Fear No Evil. Debbie Johnson
talk,’ I said.
‘All right, all right, keep your wig on. So Geneva had been killed, fallen down the stairs. Her cousin Theresa was there as well, sobbing her mascara off, saying Geneva’d been having problems. With, you know, a ghost.’
He looked up at me expectantly, obviously waiting for a reaction – disbelief, fear, amazement, I don’t know. He didn’t get any, so he carried on.
‘They took me to the building where it happened. It sometimes works with buildings or objects. Sometimes I can touch a thing and know stuff about it, or the people who’ve touched it before. Nothing that makes sense, just feelings, like. I have to be dead careful – bit like getting one of them static shocks, but in the brain.
‘Wigwam walked me through. We did it at five in the morning. He’d bribed the security bloke to go and have a fag, and in we went, while there was no bugger else around. All the pretty young things tucked up in their beds by then. Jesus, it was awful.’
He reached for the cigarette from behind his ear, and tried to light it. His fingers were shaking so much he couldn’t strike the match, and I reached out to do it for him. I didn’t care too much about his upcoming emphysema, and I needed him calm enough to continue. He nodded his thanks and took his first drag. I thought he might inhale the lot in one go, he was pulling so hard.
‘I could feel it straight away. There was something evil in that place. As soon as we started going up the steps, my hair went up. Right up, floating in the air. Made Wigwam laugh, but I didn’t think it was very funny, ’cause I knew it meant something bad.
‘When we got to her room, it was there. That… thing. It was everywhere – getting up my nose, in my mouth, filling up my ears. Like… like cotton wool being shoved everywhere at once, all my senses were blocked with it. I couldn’t hear or see or smell anything else – and it was evil, it was all rotten, getting into every part of me, choking me. I thought I was going to die!’
His hands were shaking so hard now that ash from his cigarette was zig-zagging off to the left and the right in black arcs. Tears were streaming down his face, and he was poking his finger into his ear, like he was trying to unblock it after a bath. He was falling to pieces in front of me.
‘Bobby! Calm down!’ I said, reaching out to hold his wrists steady. He stared up at me, and nodded. Like I’d reminded him of reality. His skin had faded from its ruddy, pock-marked glow to a putrid yellow, and his breathing was coming in short, sharp bursts. I swear I could hear his heart thumping – and mine along with it. Dodgy Bobby was no longer faking anything – this was genuine 100 per cent terror. And it was contagious.
‘All right, love, yeah, all right. But have you ever had that? That cold feeling? Goosebumps? Just knowing something’s wrong?’
I nodded. I had. Many times. If you’re in the police, you soon learn to listen to that instinct. I associated it with the sound of my own footsteps on the concrete verandahs and walkways of the city’s more enterprising council estates. Always dead quiet, creepily silent, blank faces staring you down as you passed. Every corner you turned, every door you pushed, could be your last. We lived with goosebumps. It’s why we drank so much.
‘Well that’s nothing compared to what happens to me. With me it’s not just some feeling, it’s real, it takes over my whole mind. And this… this was like being held face down in a barrel of shit, little kids’ voices whispering in me ear all the time, telling me over and over again I’m going to hell… that they knew every bad thing about me, that I’m worthless scum and I’ll die screaming. Pictures of my ma, before she died, saying she was burning in hell as well. Of my little sister, saying she was next. She’s only twenty four for Christ’s sake, but in my mind, she’s there, hooked up to machines, no bloody hair. Fucking awful.
‘Then I fell over, legs couldn’t hold me up any more. I was lying on the carpet, face down, trying to block it out. Had burns on me face for days afterwards where I’d scraped the skin off, didn’t even notice at the time. And fucking Wigwam’s kicking me in the ribs and yelling at me. He got down next to me, slapping me round the head and shouting in me ear. Made no difference. Their voices were louder, singing and laughing. Louder than anything I’ve ever heard, straight into my brain, drowned Wigwam out completely. He was going nuts, effing and blinding at me, but it made no odds.’
‘What else were they saying, Bobby?’
He was still crying, his whole narrow, malnourished body jerking with sobs.
‘They was saying they wanted her. Geneva. Saying she was theirs. Saying terrible things, about how they were angry because they didn’t get to finish their game…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know what it fucking means, do I? By that stage I had blood coming out of me ears and nose, and frigging Wigwam dragged me out of there by me boots, banged me arse all the way down the pissing stairs! Next thing I knew we were out on the street. He had me lying down on the seat at one of them yellow bus stops, shaking me, like that was going to help. He was furious – with hisself I think, ’cause he was scared as well. He chucked me in the backseat of that wagon he drives round in and took me back where I was living then.’
He sucked in breath, and I could hear it rattle round his blackened lungs. I’m not psychic – but I had the horrible feeling Dodgy Bobby wasn’t long for this world. Even as the thought crossed my mind, he looked up sharply.
‘You might be right, love. And I’m terrified of what comes next. I’ve been hiding out ever since, and I’ve been going to St Anthony’s every day and confessing. But none of it works – I can still feel it. Like smoke that’s got on my clothes and won’t wash out. It did something to me. It… claimed me. Like no bugger else has ever wanted to do.’
He was staring at the fish tank again now. His hands had stopped jolting, and some colour was creeping back into his cheeks. I exhaled, without realising I’d been holding my breath. Fuck. What a horrible story. From a horrible man. In a horrible place. I needed a beer, and possibly a Valium.
‘Bobby,’ I said, ‘last question then I’ll leave you in peace. Where did Geneva live? Where did all this happen?’
‘You’ll know the place, love,’ he said, ‘big old building on the edge of town. Don’t ever go there if you can avoid it. Hart House.’
‘What do you mean I need to speak to the press office?’ I squeaked, annoyed that my lies weren’t working.
It was just after 11 o’clock the next day, and I was on the phone to the Head of Archives at the Liverpool Institute.
I’d made up a great story about working for the Gazette, and wanting to write a feature about the history of the Institute’s buildings, focusing on Hart House. My Land Registry search had come back listing a corporation called Stag Industries, which I’d never heard of. It was probably a commercial subsidiary of the Institute, but I was going to have to talk to somebody at Companies House later in the day to find out more.
In the meantime, I used the local journalist ploy. It worked much better a few years ago, I can tell you. People were impressed and interested and wanted to get their names in the papers. These days they either wanted paying, signed up to Max Clifford, or referred you to some corporate relations guru with a 2:2 in Media Studies and perfectly manicured nails. The state of the bloody nation.
There was a knock at the door, and I glanced up as it opened. Dan walked in. Father Dan, I mean. I had to really work on that Father Dan business, especially when he looked like he did today – sex on a stick, as my mate Tish might say.
He nodded hello, and lingered in the doorway, filling up the frame with Levi-clad legs, broad shoulders and a leather jacket, his dark blonde hair kissing the collar. I smiled and pointed at the phone in a ‘one minute’ gesture,