Colm & the Ghost's Revenge

by Kieran Mark Crowley

  ‘What was that for?’ his mam asked her husband when she finally came up for air.

  ‘I should have told you earlier, but I wanted to wait until we were all here. I’ve been promoted. Head of Security. I’ll be in charge of the whole centre and responsible for twenty-two staff.’

  ‘Does it mean more money?’

  ‘A twenty-five percent pay rise,’ his dad replied.

  ‘Weeeeaaaaaahhhhhh,’ she screamed. She was trying to say three different things all at once and it came out like some kind of horrific wail, but the gist of it was that she was thrilled. When the screaming subsided the two of them began jumping around in circles and high-fiving each other.

  ‘C’mon, son,’ his mam said, extending her hand for Colm to join in the celebrations.

  ‘Can’t. Still all stinky,’ Colm said, glad to have an excuse. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  Wheeeeee, they continued as he left the room. It didn’t look like they were going to stop any time soon.

  He felt better after the piping hot shower. Much better. And his odour was far less offensive to the nose. He was squeaky clean and fresh, and felt a lot more like himself. He got dressed in his fleece hoodie and his favourite pair of slightly faded jeans. It was good to be warm and cosy again. He put on his glasses, bringing the world back into focus, then stuffed his rotten clothes into the laundry basket for his mother to deal with later.

  Back in his small room, he reached under the bed and pulled out the big black folder that held all his notes. He thumbed through the pages, occasionally taking one out and reading over it again. This was something he’d done hundreds of times now; he almost knew all the pages off by heart at this stage. Sometimes he thought he was probably the world’s foremost expert on the Lazarus Keys. Well, him and Professor Peter Drake. Not that anyone cared, except for the occasional weirdo on a supernatural website.

  He was distracted by the smell wafting up the stairs. A good smell this time – something frying. Something mouth-watering. His stomach reminded him of how hungry he was and he shoved the notes back in their folder and under the bed before racing downstairs, two steps at a time, skipping over the squeaky third step. His mother was by the cooker, humming to herself, but his dad had disappeared.

  ‘Take a seat, love,’ she said without turning around.

  Colm did as he was told. The kitchen table was laid out for one person. A fizzing glass of cola sat to the right of the knife and fork, alongside the salt, vinegar and ketchup.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry,’ his mother said as she carried the plate to the table. Double cheeseburger and chips. Homemade chips. This was a treat. The chips were thick, golden and crispy. The burgers were big and juicy, the bun filled with fried onions, two slices of melting cheese, beef tomatoes and crunchy iceberg lettuce. And there was a portion of curried beans on a side plate. He hadn’t had a meal like this in ages, not since his dad was working overtime at the factory. Then it hit him. It was a bribe of some sort. It had to be.

  ‘Why are you being nice to me?’ he asked.

  ‘What? I’m always nice to you.’

  Colm raised an eyebrow.

  ‘All right. It’s because we’re celebrating your father’s promotion. Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘No. Sorry, Ma. I just …’

  ‘You’re grand, Colm. Just eat up.’

  He tucked in. Her cheeseburger and chips was even tastier than he remembered. It took all of his willpower not to wolf the entire lot down in one go. Boy, it was delicious. He stuffed seven chips into his mouth. It was one too many and one of the smaller ones popped back out and landed on his plate, a little soggier than it had started out.

  ‘Glad to see you’re enjoying it,’ she said, tousling his hair.

  It was the tousling of his hair that confirmed his suspicions. His mam was always giving out to him for stuffing too much food into his mouth at once. He should have been rewarded with a smack across the back of the head, not a sign of affection. She was up to something all right.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Did you know about Dad getting the promotion before me?’

  ‘No, Colm. He wanted us both to find out at the same time. Don’t you remember him saying that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He paused for a moment. His mother’s moods had been a bit changeable recently and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing and set her off. Especially when he hadn’t finished his dinner. There was a possibility that she could throw it in the bin. Still, he had to say what was on his mind.

  ‘You just cooked my favourite meal, but you didn’t have to go to the shop to get the ingredients. That means you had them already,’ he said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘It’s my favourite meal. Why would you have been cooking this for me when you didn’t know we had something to celebrate?’

  His mother looked as if she was holding back a swear word.

  ‘And why am I eating alone? Why aren’t you having something?’ Colm continued.

  ‘A mother can’t be nice to her son without him getting all suspicious? What kind of world are we living in? You’ve hurt my feelings now,’ his mother replied, turning away. She sniffed, then wiped her eye with the knuckle of her index finger, as if she was brushing away a tear.

  ‘Too much, Ma,’ Colm said.

  ‘What?’ his mother said.

  ‘Pretending to cry. Really? Come on, you don’t cry over stuff like that.’

  ‘OK, you caught me,’ she sighed. ‘I need a favour.’

  She wasn’t telling him he had to do something. She was asking a favour. This was dangerous territory. Colm knew he had to be careful. His mother could be cleverer than a fox with a Harvard degree when it came to things like this.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just a little thing.’

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Your dad’s gone to work. Night shift.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But I’d already made plans to go over to Lisa’s.’

  ‘Oh. That’s it? That’s OK. I don’t mind hanging out here by myself.’

  ‘Nope. I trust you, but you’re not staying at home on your own.’

  Colm’s mind flicked through the pages of the book of possibilities. What could she mean? Surely, she wouldn’t get somebody to babysit him? Not at his age. That’d be embarrassing. Rachel did all the babysitting around the estate and she was only fourteen. Not even a full two years older than him.

  ‘There’s a party,’ his mother said.

  ‘What? A party? Lisa’s having a party?’ Then it hit him. His fork clattered to the floor. ‘Oh no. No way.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I’m talking about yet.’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re talking about. Is it a birthday party?’

  She nodded.

  ‘A birthday party for a boy on the other side of the estate?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘You want me to go to Ziggy’s party?’ He shook his head vigorously enough to cause a slight dizzy spell. ‘Not a hope, Ma.’

  ‘Colm …’

  ‘No, I’m not going and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  Of course there was plenty she could do about it. She could withhold affection, food, pocket money; give him nothing but unfashionable clothes to wear; make him do all the cleaning and tidying in the house. And that was just for starters. Let’s face it, he was twelve years old and entirely dependent on her for everything. Well, wait until you’re old and you need someone to push you around in a wheelchair, Colm thought. We’ll see how you like it when I’m in charge.

  ‘Just tell me why I have to go,’ he said in the end. He was too tired to argue or run up to his room and sulk. It had been a very long day.

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ she said.

  He knew she wanted to say more and he knew what that was too. She’d been worried about him. Worried that he was spending so much time on his own, that since the night at the Red
House Hotel he’d lost the few friends he’d once had. She thought it had something to do with his dad being on the dole or that he was going through some sort of pre-teenage mood swings. She hadn’t a clue what the real reason was.

  ‘Ma, Ziggy’s a dope and there’s no way I’m going to his party. No matter what you say or what you do, I’m staying here.’

  ‘Colm,’ his mother said in the icy tone she reserved for moments like this.

  ‘Right. What time am I supposed to be there?’ he asked, caving in immediately.

  Six

  The man they called The Ghost had slipped into Ireland unnoticed several days ago, ever the master of disguise. He lit up a cigarillo and took a long drag, exhaling a series of smoke rings, then rubbed the palm of his left hand over his newly shaven head. It felt odd, being hairless. He watched from a hill high above the car park as the men struggled to move the wooden boxes into the building. Men who had never seen him. Men who didn’t even know they were working for him. If they did they might have been more concerned for their health, for everyone in the criminal underworld had heard the horrible tales of what became of the men who worked for The Ghost. But they would still have done their jobs. Those who refused suffered an even worse fate.

  ‘You always were a loner.’

  If The Ghost was surprised by the voice of his dead brother, his face didn’t show it. He turned his head slightly to get a look at the rat-faced man. He wasn’t much to look at, just a shell now. A rotten shell.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking – am I real?’ the rat-faced man said.

  ‘You never knew what I was thinking, not when you were alive and certainly not now that you’re dead,’ The Ghost said in his smooth, velvety voice.

  ‘You’d be surprised at what I know.’ The rat-faced man surveyed the scene below. ‘I know that you’re taking revenge for my unfortunate death.’

  ‘Your foolish death.’

  ‘I was tricked,’ the rat-faced man said, irked. ‘That fat little child threw the Lazarus Key into my mouth and the creature took me.’

  ‘If I were you I wouldn’t admit to anyone I’d been tricked by a child,’ said The Ghost, crushing the butt of his cigarillo beneath the sole of his brown leather boot. ‘And I wouldn’t be so certain that revenge was my only aim.’

  ‘I know that. I know a lot more now. You see things more clearly when you’re dead.’

  ‘How interesting,’ The Ghost said wearily.

  ‘You’re not just seeking revenge. You’re trying to save yourself too. You’re dying.’

  ‘We’re all dying.’ The Ghost almost smiled. Almost. He didn’t like any display of emotion. That was for the weak. And The Ghost wasn’t weak. He never had been. He had vanquished every foe. Except one. Death. The rat-faced man was right about that. He was dying. He had only weeks left. Unless his plan succeeded.

  ‘You’re going to try the Abbatage ritual. Make yourself immortal. Yet you never showed any interest in the keys before, any interest in immortality.’

  The Ghost didn’t say a word.

  ‘But you can’t do the ritual. You need the three keys. Two have been missing for hundreds of years and the one I swallowed was destroyed.’

  ‘Was it?’

  The rat-faced man seemed confused for a moment. Then it dawned on him.

  ‘No!’

  His spectral hands lifted his shirt and revealed his belly. His white belly with a long red scar. ‘You cut me open and took the key.’

  ‘What’s left of it.’

  ‘You desecrated your own brother’s body?’

  ‘By saving myself I will also avenge your death,’ said The Ghost.

  ‘But you need the participant to be willing,’ said the rat-faced man, still staring at the jagged scar.

  ‘He will be willing,’ said The Ghost. ‘I will have the keys soon and he will do what I say. He will save me whether he wants to or not.’

  The only reason the proprietor of the Scimbleshanks Bed & Breakfast was still alive was because she reminded McGrue of his mother. If it hadn’t been for that unremarkable fact, in that all grey-haired old ladies look the same to the casual observer, she’d have been as dead as a dodo, a dinosaur or any dead thing you’d care to think of. When he’d arrived the previous evening, the first thing that had annoyed him was that the proprietor wasn’t actually named Scimbleshanks, which was a terrible disappointment. Unbeknownst to him, the name had been chosen as pure whimsy after a literary festival reading of a T. S. Eliot poem. The second thing that annoyed him was when she refused to accept that his name was McGrue.

  ‘What kind of name is that?’ the woman had asked.

  She was filling in the little registration card which wasn’t necessary, but was a habit she’d got into when she’d run her own hotel, and this woman was someone who never broke a habit she’d formed.

  ‘My name,’ McGrue said gruffly.

  ‘Hmmmph. What’s your Christian name then?’

  McGrue wasn’t a Christian, but he presumed she meant his first name.

  ‘Don’t have one.’

  The woman had snorted in disbelief. ‘Don’t be stupid. Everyone has a Christian name. What is it?’

  McGrue did have a first name, but it had been thirty years since anyone had last used it. To be honest, there were moments when he couldn’t even remember it himself. Even his mother called him McGrue.

  He kept his temper. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Just put down McGrue,’ he said.

  ‘So your name is McGrue McGrue,’ the woman muttered, writing it down on the little card she used on such occasions. ‘Americans,’ she muttered under her breath, thinking that her strange new guest wouldn’t hear her.

  He did hear her. He had better hearing than anyone he’d ever met and was quite proud of the fact. The woman led him up the floral carpeted stairs and into the hideously decorated room that would serve as his base for the night.

  ‘Breakfast is from eight to ten. If you’re out late then take off your shoes when you come in. Don’t want you waking the house,’ she said, handing him a key.

  ‘What about dinner?’

  ‘It’s a bed and breakfast. The clue’s in the title,’ the woman replied sharply before softening a little. ‘You can get something to eat in Snook’s, the pub in the village.’

  He grunted his thanks as she left, then locked the door. He hefted his suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. All it contained was a change of clothes, a cardboard folder, a selection of weapons and a photo of his mother.

  McGrue loved his mother more than he loved life itself, although since he wasn’t a huge fan of being alive, that wasn’t saying much. However, it was true to say that he adored her. She was the one who had made him what he was – the best bounty hunter in the country. She had told him to quit school when he was fourteen. She had bought him his very first gun, made him get his first tattoo and paid for his Krav Maga self-defence lessons.

  He had been a bounty hunter in California for twenty-two years and was considered the best in the business, both by himself and others. He was married to the job. He had been married to a woman once, but his wife had left him after either five or six years. McGrue was never quite sure which it was, as he hadn’t been home for six months when he’d found out she’d left him, and since she hadn’t dated the note she’d left – which had read, ‘I hate you. Don’t look for me because you won’t find me. Goodbye’ – he wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone.

  He had found her, working as a waitress in a dingy bar in Cleveland, Ohio. She looked shocked when she arrived at a table to find her husband sitting there, but all he said was: ‘Don’t tell the best bounty hunter in the business that he can’t find you. It took me seventeen hours and twenty-four minutes, honey.’ Then he’d walked out the door and never seen her again.

  He had retired six months ago, but then he found his mother was unable to take care of herself any longer and he wasn’t very good domestically. He’d made the decision to put her in a nursin
g home. Not just any old home either, the most expensive one in the country. After three months his savings had been spent, so he decided to take some freelance work. It paid better, especially when you worked for criminals. It didn’t sit easy with him, working for the people who he’d once spent all his time trying to put in jail, but he did it for his mother. This new job was something unexpected though. The pay was exceptional for one thing. It’d pay for three years in the nursing home. All he had to do was find some people in a small country.

  McGrue swept his greasy hair into a ponytail, then opened up the cardboard folder that The Ghost had sent to him. A sheaf of A4 papers with descriptions and details of their day-to-day lives. It was more thorough than any file he’d ever been given. It even told him what their favourite breakfast cereals were. At the back of the papers were two photos. One was of a young, slightly tubby child of twelve whose name was Colm. The other was of an older child, the boy’s cousin. His name was Michael.

  All McGrue had to do was grab them and deliver them to a specified location if the other people who were tracking them failed. Do that and his mother’s lodgings would be secure for the next thirty-six months. He wasn’t too happy about the idea of delivering children into the clutches of a man who had to be up to no good, but what happened to them after he had done his job wasn’t his problem, he reasoned, dismissing any feelings of guilt that might have been bubbling under the surface. No, it was just another job to be done. A conscience wasn’t something you needed as a bounty hunter – he’d leave the agonising about right and wrong to priests and philosophers. However, he hoped that when he found them they wouldn’t put up a fight. He didn’t want to hurt them, but if he needed to then he would. He wouldn’t hesitate for a second.

  Seven

  Number 64 Sea View Crescent was the second to last house in a narrow cul de sac that afforded a view of the sea only to those with access to an extension ladder and a pair of binoculars. Even though it was on the far side of the green, Ziggy’s house was almost identical to Colm’s: an uninspiring, faded-yellow, semi-detached home with a narrow strip of grass in the front. All the houses on the estate – and there were hundreds – were yellow and practically indistinguishable from one another, which made it difficult for any visitors to find the house they were looking for, especially since local vandals had taken to twisting the road signs until they pointed in the wrong direction. Pizza delivery men and women could often be seen driving aimlessly around the roads of the Riverwood estate with a haunted look in their eyes and rapidly cooling pizzas in the back of their cars.