‘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.
Eighteen
Paddy 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 coul
dn’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.
Nineteen
By the end of the journey Colm half-expected to find his hair had turned white with the shock. Of course a quick glance in the mirror confirmed it hadn’t. That would have been ridiculous. But he was glad they’d stopped driving. His nerves were shattered, yet his bones were intact, so all things considered, it could have been worse. He didn’t know if it was just because Lauryn had had such difficulty with the gears or if she was a terrible driver in general, but he knew that as long as he lived he never again wanted to be in a car when she was behind the wheel.
They had driven through Ballymun and onto the M50, changing lanes at breakneck speed. They’d passed vehicles in which the passengers were gripped with absolute panic when Lauryn’s car veered wildly in their direction. Car horns had blared. Fists were shaken. Dogs had stuck their heads back inside car windows until they’d passed. Colm had been so glad to get away from the thugs he’d been happy to let Lauryn drive the car. After forty-five minutes of sheer terror, however, he wasn’t sure it was the right choice.
They’d made it as far as Blanchardstown, a suburb on the west side of the city, and driven into a half-finished housing estate, the type the earnest men on serious radio programmes liked to call a ghost estate. Most of the houses were unoccupied and some had already begun to fall down. Grass grew in odd places. Rubble, blocks and discarded, rusted pieces of building equipment were piled on the ground at various intervals. There was an air of sadness about the place.
Lauryn had parked the car at the back of one of the houses, although parked was a kind way of describing it. Unlovingly abandoned at a jaunty angle might have been more appropriate. They’d checked the glove compartment and found a rental slip with the name ‘Cedric Murphy’ on it, and an almost empty bag of M&Ms.
They’d walked out onto the road to make sure the vehicle was out of sight and unlikely to be noticed by any passers-by or local busybodies, and when they were as sure as they could be that the car was well hidden, they went into the first house they could access. The Brute had stuck his hand through a broken pane of glass and unlocked a window. When they were all inside Lauryn produced a small torch from the pocket of her black leather jacket and began to examine each one of the downstairs rooms in turn, even though she wasn’t really sure what she was looking for or expecting to find. The interior of the house was as unfinished as the outside. Everything was grey, as if someone had come in and deliberately drained the place of any colour. The night air blew through the spaces set aside for plastic vents, chilling the open room. It was as unlovely as could be. There was nothing to sit on, so they sat on the hard floor.
‘OK, does anyone have any idea what’s happening? Because this whole thing seems a bit mental to me,’ The Brute said, goose bumps prickling his bare orange arms.
‘It is kinda crazy,’ Lauryn agreed. ‘Hey, you’re wearing an Eagles t-shirt.’
‘What? Oh, this old thing. I’d forgotten I had it on. Yeah, big fan of the Eagles. Huge,’ he replied.
‘That’s a coincidence. I’m from Philly,’ she said.
‘Really? Cool,’ The Brute replied.
Colm knew that Lauryn had mentioned she was from Philadelphia at least three times when they’d met before. She probably knew it too. And she’d probably guessed his cousin had bought the t-shirt in her honour. Was she just toying with The Brute? If she was, then Colm decided to let her get away with it. After what they’d been through and what they still had to face, she was allowed a private moment of fun.
The Brute leaned back, faking a yawn, stretching his arms to show off his bulging biceps.
‘You’ve been working out for the same reasons as me, I guess,’ Lauryn said.
‘Huh?’
‘To be prepared for the next time we encountered a situation like this. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.’
‘No,’ The Brute said. ‘I’ve been bulking up ’cos the chicks love it.’
‘Excuse me – the chicks?’
Uh-oh, Colm thought. He could hear the tension growing in Lauryn’s voice.
‘Yeah, the chicks. Y’know, the babes. The broads as you might say in America.’
‘I hope you’re not talking about girls, ’cos that’s totally insulting,’ Lauryn said.
‘No, what I meant was … ahm,’ said The Brute, realising his error and reddening up. He’d suddenly remembered why he used to be tongue-tied around this girl. She was as tough as old boots. Just like her grandmother, Mrs McMahon, who, as far as The Brute was concerned, resembled an old boot. He loved Lauryn, but he was also a little bit scared of her and when he was a bit scared he always said the wrong thing. Always.
‘Sorry,’ he said. Time to change the subject. ‘So, how’s your grandmother these days? Still the same old battleaxe?’
‘She died.’
The Brute’s face was now so red that Colm was genuinely worried that he might be on the verge of a stroke.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Colm said, trying to calm things down.
‘Thanks,’ Lauryn replied.
The Brute slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead repeatedly.
‘Soooo, you’ve gone to the gym a bit?’ Colm said to change the subject.
‘Sure. I started doing all these self-defence classes, weapons training, running five miles a day. Things like that.’
‘But no driving practice, huh?’
Lauryn smiled. ‘No, Colm.’ She pronounced it ‘Collom’. He didn’t correct her. ‘No driving practice. I didn’t just do fitness work, though. I got Prof, that’s what I call Peter Drake, to design some brain-training programmes for me. You gotta be sharp, right? I mean anyone can get caught out by a zombie or a criminal once, but a second time … that’d be dumb.’
‘Definitely,’ Colm said. ‘Very dumb.’
‘So what kind of training did you do?’ she asked.
‘Ahm, we really should be talking about what’s going on and what we’re going to do next,’ Colm said, avoiding the question and at the same time wondering why he hadn’t done more to get into good physical shape. If he’d been expecting an attack for all this time, then surely it would have made sense. Yet he’d given up after just three karate lessons. He wasn’t exactly Navy Seal material.
‘You’re right. We’ve got to figure out what’s going on. Then we can take some action.’
‘Huighhhhhhhhhhh,’ said The Brute, suddenly caught in the halfway house between wanting to say something that would impress Lauryn and wanting to say nothing at all for fear of offending her.
‘Huh?’
‘I think he’s wondering what you’re doing here,’ Colm said.
‘Heeuuuuurgggh,’ agreed The Brute.
She brushed a strand of blonde hair back from her tanned cheek. ‘It started a couple of weeks ago back in Philly. My Dodge was in the shop so my boyfriend drove me home …’
There was a strange, hacking sound as The Brute almost choked.
‘Boyshfriendsh?’ he spluttered.
‘Yeah, his name is Dan and he’s a running back with our high school team,’ she said. ‘He’s not your typical jock though. He’s a straight-A student.’
Colm & the Ghost's Revenge Page 11