Colm & the Ghost's Revenge (11 page)

C
edric Murphy arrived in the kitchen of Colm's house and was struck by two thoughts:

 

1. Why on earth would supposedly professional muscle men go into a house at three in the morning and forget to close the front door behind them?
   
2. How odd it was to enter a stranger's kitchen and find a teenage boy doing an over-elaborate stretching routine in preparation for a fight with a thug.
   

Cedric's entrance wasn't as discreet as he'd planned. It was impossible to creep into a house as quietly as a well-trained ninja when you were seven stone heavier than your ideal weight. Especially when you knocked over a vase sitting on the hall table and sent it crashing to the ground. Pretty Boy spun around and gasped as the private detective tried his best to look cool, calm and collected.

‘What you doing here?' he asked.

‘Thought I'd pop round for a coffee,' Cedric replied. If you thought private detectives were always ready with a witty reply, now you know the truth.

The Brute stopped doing his warm-up exercises while Colm stared at the newcomer open-mouthed. It was
him
. The guy who'd turned up in the middle of the night at the Red House Hotel. Cedric winked at them. It was a wink that told them to keep their mouths shut.

‘Who's this balooba?' Uggo snarled.

‘Your friend and I go back a long way. We've had some laughs together. Remember? You, me and the stairs. Good times,' Cedric said.

‘Yeah,' Pretty Boy chuckled. ‘I threw him down stairs. He get hurt. Hurt bad.'

‘Careful now, you don't want to use too many big words. Big words cause sore brain.'

‘You threw him down the stairs? Him? I'm impressed. He must weigh a ton,' the wiry man said.

‘I hope you're not saying I'm fat,' Cedric said. ‘I'm very sensitive about my weight.'

‘Fat? Man, you're so fat, if they'd dressed you in grey you could have played the boulder in that Indiana Jones movie,' Wiry said.

‘Wow. What an intellect. If only it could be used for good rather than evil.'

‘You're so fat, they should have just greased you up and used you to plug that BP oil spill,' the wiry man continued, his rudeness growing by the second.

‘OK. You've had your fun. Ease off now,' Cedric replied.

‘If you jumped in a swimming pool you'd cause a tsunami.'

‘Let's see how many offensive jokes you make when I put my fist in your face,' Cedric said.

‘That's not going to happen,' said the man with a smirk that made you want to do exactly what Cedric had said. ‘Those two have my back,' he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his companions. ‘They'll be on you like a ton of bricks before you can even think about hurting me.'

Cedric looked at the two thugs. The two thugs looked at him. An understanding passed between them.

‘Mind if I hit him, just the once?' Cedric asked.

Uggo shrugged. ‘Be my guest. You've earned the right to a free one. My brother struggles with his weight and it's not a laughing matter. I hate people who say things like that. It's nasty.'

‘Wait, what?' screeched the wiry man. ‘You have to stop him. It's your job!'

‘Our job's to bring the two kids in,
Boris
. If you happen to get hurt in the struggle, there's nothing we can do about it,' Uggo said.

‘But there's no struggle. None. He's just threatening me. That's illegal. And very mean,' said Wiry Boris, his voice rising to such a high frequency that in the back garden a mouse and a bat exchanged concerned glances.

‘Hit hard. He's pain in … bum,' Pretty Boy said.

Cedric Murphy snaked out a fist, his hand moving faster than his bulk should have allowed. It connected with the wiry man's nose with a cartilage-smashing crunch. Boris's eyes watered. His knees wobbled. He slumped to the floor like a pile of dirty laundry.

The sudden silence was a welcome relief to everyone.

‘
Thank you
,' Uggo said. ‘We should have done that ages ago.'

‘And as a gesture of gratitude, you're going to head out the door and leave us to get on with our lives?' Cedric queried hopefully.

‘What do you think?'

‘It was worth a try. So how are we going to do this? Me against you? The three kids versus your buddy?'

‘Yeah, we could do it that way,' said Uggo. ‘Or … wait a second. You said three kids. There's only two kids here. The little guy with glasses and the orange kid.'

‘Orange? I'm not orange. I'm lightly tanned. We had a very good summer y'know,' The Brute said defensively. ‘Warmer than expected.'

‘Gotta learn to count, big guy,' Cedric said. ‘There's three children here.'

Uggo did count. He got to two. It was a struggle. His face was a mask of confusion. What did the detective mean? ‘Is this a trick?'

‘I mean at the end of July, it was over twenty-three degrees every day for a fortnight. You'd have be allergic to the sun not to be tanned after that,' The Brute rambled on.

‘It's not a trick.' Cedric Murphy shook his head then changed direction and nodded towards the patio door. ‘May I?'

‘Are you trying to escape?' Uggo asked.

‘Of course not,' Cedric said.

‘Go ahead then.'

Wow. These guys were either so confident in their own ability that they believed he had no chance of getting away or else they were more than a little dim. Considering they'd already allowed him to knock out one third of their gang, Cedric really hoped it was the latter, or else he was about thirty seconds and a couple of kicks away from a lot of physical pain.

‘Like I said, three – two boys and a girl,' he said, sliding the door open.

Eeps, Colm thought. That should have been locked. Lucky Mam didn't come home and find it open. But then he remembered that the predicament he was in probably balanced out that stroke of luck.

‘What girl?' Uggo said. ‘I've counted three times and there's no girl.'

‘I think he's talking about me,' said Lauryn, stepping into the kitchen.

Lauryn, the American girl who had helped Colm destroy the Lazarus Key, was now sixteen years old and very beautiful. Her beauty was the main reason The Brute had fallen in love with her when they'd first met. He'd gone completely doolally and even now, well over a year later, the memory of the kiss she'd planted on his cheek was still strong in his mind. In fact, he'd gone seventeen days without washing that particular part of his face afterwards, until his mother threatened she was going to clean it with a brillo pad if he didn't apply some soap to it immediately. He loved Lauryn more than he loved anything or anyone in the world. Even himself.

Now, older people will tell you that love is a complex emotion and that you can't love someone until you really know them. While there is some truth to that, it is also possible that these people are a little bitter at the fact that they're not young any more and can't experience the feeling you get when you see someone and fall head over heels for them. This means they'll often try to convince others that what they're feeling isn't real.

But for over a year, The Brute had thought of little else but Lauryn. He'd begun following the Philadelphia Eagles, an American football team (although he'd never liked the game before he'd met her), just because she was from Philadelphia. He was even sporting an Eagles t-shirt under his v-neck jumper. He'd also started reading a lot of books just because Lauryn read a lot. And he'd composed many, many romantic poems in her honour, poems with titles like ‘I love you more than flies love slurry'. Love will do such things to you.

Which is why when she appeared at the door, he was suddenly frozen to the spot. His heart began to pound wildly, his stomach engaged in risky somersaults until he felt nauseous, and he began to sweat like a horse that's just completed the Grand National. Kind of makes you wonder why people write so many songs about love if that's what it feels like.

So when Cedric Murphy took Lauryn's hand, whispered something in her ear, then shouted ‘RUN!', Colm sprinted for the patio door and Lauryn turned and took off into the night. But The Brute just stood there with a remarkably silly look on his face. She's here, he thought, my Lauryn is actually here. Except she wasn't any longer. She was running around the house, leaping over the side gate and heading across the street, Colm only metres behind her.

‘What are you doing, you eejit?' Cedric shouted. ‘Get out of here.'

The Brute snapped out of it. ‘Huh?'

And Pretty Boy was on top of him.

Right, that's it, Cedric thought. In future, I'm only going to try to save people who are smart enough to want to be saved. He grabbed Pretty Boy by the shoulders and began to drag him off and that's when Uggo threw his first punch. His huge, meaty paw caught Cedric on the side of the head from the top of his scalp to the bottom of his chin. The detective's brain rattled in his skull with the force of the blow and his teeth clamped down on his tongue. The world around him began to spin. For those of you lucky enough to have never been in a real-life fight, there's only one lesson to be learned – violence hurts. Cedric was groggy and weak, but he still clung grimly to Pretty Boy.

‘Move it, kid,' he mumbled as his tongue began to swell.

The Brute shoved Pretty Boy with the heel of his hand, then swung an elbow. It caught the thug in the mouth, breaking one of his front teeth, but it wasn't enough to make him let go. He still had a fistful of clothes. So The Brute did the only thing he could think of – he wriggled out of the jumper, leaving Pretty Boy holding the garment. He ran for the door, but Uggo wasn't about to let him go so easily. He took a step towards the boy, his arm outstretched, his fingers reaching for The Brute. Before he had a chance to get a grip, Cedric caught him by the ankles and the goon hit the kitchen floor like a toppled redwood.

The Brute was free and he was fast. Lightning fast. He'd caught up to Colm and Lauryn in seconds. Cedric Murphy wasn't as lucky. He too tried to make it to the door, but Pretty Boy and Uggo weren't going to fail a third time.

They didn't.

‘You're going to pay for that,' Uggo said.

‘Yeah, I kinda thought I might,' Cedric mumbled.

He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to arrive. He didn't have to wait for long.

J
ean-Paul Camus hated Ireland from the very first moment he arrived in Dublin airport. He disliked the accent, the way people called him ‘bud' when he wasn't their friend, and it really got on his wick that people loved something as disgusting as cheese and onion crisps. Over the following days he also grew to dislike the tardiness of the buses, the Spire on O'Connell Street and the thousands of people who wore tracksuits even when they weren't exercising. Of course, he failed to notice any of the good things about Dublin, but that's because he was in a terrible mood and people in terrible moods always tend to see everything negatively. You couldn't blame him, I suppose. One minute he was thirty-two years old, in his prime, the next he had the face and body of an eighty-year-old. He'd spent almost two years traipsing around desolate parts of Europe and Asia with the most awful companions imaginable and this was his reward. Sometimes life really sucks.

He left his hotel on St Stephen's Green, wandered slowly around the perimeter of the park, which had been closed since 6 p.m., and made his way to Dawson Street. He descended the steep steps that led to a tiny pub. Once inside, he ordered a drink from the taciturn barmaid who just nodded at him as if talking was too much of an effort. She didn't seem to want to make conversation. Neither did the pub's only occupant, a large, middle-aged fellow who sat at the bar. He had huge, gnarled hands, one of which was firmly wrapped around a pint of plain. The barmaid's name was Siobhán. The drinker's name was Paddy, though most people called him Bullkiller. He sort of insisted on it. I'll bet that tells you what kind of person he was.

Camus made his way to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his jacket and removed the velvet pouch which he kept in a clear ziplock bag inside his pocket. He sighed as he caught a glimpse of his hands. It got to him every time. They were white, pasty and veiny and covered with large liver spots. That was nothing compared to his poor ravaged face. Women had once swooned at the sight of him and during his twenties he'd had a succession of gorgeous girlfriends. Never again, all because that wretched Vlad the Impaler had got his claws into him. Now women held doors open so that he could shuffle through, or even worse, gave up their seats on the bus for him. He glanced at the mirror to find a pair of red-rimmed eyes staring back at him. His hair, what little of it was left, had turned snow white, his cheeks were jowly and as for the huge amount of wrinkles … well, it just wasn't fair. He'd missed out on so much of life. All those good years gone and here he was at the end of his days because of the search for the stupid keys. He wished he'd had the courage to throw them away, but even now, after all that had happened to him, he was still too scared of The Ghost to disobey him. I'm just a cowardly old man, he thought. A cowardly old man who has to pee forty-eight times a day.

The instructions from his boss had been received earlier that day – a handwritten note delivered to the hotel reception giving him the details of where to leave the Lazarus Keys. He didn't know why The Ghost had chosen this place, a pub in the centre of the city, rather than somewhere out of sight, but he was sure he had his reasons. It must be odd to live like he did: on the move constantly, never allowing anyone to know his identity, and for what? Money and some sort of power? It hardly …

Before Camus had the chance to finish the thought, he felt a stabbing pain in his left arm. He suddenly became light-headed. His chest tightened and he fell to the floor. Within thirty seconds the last drop of life had left him and he was dead. Old age and weakened arteries had claimed him. The pouch holding the keys slipped from his lifeless hand.

Back in the bar, Paddy the Bullkiller greedily eyed the tumbler of brandy sitting on the counter. It was the drink Camus had ordered ten minutes earlier. He picked up the glass and threw the contents down his throat.

‘You'd better pay for that,' Siobhán said.

‘The old fella'll pay,' Paddy replied.

Once upon a time, people like Siobhán wouldn't have dared to speak to Paddy the Bullkiller in such a sneery manner. He'd been one of the toughest men in Ireland, always ready to answer a question with a closed fist or a steel toe-capped boot. Beating people up had been his hobby. He loved it. It was much more fun than playing pool.

Despite his nickname, he'd never actually killed a bull, although he had once, after getting drunk and breaking into a wildlife park, found himself in a wrestling match with an ostrich. Nobody ever pointed out to him that calling yourself Bullkiller when you hadn't killed a bull was a bit sad. If they had they'd have been spending a lot of time sipping their dinners through a straw.

Things hadn't been the same for the last eighteen months though. Ever since he'd had a run-in with a creepy rat-faced man Paddy's confidence had gone, and once he'd lost his confidence people had lost their fear of him. He'd become a laughing stock. He had to get away and make a fresh start, so he moved from the town where he lived, leaving his job behind, and for the past six months he'd been in Dublin. No one knew him there. Slowly, over time, he'd begun to feel like himself again. He'd drunk a lot and beaten up a fair few young fellas, just to get back into the swing of things. Now all he needed was a bit of luck and he'd be back to his old self.

He lifted a butt cheek and parped loudly, much to Siobhán's disgust.

‘Better out than in,' he said with a belch, as if to emphasise the point.

‘Better for you maybe, not for me,' Siobhán muttered.

Paddy climbed off his high stool.

‘Just going to the toilet,' he said.

‘Thanks. I really needed to know that,' she replied, spraying a can of air freshener around the room.

Ah no, Paddy the Bullkiller thought when he arrived in the bathroom and saw Camus's body lying on the floor. It wasn't that he cared that Jean-Paul had died – he was far too selfish for that. All he was worried about was that he'd have to spend hours talking to the gardaí about how he'd found the body. They'd ask lots of boring questions, again and again and again, until his head was spinning. He knew this because he'd had plenty of experience with the gardaí in his home town after all the fights he'd been in. He'd spent so much time with them he knew what football team each one of them supported, their favourite bands and how many sugars they liked in their cups of tea. All he wanted to do now was to go home, have a few beers and watch a kickboxing film on the telly. No chance of that if the gardaí turned up. He'd better get out of there quickly and let Siobhán find the body later. It'd be her problem then, he chuckled to himself.

He was about to leave when he spotted the clear plastic bag lying beside Camus's outstretched hand. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. He removed the velvet pouch and opened that in turn.

‘Up ya boyo,' Paddy exclaimed joyfully when he saw the contents.

There were two diamonds in there. Precious diamonds. Small yokes, but he knew plenty of fellas on the wrong side of the law who'd be able to sell them on the black market. Life had taken a good turn again. About time too, he thought.

He held the two diamonds up to the fluorescent tube lighting to get a clearer look. They were glowing. That was a bit odd. Diamonds didn't normally glow, did they? Paddy wasn't sure. He'd never held one in his hand before. And there seemed to be some kind of tiny skull in the middle of them too. Was it a flaw? Nah, it probably only added to their value. As he rolled them around in the palm of his hand, a feeling of contentment settled on him. That was a sign that everything was all right. He'd begun to feel – how to describe it? – happy. Yeah, happy. It had been an awfully long time since Paddy the Bullkiller had felt that emotion.

He popped the keys back in the velvet pouch, put them in his pocket, stepped over the body of the unfortunate Mr Camus and left the pub whistling a happy tune, much to the surprise of the young barmaid.