Haunt Dead Wrong (15 page)

‘Yes,’ said my frightened friend. We both heard the Bentley rev into life for the first time since forever.

‘It’s a bank job.’

There are some things in life one should never underestimate. The unstoppable, vengeful fury of an enraged older brother would be one such thing, especially if you’ve
just kicked him up the arse. The never-ending cost upon your well-being and safety when dating the school bully’s ex-girlfriend would be another. And the ability for Stu Singer to steal every
item off your still-warm corpse during a game of
Dungeons & Dragons
would always rank pretty high. The love a father has for his son would be in the top three too. That’s a pretty
special bond and a powerful set of emotions we’re looking at there. Likewise, it swings both ways. There’s little a son wouldn’t do for his father.

Amongst the many things that united Dougie and I throughout our lives – and my death, let’s not forget – was our love of literature. We shared a deep-rooted obsession with
roleplaying games, comics, films and music, but it was our fondness of a good book that really sealed the deal in the best mate stakes. If he’d read it, chances were so had I. One of our
favourite authors we had discovered in primary school: Roald Dahl. But that great writer divided our opinion. What was the master storyteller’s greatest book? We were agreed that, unusually,
it wasn’t one of his more fantastic works. Charlie, the Twits and Mr Fox had their place of course, but they weren’t our favourites. Mine was
Tales of the Unexpected
, my own
father having introduced me to them when I was little, even showing me to the old TV show that was broadcast when he was in short pants. I loved a good short story, especially one with a twist, and
Tales
was full of them. However, Dougie’s favourite struck a chord far closer to home.

My friend loved
Danny, Champion of the World.
No friendly giants, no glass elevators, no marvellous medicines. It was a very real story about a boy and his father, two friends who would
do anything for one another. In Dougie’s words, it was the most wonderful, perfect example of a father-son relationship in literature. I found it hard to argue. Perhaps this was the dream for
Dougie, to have that exact same bond with his old man. One could hardly blame him. Whenever the subject arose I found myself having to re-evaluate my love for
Tales.
And it was
Danny
that would inspire Dougie as he sought to save his own father from a terrible fate.

That evening, while Mr Hancock tinkered with the Bentley, preparing for the job, Dougie went through his usual routine. He washed up the pots and pans from the previous night and prepared dinner
for the coming one. Dinner in Casa Hancock wasn’t terribly thrilling or healthy for that matter. Sausage and bacon butties were the norm with Dougie on chef duty, and the closest one came to
the five-a-day portions of fruit and veg was tomato ketchup. On this particular evening, beans and toast were on the menu. However, a secret ingredient had been added to the dish, one that would
hopefully scupper Mr Hancock’s involvement in Bradbury’s scheme.

Dougie’s dad came through from the garage, closing and locking the door behind him. His hands were filthy, caked in dirt and grime after spending the last few hours working on his car. He
whacked the tap with his elbow, a torrent of water streaming over his hands.

‘What’s the occasion?’ asked Dougie, stirring the beans. ‘You haven’t taken the car out for ages.’

Mr Hancock didn’t answer, instead scrubbing his fingers with a soapy nailbrush.

‘I know what you’re up to, Dad, and I still say you’re daft.’ This was his last chance to reason with him. ‘Tell Bradbury to go whistle.’

Mr Hancock stopped cleaning, letting the hot water wash away the suds. ‘Son, there are some things we have to do in life which are unpleasant. But we do them, nonetheless. Let’s
leave it at that, eh?’

‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ muttered my pal as four slices of toast popped from the machine. He snatched them up, whacking them on to a pair of
plates and daubing them with butter.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Douglas. There are consequences to every action
and
inaction. If I don’t do this one last thing for that man, he’ll do something
far more terrible than you can possibly imagine. Trust me, son. Ask no more questions. I do one last job for Bradbury and then he’s out of our lives for good. You and I can move on. Together.
Like it used to be.’

‘You’ll never be able to move on, Dad,’ said Dougie, slopping the beans on to Mr Hancock’s slices of toast. ‘As long as he’s out there, Bradbury owns
you.’

His dad shook his head, not wanting to hear it. He picked up his dinner and cutlery from the work surface. Then he was gone, back into the lounge to eat his meal on his lap. Dougie and I stared
at the mottled glass door. We could hear the television set, but above that the noise of his father’s knife and fork scraping against the plate as he cut up and devoured his beans on toast.
Dougie looked anxious.

‘You not eating?’ I asked.

‘Strangely, I’m not in the mood for beans,’ he replied, picking up a piece of toast from his plate and munching on the buttery slice. ‘Do you think it’ll
work?’

‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ I said, drifting across the room to take a peek into the lounge. Mr Hancock was already on to slice number two, chasing the beans around the
plate, eyes fixed on the television. I returned to my pal.

‘Seems your dad’s got an appetite on him.’

‘So now what?’

‘We wait.’

Dougie tossed the half-eaten slice of toast back on to his plate. He looked like he might chunder at any moment. He pulled a stool out from the breakfast counter and slumped into it.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I hope we’ve done the right thing.’

‘What option did you have?’

‘I could’ve let him go and do the job.’

‘And have that on your conscience, knowing you could’ve stopped him?’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t be second guessing what you might have done.’ I looked back
towards the lounge. ‘Besides, it’s too late now.’

Dougie shivered. ‘Will he be alright?’

I didn’t know the answer so I went with the comforting lie instead. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. You’ve done what anyone would do for a loved one. This is in his best
interests.’

He looked at the phone on the wall.

‘When should I call them?’ he said.

‘It’s too soon. You need to wait for it to take effect. And besides, you weren’t planning on using the landline, were you?’

‘What? Should I use my mobile instead?’

‘Sod that! You need to find a public phone-box.’

‘Do they still even exist?’

I managed to smile. ‘They certainly do. There’s a museum piece outside St Mary’s church you could use. But it has to be a public one. The
last
thing you need is to have
the call traced back here. Then you and your dad would really have some explaining to do.’

Dougie nodded, seeing the bigger picture as I continued.

‘Try not to worry. This time tomorrow, all your worries will be firmly behind you.’

Dougie winced where he sat, reaching down to gingerly rub his bad leg.

‘Is that the one you injured on the air base?’

He pulled his left trouser leg up, rolling it back to his knee. I gagged when I saw the wound. A four-inch cut rode across his shin, the skin bulging and discoloured on either side of the ragged
flesh. It wasn’t scabbing over. I’d seen enough episodes of
Holby
to know an infection when I saw one.

‘You
really
need to get that looked at.’

‘I’ve cleaned it up. That’ll have to do for now.’

‘Dougie, I’m a ghost, but even
I
can smell how rank that is. Don’t leave it any longer than you have to. Get down to A&E and have them stitch it up.’

My friend looked faint, like he might slide off the stool any second. ‘I’ve got a thing about needles.’

‘It’s not the one with the thread you need to be worried about,’ I chuckled mischievously. ‘It’s the tetanus jab in the butt that’s
really
gonna
hurt!’

‘You’re all heart, Underwood.’ I caught him looking across the counter at the little brown medicine bottle. My laughter subsided.

‘Let’s give it an hour and see how he’s doing,’ I said. ‘They should’ve kicked in by then.’

‘That was double the prescribed number of pills,’ said Dougie, chewing his lip anxiously. ‘He’s like Sleeping Beauty on the regular dose. We could be looking at Rip Van
Winkle here.’

‘Better Rip Van Winkle than the Prisoner of Azkaban! Come on. Let’s go to your room, listen to tunes, kill the time. No good worrying now, mate.’

We left the kitchen, passing the lounge en route to the stairs. We couldn’t help but look through. Dougie’s dad looked relaxed –
very
relaxed – in his armchair,
the empty dinner plate on the floor at his feet.

‘Sweet dreams, Mr Hancock,’ I whispered as we left him to his approaching slumber and disappeared to Dougie’s bedroom.

We were there when Mr Hancock finally stirred. He was in his armchair, exactly as he’d been left, still in his clothes from yesterday. That wasn’t so unusual; the
poor chap having taken slovenliness to new depths. He rubbed his eyes, smacked his lips and squinted at the sunlight that flooded the room. He seemed terribly confused, his gaze settling upon the
television, unable to figure what was going on. Only the evening news had now been replaced by the morning news, and it told us a very different story.

‘What . . . what happened?’ he asked, hauling himself upright.

‘What do you mean, Dad?’ asked Dougie from the sofa. His father became agitated as he double-checked his wristwatch.

‘How did I oversleep?’ His voice was frantic. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘Sorry,’ said Dougie. ‘Was there something important you had to do?’

Mr Hancock shook his head, unable to fathom his predicament.

‘I don’t understand . . . I just had a nap. How did I sleep right through? You
knew
I had somewhere to be, Douglas. And you let me sleep?’

‘Let you? You had a job for Bradbury, Dad. Did you really think I’d stand by and watch you go ahead with it? After all that he’s done? To you. Me. To Will?’

Mr Hancock struggled for a reply but was found wanting. I felt a warm glow at the mention of my name, but also a chill. Dougie had done right by me
and
his dad. His father wasn’t
seeing it, but his son’s actions were completely justified. Hopefully he’d get with the programme shortly.

‘You don’t understand, Douglas,’ said Mr Hancock fearfully, rising from the armchair. He seized the carriage clock from the mantelpiece, as if he might wake from a nightmare at
any moment.

‘What don’t I understand, Dad?’ Dougie shot up from the sofa so fast I thought he might head-butt the ceiling. ‘Bradbury was using you. Again. Dragging you down into the
gutter. You weren’t going to haul yourself out, so it was left to me. You can thank me later.’

‘He won’t stand for this, Douglas! He’s wicked. I was supposed to
be there
last night. I had a
job
to do!’ He was panicking now, stepping towards Dougie,
spittle flying.

‘Back up, pal,’ I said. ‘He’s lost it!’

Dougie ignored me, standing his ground as his father towered over him. I’d never seen Mr Hancock like this: equal parts terrified and terrifying. His hand went back, palm open.

‘You stupid boy!’

Dougie remained there, unrepentant in the face of his father’s ranting.

‘You’re going to hit me? For what? Saving your hide? It wasn’t a job, Dad. Will’s dad has a job. So does Stu’s dad and Andy’s. You never had a job. You worked
for a criminal. I know
all about
what you were going to do last night. A bank robbery? Really? Is that all you are, some lowlife?’

Mr Hancock reeled back on his heels, backing away from his boy, besieged by shame. Anger gave way to grief.

‘Why are you crying, Dad? We’re shut of Bradbury now.’

‘No we aren’t, Douglas,’ he sobbed. ‘He was expecting me last night. Don’t you see? He’ll come after me!’

Dougie’s laugh was short and sharp. ‘You’re not listening. Look at the telly. Please.’

His father turned slowly to the television. Realisation dawned on his face as the local newsreader reported the headline story.

‘The four men who were captured last night during a foiled bank robbery in Warrington are all known to the police. They are believed to be local criminals who have been operating across
the Cheshire and Merseyside area. The men, believed to have been armed, were caught in the early hours in a carefully managed sting operation. Police say they are grateful to an anonymous tip that
was received from a member of the public yesterday evening, alerting them to the failed heist. Anyone with further information on the attempted robbery is encouraged to contact Cheshire
Constabulary or Crimestoppers.’

Mr Hancock looked at Dougie. ‘You told the police?’

His son nodded, chest puffed out like a prize bantam. ‘I did.’

‘But what if the police had failed to capture them?’

‘They didn’t fail though, did they? They caught them. Four criminals, the newsreader said. It’ll have been Bradbury and three others you were supposed to pick up. My maths has
never been all that, but I’m pretty sure I’m on the ball with this one. They caught them, Dad. They have Bradbury.’

A smile flickered on his father’s face. ‘They have him?’

‘You’d have to think so, wouldn’t you? Armed too, the news said. That’s got to come with a long stretch inside, surely?’

‘And when they let him out?’

‘
If
they let him out, right? You said he was wanted in connection with other crimes, no? Surely they’ll throw the book at him.’

‘But
if
they let him out . . .’

‘Then we move. What’s keeping us here?’

‘I rather like it here,’ I chimed in cheekily, but Dougie crashed on.