A Spookies Compendium Page 3

  Sceptre reached down to the carpet and picked up the evening newspaper, then proceeded to fan herself nonchalantly with it.

  “You really should see a dentist,” she said. “Your breath smells terribly.” She gave a deliberate yawn of disinterest, and faced the ghastly apparition. It was time, she decided, to teach the old man just who he was dealing with. The Rand-Eppings had been stalwarts of the British aristocracy since the days of Cromwell and the Civil War, and she was not about to be beaten by an obstinate old football fanatic. “Now listen to me. I am not afraid of you. I am not going away; I will be here as long as you are. You will tire of the game before I do. There is peace, comfort and as much Manchester City football as you can watch for eternity, if you go through The Light.”

  Her announcement was greeted with another furious roar.

  “It’s Manchester United, Madam,” said Fishwick urgently.

  “What difference does it make?” Sceptre demanded, her patience wearing down.

  “It is the same difference as you asking me for strawberries and ice cream, and me delivering steak and kidney pudding, My Lady,” her ephemeral manservant explained.

  Completely at sea, Sceptre protested, “I don’t like steak and kidney pudding.”

  “I do,” interjected Kevin from behind his lens.

  Ignoring the interruption, Fishwick said, “And the old man doesn’t like Manchester City, Madam. The only thing a Manchester United fan loathes more than Arsenal and Chelsea is Manchester City.”

  At a loss for anything else to say, Sceptre announced, “I apologise, spirit. I meant Manchester United. Now be a good chap and go through The Light.”

  *****

  Immediately behind Sceptre, Pete viewed the scene with amusement. He could see nothing of the apparition she saw, and he could hear only Sceptre’s side of the two-way conversation between her and Fishwick. Deciding that she was safe enough with Kevin and her imaginary butler, he drifted out of the living room and turned along the hall towards the kitchen.

  Sceptre was a strange woman. A slender (some would say anorexic) green-eyed redhead, she was not beautiful, merely attractive. There was an upper class naiveté about her that appealed to Pete. She viewed the world with an almost childlike simplicity, and, despite his best efforts to persuade her otherwise, she persisted in her belief in some invisible nether world from which her great-grandfather’s butler watched over her. It was amusing … and frustrating. Pete preferred women who put their faith in him, not in a man who had been dead for nigh on a century.

  Not that he doubted her sincerity. Unlike Kevin, a former electrician who would jump on any bandwagon at the slightest sniff of a profit, Sceptre truly believed in her supposed abilities, but Pete was convinced they had more to do with Kevin’s glib tongue than anything else. When Pete originally agreed to go along with them on their ghost hunts, it was with the idea that she would need someone to keep her feet on the ground. He also figured it would be fun: a distraction from bad debt collections and gathering divorce evidence that were the routine fodder of the private investigator.

  Despite Dave Robb’s disparaging opinion of him, Pete had been a good police officer, an honest officer, part of a small town force where a sizeable proportion of the team was anything but honest.

  His integrity did not endear him to his colleagues, many of whom regarded him with suspicion, and when he made the one error of judgment for which he was disciplined, he had gotten the impression that there was a lot of silent cheering in Ashdale Police Station. It was while he was going through that disciplinary process that he named those crooked officers. A few days later, during a particularly unpleasant interview, he lost his temper and punched the investigating officer in the nose. Soon after, he was summarily dismissed.

  He could not complain. Even when he had attacked his superior, he had known what he was doing, had known it could get him fired, and it had come as little consolation when the men he had named were also fired.

  His thoughts turned to Steven Bilks, a man well known to the police. A thief who had been in and out of prison ever since his school days. The opportunity to go through the house of a scumbag like that while there on legitimate business (acting as security for Sceptre and her ghostly games) was too good for Pete to pass up.

  “You’re not really prying,” he told himself as he entered the kitchen. “Just looking for the intruders causing the ruckus.”

  The room was furnished with a cheap dining set consisting of a table, four chairs, and the usual array of kitchen appliances. All of them had that air of use common in a family house: one of the control knobs was missing from the cooker, a threadbare hand towel hung over the washing machine door, which was slightly ajar. To the left of the chimney was a computer workstation hemmed into the corner by a large, drop-leaf cabinet.

  Pete lowered the door of the cabinet and examined the contents as best he could in the dim light coming from the outside world. It was full of run-of-the-mill stuff: a sheet of A4 paper detailing the school holidays for the coming year was taped to one side, while the shelves were littered with routine correspondence, bills, a threat of court action for non-payment of Council Tax. A couple of DVDs in their plastic cases lay amongst the papers. Pete studied the front cover of Dr. No, the first-ever Bond movie, and put it down again.

  The second DVD was more interesting. The twisted face of an insane woman dominated the predominantly dark blue cover. The title read Mind Games III.

  “Now then, Bilko,” he said to the empty, darkened room, “what are you doing with the DVD of a movie that doesn’t hit the cinemas for another month?”

  Noises from the next room reached his ears. Abandoning the idea of searching further, he tucked the DVD into the rear waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, pulled his T-Shirt down to hide it, and made his way back to the living room.

  *****

  In front of Sceptre, the ghastly apparition had calmed somewhat, looking a little more human than bestial, although the eyes and mouth were still no more than empty spaces through which the bare walls and the ghostly message denigrating Arsenal in favour of Manchester United was fading.

  The phantom now gave the appearance of wearing a puzzled frown.

  “You will find,” said Sceptre, “that Fishwick, my butler, is standing quite close to you. He will help you through The Light.”

  “He’s already aware of my presence, Madam,” Fishwick announced.

  The ghostly figure now looked to its left, almost as if it were waiting for Fishwick to do something.

  Sceptre took advantage of the calm to press home her control of events. “Now, my man, if you were to go through The Light, you would find the soccer heaven where you should have gone shortly after you passed over.”

  There was a brief silence before Fishwick’s voice came to her once more. “Madam, he doesn’t believe you. He wants me to go with him.”

  “If you go into The Light, Fishwick, you can never come back. You can’t go with him... unless you want to, of course.”

  “If I wanted to, Madam,” he assured her, “I would have done so long ago.”

  “In that case, let’s defeat him with logic,” suggested Sceptre. “Ask him where he thinks the great footballers go when they pass on.”

  After a brief pause, Fishwick reported, “Accrington Stanley and Stockport County, Madam.”

  Sceptre was puzzled. “What?”

  “He insists that all great footballers go to Accrington Stanley or Stockport County when they can no longer play in the Premier League. If I may make so bold, Madam, you do not know about football. Accrington Stanley and Stockport County play in a lower division than Manchester United and Arsenal, and when footballers like David Beckham and Pelé get older, they go to play for smaller teams.”

  Sceptre was still puzzled. “Correct me if I am wrong, but David Beckham has gone to play in the United States.”

  Another few moments of silence followed. Eventually, Fishwick reported, “The old man says it amounts to the sa
me thing, Madam.”

  Sceptre rolled her eyes to the ceiling and puffed out her cheeks. “Fishwick, I’m beginning to tire of this nit-picking. Explain the situation to him properly.”

  There was another lull during which Sceptre looked around the room. The carpet, an old and worn beige Axminster, had suffered having a bottle of salad cream, salmon paste and what she hoped was only a jar of jam splattered over it. It would, she guessed, be the Devil’s own job to get the stains out. She did not know for certain because throughout a 25-year life of aristocratic indolence, she could not recall ever having had to remove stains from a carpet. When she was a child, the household staff had always handled such matters, and later on, at school, in the dormitory, there were no carpets, while during her university years, her student roommates did it for her. It was their way of acknowledging her titled superiority, and making a few pounds a week out of her.

  “I think, Madam,” Fishwick said at last, “that he’s got it. I took the liberty of telling him that The Light is a floodlight from Bloomfield Road and that, at this moment, Stan Matthews and Stan Mortensen are taking on the deceased from the Manchester United 1957 title winning team. I’m going to guide him to The Light.”

  “Good,” Sceptre approved. “Whatever it takes, Fishwick.”

  There was a long silence, punctuated only by the sounds from the outside world: fresh police cars arriving and the babble of conversation from somewhere just beyond the front door where more neighbours had come out to sympathise with Angie Bilks. Around Sceptre, lights flickered, tiny sparks of electromagnetic energy, flashing on and off, drifting momentarily through the supercharged air before winking out, illuminating the room for the milliseconds of their existence, before plunging everything back into a darkness ameliorated only by the flickering police car lights coming through the windows.

  Sceptre became aware that some time had elapsed since Fishwick had last contacted her. She glanced at her watch. How much time? A minute? Two? There was nothing strange about this. Fishwick initiated contact most of the time, and many hours could go by without word from him. Sceptre remembered when her mother died. Fishwick was busy for hours on end afterwards, trying, so he reported, to locate her spirit amongst the steady stream of souls going through The Light. So even when there was a crisis, it was not unusual for him to be away for some time.

  She looked at the wall, where the ghostly message, Man. U. 4Ever, now barely visible, still hovered. She looked around the living room and the upturned furniture. The old man and the angry spirit had already demonstrated their ability to interact with the material world in no uncertain terms. Even with Pete and Kevin present, the situation was risky, and Fishwick would not usually leave her this long if there was potential danger.

  “Fishwick?” Calling her butler caused Kevin, who had been filming the mess on the floor, to swing his camera towards her.

  The first doubt began to nag at her, and for one ridiculous moment, she wondered if the worry showed on her face.

  Pull yourself together, girl, she ordered herself. Remember who you are.

  It was no use. She just knew that something had gone wrong. Fishwick would not be silent for this length of time when he knew she needed him.

  “Fishwick? Are you there, Fishwick?” Even to herself, her voice carried a note of anxiety.

  Fishwick could not go through The Light. If he did, she would never be able to contact him again. He had been with her so long that she could not imagine a life without him.

  “Fishwick. Answer me, Fishwick.” Her iron, aristocratic front crumbled. She was close to tears. Her limbs trembled and her worst fears welled from deep within. Had the old football fanatic haunting this house and so determined, even in death, to support his favourite football team, taken her faithful retainer with him to the next world?

  “Fishwick.” Her voice was shaking, angry. “Please, Fishwick! Don’t desert me!”

  Sceptre checked her watch again, and her heart sank. She resigned herself to the inevitable. For most of her 25 years, Albert Fishwick, whose life had been lost during the terrible summer of 1916, had been at her side to encourage and assist her, and now he was gone. Gone through The Light, starting the next life. The tears welled, and trickled from her eyes, down her cheeks. She could not believe that Fishwick was no longer here. After all these years, she thought miserably. She looked for somewhere to sit, but both armchairs were still upside down and on the settee. Instead, she slumped back against them and tried to control her emotions.

  “I’m right here, Madam.”

  Relief flooded her at the sound of her manservant’s voice in her head. She stood upright, once again the proud aristocrat. “Fishwick. Thank God for that.”

  “It was a close call, but I managed to persuade him that he should go on alone.” There was a brief pause before Fishwick went on. “You were obviously worried, Madam, that I may have deserted you. I have told you many times that I will never leave your side as long as you need me.”

  Sceptre relaxed visibly, her shoulders slumping as the tension left her. “Thank you, Fishwick. How did you persuade him?”

  “He was leaning forward looking into The Light, trying to see the football match I’d told him about, when I booted him up the backside and kicked him through.” Fishwick sounded angelically innocent as he related the tale. “He’ll thank me for it one day.”

  Sceptre turned to face Kevin and Pete, who had just entered the room. “We’ve dealt with one spirit.” As she spoke, a cheap, triple-light chandelier flickered into life above them. Sceptre frowned. “Fishwick, I thought there was another spirit here. An angry one.”

  “There was, Madam,” reported her butler. “He, too, seems to have left.”

  “He hasn’t gone through The Light?” Sceptre wanted to know.

  For once, Fishwick lacked certainty. “I don’t think so, Madam, but I will make an effort to find out.”

  *****

  While Fishwick went off to look for the spirit, Sceptre explained to her partners what had happened and concluded, “Fishwick’s gone to look for him, but I think this part of it is over.”

  Pete laughed. “You do talk some twaddle, Sceptre.”

  Sceptre’s eyes blazed with a determination just short of anger. “I can readily explain everything that’s happened here tonight. Can you?”

  He checked his watch and gave a casual yawn. “It’s turned three in the morning and I’m not at my best, so I’ll need to think about it. Whatever it is, I don’t believe it has anything to do with ghosts. Ask me again, tomorrow lunchtime.”

  Kevin stopped his camcorder. “Pete, you’re such a septic.”

  “The word is sceptic.”

  “I know what I mean.”

  Pete narrowed his eyes at his best friend. “Do you reckon Sceptre will nurse your cuts and bruises?”

  Kevin’s brow furrowed, causing Pete to comment aloud on a documentary he’d seen concerning gorillas.

  “Cuts and bruises?” said Kevin, “I don’t have any cuts and bruises.”

  Pete spat on his knuckles. “The night’s young yet.”

  Cautious footsteps sounded along the bare floorboards of the hall. Pete leaned his head back out of the door and smiled a welcome. “Oh look, it’s PC Plod. Where’s Noddy?”

  “I saw the lights come on,” said Robb.

  Pete waved him forward. “Well, you can come in now, Dave. Sceptre’s chased all the ghosties and ghoulies away.”

  Robb entered the living room and stared around at the devastation just as Sceptre got into conversation with her butler again.

  “Madam?”

  “Yes, Fishwick?”

  “Finding this spirit may take a little time, but that kind of angry energy leaves its mark wherever it goes. I’ll contact you the minute I find him.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.” Terminating her conversation, Sceptre concentrated on the bemused police officer and Angie Bilks, who had just stepped nervously into the room. “My spirit guide tells me that it’s
all calm now.” She reached into her purse, took out a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled her number on it. Passing it to Angie, she invited, “If you have any more trouble, ring me. I live on the Cranley Estate, with Pete and Kevin.”

  Pete tapped Angie on the shoulder. “I’ve checked the place over, Angie, and there’s no one here …”

  “No one human,” Sceptre interrupted.

  Pete frowned at her, and spoke once more to Angie. “We’ve scared ’em off. Tell Bilko that’s one he owes me. Robb and his chums will help you sort out the furniture. You two ready?” He shot the last question at Sceptre and Kevin, who both nodded. He led them out into the street, followed by the protests of PC Robb.

  “Hey, what am I supposed to tell my guv’nor?”

  “Tell him I’ll send him a bill,” Pete called back as they crossed the street to his car.

  *****

  Pete climbed behind the wheel and Sceptre settled into the passenger seat, half turning to speak to Kevin as he got into the rear seat.

  “I’ll want to see that footage, Kevin,” she said.

  “Some good stuff on it.” Kevin chuckled with delight. “Dave Robb, was scared out of his wits when we got here.”

  “I’m more interested in the paranormal stuff,” Sceptre admitted with a jaundiced glance at Pete. “If only to try and convince our sceptical friend here.”

  Shuffling in his seat, Pete removed the uncomfortable DVD from the waistband of his joggers. “And I have my own agenda. Like, how come Bilko had hold of this?”

  Kevin leaned over his shoulder and whistled. “ Geez! That thing won’t be officially released for another month. It must be a pirate.”

  “Yep, and there’s only one man in Ashdale with the wherewithal to produce pirates as good as this.” He ran a hand over the cover. Looking at Kevin through the mirror, he grinned, and Kevin returned the gesture.