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I knocked, hard, on the wood of the door. It was painted a puke green, with a small square panel at the top made out of smoky reinforced glass. No lights, no sounds, no answer, nothing. I walked over to the flat opposite, with its identical door, and pushed open the letter box. It was stuffed with old junk mail and a free weekly paper that had been delivered three months before. I suspected all the flats would be the same. Nobody lived in this block – they’d probably all been moved out into the much nicer new estate that’d been built half a mile, and a whole world away.
All except one. The letter box of Dodgy Bobby’s place was free of clutter, and when I wiggled my fingers through it, they felt warm air circulating. If it was uninhabited, it would have been cold. Damp. Frigid. I could see tiny curtains either side of the glass panel, and I managed to run my fingers over them when I twisted my hand up at a socket-popping angle. No dust.
He was in there. And he had known I was coming early enough to pretend otherwise.
‘Bobby!’ I yelled through the letter box, ‘come out now or I’m fetching Eugene! I’ve got my mobile here, and if you don’t talk to me, I’ll call him – he’ll send the lads round and kick this bloody door down!’
I might not be psychic, but I do have good hearing. There was a scuffle and a rattle from inside, and eventually the door edged open an inch. I shoved it as hard as I could, and Dodgy Bobby flew backwards, hitting the woodchip wall with a thump.
‘What do you want? What does bloody Eugene want? I’ve done everything I can!’ he said, his voice an anguished, nasal whine that seeped out of his nostrils and the tiny slit in his thin, clamped lips. It looked like he was in a room full of toxic gas and was trying to keep his mouth closed when he spoke.
I strode into the living room. Tiny. A beige shagpile decorated with ash, a velour sofa that looked like it was a match for my mum’s shabby market armchair. Three bar electric fire, switched off but the elements still shining orange. A portable black and white telly, with an aerial made out of a wire coat hanger. A copy of the Racing Post and an enormous fish tank, stuffed completely full with cigarette butts. It stank to high heaven.
The only redeeming feature of the whole place was the view – a magnificent vista of the city at night, the glitzy shopping malls and the cathedrals and the beacon of St John’s tower, sticking like an antenna 400 feet into the air.
I turned to stare at Bobby. He looked pretty dodgy, that was for sure. A small man, narrow shoulders hunched in on themselves, trying to appear even smaller. His face was long and thin, with an enormous bulbous nose taking pride of place.
‘Go on then, love,’ he said, sticking his hands into the front pockets of his baggy beige cardigan, ‘do yer worst. What does he want? ’Cause I’m not going back to that place, I don’t give a fuck what he threatens me with.’
I could see his hands shaking inside the pockets, and his left eye was twitching uncontrollably. Bobby had probably spent much of his life in fear of one kind or another, but this time he was obviously terrified.
‘I lied. I’m not from Eugene,’ I said.
He looked relieved, and plonked himself down on the sagging sofa.
‘Thought not,’ he said, ‘you look more like a bizzy to me. That right?’
‘Maybe,’ I replied, not really wanting to give away more than was strictly necessary. I looked round for somewhere to sit. There was no way I was getting on that filthy, sagging couch – my bum would hit the floor and I’d never make it up again without a crane. I grabbed a hard-backed kitchen chair, and pulled it close enough so I could stare him down and scare him, but far enough that there was no danger of me accidentally touching him.
‘I was sent here by Mystic Melissa – Clive. He’s a friend of mine.’ That was stretching a point, but it clearly helped Bobby relax. He even cracked his lips open a quarter of an inch in a yellow-toothed smile.
‘He thought you might be able to help me with something.’
‘Yeah? Happy to help, queen. But what’s it worth to me? Quick blow job?’
He leered up at me, and it suddenly seemed like a very sensible idea to beat the crap out of him. But not yet – I had work to do.
‘In your dreams, Bobby. Put that thing anywhere near me and I’ll neuter you – a service to humanity. But if you help me out, I won’t kick your arse, and I’ll make it worth your time.’
I pulled out the twenty quid note I’d ready prepared in my pocket. He snatched it out of my hand with remarkable speed – it was like one of those frogs scooping up a fly with their tongue at ninety miles an hour. Yuk. He rolled the note up, and popped it behind his left ear. The right one was already occupied with a ciggie.
‘Tell me about Geneva Casey,’ I said, and saw his face scrumple back up in fear.
‘Don’t know nobody by that name,’ he muttered, holding his knees steady with his palms.
I shook my head, and replied: ‘Bobby, that makes me sad. I’ve been straight with you – mostly. I’ve given you some of my hard-earned cash. Now I expect something in return. I’m sure you wouldn’t want any problems with the law, would you, nice fella like yourself?’
‘Cunt,’ he hissed, without opening his lips at all. I leaned forward and smacked his forehead with the heel of my palm, hard enough to make his skull wobble like it was on a spring.
‘Don’t swear at me, you fucking bastard,’ I said. Possibly somewhat hypocritically.
Bobby shook the slap away, his eyes watery, and stared off at the fish tank.
‘Not Casey,’ he said eventually. ‘Geneva Connelly. Stuck with her mum’s name for, you know, privacy reasons.’
Ah. That made more sense – it explained why I hadn’t heard anything. If the Caseys had kept their profile low when it came to the prodigal granddaughter, and let the mother deal with it all, the connection might not have been made. They’d have made her lie, talk to the police as though she was a single parent so the family name didn’t get dragged through the mud. Heaven forbid the Caseys get associated with anything as shady as higher education.
‘Go on,’ I said, softening my tone. ‘I won’t hurt you, Bobby – and if you’re hiding from the Caseys, I won’t tell them where you are. I know something happened to Geneva, something bad, and I’m trying to stop it happening to anyone else. At the moment I know nothing – so enlighten me.’
He looked back at me with narrowed eyes, which made him look even more like a rat. ‘What do you mean, you know nothing? There’d be a file, wouldn’t there?’ I met his gaze steadily.
‘Oh. You’re not with the pigs at all, are you?’
‘Never said I was, Bobby. Bit disappointing you didn’t figure that out, considering you’re supposed to be this psychic superstar. Now tell me all about it and I might even have another twenty for you. I can see you’ve not been able to get out and work much.’
‘Nah. It’s me bad back,’ he said, stroking his spine as though it had suddenly started aching. Yeah, right.
‘Okay,’ he sighed,’ but you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell them where I am. This place only has leccy for the next few weeks so I’ll be moving on anyway. Been all right here – no bloody people disturbing my peace.’
‘I swear, Bobby – if anyone finds out about this place, it won’t be from me. And you know Clive wouldn’t have passed on your details if you couldn’t trust me.’
‘’Spose so,’ he said, sniffing up a nose full of stray snot.
‘Well, I got the call out from Wigwam. Do you know him?’
I nodded. Of course I knew him. Wigwam was the stuff of legend in Liverpool. Eugene Casey’s number one enforcer; black father, white mother, probably Peter Sutcliffe as an uncle. To be found on his nights off doing a stand-up routine at the basement comedy club down Churchill Street. I kid you not – a thug with a sense of humour. And believe me, everyone laughed. They didn’t dare not to.
‘He made me one of them offers you can’t refuse – get every bone in me body broke, or earn a couple of hundred knicker. I might not be winning Mastermind any time soon, but I’m not thick, am I? I took the money, and got driven for a meeting with Eugene at his office. He was fucked up, love… what’s your name, anyway?’
‘Jayne McCartney,’ I said. Bobby didn’t ask the usual question about my family connection to Sir Paul. I suppose he already knew the answer.
‘His boy, Sean, was there. Couldn’t speak. The missus was in the corner, looked like she was drugged up to the eyeballs, chain-smoking and hitting the vodka as well. Eugene was crying, not even trying to hide it. It was a bad scene, queen, I tell you.’
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I don’t know what Clive told you about me. Don’t know the truth of it myself, or what the name is for what I can do. Got called plenty of names in my time, none I’d want to see on me gravestone. But I’ve always been able to sense things. I can look at someone and know what they’re thinking – not all the time, and not on demand, but just a flash, here and there? And especially when it relates to me, if they’re thinking of finding me or doing something to me. I suppose that comes from the early days, when I was a nipper. Life wasn’t exactly a party for me back then.’
I felt a vague tugging of my heartstrings, but knew he was doing it deliberately. And I really don’t like being manipulated.
‘Yeah, yeah, spare me the tales of woe and get on with it Bobby. Wigwam. Eugene. Geneva Connelly.’
‘Hard-faced bitch, aren’t you? At least you’re trying to be. Not true though, is it, deep down? Bit of a soft touch, you are.’
‘Bobby. Shut the fuck up, and 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.’
Chapter 9 (#ulink_20bca0bc-8a67-5de9-86ea-b07c6c366937)
‘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, while the Head of Archives continued to waste my time.
‘Well I don’t see what use the press office would be. I bet they don’t know about the history of Hart House, do they, not like you do with your experience? I’m sure they’d want you to talk to me – a feature in the Gazette would be a real boost for them and their fundraising drives… what? Are you sure? Oh. Okay, I’ll hold.’
I didn’t. I slammed the phone down, hard enough to make my pencil holder shake. I had no desire to talk to the press office. They’d probably want to call me back at the Gazette. I could arrange for Tish to help me, she’s a writer there, but it’d take time to set up and I was hoping to not be arsed with it all. I was slightly aggrieved, and frowning deeply.
‘Isn’t there some kind of law against that?’ said Father Dan, easing himself down into one of the creaky leather chairs, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. He was wearing very nice brown suede boots, I noticed. Still with odd socks, though.
‘Against what?’
‘Impersonating a member of the free press?’
‘No, there’s not, and I’d know if there was, wouldn’t I? When did you get here anyway? Where are you parked? Does that T-shirt have a hole in it?’
I was fudging it. There may well have been a law against what I’d been doing. Now was not the time to ponder.
He looked down at his own chest – and who could blame him? – spotting the ragged tear that hovered over his stomach. He pulled at it a bit, then shrugged.
‘Looks like it does. Sorry – didn’t realise there was a dress code. Nice office, by the way. Pretty old, isn’t it? What was this building used for originally?’
He gazed around, taking in the high ceilings, original coving, and the enormous picture window. Parquet flooring, dating back to the days when it was fashionable first time round; filing cabinets tucked away in an alcove that looked like it could originally have been home to a Roman bust or a priceless oil painting. Everything coated liberally with cobwebs to give it exactly the shabby chic air I was going for. Honest.
‘Oh, don’t start with that crap, we’ve got work to do,’ I said, bustling things around on my desk. I really didn’t want to have that conversation. When I arrived at the office that morning, I felt nervous, which in turn made me a bit pissed off.
I’d opened the door, found my desk drawer sticking out, as usual. The pencils were out of the pot and scattered on the surface. The files all looked in place, but when I went in to the loo, the toilet brush was submerged in the toilet.
‘Okay, you fucker,’ I’d said, to the four walls and empty air and potential ghost, ‘stop messing me around. I am going to put my keys here, safely, next to the phone. And they are going to stay there Or Else – do you understand me?’
I’d used my very best kick-ass voice, but couldn’t help feeling stupid. I wasn’t just talking to myself, I was shouting at myself. Things could go rapidly downhill from here. I’d be one of those people you avoid sitting next to on the bus, carrying a plastic bag full of documents and wearing my dinner.
‘All right, Little Miss Bossy,’ said Dan, apparently and annoyingly finding me amusing, ‘let’s do some work. Have you got the diary?’
I pointed at a brown-paper wrapped package perched on the corner of the desk. It had come special delivery earlier that morning, but I’d been too busy to open it. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. I felt a reluctance to open it, if I was honest. Something was throwing me slightly off balance – Dodgy Bobby’s tale of terror; Father Dan’s assertion that the world wasn’t quite what I thought it was; the fact that my bloody office appeared to be haunted. Every time I’d reached out to tear off the packaging, my fingers had snatched themselves away and got busy with something else. Like my hands and the diary were two magnets, repelling each other.
I felt embarrassed and ashamed about my reaction. That diary was a crucial piece of evidence in a case I was working on. I should be desperate to read it, not finding excuses to avoid it. I also had the full police file on Joy, snaffled from Corky Corcoran, to get through – but somehow that, with its safe science and familiar terminology and photos of a battered and bleeding teenaged body, felt less daunting.
Dan was staring at me, his ice blue eyes slightly narrowed.
‘Do you want me to open it?’ he asked. I nodded in return, and he picked the package up.
‘Don’t worry. You’re a lot more sensitive to this stuff than you want to admit. Do you feel edgy, like you don’t want to touch it?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ I snapped, getting up to do some dusting. It urgently needed doing – that bookshelf was an absolute disgrace. I used my shirt sleeve to wipe the top of it over, buying myself a minute to Get A Fucking Grip. I took a deep breath, and went back to sit down. I pulled out the police file, reassuring in all its manila-foldered glory, and started from scratch. I was aware of Dan unwrapping the diary, and frowning as he flicked through the pages.
We both worked silently, with me occasionally sneaking a peek at him as he read. His face didn’t give much away, but for all I knew, he wasn’t at the juicy bits yet. Maybe he was reading about Joy’s nights at the local wine bar or her trips to the cinema with cute boys from the medical school.
