Fear No Evil. Debbie Johnson
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pissed, and now rent-a-ghost over there was telling me it could all be down to some ‘mischievous’ spirit?
I shivered a bit. The temperature had dropped right down; I must have been cold. It couldn’t possibly have been because I was spooked.
Dan slinked off the sofa and on to his mismatched feet. I know ‘slink’ isn’t a word you often associate with six foot two inch males, but he does move in a way that’s… graceful, I suppose. He stretched, then headed out of the door, returning a few minutes later with mugs of tea and a packet of Hobnobs. God, the man knew how to live.
A scrawny black cat followed him back in, weaving round his ankles. It sat and stared at me with narrowed eyes. One narrowed eye, to be precise – the other socket was empty, and grown over with grizzled grey fur. He only had one ear as well, and even that was sticking out at a funny angle, like it had been broken and reset by a drunk vet. It was the kind of manky creature you’d call Lucky for a joke.
‘Who’s this?’ I asked, staring it down.
‘That’s Balthazar. He’s my familiar,’ answered Dan. I felt a churn in my stomach.
‘Nah, not really,’ he added, looking at my stern expression. ‘Where’s that famed sense of humour you Scousers are supposed to have? That’s just Bert. No idea where he lives, or who thinks they own him. Appears now and then looking for food.’
Bert gave me a cat sneer, and leapt up into the windowsill, keeping one careful feline eye on us in case we made any sudden moves.
As well as bringing the tea, Dan had a multicoloured woollen blanket slung over his shoulder, which he brought over and threw across me.
‘It’s getting colder, and the heating’s bust,’ he said, tucking me in. I jumped as I felt his fingers accidentally brush the inch of bare flesh that was peeping between my T-shirt and my jeans.
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and retreated back to his own couch.
Was he flirting with me? Or just taking the piss? I couldn’t tell, so I dipped my biscuit into the tea. Left it there way too long, until it fell to pieces, and I burned my fingers trying to scoop the biggest chunks out.
‘Do you want me to help you?’ he asked, expertly withdrawing his biscuit, totally intact.
‘No, I’m all right, ta,’ I said, ‘I don’t mind a few crumbs.’
‘I didn’t mean with the tea. I meant with the case. I have certain strengths, but I’m not a qualified investigator. Together we could make everything move along much quicker, and the sooner we sort this out the better. What do you say? We’ve got the right names for it. And I could even help you improve your dunking technique if you like.’
Part of his face was obscured by the steam floating up from his mug. But I knew there’d be a grin lurking there.
He was definitely, definitely flirting. And I was definitely, definitely enjoying it.
What would Father Doheny say?
‘Pass us that bag of 50ps, love,’ my mum said, too tired to move off her armchair. It was a comfy armchair, old and squashy, covered in worn brown velour with burnt orange tassles dangling off it. It would have looked right at home in the living room of any granny flat, parked in front of the telly. Which is exactly where I wished I was, after spending a restless night at Father Dan’s cottage.
Instead, it was behind the counter in my mother’s ‘boutique’. The boutique in question was actually a set of trestle tables in Liverpool’s ‘famous’ Riverfront Market, down at the docks.
The Market takes place in a barely converted former warehouse every weekend. It’s damp and cold and very, very old. But it’s still one of my all-time favourite places in the city, and judging by the crowds that flock there, I’m not alone. There’s nowhere like it for atmosphere, and you can buy anything from second-hand crime thrillers to brand new designer trainers. Not only can you furnish your whole house, you can get your eyebrows done and have your Tarot read, all under the one moist, cavernous roof.
My mum, Mary McCartney, has had a stall there for donkey’s years. She’s like one of the fixtures, but less rusty. She sells what she terms ‘clubwear for the curvaceous clubber’. In other words, a lot of brightly coloured lycra for the bodyshape-challenged.
She’d done a roaring trade that day – Halloween is a big clubbing night in town these days, and she’d had my creative cousin Susan whipping up a special range of low-cut mini-dresses with fluorescent skeleton bones painted on them. They glowed in the dark, and went up to a size 28. Who says we have no class in Liverpool? I suspected it was the first time some of these ladies had seen their ribs in a while, so I wasn’t surprised they were popular.
The day was drawing to a close, and the traders were all packing up, boxing their gear and loading it into vans and storage. She was having her traditional post-business cuppa while she cashed up. I was in charge of fetching the tea, and counting copper – I get all the good jobs.
She took the bag of coins from my hand, holding it in her palm – she always says she can guess how much just from the feel of it. The bag probably weighed more than she does – despite being a purveyor of plump party frocks, she’s built like a sparrow herself, with delicate features and jet black hair. The latter comes out of a bottle, the same brand she’s used since she was twenty-four. She has no clue what her real hair looks like underneath it all now (neither do I), and is convinced if she stopped colouring it, she’d go bald.
‘Twenty-eight quid,’ she pronounced, then tipped the coins out onto her lap and started counting. She can talk while she counts as well, which makes her some kind of savant in my eyes. I finished the tower of tuppences I was working on and sat down on a far less comfy bar stool, next to a plus-sized mannequin draped in a diamanté bikini and a feather boa.
‘So this fella claims the girl could have been killed by a ghostie, does he?’ she said, piling the coins up in small stacks on the bulky arms of the chair. I nodded, expecting a tirade of cynicism and warnings about lunacy being catching.
‘Well, you never know, hon. There are stranger things in heaven and earth, and some of them have stalls here. But be careful. Your Auntie Doreen always claimed your Uncle Les was possessed by a demon.’
‘Uncle Les was possessed by the bottle of Thunderbird he kept hidden in his glovebox, Mum, and we all know it. Don’t you think it’s a bit far-fetched?’
‘’Course I do. That doesn’t mean it’s not true. I know nothing about all this ghost crap, but I know you, and you’re a good judge of character. If you think he’s talking sense, he is.’
‘That’s the problem. I’m not sure he is. But then again, I have clients – paying clients – who want to know what happened. Even if they don’t like the answers, it’s my job to find them, which means working with Father Dan. At least he’s easy on the eye.’
She snorted and finished her count, scooping the coins into individual bags ready for banking.
‘I was 50p out,’ she said, ‘must be losing my touch. Look, love, while I’m not sure about the spirit world, I am sure about one thing – fancying the priest is wrong. Knock it on the head, will you? I don’t want my only daughter sent to hell – it’s already going to be full of my offspring when the boys get there.’
‘He’s not a priest any—’ I started to protest. She cut me off by holding up her tiny hand and saying ‘Shhh, I’m counting’. Which was a lie – she was communing with a plastic bag of pound coins.
‘One hundred and two quid, dead on. Why don’t you ask Mystic Melissa? She’s heading over now. Must have sensed your presence.’
I groaned and went back to the copper.