Tamsyn Murray-My So-Called Haunting (2 page)

Jeremy shuddered. ‘Imagine what it must be like to take your own life and wake up as a ghost – you’re expecting your problems to end and instead things get a thousand times
worse.’

An odd tone had crept into his voice, filling me with shame at my selfish thought. It was almost as though he was speaking from experience. I knew he was part psychic, and had got to know a
ghost once, but I thought she’d been a murder victim, not a suicide. Maybe there’d been other ghosts he didn’t talk about.

Celestine squeezed his arm, nodding. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to repeat the same actions day after day than try to work out what to do next. I’ve seen it at the Dearly D from
time to time.’

Part of her job as a psychic at the Church of the Dearly Departed, a spiritualist church in Kensal Green, involved trying to help ghosts contact their loved ones and find their way to the astral
plane. I’d been with her a few times and I knew the atmosphere there was often emotionally charged. What I’d seen that morning might all be part of a day’s work for her, but I
knew she cared about each and every spirit she met and felt duty-bound to do whatever she could for them. It was something else we had in common, which I guess is why the woman on the bridge had
affected me so much.

‘She seemed so young. I wonder who she was,’ I said, remembering the desperation etched on to her face.

‘We’ll probably never know,’ Jeremy replied, his tone subdued. ‘It’s a popular place for suicide.’

Perfect, just what I needed; my route to school passed through a haunting hotspot. Who knew what I’d see tomorrow?

‘I could give you a lift sometimes, if you like?’ Jeremy said, clearly picking up on my worried expression. ‘Save you getting the bus every day.’

I threw him a grateful smile. He might have the fashion sense of Mr Bean but he was all right, really. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’

I’d just have to pray no one saw me getting out of his deeply uncool Nissan Micra. In fact, maybe it’d be better if he dropped me off round the corner. I chewed my lip doubtfully.
Actually, it would probably be safest to walk.

My stomach rumbled mid-thought, reminding me of my unsatisfactory lunch. A missed meal might help my waistline, but I’d never been one for diets.

‘OK,’ I said, jumping down from my seat and heading towards the fridge. ‘Is there any of that banoffee pie left? Maybe a slice would help with my bad mood.’

Celestine raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Oh, your aura is fine now. Besides, you wouldn’t want to spoil your dinner, would you?’

‘And there’s only one piece left and it’s got my name on it,’ Jeremy put in. ‘So don’t get any ideas.’

I stared wistfully at the wedge of cream-covered pie for a full five seconds before heaving a melodramatic sigh and closing the fridge.

‘I suppose I’ll make do with an apple for now then,’ I said, reaching a grudging hand towards the fruit bowl. ‘But I’m not sure you’re going to want that pie,
Jeremy. I saw Mary licking it earlier.’

Celestine and Jeremy didn’t live alone. Their house was in a leafy street in a posh bit of Highgate and it had been built on land that once upon a time had been a farm. We had the dubious
pleasure of being haunted by Mary Drover, a sixteenth century witch with an attitude that was over four hundred years out of date. Since I’d moved in two weeks ago, we’d grown an
instant hate-hate relationship and she never missed a chance to stir up trouble for me. Naturally, I returned the favour whenever I could.

My aunt wasn’t buying it this time, though. She looked at me closely and grinned. ‘No, she didn’t.’

Oh great, so now she could tell from my aura if I was fibbing? Sighing, I snatched up my bag and went up to my room, making a mental note to save any little white lies for text messages in
future. Like I said, sometimes having a psychic family sucked.

There’s a lot of rubbish out there about ghosts. Like the idea that being dead somehow turns you into some kind of psycho – if I had a pound for every time
I’ve heard a story about an evil spirit luring unsuspecting tourists over a cliff, I’d be sorted for mascara money for the next few years. The truth is that ghosts generally have their
own problems and don’t have the time or the inclination to go around bumping off the living. There were one or two exceptions, but weren’t there always? It didn’t mean
Paranormal Activity
was a fly-on-the-wall documentary.

That said, for some reason Mary Drover was determined to be my own personal banshee. I’d tried being nice to her but she still
took massive delight in tormenting me. She’d also developed a seriously inappropriate habit of walking into my bedroom unannounced. Like if she decided it was time I was up on a Saturday
morning when my body had other plans. Or when I was trying to decide whether shortening my skirt would help me win friends at Heath Park. I’d never got to the bottom of why she hadn’t
passed across centuries ago, but she was a major pain in the arse to me.

‘How many times do I have to ask you to knock?’ I yelled at her as she drifted through the door of my room on Tuesday morning and looked me up and down. Like most ghosts, she floated
a couple of centimetres above the floor, as though she was sticking up two metaphorical fingers at us mere mortals bound by the laws of gravity.

‘Thou resemblest a strumpet,’ she said, staring pointedly at my thigh-skimming skirt. Sometimes I had trouble understanding Mary’s weird cross-century babbling but in this case
I was getting her loud and clear. She didn’t approve of my uniform adjustments and was threatening to grass me up.

‘Everyone wears them like this now,’ I announced, eyeing my reflection in the mirror and wondering if the extra inches of leg on view would earn me the nickname Thunder Thighs.
‘If you had your way, I’d go to school wearing a smock.’

She sniffed. ‘It would be more seemly.’

Never at my best early in the morning, my patience evaporated. ‘I don’t have time for this, Mary. What do you want?’

‘Thy aunt made mention of a spirit who throws herself from the bridge of the horseless carriages.’

I stared at her, wondering why she was so interested. ‘That’s right.’

She raised a finger. ‘Thou should not meddle with unwilling spirits. Not all are ready to pass across.’

I couldn’t help wondering whether she was speaking from personal experience. Maybe someone had tried to get rid of her in the past – I could certainly sympathise if they had.
Squeezing past, I yanked open my bedroom door. ‘Just because you’re not ready to move on doesn’t mean no one else is.’

Scowling, she followed me along the landing. ‘Heed my words, leave well alone!’

I went into the bathroom and reached for my toothbrush. It wasn’t there. ‘Whoever this woman is, she threw herself off a bridge. How exactly am I going to make things worse for her?
And where is my toothbrush?’

She leaned in closer. ‘There are those who would seek to hurt even the most tormented soul. Thy well-meant efforts may drive this spirit to further harm.’

I sighed. Could she be any more cryptic? ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re on about. Have you seen my toothbrush?’

She raised her chin defiantly. ‘Promise me thou wilt desist in thy efforts and I will reveal the location of thy mouth-scourge.’

I counted to ten under my breath and, not for the first time, wondered about exorcism. ‘I will not,’ I said firmly. ‘But if it’s any consolation, you’ve made me
late so I probably won’t see her today anyway. Now give me the toothbrush.’

Her gaze slid towards the toilet bowl. ‘It is behind the privy.’

Urgh. I wouldn’t be putting that in my mouth again any time soon, then.

‘Fine. I needed a new one anyway.’ Stepping back, I closed the bathroom door in her face. ‘And don’t even think about coming in here or I know one spirit I’ll be
seriously meddling with. Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?’

I half expected Mary to follow me to school. I mean, technically it was possible for her to do it; ghosts weren’t completely tied to their haunting zone – the place
where they’d died – as long as they carried an original item from that place with them. Mary favoured an antique silver letter-opener, honed to a wicked point through decades of use,
and was prone to brandishing it like Lord Voldemort whenever she lost her temper. I’d never got close enough to find out if she could actually cut me with it and could only hope she never
encountered a psychic mugger. Even with the letter-opener tucked under her ragged clothes, she couldn’t stay away from home indefinitely. Since I knew for a fact that her Monday nights were
spent with a ghostly witches’ coven in Finchley, I also knew she’d have to spend some time at home the next day to recharge – ghosts could leave their haunting zone for up to a
day at a time, but they needed to return at regular intervals. Whatever the reason, there was no sign of Mary as I walked along Hornsey Lane.

Predictably, I was late and there was no sign of any ghosts on the busy bridge. Yet again I found myself hurrying through the school gates, hoping I’d make it to registration before I
landed myself in detention, but I was fresh out of luck. The playground was deserted, meaning the bell had gone and everyone was already in class. I bit my lip, torn between taking the long way
round or chancing the risky cut-through between the science and maths blocks. I checked my watch and decided to take a chance with the short-cut. It might be the hangout of choice for the
class-skipping dropouts of Year Eleven but I didn’t want a detention staining my good-girl record. And maybe my luck would change and they’d be hanging out somewhere else for once.

At first glance, the path was empty. Sucking in a huge sigh of relief, I scurried into the gap. It wasn’t until I was halfway down the path that a tell-tale waft of nicotine-laden smoke
reached me and I knew I’d made a mistake. The path had appeared to be clear, but only because the usual suspects were loitering in an alcove by the back entrance of the science block, hidden
from view. I hesitated. Now I had another dilemma; back up and go around the buildings or try to scoot past before their Neanderthal brains could fire off any insults. I had milliseconds to decide
before the decision would be taken out of my hands.

‘You’re in the wrong place, short arse.’ A mocking voice bounced off the walls and echoed along the path. ‘The primary school is next door.’

Too late. As insults went I’d heard much worse, but I wasn’t about to stop and give them comedy tips. My best chance now was to keep going and try to brazen it out. I glanced
sideways as I drew level with them. The good news was that there were only four of them. The bad news was that the boys might only be a year older, but compared to dainty little me they looked like
they’d just landed from Planet Hulk. I didn’t recognise them but guessed they were the kind of kids the teachers had pretty much given up on.

‘Nah, look at her, man,’ one jeered as I hurried past. ‘She ain’t big enough to go to school. I bet she ain’t even potty trained.’

They all laughed and I gritted my teeth, intending to keep on walking. I didn’t want to speak, in case the lilt of my accent betrayed me as different. But they weren’t letting me off
so lightly. One of them, the biggest of the four, stepped out and grabbed the strap of my bag, yanking me backwards.

‘Don’t be ignoring us, little girl,’ he growled, his tone geared up for maximum intimidation. ‘We got a job for you.’

Every muscle tensed as adrenaline flooded through my body.
Run
, whispered my brain and I shot forwards, thinking the sudden movement would force him to let go. It didn’t. Instead,
he tightened his grip and almost jerked me off my feet. The handle of my bag stretched and creaked ominously as I struggled to stay upright. He dragged me towards him, an ugly sneer on his
spot-covered face. Sour, smoke-ridden breath nearly made me gag as he spoke. ‘You’re gonna go down the shop and get us twenty fags.’

In spite of the gut-wrenching fear worming through my insides, I had to resist the temptation to roll my eyes at his monumental stupidity. Hadn’t they just claimed I looked like I was
still at primary school? So why would the bloke in the newsagent’s think I was eighteen?

‘Why can’t you get them yourselves?’ I said, hoping my voice wasn’t as squeaky as it sounded, but I knew the answer already – they’d been banned for
nicking.

Shrugging, he glanced at his mates. ‘Why have a dog and bark yourself?’

Loud guffaws bounced off the red brick walls. It was hardly Edinburgh Fringe funny, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I leaned back to avoid another blast of stale breath. ‘I
can’t. I’m too young.’

He twisted his hand around and connected hard with my shoulder. I thudded into the red brick wall and gasped as the air was forced from my lungs.

‘Then you’d better grow up, fast. Because if you don’t get us them cigarettes, we’ll be waiting for you outside the school gates tonight.’

His nose was so close I could see the greasy filth blocking his pores. His mates loomed behind him, grinning and daring me to refuse. I stared at the ground, forcing my dully throbbing ribcage
out of my mind and desperately searching for a way out. Sure, I could agree to get them what they wanted and then run as fast as I could to the school office, but that wouldn’t stop them
making my life a living hell. Kids like him had a thousand ways of inflicting misery without laying a finger on you. Verbal abuse hurt just as much and didn’t leave any tell-tale bruises.