Haunt Dead Wrong (8 page)

We’d been expecting to see a frail Mrs Hershey, not a heavyset district nurse. Dougie’s cheeks flushed with colour as he failed to answer.

‘You’re Ruby’s grandson,’ I said hastily. ‘Scratch that –
great-
grandson!’

‘I’ve come to see Great-Grandma Ruby,’ Dougie blurted out, before smiling awkwardly.

‘Crikey!’ said the nurse with surprise. ‘You’d better come in then, hadn’t you? This’ll make your gran’s day, bless her.’ She stood aside,
allowing Dougie to squeeze past, and called through toward the back of the house. ‘Ruby, love. It’s your great-grandson here to see you. I’m just getting my gear from the
car.’

Then the nurse was off, stomping up the garden path as Dougie crept through the bungalow. He tugged at his T-shirt collar.

‘God, I thought it was hot out there, it’s stifling in here.’

‘Old folk. They’d wear woolly jumpers at the gates of hell.’

Ruby was sat in an armchair in the back room beside a pair of patio doors that overlooked her back garden. Wild though the front garden was, the rear was another world. A carefully tended lawn
was bordered by flowers and shrubs of every colour. A wrought-iron bird table stood on the paved area closest to the doors, seed balls and feeders hanging from its edges and eaves. Tits,
yellowhammers and a solitary robin jockeyed for position, filling their happy beaks with whatever they could snaffle.

Ruby Hershey turned to face Dougie, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. ‘I may be old, but I think I’d recognise my own great-grandchildren. Who are you?’

She was ancient-looking, shrivelled and shrunken within her chair. She wore a tartan blanket over her lap that went all the way down to her slippers, even though it was a glorious summer’s
day. Her eyes twinkled, belying her years, hinting at mischief and merriment. I imagined her as a young lady, and how hard the Major must have fallen for her.

‘I think you’d best tell her, mate,’ I said, ‘before the nurse returns.’

And so, Dougie did. He wasted little time, all too aware that the medical worker could be back at any moment, screwing up our plans. The story was hokum. He said he was investigating the air
base for a school history project over the holidays, her name having popped up in his research. He wanted to record her recollections about the base and the Americans who had lived there. She
seemed to buy it. Certain details were spared, such as the fact he knew the Major, who’d been a ghost for seventy years.

Dougie held a dictaphone out before Mrs Hershey, catching every word she imparted. She spoke of the fleets of bombers that soared over the town, the jeeps and trucks that thundered along the
cobbled streets. She sighed as she recounted the dance halls where the Yanks courted the local girls. She giggled as she recalled the thrill of nylon stockings, lipstick and chocolate bars, gifted
to them by smitten servicemen. She smiled as she was transported back to happier times. We could hear the district nurse in the kitchen, singing to herself, keeping busy.

‘And you fell for one of the Americans yourself?’ asked Dougie.

‘Oh, I did,’ she said sweetly, holding her bony hands to her bosom. ‘I did indeed.’

Dougie glanced my way hopefully as he continued. ‘I saw that you married one, Mrs Hershey.’

Her smile slipped, the look of love shifting to sadness. ‘Josh was a good man. Too good for me.’

‘Too good? Why would you say that?’

‘Because I couldn’t give him what he really deserved.’

‘You were married, weren’t you?’

She stifled a tear, her smile slack as she looked across the room. We followed her gaze to a faded photo above the fireplace. I stepped over to better see it; the American and his bride a vision
in sepia, stood in front of the very recognisable St Mary’s church.

‘We were husband and wife for fifty-two years. Can you believe that?’

‘Why you would say Mr Hershey was too good for you?’ repeated Dougie, where he knelt beside her chair.

‘He deserved better,’ said Ruby with a peg-toothed smile. ‘I gave him fifty-two years as his faithful wife. I gave him two children. They gave us grandchildren and more. And
they’re all gone now, too. My son lives in Australia, while my daughter moved to London thirty years ago. And Josh is gone, God bless him. Gone, but not forgotten. He was a good man. But I
could never truly give him my love.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Dougie, though we knew the answer.

‘My heart belonged to another,’ Ruby whispered.

‘So,’ said Dougie, inching inexorably toward the tricky subject, ‘what happened? The one you loved – why didn’t you marry him?’

‘The base took a lucky hit, or an unlucky one as the case might be,’ she said bitterly. ‘A Luftwaffe bomber on its way home from a blitz over Liverpool. They reckoned it was
ditching its payload, dropping whatever it hadn’t unloaded over us. A dozen died in all. One chap held on until they got him to the hospital . . .’

‘That’s how he died,’ I whispered. To see this woman sat before us, clearly still hurting after all these apparently
loveless
years was heartbreaking. ‘We should
go,’ I said, and Dougie nodded in agreement.

‘Mrs Hershey,’ my friend said. ‘Thank you for letting me speak with you today, I really do appreciate it. Would you mind awfully if I returned? There’s a few things
I’d like to investigate further. Your story’s fascinating.’

The nurse stepped through the door into the back room, as Dougie deftly hid the dictaphone back in his pocket.

‘Aw,’ she said. ‘What a lovely surprise, such a smashing kid coming round to see you, eh? You’ve got a cracking great-grandchild there! You should be very
proud.’

‘I am,’ said Ruby, untucking a handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve and drying her eyes. ‘I’m very lucky.’

‘Sorry if I upset you,’ said Dougie.

‘Don’t mind me, lovely,’ sniffed Ruby. ‘These are happy tears. You’ve made an old lady very happy today. It’s nice to reminisce. Nobody asks to hear these
stories any more. I don’t get many visitors, as you might imagine.’

Dougie rose and said his goodbyes, keeping the charade going with the district nurse until we were out of the bungalow and earshot. Each of us was numb. We walked along the road in silence for a
while, lost in our own thoughts. I finally broke the deadlock.

‘What do we do? Do we tell the Major that she’s loved him all this time?’

‘I honestly can’t say. It seems that’s what we’re supposed to do. But how can telling a friend something so cruel be the right thing?’

I couldn’t answer his question. Who could? The sun was shining high overhead, the summer sky blue and unspoiled, but dark clouds gathered in our minds.

It’s fair to say that Dougie and I had been on an emotional rollercoaster of late. Our friendship had experienced its ups and downs, falling apart in the face of
accusation and anger. Slowly it was recovering, our trust gradually returning as we faced adversity side by side. Other friendships would have fallen to the wayside, but not Dougie and I. That
said, I still wasn’t going to hang around in the bathroom while he showered. We were friends, but there were limits.

I waited on the landing as Dougie disappeared into the shower, cleaning himself up after a hot, humid and slightly harrowing day. The encounter with Ruby Hershey had left us both emotionally
bruised. We hadn’t expected the old lady’s words to be quite so touching, her tale of lost love so tragic. It had only served to remind Dougie of how important Lucy was to him.
He’d called her, telling her not to make plans for the evening. And so we found ourselves at Casa Hancock, my friend preparing for a hastily arranged date as I killed time at the top of the
stairs.

I heard Dougie’s dad downstairs, re-entering the kitchen from the garage, the creaking door revealing his location. I drifted downstairs, still in easy reach of my friend but free to
wander the house. The bottles clinked against one another as Mr Hancock heeled the garage door closed. More clinking as he fumbled with the key, locking the garage behind him. I watched as he
pocketed the key into his crumpled corduroy pants before shuffling back into the lounge. Just how much stinking booze did he keep in there? I phased through the locked garage door to find out.

An Aladdin’s cave of junk materialised as I stepped through the barrier. A sliver of light marked the main garage door, the sun’s setting rays cutting through the dusty atmosphere
like a laser beam. Shelves crowded the walls, overloaded with all manner of paraphernalia. Half-used tins of paint were piled atop one another, jam-jars full of washers and boxes of broken timber
loaded up around them. An old bed frame stood on its end along one wall, dust sheets trailing from it like hanging moss. A collection of mops, brushes, garden forks and spades made for an unusual
sculpture to the side of the door, threatening to topple over with the slightest jostle. Mr Hancock’s old Bentley took up the lion’s share of the garage, his pride and joy at rest in
its lair.

‘And there’s the poison.’

The crates were stacked, bottles of ale that would keep Mr Hancock in a half-cut state for the foreseeable future. He had no intention to quit the demon; its claws were in deep. Was Dougie aware
of how much booze there was down there? Grocery deliveries came in the daytime, when Dougie was at school, and the garage was the sole domain of Mr Hancock. He guarded that key like it was the One
Ring, never letting it out of his sight. Such was his shame for the arsenal of alcohol he kept in the garage.

It was so sad to see how far Mr Hancock had fallen. When I was little, he’d often looked after me, arranging play dates for Dougie and me while my folks were at work. He was like an uncle,
entertaining us for hours on end during those holidays. That was the luxury of being self-employed, only driving when he had to, when clients demanded it. The Bentley always featured in those
childhood memories, Dougie and I sat in the back as we travelled in style to the coast or through the Peaks and Dales, windows down. It was such a shame that it now sat in this darkened tomb,
gathering dust.

I passed through the Bentley from its rear – metal, wood and upholstery providing no obstacle – before settling into the driver’s seat. I was instantly transported back to
those road trips. Dougie had lost his mother when he was little, Mr Hancock acting as Dad
and
Mum to his son, providing everything a growing boy needed. Two boys were stashed in the back and
the picnic basket would drive up front beside Mr Hancock.
Queen’s Greatest Hits
would invariably be playing on the old cassette machine, Freddie and the gang accompanying us on each
adventure. We knew those old songs off by heart, father, son and friend singing in not-terribly-perfect harmony as we toured the north together.

I let my hand roll over the steering wheel, imagining its feel, fingertips lingering over the old stereo. A crack in the windscreen rode up the driver’s side from the dashboard, no doubt
reparable. The walnut dash was coated with grime, long forgotten and ignored. What a waste. This vehicle was a collector’s piece. With a bit of TLC the Bentley could be returned to its former
glory. What better project to bring father and son together again? In that moment I set my mind to the task. I’d have words with Dougie, sow the seed that this was something they could enjoy.
How could Mr Hancock resist? The old car would be the perfect catalyst for good. As the Bentley was brought back to life, so too would Mr Hancock return to his splendour. I could see it now. I
clapped my hands like a giddy schoolgirl fixing friends up on a date. I’d be their fairy godmother!

I made a mental note of what needed doing. I was out of the door and inspecting the exterior bodywork, carrying out a ghostly MOT. It was mostly cosmetic, spit and polish needed here and there.
Beneath the dust, the car was in as fine a shape as ever. I lingered at the boot, blanching as I recalled the time Dougie had accidentally locked himself in there. We were nine years old and
playing hide and seek, my friend ducking into the Bentley in search of the perfect hiding place. It had been an hour until I found him, and I’d been unable to spring the lock. Mr Hancock had
been furious to discover his son trapped. That taught us two things that day. Firstly, never climb inside anything mechanical when playing hide and seek. Ever. Secondly, leave Mr Hancock’s
car alone. Always. Since then, the garage had been strictly off limits to Dougie.

I drifted around the car, almost completing my circuit. I wondered if Dougie was out of the shower yet, how he would take to my suggestion of them working on the Bentley together. I was back
around the passenger’s side now, approaching the front wing. Perhaps we could take it for a spin again, hit the road once more. The car hadn’t left the garage in months. Thinking about
it for a moment, I couldn’t recall an occasion I’d seen it in daylight since I’d been a ghost. Not since I’d become a ghost.

It hit me all at once, creeping up from nowhere, taking me by surprise. The crack in the windscreen was the first clue, but blissfully, perhaps willingly, ignored. My spirits had been soaring
seconds ago, but now a sickness washed over me in a tidal wave. As I looked down at the passenger’s wing of the Bentley, the world tilted. My vision was screwed, everything fractured, as if
viewed through a kaleidoscope. I tried to blink the confusion away, regain my balance, but it was hopeless. I stared at the car in horror.

The Bentley’s bodywork was in fine shape, no doubt, all except that wing and the very front of the car. There was the crack in the glass, a jagged lightning bolt that tore through the
windscreen. A great dint had battered the bonnet out of shape, the sheet metal staved in. The panel around the wheel arch was bent and buckled, paint scuffed and peeling. I fell to my knees,
shuddering, refusing to make sense of the damning evidence before my eyes. If I could’ve vomited, I would have. If I wasn’t dead, I could’ve died all over again.

Flakes of electric blue were caught within the Bentley’s black paint, shining like sparks in the darkness. The electric blue of my mountain bike; unmissable, unmistakable. I tried to
scramble away, but I was drawn to the car like a ghoul to a crash. I had no heart, no blood, no veins or arteries, yet my head thundered, great booms shaking my soul to its core. Beyond that storm,
the
Coronation Street
theme tune played, distant, drab and discordant. He was in there watching his television, drinking his booze, drowning his sorrows. He was in there.