Brilliant (18 page)

“8654326.”

He stretched his arms and grabbed his bedroom windowsill. He pulled himself up till his arms were resting on the sill. He'd left the window very slightly open, so he was able to pull it toward him with one his hands. It creaked—but only a tiny bit.

“8654326.”

He held onto the open window and pulled himself up. His knee, then both knees were on the windowsill. He carefully stood, bent his head, and climbed into his bedroom.

“8654326,” he whispered. “8654326.”

“That sounds like a girl's phone number,” said a voice.

Paddy nearly died—he nearly fell backwards out the window.

It was his da, and he was standing in Paddy's room.

And he was smiling.

Really smiling.

And he was dressed in proper clothes. It was ages since Paddy had seen his da like this. He thought of the funny bone on the beach, sinking back into the city, and he laughed.

And so did his da.

“Will you ever start using the door, Paddy?”

Paddy shrugged.

“I do,” he said. “Sometimes.”

His da laughed again.

“I was thinking,” he said. “Remember we always went up to the mountains on Saint Patrick's Day?”

“Yeah,” said Paddy.

“Well,” said his da. “Will we do it again—today? All of us. We can bring a bit of a picnic.”

Paddy wasn't fully convinced he was awake.

“Cool,” he said. “Yeah.”

He sat on the bed, and his da sat beside him. His da stayed there, real, smelling of aftershave or something. He put his arm around Paddy's shoulders.

“Do you want to make that phone call before we go?” he asked.

“What phone call?” said Paddy.

“The number you were whispering when you came through the window.”

“Oh,” said Paddy. “Yeah.”

He was blushing—he could feel his face burning. His da was grinning at him.

“Oh, no,” said Paddy.

“What's wrong, son?”

“I've forgotten it.”

“No problem,” said his da. “It's 8654326.”

And he started laughing.

Alice was starving. But she couldn't eat. There was a special Paddy's Day breakfast right under her nose, and a special Paddy's voice still ringing in her ears. But she couldn't think of Paddy or smell the sausages and rashers.

Because of Luke. Her big brother.

He was holding two sausages on two forks, one in each hand, and he was pretending the sausages were having a conversation.

“I am not made of pig!” a sausage protested.

“Yes, you are,” said the other. “Get over it.”

The show—it
was
a show—had been going on for ten minutes, since Luke strolled into the kitchen and smiled at Alice and her mam—for the first time in months.

“I'm not a pig! I'm a sausage!”

“Look at the packet. What's that animal on the packet?”

“It's a cartoon!”

“Of a pig.”

“No! It can't be true!”

It was the old Luke back. Alice didn't really know how—she'd never fully understand it—but she
knew
she'd rescued him. When she'd chased the Black Dog of Depression—only a few hours before. When she'd added her laughter and
Brilliant
s to the laughter and
Brilliant
s of all the other kids, she'd gotten rid of the Dog and saved Luke.

She looked across at her mam. She was laughing, and crying, wiping tears from her face. Like Alice.

The phone rang. Her mother picked it up.

“Hello?”

She smiled across at Alice and whispered, “It's someone called Paddy.”

“Oooh!” said one of the sausages. “Alice has a boyfriend.”

“Really?” said the other sausage. “Is he a pig too?”

“Shut up, you,” said Alice, and she grinned.

She'd never really spoken to a sausage before.

Suzie looked up at the sky. She was on O'Connell Street. Just hours before—but it seemed like years ago, like another life—she'd run across O'Connell Street, past the Spire, with all the other kids, chasing after the Black Dog. Now, she was back—with her mother.

She looked up and saw no clouds. None at all. The sky was a beautiful, summer-is-coming blue.

They were watching the Paddy's Day parade, with six hundred thousand other people. Coming into town for the parade had been her mother's idea. There were thousands and thousands of other kids, with their parents and other adults. Suzie recognized some of them.

They smiled back at her, secretly.

Suzie pointed up at the sky, secretly.

One of the kids looked up, and another. And another. Thousands of kids looked up at the sky, and laughed.

“What's so funny?” Suzie's mother asked.

“There's no dog in the sky,” said Suzie.

Ernie was wiping the sand and dog guts off his shiny vampire shoes. He'd washed his cape and it was drying beside the fire. Saint Paddy's Day was a national holiday, but Ernie was heading out to work.

It would be dark soon; the day was nearly over. He'd slept a bit, outside in the shed with Fang. He was feeling fine, but a bit lonely. The house was quiet. His parents were sleeping, he thought; he wasn't sure. The house was always quiet these days. Too quiet. Even Fang's farts were quiet.

Ernie didn't mind going out to work. Being a vampire took skill and determination. It wasn't for everyone. And Ernie had only recently realized: He had both skill and determination, and he loved the taste of warm blood. He had the makings of a world-class vampire. He was ambitious. There'd be films about Ernie.

“I'll knock your man Dracula off his perch,” he said. “That right, Fang?”

Fang thumped the floor with his tail.

But Ernie didn't like working alone; that was the problem. He'd really enjoyed hunting the Dog, the night before. Being with all those kids for hours—he'd loved it. The chat and the messing. And what they'd done, getting rid of the Dog. That had been great too.

“D'you want to come with me tonight, Fang?” he asked.

Fang didn't thump the floor.

“Too lazy, Fang?”

Fang thumped the floor.

“Good man, Ernie.”

Ernie looked up. It was his da, at the door. Ernie hadn't seen him in days. He hadn't seen him smiling in years. But he was smiling now.

“Are you headin' out to work?” his da asked.

“Yeah,” said Ernie. “They won't be expecting me on a bank holiday.”

“They're in for a fright, so,” said Ernie's da. “Where are you headin'?”

“I thought I'd give Kilbarrack a go,” said Ernie.

He was looking at his da's face, and he was suddenly very happy. Because his da was looking back at Ernie, listening to him, smiling at him—interested.

“I looked it up on Google Vampires,” said Ernie. “There's a lot of blood-filled oul' ones out there.”

“D'you know wha'?” said his da.

“Wha'?”

“I might come with you,” said Ernie's da.

“Serious?” said Ernie.

“Yeah,” said his da. “Why not? I'm sick of mopin' around. I'll go upstairs and get me cape.”

He stopped at the door.

“And, Ernie?” he said.

“Wha'?”

“You're great.”

“So are you, Da,” said Ernie.

“Ah, now,” said his da.

They looked at each other.

“We'll make a great team,” said Ernie's da.

“The Blood-Suckin' O'Driscolls,” said Ernie.

His da laughed.

So did Ernie.

“D'you want to come now, Fang?” he said.

Fang thumped his tail.

The zookeeper was doing his rounds, pulling a trolley, bringing dinner to all the animals. It was the same thing, the same routine, every evening.

He stopped.

He suddenly knew—he suddenly remembered. He loved it. It had been a beautiful day. It felt like the first real day of spring. The sky still looked as if it had just been painted. The animals and the birds were growling and cawing, chirping and bellowing. The way he heard it now, he thought they were calling to him.

“Coming!” he roared.

He started to pull the trolley again. It felt weightless, even though it was full.

There was a feeling in his throat. It felt familiar, although
he hadn't felt it in a long time—months, a year, even longer. He knew what it was: the urge to sing.

So he sang.

“IN DUBLIN'S FAIR CIT-EEEE—”

That sounded good, he thought. He hadn't a bad little voice, if he did say so himself. So he kept singing, louder. He wanted the animals to hear.

“WHERE THE GIRRRRLS ARE SO PRETT-EEE—

“I FIRST SET MY EYES—”

He was pulling the trolley past the meerkats when he heard another voice, joining in.

“ON SWEET MOLLY MAHHH-LONE—”

He looked around but saw no one. But the other voice was still singing along with him. It was a high voice, but male.

“AS SHE WHEELED HER WHEEL BARR-OWWWW—

“THROUGH STREETS BROAD AND NARR-OWWW—”

The zookeeper looked over the wall, into the meerkat enclosure, and saw one of the meerkats, his eyes closed, little paw on his chest, singing.

“My God!” said the zookeeper. “You can sing!”

The meerkat opened his eyes and looked up at the zookeeper.

“My God!” said Kevin. “So can you!”

And they sang together.

“CRYING COCKLES AND MUSSELS—

“ALIVE, ALIVE—OOOOOOOH.”

Then they both heard a pink voice.

“Quiet over there—hellohhoh?”

People still felt depressed sometimes.

Of course, they did. It was natural. They felt good, they felt bad. They laughed, they cried. They woke, they slept. They walked, they sat. They lived, they died.

They laughed.

Times were hard, and stayed hard for a long time. But the people of Dublin still laughed, although sometimes—often—it wasn't easy.

The children knew now that they had power. They smiled their secret smiles when they met, and they pointed up at the sky. When they saw a cloud, a big dark one starting to form, they gathered together—just a few of them—and shouted “Brilliant.”