Authors: Curtis Jobling
My friend’s father.
My killer.
I said nothing to Dougie. I mean, really; what
could
I possibly say?
He met up with Lucy that night and, as ever, I drifted along in silence behind them. They went to the usual haunts, if you’ll pardon the pun – the playground, the canal, the old
school field – and I kept my distance, lost in my dark thoughts. I bore them no ill will but although I’d promised him I’d be cheery and positive henceforth, here was my first
chance to come good on that vow, and I was apparently in a mood again. I was numb, with nowhere to turn.
Dougie turned in that night unsure of what was wrong with me. Little was said. We’d been through so much lately that he hadn’t bothered pressing me on it, but I could tell he was
disappointed. He probably thought I was jealous. Nothing was further from the truth. The sad fact was, I couldn’t look at him without wanting to tell him what I knew. How could I break
something like that to him? I knew his father’s secret and I couldn’t share it. Could I? It would break him.
While Dougie slept, I prowled. I returned to the garage on countless occasions, wanting it to have all been some hideous nightmare. The flecks of blue paint awaited me on each occasion,
reminding me it was all too terribly real. And Mr Hancock? He finally sloped off to bed in the early hours, falling into a fitful sleep. It was Dougie I usually kept watch over with only the stars
for company. Not this night. I watched over Mr Hancock, monitored the rise and fall of his chest. I saw him toss and turn. I hoped his nightmares were vivid.
The next day we headed to the hospital. We had an appointment with the Major, set upon telling him Ruby’s whereabouts. That information was the last thing on my mind that morning, as
Dougie recounted what we’d discovered. We were back in the rose garden, surrounded by dressing-gowned patients and bouquet-bearing loved ones. The Major listened on in silence as Dougie told
him what he knew. Occasionally he looked my way, clearly aware of my funk and no doubt wondering what had transpired.
‘She never got over you,’ said Dougie. ‘All those years, married to your mate, Josh, and it was you she still loved. Sorry, pal.’
‘But she had kids, right? And grandkids and so forth? She found happiness, surely?’
‘She was happy, and no doubt loved her family, but not in the way in which she loved you. I guess loving someone and being “in love” are different things.’
‘Steady, Sparky, you almost sounded profound there for a moment. Had me worried.’ Dougie smiled, but none of us felt like laughing.
‘What will you do?’ asked my mate.
The Major shrugged. ‘There’s not much I can do. This is where I belong. The hospital’s my home, kid.’
‘Is there nothing we can do for you? You never got the chance to say goodbye. Perhaps that’s what’s kept you here, those unspoken words, those unshared feelings. We know about
the bomb that hit the base. The one that got you. Let us help you guys. I don’t mind passing a message on to her, Chip.’
‘You called me by my proper name, Sparky!’
‘Don’t get used to it,’ Dougie replied. ‘Tell us. How can we help?’
The American thought for a moment, that rare, serious look returning. ‘That newspaper article said they’re demolishing the base. Perhaps—’
‘Hold that thought,’ said Dougie, cutting the Major’s speech short as an unusual van pulled up outside the A&E. ‘I’m off for a Cornetto.’
‘That’s an ambulance, Sparky!’
‘Funny guy,’ Dougie called back as he scampered off after the ice-cream van.
‘Go on then,’ said the Major to me. ‘Out with it. What’s got you down in the dumps, kid? You gotta face like a bulldog licking whizz off a nettle.’
Where to begin?
I wondered. I watched as Dougie arrived beside the ice-cream van and took his place, queuing in the sunshine.
‘It was his dad.’
‘Come again? Whose dad did what?’
‘The car that hit me. Dougie’s father was driving it. Mr Hancock killed me.’
The Major exhaled, long and slow. He scratched his head, messing up that majestic, jet-black quiff.
‘You’re sure of this?’
‘Deadly sure,’ I replied. The words caught in my throat. I felt dizzy, lightheaded, my gaze never leaving Dougie as he waved at us. I raised a trembling hand in acknowledgement.
Opening up to the Major felt cathartic, like I’d let the genie out of the bottle, but there was no coaxing it back in now.
‘I found his car in the garage. The damage all tied in to the night of the accident. He hasn’t driven it and he’s been drinking himself into an early grave in the meantime. I
even found the paint from my bicycle grazed into the bodywork. It was Mr Hancock alright. I knew he was keeping a secret – he’d mentioned as much in a phone call I overhead – but
I would never have imagined it was this. He
killed me,
for goodness’ sake! What do I do, Chip? What do I do?’
‘Steady, kid,’ he said, patting my knee. ‘Just relax. If what you say is true—’
‘It is!’
‘OK, so it’s true, but you need to keep your emotions in check. Sparky over there’ll be picking up your bad juju. You’re giving off a mortifying vibe at the minute
– hell, even I can feel it – and if you don’t want your buddy cottoning on, you need to get a grip, pronto!’
I tried to compose myself, but it was just so damned hard. After suspecting I’d never discover the identity of my killer, all of a sudden
there he was
, and he’d been under my
nose the whole time!
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, refocusing my energies. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Will, you need to ask yourself: what it is you
want
to do?’
I considered it for a moment. ‘I want justice, I think.’
‘Justice? We talking eye for an eye? You want him dead?’
The thought hadn’t even occurred to me, and there it was, out in the open. How would I do it? Would I use the push, give him a shove from the top of the stairs? I shivered, trying to
imagine being responsible for the taking of another’s life. I’d played my part in the demise of the old headmaster, Mr Goodman, which ultimately led to him falling to his death in Red
Brook House. But that wicked old sod had brought about his own end. Right at the last I’d even tried to save him, but to no avail. What the Major now suggested was a world away from the
events of that sorry night.
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not me, and never will be. Regardless of what he did, I couldn’t dish out the same. But he needs to answer for his crime.’
‘Tell your pal, then.’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘I thought we said you needed to be straight with your mates from now on? You said you would be, remember?’
‘But that?
“Hey, guess what, mate; your old man’s the murdering swine who killed me.”
’
‘I’m not sure what options you’re left with, kid,’ said the Major sadly.
I clenched my fists, thinking of what I might do if I were angry enough. I kept returning to the push, and what other tricks I might utilise. Perhaps I
could
haunt Mr Hancock? I’d
read about poltergeists, had a pretty good handle on how they worked. I could let rip in the living room, knock the place to hell, break everything that’s breakable including his cursed beer
bottles. Maybe I could bang the car in the garage, pummel it with my fists until he
had
to come through and face his crime,
had
to witness my anger,
had
to act upon his guilty
conscience.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said, my voice assured now. ‘I’m going to give him the fright of his life. If that doesn’t persuade him to confess, nothing will.’
‘Attaboy, kid,’ said the American, patting my back. ‘See, you’re even thinking like a ghost now. I’m proud of ya!’
I watched Dougie unpeeling the wrapper from his Cornetto. He took a great lick.
‘This is going to break his heart,’ I said.
‘The truth must come out, Will. People should answer for their crimes.’
‘You know what this means?’ I said quietly as my friend began to walk back to us. ‘I got it all so wrong. I thought I was here because of Dougie. All this time, I imagined it
was our friendship that had stopped me moving on. I thought it was the love of two best mates that kept me by his side. It wasn’t at all, though. The night of my funeral when I turned up at
Dougie’s house, I misread why I’d been drawn there. I got the wrong end of the stick, mistakenly latching on to my friend, but it wasn’t him I was supposed to be haunting. It was
his father.’
Dougie smiled as he drew nearer, his chin dripping with ice cream and raspberry ripple sauce. My voice was a whisper in the Major’s ear, my words heavy with horrible realisation.
‘It’s Mr Hancock I’ve been haunting all along.’
I sat in the shadows, watching Dougie sleep. His breathing had levelled out just before midnight. The witching hour. How appropriate. We joked about my loitering around his
room through the night, staring at him as he slept, with nothing better to do. There were no giggles to be had this evening, though. Finally content that he’d hit a deep sleep, I rose from
the foot of his bed.
‘Sorry about this, mate,’ I whispered, moving on and through the bedroom door.
I flitted across the landing to Mr Hancock’s bedroom. I let my anger grow, casting my mind back to the night of my death, my emotions building toward a crescendo. That strange, ghostly
power pulsing through me, ready to be channelled into a show of frightening revenge. I stepped through the door.
It was the master bedroom, spacious because of the house having been built before the war. Upon inspection, it appeared to be still stuck in that era. The room looked like a bomb had hit it,
cupboard doors open, drawers spewing clothes on to the carpet. Garments littered the floor and bed, clean and soiled alike, but there was no sign of Dougie’s dad.
I drifted downstairs, heading toward the lounge. The television sent lights dancing and flickering across the dappled glass panel in the door. I could hear the steady
rat-tat-tat-tat
of
machine gunfire, as whatever war film Mr Hancock was watching broke the silence of the night. I paused at the door, refocusing my emotions once again. The man who killed me was in that room,
waiting for me, oblivious to the forthcoming scare. It was long overdue. I glanced at my hands, each curled into a fist and radiating a strange blue light. Despite my anger, I felt a calm settle
over me. What I was about to do was wholly righteous. This was the
only
thing to do. I phased through the glass panel and into the lounge.
It wasn’t a war film on the telly. Instead, I was greeted by Jimmy Cagney, his tommy-gun spitting lead into a mob of gangsters. The Major would’ve approved. The stack of bottles had
grown some since earlier that evening, but again, there was no sign of my killer. He’d spent the last six months closeted away inside this house, in this very room, in
that stinking
chair,
and now he was gone? Surely he couldn’t have picked tonight to finally haul himself out of the front door and into the fresh air? Whatever sympathy I’d had for Mr Hancock had
vanished the moment I realised his crime. The man who had looked after me as a nipper was dead to me. It was only Dougie I cared about now.
‘Where are you?’ I muttered, stepping up to the living-room window and sticking my head through the curtains and glass.
There was nobody in the street. The lights in the neighbours’ houses were off for the night. A solitary street lamp stood at the top of Dougie’s little close where it met the main
road, but the bottom of the cul-de-sac remained in darkness. That is, except for the thin beam of illumination that leaked out from around the Hancock’s garage door. I drew my head back into
the lounge.
Out of habit, I took the winding route through the house to get to the door into the garage. I could’ve just headed straight there, but it gave me more time to think, to consider what I
was going to do. If anything, having him trapped in the garage like a rat in a barrel was even better. There was all manner of hard and heavy objects I could topple over in there. Tins of paint,
glass jars, bottles, brooms and bedheads; he’d think the ceiling was coming down by the time I was finished. And there, right before his murderous miserable face, would be the car. The car
that killed me. This would break him. He would
have
to go to the police. I took a deep breath in the kitchen, wavering before the garage door. This was going to work. I stepped through.
He was sat on an upturned crate, a bottle in hand (of course), his back turned to the door. His free hand clutched the thinning hair on top of his head, the elbow digging into his knee, his body
a slumped bag of bones. A bare bulb lit the garage, hanging from the rafters above the Bentley.
I’d no idea how long he’d been in here; Dougie had turned in early, ten-thirty, catching Lucy on Skype before hitting the pillow. Mr Hancock had still been in the lounge. He’d
clearly waited for his son to disappear before shuffling into the garage.
I stared at his back, his crumpled clothes hanging off him. I’d no sense of smell, but I didn’t need one. I imagined he reeked of body odour and booze, his world a miserable, lonely
one. He cut a desperately pathetic figure. I looked around the garage, spying the ephemera and clutter that I could use upon him. I was spoiled for choice; where to begin? Hit the paint shelves?
Push over the toolbox? Knock the man over where he sat? Or maybe cut straight to the chase and strike the battered bonnet of his beloved Bentley?
Those fists were shaking now, my chest constricting as my rage boiled up. I was here to scare him, to shake him up, to shame him into doing the right thing, but at that moment all I saw was
revenge. I’d convinced myself that wasn’t me, that I could never hurt a living soul. Only I wasn’t a living soul any more, was I? He’d put paid to that. He’d cut my
life short before it had really begun. Before I knew it, both of my fists had risen into the air, high above Mr Hancock where he slumped on his crate, head in hand. They were bright white now, twin
beacons of just fury about to descend. And then he spoke.