Fear No Evil

We took our beers outside into the sunshine. Father Dan dragged a couple of chairs with us, and an ashtray for his roll-ups. Not very priestly of him, but nobody’s perfect.

‘So tell me about your case,’ he said, fiddling with a tobacco pouch and a pack of Rizlas. I wondered briefly if he was going to reach for his stash of wacky backy and make it a spliff. That would at least have explained some of the insanity.

‘Similar family situation to yours – only child, worshipped and adored. Bright girl, came to Liverpool to study to be a vet, all going great until it wasn’t. Now she’s dead – took a shortcut out of a fifth floor window, in the halls where she was living. Hart House. No witnesses, she was in the room on her own – but also no sign of a struggle, no fingerprints that shouldn’t be there, door locked from the inside, no obvious clues as to any wrongdoing. It was June, and there was a seat in the bay window. There were some books left there, open, like she’d been reading them before it happened. She had exams coming up.’

I’d got all of this from my conversation with Mr and Mrs M, together with their copy of the coroner’s findings. I knew there’d be more out there, extra forensics reports, initial call-out notes, instincts and gut reactions that never even got written down. I just had to track down the right boys in blue to find it.

‘Her mum and dad are convinced she was pushed by a ghost. Apparently she left notes about it in her diary, but my feeling is she had mental health issues. Wouldn’t be the first time an academically gifted student has lost the plot, especially around exam time, or the first time grieving parents grasped at delusions.’

‘What are they like? Flakes? Hippies? Mentally unstable?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘just the opposite. Solid, middle class types. Probably in the Rotary Club and on parish councils. About as far removed from nuts as you could possibly imagine…’

I saw a vaguely satisfied look on his face as he lit up.

‘You knew I was going to say that, didn’t you?’ I asked.

‘Yep. Because if they had been flakes or hippies, you wouldn’t have looked twice at it. And I also suspect that deep down you believe them, and you find that worrying in case it means you might be deluded too. Am I right?’

He blew a small cloud of smoke out and it immediately drifted off on the breeze, disappearing up to the tips of the conifers that were touching the sky. Yes, he was right. But I’d be buggered if I was going to admit it. Self-doubt is like hot chocolate fudge-cake – best consumed alone.

‘What was her name?’ he asked, after a beat of silence. He looked sad and angry and determined all at the same time. I suspect I just looked wistful – I gave up smoking on my thirtieth birthday and still missed it.

‘Her name was Joy. Joy Middlemas. She was nineteen years old. Look, I’m sorry to ask, but why the hell should I believe any of this? It’s insane.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Completely insane. Do you believe in God? And give me your first answer, not the one you’ve thought about and analysed.’

I felt a slow blush creep over my skin. I don’t know why it felt embarrassing, but it did. Like getting your first smear test and pretending you’re cool about it, chatting to the nurse about your holiday plans with your legs in stirrups.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes I do. If you insist on the first answer, anyway.’

He nodded and smiled. He had a dimple too. Just the one. On the left. It looked better on him.

‘I know. Feels wrong, doesn’t it? Like something an intelligent woman in the modern world shouldn’t admit. But it’s part upbringing – I’m guessing Liverpool Catholic with you – and partly instinct, faith, call it whatever you like. So, if you believe in God, do you believe in the Devil?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘probably not as a cloven-hooved bloke with horns. But I’ve seen enough evil in the world to know it exists. Why? Are you going to tell me he’s down your well, too?’

‘If only. And as for the cloven hooves, haven’t got a clue. Much like I don’t know if God sits on a cloud and never shaves. But the point I’m making is that if you find it possible to suspend your disbelief long enough to believe in a benign all-knowing creator, why do you struggle with the opposite? With the bad stuff?’

‘I don’t struggle with bad stuff. I just struggle with… ghosts. They don’t even exist, never mind kill teenagers.’

‘And you don’t believe in them because, what – you’ve never seen one? Like you’ve never seen God?’

He raised an eyebrow and grinned at me. He could tell my logic was tying me up in knots and seemed to find it amusing. I wondered if it was too early in our relationship for me to tell him to fuck right off. I reminded myself that he was a priest – former – and I certainly wouldn’t tell Father Doheny to fuck right off. But there were a lot of things I wouldn’t do to Father Doheny that I’d certainly consider doing to this man.

‘Do you want another beer before I say any more?’

‘I better had,’ I said. ‘You’ll be making out Santa doesn’t exist next, then I’ll have to top myself.’

He strode off into the house again. I watched his arse as he went. God is in the details, I thought. And the Devil’s in my mind.

‘I don’t expect you to believe it straight off,’ he said, returning with another chilled can, ‘but if you stick with this case and see it through, you might.’

‘So,’ I said, ‘ghosts exist.’

‘Yes,’ he said unwaveringly.

‘And demons – what about them?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Fairies at the bottom of the garden?’

‘Don’t be stupid. They live at the top of the garden. Behind the shed, in fact.’

I glanced over unconsciously. It looked normal enough, no little pink tutus or iridescent wings popping out from behind the brick. Although there might be if I carried on drinking. I was already on to my second beer, which meant no more for me. I felt deeply sad about that, and may have sighed.

‘Look,’ said Dan, leaning towards me so his face was disconcertingly close to mine. ‘Why don’t you stay? There’s a lot to explain, and none of it’s easy. There are things you need to know if you’re carrying on with this. And if you’re not, I might take it over. But it’s not something I can fill you in on in the space of an hour.’

I must have looked hesitant, and he added: ‘Don’t worry – there’s a spare room, your virtue’s safe.’

Silly man. It wasn’t my virtue I was worried about. That went a long time ago, unless you believed my grandma.

‘Okay, thanks. I’ll do that. I keep a spare everything in the car anyway, in case I get called away for work.’ Or in case I get lucky and pull, I added silently.

‘Great. Now you’re staying, I’ll bring out the cool box. Believe me, you’re going to want to drink. A lot.’

Chapter 6 (#u0cd826c3-457b-576a-96ed-0f2f8b9fbf61)

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?’