‘Get him!’
POLICE REPORT No. 213486
Date: October 9th
Department: Olde City, Philadelphia
Incident: Missing Persons
Case Number: OL/PH/AQ/98982
Reporting Officer: Detective Adam Quigley
At approximately 21.40 on October 8th, I arrived at the home of Professor Peter Drake in response to a call I had received from a neighbor of his, Mrs Kovicek. She said that she had not seen Drake, his girlfriend or his girlfriend’s daughter in almost a week. She claims to be on good terms with the family and that they usually inform her when they are going away for even short periods of time.
Upon arrival I found the back door swinging open.
I proceeded into the house as Mrs Kovicek had barged in ahead of me, in contravention of my warning not to set foot inside the property, and I was compelled to follow to protect her from any possible intruders.
There were none. I found no direct evidence that any crime had been committed. Two plates of half-eaten food sat upon the kitchen table. Professor Drake’s cell phone was in the living room with twelve missed calls. The television was still on, but there was no sign of the family. It was as if they had just disappeared. There one moment, gone the next. The people who are listed as living in the house, but who are now believed to be missing, are as follows:
Professor Peter Drake, aged 52 years
Marie McMahon, aged 37 years
Lauryn McMahon, aged 16 years
Three
As 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 becau
se 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.
Four
The moment Kate Finkle opened the front door of her flat she knew something was wrong. It wasn’t the torn newspapers on the floor, the blaring TV or the half-empty cans of cat food lying on their side on her threadbare two-seater couch; her flat was exactly as she had left it. No, what set off the alarm bells in her head was the fact that Mr Gilchrist, her favourite cat, didn’t immediately leap from whichever corner he was hiding in and wrap himself around her ankles, as he did every single evening when she returned home.
Kate wasn’t your average person. For one thing, she worked as an assistant to a private detective, the much disliked Cedric Murphy. For another, she was a large woman who took no pride in her appearance. Makeup, new clothes, dyeing her hair, none of these things meant anything to Kate. They took up too much time, time she would rather spend working or tending to her cats and goldfish (to be fair, the goldfish didn’t need much minding, but the cats were a demanding lot). She loved being tall and heavy. It intimidated people and intimidating people was fun for Kate. Especially when someone was acting the fool. One glare from her and they’d shut up. She couldn’t charm the birds from the trees, but she could certainly scare them off the branches.
She stepped over the empty crisp packets and into the living room just as the man who had been hiding behind the sofa stood up. He was thin and wiry and the scars on his face told of previous battles.
‘Prepare to die,’ he said.
That was his first mistake. Kate Finkle grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into the air until his feet dangled six inches above the bright blue carpet. He kicked wildly against her shins, but if this bothered her, she didn’t show it.
‘What have you done to my cats?’ she roared. It wasn’t the time for diplomacy.
The man took a swing at her, but Kate’s reach was longer than his and his fist didn’t even brush the tip of her nose. She slammed him against the living room wall and heard the air leave his body with a little whoomph sound.
‘Your cats are safe in the bathroom,’ the man spluttered, wondering if his ribs were broken in two or three places.
‘Lucky for you. Who are you and what are you doing in my flat? I’ve got nothing that’s worth robbing,’ she said. This was true. Even the telly – a portable – was worth less than fifty euro and it was the most expensive item she owned.
‘I’m tellin’ you nuthin’,’ the man replied.
Kate lifted him higher. His hair brushed against the ceiling.
‘Mammy,’ the man whimpered.
Two thoughts went through his head simultaneously. The first was that Kate was far more frightening in person than in the photos he’d been given. The second was that he was glad he’d brought along two accomplices.
Kate sensed the men before she saw them. She swung around, the wiry man still in her ferocious grip. The thugs were standing on the far side of the living room, less than ten feet away. Both were huge, bald, ugly and dressed in black.
‘Hello boys. Aren’t you great for dressing up like twins. You look really cute,’ Kate sneered.
The slightly prettier of the two smiled, revealing a mouthful of broken, yellow, rotting teeth.
‘Whoa, they should put your picture on bars of chocolate as a warning. No kid would ever want to eat sweets again if they thought they’d end up looking like you.’
The men didn’t say anything. They just took a step towards her. Uggo cracked his knuckles. Pretty Boy took out a police baton. Uh-oh, thought Kate, you had to antagonise them, didn’t you. She tried to take a step backwards but the wall was blocking her way. Her options were limited.
‘Let me down,’ said the man. He was still dangling in the air and had grown quite embarrassed about it. His accomplices would be mocking him about this one for months.
Kate sized up the situation. Three against one. She was good, but not that good. What would Cedric do in this situation, she wondered. There was only one thing for it.
‘Let me down. I won’t ask you again, Kate,’ the man said.
Calling her Kate was his second mistake.
Using her free hand she grabbed the wiry man by his belt buckle and hoisted him above her head in a move she’d seen Randy Orton use in a WWE match.
‘It’s Miss Finkle to you, ya stick insect,’ she shouted, flinging him at the thugs. He sailed through the air accompanied by a tiny yelp. The men swiftly moved out of the way, making no effort to catch their colleague. He landed face first in a dish of soggy day-old cat food.
Kate didn’t wait to see what happened next. She turned and sprinted for the front door as quickly as she could. It wasn’t quick enough.
Before her hand had reached the latch, the thugs were upon her. In less than three seconds she was unconscious.
Five
‘In the name of all that’s good and holy, what’s that smell?’ Colm’s mother cried, flapping her hand furiously in front of her face.
Colm closed the front door, took off his shoes and popped his head round the kitchen door.
‘I think, Mary, that that insufferably awful stink is our one and only child,’ his father replied.
‘Hi Ma. What’s up, Da?’ Colm asked in as cheery a voice as he could muster.
The journey home had been mortifying. The driver wouldn’t allow him on the bus – ‘Janey, son, were ya showering in sewage or wha’?’ – so he’d had to walk. A real walk of shame. Fellow pedestrians had given him a wide berth. Most had given him odd looks. More than a few had tried to be smart alecks – they’d made jokes about slurry and Stig of the Dump; one wag had told him to familiarise himself with a substance called soap that had existed for roughly five thousand years. A Yorkshire terrier had even sniffed at Colm’s shoes, before running off into the distance leaving behind an auditory trail of high-pitched whimpering, possibly traumatised for life by the appalling stench. It wasn’t Colm’s finest hour.
‘What happened to you?’ his dad asked, his face a mixture of concern and amusement.
‘I fell,’ Colm replied.
His father arched an eyebrow. ‘It must have been a spectacular fall.’
Why did he have to say he fell? He was fed up with secrets and lies. He’d kept the events of that night from his parents. And his friends. He was lying to Mrs Dillon. It was getting too much for him. All it did was make him feel guilty.
‘Colm, your father’s talking to you.’
‘Huh?’ Colm snapped out of his daydream.
‘Don’t say huh, say pardon,’ his mother said.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said, we have to go to Maynooth at the wee
kend to collect a second-hand engine I found online.’
Ah yes, the engine for their little red car that had broken down. Again. Everyone else agreed it had broken down because it was fifteen years old, had over one hundred thousand miles on the clock (not bad for its age – Colm’s dad wasn’t much of a driver), and that its time was up. Everyone except Colm’s father, that is.
‘I thought you said you hadn’t the money to fix it,’ Colm said.
His father had been unemployed until very recently. He had worked in a factory, but shortly after it had been bought by new owners it had suddenly been closed down, much to everyone’s surprise. The following six months had been tough as money was very tight, but then, out of the blue, his dad had got a job as a night watchman in the newish shopping centre on the edge of the city, even though he’d never worked in security before.
Colm’s father switched on the radio, which was, as always, tuned into some old geezer’s station. An ancient song from the eighties or nineties squeaked through the tinny speakers and suddenly he grabbed his wife and began to twirl her around the kitchen. They weaved their way past the stools, their stockinged feet gliding silently over the faded lino.
It was at moments like this – moments which were far too frequent for his liking – that Colm wished he had a brother or sister. Just so there was someone to share the embarrassment with. He didn’t mind seeing his parents happy, but this was taking it too far. Next thing they’d be … yep, there it was: the kiss. Not just a peck on the cheek or a quick smackeroo on the lips either. It was sloppy and wet and horrible.
I think I’m going to puke, Colm thought. ‘Uh, that’s disgusting. You’re all old and wrinkly. And … and … you’re my parents. And you’re kissing. Eeeurgh. Can you cut it out, please!’
They ignored him, so Colm focused his gaze on the kitchen clock which seemed to be ticking by slower than if he was stuck in a double Maths class.
Colm & the Ghost's Revenge Page 3
