Читать книгу Fear No Evil - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 11

Three hours, several beers, and one chicken casserole later, I was lounging on one of Dan’s sofas, taking a trip into the Twilight Zone of his life.

The sitting room was small, crammed with two couches and a collection of old books and carvings, piled onto cluttered wooden shelves. The walls were painted a very pale shade of lemon, and big, green potted plants the size of small trees were sprouting in the corners. No telly, though. That in itself was cause to question someone’s mental health – I mean, didn’t he ever need to watch ‘Songs of Praise’ or anything?

Dan was lying stretched out on the sofa across from me, his long legs sprawled, feet propped up on the arm-rest. He had odd socks on, which didn’t surprise me. His arms were folded behind his head, and his biceps were winking at me.

‘So… let me get this straight. Katie Bell was killed by a ghost, and you think Joy might have been as well. And these aren’t one-offs?’

‘Yes, yes, and no,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of strange things. Maybe I was more willing to believe them than you, but even so, to start with I was cynical. The Catholic Church has conflicting views on it all. At the higher levels, there’s a Chief Exorcist, but on a local level, people are still likely to think you’ve got a screw loose.’

I didn’t answer, and he turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow at my silence.

‘Sorry – I’m sure your screws are all fine,’ I said. Freudian slip. Quickly brushing over it, I asked eloquently:‘So are you trained to do all this… stuff?’

‘Technically, no. I suppose you could say I learned on the job, starting with the first time I encountered a problem.’

‘Like in “Ghostbusters”?’

‘Without the catchy theme tune. Or the fun. None of this is fun, and if you stick with it, you’ll find out for yourself. I’m guessing that Joy started to deteriorate before she died – uncommunicative, not taking care of herself? I bet her parents were already worried, weren’t they?’

I nodded, wishing he wasn’t right.

‘You might find this is related to the building. It could have happened there before, and you should be able to find out with your contacts. Or it might be specific to her – she could have pissed off the wrong spirit.’

‘Are you telling me they have mood swings now? Undead PMT?’

‘Don’t be so sexist. But in a way, yes. All people are different – why assume that changes once they’re dead? You can come across spirits that exist perfectly happily with the modern world. Maybe a bit mischievous, but not harmful. What kind of place do you live in?’

‘A very non-haunted one,’ I replied firmly, hoping he wasn’t about to suggest a psychic sweep of my broom cupboard.

‘Is the building old, though? That increases the chances.’

‘Modern refurb of… yes, a pretty old building. But nothing spooky happens there, honest. Nothing much happens there at all.’

Um. Not quite the successful woman-about-town image I was aiming for, but there you go.

‘Do you lose your car keys a lot? Find the answering machine’s cleared messages without you listening? Plants you’ve watered dry up and die?’

‘No, absolutely not. And I don’t do plants.’

I was scowling at him now. I probably didn’t look very attractive. But I was starting to get a prickly feeling between my shoulder blades – because while none of those things happened in my flat, thank God, they did happen in my office. All the bloody time. Doors I leave locked are open the next day. Files I’ve organised alphabetically switch round so my Zebediahs are in my Aardvarks. And no matter how many times I decide on a ‘special’ place to put my keys, I always find them somewhere else. I’ve had that office for the last three years, and I’ve never once managed to leave it without a full-on purse search. All this time I put it down to me being a bit ditzy, and occasionally a bit 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?