The crack of a knee and the gentle swish of clothing material brought Tim Healy out of his semi-snooze. Opening an eye, he searched the room as if looking through a periscope and in the stark light of the wood-panelled hall he made out the outline of a hunched figure. Healy raised himself onto his elbows and shout-whispered, “Who’s that?”
The voice spoke back calmly, “Never you mind.”
Healy squinted and screwed up his mouth. “What are you doing, like?”
“Lavatory,” came the reply. “I can’t wait longer.” And Geoff Boycott picked up one of the two flickering candles from the mantelpiece.
“You cannae go on your own, man,” Healy hissed.
“Watch me,” came the gruff West Yorkshire response. “I’ll end up on a kidney dialysis machine at this rate.”
“Do you remember where it is?”
“Other side of kitchen,” said Boycott.
“Awwww, hold ya horses, I’ll come wi’ ya,” Healy uttered, and rose to his feet, bike leathers creaking.
“No, no, no,” Boycott responded, placing his baker-boy cap on his head. “I don’t need a partner for a trip to conveniences.”
“Well, I could probably do wi’ a lash meself,” Healy stated matter-of-factly and climbed out of his leathers to reveal a navy V-neck jumper over a checked white shirt and jeans – all spotlessly clean. He jammed his feet back into his muddied biker boots. “What’ll you do for bog roll?”
“I’ve got ’anky,” Boycott replied. “Best I can manage in circumstances.”
If this was a supernatural film at the Odeon or ABC in the mid-Eighties, Boycott and Healy’s candle-lit creep through whining doors and dank passageways would have been accompanied by spooky incidental music courtesy of a bassoon. The yellow glow from the candle wick danced and swayed, animating the corridors as they advanced. Some electric lighting worked, most didn’t. Healy stopped for a moment to look through a gap in a set of curtains but any view of undulating Cumbrian fields remained obfuscated by dark swirls of brown-grey fog.
“Never known weather like this, have you?” Healy whispered. “I’ve heard of peasoupers but this is like being in the tin.”
“I’ll give an answer once deed’s been done, sonny Jim,” Boycott replied. “I can’t think of owt else.”
“When wa saw the bog earlier… did it have any water in it?” Healy enquired.
“How do arrr know?” Boycott said with exasperation. “And what ’appens in there is between me and Armitage Shanks. There’s no need for Richie Benaud to commentate.”
Through another door and the unlikely pair found themselves close to the kitchen. Healy slapped the corridor’s wall switch and the light bulb made an unnerving bat-like squeak, became very bright and then died. Healy flicked the switch on and off without success.
Eventually, ten feet further on from the kitchen entrance, they came across a door they had opened earlier. On it was a sign, “Toilet”, hanging at an awkward angle from a single screw. It represented the furthest extent of the group’s original investigation. Using candlelight, Boycott and Healy could see that the tunnel-like corridor continued to a T-junction and on into unchartered territory.
Healy turned to Boycott: “Me first.”
“What!?” erupted Boycott.
“The lash, you remember?” Healy replied with raised voice, then quietened to near-silence. “It makes sense for me to go before you.”
“Be damn-well quick then!” Boycott danced.
“I’ll need the candle, man,” Healy smiled. “I wouldn’t want to piss all over the floor, y’knaa, and the seat. It’ll just be a box of black in there, like being in a cube of outer space.”
Boycott thrust the candle into Healy’s hand.
“Not be long,” Healy spoke, hiding a smile. “I’ll try not to be anyway…”
The door closed and the lock clicked. For Boycott out in the corridor there was complete nothingness. He was a child whose eyes had been covered prior to a pin-the-tail competition, or worse he was a miner trapped underground. Then came a faint sound from the toilet… blololololololop… blololop… blop.
Moments later Healy re-emerged. “Well, you’ll never guess, there’s water in the bottom of the pan,” he said excitedly. “Black water! And there’s toilet roll on a wall holder. Last person to have wiped their arse in there would have been at war with the Erics!”
“Imagine that,” Boycott grimaced in the dark. “Now, if this is agreeable to you, look after my ’at and give me candle. Wait ’ere. And mind you don’t talk to any strangers.”
Boycott gave the slightest of grins and took hold of the candle. In the corridor, inky totality arrived in sections as the door closed. Healy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t look around, not yet. He simply gazed in the direction of the door, resembling a naughty schoolboy outside the headmaster’s office. It was cold and time stood still.
“Eh, you’re not out there listenin’ are you?” Boycott cried. “Can’t a man ’ave a bit of peace?”
Healy grinned at the absurdity of the situation and took a step back. “I’ll go and get meself a newspaper!” he spoke towards the lock.
He looked to his side. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, up at the T-junction there appeared to be minimal grey light from, possibly, a curtain-less window that was out of sight. He thought: Shall I close my eyes until Geoff Boycott has had a shit? He bit his lower lip, judging the idea. Come on Geoff, man! Healy shook his head.
To his surprise, the toilet door pulled open a fraction and tepid yellow light glowed from behind Boycott’s head.
“Do you think I can trust this toilet roll?” Boycott enquired. “I’m very fond of this ’anky.”
“Fill your boots, I reckon,” Healy replied. “Bit of dust won’t hurt yar arse.”
The door closed.
Healy turned and glanced towards the corridor intersection once more. He decided for peace of mind to discover what was around those mysterious corners. He paced forwards and then stopped abruptly. Then he moved forwards again. Always better to know, he thought. He continued until he was two steps from the T-junction. The grey light must be from a window, he thought. It was now visible on the wall and floorboards. Closer, closer, closer, Healy’s hands on the peeling paintwork, edging his eyes along the wall inch by inch to take a peek, a peek around the corner – all very normal.
He found himself speaking: “You’d better present yourself, bonny lad.”
Nothing; nothing.
He hesitated. Cold beads of sweat popped on his forehead. There was the realisation that he was still tightly holding Geoff Boycott’s hat in his hand. He felt a hole in his sock on the left big toe. Why am I not at home in bed after watching the snooker? he thought.
“There’s more of us than there is of you,” Healy followed. “Six men here. All handy men, y’knaa. All tired men with tempers.”
A noise: shhwwwwww…
Healy’s hair stood on end. Regardless, and taking control of his fear, he strode out into the next corridor.
And there, 15 to 20 feet along the lengthy passageway, he saw a floating presence. Healy, having committed himself, faced it like a cowboy in a duel.
Paralysed with terror, he tried to take in what he was experiencing. Is this real? It was gently drifting, that much was true, grey-white and in human form. Its gown was swishing around like, like, like… maybe the toilet roll on the wall down the hall with Geoff Boycott. The apparition was slowly sailing away from Healy, but then it halted. Gradually, it looked over its shoulder and Healy noticed… the face of an old lady.
The spectre spun at an agonisingly slow rate. And there they stood, the living and the dead.
“Look, pet, we’re just stopping the night, Orkee?” Healy explained. “We’ll be gone first thing, I promise ya that. Six lads who’ve got lost, that’s all.”
Twisting strands emitted moon-like illumination and the wraith appeared to be considering Healy’s comment. It lifted a glowing finger to its lips and said, “Sssshhh, it’s late…”
Healy blinked, considering his next move.
Then the ghost moved at alarming velocity, like a Honda VF1000R, Healy thought, its face switching from fragrant bingo-going spinster to absolute skeletal fury. It roared at him with arms outstretched.
Healy turned and ran, biker boots the wrong footwear for such an emergency undertaking. Despite this, he reached the toilet door at a speed he didn’t realise he was capable of. He also found the ability to see in the dark and located the toilet doorknob instantly.
He tugged on the handle: “Geoff, man, let me in, let me in!”
There came the sound of an incredible rumble from inside the toilet: rrrrr-rrrrrrr-rrrraaaAAAAAAHHHHHRRRRRR-rrrrrssshhhhh.
The door flung open and Boycott said, “It’s one of them raised cisterns with a proper pull chain. Flush is like a bloody Vulcan bomber!” And he sounded quite pleased with this. “Reminds me of an outdoor toilet I used to frequent in pit village, which frightened bloody life out of me!”
“Get back in, get back in,” Healy urged.
“I’d gi’ it a bit yet, flower,” Boycott proclaimed, barring Healy’s entrance. “I thought you’d just been anyhow!”
“I’ve seen it, man! I’ve seen it!” Healy protested.
“Seen what?”
“Ghost! I’ve just seen it, Geoff, man! Just seen it up there!”
“I thought I told you not to talk to strangers,” Boycott joked, accentuating his 90-degree flipped lower-case “b” smile. “You’re cream-crackered, duck. You need a bit of kip and you’ll be right as rain in mornin’.”
“Geoff, man, I’m tellin’ yer – get in the bog right now.”
“Well, you might need to switch to mouth-breathin’ for a bit,” Boycott admitted, and the pair closed the door behind them.
“Never seen a ghost before, man, Geoff,” Healy said, clinging hold of the rim of the small side sink. “First time. Never believed it.”
“And you still ’aven’t seen owt, you daft apeth,” Boycott affirmed. “Look, I’m wi’ Brian on this one. There’s no such thing. Show me this ghost you saw. Come on, I want to see it for meself. Cos you’ll find you’re mistaken, chum.”
Healy’s head dropped, then he looked up to see his reflection in a cracked wall mirror. He slapped the sides of his cheeks and turned to Boycott. “Awww man, man, man, that’s the most frightening thing I ever saw. It’s oot there, right now. I’m being totally honest with you on this.”
“Keep calm, for pity’s sake,” said Boycott witheringly. “You’re becoming ’ysterical.”
“I AM CALM,” jumped Healy, “ONLY I’VE JUST SEEN A GHOST, SO I’M UNDERSTANDABLY A BIT JUMPY!”
Boycott allowed the moment to pass.
“Look at us pair, fastened up literally in a shithole!” Boycott whispered. “I thought touring India in ’81-’82 were bad enough!”
Healy smiled at this: “Eh, hope you washed your hands,” he said, regaining his composure.
They both laughed due to the extreme tension, and then giggled some more.
“Sound of this bloody lavatory!” Boycott howled. “Scared life out of me! Ha-ha-haaaa!”
“Ha-ha-ha! Oh-ho-hooo!” Healy chortled.
And then…
BUUUMMMP! – right outside the door.
Healy froze in the candlelight and stiffened. Boycott looked like he’d swallowed a Scotch egg that had gone off.
“D’y ’ear that?” Healy said.
“The bump noise?” Boycott asked.
“Aye, man,” Healy frowned. “What else, a low-flying aircraft?”
The Yorkshire batsman and Auf Wiedersehen, Pet star listened like their lives depended on it. There was intense quietness and then came the rapid thudding of their hearts.
“Well we can’t stay here all night in this latrine,” Healy whispered. “It’s like something from Laurel & Hardy.”
Boycott nodded as common sense seeped back into his bones: “Right, you ’ead art first.”
“Me?” said Healy, uncomprehending. “You’ve captained your country – it’s me should follow you.”
“I’m ’olding candle, aren’t I?”
Healy looked sideways at Boycott, then took hold of the door handle. He twisted it and stepped forward. Both slowly and quietly emerged into the corridor, familiarising themselves with their troublesome surroundings.
“So where were it?” Boycott asked. “This thing of your’n.”
“Up there at the end, like,” Healy stated apologetically.
“Could be kids buggering abart,” Boycott said in hushed tones.
“Kids?” Healy spat. “You’re jokin’ me, right?”
“What with Amstrad home computers and colour torches from the catalogue, they could get up to all sorts of pranks nowadays,” Boycott added.
“Look, I know wharra saw,” Healy affirmed. “And it might’ve slipped ya mind how long it took us to get here! This place is not on some bairn’s paper roond!”
“We should go and have a look,” Boycott suggested. “Gi’ me back me ’at, there’s a good ’un.”
Placing his baggy cap in position, a haven’t-got-time-for-this expression could be seen emerging on Boycott’s face and he marched towards the T-junction of corridors as if he were heading to the crease at The Oval. Healy, emboldened by Boycott’s pluck, followed a step behind.
Boycott bounded round the corner and glanced forwards while holding the rim of his hat, then span to look the other way. “Not a dicky bird!” he thundered. “There’s a window up there wi’ a hole in it and it’s flappin’ the damned curtain. That’s what you saw… Sorry, I forget your name, lad.”
“Tim.”
“Tim, aye.”
The rattle of a door handle made O’Toole awake with a start. He was a poor sleeper at the best of times but the discomfort of the solid wooden floor offered no support for his narrow torso and boney limbs. He lifted himself into a seated position in manageable stages. Like a house pet, O’Toole observed as Boycott and Healy followed the outline of the far wall. The cricketer placed his candle carefully back on the mantelpiece. Lifting a shirt cuff, O’Toole checked the time: 3am. He’d slept for less than an hour.
“Had fun?” O’Toole enquired with a gravel voice.
“Of sorts,” Boycott replied. “Something’s gone off.”
“Gone off?” O’Toole asked with surprise.
“Aye,” and he motioned to Healy. “Go on, spill yer guts.”
Due to the volume and seriousness of the conversation, Clough and Wilson were both roused from their slumber. Clough lay there blinking, while Wilson kept his weary eyes closed, following the proceedings like a radio show.
“Well let’s have it,” O’Toole said, looking from Boycott to Healy and back again.
“Well, I did see summat, yeah,” Healy divulged.
“White sheet, big gob on it, two discs for eyes?” Clough mocked.
“Not exactly, no,” Healy replied, lowering his head to look at the Nottingham Forest manager through sheepish eyes. “I know how it seems. May have been a ghost… It was lit up, black and white and y’knaa, grey in places. It looked a bit like me granny actually.”
Factory Records’ impresario Tony Wilson slowly turned his head: “Not wanting to belittle your experience, but maybe it was your granny, and you are so tired right now, you’re seeing things. Just a thought. Rather than Randall And Hopkirk (Deceased) stuff. A great show, by the way.”
“Aye, that would explain it,” Healy said with tightened lips, shaking. “That would explain it alright.”
“Let’s, for argument’s sake, say that you did indeed see something that was possibly not of this earth,” O’Toole continued. “I’d like to hear what happened next. Tell us what you saw.”
“Where were you when this was going off?” Clough looked at Boycott.
“Lavatory.”
“Ah,” Clough smiled widely.
“Keep it down, I’m trying to sleep here,” Smith added.
“Gentleman, please,” O’Toole voiced. “Let’s hear this story and then we can rest.”
“Orkee,” Healy said, collecting his thoughts. “It was illuminated, y’knaa. Giving off some light, like. It was floating, like you’d expect a ghost to do. It was… sort of regular height for a granny. It had strands of material flapping aboot, a bit like a shirt on your mam’s washing line… And then it came doon this corridor at me, picking up speed, and it’s face changed, screaming. I didn’t hang aboot. I went like the clappers, I can tell ya!”
“And then we heard this other noise,” Boycott added. “Some bangin’ abart, but that could’ve been owt really.”
“Could be someone else in the house, like a tramp, or some bloody pigeons or something,” Clough offered. “It’s a big place.”
“Or Bela Lugosi,” said Smith.
And then from upstairs came a dreadful running sound: BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-B-B-B-B-B-BUMP-BUMP!
All eyes look towards the upstairs landing.
“Not a nice noise,” Boycott noted. “Someone’s chargin’ about!”
“It’s ‘Blue Monday’ on 12”,” Wilson smiled. “Whoever or whatever it is, it’s got decent music taste.”
Even Smith stirred at the racket: “I reckon that were Carl Lewis!” he added. “Did he die recently?”
Clough was dumbfounded and, for once, lost for words.
O’Toole smiled at his fellow travellers: “Perhaps we should go and introduce ourselves.”