Fear No Evil - Debbie Johnson

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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

      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,

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