Colm stood on the doorstep, a present under his arm, his finger poised above the silver doorbell. He’d been there for ten minutes wondering whether or not he should press it. If he did, then that’d be it, he’d be spending the next few hours in Ziggy’s lair. It wasn’t that he hated Ziggy or anything. Hate was far too strong a word. They didn’t get along. Nothing wrong with that. People have different personalities. We can’t all be friends.
Actually, he thought, changing his mind, I do hate him. Quite a lot.
He could see the party through the frosted glass of the front door. Kids running up and down the stairs, shouting wildly. Knowing he’d regret it later, he finally pressed the doorbell. Ziggy’s face appeared at the glass almost instantly. He was the kind of person who was easily recognisable even when his face was slightly blurred.
‘Who is it?’ he called out in his fake American accent.
I can see you, Ziggy, you can see me, and even if you couldn’t, all you would have to do is open the door and have a look, is what Colm thought. But all he said was, ‘It’s me. Colm.’
Ziggy sighed loudly. Colm was the last person he wanted to see. He’d only wanted cool people to come to his party and Colm wasn’t cool. Neither was Ziggy for that matter, but he believed he was and that was enough for him.
‘Muuum, that stoopid kid from across the green is at the door. Why did you invite him?’ he yelled.
Nothing like a warm welcome, eh? The door swung open. Ziggy was still dressed in his surfer uniform. His hair was shaved at the sides and what remained was gelled into a diagonal mohawk. He could have been an escapee from a Nickelodeon sitcom. He looked at Colm like he was something he’d stepped in.
‘Hey,’ he said without enthusiasm.
Great, Colm thought. He’s doing his teenage rebel thing. Did he even realise that rebels don’t have birthday parties hosted by their mammies? What a jerk.
A boy of four or five who looked like a miniature version of Ziggy ran towards Colm waving a silver baseball bat in the air. Without warning, he took a wild swing, cracking the aluminium bat right against Colm’s shin.
‘Holy sh–’ Colm began, then bit his lip. The pain was excruciating. He hobbled around trying to walk it off. He wondered if it would be bad manners to give the kid a kick when his leg had recovered. Probably.
‘That’s my brother, George,’ Ziggy said. ‘You can leave the present on the hall table.’
He ran upstairs. Back to where the party was going on. Colm rubbed his leg furiously. Man alive, it really stung. He turned up the leg of his jeans and examined the injury. A huge red welt was beginning to form. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted George preparing for another swing, a smirk playing on his pink lips.
That kid’s properly mental, Colm thought. He dodged to his left as the bat arced towards his exposed shin, missing it by centimetres. It smacked off the front door, leaving a dent in the PVC.
George burst into tears when he saw that his mission had failed and that the new party-goer wasn’t lying on the floor screaming in agony as he’d hoped. It was so unfair.
‘Waaaaaah,’ he cried and legged it into the kitchen as quickly as his spindly little pins would carry him. His mother emerged moments later, marching furiously towards Colm.
‘What did you do to George?’ she asked.
‘N-n-nothing,’ Colm said.
She leaned in until they were almost nose to nose.
‘He’s only five you know. What sort of boy picks on someone who’s only five?’
‘I didn’t pick on …’
She put her arm around George’s shoulders. ‘The poor child is terrified. Look at his little face.’
George didn’t look terrified. He stuck out his tongue.
‘I’ve a good mind to call your mother and ask her to take you home right this second,’ she spluttered.
Please do, Colm thought. He’d only been here for ninety seconds or so and already it was the worst birthday party he’d ever attended.
‘Well?’ said Ziggy’s mother.
Colm looked at her. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
‘I’m waiting for your apology,’ she said.
Apologise? No way, he thought. She glared at him. He tried glaring back at her, but found that when it came to glaring he really wasn’t very good at it. He noticed that her make-up was heavily piled on and while her face was dark and had an unnatural brown tinge to it, her neck was porcelain white.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Hmmpph,’ Ziggy’s mother replied and disappeared back into the kitchen.
‘You stink like smelly poo,’ George said, and ran off to join her.
George’s baseball bat attack was the high point of the party for Colm. He spent the rest of the time being ignored by all the guests, most of whom he knew from school or the estate.
He ended up in a corner of the kitchen eating bowl after bowl of the tasteless nachos no one else wanted to touch while Ziggy’s grandmother sat beside him telling him her life story. She was a nice lady, but it wasn’t as if she’d spent her life trekking to the North Pole or living with gorillas; she’d worked in a shop for forty-seven years and had never been on an aeroplane.
When the food had been demolished and everyone had half-heartedly sung Happy Birthday (Iano replacing the standard words with rude ones) Ziggy’s mother got to her feet.
‘Right, everyone. Into the living room for a game of charades.’
There was a chorus of disapproval.
‘Muuum. We’re not playing charades,’ Ziggy wailed. Colm had to admit that Ziggy had got this wailing thing down pat.
‘What’s wrong with charades? I used to love that game when I was young.’
‘Back in the 1800s,’ somebody whispered.
‘What do you want to play so, Jonathan?’ she asked, using Ziggy’s real name, which sounded odd because even the teachers didn’t use it any more.
‘Anything that involves you leaving us alone,’ he replied.
‘OK, love. You lot get out while Granny and me clear up.’
The fourteen party-goers squeezed into the small living room – some on the couch, others on the arms and seats of the leather chairs. Those who weren’t quick enough to find a perch ended up on the floor. Colm was one of them. When they’d all settled down, Ziggy lit a large white candle and placed it in the centre of the coffee table, then switched off the main light. The candle’s flame flickered. A girl giggled nervously.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.
‘We’re going to tell ghost stories,’ Ziggy replied.
Eight
Cedric Murphy, the private detective, sighed as he ripped open the white envelope. Another bill. He took a look at the figure at the bottom of the page. He owed them how much? He felt like he’d been punched in the gut by a man with rocks for fists. He crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room where it bounced once before rolling gently into the pile of sixteen other scrunched-up bills that sat beside the wastepaper basket. Murphy’s cramped flat now doubled as his office and the neatness and orderliness that had once been an important part of his life were long gone.
He took a slice of cold pizza from the takeaway box and wondered if it was safe to eat. It hadn’t been in the fridge since he’d bought it the previous night and the two dead flies stuck in the congealed cheese made it a little unappealing. He picked them out and wolfed down the pizza before thoughts of bacteria, gut-wrenching illnesses and days spent on the toilet had fully formed in his barely awake brain. Cedric’s head hurt, his hair was a mess and he hadn’t slept in almost three days. He wasn’t even sure if it was morning or night and he couldn’t summon up enough energy to open the curtains and find out. He scratched his enormous belly, broke wind, then frowned as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Was that really him? He wondered how he had let himself get so out of shape.
Eighteen months ago, when the rat-faced little man had engaged his services for the oddest case in all h
is years of detective work, Cedric had been so frightened he’d promised himself that if he got out of the situation alive he’d go on a major diet. He had too. For a while. Green tea and porridge for breakfast. Cabbage soup for lunch. Brown rice and vegetables for dinner. It was vile. He’d lost weight, plenty of it, but he was always hungry. Always. Thin people didn’t really know what true hunger was, he thought. It gnawed at you constantly. Your stomach growled, begging to be fed a tasty morsel, preferably something made from fat or sugar. He was almost at the point where he was imagining other people as steaks or hamburgers like they did in cartoons.
And the headaches. No one had told him about the headaches he’d get when he began dieting. It was as if Woody Woodpecker had taken up residence in his skull and invited all of his raucous woodpecker friends around for a wild house party.
Sure, Cedric looked better, felt better too eventually, but there was always a tiny voice in his head telling him to have one teensy little biscuit. And a slightly larger voice in his office telling him to eat one too. His assistant, Kate Finkle, was constantly nagging him to eat, eat, eat. Not because she didn’t want him to be slim – secretly, she found him rather attractive that way – but because when he was dieting he was the crabbiest, most contrary man on the planet.
They had always bickered and both had enjoyed it, but when he lost the weight Cedric had become downright obnoxious. If someone said black, Cedric wouldn’t just say white, he’d say, ‘Shut your mouth or I’ll wipe that stupid look off your pig-ugly face. Moron.’ He was ruder than he’d ever been and he wasn’t someone who’d ever been known for his good manners and sociable ways.
There was a low point which convinced Cedric that dieting wasn’t for him. Someone had cut in front of him in a supermarket queue and he’d lost it. He’d been overcome by a complete Berserker fury. He’d roared and shouted at the woman who’d skipped ahead before finally emptying an entire carton of buttermilk over her head. Buttermilk didn’t flow easily and it took a good thirty seconds for the carton to empty over the nun. She didn’t like having to wipe it from her eyes or the front of her jumper and Cedric had to make a large donation to a convent school to avoid getting in further trouble for that one.
That was when he’d decided to start eating properly again. And now he couldn’t stop. It’s not my fault, he told himself. Business had been bad for the last year. Actually, bad was a bit on the optimistic side. Atrocious was more accurate. At first he’d thought it was due to the recession – people weren’t that concerned about what their wives or husbands or employees were up to when they were worried about their jobs and homes. But the recession should have only caused a small loss of business. This was different. It was a catastrophic collapse. One minute he’d been bobbing along nicely, fewer clients, but still enough to pay the bills, next minute, boom. Nothing. Not one client. Not a single person had walked through the door in the last six months. The bills had piled up, the bank savings had dried up and Cedric knew that this week he was going to have to tell Kate Finkle she didn’t have a job any more. She would no longer be his assistant. Poor Kate. That job was her life. He wondered how she’d take the news. Probably by breaking my nose, he thought.
Of course, being a detective, he’d tried to discover the cause of this loss of business. He’d found it too. A new detective agency had opened up. A rival. Just around the corner. And they only charged one-tenth of the price. Now, even those who don’t know much about business could see that that just didn’t add up. No detective firm could charge so little and hope to stay in business. And there wasn’t enough room in Dublin for very many detective agencies as it was, never mind two in the same area. No, he was sure that the only reason they were doing it was because they hoped to drive him out of business and as soon as he closed down they’d up their prices. It was an old business trick and, as far as Cedric was concerned, an extremely sneaky one.
He thought it would be best for the owner of the new business and him to have a nice little chat, man to man. Then, when the chat was over, he’d threaten his rival. His plan was that they’d be so scared they’d immediately close down and then everything would go back to normal.
It hadn’t gone exactly as he’d hoped. Not even close. He’d called to their office, ready to speak to whomever was in charge. He’d even had a speech prepared. He’d opened the door to The Ark Security Agency and announced to the receptionist, ‘I’m Cedric Murphy.’ Four seconds later a muscle-bound ape in a tight black t-shirt had picked him up, carried him out of the office and thrown him down the stairs. He’d had better meetings, but it was a mark of Cedric Murphy’s character that he’d had worse too.
Going back to see them a second time would have been foolish and stubborn, adjectives which most people who knew him would use in a description of Cedric. So he did go back. This time he received a few digs and elbows before he was thrown down the stairs.
On his third visit, he was met by two goons with guns. Cedric Murphy didn’t mind getting a few punches or kicks. They came with the territory. And bruises faded, broken bones healed. Bullets though? He had a problem with bullets. Especially ones that could cause him to suffer a severe case of death. He smiled his most charming smile.
‘Don’t worry about it, lads,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll save you the trouble.’
He threw himself down the stairs.
As he lay in a crumpled heap, his leg twisted in a way likely to induce a fit of vomiting in anyone who saw it, Cedric realised that he was going to have to try a different approach if he was going to save his business. He also realised, as the blinding pain surged through his ankle, that he’d really begun to loathe the inventor of stairs.
The Ark Security Agency then stepped up their attack on his business. They weren’t subtle. They posted a man in the hall that led to Cedric’s office. Any time one of Cedric’s potential clients arrived to unveil their tale of woe they found themselves confronted by a man who’d politely hand them a card for The Ark and explain that their prices were ninety percent cheaper than Cedric’s and their offices were nicer, cleaner and only around the corner. And you’d get a free coffee and a doughnut even if you decided not to avail of their services. The free coffee and doughnut swung it for most people.
Those clients of Cedric’s who decided to remain loyal to him were dealt with less politely. Let’s just say they didn’t make it to his office. The employees of The Ark began to intercept Cedric’s phone calls and emails and told the people who rang or mailed that they couldn’t trust a detective who allowed himself to be monitored in such a manner. And one by one the clients left, until he had none.
Cedric grabbed an ice-cold can of cola from the fridge, slumped onto the couch and gulped it down. It felt good and gave his brain the kick-start it needed. He had no clients, no proper office, very little money and a car that was in dire need of a service. Was he going to lie back on his couch and watch episodes of sitcoms he’d seen a million times already or was he going to get off his ass and do some work? He had to admit the sitcom idea was a tempting one. It would offer a temporary escape from his troubles, but when he turned off the TV later the troubles would still be there waiting for him. No, he had to fight back. He looked at the sheets of data lying on the table. Facts and figures about The Ark. He hated paperwork. It was useful and possibly the most important part of his job, but he hadn’t become a detective to spend his time sitting around an office. He needed to be Out There. In the world.
The little black gadget in his pocket beeped once. He took it out, looked at the screen and allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.
Yesterday, while the man who was guarding his stairs had thought Cedric was in his new ‘office’, he’d actually been attaching a tracking device to the man’s car.
They were on the move. If they were up to something he’d find out by following them. He put on a shirt, gobbled another slice of pizza and pocketed his car keys.
‘You have no idea who you’re dealing with, boys,’ he said to himself, puf
fing out his chest in pride.
The problem for Cedric was that he had no idea who he was dealing with either. If he had, he’d have just gone back to bed and hidden under the covers.
Nine
‘It’s nearly Hallowe’en, dudes,’ Ziggy began.
‘Are we going to bob for apples? ’Cos I can’t do that. It’ll ruin my make-up,’ Amy said. She was the most popular girl in Colm’s class. She thought she was far more beautiful than she actually was and most of the time she acted as if anyone who spoke to her was lucky to be allowed to share the same air.
‘No,’ Ziggy sighed. ‘We’re not going to bob for apples. I just said we were going to tell ghost stories.’
‘I wasn’t listening,’ Amy admitted. She had been checking her reflection in a glass cabinet.
‘Nothing too scary, I hope,’ Stephanie said.
Scary is kind of the point of a ghost story, Colm thought.
‘The gruesomer the better,’ Iano said, desperately hoping his bravery would somehow impress Amy. ‘Lots of blood and gore and murder and stuff.’
‘Eeeeeewwww. Stop,’ Stephanie cried.
Colm glanced at his watch, which he noticed was still streaked with dried-up sour milk. How much longer before he could leave without it being considered rude? Twenty minutes?
‘I’ll start,’ Ziggy said.
He moved to the centre of the room. The candle flame cast shadows on his face. He lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper. People leaned in closer to hear him.
Colm & the Ghost's Revenge Page 5