Haunt Dead Wrong (12 page)

‘Old?’ exclaimed the Major, turning his face and jutting out his jaw, skin shimmering with that ghostly blue light. ‘Do I look old to you? Look at this profile, Sparky. If it
weren’t for that war I’d have been on the silver screen. I’m forever young. I got a face to break a thousand hearts.’

‘Break a thousand farts, more like,’ said Dougie. ‘And that was never your real hair colour. Silver screen? Silver fox, I reckon.’

‘Don’t disrespect the hair, kid!’

‘Good stuff that Kiwi boot polish. Gets a nice shine, eh?’

The airman shook his head and looked my way. ‘He’s dead to me.’

We laughed as one, the tension that had hung in the air having dissipated, blown away on a breeze of good humour. Bradbury seemed far from my friends’ minds as they sparred with one
another. I, however, was sadly unable to shake the villain’s spectre from my thoughts.

‘When I ask what we’re going to do with you, let me further explain,’ said Dougie. ‘If you remember, there was the small issue of your old flame, Ruby.’

The Major smiled dreamily, no doubt recalling some profoundly beautiful moment with his true love.

‘Either he remembers or that’s ghostly gut-rot,’ said Dougie. ‘Possibly something to add to the
Rules of Ghosting
?’

‘Seriously though,’ I said. ‘What do you want to do? Do you want us to deliver a message to her? Dougie could let her know that he can reach you.’

The Major’s smile slipped. ‘What good would it do?’

That wasn’t the reply I’d expected. ‘The world of good, surely. You loved her, didn’t you? And it’s pretty flipping clear she loved you. Still does, for that
matter.’

‘How do you think she’ll respond if Sparky tells her he can speak to me, that I’m still here?’

‘She’ll be overjoyed?’

‘OK, kid. Try and imagine the effect a revelation like that would have on your dear old mom. Would she be thrilled?’

I imagined Mum’s face as Dougie told her he could talk to my ghost. It wasn’t a pretty image. The Major continued.

‘She’ll think it’s a cruel prank. She’ll be heartbroken.’

Dougie snapped his fingers, the light bulb moment sparking him into action. ‘Then I tell Ruby something only you could know, something personal, just between the two of you.’

‘Better, but still not great. Will’s mom might be able to handle a shock like that, but Ruby? You said she’s frail. News like that could do more damage than good. You going in
there solo and blabbing about me could end in tears or worse. The message needs something physical alongside it, a token of proof that can ease her into the idea that I never went away. This is too
big for you to go shooting your mouth off. Words aren’t enough.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Dougie’s lack of tact taken into account, what would you suggest? Last time we chatted you mentioned something about the air base.’

‘I did?’

‘Yeah, but you were interrupted by Cornetto boy here.’

‘I do love those ice creams,’ said Dougie as I continued.

‘Is there something there we could use?’

The Major scratched his jaw, as if the action of rubbing the chiselled chin would conjure an idea into life. It fairly worked.

‘The mess,’ he said.

‘The what now?’ asked Dougie.

‘The old officers’ mess.’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ Dougie said.

‘It’s where the officers lived, right?’ I said, as the Major nodded.

‘Lived, slept, ate and the rest. They were our digs while we were stationed here. We weren’t with the boys in the barracks. We had a few luxuries, perks of station.’

‘Perks?’ said Dougie.

‘We had our own bar, Sparky, a pool table, leather chairs, a gramophone—’

‘Grandma’s phone?’

The Major groaned. ‘Gram-a-phone. You know, for long players? Vinyl records?’

Dougie stared at the Yank gormlessly.

‘A music system,’ I said, spelling it out for my hapless pal.

The Major nodded. ‘Certainly made being far from home a bit more bearable for us.’

‘What about this “mess” then?’ said Dougie. ‘What’s so special about it?’

The American’s face was serious, the cheeky grin departed as he leaned in close. ‘So, downstairs was the day quarters where we socialised, but upstairs was where our cots
were.’

‘Beds!’ said Dougie, with another fingersnap.

‘Sharp as a tack, ain’t he?’ said the Major. ‘My room was in the attic, highest room of the house.’

‘Hang about,’ I said. ‘House? I thought you stayed in bunkers. Weren’t you in one of those Anderson shelters, like we read about in History lessons?’

‘We were officers, Will,’ said the Major. ‘They requisitioned a farmhouse for us on the land where the base was built. The farmer didn’t object, taking a tidy sum off the
Air Force and waving goodbye to the pigswill.’

‘So there’s something there that could help reunite you with Ruby?’ asked Dougie.

‘Reunite? Hell, no. The only way that could happen would be if she died, and I’m in no hurry for that to happen. I’ve waited long enough to see her. A little longer ain’t
gonna hurt. She clearly isn’t done with your world yet, Sparky.’

‘So what’s the item?’ I asked, cutting to the chase. ‘And where is it?’

‘Like I said, I was in the attic. We had a cast iron French stove up there that we used to warm the room and brew our coffee over. There was a round window at the gable end of the house
that overlooked the base. My cot was beneath it, bedhead to the wall. I kept my valuables under the floorboards there, in a cigar box. Find the loose floorboard, you’ll find the one thing
that can convince Ruby this is all real, not the cruel prank of some teenage punks.’

‘Valuables?’

‘Yeah, kid. My cash, family keepsakes, love letters . . .’

Dougie and I nodded, understanding where our friend was heading.

‘You want us to show Ruby the letters,’ I said.

The Major shook his head. ‘The letters are only part of it; there’s something else in there as well.’

‘Something else?’ said Dougie, suddenly intrigued. ‘Like what? Dirty pictures? Whisky? A gun?’

‘Of course,’ said the Yank in a mocking tone. ‘All of that and more, Sparky! There’s even a treasure map to a stash of stolen Nazi gold, buried on the banks of the ship
canal. No, kid. No broads, booze or bullets I’m afraid. Just give her the box. Trust me, it’ll make sense. That’s all you need to do.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘So we find the cigar box and hand it over to Ruby?’

‘Yeah,’ said the Major, suddenly looking awkward. ‘You don’t need to open it though, understand? She can do that.’

‘Understood.’ I could tell that whatever he’d stored in that box was private. This was one of those rare occasions where there was no room for goofing about. Dougie nodded in
silent agreement.

‘There’s one other thing, though,’ I added.

‘What’s that?’ said the Major.

‘The air base isn’t what it was.’

‘Whaddaya mean?’

‘They’ve started levelling it, remember? The newspaper article I showed you: they’re knocking down the hangars, breaking up the runways and building houses over the
lot.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘He’s saying that finding your cigar box under the floorboards is the least of our worries,’ said Dougie. ‘We need to see if the farmhouse is still standing. It could
have been demolished.’

‘Demolished?’ The Major punched a fist into his palm. ‘I knew this was too good to be true. Nothing in life – or death – is ever simple.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Yank,’ said Dougie, patting his hand through our friend’s insubstantial back. ‘First things first, eh? Let’s find that
farmhouse.’

‘How are you getting on?’ I whispered into Dougie’s ear as he snipped the last length of mesh with his wire cutters. He jumped at my voice.

‘You’ve an uncanny knack for the heebiejeebies, y’know?’

‘Sorry.’

‘If it’s not your voice coming out of nowhere, it’s your ugly face looming over me every morning,’ Dougie said, dropping the wire cutters back into his messenger bag.

‘I do that?’

‘Yep. No respect for personal space. I’d say it’s a ghost thing, but you were an idiot when you were alive too.’

Dougie took hold of the wire fence. He carefully pulled it back in gloved hands before slipping through, gently allowing the severed mesh to fall back without rattling. The last thing we needed
was to alert the security guards to Dougie’s presence.

He looked the business, decked in his stealthiest subterfuge gear. Dougie was all too aware that this was a potentially dangerous task he was undertaking: ‘ninja black’ was the dress
code he’d insisted upon. He stopped short of saying he may not return alive. Admittedly the effect of his outfit was lessened somewhat by the
Iron Maiden
T-shirt, but all things
considered it was a fair effort. Furthermore, my knowledge of ninjas was admittedly limited, but I doubted they usually took man-bags on missions with them, Dougie’s messenger bag bouncing
jauntily upon his hip.

‘We need to cut across this field,’ I said, indicating straight ahead with my hand. ‘Mind your step, though. The barracks used to be situated across this meadow. Goodness knows
what’s underfoot.’

Knowing what the plan was, we’d wasted no time in scouring the internet for information on the air base. Photos and plans of the site had been examined, the farmhouse located, and the
quickest, safest route to it decided. The enormous shadow of an aircraft hangar loomed large nearby.

‘According to the maps, the farmhouse is at the back of that hangar. Just need to watch out for the security patrols.’

Right on cue, a beam of torchlight flashed close by to our right, an approaching guard doing his rounds of the perimeter fence.

‘You might want to move,’ I said, but my pal needed no prompting. He was off, staying low to the long grass. I sped after him, pulled along by Dougie’s invisible tether, my
eyes never leaving the torch beam at our backs. He leapt suddenly, hurdling a crumbling low wall that had appeared out of nowhere from the weed-riddled field. There was a clanging as his feet hit
something metallic, hidden in the grass. He cursed aloud as his trainers went from under him, the uneven surface sending him sprawling through the air.

Dougie hit the dirt and spluttered as I hovered over him. Back the way we’d come I caught sight of the guard’s torch sweeping the darkness in our direction. Had he heard our din?
He’d need to be deaf to have missed it. I crouched beside Dougie.

‘You OK?’ I asked. He winced.

‘My ankle. Think I might’ve sprained it.’

‘Can you walk on it?’

‘I’m going to have to, aren’t I?’

He set off, stumbling through the grass and drawing nearer the hangar. Behind us, the torch cut through the night, closing in, searching for the cause of the commotion.

‘Come on, D,’ I said, urging him on. ‘Imagine you’ve got a pack of zombies at your back. Better still, imagine it’s Vinnie Savage and his cronies!’

That did the trick. Dougie found an extra gear, opening his stride as he loped painfully toward the hangar. Soon we were slipping into its towering shadow, my friend hugging its wall
breathlessly as I scouted our surroundings.

‘We’ve shaken the security guard, mate, for now. But we need to keep moving.’

Dougie nodded, his face contorting like he might barf. Then he was moving again, hobbling along the edge of the aircraft hanger, making his way to the rear. I looked up as we went, overwhelmed
by the sheer scale of the thing. This was the last giant standing, the others long gone, just like the Major and his old comrades. Only ghosts remained.

We slowly turned the corner of the hangar, searching for guards and, more importantly, a farmhouse. I hadn’t expected it to still be standing. Surely that would’ve been the first
thing to go, a clapped-out, crumbling building. Yet there it was, a ruin rising from the wasteland, bedecked in rubble. Dougie wasted no more time, skipping clumsily across broken tarmac to the
farmhouse, wincing as he went.

The front door hung open crazily, the timber green with lichen. Dougie squeezed through the gap, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

‘It’s like a giant dumpster,’ I said.

Once home to Air Force officers, the ground floor had gone through a makeover. The building had been used as a landfill in recent years, a dumping ground for all manner of debris. Bricks, bags
of mortar and busted construction materials cluttered one wall, while more residential waste filled the remainder of the large room. A knackered toilet sat beside the staircase, its porcelain
cracked and riddled with mould. Bin bags were piled high in one corner, the buzz of flies and Dougie’s contorting nostrils telling me something nasty was within. Pizza boxes, crumpled cans
and broken bottles were a popular decoration, popping up all over the place. An ancient-looking television set stood proud in the room’s centre, its screen smashed, audience long
departed.

‘Upstairs,’ I said, and Dougie was off, struggling up the creaking staircase as he made for the next floor. The landing was cluttered with more junk but we pressed on through,
swinging around to find the attic steps. Up he went, the rotten, twisted timbers groaning beneath his weight. I held my breath for Dougie, hoping the staircase would hold out and not plunge him
into the chaos below. Finally, he reached the summit.

‘He lived here?’ whispered Dougie.

‘Suspect it was more homely back in the day,’ I said.

Half the ceiling was missing, revealing jagged joists, shattered roof-tiles cluttering the ground where they’d landed down the years. Great holes pockmarked the floor where the exposed
wood had been worn away by the weather, eventually falling through to the rooms below. There was the rusting French stove, balanced precariously beside one such hole, suicidal on its fragile perch.
Only the occasional beam remained. Dougie stepped forward, jumping with fright as half a dozen crows took flight from the shadows, disappearing through the splintered roof.

‘The round window,’ I said, pointing ahead across the dangerous ground. There it was, in the centre of the gable-end wall, the only sheet of glass still intact in the farmhouse as
far as we could tell.