Story 12 – Ghostpuncher

“I punch ghosts.”

The kid opposite me looked non-plussed. But really, if the question is “What does a ghostpuncher do?” then what else could he have expected as an answer, it’s there in the job title.

“Anything else?” He finally squeaked.

I took a sip of my beer, taking a moment to enjoy the full flavour of it.

“Sometimes I kick them, or get into a grapple and on a couple of memorable occasions, I nut them.”

The kid sat there, doing a impression of a goldfish while he thought about what his next move should be. I’d seen it before. Let’s be honest, I can be a little intimidating. I’m six foot five, bald, slightly paunchy but mostly muscle because my regular job is as a labourer. I’m thirty five and my skin tends to be variously red or brown, depending how much time I’ve spent working outside recently. I’ve got a laugh so dirty it makes Sid James’ sound like a vicar chuckling at a tea party. I’ve got blue eyes that some very kind ladies have called piercing and some less kind blokes have called ‘full of psychotic intent.’

My name’s Reg Carroll and I’m a ghostpuncher.

“Come on, boy. What’s the problem. You didn’t call me because you wanted to see what I look like, did you? That advert wasn’t for lonely hearts.”

The kid blinked a couple of times, shook his head to blast away the mental cobwebs and decided to try again.

“When I asked what you did, I meant, can you get rid of a ghost?” 

A sensible question, maybe he wasn’t quite as wet behind the ears as I’d first thought.

“Yes, I can.” I could see him staring at my black eye. That was courtesy of Madge Hills, formerly of 52 Primdale Road. Vacated her mortal shell in 1952, vacated 52 Primdale Road yesterday.

“And how do you make them go away?” He still wasn’t getting it.

“I punch them until they do. Its a fairly simple solution but it tends to work.” 

He didn’t believe me, there aren’t many who do until I clear their home.

I could see he was about to ask more questions I didn’t really feel like answering. “Look, you’ve got a ghost. I get rid of ghosts. As long as its actually moving stuff about, I can get make it go away. So why don’t you nip up to the bar, get me another bottle of this and then tell me what the problem is.”

He nodded, still not fully sold on the idea, but he did go to the bar.

I took the time to give him a proper once over. Late twenties, long brown hair tied up in a man bun, thick beard. He was really leaning in to the stereotypical hipster look. But underneath his flannel shirt, I could see the guy was well built, not some skinny armed office worker.

Ted, the landlord wasn’t impressed with what he saw approaching him to buy drinks. It was one of the things I liked about drinking in The Queen’s Head, it didn’t matter who you were or what you looked like, Ted hated you if you weren’t a regular. If you were a regular, he only mildly despised you. You knew you were in as someone he could tolerate once you could stop watching him like a hawk to see if you got a clean glass or not. That was why I still drank only bottled beer here.

The kid came back with a bottle of Becks for me and a pint for himself, oblivious to the grime down the side of the glass.

“So, how long have you had a ghost?”

He took a sip of his beer, grimaced at its no doubt watered down taste, and started to talk “I bought a house about three months ago. Nice little two bedroom on Delmarket Street, do you know it?”

“Yeah, nice little road. Been down there a few times for grannies who didn’t want to go into the light.”

“Oh, so its quite a haunted street then?” He looked disappointed, like he was going to tell me something new. Seriously, I punch ghosts for money, did he think anything was going to be a surprise in the town I lived in?

“No more haunted than any other. People get attached to their homes, they don’t want to leave. Which is fine as long as they play by the rules and don’t disturb the new owners.” I knocked back half the bottle.

“In that case, I don’t think the guy who’ll used to live there is very happy with me.”

“Did he die at home?” That was the important one, normal ghosts can only haunt where they die and not a lot of old people want to spend the rest of eternity floating about a hospital. Not to say some don’t, weird sods that lot.

“I don’t know. I know the house got sold by his daughter because he was dead, but they never said if he died at home or not.”

“Right, so why do you think he’s mad at you?”

Kid took another sip of his watery beer “This stuff tastes awful.”

“Of course it does, why do you think all the regulars drink bottles? Shut up about the beer and talk about your ghost.”

“Sorry.” He took a moment, trying to work out where to begin, but I could see he was already easing into the idea of talking about this. For most people, I’m the first one to talk to them like they aren’t making it up or going mad. I don’t just believe them, I know what they are saying is true. You’d be surprised how much weight that takes off their shoulders, weight they didn’t even realise they were carrying.

“I think the old guy was very particular about his house being clean, OCD maybe.”

I nodded to encourage him, really I just wanted him to hurry up so I could go punch the ghost before the Leeds match kicked off.

“So, when I first moved in, I seemed to get my stuff away a bit quicker than I thought I was doing it. Then a couple of times I was tired so I left a dirty mug on the side, meaning to clean it in the morning. But when I woke up, it was clean and on the drying rack. I just thought that I’d been so tired that I’d just tidied on autopilot. I wasn’t thinking ‘ghost’, I was sure it was just me.” He stared off into space.

I downed the bottle and checked my watch, it was going to be tight.

“Look, leave that piss on the table and tell me the rest on the way to yours. I’ve got other stuff I’m hoping to do today.”

He looked shocked “Do it today? Don’t you need to prepare, meditate or get your chakras in order or anything?”

I snorted “What do I look like? ‘Get my chakras in order’, really. I’m going to have a punch up, son. I’ll loosen me neck on the way over, maybe eat a bag of crisps. Then I’m going to beat the shit out of your ghost and go home. Why, do you want to wait a couple of days? I can go home and pretend to do all that crap if it’ll make you feel better.”

Crestfallen, that was the word for it, the expression on his face. Too much telly and books with slinky women and men in dust coats on the cover.

“Get your coat, son. Let’s go twat a dead man in the face.”

It was a ten minute walk from the Queen’s to his place, he filled me in on the rest. I’ll give you the gist so you don’t have to hear all his moaning about being scared and creepy noises and all that bollocks.

So, the boy, whose name is Georg, no E on the end of course, is a posh lad using Mummy and Daddy’s spare change to become a rental King. The place on Delmarket Street is his first property and to make the budget go further, he’s doing the interior remodel himself. Good on him for that, I say. Getting stuck in with the hard bits made me like him just a little. Plus, getting someone who would be buying more properties on side is good because it can mean more work going forward.

Anyway, Georg has had the little weird bits, but then he starts tearing up a floor. Apparently Harold, that’s the ghost by the way, didn’t like that. Chunks of wood start getting thrown at our boy’s head.

To be fair to the lad, he doesn’t run shrieking into the night at this. He just carries on, hoping whatever made the wood fly was a weird fluke.

But, obviously, that’s not the case.

Next day he gets a can of paint beaned at his head. That one he’s more certain wasn’t a fluke, but he thinks he might have an intruder. Then old Harold goes on to the classics. Slamming doors, opening drawers, but he never makes a mess.

Georg, not being a complete idiot, legs it out of the house. When he comes back, a few hours later after getting told by his mates that he’s just imagining it all, he finds all the wood has been stacked nicely and the whole house is tidy.

So, Georg decides to stop doing work on the house, see if that calms stuff down. It doesn’t, every time he’s in the house, stuffs getting slammed or thrown at him. The lad is understandably getting a bit down and that’s when he spots my advert in the local newsagents, probably prompted by Ruby behind the till, if I know her.

The rest you know, that’s what has led to me standing outside number 77 Delmarket Street at just gone One on a Saturday afternoon.

It was a decent looking house from the outside. Old Harold clearly gave a shit about his home, I couldn’t see much weathering on the outside, the old boy had definitely put in the time and money to keep it up.

The front garden was overgrown, but I could see that it had been nice before, the borders were orderly and some of the flowers were still growing healthily, wouldn’t take a stupid amount of work to bring it back to life.

“If you like,” I told Georg, “when I’m done and you’ve got back into the swing of things inside, I can come back and sort out the garden for you. Shouldn’t take me more than a day to clear it, maybe a couple more to properly care for those plants and get the back to growing nicely. Only fifteen quid an hour if you’re interested.”

He looked at me, not comprehending what I was saying. “I thought you were a ghostpuncher?”

“Yeah, I am. But its not like there’s that many need punching. It’s a side gig. A way to bring in a bit of extra money.”

“So what do you do?”

“Bit of gardening, bit of landscaping. Labouring and minor carpentry. If it involves getting your hands a bit worn and mucky, I’ve probably done it at least once.”

He looked bemused, I was not what he had expected. 

“Well, maybe I could do with some help in the garden. But is there anything I can do to help you now?” 

I shook my head “Nah, you’re all right, boy. I’ll toddle inside, find Humpty Harry and get him gone. You can come in and make me a brew when I’m done. But first.” I held out my hand.

He stared at it.

Well, this was going to be embarrassing for one of us and I was bloody certain it wasn’t going to be me.

“The money, Georgy boy.”

“But you haven’t done anything yet.” He complained.

I should have known he was going to be one of those.

“This is a cash upfront kind of job, it just makes life easier for everyone. For my part, it means you can’t go around afterward telling everyone there was no ghost and I didn’t do anything because where’s the proof there even was a ghost.” I saw a little glint in his eye, cheeky prick. Well, he was a slumming posho. “From your point of view it makes great sense to pay me upfront. One, because if you don’t, I’ll piss off home and watch the match and there’s nothing you can say to stop me. Two, if, for some reason I did do the job and you stiffed me, well consider what kind of man you’ve just pissed off. I’m a big lad and I either fight ghosts in hand to hand combat or I believe that I fight ghosts in hand to hand combat because I’m mental. Do I seem like someone who would try getting my money through, say, a lawsuit? Or do I look like I’d probably beat you until the money magically appeared?”

The envelope full of cash appeared in his hand so fast, I think I heard a crack as it broke the sound barrier. 

“Its all there, Reg.” he assured me. 

I checked it anyway. It was. I tucked the envelope into my pocket and smiled at him “Right then. I’m going to go punch a ghost.”

He handed me the front door key and waited, looking worried as I entered the house.

Georg had definitely overestimated how much work he had gotten done. He’d made it sound like he had taken up the whole lounge floor. Instead he had only removed about a quarter o the flooring. Unless old Harold was doing some shifty DIY while the lad was out.

I looked at the pile of wooden planks that had been removed, they were splintered, cracked. Completely buggered for re-using. No, Harold hadn’t been putting his old floor back.

The house looked neat and tidy, I couldn’t see a single thing out of place, no cups, coasters, magazines, books, nothing was anywhere it wasn’t stored.

“Bugger me, Harold. You’re an anal old bastard, aren’t you?” I called out.

I waited for a reply.

Nothing.

That was fine, Georg had told me what wound him up, I just wanted to see if anything else would.

I picked up the long handled hammer I spied sitting on top of a chair in the kitchen and walked back into the lounge.

“Come on, Harry. Show yourself or I’m going to make a mess.”

I gave him a minute. He didn’t show.

“Suit yourself, mate.” I told him and got down and started prying the slats free. I was careless with where i put them after, casually tossing them over my shoulder or sliding them into the kitchen.

I spotted movement in the corner of my eye, put down the hammer and quickly turned to see a translucent old man wearing a shirt and trousers with braces holding one of the slats, ready to throw it at me.

“Put that down, Harry. You’ll have someone’s eye out.”

He stopped, it was a normal reaction. Ghosts that do this kind of thing get very used to not being seen. They could actually hide petty well if they wanted, but few of them bothered to learn how.

“Er, woooooo!” He cried in a very poor attempt at a spooky voice.

“Did you just ‘woo’ me, sunshine? Oh, Harry, that is just sad.” I felt ashamed for him, quite frankly.

“Stop smashing up my home!” He yelled.

“No. But I’ll give you a couple of points for not going with “Get out!’ I do like a little bit of originality.” I wasn’t scared of him. That’s always the next thing to throw them off. “Anyway, it ain’t your house no more, Harry. It’s young Georg’s, and he can do whatever he likes to it.”

“No he bloody well can’t! I’ve seen his plans, absolute disgrace. He’ll knock half the value off this place if he goes through with it. That idiot should stay away.” Harold yelled, properly angry for the first time.

“Tough titties, Harry. His house, his money. His cock ups to make. Just piss off out of it, you’ll be a lot happier.”

“Stop calling me Harry!” Harol screamed and threw a punch at me.

I sidestepped and gave him a clout round the ear, just to get started.

“You hit me!” This was always the moment I loved, when they realised there was someone who could hit them back.

“Fair do’s, you were trying to hit me.”

“But I’m an old man.”

“No, you were an old man. Then you died. Now you’re a pain in the arse who has got to go. Leave quietly and this can be a nice afternoon for us all.”

“How can you see me? Why can you hit me?”

I hate those questions, they got really boring very quickly.

“Well, me Dad clouted me round the ear so hard one day that my dead Nan came back to tell me to stop being a little shit.”

“Really?”

“Don’t be daft, of course not. Now, you want to leave or are we going to fight?”

Harold didn’t reply, he just brought up his fists and squeezed his shoulders in. A boxing stance.

“My, a feisty one. OK, Harry, let’s get this started.”

“I said don’t call me Harry!” The old ghost bellowed and launched a jab at my chin. He was surprisingly quick and I only just got my hands up in time to block it. He followed that up with a series of body blows that were hard enough to make me stagger. He’d obviously had a bit of skill, back when he was alive. Nice, I hadn’t had a good fight for quite a while.

A shockingly fast uppercut crashed into my gut, making me gasp. I stepped back a pace and reassessed my opponent.

He was dancing on the spot, getting the old footwork going.

I smiled, this could be interesting. I sent out my first exploratory jab and he danced back. I had the reach on him by a good six inches, I could fight at distance if I wanted and there was probably nothing he could do about it. Only problem with that is that I would get tired eventually and he wouldn’t. So I didn’t want to drag this out.

I deliberately threw a sloppy roundhouse, leaving myself open.

He took the bait and closed in.

Stepping forward, I threw both arms around him and held him in a bear hug.

He looked puzzled. So I headbutted him.

Now he looked mad.

Good.

I lifted the lightweight dead guy and twisted, slamming him into the floor. He gasped, reflexes making him forget he didn’t actually need to breathe.

Now was the time, I went into the old ground and pound, delivering heavy blow after heavy blow to his head and chest while he tried to squirm out from under me.

It didn’t take long for him to start crying for me to stop.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He sobbed.

I didn’t feel sorry for him “Because you are a terrible housemate. If you’d have just left that hipster prick alone, you’d never have met me. But you had to be a arsehole about it. So, Harold, there’s a door. You know where the door is. Go through it and piss off.”

“But this is my home.”

“So was your mother’s fanny, but you didn’t stay up there after your time, did you?”

He chuckled “No. No, that would have been odd.”

“So is this, mate.”

I stood up and offered him a hand. He took it and I pulled him to his feet, he wasn’t the sort to try anything now.

“I loved this house.” He said.

“And someone is going to love it after you’ve gone. But they can’t if you’re in here constantly making trouble, can they?”

A look of sudden realisation crossed his face and he started to laugh “Oh God. I turned into my father-in-law!” A howl of laughter broke out of him and he smiled, a free and happy one. “I couldn’t stand the way he criticised everything I did. Now I’ve become something a bit worse.”

Harold reached out a hand, I shook it.

“Tell that kid I’m sorry. I just hope whoever lives here takes good care of the place. It was very good to me.”

“I will, Harold. You take care now.”

He nodded and looked towards the front wall, a door now stood in front of it.

“Do you know what’s on the other side of that?”

“Nope. I’ll find out in due course, I’m sure.”

With a final, wistful look around his home, Harold nodded before strolling forward, opening the door and stepping through. As always I smelt a hint of honey and saw the colour of a beautiful summer sky. Then the door shut and vanished. Harold was gone.

I dusted myself off and went outside to tell Georg to put the kettle on.

I got home in time for the match. Leeds only managed a draw with Bradford. Useless tits.

Ghostpuncher

Will return

Whether you like it or not

In

Ghostpuncher II: The Punchening

© Robert Spalding 2020