Authors: Curtis Jobling
‘It would have to be on the far side of the attic, wouldn’t it?’ grumbled Dougie.
‘Can’t make it too easy for you.’
Dougie inched forward across the beams, slipping occasionally on bird poop that had been kindly deposited upon the mulchy timber. His arms remained out on either side of him, body lurching
occasionally as he battled for balance. I’d seen better tightrope walkers at the circus, but none so brave as my mate as he struggled on, effectively on one leg. I drifted beside him,
unhindered by earthly restrictions, floating freely across the air.
‘There!’ I said, jabbing a finger ahead and instantly regretting it.
Dougie jumped with alarm. His body twisted as he tried to remain upright. It was no good. His bad foot went out from under him, causing him to spin round. Both feet flew out to the sides,
causing him to land astride the beam with a groin-crunching thud. The French stove fell, crashing into the darkness below. Dougie didn’t have time to hurl, instead sliding off the timber and
into space. It was only the messenger bag that saved him; the handle caught a jagged outcropping of wood that had once been a joist, leaving him dangling in midair, halfway between two floors. He
recovered his senses, clutching his man-bag and looking to me in a justifiably exasperated fashion.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I can see it though, dead ahead!’
Dougie squinted and followed my pointing finger. There it was, the unmistakable sight of a cigar box, jutting precariously from the wall between broken boards. Dougie groaned, his forearms
looped through his strap, hopeless and helpless, so close to our prize. The spur of wood he was suspended from looked like it might give at any moment, plunging him to the floor below.
‘I’m kind of preoccupied,’ he grunted.
A noise below caused us both to start; the front door was creaking open. Even from the attic we could see the torch’s beam flickering through the crumbling building below.
‘Who’s there?’ A gruff, angry voice.
‘He doesn’t sound happy,’ I said.
‘Deep joy,’ whispered Dougie, forehead glistening with sweat as he began to slip through the loop of his messenger bag.
I looked back to the cigar box where it sat proud of the broken attic floorboards. I drifted across, our umbilical connection humming as I went. It was a strange sensation; the air charged with
electricity the further we moved apart. Even in ghostly form I felt my skin prickle, hair standing on end, and I knew Dougie felt the exact same way. I hovered over the box, my heart like a
jackhammer, so close to what we were searching for. I heard the guard’s footsteps on the stairs as he began to climb, boards straining loudly beneath his feet.
‘Can you grab it?’ Dougie grunted, shoulders almost dislocated as he continued to slip free, strap edging closer to coming free from the joist.
‘I heard that, you little sods!’ called the security guard, catching Dougie’s question. ‘You’re in a world of trouble!’ His footsteps were swift now as he
rushed up the flights.
I snatched at the box, but my hand went clean through, failing to connect. I closed my eyes, focusing for a moment, channelling my emotions and energies into my hands. I reached back slowly,
hooking my palms behind the cigar box, and took a breath.
It all happened at once.
The guard arrived at the attic landing, cast his torch beam across the room. It lit Dougie’s face up like a jack-o-lantern. Dougie panicked, his strap tore free from the splintered joist,
and he plummeted. I was yanked away, our connection as tight as a rope about my waist. My fingers snatched at the box before I was hurtling down through the farmhouse after my friend. Dougie
crashed through the rotten timbers of the first floor before hitting the pile of stinking bin bags. As I arrived beside him, so did the cigar box, landing in his lap, covered in a light coating of
fresh ectoplasm.
‘Sorry about that,’ I muttered as he wiped the spooky jelly from his hands and shoved the box in his messenger bag.
‘No time for gassing,’ he said, rolling off the rubbish sacks and scrambling for the exit. We were out the door, cutting across the tarmac and past the corner of the aircraft hangar.
Behind, we heard the security guard shouting as he gave chase.
‘Which way?’ cried Dougie, his bearings lost in the heat of the moment, his body pushed to its limits.
‘That way,’ I said, giving him a shove and connecting, buffeting him in the direction of the ruined barracks.
The torch light illuminated the grass around us now as we ran, accompanied by others as more guards joined the pursuit. Dougie was sobbing now, terror driving him on, fear of what the men might
do should they catch him. I shared that horror as the shouting of the guards drew closer. He hopped and fumbled his way through the ruined buildings once more, this time grazing a shin on a sheet
of rusted corrugated metal. His jeans tore along with the skin, causing him to cry out in pain. He went down, landing on all fours, struggling for breath. The messenger bag spilled open, wire
cutters, can of Coke, Mars bar and cigar box all tumbling into the dirt.
‘Get up!’ I screamed at him, begging him to move, but at that moment he was done. I looked back as three torch beams converged upon the old barracks. Was this it? Only now did I
realise the world of trouble my friend would be in if he was caught. School, the police, his future, his dad, the Major . . .
Dougie looked up, his panting ceasing, his face agog. I followed his gaze toward the cigar box.
The box radiated a pale blue light, growing brighter by the second until it shone brilliant and white. Shapes materialised around us, thin glowing slivers breaking free of the darkness. They
coalesced before our eyes, stepping through the rubble, taking shape slowly. The one closest shifted into the form of a military man, not unlike the Major. His body was made of the same ethereal
mist, translucent and spectral, the approaching security men visible through his form. He said nothing, saluting us once before turning toward the approaching guards, his companion ghosts gathering
around him. They blinked out of existence as the atmosphere changed, the warm summer evening transformed in a heartbeat.
The wind blew up out of nowhere, swirling around and through the ruined barracks like a dust devil, tearing up grass and whipping it through the air. Dougie and I were in the eye of the storm;
the guards suddenly ceased their advance, throwing their hands up before them. Dry earth took flight, caught on the tiny twister’s thermals as the wind changed direction. It was sudden and
savage, directed hard and fast at the security men, knocking them off their feet and sending them stumbling away.
I shouted at Dougie over the roar of the storm. Whether he heard me or not, he was up and moving again, snatching up the cigar box as we covered the remaining distance to the fence.
‘What the hell was that?’ I gasped, as Dougie squeezed through the severed mesh.
‘Run,’ he said. ‘Just run.’
We dashed into the darkness, the panicked cries of the guards chasing us through the night.
‘Where are we going again?’ asked Lucy, fingers entwined in Dougie’s, the sun blazing overhead.
‘It’s just an errand, for my dad,’ said a limping Dougie, the cigar box tucked into his waistband out of sight. ‘He wants me to drop something off for a
friend.’
Lucy nodded, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. We were walking through a neighbourhood he and I had only recently visited. Houses gave way to bungalows as we passed through an oasis of
sheltered homes for the elderly. My eyes were drawn to the gardens. Many were well kept; lawns freshly mowed, shrubs manicured, rose bushes in bloom. Loved ones had clearly called by, taking care
of these tasks for their infirm relatives. But what of those gardens that were jungles, overgrown by weeds and ivy. Where were their loved ones? These gardens were forgotten and unloved, as were
those who hid behind the closed doors.
I sighed, and Dougie heard it. He caught me looking. Maybe he felt the same way. Perhaps I had a unique perspective, having passed over. Well, almost passed over, anyway.
‘So your leg; what’s with the limp?’
Dougie managed a smile as he hobbled along. ‘Oh, this? Just an accident. I was playing football. No big deal.’
‘You playing football?’ I laughed as I shadowed them. ‘Your encounter with a platoon of ghosts was more believable!’
He smiled and ignored me, and Lucy didn’t doubt him. She rested her head on his shoulder as they walked on. I had to admit it: they made a great couple. They were hardly
boyfriend-girlfriend material, looking in from the outside, but something had drawn them together. He was a big old geek, just like me, sharing the same oddball sense of humour. Not for the first
time I was left wondering if things could have turned out differently if Bradbury hadn’t got behind the wheel of Mr Hancock’s Bentley. I shook my head and decided to let it go. These
things could eat away at you. I never wanted to be in that situation again. I was happy for my pal, and he was happy with Lucy. The hot, foxy, drop-dead gorgeous Lucy who I’d fancied like mad
throughout high school. Yeah, let’s just say that their relationship was a work in progress for me and leave it at that, eh?
‘Is something the matter, Dougie?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘With us? You’ve seemed . . . distant. Preoccupied.’
‘Oh. There’s just stuff going on at home, with my dad. Family stuff. I wouldn’t want to bore you.’
‘It wouldn’t be boring, Dougie. You could tell me anything. If something’s bothering you, please know I’m here for you.’
‘Word to the wise,’ I whispered. ‘Probably not a good idea to mention me. Last time you did she conveniently blanked it from her memory, like it never happened. I’d stick
with the family alibi if I were you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dougie, answering the both of us. ‘It’s just family stuff. Please don’t worry.’ He kissed her. ‘I’m fine, just a bit stressed out
with stuff my dad’s going through.’
She looked up. ‘You
can
tell me, you know?’
Dougie stared into her eyes. I could see from his goofy expression what he was thinking.
‘Don’t spill your beans, pal.’
‘My dad . . . is in a bit of a fix.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Mate, if this doesn’t send her running, nothing will.’
He continued, regardless. ‘He’s been pretty low lately, not well at all. It’s all on account of this guy he used to work for.’
‘Used to? Is he no longer working?’
Dougie shrugged. ‘It’s difficult. He’s been off work sick for a while now, but this guy wants him to do another job for him. Only I don’t want him to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘His boss is a bad bloke. Very bad.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ she said quietly.
‘You don’t know the half of it. He makes Vinnie Savage look like Mickey Mouse.’
‘So why doesn’t your dad just tell him “no”, then? Nobody can be
made
to work for someone. There are laws against that rubbish.’
‘It isn’t as simple as that. Dad’s being blackmailed.’
‘Blackmailed? With what?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Dougie, his voice cracking with emotion and relief to at least be partially coming clean with Lucy. ‘But it’s something awful, trust me. I
honest to God can’t tell you, Lucy, you have to believe me!’
‘I do believe you,’ she said, squeezing his hand earnestly. ‘Then surely he should go to the police and report this man?’
‘No, he really can’t. What Dad’s implicated in . . .’ He glanced at me, fleetingly. ‘It’s about as bad as it gets. And it’s all untrue,’ he added,
aware that he might be painting Mr Hancock as a villain too.
The two of them walked on in silence. I strode beside my pal, sucking my teeth.
‘Well. This is awkward. I
did
tell you not to tell her.’
Before he could answer, Lucy spoke up. ‘I’m here for you, Dougie. And when you’re ready to tell me what’s really gone on, you will. Believe me, I can be more use to you
if you tell me the whole truth, not snippets. Friends shouldn’t keep secrets from one another.’
There was that word again: secrets. The Major had told me never to hide things from my friend, and here was Lucy using the exact same phrase. Coming clean with Dougie had hardly been a great
idea at the time, resulting in a punch-up and prolonged period of ignoring one another. Would my friend face the same fate if he told Lucy what had happened? Before I could warn him, we were coming
to a slow, staggered halt outside Ruby Hershey’s bungalow. My heart sank.
The crowd were gathered around the back doors of the ambulance, the lights flashing on its roof, the siren silent. Most of the folk were neighbours, elderly friends who had been drawn out of
their homes by the commotion. Many shared the same worried expressions on their faces, the odd one unreadable, showing little emotion. Perhaps they’d seen this sad scene occur once too
often?
Dougie pushed through the crowd as politely as possible, leaving Lucy behind. I went with him, passing through the pensioners to the front in time to see the doors slam shut. I continued on,
stepping through the back of the ambulance and materialising within. A paramedic crouched beside a trolley, checking a drip feed. The man spoke through the partition to his companions in the cab,
relaying information about his patient’s condition, but I didn’t hear a word of it. My eyes were drawn to the old lady, motionless beneath the blankets, only her head poking out of the
top. There was an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, misting as her frail breath came out in ragged, reed-thin rasps. Her eyes fluttered. For an instant I thought she saw me, lids widening before
slowly closing. The engine fired and the sirens wailed into life. The ambulance was moving then, drawing away, leaving me standing in the road as it drove off.
The crowd was already dispersing, only Dougie and Lucy remaining in the street. My friend’s face was ashen. Unable to speak to me in his girlfriend’s presence, he simply flexed his
shoulders, looking to me for answers.
‘She’s alive.’ I didn’t know any more than that. In answer to our concerns we heard the bungalow front door slam shut. We looked over the fence and spied Ruby’s
nurse locking up. The squat lady made her way up the overgrown path, medicine case under one arm, paperwork in the other. She looked up when she reached the gate, recognising Dougie instantly.