part I played in it.’ The bottle tumbled out of his hand and skittered across the floor. It rolled to a halt beneath the Bentley. ‘Only I’ll never get that
chance.’
I was confused. I manoeuvred around him to look at his face. He was staring at the twisted wheel arch, his eyes not even registering as I loomed into view. Wait, he
couldn’t
see me?
I waved my hand in front of his face. Still nothing. ‘Mr Hancock?’ No reaction. I’m not being funny, but that would’ve been a poop-hot trick to ignore a glowing blue teenage
boy doing jazz hands in your face.
I stood up, suddenly realising that I hadn’t been taking part in a conversation at all. I’d just witnessed a monologue, a rambling confession from a drunken man to a battered old
car. He was bumping his gums now, muttering about how sorry he was, the words growing more incoherent.
I backed up, drifting to the kitchen door, unable to look at Mr Hancock any more. I phased through the wood, out of the grim light of the garage and into the cold gloom of the kitchen. It
changed nothing. He still needed to confess. But the hate I felt for him was gone now, replaced by pity. I saw him for what he was, a foolish, weak man incapable of doing the right thing.
He’d need convincing, still, but a heart-attack-inducing fright wasn’t the answer any more. I needed help.
I needed Dougie.
‘Just open the door.’
Dougie shook his head as the milk cascaded over his cornflakes. ‘There’s a reason it’s off limits, Will. I won’t disobey him.’
‘And what reason could that possibly be? A giant mousetrap? An angry hippo? Ravenous flying monkeys? Why on earth are you banned from your own garage? Ask yourself.’
I was angry. I’d spent half an hour trying to persuade him that there was something really important in there that he
had
to see with his own eyes. But he was having none of it,
sticking his head in the sand and hoping I’d stop pestering him. That wasn’t happening any time soon.
‘Things are shaky enough between me and him at the moment,’ said Dougie, returning the milk to the fridge. ‘I don’t want to rock the boat any further.’
Rock the boat? If he thought things were rough now he didn’t know the half of it. My anger was building, threatening to explode. He must have suspected this was bigger than anything
we’d previously discussed. He must have
felt
my anxiety.
‘The door, Dougie.’ I struggled to keep my irritation in check.
‘I don’t even have the key,’ he said, taking the first mouthful of cereal from his bowl.
‘Then go get it. He’s asleep in his armchair. He never made it to bed last night. It’s in his pocket.’
‘What? I’m just a common thief now who steals things from my drunken old man?’
‘Please,’ I said, my head splitting, vision blurring. ‘Open the garage door. There’s something
really
important you need to see.’
‘I know he keeps his drink in there, Will. I don’t need to see that bottle tower.’
‘
Just open it!
’ I shouted, slamming my fist against the lock with all my might. The handle juddered, the wood splintered and the door swung open. Dougie and I stared at the
broken lock in shock.
‘Oh, you’ve done it now,’ said Dougie, cornflakes tumbling from his mouth on to the breakfast counter. ‘He’s going to
kill
me!’
Blue light pulsed through the flesh of my hand. ‘Umm . . . That’ll probably come out of your allowance. But, on the bright side, we no longer need the key.’ I stood to one side
(quite unnecessarily) and gestured through the open door toward the garage. ‘Trust me, Dougie. You need to see this.’
‘Dad. Wake up.’
Mr Hancock stirred in his armchair, a dishevelled, unshaven mess. He sat forward, crumpled clothes clinging to his creaking bones. He rubbed his eyes with the ball of his fists, squinting as he
checked the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
‘What time is it?’
‘Morning, Dad. You need to wake up. Now. We have to talk.’
Dougie stood over his father, his face hard, jaw clenched. He looked down his nose at him, unblinking. There was revulsion in his gaze; disgust and disappointment all rolled into one. I could
tell by his voice he was just about keeping it together. It was taking every ounce of his willpower not to reach forward and throttle the man. If my aura was ghostly blue, then Dougie’s was
furious red, a fire about to be unleashed.
‘I have to sleep, son,’ said Mr Hancock, collapsing back into his chair.
‘You’re done sleeping. You need to talk.’
His father forced his blood-red eyes wide, straining with the effort. His gaze drifted to Dougie’s hand, specifically the object he held.
‘What have you got there?’
Dougie threw the telephone handset on to the sofa.
‘I’ve just called the police. They’ll be here soon enough. You need to start talking. Now.’
Mr Hancock spluttered, his mask of confusion twisting awkwardly into one of amusement. He stifled a weird laugh. ‘What are you talking about, son?’
‘You need to talk to me before the police get here. Come clean now, Dad. Quit lying.’
Wow. I hadn’t been expecting Dougie to come out all guns blazing. When he saw the damaged car and the unmistakable, irrefutable evidence, he’d become a statue for ten minutes.
I’d been unable to get through to him, my words falling on deaf ears as he stared at the beaten-up Bentley. I’d half-feared he was going to lose it, fly into a wild temper that brought
the whole garage down around him. But he simply hit the pause button, freeze-framed in horror.
‘I don’t know what you mean about lies, Douglas, but you—’
‘The car, Dad. Tell me about the car.’
Mr Hancock fell silent. His face was always pale, but at that moment he looked like a ghost. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
‘You’ve been in the garage?’ His voice was barely audible.
‘You sound
surprised,
Dad.’
Dougie’s lips curled. I placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him calm, pushing ever so slightly to remind him I was by his side.
‘Go easy, pal,’ I said. ‘Give him a chance to answer. Hear what he has to say.’
Dougie took a breath. ‘The car, Dad. The truth. The night of Will’s death. Tell me.’
Mr Hancock reached a trembling hand toward the bottles beside his chair.
‘You have
got
to be kidding?’ said Dougie, taking a step forward. At that moment I was convinced that, should his father pick up a beer, my friend would have kicked it clean
from his hand. Thankfully Mr Hancock thought better of it.
‘You called the police?’ His voice trembled, fearful.
‘God help me, I don’t ask for much. I never have. Tell me what happened before they get here.’
A strange thing then happened; Mr Hancock relaxed. Since my death, Dougie’s father had gradually transformed from a gentle, kind soul into a wretched, wrinkled mess. Worry lines had etched
his face, growing deeper and more furrowed as days turned to weeks then months. The hatch-marks that criss-crossed his brow made him look permanently headache stricken. And now they were gone. At
that moment, it was as if the burden had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in forever he was himself once more, however fleetingly.
‘It’s not what you might think, Douglas. Truly, it isn’t.’
He closed his eyes, recalling the events of that fateful night. I caught sight of a car drive past the lounge window, down into the bottom of the cul-de-sac where the Hancock house was situated.
I peeked my head through the glass and craned my neck to better see; a police car made a three-point turn, pulling up at the head of Dougie’s drive. I withdrew into the house.
‘It’s the cops, Dougie. They’re here!’
‘Dad, you’ve a matter of seconds to tell me what went on.’ He gestured to the window. ‘The police think they’re turning up to a domestic. Are they?’
Mr Hancock leaned forward, his voice steady for the first time in months.
‘I wasn’t driving the Bentley, Douglas.’
‘Then how do you explain the damage to the wing? I suppose that was some other blue bicycle it crashed into?’
‘No, it was Will Underwood’s bicycle.’
I felt sick, hearing him say those words.
‘But you deny driving the car?’
‘I was a passenger.’
‘But it’s your car! You’re precious about the Bentley. You never let anyone drive it.’
I heard the policeman’s footsteps up the gravel drive. Mr Hancock looked suddenly terribly sick.
‘I let him.’
‘Who?’ asked Dougie, but at that moment, I knew.
‘Bradbury.’
Dougie swayed unsteadily with the fresh revelation.
‘Then why not tell the police that? Why hide the evidence for him?’
‘I had no proof to say it was Bradbury. Only my word.’
There was a hammering of a fist at the door; urgent, concerned.
‘Your word’s not good enough?’
‘Not against Bradbury.’
A shout through the letterbox from the policeman, calling for someone to come to the door immediately. Dougie pointed to the hall, his voice a whisper.
‘Go and tell them now. Explain what happened.’
Mr Hancock tearfully shook his head.
‘If you don’t, I will.’ Dougie made for the door, but Mr Hancock was out of his chair with a speed that belied his booze-addled state. He caught his son’s wrist and
yanked him close. He spoke through gritted teeth, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his grizzled throat.
‘You can’t, Douglas. They’ll never believe you!’
‘I can make them try! We both can.’
Again, a shout from the policeman, now threatening to break down the door. I peered down the hall, the bobby’s eyes looking through the brass hatch.
‘You don’t understand what Bradbury and his friends will do,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘He’s a monster.’
‘You’re scared of what he’ll do to you?’
‘No,’ Mr Hancock said, tearfully. ‘I’m scared of what he’ll do to
you
.’ He let go of Dougie’s wrist as a final warning echoed through the hall,
the front door about to feel the full force of an irate policeman’s shoulder.
‘Do what you must, Douglas,’ said his father. ‘I’ll still love you, regardless.’
Dougie looked from his dad to me. I shrugged, lost for comforting words. What
could
he do? Spill what he knew to the police and face the consequences with Bradbury? That’s
if
his father was even telling the truth. And what about me? Where did justice for his murdered friend fit into the equation? No, I had no answers: he was damned either way, whatever he did. I had
only the one comment, and it wasn’t the most helpful, but it was certainly the most pressing.
‘There’s somebody at the door.’
‘I really should write this up,’ said Sergeant Kramer, flipping his notebook shut and slotting it into his breast pocket.
‘I can assure you, Officer,’ said Mr Hancock, ‘this won’t happen again.’
‘It had better not. We take hoax calls very seriously down at the station.’ He shook his head as he rose from the sofa, Dougie shamefaced on a cushion beside him. ‘Wasting
police time’s a grave offence, lad.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Hancock, smiling apologetically. ‘And I’m sure Douglas understands too, don’t you, son?’
Dougie nodded and stared up at the sergeant with admonished, puppy dog eyes. As pitiful looks went, it was a winner.
‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘I don’t think you were thinking at all.’ Suddenly, Sergeant Kramer clicked his fingers. ‘You’re the kid who survived the attack in the old school house! I knew I
recognised the name. That headmaster who went loopy, right?’