The Wish List

by Eoin Colfer

“Welcome.”

  The field stretched before them, a solitary potato-chip bag swirling across its surface like a rustling ice-skater.

  “Sorta spooky really, isn’t it?” whispered Meg.

  “You’re the expert.”

  “Seriously, though. Him being able to see me. I wonder why? What’s special about him?”

  Lowrie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you wronged him too. While you were alive.”

  “Don’t even know the chap.”

  “You never made anonymous phone calls or anything?”

  “Not to Dublin. No one ever accepted the charges.”

  “We can wonder about this later. You’d better get in here and do your stuff before Murt gets back.”

  “I thought you’d want to do this on your own.”

  Lowrie chortled. “I’d love to do it on my own, but ever since two burglars’ mutt chewed up my leg, my kicking has gone to the dogs, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “Oh, bring that up again, why don’t you?” grumbled Meg, sliding into Lowrie’s skin. “It’s been a whole ten minutes since you mentioned that.”

  Murt trotted back, his belly jiggling with each step.

  “Here you are” he puffed, lobbing a leather soccer ball to Lowrie. The person he thought was Lowrie caught it dexterously, spinning it on one finger like one of those basketball chaps. Meg had been an expert player in her day.

  “I’m telling you, Murt,” she said. “You want to get yourself in shape. That spare tire you’re carrying is going to send you up the tunnel before your time.”

  Murt jerked a thumb back toward the players’ tunnel.

  “I’ve just been up the tunnel. Anyway, where’s the girl?”

  Lowrie, the spectator in his own head, was instantly flustered, but Meg had a lifetime’s experience of quick-fire lies behind her. “She got a call on her mobile,” she explained in Lowrie’s gravelly tones. “She’s recording an album at the moment and they need her for emergency backing tracks.”

  Murt squinted doubtfully. “I see. So she’s gone back over the fence, is she?”

  “Yes. Very athletic, that girl. As a matter a fact, she’s on the Irish athletics squad.”

  “Right.” Obviously, Murt’s fairy-tale detector wasn’t very sensitive.

  “Yep. Won two Golds at last year’s Olympic games.”

  “Last year’s?” said Murt, trying to divide by four in his head.

  “The long run one, and the jumpy one.”

  “Marathon and hurdles?”

  “That’s them. She’s such a wonderful kid. I’m thinking of adopting her.”

  “I thought it was her Grandad that had died?”

  “Yes . . . eh . . . but he was also her father, having adopted her when her real parents died in . . . a freak baboon attack in a safari park.” Inside in the cranial cinema Lowrie’s consciousness didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Murt rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache building. “Okay, enough about Wonder Kid. Are you going to kick this ball or not?”

  “Of course I am. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

  Meg walked out onto the hallowed turf of Croke Park. Residual memories erupted from the stands, urging long-retired teams to victory. All around her shades of past players dodged, weaved and hacked the legs from under each other when the ref wasn’t looking. The excitement was contagious. Meg could almost believe that she was a part of one of those finals. It was her job to convert the winning penalty in the last seconds of the game. She could feel Lowrie’s heart pound with excitement. Finally, after fifty years, he was fulfilling a dream.

  Meg placed the white leather ball on the turf and took eight steps back. The ghostly crowd fell silent. The players fizzled away, burned out by the intensity of the moment. Lowrie said a silent prayer. She could do it. He had used to be a fair enough soccer player in his day. Meg could use his memories. He sent them to her. Every ball he had ever kicked. Every match that he had spent tearing around some mud-mired field. It was all there, filed away in a dusty stream of electrons in the back of his head.

  “Oh,” said Meg and changed her stance completely. She angled her shoulders, putting the weight on the back foot. No problem. Barely a breath of wind, and right under the posts.

  For the first time, they were truly cooperating. Brain and brawn working together. Meg licked Lowrie’s finger and stuck it into the wind. Then the taste of tobacco bit into the taste buds she was inhabiting.

  “Ooh,” she groaned, spitting onto the grass. Of course, being in possession of ancient, nicotine-drenched lungs, quite a bit more stuff came up than she was expecting.

  “That’s disgusting. What are you doing to yourself?”

  “Let that be a lesson to you,” Lowrie shouted from his hideaway.

  “What? Smoking can seriously damage your health?”

  This exchange, though quite typical for the Meg–Lowrie partnership, seemed quite puzzling to poor Murt.

  “You’re mad, aren’t you? An utter nutter. That’s what it is. I’m aiding and abetting Mister Looney. I should be locked up meself.” The security guard reached for his radio.

  “No, Murt, wait,” shouted Meg desperately. “It’s flashbacks. I’m getting flashback to my days with the Fighting Terriers. Sometimes it all seems so real.” She hitched a crocodile sob, peering between her fingers to see how Murt was reacting.

  “Oh, go on, then. I’m telling you, the Sunday World had better pay me a fortune for this story after all the grief I’ve had to put up with.”

  Meg took a deep breath and took a run at the ball. She whacked it with her instep, just as Lowrie’s memories had shown her. The ball wobbled, bounced and rolled about three feet.

  Murt nearly broke his jaw laughing.

  “Oh no . . .” he howled. “Oh stop, stop! I’m not up for comedy like that.”

  “That ball’s hard,” groaned Meg, rubbing Lowrie’s stumpy old toe. “I’ve only kicked those free plastic ones from the gas station.”

  Murt clapped his hands with sheer glee. “Are you sure it wasn’t the Fighting Poodles you were in?”

  “Okay, Murt. Very good.”

  “I think there’s a Girl Scouts’ hall nearby. Will I run down and get a few young ladies to show you how to kick?”

  Lowrie moaned internally. “He’s right. You kick like a . . .”

  “Like a what?”

  “Well, you know. Like a . . .”

  “Like a girl? Is that it?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I am a girl,” shouted Meg. “I’m a girl, all right? What did you expect?”

  Of course poor old Murt, being a decent sort of a chap, felt bad then. “You are not a girl. I was only having a laugh. Go on, have another try.”

  But Meg wasn’t just going to comply straightaway. She felt entitled to a good sulk and muttering session. “Stupid old idiot, with your list, and your oh-help-me-fix-up-my-life. I’m doing my very best. I got you the kiss, didn’t I? Nearly got killed, or something. And what do I get? Abuse. You kick like a girl. I’ve a good mind to head off back up the tunnel right now.”

  “Ah, don’t go up the tunnel,” said Murt placatingly. “Have one more try at it.”

  “Why should I?” pouted Meg, forgetting who she was supposed to be. “Why should I put myself out for some ungrateful old codger?”

  Murt drew himself up to his full height. “Because that old codger is your best friend. Do it for him, and do it for the little girl. She could do with a role model.”

  Amazingly enough, even though he had no clue what was going on, Murt managed to hit the nail on the head.

  Wordlessly, Meg retrieved the ball, replacing it on the penalty spot.

  Lowrie’s voice came whispering from somewhere dark. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” advised Meg, taking eight giant steps backward. “That thing is like a rock.”

  Murt came in from the sideline, radio slapping against his hip. “Bit of advice for you.�
��

  “Oh, great,” said Meg. What she meant was: go away.

  “Whenever I had to kick a ball a fair distance,” Murt continued, blithely unaware of the hostility waves breaking over his forehead, “I used to imagine it was someone’s head. Someone I wasn’t too fond of.”

  Meg froze. That was good advice. Turn the ball into a head. And she knew just the head.

  She faced up for the kick. The ball was not an innocent leather sphere anymore, it was Franco’s head. And it was talking to her. “This is my house now, Missy. So there’ll be no more spoiling the little princess. You’ll do what I say, and when I say it . . .”

  “Is that a fact?” said Meg, beginning her run.

  “You can forget your old life for a start. I’m not your maid. I’m not going to be chasing around after you, picking up the laundry. It’s a new day, Missy, a brand-new day. And your mammy won’t be coming back to save you. Because your precious mammy is . . .”

  “Shut up!” grunted Meg, kicking the ball harder than she had ever kicked anything in her life, or since.

  Franco’s head spiraled into the air, smack-dab through the uprights and into the crowd-protection net behind. Then it was just a ball again, sliding back to earth.

  Murt was flabbergasted. “I take it all back,” he breathed. “The Girl Scouts couldn’t teach you a thing. That was one hell of a kick. I haven’t seen anything like that since . . . well, ever. It nearly cleared the nets, for heaven’s sake. I thought it was going to punch right through.”

  Lowrie was dancing a jig inside his own skull. “I knew you could do it. I knew it. That felt good. That felt great. I feel like a boy again.”

  A slow smile spread across Meg’s face, or the one she was wearing at that moment. “You’re right,” she said, the memory of Franco’s surprised expression fresh in her vision. “That did feel good.”

  Murt escorted his charge out to the turnstile.

  “You’re not going to get into trouble for this, are you?”

  Murt shook his head. “No. I let you take a kick before throwing you out. Big deal. Anyway, I own the security company.”

  Meg nodded. “Good. Listen, Murt, thanks. It meant a lot to Lowrie . . . me, it meant a lot to me.”

  “No problem whatsoever. Always glad to help one of the Fighting Terriers.”

  And before Meg could react, Murt grabbed Lowrie’s hand and began pumping it vigorously. A part of Meg slipped into him before she hurriedly sucked herself back in.

  Murt withdrew his hand, studying his fingers curiously.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled. “That was . . .”

  “That was what?”

  Murt blinked. “Nothing. I just thought . . . oh, nothing.”

  “Bye, Murt. Regards to Dessie.”

  “Sure thing. Listen, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “No, fire ahead.”

  “That girl, the Olympian singer?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you’re not related to her?”

  “Positive. Why?”

  Murt frowned. “It’s just that . . . sometimes when I look at you, I seem to see her face.” He laughed nervously. “I must be going a bit loopy.”

  Meg and Lowrie laughed together, perhaps a decibel too loudly. “You must be, Murt. You must be.”

  The night watchman locked the turnstile behind them, and once again they were on the city streets. As soon as Murt had returned to the shadows of Croke Park, Meg disentangled herself from Lowrie’s cell structure.

  “Owww,” groaned Lowrie. “My foot. You must have hit that ball some whack.”

  “Hmm,” said Meg glumly.

  “Hey!” said Lowrie, “what’s wrong with you? That’s two out of four. Halfway there.”

  Meg sat on a wall, more out of habit than a need to rest. “It’s Murt. I know why he could see me.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Just now, when we shook hands, I got a bit of a look around inside him. It was an accident. I’m not a snoop or anything.”

  “No?”

  “It’s his life force. His energy, whatever you call it.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s empty. Gone. Used up.”

  “He’s dying?”

  Meg frowned. “My mam used to say about our car, when we had a car, that the engine was running on fumes. Out of juice. I think Murt’s like that. More spirit than flesh. That’s why he could see me. I’m one of his kind. Nearly.”

  “Nothing you could do?”

  Meg shook her head. “No. That sort of thing is beyond me. Well, at least his aura is bright blue. He’ll be up at the Pearlies before he knows he’s passed on.”

  Murt watched them go from the guard tower. He stared wide-eyed as the girl separated herself from the old man. He knew it. He knew there was something odd about that pair. He fumbled a videotape from its packaging, pressing it into the VCR slot. Too late. The strange couple had disappeared into the shadows.

  This was big. Bigger than he’d thought. And, funnily enough, he felt he understood it. She was a spirit on a mission. Now, how would he know that? Murt shrugged, it was just a theory. No point in getting himself all worked up about it. He should get on to Dessie though, get some advice on how to handle this. Dessie was always the one with the head for business.

  Just the thought of listening to one of Dessie’s lectures sent his blood pressure rocketing. Before you knew where you were, this would be Dessie’s project and he’d be a junior partner. Still though, his little brother knew how to squeeze a few shillings out of a situation.

  You needed fortification before talking to Dessie. A nice strong cup of tea would be the very thing. Murt swung himself out of the swivel chair and toddled into the kitchenette. The kettle sat leaking on the draining board. Frayed wires were jammed into a charred-looking plug. He should fix that really, or go whole hog and get a new kettle altogether.

  Murt shrugged. He’d do it tomorrow. This was a refreshment emergency. Surely the old girl was good for one more brew up? Murt shook a few stray drops of water from the plug, and reached toward the socket. . . .

  Myishi tapped the brain spike’s monitor. “Here’s the problem. Right here.”

  “About time,” snarled Beelzebub. The whole evening had been a disaster. Just for him, of course. All the other senior demons were busy gorging themselves on endangered species in the red room.

  “Everything was going according to plan, no thanks to your Soul Man, I might add, when the old man kisses the old woman, and BANG!”

  “BANG? What are you talking about, you techno-fool?”

  Myishi held his breath, swallowing the retort that it was actually Beelzebub himself who was the true technofool. Observations of that nature usually led to a level-four shock in a very painful place.

  “You see that white light, Beelzebub-san?”

  Hell’s Number Two leaned into the monitor. It was quivering slightly in Belch’s brain matter. “Yes. Of course I see it.”

  “Good. One-hundred–percent positive energy. Very rare. A perfect moment. Not a single deadly sin involved. You get two molecules of goodness bumping into each other like that, and BANG! Molecular fusion. Anathema to our kind. Chewed up your boy like a shark crunching on a baby turtle.”

  Beelzebub shuddered.

  “Fried his brain, again. Drained his energy, and sent him back here faster than a hyena ripping meat from a—”

  “All right, all right, you horrid little man. I get the picture.”

  Myishi smiled a secret smile. Squeamishness. Not exactly an attribute in this part of the cosmos.

  “Anything useful on the tape?”

  “No, Beelzebub-san. Just static after the kiss.”

  “And what about your little robot. Your fairy?”

  “That’s Elph.”

  “Fairy, elf, whatever. Did it record anything useful?”

  Elph was still flickering overhead, interminably mouthing the same sentence. Mercifully, Myishi had muted his volu
me.

  “I’m afraid the system crashed after the overload, but I can reboot from the server. . . .” He paused, remembering what had happened the last time he’d buried Beelzebub under a mound of jargon. Sure enough, there was a sizzling charge growing on the tip of his superior’s trident. “I mean the hologram shut down, but I can start it up again.”

  “Good. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? And can’t you do something about the smell? It’s revolting.”

  Myishi sniffed hesitantly. “Nothing much. It’ll wear off eventually. It’s the scent of happiness. Eau de Joie. Not a hint of evil in it. Reminds me of flowers . . .”

  “And baking.”

  “And soap.”

  “And a breeze from the ocean.”

  The demons shivered.

  “Disgusting,” they said simultaneously.

  A historic moment. The first and probably last time Beelzebub and Myishi were to agree on anything.

  Beelzebub didn’t like the feeling. “So, get them started up again. And none of your repair-shop excuses. The parts do not have to be shipped from Taiwan, so you have ten minutes before I start inflicting serious scorch damage on the seat of your lovely silk suit. Are we clear?”

  Myishi bowed deeply. “Crystal, Beelzebub-san.”

  The programmer stripped off his jacket to reveal a torso completely covered in ornate tattoos. Dragons rippled across his chest and tsunamis crashed over his shoulders. Holding his breath against the stench of goodness, Myishi once more plunged into the morass of Belch’s gray matter.

  Like all intellectuals, he could not resist the impulse to explain the procedure.

  “The wave of positive energy overloaded the Soul Man’s own life-force reserve. Killed him again, if you like. It also wiped his memory. His head is like an empty bucket. Fortunately, the hologram has a copy of the memory patterns on file. Unfortunately, the hologram operates from the same power source as the host. So when one goes down, they both go down.”

  Myishi connected the spike to an external power line. A blue spark sizzled down the lead, followed by several others. They leapt into the bowl of Belch’s cranium, sending the stupefied Soul Man into spasms. Elph spun like a top, his speech rate increasing to four hundred words a second. His microchips immediately launched a self-diagnostic, and the hologram began a thorough check of all drives and programs. Three-point-four seconds later, Elph decided he was eighty-eight–percent functional. His telescopic eyes zoomed into focus.