The Wish List (8 page)

“Good.”

“Okay. When I give the word, you take over. Get my old bones down there and I'll do the rest.”

Meg nodded. “I can do that. Now, shut up talking to yourself, they're sitting down.”

Cicely quieted the audience with a wave of her elegant fingers. She was a striking woman, tall, with steel-gray hair and round brown eyes. It was easy to understand Lowrie's attraction.

“Good evening, my friends.” She winked conspiratorially. “I have to pretend it's evening because of the Saturday rebroadcast.”

It was vintage Ward. The editors would leave it in for both shows. The audience tittered fondly, their worries instantly forgotten.

“Our show this
evening
concentrates on an issue that has affected us all at one time or another. Today we're going to talk with our panel about lost love.”

Lowrie nearly threw up. His perspiration glands began to pump out gallons.

“Lost love?” giggled Meg. “This is unbelievable.”

“Oh, no,” moaned Lowrie. “It's too much. I can't.”

A concerned woman tugged at his sleeve. “Are you all right, honey?”

Lowrie felt as though there were a foot pump feeding into his brain. “I'm okay. Thanks. Fine. I just need a bit of air.”

He stood on shaky legs, suddenly feeling ridiculous. New clothes? Kissy Sissy? What had he been thinking?

“Where are you going?”

“Home. Home. Where I belong!”

Meg hovered before his face. “No! You can't. We've come this far!”

“Get out of my way!”

Of course they were in the middle of a row. Heads began to swivel on both sides.

“Sit down!”

“I can't.”

“What are you going to do? Run off home and die?”

The blood hammered in Lowrie's ears, drowning out his thoughts.

“Yes!” he shouted over the pounding. “Yes! I'm going home to die!”

A statement like that gets everyone's attention pretty fast. There was total silence on the soundstage. Even the cameramen stopped chewing gum.

Cicely Ward shielded her eyes against the TV lights. “Are you all right, sir?”

Lowrie's throat was dry, and his palms were wet. Typical.

“Let's do it!” said Meg.

“No . . .”

“No, you're not all right, sir?”

Big security guys were nonchalantly converging on B Section.

“Come on, partner! This is another wrong decision.”

“I can't.”

Cicely Ward squinted. “Don't I know you?”

Lowrie took a deep breath and met her inquiring stare. “Hello, Sissy.”

“Sissy? No one's called me that since . . . Oh my God—Lowrie?” The hostess made a faltering move backward, almost tripping on a low step.

The security guards were hurrying now, making real professional-looking hand signals.

“Let's go, Lowrie!”

McCall stared at his girlfriend from nearly half a century ago. Her eyes were the same. The very same.

“Okay, partner. Get me down there.”

“About time,” said Meg, sliding into the old man's frame. Lowrie instantly took a backseat, like a passenger on a fairground ride. But he could feel. He could feel the strength and passion of youth buzzing through his old frame.

“Hey, Sissy,” called Meg. “You stay right there, honey. Lowrie's got . . . I mean, I've got something for you.”

Inside his own head, Lowrie groaned. That girl watched too much American television.

The security men dropped all pretense of composure, and charged like a herd of particularly annoyed rhinos. Their leader seemed to be roaring up his sleeve.

“We got a possible obsessive, section B. Double quick.”

“Oops. Time to go.”

Meg hopped up on a backrest, narrowly escaping the questing fingers of the nearest guard. Two more clashed heads, diving for where Lowrie's feet had been. She giggled. It was just like the time she'd had an entire rugby team chasing her for calling their jerseys girly. They hadn't caught her then either.

Careful not to snag the audience on their heads, Meg skipped down along the seat rests, very dashing in her tailored suit.

Cicely was staring in disbelief. “Lowrie . . . I . . . Oh dear!”

Meg vaulted into the aisle. “With you in a sec, dollface.”

Lowrie cringed. Dollface?

The cameramen recovered their composure, swiveling lenses like tank turrets. This extraordinary old man could provide the shot of the year! One overenthusiastic bouncer threw a punch. He pulled it though, not wishing to crush the old guy's skull. The delay gave Meg ample time to snatch a knitting basket and place it in the path of his fist. Judging by the yelps, the bouncer had made contact with a concealed pincushion.

“0lé!” shouted Meg, drumming her heels dramatically.

“0lé!” shouted the crowd. They couldn't help it. Meg's enthusiasm was contagious.

A railing led to the stage floor. Tubular and smooth.

“Oh, God, no,” groaned Lowrie.

“I'm afraid so,” chuckled Meg and mounted the banister sidesaddle. She whooshed down its length, snatching a rose from a flower-bedecked straw hat on her way past.

There was only one beefy obstacle left, and the boom man took him out trying to get the mike in over Lowrie's head.

“
Olé!
” shouted Meg.

“
Olé!
” responded the audience.

Cicely's face was flushed. It was like something out of those old pirate films. That was what oldies liked, so that was what Meg was giving them.

She handed Cicely the rose. “For you, my precious jewel.”

“Lowrie? Is it you? What are you doing?”

“What I should have done forty years ago.”

Meg swept the presenter into her arms. The audience was enthralled; hankies were popping out like weeds after rain.

It was perfect. Romantic, forbidden, exciting. Perfect. Then, of course, all hell broke loose.

Belch looked down. He was floating two hundred feet above the ground.

“Arf,” he yelped. “Arf arf ooowwwww!”

“Woof, eh eh ruff,” grunted Elph in flawless pit bull. Which translated as: Relax, cretin, you're already dead.

Belch licked a rope of slobber from his chin. “Okay, smart aleck. It just takes a while to get used to all this death stuff. Zooming off all over the world.”

The hologram tried to explain. “We are not solid matter, you see. Of course, strictly speaking, that's not exactly true if you consider it at a subatomic level. . . .”

Elph paused, noticing the ‘I-have-no-clue-what-you're-talking-about' look plastered across Belch's face. “Or, to put it in dullard's terms, we can go wherever we want to be, so long as we know exactly where that is.”

“Oh,” said Belch, not really any the wiser. “Where I want to be is beside that old geezer with my fingers around his throat.”

Elph's telescopic eyes buzzed and zoomed, reading the impulses inside the wires.

“I believe I can isolate the precise signal.”

“Well, get on with it then, you blabbermouth fairy!”

“That's
Elph!
”

“Whatever.”

Elph's fingers extended and spliced themselves with the rubber-coated wire. Strands of energy whiplashed around the point of contact.

“Hang on.”

Belch barely had time to yip before they were hurtling through the meshed wires of the signal conduit. The hardware flowed around and through them. Belch could see electrons arguing with each other. He watched as the positive and negative ions were drawn irresistibly together. Not that they seemed to mind.

Then they emerged through the lens of a camera, and into a full-scale riot. Hundreds of elderly people were on their feet, stamping and hooting. Dazed security men lay scattered around the studio rubbing injured parts.

Belch growled in the back of his throat. “I like this place.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” commented Elph dryly. “When you've finished admiring the decor, you might notice that our target is less than ten feet away.

Belch whipped his snout around, instantly recognizing Meg Finn's scent. She was here, inside the old man. Belch could feel the canine half taking over. Bloodlust rose in the back of his throat. Curved claws sprouted from his fingertips.

“I'll tear her aura right off!”

Flexing powerful hind legs, Belch launched himself through the air. He struck like a pile driver, knocking Meg straight out of Lowrie's body. The two spirits rolled across the stage, auras spitting sparks.

“Now, you dirty turncoat,” growled hell's angel, “you're coming with me.”

“Where's that?” quipped Meg. “The doghouse?”

The smart remark was instinct. What was left of Meg Finn was actually quaking in her ectoplasmic boots. Belch was different. Not just the dog bit, it was more than that. He looked meaner, smarter. Like he'd seen hell, and liked it.

“Ruff woof huh huh,” snarled the dogboy. Which Elph could have translated as: That's the last joke you'll ever make, because I'm going to rip your tongue out!

Amazingly enough, even with absolutely no knowledge of canine dialects, Meg was able to get the gist. Perhaps it was the taloned fist hovering over her face that gave her a clue.

Elph's circuits were smoking with frustration. “No, you cretinous creature! Leave the girl. She has already played her part! Get the old man!”

It was no use. Belch was too immersed in his vengeance. The situation was shooting off at unforeseen tangents.

Lowrie was oblivious to all the spiritual mayhem. As far as he was concerned, everything was going according to plan. Meg had got him down here, perhaps in a slightly more ostentatious fashion than he would have preferred, but here he was. And now it was up to him to finish off item one on the Wish List, i.e., Kissy Sissy.

Cicely Ward was stunned, as you would be if your boyfriend of nearly half a century before turned up and made mincemeat of your security. In spite of that she made no attempt to disentangle herself from Lowrie's arms. Arms which were beginning to ache from the strain.

“Well, Lowrie?” she said, echoes of the teenager in her voice. “Why have you come here?”

It occurred to Lowrie then that he was probably on television.

“Lost love,” he said simply, and kissed her on the lips.

And the crowd went ape, especially when Cicely Ward draped a hand over the dapper old gent's shoulder and kissed him back. It was fantastic, stupendous.

An ethereal ray of white light exploded from the point of lip contact. It bathed the pores of every man, woman, and spirit in the studio. Of course nobody realized that. They just knew that for a single moment everything was better in the world.

Elph knew it, though. He could see the ray and he knew exactly what it was. Trouble. Major trouble.

Belch felt it too. The spiky hairs on his neck tingled a warning. “What the hell is that?” he growled, peering over his shoulder.

Elph just had time to answer before the ray of energy blasted them both back to the underworld.

“Good,” he said. “Pure, one-hundred–percent
good
.”

Meg felt a rush of blue in her aura.

Cicely walked Lowrie to the gate, ostensibly to protect him from the twitching fingers of security.

“I can't believe it's you,” she said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Lowrie McCall standing right here in front of me.

Lowrie sighed. “I'm a few decades late.”

The television presenter took his hands in hers. “Maybe. But not too late.”

Meg was busy trying not to throw up. “Oh, puleeeze. Give up all the soppy garbage, McCall. Give her another smacker and let's roll. We still have a long way to go.”

“Shut up. I'm busy.”

Cicely blinked. “Sorry? What did you say?”

“Nothing. I was . . . eh . . . talking to my inner demons. It comes from spending too much time alone.”

“Stay, then. For a while at least. We have so much to talk about.”

For a second Lowrie wavered. It was tempting. “Eh . . . No. I have a few things to do. Important things.”

Cicely wiped a tiny tear from the corner of her eye. “I understand. Will you be back?”

Lowrie hesitated. Just say yes. It would make everything much easier. “No, Sissy. I don't think so.”

“I see. Well, it was lovely to see you again. Even if only for a minute. And if you do change your mind . . .” She pressed a card into his palm.

Lowrie hugged her close, her familiar perfume filling his head. “Good-bye, Sissy.”

Her tears were wet against his cheek. “Good-bye, old friend, and thanks for the ratings.”

Lowrie strolled out through the gate. Dessie was making a daisy chain on the lawn.

Lowrie paused, there was one more thing. “Sissy,” he called.

She turned, squinting, the sun in her eyes. “Yes?”

“That night . . .” stammered Lowrie, “after the movies, when I didn't kiss you. Do you ever wonder . . . ?”

Cicely smiled through her tears. “Every day and night, Lowrie McCall, every day and night.”

THEY TOOK THE LATE BUS NORTH. LUCKILY, THE UPSTAIRS was deserted.

“You didn't see a thing?” said Meg incredulously.

Lowrie scratched his chin. “Nope.”

“But there was Belch, only he was half dog. And this little floating fellow with zoomy eyes, and then a huge explosion of white light that blew the two of them away but didn't hurt me a bit.”

“No. Didn't notice any of that.”

Meg scowled. “Too busy with your girlfriend.”

Lowrie leaned back on the seat smiling. “Say whatever you like, spooky. Nothing can put me in a bad mood today.”

“It's disgusting. All you old people running around kissing each other. Have you no dignity?”

“You wouldn't be jealous, by any chance?”

“Jealous? Of what? Kissing a granny?”

Lowrie sat up. “No. Jealous of . . . I dunno . . . Life? Being happy?”

Meg stared out the bus window, watching the city streets flash past. “What sort of question is that to ask a fourteen-year-old? I don't think about that sort of thing. Just music and candy.”

“Hrmmph,” grunted Lowrie doubtfully.

“Hrmmph yourself. I think I preferred you when you were a moody old jerk.”

Lowrie refused to be goaded. “Would you tell me something, Meg?”

“I might.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Who?”

“You know who. Franco. What did he do, to make you do what you did?”

“Is that a tongue twister?”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, it's none of your business.”

Lowrie nodded. “Fair enough. I thought we were becoming friends.”

Meg wagged a finger. “I know what you're doing. It's that guilt thing. My mam was always trying that on me. Well, it won't work. I don't want to talk about it.”

Lowrie relented. “Okay, partner. Some other time.”

I doubt it, said Meg's face. Rather than argue, she changed the subject.

“What's number two?”

Lowrie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Number two on the wish list.”

“Oh. Right. I suppose you might have heard of Croke Park?”

“That old place? Where they play hurling and Gaelic football?”

“The very place. The greatest, most famous stadium in the country. A place full of history—”

“Okay, I get the message. What about it?”

“I want to kick a football over the bar in Croke Park.”

Meg wasn't the least bit surprised. “Of course. Why not? Are you sure you wouldn't fancy a spot of pole vaulting too?”

“Positive, thanks, even though I know you're just being sarcastic.”

“I suppose there's a story behind this?”

“Yep.”

“I suppose it's long and boring too, just like the last one?”

Lowrie grimaced. “Afraid so.”

“Let's hear it, then,” sighed Meg, settling into the bus seat—not too far in, though.

Lowrie smiled. “If you insist.” He pulled the inevitable cigar from somewhere and wedged it between his back teeth. No lighting it, though. Public transport.

“Just after the war—”

“Which war?”

“The World War.”

“First?”

“Second, smart aleck. That's not important.”

“Couple of French people might disagree with you there.”

“To the story. It's not important to the story.”

“Getting a bit cranky, aren't we, Lowrie?”

“I wonder why? Anyway, just after the Second World War, my dad decided to send me off to boarding school.”

“Has this got anything to do with the war?”

“No. Not really.”

“I knew that! And here I was, getting all excited about a war story.”

“It was for reference. Oh, forget it.”

“Sorry, Lowrie. Go on.

“No.”

“Ah, stop sulking, and tell me the story.”

“Are we going to have to go through this every single time?”

Meg nodded. “Afraid so. You're too old for me to be seen getting along with you.”

“I thought as much. Very well, I shall persevere. But only because I know that really you're dying to hear my story. It's just your pigheaded teenage mentality that keeps forcing you to interrupt.”

Lowrie began his tale. As he spoke, images flowed from his pores, swirling around his head like an impressionist's dream.

“I was a small kind of a lad with no brothers or sisters, so Dad decided that boarding school would toughen me up. Apparently that was the thinking in those days, back before Dr. Spock—”

“What does the Starship
Enterprise
—”

“
Doctor
Spock. Haven't you ever read a book?”

“I have!” retorted Meg, a little too forcefully. She didn't think it worth mentioning that she had never actually finished a book without pictures.

“So, at the age of eleven, I was carted off to Westgate College for Boys. A charming establishment packed with sadistic bullies and leather-swinging Christian Brothers.”

Meg nodded sympathetically. It sounded a bit like her neighborhood.

“It was porridge for breakfast, and a sound thrashing for dinner and tea. There were only four subjects: Latin, Irish, math, and soccer. None of which were fortes of mine. Being neither rich, nor a Dubliner, I quickly became one of the least popular boys in school.”

“This is not by Charles Dickens, is it?” interjected Meg, trying to sound literary. In fact she'd seen Oliver about twenty times. It had been her mam's favorite.

“But I had my chance to fit in. After six months of hell, an opportunity came my way. . . .”

“Let me guess. You blew it?”

Lowrie sucked deeply on the unlit cigar. His expression was all the answer Meg needed.

“So, what happened?” asked his ghostly partner, forgetting all about her target of one sarcastic remark per sentence.

“The Westgate under-twelves got knocked out of the intercollege championship soccer final in the semifinals. The team never got to play in Croke Park. Every boy's dream in those days. So a group of us snuck out of the dormitory one night and traipsed halfway across town to the playing fields. The team wanted to climb the fence and have a kick around, just to say they'd played in Croke Park. Anyone could tag along, even poor farmers, like me.

“So, how did you foul up?”

“I climbed up on the fence, no problem. But I just couldn't go down the other side.”

“You chickened out.”

Lowrie was miserable. “I know, I know. I chickened out. The one time I had the chance . . . the only time I was ever asked to join in. I don't know, sometimes even I don't like myself.”

“I suppose none of the other lads would speak to you after that?”

“I wish that was all.”

“Worse?”

“Much worse.”

“Go on. Tell me.”

Lowrie took a breath. “I was caught climbing down off the fence.”

“Oops.”

“Oops is right. The night watchman called the Brothers and they came over in the van and rounded the boys up like cattle.”

“They weren't happy, I bet.”

“Nope. Mass expulsion. Everyone got kicked out. . . .”

“Except you.”

“Except me. Not only that, but I was held up as an example for making the sensible decision. Imagine being called sensible in front of four hundred boys at an assembly!”

Meg shuddered. “Nightmare.”

“No one spoke to me for the rest of the year.”

“So now you want to go back.”

“I have to go back. It was a moment when my life could have become completely different. You must have had one of those, Meg. A split second when it all goes wrong?”

In her mind's eye, Meg saw herself outside Lowrie's apartment building, wondering whether or not to vault through the window.

She nodded. “I understand. You have to go back.”

Lowrie sighed. “Thank you.”

“I don't suppose you could just go back during the day and get a guided tour?”

“No. It's the breaking in that's important.”

“I was afraid of that. This is going to play havoc with my aura.”

“So what's the problem? With your powers, surely we can handle one fence and a night watchman.”

Meg snickered. “Listen, old-timer. I think they might have beefed up the security since World War One.”

“Two.”

“Whatever. Just in, run around, and out. Nothing complicated, right?”

Lowrie switched the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Nothing complicated. Just in and out. Honest to God.” Lowrie rolled his eyes. “Sure, why would they have beefed up security? Is not as if anyone's going to steal the grass, is it?

Belch and Elph were in holding cell nine. Customs had no idea what they were, and didn't want to let them through without the go-ahead from the lower-downs. Beelzebub was pulled away from a World's Greatest Dictators' benefit, and was none too pleased about it.

Two menials awaited him at the soul depot. Their rugged faces were the fire-blasted black of steam-engine drivers. These boys had generally been densely dangerous in their previous lives, so now they were kept out of harm's way, prying reluctant souls from the tunnel wall. They were generally referred to as winkle pickers.

“What?” he snarled at the customs official.

“Search me,” said the lead winkle picker, perhaps a shade less respectfully than he should have. Beelzebub summarily vaporized him with his trident.

“What?” he said to the new first in command.

“Two new arrivals your worship. Holdin' cell nine.”

“And that concerns me because . . .”

“Because they stink, Majesty. Somethin' awful. Dunno what it is. Never smelt nothing like it.”

“I have never smelled anything like it,” corrected Beelzebub.

“You can smell it from here?”

“No, I—never mind. Are they sedated?”

“No need, your honor. Two of 'em are blankyblanky. They can't see or hear nothin'.”

Beelzebub fought the urge to point out the grammar mistake. Once upon a time, centuries ago, he had been private tutor to Attila the Hun.

“So? Tunnel shock. Put them through the blender. Use the residue to power my Jacuzzi.”

The customs demon shifted uneasily on his three-toed feet.

“Is there a problem with that?” asked Beelzebub. It was more a warning than a question—a trick all teachers know.

“Well,” stuttered the unfortunate soul scraper, painfully aware that his next words might be his last.

“Well what?” snapped Beelzebub, his patience wearing thin. He wanted to get back to the banquet before Mussolini's famous impressions routine.

“Well, these two are kinda strange.”

“Strange?”

“The doggy one, he just sits there steamin'. And the little one. He's not like a person at all. The way his head keeps spinnin', and he fizzes in and outta focus. I'd say he's more like sumpin' offa TV.”

Once Beelzebub had translated this from swamp-dwelling, shine-running mumbo jumbo, he brushed past the winkle picker to the small window in holding cell nine's door.

Belch sat drooling on the bench, while Elph hovered above him, trapped in a speech loop.

“Pure, one-hundred–percent good,” he buzzed. “Pure, one-hundred–percent good.”

Beelzebub licked his fangs. His plan was going awry. If Peter found out about this there could be repercussions. He slapped his pockets for his cell phone. Once he found it, he pressed a speed-dial button. Saint Peter picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, amigo.
Qué pasa?
”

“What is it, Bub? I'm a busy man.”

Beelzebub searched frantically for someone to vaporize, but the winkle picker had wisely skipped out of range.

“Can't a friend call to say hi?”

“Yes, a friend could. You, on the other hand, are not a friend to anyone except your own miserable self.”

Beelzebub's face was contorted with rage, but his voice remained jovial. “Hey, Pietro, I'm hurt. After all I've done for you.”

“Do you have to speak in tongues, Bub? Why do you people always have to do that? It's so . . . Hollywood. Insecure, if you ask me.”

One day, gatekeeper, thought Beelzebub. One day. “Say, listen, Pete. That Irish girl.”

“What about her?”

“Did she ever turn up at the Pearlies?”

“Why? Did your Soul Man come back empty-handed?”

“What Soul Man? I'm bleeding here, Peter. Injured.”

“Hrummph,” grunted Peter doubtfully.

“Well, have you seen her?”

There was a long pause. Peter was wrestling with his duty. Saints are not allowed to lie, not even to demons.

“No,” he sighed eventually. “No sign of her yet.”

Beelzebub grinned. “Well, I'm sure she'll seal her own fate eventually without any help from us.”

“I'm sure,” grunted Peter, terminating the call.