Authors: Curtis Jobling
Her eyes were wide as saucers, her face frozen with terror. ‘He was a bad lad.’
The front doors to Red Brook House slammed shut, quickly followed by heavy thumping footsteps on the staircase, rising ever higher.
‘Oh crap,’ whispered Dougie. ‘What have we done?’
Stepping across the threshold, one heavy black boot followed another as Mr Goodman slowly entered the classroom. He had a sack over his shoulder, a large hessian affair that
clunked and clicked with every movement. Placing it on the floor, he pulled out the old-fashioned Davy lamp from his office and placed it on to a desk. Removing a lighter from his pocket he gave it
a deft flick, passing the flame on to the lantern’s wick. Adjusting the lamp, he allowed its glow to illuminate the classroom, bathing the cold chamber in a flickering, golden light. He
re-pocketed the lighter, the metal casing catching Borley’s large keyring where it hung from his belt. Standing upright, Goodman sighed and looked around the room, soaking in the atmosphere
for a moment.
‘Haunted, my eye!’ he chuckled.
With the lamp in one hand, he picked the sack up in the other and began to stroll around the room, inspecting the walls. Occasionally he would pause, biting his lip and squinting as he inspected
an area of plasterwork. He’d step back and turn toward the front of the class, getting his bearings once more before shaking his head and searching elsewhere.
‘What’s he doing?’ Dougie whispered as silently as he could, his voice masked by the clunking noises from inside the sack. He was hidden behind the fish tank, having luckily
been able to manoeuvre it just enough to squeeze into the gap between cabinet and wall. His head and shoulders were covered in dust, dislodged as he’d hurriedly shifted the ancient
furniture.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied, ‘but shut up for heaven’s sake! If he hears you, you’ll be for it!’
‘You’re still talking!’ sniffed Dougie, stifling a sneeze.
‘He can’t
hear me
,’ I replied. ‘Keep up, idiot!’
I stood to one side of the fish tank with Phyllis’ face turned in to my chest, unable to watch. I could hear her breathing now, wheezing and laboured, as though the proximity of the
headmaster was making her worse. Goodman held power over her, even after death. How could we have got it so wrong? Had we really hounded Borley, convinced he was the reason this poor girl had died
so long ago? We hadn’t even considered anyone else, any other scenario where the caretaker might have been innocent. The killer had been in plain sight all along, listening to Dougie’s
troubled ramblings, providing counsel when he was low. That was why he wanted us to butt out, why he needed us to stay away. I shook my head with dismay as Goodman strode up to the fireplace,
casting his lamplight over Borley’s shrine.
‘Oh, Eric,’ he chuckled. ‘You sentimental old sod. You kept her flame burning all these years? You were a remedial fool as a kid and you’ll remain that way until your
last dying day.’
He placed the lamp on the hearth beside the candles and started leafing through Phyllis’ exercise books, tossing them to one side as he shook his head. Rising, he placed the sack on to a
desk nearby, peeling the hessian back as he removed a pickaxe from within, also from his office. I remembered now: his father was a miner – Goodman was always banging on about it in
assemblies. Something else came out of the sack with the pick, fluttering to the floorboards. I could see the clippings by the moonlight, the red ribbon accompanying them as they hit the ground.
Goodman bent and scooped them up, shoving them back into the bag.
I gasped at the sight of the old newspaper photographs and the telltale ribbon. It hadn’t been the police who took the bundle of evidence. It had been Goodman!
‘What is it?’ whispered Dougie from his hiding place, having heard my startled exhalation.
Goodman stopped what he was doing, frozen like a statue.
‘For pity’s sake,’ I said quietly to Dougie. ‘Don’t so much as breathe. I think he heard you.’
I watched on as the headmaster looked slowly over his shoulder around the room, lifting the lamp from the floor again to better search the shadows. Dougie, sure enough, remained motionless
behind the fish tank cabinet, eyes closed in silent prayer. Slowly, Goodman put the lantern back on to the floor before stepping to the side of the fireplace, right beside Borley’s shrine.
Its glow illuminated his sweating face, eyes rolling, gripped by madness. He took the pickaxe and tapped the wall alongside the chimney breast, finally finding the hollow sound he was looking for.
Stepping back, Goodman hefted the pick in the air and readied himself.
‘I’m sorry I waited this long to come for you, Phyllis, my love,’ he said, and swung the heavy iron pick at the wall.
With each impact of the weapon, Phyllis shuddered in my arms, as if the blows were physically hitting her. The tool was ripped clear after every strike, tearing away great sheets of plaster and
splintered wooden slats. A cloud of grey powder was soon billowing around Goodman as he hacked and slashed the walls, scattering cement, bricks and rubble tumbling over the fireplace shrine.
Spluttering and coughing, Goodman tossed the pickaxe back, the blade clattering into a desk and sending chairs toppling over. Wafting his hands vigorously, he cleared the air of dust, snatching at
bricks and tugging them loose, throwing them back over his shoulder. I instinctively stood back, away from the missiles’ flight, forgetting momentarily that they couldn’t harm me.
Phyllis looked up at me. Her hair was almost white now, her eyes red ringed, her lips blue. She was changing before my eyes, dying all over again.
‘Help . . . me . . .’ she mouthed, the words falling silent from her lips as the last crumbling brickwork came free beside the chimney breast.
I looked up as something fell from the wall cavity, Goodman standing to one side as it tumbled forward. It sounded like a bag of glockenspiel blocks, rattling and jangling as they struck one
another. The misshapen bundle suddenly ceased its clattering descent, caught on the jagged bricks and plasterwork, hanging halfway out of the wall. The filthy pinafore was partially recognisable,
as was the school tie around the neck, but it was the single red ribbon, caught up in a thin tangle of blonde hair, that caused my sudden intake of breath.
Goodman reached out, his fingertips fluttering over the dirty ribbon. He withdrew his hand, wiping it across his brow before turning to the sack. He opened it wide and laid it on the floor below
where Phyllis’ bones hung from the wall. It was at that moment that the rat that had startled Dougie in the corridor decided to strike again. Foolishly, it opted to attempt to share the
fish-tank hiding place, but a hefty hoof from my best mate ensured that this rat was destined to almost go into space. It flew through the air and hit the wall opposite with a resounding squeak,
before thumping to the floor.
With horror, I watched as Goodman turned back towards where Dougie was hiding. His eyes were wide and unblinking, reflecting the lamplight at his feet. There was a sheen of sweat across his bald
head, mottled by masonry dust and plaster. He began to creep around the edge of the wall, picking up a brick as he drew nearer to Dougie.
‘Mate, he’s coming,’ I hissed, willing my friend to move, but Dougie was frozen with fear.
‘Don’t be shy,’ Goodman whispered. ‘Out you come. It’s you, isn’t it, lad? Couldn’t stay away, could you, Hancock?’
Dougie whimpered when he heard his name mentioned. He looked up as Goodman’s lurching outline appeared through the murky glass of the fish tank, the lantern throwing his looming shadow
across the ceiling above. His hand was raised, the brick poised to strike. My heart thundered as Goodman was almost upon my friend. Pushing Phyllis to one side, I found my fist aching, thrumming,
ready to strike out at the headmaster. I needn’t have bothered.
Putting his back into the cabinet, Dougie kicked hard against the wall, sending both cabinet and tank crashing down on to Goodman. The old teacher went down beneath a shower of splintering wood
and glass, the contents of the tank spilling over him in a vile, stench-ridden wave. Dougie jumped up as Goodman roared, hurdling the broken cabinet and tank, slipping through the green slurry. He
fell down in a heap, Goodman clawing at his legs. Dougie let loose a scream of pain as the man’s hand raked his thigh, digging in and taking hold. Almost instantly the blood was seeping
through his jeans, pooling in Goodman’s liver-spotted hand.
‘Hurts does it, Hancock?’ he snarled from beneath the remains of the fish tank.
That was enough for Dougie. He kicked out, launching his free foot at the teacher’s shiny head. Goodman’s grip immediately loosened as Dougie rolled clear, crawling across the floor
away from the stricken headmaster. Snatching up the pickaxe and staggering to his feet, Dougie turned back to Goodman, hopping unsteadily on one leg.
‘Don’t move, sir!’ he said, the dusty tool held out in his trembling hands.
‘I think we’re past calling him “sir”, mate,’ I said, pulling Phyllis alongside me as we joined him.
‘What do you intend to do, Hancock? You going to call the Old Bill, let them know you’ve caught me?’
‘Why, sir? Why did you do it?’
‘Enough respect, Dougie!’ I said.
‘Can’t help it, mate,’ he said, managing a flicker of a petrified smile for me. ‘Old habits die hard.’
‘What’s that?’ said Goodman, struggling to his knees, glancing in my direction. ‘Are you still talking to yourself? Or is it the ghost of Underwood? You’re sick in
the head, boy.’
‘Not as sick as you, you murdering swine!’
‘Your friend Singer will live,’ he sneered. ‘He’s an imbecile for wearing your grotty jacket in the first place. We’ve only delayed the inevitable. He’ll be
dead before twenty that one. I’ve seen it countless times. Moron has a death wish.’
‘I’m not on about Stu,’ said Dougie. ‘I’m talking about Phyllis!’
Goodman glanced across to where Phyllis’ bones still hung, partially removed from the wall cavity. ‘It was an accident. She . . . ignored me.’
‘So you killed her and hid her body in the wall? That doesn’t sound like an accident to me. And I don’t think the rozzers will hear it that way eith—’
Dougie never got the last word out. The brick struck him across the temple, and he crashed heavily across the classroom. Stacked tables toppled and chairs collapsed around him as he fell to the
floorboards, his forehead weeping blood. The pick was gone from his hands.
‘Get up, Dougie,’ I hissed. ‘Please, mate! Get up!’
I was right down beside him, my lips to his ear, shouting at him, urging him back to his feet. He shook his head, trying to regain his balance and wits. The sound of something grating and
scraping over wood made me turn, and Phyllis gasped. Goodman was on his feet, dragging his father’s pickaxe across the classroom floor. He lifted it.
‘Move!’ I screamed, as Goodman brought the pick back. ‘For God’s sake move, Dougie!’
The boards splintered where Dougie’s head had been moments earlier, the pick buried deep into the rotten floor. My friend was already scrambling clear, crawling beneath
tables and between chairs as he made for the exit, Goodman trying to worry the head of his weapon free from the timber. Dougie rolled and tumbled, kicking the furniture over as he hurried on his
way, leaving an upturned obstacle course in his wake for the headmaster to navigate. I looked back as the pick was ripped loose, Goodman lashing out with his boots as he kicked desks and chairs
aside.
‘Crawl all you want, Hancock,’ said Goodman. ‘You won’t be leaving the House, boy!’
He swung the pick like a battle-axe as he strode forward, shattering the furniture that blocked his way as he cut a path towards my friend. Dougie collapsed into the corridor, bouncing off the
wall opposite.
‘You have to get out of here,’ sobbed Phyllis. ‘Dougie! You must leave!’
‘But what will he do to your remains?’ he cried as he limped along, leaning against the wall. His right leg was no use to him. As always, the sensation passed across, my own limb now
aching, shot through with a numbing pain.
‘Does it matter?’ she asked, as we heard the enraged headmaster approaching the doorway behind us. A darkness was descending over Phyllis. The black gloom that had infected her eyes
upon our first meeting was beginning to return, but there was more to it than that. Her cheeks were hollowing, the plump bunches and red ribbons that had bounced when she laughed were fading now,
losing what life they had. Her hair was thinning, just as on the disturbed corpse, and the ribbons were turning an ashen grey.
‘I fear it does,’ I said. ‘Just look at yourself. He’s killing you all over again! Where does your torment end? What will be left of you? You’re our friend,
Phyllis. We won’t leave you!’
I bit my lip as Dougie kicked open a door, dragging Phyllis and me after him. Her dark eyes twinkled their last as she looked at me. Did I imagine tears there? Then they blinked out, hollow
pools once again, the stuff of nightmares. The skin of her face and hands was stretched thin now, flaking and floating away as we followed our friend stumbling through interconnecting classrooms,
trying to lose the crazed head teacher.
‘Where are you, lad?’ shouted Goodman, his demented voice echoing through the House’s abandoned corridors and classrooms. ‘Time for you to see the headmaster, Hancock.
You’ve been a very naughty boy . . .’
His voice trailed off into a sickly chuckle which gradually disappeared. All I could hear was Dougie’s frantic, laboured breathing as he worked his way from one room to the next, drawing
ever nearer the landing. The occasional door slam or squeaking floorboard behind us told us that Goodman was nearby. I couldn’t leave Phyllis alone. The condition she was in, strangled,
choking, becoming a terrible shadow as her un-life faded: I couldn’t abandon her.
‘Think back, Phyllis,’ I said. ‘What happened that night? What did he do? That could be the key!’
‘What’s happened to Eric?’ she whispered, her voice a strangled croak.