The Wish List (7 page)

“How much of a head start do they have?”

“Difficult to say. Time works differently on the spirit level. Judging by the memory dissipation, I'd say perhaps six hours.”

Belch tried a sarcastic chuckle. What came out was more of a poodle yip.

“Six hours? They could be out of the country by now. Well, that's it then. There's no way to find them. Might as well just sit here and watch a bit of television until they come back. If ever.”

Elph chewed a holographic lip. It seemed as though the half-wit was correct. The old man had defeated them simply by leaving his house. How infuriating. Myishi would not be happy if his prototype failed him. The hologram could well be demoted to a microwave for Beelzebub's curries.

Belch flicked through the stations looking for some cartoons. News, news, ads. Rubbish. He was just about to switch off the set in disgust when a familiar face flashed onto the screen. It couldn't be . . . but it was.

A predatory growl rumbled in the back of his throat. How lucky can you get? Somebody down there liked him.

Meg strolled down O'Connell Street enjoying the cool breeze on her scalp. Who'd have thought there was an advantage to being bald?

She knew exactly where she was. Mam used to bring her Christmas shopping here every year, before the accident. Got a day off school and everything. Clothes, toys, whatever she wanted, and topped off with a visit to McDonald's. The good old days.

Every now and then she caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window, and the shock reminded her of her mission. Get this old coot looking half-human so he'll have some chance of a smooch with Ireland's favorite grandmother.

A spot of shoplifting had been her first thought, but you can't shoplift a haircut. Plus, her aura had enough red in it already without her breaking a few more commandments. So Meg rifled her host's pockets. It was not a pleasant job. A bit like being a digger trawling through the dump. Her search yielded several crumpled tissues, cough drops from various decades, a comb covered in Brylcream, and a pack of old bingo cards. Not exactly the oldest swinger in town. Finally Meg hit gold. Deep in the folds of a frayed wallet, she discovered a shiny new Visa card. Perfect.

The first zone of concern was the general head area. Lowrie had probably grown accustomed to it over the years, but seen through new eyes, it was a disgrace. Gray hairs sprouting from everywhere except the scalp. Eyes that had been rheumy and bloodshot since God knows when, and a raggedy stubble that broke the surface like wandering sandpaper. Something had to be done.

NU-U was the answer. Her mother had taken her there once when she felt they were both in need of pampering. Manicures and facials all around, then home on the one-twenty feeling like a million dollars.

Meg pushed in the glass-and-steel doors. Her entrance to the NU-U salon had the same effect as a gunslinger's into a western saloon. Frosty silence descended on the establishment. You could have heard a pin drop, and in fact did when a trainee hairdresser dropped several from between her teeth.

A black-clad blond-headed young lady approached Meg warily. She kept her hands close to her chest in case they might accidentally brush against this unexpected visitor.

“Hi, I'm Natalie. May I help you?” was what her mouth said, but her eyes said: Get out before I call the police.

Meg cleared her throat. “Do you do men here?”

Natalie nodded reluctantly. “Yes . . . generally.”

“Good. Could you do this one then?”

Natalie blinked. “Pardon?”

“Ah . . . me. Could you do me?”

“Our services are not inexpensive, perhaps the local barber . . .”

Meg flashed the credit card. “Put the whole whack on this, Natalie.”

Natalie leaned in to examine the card. Not too close though. A relieved, almost charming smile spread across her plum lips. “Well, that seems to be in order. What would you like done?”

Meg snorted. “I'd say now, that's sort of obvious. I want the works.”

Natalie snapped her fingers, and two similarly clad assistants magically appeared at her elbows. “This gentleman would like the works. And, if I might say so, none too soon.”

Meg was whisked into a space-age chrome chair, and various beautifying machines were arranged around her head. Some she recognized: dryers, highlight lamps, and electrolysis lasers. But others looked like they came straight off the bridge of the Starship
Enterprise
.

“Is this going to be noisy?” she asked nervously.

Assistant number one twittered delightedly. “No, no. These are the very latest, all stealth-muffled for the patrons' comfort.”

Meg nodded. “Good. Because I don't want to wake me up.”

By lunchtime, Lowrie McCall had been plucked, shaved, moisturized, exfoliated, manicured, pedicured, trimmed, colored (burnished autumn, six-wash fade-out) and wrapped. All without rousing him from his slumber. Every time his consciousness twitched, Meg would simply tell it to go back to sleep. Gently, of course, without the usual rudeness she generally used with adults. The old man was only allowed to surface to sign the credit-card slip. And then only partially. Poor old Lowrie thought he was dreaming about winning the lottery.

The transformation was phenomenal. Even Natalie was impressed. “If it wasn't for the clothing, you could almost think sir was a native Dubliner.” The highest compliment any Dubliner could pay to a country bumpkin.

Right, next stop. New outfit. Time to introduce this old fossil to the twenty-first century.

The Stephen's Green Center had always been Mam's favorite, so Meg dragged Lowrie's old legs along the length of Grafton Street and up to the second floor of the mall. She picked the shop with the loudest music pumping through the doors, and went in. Techno dance beats enveloped her immediately, inside her head—or McCall's head to be precise. Lowrie's mind stirred irritably in its sleep.

Hush there now, off you go, no need to wake up just yet
.

A flat-headed nose-ringer slimed over to guide the old guy to the denture shop. “You're in the wrong place, pops. This is a clothes shop. For people less than a hundred.”

Meg took this personally—after all, she was in the insulted body at the time. “Pops?”

Nose-ring swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Well, you know, you being an oldish gent and all.”

Meg opened Lowrie's mouth to respond, and then found she couldn't. That creepy idiot was right. Maybe she belonged here, but Lowrie certainly didn't. You wouldn't put the president or one of those other ancient fellows in combat boots and a bomber jacket. Older people had their own fashions from the days before PlayStations. Sad looking, but they were happy.

Meg speared nose-ring with a haughty glare. “I was considering purchasing a gift for my . . . great-great-granddaughter, but now I shall take my big roll of cash somewhere else.”

Meg stormed out, delighted with the long words she'd used, and with the look on the guy's face. Three doors down there was a place called Townsend's & Sons. Heaps of nonfashion in the window. Ties and everything. One of the plastic dummies even had a top hat on him. Oh, this was definitely the place for Mister Has-Been McCall.

She pushed in the door hesitantly, still thinking of herself as a young girl, who'd been hunted out of a dozen similar establishments in her short lifetime. A group of snobby-looking chaps were flitting around with measuring tapes hanging around their necks. None of them looked young enough to be the sons in Townsend's & Sons.

One strolled over. He had bits of chalk sticking out of his shirt pocket, and a droopy moustache like Yosemite Sam.

“Sir?” he said, really cool, as if to say,
Can I help you, sir?
was too much effort.

Meg squinted. How should she put this? Be confident, she told herself. Like you belong here.

“Righto . . . ah . . . shop servant. I've had my head done by Natalie. Now I want a few decent things to wear. A suit or something. None of those top hats though, or he'll kill me. Well, he would if he wasn't too late.”

Meg giggled nervously.

“A suit, sir? Any particular label?”

“No, just give me something expensive. Put the lot on my Visa.”

Suddenly there were smiles all around. Measuring tapes were whipped out like Indiana Jones bullwhips, and jammed up Lowrie's armpits.

“Would sir prefer tailored or off the rack?”

“Um . . . not sure, just give me something already made up.”

“Very good. Stand still, please. Two- or three-piece?”

“Dunno. No vest though.”

“Of course.”

“And a pair of those brown shoes. With the swingy yokes.”

“Tassels.”

“That's the ones.”

“Size?”

Tricky one. Time for some cute thinking. “Size? I forget. The old memory isn't what it used to be. Me being so ancient and all.”

“As long as sir remembers how to sign his name.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing. Just my little joke.”

Meg felt as though she were being dressed by a whirlwind. Father and sons flashed around her, shouting incomprehensible figures and phrases.

After several interminable minutes of poking and fitting, the tailors stopped their feverish activity.

“
Et voilà!
” The elder Townsend admired his creation.

Meg risked a peek. Not bad, she supposed. Lowrie's threadbare outfit had been replaced by a navy jacket and gray trousers. The cuffs fell perfectly onto a pair of dark brown, tasseled, lace-up shoes. The shirt was crisp and pale blue, and complemented by a deep red tie.

“Sir?”

The Townsends hovered around their client. Awaiting a compliment as vultures await a desert fatality.

“Um . . . It's uh . . .”

“Yes?”

Now then, what would James Bond say in this situation? “Outstanding, gentlemen. Terrific job.”

This seemed to do the trick, and the Townsends fell to twittering among themselves. Papa approached with a small silver plate. Here came the bad news. And it was bad news. Very bad. Eight hundred and forty pounds! If poor old Lowrie had any idea what was going on, this would have killed him for sure.

She handed over the Visa card, hoping that dying in debt didn't color your aura. If it did, Lowrie was in big trouble.

A son glided over. He held Lowrie's old clothes out in front of him in a carrier bag, like a nurse with a diaper sack.

“Does sir wish to have these . . . things?”

Meg considered it. She'd already removed the wallet, the train ticket, keys, and few measly bills.

“Nope. Sir doesn't. Trash the lot of them.”

“A wise choice.”

No turning back now. It was these swanky new clothes, or try to get into the television station in his underwear. And there was a sight the free world wasn't ready for yet.

It was time to wake the old man up. Meg eased herself from his body and waited for the fireworks. The old green eyes blinked dreamily and a slow smile spread across Lowrie McCall's lips.

“Hello,” he mumbled, to no one in particular.

Strange behavior. The Townsends all clustered at the far wall.

Lowrie raised a finger. “There's something familiar about you.”

Meg looked around. Who the hell was the old guy talking to?

“I never forget a face.”

What face? Maybe the possession had pushed Lowrie over the edge. She followed his bleary gaze. The dozy old guy was talking to his own reflection in the full-length mirror. A whoop of delighted laughter burst from her mouth.

The familiar irritated crease appeared in McCall's brow. “What are you laughing at?”

The Townsends flushed; they had indeed been tittering discreetly at their latest customer's behavior.

Meg swallowed her giggles. “Oh, nothing, apart from the fact that you're talking to yourself in the mirror.”

“Don't be ridiculous! That's not me.”

“Take a closer look, McCall, it's you all right.”

Lowrie studied the suave figure in front of him. It did indeed seem that there was a frame surrounding the gentleman. Most unusual. Unless, of course, the figure was a reflection.

“Oh dear,” he sighed, the penny finally dropping. “This is who I could've been.”

Meg snorted. “God almighty, McCall. You can turn anything into a whining session. You're supposed to be happy.”

Lowrie touched the glass, just to make sure. “I am happy. This is . . . unbelievable. Thank you.”

“Welcome. Anything to give you a better chance of snagging Cicely Ward.”

“For a second there I thought you did this for me.”

“I did. You really are a moody old coot. Do you never just smile, and not worry about the consequences?”

Lowrie smoothed his silk tie. “I used to. A lifetime ago before . . . before everything.” A sudden thought struck the old man. “Here, how did you pay for all this?”

Somehow, even without a drop of blood in her veins, Meg managed to blush. “I didn't.”

“Oh no. You used my body to hold up this shop!”

“I did not!”

“Then what?”

Meg floated ahead of him out the door. “Never mind. We have to get out to the TV station, remember? It's out in Donnybrook.”

Lowrie ran under his own steam for the first time in years. “Come back here you. Tell me the truth!”

“Okay, then. But you're not going to like it.”

“I don't care. Tell me anyway.”

Meg told him. He didn't like it.

THEY TOOK A BUS TO THE STUDIOS. EVEN LOWRIE HAD a few layers knocked off his grumpy shell by sitting on the top deck. It was a bright spring day in the city, and the streets flowed by beneath their window like a river of life. Of course Lowrie, being Lowrie, couldn't stay happy long.

“Listen, spook. Where's my other stuff?”

“Trashed it.”

“What? I've had that jacket nearly twenty years!”

“I know, it told me.”

This being Dublin, no one was too concerned about some old fellow chatting to himself on a bus. “You had no right!”

“Are you serious about this Kissy Sissy thing or not?”

“Dead serious, if you'll pardon the expression.”

“Well, she's hardly going to plant a kiss on some old idiot lugging around a tote bag full of smelly rags.

And I'll tell you another thing, you're lucky those Townsend guys didn't sell underwear, or your century-old shorts would've been in the garbage as well.”

Lowrie blanched. “How did you . . .”

“Yes, I saw your old stringy underpants. And it's a sight that'll stay with me for the rest of my . . .” Meg trailed off, suddenly realizing just how dead being dead was.

“I know, Meg,” said Lowrie, calling her by name for the first time. “We all think we're going to live forever. Then bang! Our time is up and we haven't done any of the things we thought we'd do. Well, not me. I've got a chance to redeem myself. And a partner to help me do it.”

Meg sniffled, even though there were no tears on her cheeks. “Partner?”

“You.”

“I'm only here because I have to be, remember?”

Lowrie nodded. “I know that, but maybe your heart is in it all the same.”

“No, McCall. Don't rely on me. There's no point. I could never help anyone, even myself.”

“Now who's moaning?”

“Ah, put a cork in it, soppy.”

“Charming. Didn't you ever learn to respect your elders?”

“You're too old to be an elder. You're an older elder.”

“Very funny. If I was a hundred years younger . . .”

And so the first tendrils of a bond crept between the body and the spirit. And, though Meg Finn didn't notice it, a few more strands of blue ignited in her aura.

The studios had security on the gate. A big Dublin bruiser with cropped hair and zero tolerance for anyone without an appointment.

“Go away. Far away,” said the guard, whose tag read Dessie.

“Hold on there now a sec,” protested Lowrie. “I'm here to see Cicely Ward.”

The guard looked up from his clipboard. “Yeah, you and every other lovestruck old fool.”

Lowrie decided to have a go at indignant.

“Pardon me, young man, but Missus Ward happens to be a close personal friend of mine.”

“Sure, and I'm Leonardo di What's-his-face.”

Even Lowrie recognized blatant sarcasm when he heard it. “Did you never learn to respect your elders?”

“If I had a buck for every time I heard that line . . .”

Don't talk to me, thought Meg.

“You old fellas are the worst, trying to scam your way in for a bit of celebrity-spotting. Go on, get out of here before I call the police.”

Lowrie straightened his tie. “Do I look like the kind of person who would need to scam his way anywhere?”

The guard rubbed the stubble on his scalp. “Never judge a book by its cover. I myself have a degree from Trinity in medieval poetry.”

Meg decided it was time to intervene. “Use the power of your mind, Lowrie.”

“Pardon?”

Bad hearing, thought Dessie. “I said: never judge a book by its cover.”

“Not you!”

“Not me? Who then?”

“Tell him, Lowrie.”

“Tell him what?”

“Tell who what?”

It was all getting very confusing. Meg hovered beside the old man's ear.

“Just listen, McCall. Don't talk. While I was inside your head, I unlocked certain powers. Use the power of your mind, Lowrie. Make this numbskull open the gate.”

Lowrie shrugged. This whole mind-control idea was no more incredible than anything else that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. He squinted fiercely at the guard.

“You
will
open the gate.”

“I doubt it.”

“Concentrate, McCall. Reach out with your thoughts.”

Lowrie gritted his teeth, focusing his will in a tight beam.

“You will open the gates, because I wish it!”

Dessie's eyes glazed over like two scratched marbles.

“Yes, Master.”

“It works,” crowed Lowrie. “I'm a superbrain!”

“What's that, Master?” asked the guard. “Turn you around and give you a swift kick in the behind? If that is your command.”

“I didn't think that!”

“No! I did. Now get out of here quick before I'm forced to call an ambulance, and take that voodoo nonsense with you.”

Lowrie glanced over his shoulder. Meg's ethereal frame was shaking with mirth.

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

“Sorry,” spluttered Meg. “Couldn't help it.”

“I should have known better.”

“'Course you should,” agreed Dessie. “I've heard every excuse in the book.”

Lowrie closed his eyes. Not a word to anyone in over a year, and now two conversations at the same time. “Now I'm never going to get in here.”

“You can sing that, granddad.”

Meg floated over beside the obstinate guard. “The way I see it, the brain is like a piano. You just have to push the right keys.”

She rolled up her sleeve and plunged her hand into the guard's ear. It disappeared up to the elbow.

“Urghh,” groaned Lowrie. “That's disgusting.”

“Watch it now, you, I could turn nasty at any moment.”

Meg ground her teeth as she rooted around. “Here it is now. Prepare yourself for complete obedience.”

Lowrie could almost hear the click as his partner pressed some internal switch. “There we go.”

Dessie did indeed seem different. His knees began knocking together, and his hand jittered as though on puppet strings.

“Hmm,” mused Lowrie. “You know who he reminds me of?”

“Yes, that rock-n-roll singer with the hair.”

And without warning, Dessie launched into an animated version of “Blue Suede Shoes,” complete with pelvic gyrations and wobbly lip.

“Oops,” said Meg. “Wrong button.”

She tried again, like a bear feeling around for a beehive. “There, I think.”

No good. Now Dessie was whinnying like a horse.

“Oh, just possess him, for goodness' sake.”

“No chance. It's bad enough having your memories floating around my head. Never mind a whole heap of medieval poetry. Anyway, I've got it now.”

Click. And Dessie was docile as a kitten, big hairy arms swinging at his sides.

Lowrie coughed painfully. “Desmond. Would you kindly open the gate?”

Dessie grinned. “Sure, man. And do you know why?”

“No, Desmond, why?”

A tear crept from the corner of the guard's eye. “Because I love you, man. I love you and all the little flowers, and I love the double-decker buses, and I even love the students from Trinity with their smelly coats and wise-ass comments. I love the universe, man.” Sobbing gently, Dessie buzzed open the gate, rubbing the mechanism fondly.

“Oh, Desmond. Could I have a visitor's pass, please?”

“Sure, man. And why don't you crash in my pad later, man? We could share some good vibes.”

“That sounds very interesting,” said Lowrie, with absolutely no clue as to what the guard had just said. He turned to his floating partner. “What did you do to that poor chap?”

Meg shrugged. “I just saw a pink happy-looking box at the back of his head and opened it up.

“I think I preferred him as a bruiser.”

Lowrie strolled down the broad driveway, his confidence growing with each step. With the pass clipped to his lapel he could freely infiltrate every area of the studios, including, he hoped, the
Tea with Cicely
set.

TV soundstages look different in real life. Smaller for a start. And on television you don't see the edges. It was as though some giant had taken a bite out of a suburban house, and then realizing the decor was horrendous, spat it out in Donnybrook. Lowrie was a bit let down. His disappointment flowed out of him in violet streams.

Meg couldn't resist a dig. “Ahhh. Did the baby think it was weal?”

Lowrie bit his tongue. He wasn't going to be ejected for insanity now. Not when he was so close.

Meg giggled. “Bugs Bunny is not weal either. Just pwetty pictures that move weally fast.”

Lowrie shot her a warning gaze. And in Meg's world you really could shoot a gaze. Concentrated orange venom spiraled from the old man's eyes and splurged all over her head.

“Hey! Give it up!”

“Less of the wisecracks then,” hissed Lowrie, maintaining a pleasantly smiling face.

The audience consisted of the white-haired, the blue-haired, and the no-haired. Their auras betrayed their true thoughts, though. Stories of struggle and pain mingled in the air above them in a gaseous tableau. Love was the predominant emotion. Love and family. Almost every soul held the face of a lost loved one precious in their mind.

The warm-up man stopped cracking lame jokes, listening to a message through his earpiece. He began clapping and screaming like a lunatic. The audience followed suit. Just the clapping. No screaming. This wasn't a Backstreet Boys concert, after all.

“Here we go,” whispered Meg.

Lowrie mopped his hands with his new silk hanky. They were sweating like sponges.

Belch's canine smile stretched across his snout, revealing an unfeasible number of teeth.

“I don't believe it,” he chuckled.

Elph flitted to his shoulder.

“Disbelief is often the reaction of the mentally challenged. That and superstition. All phenomena can be reduced to mathematical terms. Even heaven and hell can be expressed as spatial equations.”

Belch frowned. “You are such a nerd, Pixie.”

“That's Elph.”

“Whatever.”

Elph blinked, accessing his thesaurus. “Hmm. Nerd: geek, square, one unskilled in social interaction.”

“Just shut up and look at the television.”

Elph buzzed over to the screen. “Ancient technology. Not even digital. Subject to environmental interference.”

Belch could feel an attack of doggy rage coming on. “Never mind that! Just look at what's on the screen.”

Elph's eyes spiraled into zoom. “A series of colored dots, transmitted in specific order to create the illusion of . . .”

“Shut up!” howled Belch, leaping to his feet. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Arf arf aaaaarffff!”

Elph gave him a little shock, partly out of necessity, partly because he enjoyed it. “Are we rational now?”

“Woof.”

“I'll take that as an affirmative. Now, what were you trying to tell me, in your own Cro-Magnon fashion?”

Belch patted a smoking patch of hair over his ear. “Look. It's him. On television.”

The virtual help's eye lenses whirred again.

“You are correct. I have an eighty-nine–percent matchup probability.”

“He looks different. Not as pathetic as usual.”

Elph sank an immaculately manicured hand into the screen. Waves of red sparks rippled across the screen, obscuring the picture completely.

“What are you doing? This could be a . . . what do you call it? A Sherlock Holmes thing . . . a clue!”

Elph blinked, a pulse of light shimmered along his arm and into the television.

“I have located the signal,” he said presently. “It is a live broadcast. I am relaying the coordinates back to the Master's mainframe.”

Belch could feel the saliva glands in his hooked jaws going into overdrive. The bloodlust was aroused in him. This dog thing wasn't too bad.

“How soon can we be there?” he said, more than a hint of the hairy half in his tones.

“Look around you, cretin,” muttered Elph. “You're already there.”

Cicely Ward swanned onto the soundstage, and poor old Lowrie nearly fell out of his seat. Four hundred knees creaked painfully as the audience rose for a standing ovation.

“Right so, Lowrie. What's the plan?”

McCall blinked a bead of sweat from his eye. “Plan? You know. Kiss her.”

“That's it? Kiss her?”

“Well . . .”

“God. You're about as good a planner as General Custer.”

Dark patches began to appear on Lowrie's shirt. “I'm new to this sort of thing. I thought you'd help out.”

“
I'm
not kissing her. It was bad enough kissing my own granny.”

“You're dead right you're not kissing her. If there's any kissing to be done, I'll do it!”

“Correct.”

“Right.”