Colm & the Ghost's Revenge (12 page)

‘L
auryn, it's great to see you again,' The Brute beamed.

It wasn't really the time or place for a friendly chat and Lauryn either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him. Either way the result was the same. Silence. She ran from one parked car to the next, beneath the flickering street lights, frantically pressing a button on the set of car keys she held in her hand.

‘Do you know which car is his?' she asked.

‘That one,' The Brute said, pointing to a black car whose lights flashed as it clicked open.

He realised, with the tiniest bit of astonishment, that he was talking to Lauryn as if she was a normal person. He hadn't been able to do that before. Back then everything he'd said had been idiotic. Now he was his old cool self again. Go Superdude, he thought.

Colm turned back towards his house. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard something that sounded very much like a scream. That wasn't good. Poor guy. Curtains began to twitch. The neighbours had heard it too. They were caught halfway between ringing the gardaí and wanting to stay out of it completely.

‘We should go back and help him,' he said.

‘He gave me his car keys and risked his own safety just so you guys could get out of there. Going back and getting caught would be stupid,' Lauryn said.

‘OK,' Colm agreed, although he wasn't entirely convinced. He wasn't a poster boy for bravery, but it didn't sit right with him to leave the man behind. There was no point in hesitating though.

They piled into the car, The Brute and Lauryn in the front, Colm in the back. Lauryn handed the keys to The Brute.

‘Let's get out of here,' she cried. Then she noticed the steering wheel in front of her. ‘Oh, crud. I'm in the driver's seat. I forgot I was in Ireland.'

‘Look,' Colm said.

Pretty Boy was at the front door of the house. He looked a little worse for wear from his encounter with Cedric Murphy and The Brute. His face was a worrying shade of scarlet and when he breathed through his broken front tooth he produced a soft whistling sound. But he was still going.

The three of them ducked as the thug glanced in their direction, scrunching down low on their seats. He didn't spot them.

His eyes searched the estate for any sign of the escapees. His shoulders hunched, his nose sniffed. It looked like he was trying to smell them out, like some kind of predator.

‘Stay down,' Colm whispered.

‘Thanks. I was going to beep the horn and give him a wave,' The Brute said.

‘We should swap seats. Slide over, Michael,' Lauryn said.

‘No point doing that unless we're planning to park here for a while,' The Brute replied.

‘Huh?'

‘I can't drive,' he said.

‘What? But you live in the countryside, don'tcha? How else do you get around?'

‘I cycle,' The Brute mumbled. ‘Or Ma drives me to the shop or to training.'

‘Your mom acts as your chauffeur? At your age? That's gotta be embarrassing.'

‘We can't drive until we're seventeen here. What else can I do?' he hit back.

‘Tough break. In the States it's sixteen.'

‘So you can drive?'

‘Sure. I've got a car. A beat-up old Dodge Intrepid, but I like it.'

‘That's class,' The Brute said. ‘Having your own set of wheels, I mean.' His admiration for her had gone up another notch.

‘Hey,' Colm interrupted in a furious whisper. ‘Keep it down, will you. You're not on a date. We don't want him to hear us.'

A shadow fell over the back of the car.

‘Too late,' said Lauryn.

Pretty Boy stood at the back window framed by the full moon. Grinning hideously. The broken tooth made him look even meaner than he normally did, which wasn't good for the increasingly frayed state of Colm's nerves. He reached out and pressed a button, locking the back door.

Click.

‘Yeah, that'll stop him,' said The Brute.

The thug began to pound the window with his bare fists. It would have made more sense to try to break through the window of the driver's door, but sense and Pretty Boy were very infrequent companions. He was strong though. The glass began to give way. A spider's web of cracks crept along its surface.

‘It'd be nice to get out of here, Lauryn,' Colm squeaked, ‘you know, if you don't mind.'

Lauryn sat bolt upright. She jammed the key in the ignition and turned it. The car came to life with a throaty roar.

‘I hate to complain, but we've got about ten seconds before he's inside the car with us,' said Colm.

A few more seconds passed during which time Colm came to the conclusion that this might not be the time for politeness.

‘Go, go, go,' he squealed in a voice an octave higher than was bearable.

‘I can't drive a stick shift,' Lauryn cried.

‘A what?'

‘She means the gears. Her car doesn't have a gear stick,' The Brute said. He didn't drive, but he had watched a lot of
Top Gear
.

‘The Dodge is an automatic,' she said.

Pretty Boy jumped onto the narrow boot. The car sagged with his weight. He began to stomp on the window. Again and again and again.

‘Put your foot on the clutch,' The Brute said as calmly as he could. The sound of cracking glass grew louder. ‘Quickly,' he said less calmly.

Lauryn looked confused.

‘The pedal on the left,' he said.

The window gave way. The entire section of glass collapsed onto Colm in one twisted and tangled piece.

‘Brute, put it into first for her,' he shouted, trying to push the glass back out.

‘Don't call me Br–'

‘Just do it!'

There was a crunch followed by a loud whine as The Brute slipped the gear stick into first. Pretty Boy reached into the back seat, grabbed the panel of glass by the edge and tore it out through the gaping back window, flinging it behind him. It sailed through the air like a frisbee before skidding along the footpath.

‘Accelerator. Accelerator,' The Brute said.

‘Which …'

‘The gas pedal,' he translated.

Pretty Boy leered at Colm, a malevolent look creasing his features. He reached in through the space that until recently had been occupied by the back windscreen.

Lauryn hit the accelerator.

There was a tremendous screech as the wheels began to spin. Great white plumes of smoke poured out from under the wheel arches. Pretty Boy stared at Colm with a frown of confusion. Colm stared at Pretty Boy with a very similar expression on his face. Both of them were thinking that the car should be moving at speed and that Pretty Boy should be lying on the ground in a pitiful heap by now. Something had gone wrong.

‘Take your foot off the clutch,' The Brute shouted.

Lauryn released the pedal and the car lurched forward. The force of the acceleration was enough to send Pretty Boy spinning through the air like a heavyweight boxer doing a gymnastic routine. And just as you'd expect it to, it ended badly. Here we go again, he sighed, as the road came hurtling towards his face.

The car jumped forward in small bursts as Lauryn tried to get to grips with the accelerator and clutch system. It smashed the wing mirrors and scraped the sides of three parked cars on the far side of the road, before she wrenched the steering wheel to the right, denting a further four cars on the near side. The horrendous wailing of metal scraping against metal filled the night air. Finally, she gained control and managed to steer the car to the middle of the road before driving off with the headlights on full beam. Colm looked out through the empty space of the back window.

Pretty Boy was getting to his feet.

He was dusting himself down.

He was running after them.

‘He's indestructible,' Colm muttered.

But he wasn't fast enough to catch a moving car. McGrue, hidden as always, was. Or, to be more accurate, the tracking device he fired from the crossbow balanced between his cheek and shoulder was. He gave a small smile of satisfaction as it tore through the air and embedded itself in the rear bumper of the car as Lauryn indicated left, turned right and the trio exited the estate, leaving an average-sized trail of destruction behind them.

P
addy the Bullkiller was in a jubilant mood. On his journey home from the pub he'd picked a fight with three inoffensive teenagers and beaten them all to a pulp. One of them had even cried huge, salty tears which had given Paddy a warm, fuzzy feeling much like the one most people experience on Christmas morning. Now he was halfway through eating the tastiest snack box ever – grease and tomato sauce sliding down his stubbly chin – and within a few minutes he'd be at home for a televisual rendezvous with The Muscles from Brussels, a certain martial arts expert known as Monsieur Jean-Claude Van Damme. In Paddy's world, this was as perfect as life could get.

And to add a dollop of cream to the apple tart of perfection, an hour ago he'd made contact with a man who was going to price the diamonds the very next day. If they were of good enough quality, which he was sure they were, Paddy would be able to sell them to him for a tidy sum. Enough to keep him in frothy beer and snack boxes for a couple of years at least.

If he hadn't been in such good form, Paddy might have been slightly more aware of his surroundings. He might have noticed the man who had been following him for most of the evening. Although, to be fair to Paddy, the man was somewhat of an expert at staying hidden. That was the main reason they called him The Ghost; you never knew he was there unless he wanted you to know it.

It was very unlike the world's most dangerous criminal to get involved in a mundane situation like this, but the bad timing of Camus's death had forced his hand.

He had watched from the roof garden of the building across the road as Camus had entered the pub right on time. He had realised that something had gone wrong with his plan when Paddy had emerged minutes later with an unnatural giddiness to his step. The Ghost had immediately recognised the effects of the Lazarus Keys on the large man. From that moment, the chase was on. He was an expert at tracking people and Paddy left a trail that even the most bumbling of private eyes could have followed. It hadn't taken him long to catch up with the drunken oaf. Bullkiller had something that belonged to him and he was going to get it back. No matter what it took.

Paddy strolled through the paint-peeled gates of the tumbledown apartment complex, flinging the empty snack box carton onto the road. The Ghost stood and watched him for a moment and then began to close the distance between them. Almost gliding silently. Fifty metres became twenty-five and then ten. Paddy was oblivious to it all.

The Ghost sized him up as an opponent – the man was big and strong, there was no doubt about that. He looked like a fighter, but there was something about his swagger that didn't quite ring true. He was trying to act tough, but there was a chink of vulnerability there, something to be exploited. The Ghost was good at exploiting people's weaknesses. He enjoyed it. He allowed the smirk to stay on his face for exactly one point two seconds before filing it away and getting on with the job at hand.

It took Paddy three attempts before he managed to slip the key into the lock of his apartment's front door. He wrenched the door open and barrelled in, kicking it shut behind him.

Except it didn't shut.

He waited for the thud and the click, but there was nothing. Not a peep. Slowly, he turned to find a man with delicate, almost pretty, features framed by the doorway. Staring at him with cold, cold eyes.

‘What … what are you doing there, ya gobdaw? This is my flat … isn't it?'

Paddy checked the door. The fog of alcohol clouded his certainty. No, it had the right number on it. Two little aluminium numerals. One and seven. That was seventeen in any man's language. Which meant the man was trespassing on his property. Which in turn meant he could beat him up and pretend that the wimpy geezer was burgling his flat.

I was right – this is the best night ever, he thought. He grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him into the apartment, shutting the door with a swift head-butt that left a little dent in the wood. The man didn't resist. Probably terrified of me, Paddy thought. He couldn't blame him for that.

He shoved the man into the centre of the room. But he didn't look as terrified as Paddy had been expecting. In fact, he didn't look worried at all. The man rubbed his hand across his shaved head.

‘You broke into my flat. I'm going to introduce you to a world of pain,' Paddy said. He held up his fists, kissed them in turn. ‘This left one is Agony and I call the right one Destruction.'

‘It's quite clear that you are a moron,' The Ghost said. ‘Hand over what you stole from my colleague and I'll allow you to return to your pathetic life.'

‘Huh?'

‘The diamonds. Give. Them. To. Me.'

‘They're my diamonds,' Paddy said. ‘Finders keepers, losers weepers.'

This wasn't going quite how Paddy had expected. No fear, no tears, no whiny begging for mercy. All the good stuff that fuelled his ego was missing. He had planned to pretend the man was a thief, but now it looked like he actually was one. How's that for a bad bit of luck? When all this was over he was going to have a good old sulk.

An unexpected voice momentarily distracted The Ghost's attention from Bullkiller.

‘What are you waiting for?' asked the rat-faced man. He was leaning against a counter that divided the sitting room from the kitchen.

When the man spoke The Ghost felt darts of pain at the back of his eye sockets. His brother hadn't been there a moment ago, had he? He couldn't remember. The headaches were getting worse.

‘Why are you even here?' the rat-faced man continued. ‘This isn't you. Creeping around like a thief. You're powerful. Dangerous. And now you skulk around in the shadows. Why would you do that?' His lips parted in an attempt at a smile. ‘Unless you're afraid. Is that what it is? Is my big brother afraid?'

‘Shut up,' The Ghost said.

‘I didn't say nothing,' Paddy said. He was beginning to have his doubts about the stranger in his flat.

The Ghost rubbed his eyes. When he stopped, the rat-faced man was nowhere to be seen.

‘There's two ways of doing this,' The Ghost said, regaining his composure. ‘Both of them hurt a lot, but one ends with you remaining alive. In severe pain, but still alive. Technically.'

Paddy suddenly felt queasy. The man was tougher than he looked. And there was something creepy about him. Extremely creepy. The absence of any emotion or humanity. A stillness that filled him with dread. He wanted the man out of his flat. Right now. And the only way to do that was to give him the diamonds.

He looked around his rundown apartment. Everything was either worn or torn and it all smelled more than a bit iffy. He was sick of living like this. If he gave the man what he wanted then he wouldn't be able to do up the flat. No white leather sofa. No fifty-two-inch plasma TV. No heated toilet seat. He needed those things. It was a basic human right to have them.

He would have to stand up for himself. You're too nice for your own good, Paddy, he thought. Just get your act together and smash the man into oblivion. How dare he just waltz in and try to steal from you, he thought, entirely forgetting that he had stolen the diamonds himself only hours earlier.

‘If it's a fight you're looking for, you've come to the right place,' Paddy snarled. He began to dance around on the balls of his feet, his stomach jiggling furiously.

The Ghost took a step towards him and Paddy swung a left, then a right. The one-two combination he loved so much. He waited for the familiar comforting feeling of knuckle on jaw, but there was no impact. The man didn't even seem to move, but somehow he managed to avoid the punches. And now he was only centimetres from Paddy's face, his cold, dead eyes staring directly into Paddy's.

The Ghost placed a hand on Bullkiller's shoulder. Immediately, Paddy felt all the fight leave him. The man had barely touched him and he felt terrified. More scared than he'd felt in years. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. His lips wobbled. It was as if a psychic message had passed between them the moment the man had touched him. Paddy could have sworn he was seeing all the crimes committed by the man. Horrible, terrible crimes. It was like he was watching The Ghost's gruesome home movie in his mind's eye.

‘Are you going to give me what I came for?' The Ghost asked.

‘I think I just pooped in my pants,' Paddy the Bullkiller said.

‘I'll take that as a yes,' The Ghost replied.