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    Poor Jacky: The Ghost of Dedley Hall
    Poor Jacky: The Ghost of Dedley Hall
    Poor Jacky: The Ghost of Dedley Hall
    Ebook239 pages3 hours

    Poor Jacky: The Ghost of Dedley Hall

    By William Stafford

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    About this ebook

    When bestselling author Paul Beecroft returns to his home town to give a talk, he stirs up memories of his youth, when three of his contemporaries went missing in mysterious and violent circumstances. Beecroft's presence also disturbs a supernatural presence as he sets out to discover the story of a sad little boy from 200 years in the past. This spooky tale has horror and humour in equal measure as Paul uncovers the secrets of Dedley Hall
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAG Books
    Release dateMar 11, 2016
    ISBN9781782347897
    Poor Jacky: The Ghost of Dedley Hall

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      Book preview

      Poor Jacky - William Stafford

      Pavel

      1988

      There’s somebody here! Paul looked concerned. Steven shrugged. He said he hadn’t seen anyone on his way back from his fourth fag break of the morning. He had only left the cellar because it wasn’t raining. The day before he had lit up right there, despite Miss Beamish’s warnings.

      You should take a break, get some fresh air. Steven yawned and stretched. Paul glanced up from the stack of papers he was boxing up and sent him a quizzical look, as if to ask what on Earth would Steven know about fresh air; he was a walking ash tray. Working too hard. Making me look bad.

      This comment made Paul look away. He doubted anything could make Steven look bad. Steven, aware that Paul fancied him, strutted around, enjoying his workmate’s discomfort.

      I did see someone! Paul insisted, keeping his eyes averted as Steven adjusted his trousers.

      The old bitch checking up on us?

      No... This was someone small. Over there. Just for a second. Paul waved across the room, where the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows. Steven glanced across.

      You’re a fucking idiot, he twitched his shoulders. Paul blushed.

      We get this finished today, we don’t have to come back tomorrow. And there’s a bonus.

      Whoopee cack. Steven pulled out his walkman and pressed play. The hiss of the music cut off when he hooked the headphones over his ears. Paul watched him amble to a stack of ledgers and begin to toss them unceremoniously into a tea chest.

      Paul recalled Miss Beamish’s admonitions about treating every item with care. She would go batshit if she saw the way Steven chucked stuff around. To compensate, Paul took extra care with each document. He got quite a rhythm going and was making headway but, given Steven’s slacking off and careless approach, Paul doubted they would complete the task by the end of the day.

      He coughed. The air was close and musty. Some of the papers were mildewed and others were sopping wet, but all were to be saved and transported from the Hall to the spanking new archive across town.

      The light bulb flickered. Paul frowned at it, willing it to behave itself. If that blew, they would be plunged into total darkness. He glanced across the room to where Miss Beamish had left a torch. Paul decided it would be prudent to have it closer to hand in case of a sudden blackout. Although, being alone in the dark with the gorgeous Steven might not be all bad...

      There was something about the shape of his neck that Paul found fascinating.

      Stop staring at me! Steven snapped, perhaps a little louder than he had intended. Paul blushed again and was about to stammer a denial when the light went out. Fuck’s sake! Steven wailed. Paul clutched his way across the room to the torch. His fingers closed around the rubber casing. He snatched it up and switched it on. He turned the beam towards Steven who was screaming, Get off me! The weak light fell across him. Steven screwed up his face and held up his hand as a shield.

      The light bulb hummed and flickered back into life. Paul dropped the torch.

      You fuckin’- Steven was livid.

      Paul’s mouth hung open. He raised a hand to point at the space just beyond Steven’s shoulder.

      What the fuck? Steven glanced around.

      Right there, Paul breathed. A child!

      What the fuck are you on about?

      Right there. A little boy. All white. Staring right at you.

      Steven made a face and looked around. There was no one there.

      You’re a twat, he shoved Paul roughly. Trying to scare your way into my pants won’t work. Fucking poof.

      ***

      Miss Beamish picked them up half an hour later in her Morris Minor. It was older than the Ark, complete with wooden flashings. She seemed unsurprised by their lack of progress but that was students for you, she supposed.

      Paul, in the back seat, trying not to get dog hair on his clothes - even though he was covered in dust and dirt already - watched as the faded grandeur of Dedley Hall shrank away in the rear window. He dreaded the thought of returning the next day. Not just because of the child. The work was smelly and tedious, and Steven, despite his good looks, was terrible company.

      They travelled in silence. Miss Beamish squinted through the thick lenses of her spectacles, focussed on the road ahead. Steven, in the passenger seat, beat time to the diss-diss-diss of his cassette, slapping his thighs. His jeans were almost spotless, testament to all the work he hadn’t done. But there was his neck again. Paul had to tear his gaze away.

      The car came to a halt. Miss Beamish jerked the handbrake with a whiplash-inducing vigour.

      Until the morrow, boys, she smiled thinly. Steven was already climbing out. He slammed the door.

      Paul caught the archivist’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He felt like he should say something.

      Good afternoon, Mr Beecroft, Miss Beamish said with emphasis. Paul fumbled with the door release and clambered out onto the library’s staff car park. Steven had already gone, picked up by a ne’er-do-well mate in a Ford Capri for an evening of driving around, drinking and, no doubt, womanising. Paul made his way down the road to his bus stop. What did his evening hold in store? Very little. Apart from a long, hot shower.

      Good enough.

      There was no one in when he got home at last. Great! He could take his time in the bathroom without his sister pounding on the door and accusing him of playing with himself. He peeled off his grimy clothes and put them directly into the washing machine, stopping himself from pressing the on switch until after he’d had his shower. He’d been caught like that before: suddenly scalded or suddenly frozen as the machine clicked through the cycle. We live and learn, he supposed.

      The shower was divine! To see the dust trickle away in a steady stream towards the drain. To feel the aches and pains of the day’s labour being soothed away by the pounding water. Lovely!

      Paul found himself whistling as he applied a generous handful of his sister’s conditioner to his hair. After a few choruses of Heaven is a place on Earth it would be time to rinse it out. Paul got into his rendition, using the long-handled brush as a microphone substitute. Ah, the luxury of having the place to himself!

      A sudden bang got his attention. He froze mid-pose, like a pop star in a waterfall. The bathroom was full of steam. The plastic of the shower curtain was opaque with condensation. Paul peeled it back to see.

      And there was a face! Looking right at him!

      He screamed and threw the brush.

      Ow! the face screamed in his sister’s voice. Paul stumbled, and fell in the bath tub, pulling the shower curtain down on top of himself.

      What’s going on? said his mother, arriving with his father, in the doorway.

      It’s our Paul, the sister, Jenny, sneered. Playing with himself again.

      ***

      Paul didn’t go down for tea. He lay on his bed, not listening to the radio. His father tapped the door.

      Can I come in?

      If you must. Paul made sure his hands were behind his head when his father stepped in.

      Your tea’s waiting. It’s not fair on your mother.

      I’m not hungry.

      I’ve put a plate over it. You can warm it through later.

      Maybe.

      Bill Beecroft stood gazing around at the posters that covered every inch of wall space. All those men with big hair. Some of them in make-up, it looked like. Shirts like a pirate film. He clicked his tongue. He didn’t understand music today. Now, Elvis - there was a singer.

      Listen, Paul, Bill’s voice was suddenly thick with awkwardness. If you’re going to...you know...make sure you lock the door. That’s all I’m saying on the matter.

      Paul was mortified. I didn’t! I wasn’t! he protested, but his dad was already on his way out. Paul grabbed a pillow and pressed it to his own face. So much for a relaxing evening! He could never look his family in the eye again, and it was all for no reason! Life was so unfair.

      His sister’s voice bellowed from the foot of the stairs.

      Paul! Phone!

      Paul peeled the pillow from his face. His sister repeated the message, louder and more annoyed. He had heard correctly. It was odd; no one ever phoned him.

      Paul! It’s someone from work. Steven somebody.

      Steven!

      Paul bounded from the bed, stumbling over the discarded clothes and other assorted items on the carpet. He thundered down the stairs. Jenny had left the receiver on the hall table. Good; she had gone back to the television rather than linger around to earwig.

      Hullo?

      Alright, poofter! Steven laughed. Busy?

      Um.

      Meet me at the phone box by the Chainmaker’s. Bring a - The rest of the instruction was obliterated by the insistent beeps of the payphone demanding more money. The line went dead with a buzz.

      Hullo? Paul said again and instantly felt stupid. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Go on, his reflection taunted. Put your shoes on.

      Two minutes later, the front door banged behind him. On the sofa in the living room, his parents exchanged a glance. Jenny turned the page of her Smash Hits.

      Paul zipped up his jacket as he walked briskly to the Chainmaker’s Arms, a rather dreary pub a couple of streets away. He checked his pockets: a crumpled fiver and the stub of a roll of mints. Hardly enough for a night out.

      Steven’s mate’s Ford Capri, darkly purple with rust like flames around the wheel arches, was idling on the car park. Steven got out when he saw Paul approach. He was still in the same clothes he’d worked all day in - huh! If you could call it work - but he had taken the time to apply fresh gel to his hair. It stood up in thick, defiant spikes.

      Pauly-wauly! he sang in greeting. Boyfriend let you out for the night? Did you bring it?

      I haven’t got a - Did I bring what?

      The torch, you fucking moron. Oh well, we’ll just have to set light to something. He tipped the passenger seat forward. In you get.

      But - what - where are we going?

      Oh, just get in! We’re off on an adventure. If you’re man enough.

      Paul glanced back along the pavement. His house, his comfortable bed, and his mortal embarrassment, were only a couple of minutes away. He got in the car.

      Alright, grunted a skinny youth, with a face livid with acne.

      Paul nodded. Steven got in. The driver - a bigger, older lad with homemade tattoos on his neck and knuckles - put the Capri into first gear, against its will it sounded like.

      Pong and Darren, this is Paul. He’s a bit of a queer but he’s alright. Long as you don’t turn your back. He chuckled. Pong, the driver, nodded in the rear view mirror. Skinny Darren edged away.

      Paul’s at university. Bit of a brain box, Steven felt the need to share Paul’s biography.

      Um, Leicester Poly actually, Paul interjected.

      Same difference, Steven snarled, unhappy to be corrected.

      I could have gone to university, Pong announced. Fuck it; I could have bloody taught at university. He punctuated this declaration with a sniff.

      Oh, really? Paul sat up. What subject?

      Pong merely shook his head. Paul sat back. He looked at Darren. What do you do, um...?

      Darren shrugged. A pustule on his chin split and oozed onto his tee shirt.

      Darren’s in business. Isn’t that right, Daz? Steven laughed.

      Oh, really? Paul gasped. Good for you.

      Steven shook his head. Fucking moron.

      They rode in silence until it became apparent to Paul where they were headed. The rows of detached houses thinned out as they got further out of town. Before long, they were skirting the perimeter fence and approaching the rear entrance of Dedley Hall.

      What? Oh, no! What are we doing here? Did you forget something? Paul hoped that was the case. Steven had forgotten something: a cassette, a packet of cigarettes, his lighter perhaps... They would pick it up, whatever it was, and then they would go wherever else it was they were going - but even as he thought it, Paul knew it wasn’t true. They had reached their destination.

      But how will you...?

      Steven seemed to have anticipated this question. He held up a key ring and rattled it. Old bitch’s handbag when we was driving back. Right from under her nose; silly cow.

      I don’t think it’s a good idea.

      Bollocks, it is. Could be our last chance, Pauly-waul. Job’ll be finished tomorrow. What’s the matter? Don’t you want a good look at the place? Be good for your studies, won’t it? History and that.

      I’m doing Creative Writing...

      But Steven wasn’t listening. He sprang from the car and, selecting the appropriate key from the ring, unlocked the hefty padlock that secured the gates.

      Paul’s stomach sank. A growl from Pong got him moving. He scrambled from the back seat and out through the passenger door, scraping his forehead on the frame. He forced himself not to acknowledge the agony this created. Behind him, Pong and Darren got out. Steven ushered them through the gate with a flourish of his hand.

      I don’t think we should...

      Don’t be a pussy all your life! Steven cut him short. Have a night off.

      Pong strode along the gravel path like a juggernaut but Darren looked up at the Palladian mansion as though he had never seen bricks piled on top of each other.

      Eighteenth century, Paul supplied. Neo-classical.

      Darren’s eyebrows dipped in a frown. It sounded suspiciously like he was being taught something.

      Royalty has stayed here, Paul continued to his unwilling hearer. Back in the days before the council bought it, of course.

      Fuck off, Darren scowled and hurried to the relative safety of Pong’s side, where the only lessons doled out came via the medium of fisticuffs.

      Steven unlocked the entrance they used, having to shove the door with his shoulder - although the willowy Miss Beamish never seemed to have any trouble.

      In you go, gentlemen! he announced. Your palace awaits.

      Of course it awaits, said Paul. It’s not going anywhere, is it?

      Smart arse.

      Pong went in first, pulling Darren in his wake. Steven waited, holding the door.

      I don’t think this is a good idea. Paul folded his arms.

      Steven sent a silent appeal to the night sky. Will you just live a little? Fucksake. We’re not going to nick anything. We’re just having a look around. Wish I’d brought my fucking nan with me instead. Got a bit more life in her.

      Paul, finding the comparison to an old woman unfavourable, muttered something about five minutes and crossed the threshold. Steven tripped him as he passed.

      Oops, Steven clicked his tongue. He stepped in and pulled the door behind him, leaving it open by the slenderest crack.

      Appointing himself the unofficial guide, he led the party away from the door that led to the cellar steps and along the corridor that opened onto the grander and more imposing reception area at the front of the house.

      By day, the rooms were cold, rendered in institutional colours. Plastic signs indicated the direction of the fire exits, the location of the fire extinguishers, and where to go to find various offices. The council’s paraphernalia was like moss on a statue, garish on the grandeur. But now, with only dim light oozing through the wire cages that protected the windows from vandals and window cleaners, the grand entrance hall had the appearance of a set from a Hammer horror film. The staircase was like a sleeping leviathan - or rather a giant, lying in wait, holding its breath, ready to pounce.

      Paul was nervous. It seemed he was the only one. Pong was as impassive as ever - he may as well have been waiting at a bus stop. Darren was gazing around blankly and Steven was parading with his arms held up, as though he was lord of the manor.

      Will you get a look at this place? His voice echoed off the high ceiling. "If I won - I mean, when I win - the pools, this would be first on my list. A little pomme de terre to come back to, when I’m pissed off with world travels. Might even put my mum up in the west wing or something."

      "Pied-à-terre," said Paul, snottily.

      What did you call me? Moonlight flashed in Steven’s angry eyes. He considered stomping over there and twatting the puff.

      Who’s that? said Darren, pointing to the top of the stairs.

      Who’s who? Steven turned. There was no one there.

      Somebody’s here, said Darren, his voice suddenly tremulous. Caretaker or something. I’m going.

      You’re going nowhere, Steven grabbed the front of Darren’s jacket. Caretaker doesn’t live in. An outside security firm keeps an eye on the place at nights, from the outside.

      How do you know? Paul was amazed to hear all this.

      I checked, Steven grinned. You’re not the only one who can do a bit of research.

      Paul realised: all that skiving off was not just about having a cheeky cigarette. Steven had been planning this little visit for days.

      There he is again! Darren gasped. Did you see him, Rayb? Pong?

      Pong grunted; it was the sound of heavy furniture being shifted.

      What did he look like? Paul asked, failing to keep the urgency from his voice.

      I dunno, said Darren, frowning again. He hated being questioned almost as much as he hated being taught things. He was a little fucker. A kid or a midget or something.

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