Colm & the Ghost's Revenge (3 page)

‘You broke into my home,' the man said.

His voice was still calm, Wickerly noted. Too calm. Most people coming home and finding a man going through their stuff would either be terrified or furious. This man wasn't either. A shiver decided to take a jog along Fintan's spine.

‘Ahm, it's like this – my car broke down and I lost my phone and it was raining and I was looking for somewhere to shelter. I didn't know the place was occupied.'

‘I would have thought the fire in the hearth was a clear sign that someone was staying here,' the man said, his tone only slightly south of freezing.

‘Yes, I, ah, what I meant to say was that I would …' Fintan realised the sentence had nowhere to go. ‘I don't want any trouble,' he added.

‘I don't care what you want,' the man said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He moved towards the wooden box. ‘What did you see?'

His body language was unreadable. Fintan wondered how he should play this. Apologise? Act tough? It would all depend on whether the man was angry, amused, bemused or concerned.

‘Me? I saw nothing.'

The man's eyes suddenly burned with fury. Right, Fintan thought, it's anger then.

‘Tell me.'

‘Or what?' Fintan asked aggressively. When all else fails, try bluster.

‘They won't find your body, you know. A single, middle-aged man. From the south of Ireland judging by your accent. A farmer? No, the hands are too soft. But you do work outdoors, you have a ruddy complexion. A postman, perhaps? Three thousand miles from home. On holiday by himself. That means no family or friends. Nobody who'd care that much anyway. You're someone who can be disposed of very easily.'

Fintan knew he'd stepped into the wrong house at the wrong time. That was very clear now. It was just a pity it hadn't become clear before the arrival of the terrifying man and the dogs with the crazy eyes. He decided that it would be best for him to do exactly what the man said. That way there might be a chance of surviving the night. A slim chance, but that was better than no chance at all. A million times better.

One of the dogs leaned forward and nuzzled his leg with its wet snout. He could feel its hot breath on the back of his knee. So this is what genuine terror feels like, he thought.

‘I saw a name. And … the thing. The … erm … objects.'

‘What name did you see?' the man asked.

‘An Irish name. I … it seemed unusual. Here of all places.'

‘Don't make me ask this question a third time. What was the name?'

‘Colm,' said Fintan Wickerly.

‘Who sent you here?' the man asked.

‘No one. I wasn't lying. My car broke down.'

‘Then you're just very, very unlucky,' said the man they called The Ghost.

T
he library was quieter than usual for a Saturday morning, but Colm didn't mind. It suited him. He nodded hello to Mrs Dillon, the friendly librarian, then followed up with a ‘hi' to Edan, the local genealogy expert, who was sitting in his usual spot surrounded by a pile of books and sheaves of papers. He passed by the old people who were poring over the daily newspapers, occasionally raising their heads to comment on the state of the world, and took his place at one of the computers, quickly getting to work.

Two hours later he leaned back and yawned, rubbing his tired eyes. The monitor was a blur. He hadn't uncovered any new information on The Ghost or the Lazarus Keys, so he'd moved on to researching the working methods of the great detectives: Holmes, Marple, Rockford. He hoped that they might give him some idea of how to proceed with his investigation. He was aware that his interest in the master criminal and the supernatural keys was turning into an obsession, if it wasn't one already, but he didn't know how to stop it. All his other interests had fallen away and he'd grown distant with the few friends he had. He wanted to explain his situation to them, but he couldn't. Having people think he was weird was one thing, allowing them to believe he was mad was another. Thinking about the situation put him in a foul humour, just as it always did.

He was only supposed to have been on the Net for thirty minutes, but when there wasn't anyone waiting a turn Mrs Dillon allowed him to stay on the computer well past the allotted time.

‘How are you, Colm?' she asked, leaning over his shoulder. Her hair smelled of peaches and cream.

‘Good thanks, Mrs D,' he replied, too polite to mention his bad mood. ‘Can I get a print-out of these pages?' he asked waving his hand in the general direction of the computer.

‘Of course. How's the book going?'

Ah, the big lie. Colm had been coming to the library every Saturday morning for the last eighteen months and over that time Mrs Dillon had become increasingly chatty. One day, she'd asked him what he was working on. He didn't want to tell her the truth. It would have sounded ridiculous. So he'd told her that he was doing research for a book he was planning to write. Of course, if you want to keep a librarian off your back, telling them you're writing a book isn't the way to go. Books are like catnip to them. It led to a serious amount of questions, which in turn led to Colm having to make up the plot of a story which he had to relay to Mrs Dillon on a monthly basis. After that, every time he went in she would go out of her way to help him. It made him feel very, very guilty.

She printed out the pages he'd asked for, Colm handed over the money, and a couple of minutes later he was out on the street and back in the real world. Unfortunately. The city was sprinkled with the light of the fading sun. Colm swung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the bus stop. The streets were crowded, filled with the hum of conversation and the stop-start of passing traffic.

Colm heard Ziggy before he saw him. His voice rose above the crowd: loud and braying and American, even though Ziggy wasn't from America; he was born and bred in Dublin. He'd never even visited the US, but he spoke with the accent because he thought it fitted in with his image. To be fair, it did, since his image was that of a Californian surfer. Still, Ziggy didn't surf and the opportunities for wearing the baggy shorts he favoured were quite limited in the less than tropical temperatures in Ireland, unless you were a fan of goose bumps.

He was a neighbour and classmate of Colm's, and lived on the far side of the estate. Only two hundred and four steps away, as Ziggy had once informed the class.

‘What's the difference between the coolest guy in the universe and a chubby-faced mammy's boy?' he'd asked. ‘Two hundred and four steps,' he'd said, pointing at Colm.

Their fathers had worked in the same factory before it had closed down and Colm's mother was always encouraging Colm to hang out with Ziggy, as she'd recently decided that what he needed was a new friend. She didn't know what a pain their neighbour was since he was one of those kids who makes sure they are always friendly and polite when adults are around, their nastiness only emerging when the adults leave the room.

For once, Colm was glad of Ziggy's inability to speak in a tone lower than booming. Being alerted to his presence meant he could avoid him. He wasn't in the mood for whatever sarcastic zinger Ziggy would send his way. He could see him clearly now, hanging out in front of the chip shop with Iano, the best friend Colm always suspected that Ziggy secretly hated because he was funnier and more popular. Amy was there too. And Stephanie. The ‘A1 Crew', as they called themselves.

Time to disappear, Colm thought. He crossed the street, waving apologetically to the man on the bicycle who was forced to weave around him. When he was on the far side he glanced back to see if the crew had seen him. That was a mistake.

‘You stepped on me toes, ya chipmunk-cheeked moron.'

Oops.

In his desire to see if he was in the clear, he hadn't noticed the three teenagers leaning against the shop front. All of them were dressed in football shirts and tracksuit bottoms as if it was some kind of uniform. Buzzer, Killer and Neil. Three guys with nothing to do and all day to do it.

‘Sorry,' Colm said.

The teenagers weren't having that. Colm felt a thump on his shoulder. In the past he would have put his head down and walked away because he knew that they wanted him to react, just to have a reason to start a fight. The smart thing to do was to ignore the punch. And Colm was smart.

Usually, that is. Not today though. Today he'd had enough of all the lies and having to keep his fears bottled up. He felt like a pressure cooker that was about to explode.

He shifted his gaze so that his eyes met those of the guy who was acting like the leader. Buzzer stared back, not even blinking once. His sidekicks stopped slouching. This wasn't going the way it normally did. It had just got interesting.

He's going to ask you a question, the sensible part of Colm thought. He wants an excuse to beat you up and no matter what you say he's going to pretend it's an insult. Don't give him the ammunition.

‘What're you looking at?' Buzzer asked.

‘An eejit with an enormous nose and a tiny brain,' Colm found himself replying.

I'm dead, he thought as soon as the words left his mouth.

It took Buzzer a full five seconds before what Colm had said registered. He couldn't believe this fat little kid had said that and his brain was frantically checking to see if there was another, more respectful, way of interpreting the words.

During the time it took Buzzer to process the insult, Colm's sudden rush of anger died and he remembered that there were three of them and one of him. But even if there were ten of him and only one of them he'd probably still get his butt kicked. So he used the rest of the time that Buzzer's brain was grinding into action to take off. He sprinted down the footpath, followed by the words he really didn't want to hear.

‘Get him!'

A
s Colm reached the end of the shopping area, dodging people left and right, the crowd began to thin out. Nobody raised a finger to help him though. They were quick enough when it came to getting out of his way, but it was clear that they didn't want to get involved. It wasn't as if they didn't know what was going on either – you didn't need to be an expert in body language to understand the meaning of a twelve-year-old boy with terror written all over his face racing down the street pursued by three teenagers waving their fists and shouting threats.

‘You're a dead man,' one of the trio roared.

Colm wanted to provide a witty comeback, but his heart was pounding, his throat was dry and scratchy and, to be honest, the only reply that came to mind was: Technically, I'm not even a teenager yet, so calling me a dead
man
is a bit dumb. No, it was better to focus on getting away from them than trying and failing to be clever.

The running-in-a-straight-line-along-the-street plan wasn't proving to be as successful as Colm had hoped. In fact, it was failing quite badly. The teenagers were within arm's length now. He could hear their snorts and ragged breathing. Colm had to do something. He veered to his right and ducked into an alleyway. His pursuers weren't expecting it and flew past, still on the main street. The detour had only given him a few extra seconds and he needed to … it was a dead end. He swore silently and came to a halt.

At the far end of the alley stood an imposing eight-foot wall. Unless he developed superpowers in the next couple of minutes there was no way he was going to be able to scale
that
. He had to face the truth. He was trapped. He scanned the alley again, this time looking for somewhere to hide. The only thing large enough to provide any kind of cover was a faded green plastic wheelie bin. Slime oozed gently down the sides and a trickle of rubbish juice dripped from one of the handles. It wasn't particularly appealing.

‘I'm going to kill ya, ya little son of a maggot,' Buzzer announced as he arrived in the alleyway.

Right, Colm told himself, it's time to fight. It wasn't really a decision he'd come to through some brilliant and original thinking. When you're trapped in an alley and the guy who wants to beat the bejeepers out of you is standing less than two metres away, you either have to fight or else just stand there and let him punch you repeatedly until he tires himself out. Being a punchbag wasn't Colm's thing. Trouble was, fighting wasn't his thing either.

He'd begun taking karate lessons at a club on Collins Avenue a few months previously. He thought it might be helpful to know some self-defence moves if he ever found himself in a dangerous situation again, but the karate hadn't really worked out for him. In fact, ‘it hadn't really worked out for him' was a huge understatement. It had been a disaster. He just wasn't good at sports. Whichever part of his brain was responsible for coordination seemed to have been wired wrong. When the instructor had told them to move left, he'd found himself going right. He punched when he should have kicked and kicked when he should have punched. It was like swimming against a roaring tide.

His third and final lesson had been the straw that broke the camel's back. The instructor, a man with enormous biceps, a deep voice and worryingly hairy ears that captured your gaze like a hypnotist's pocket watch, liked to roar his commands in Japanese. This was a little odd as he wasn't from Japan; he was a Navan man through and through. He'd even played corner back for the Meath minors. But if he wanted to speak Japanese then no one was going to tell him he shouldn't. Would you argue with a man who could put you in hospital before you could say the words ‘fractured coccyx'?

I didn't think so.

The thing was, Colm wasn't great with languages so when the instructor had shouted ‘Bow' in his Navan-Japanese accent, he'd mistaken it for ‘Kick'. He'd attempted an ungainly roundhouse just at the moment Seamus Barry had begun to lean forward and unfortunately for Colm, and poor Seamus, he'd caught him right on the bridge of the nose. There was a tremendous crack followed by a brief moment of silence. Two seconds later, Seamus was slumped on the sparring mat with blood and tears pouring down his face. It was agreed by the instructor, Colm's parents, Seamus's folks and a couple of people who had no business interfering, that it might be best for everyone concerned if Colm tried a different sport.

‘Hey, Killer. Neil. Is that kid just standing there thinkin'?' Buzzer asked, puzzled by the blank look on Colm's face and the lengthy passage of time that had elapsed since he'd issued his threat.

‘Looks like it,' Killer agreed.

‘He's disrespectin' ya, Buzzer,' Neil said, egging him on. Neil loved nothing more than watching someone being beaten up.

Buzzer sighed. This day was proving to be very unusual. Was it too much to ask for things to go smoothly? All he'd wanted to do was find a wimpy little guy, beat him up, then go for a bag of chips. And what happens instead? He gets insulted, has to chase the kid all over town, and then the kid blanks him. Why is life never easy, he wondered. Well, it was time for the messing to stop.

Killer and Neil exchanged glances. Now Buzzer was at this thinking thing. Was it contagious?

‘Hey Balloon Butt, are ya going to spend all bleedin' day standin' around thinking with a stupid look on yer face or are ya going to fight like a man?' Buzzer asked, snapping out of his reverie.

‘Two things,' Colm began. ‘One, I'm a couple of weeks away from my thirteenth birthday, so technically I'm not a man.' Nope, still not a good line. ‘And number two …'

‘Huh, huh. He said number two,' Killer chuckled.

And that's when Colm attacked. He launched himself at them, fists out front, face set to DESTROY. Unfortunately, his ability to fly through the air didn't quite match his ambition. In less than a tenth of a second it was clear his unexpected move was doomed to failure. He landed at Buzzer's feet a full metre short of his target, cracking his chin on the cobblestones. He looked up, his face a picture of despair.

Buzzer peered down. It seemed like he was going to say something, but was holding back for some reason. His lip began to wobble. He sniggered. Then he started laughing. Long and loud. Killer and Neil joined in, because that's the kind of lackeys they were.

‘Aw, man,' Buzzer spluttered, wiping away the tears. ‘That's the funniest thing I've ever seen. The way … you thought you could … pat'etic.' He mimicked Colm diving through the air. ‘It's a bleedin' classic.'

‘So you're not going to hurt me because I made you laugh?' Colm asked, his voice crackling with hope, his jaw sore and tender.

Buzzer extended a hand and hauled Colm to his feet.

‘Nah, kid, we're not goin' ta hurt ya,' he said.

Well, Colm thought, when he was up to his shoulders in rotting food and dirty nappies, it could have been worse. Buzzer had been as good as his word. They hadn't hurt him. All they'd done was dump him in the wheelie bin. Upside down. It had been quite stomach-churning at first, but he'd got used to the smell and the waves of nausea more quickly than he'd expected once he'd righted himself. His bag of library notes was in pretty poor shape though.

He wiped some semi-solid sour milk from the face of his watch. The ten minutes they'd told him to stay inside the bin were almost up. It had been one really bad day. At least I've learned a valuable lesson, he thought, trying to look on the bright side, which, when you're sitting in the dark in a wheelie bin with six days' worth of other people's rubbish soaking through your socks and shoes, is something that requires a glass-half-full mentality.

‘Isn't that right?' Colm said to the black rat that was scrabbling its way up his trouser leg.

The rat stopped at the sound of Colm's voice. It looked at him and swished its long tail, waiting for the boy to explain what lesson he'd learned. But Colm didn't elaborate. He just looked at the fat-bellied rodent and sighed.