She winked at The Brute.
‘Rats? Never heard anyone say anything about a rat,’ he said, playing along. He shot Colm a filthy look. It meant keep your mouth shut. Colm did.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mrs McMahon. She seemed im-pressed with The Brute. ‘It’ll be our little secret.’
‘Your secret’s safe with us, Mrs McMahon. And if I see the rat I’ll kill it for you. With my bare hands. It’s nothing to be worried about,’ he said in a fawning manner.
‘Good man, Michael. That’s what I like to hear. I wish more of the young lads these days showed your sort of fortitude.’
The Brute didn’t know what fortitude meant, but he thought it was a compliment. Colm wondered what was wrong with his cousin. Why was he being so nice? It was strange. He was used to him being horrible and he was a lot more comfortable with that.
The phone rang and Mrs McMahon answered it im-
mediately.
‘Stephen. It’s about time you got back to me. I must have left half a dozen messages. Work. One hour. Don’t even think about being late.’
She hung up and handed The Brute a key. Unlike most hotels where you use a plastic key card to get into your room, this was an old-fashioned metal key with a leather tag clipped to the key ring. The number thirteen was stamped on the tag in big black numerals.
‘I hope you’re not superstitious. Your parents have gone in to the restaurant for a complimentary cup of tea while I check their room is ready.’ She turned to her granddaughter. ‘Lauryn, did you even think of offering the lads something to drink?’
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ Lauryn said.
‘Forgot’s not good enough. Now lads, if ye need anything, anything at all, just ask.’
The phone rang for a third time and Mrs McMahon dis-appeared into the lobby. Lauryn closed the door after her, but they could still hear her shouting into the phone.
‘Her bark is worse than her bite,’ said Lauryn. ‘She’s actually kinda cool.’
‘If you like scary people,’ said Colm.
Lauryn laughed at that, even though Colm hadn’t realised he’d said something funny.
‘Where are you guys from?’
The Brute had gone silent again, so Colm answered. ‘I’m from Dublin and Michael’s from Baile Eilís.’
‘Baile Eilís? That’s not far from here, right?’
‘No. Not too far,’ Colm said. He had grown tired of the polite conversation. He wanted to know more about the curse and his impending doom.
‘You’re American,’ The Brute blurted out in a voice that was far too loud. Colm wondered what was wrong with him. He was acting very strangely again now that Mrs McMahon had left.
‘Yep. Philadelphia born and bred. Go Eagles.’
‘But your grandmother’s Irish,’ he said in a slightly more normal voice.
‘Is he always this sharp?’ Lauryn asked.
Colm figured she was being sarcastic so he didn’t bother answering.
‘My mom grew up here, but she went to the US when she was twenty. She was only going to stay a few years, but then she met my dad and they got married so she didn’t came back to Ireland, not even after they split up. I don’t think my gran’s ever forgiven her for that.’
‘Lauryn, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, kid.’
Colm didn’t like being called a kid, but he didn’t know how to stop her from saying it without being rude, so he didn’t mention it.
‘This curse. Can you tell me a bit more about it?’
‘Wow, you’re really interested in the curse, aren’t you? That’s the third time you’ve mentioned it. It’s a long story,’ she said.
Colm waited for her to tell the story, but she didn’t. Instead she just popped another piece of gum into her mouth.
Three thoughts went through The Brute’s head at once, which was two more than usual. He was acting like an eejit in front of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He’d probably got away with it so far, he thought, but he needed to make a good impression. Fast. His dad had always told him to act confident even when his insides were churning. Cool and confident. That was the key.
He sat back in the armchair and swung his legs on to the table, more carefully this time. ‘Hey, Lauryn. Tell the kid that story if you want. We’ve got all the time in the world, babe.’ In his defence, it sounded a lot better in his head than it did when the words were out there in the real world.
‘Two things,’ said Lauryn. ‘One – take your feet off the table right this second.’
The Brute’s feet were back on the ground before Lauryn had even finished the sentence.
‘And two – if you ever call me “babe” again, I’ll thump you so hard you’ll forget your own name. Are we clear?’
‘Yes,’ said The Brute. He looked so upset that for a moment Colm thought he was going to cry. The girl was pretty, but she was also like her grandmother. Frightening.
‘I’ve gotta go check something. Catch you guys later,’ she said.
Neither of them were happy to see her leave, but for very different reasons.
·•·
The Book of Dread (3)
March 15th, 1896
Mahony has disappeared. No one knows what has happened to him. He was working in the forest all day and his fellow labourers presumed he had returned home by himself when they didn’t see him at day’s end. It was only when his wife raised the alarm the next morning that anyone realised he was missing. We spent the day searching the woods, but there was no trace of him to be found. I think he must have met with some kind of accident, but there are grumblings from the workers that there was something other than mere fate at play. They have downed tools and are refusing to work here anymore. They say that it is this place, this curse of the Red House that has claimed him. Without them, I shall not be able to open the hotel on time. I am ruined.
March 26th, 1896
Mahony is still missing. I have been working on my own for the last ten days. The villagers refuse to help me even though I promised to triple their wages. They are too frightened to even set foot on the grounds of the Red House. Their weakness of character sickens me.
It was eleven o’clock when I finished my day’s labour. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to take to my bed, but I forced myself to walk to the village. I had not seen another human being in five days and was desperate for conversation even if the only people I could talk to were simpletons. I went to one of the many public houses and consumed ale with the only man who would talk to me. When he was drunk he told me a very interesting story about the mysterious thing the men mentioned. It is called the Lazarus Key. If his story is true and not just some drunken rambling I could make my fortune. I will return to Dublin in the morning to undertake research.
Six
The argument had been raging downstairs for thirty-four seconds when Colm decided to lie on the floor of the hotel bedroom and press his left ear to the ground. Words floated up from below, words like ‘close the hotel … ruin me … how dare you’.
One of the voices belonged to Mrs McMahon. Colm was sure of it. The other voice was quieter, not as raspy and he didn’t recognise it. Probably her daughter, he thought. What was her name? Marie, wasn’t it? Mrs McMahon said something that Colm couldn’t quite make out. All he knew was that she was winning the argument, or maybe she was just shouting the loudest.
He needed a glass. In films when someone wanted to hear something in another room they always pressed the open part of the glass to the wall and their ear to the other end. He wondered if that would work with floors. But then he realised that the only glasses were in the bathroom where The Brute had been for the last twenty minutes, taking a shower if the constant sound of running water was anything to go by.
Colm had tried to his best not to think about the curse. He’d done anything he could to distract himself. He’d tried to read his book, but he couldn’t concentrate. The words just blurred together until they were one
big unreadable blob.
Then he’d explored the room. It didn’t take long. It was a nice enough room, he supposed, if you ignored the hideous pink curtains and the lace trimmings that were draped over every available flat surface. Mrs McMahon really seemed to like lace.
He’d opened and closed every drawer he could find, but there wasn’t much of interest there – a few extra bed sheets and some headed notepaper with the words Red House Hotel embossed in red (of course) at the top of the page.
Then he’d spent ten minutes staring out the window at the tree-tops down below and he’d found that if you bounced high enough on the bed that you could see a river on the far side of the trees, just where they began to thin out. It wasn’t a bad view, if you liked that sort of thing. From Colm’s bedroom window at home all you could see were a Spar shop and traffic lights. Sometimes if he hadn’t a new book to read or if there was nothing good on television, he’d sit at the window and watch the hoodies hassle the people going in and out of the shop.
Finally, he’d gone to number fifteen, the room where his parents were staying, and tried to talk to his father, but he was in a foul mood. He’d said that some of the hotel staff had returned and he’d made the mistake of letting a porter carry his bags up to his room. When the man had stood by the door his father had realised he wanted a tip, but he’d had nothing smaller than a twenty euro note on him and when he gave it to the porter – who smelled of fish – he hadn’t even given him any change!
‘Twenty euro to carry a couple of bags up two flights of stairs. Can you imagine that? The world’s gone mad,’ he’d said. ‘And what makes it worse is he didn’t even smile. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here. He had a moustache too. My mother, your grand-mother, told me you could never trust a man who wore a moustache. And you know what – she was right.’
Colm had noticed that a small vein in his father’s forehead had begun to throb. This meant he was seriously angry. It was a step up from his bald patch turning red, so he’d changed the subject and told him what Lauryn had said, but his father hadn’t seemed that interested, and when he’d started reading his newspaper Colm took this as a sign that he should go back to his own room. When he’d got there he’d heard the raised voices coming from downstairs.
The bathroom door opened and The Brute emerged.
‘What are you doing on the floor, you mope?’
There was something different about his cousin. For one thing he’d called him a mope. This was one of the mildest insults in his arsenal. And for another, he was clean. That was odd. Also, he seemed to be wearing a new shirt and his hair was slicked back.
And then the smell hit him. Colm almost gagged.
‘What’s that stink?’ he spluttered. He rushed to the open window and breathed in some fresh, clean air.
‘What are you on about?’ said The Brute, but he looked embarrassed.
‘Is it aftershave?’ Colm asked between gasps of air.
‘What’s it to you if it is?’
It was aftershave. And it wasn’t like he’d just dabbed on a little bit behind the ears, like Colm’s mother always made his father do when they were going on a night out. Judging by the smell it was as if The Brute had taken a bath in the stuff.
‘I didn’t know you shaved,’ Colm wheezed. The smell seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his nasal passages and he could taste it at the back of the throat. It was vile.
‘You’re just jealous cos you don’t shave.’
‘Of course I don’t. I’m only eleven.’
He had no answer for that.
‘Why were you on the floor?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘There was a fight going on downstairs. I was trying to listen to it.’
Suddenly The Brute was interested.
‘A fight. Excellent.’ He threw a few shadow punches.
‘No, not that sort of fight. An argument. I think it was Mrs McMahon and her daughter.’
‘Two old dears arguing. And you were interested? You’re such an eejit.’
Colm bit back a sarcastic reply. Be nice, he thought. Just make polite conversation. This will soon be over. You’ll either be back in Dublin or dead.
‘You can see a river if you jump on the bed,’ he said, just for something to say.
‘Who cares? Stop being such a girl,’ said The Brute. He put on a girlish voice. ‘Oh, look at the water. It takes my breath away. It’s so beautiful I could almost weep tears of joy.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘It’s your mother. You answer it,’ said The Brute.
‘She never knocks,’ said Colm. It was true. She never did. It was one of the few things about her that annoyed him. That and the fact that she always tidied his room. He hated it when she did that.
He answered the door. It was Lauryn.
‘Hey kid,’ she said taking a well-chewed piece of gum from her mouth and dropping it into his hand. ‘It’s lost its flavour. Get rid of it for me, would ya.’
Colm didn’t really like being bossed around by someone who was a virtual stranger, but he wanted to stay on Lauryn’s good side. She knew about the curse after all and she might be able to help him out later on. He took the gum and threw it into the metal bin beneath the dresser.
‘Hey Michael,’ she said.
‘All right?’ said The Brute in a voice that was much deeper than his normal voice. He smiled. It didn’t work out right. As if smiling was a skill he had only recently learned.
‘I just wanted to say sorry. About earlier. I was a bit crabby. I have a lot on my …’ Lauryn began, but then her nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Phew, what’s that awful stench?’
‘Colm was trying on some of his dad’s aftershave.’ The Brute said. ‘And he doesn’t even shave,’ he added un-necessarily.
‘Why would you do that, Colm? Wow, it really is awful. Your dad has the worst taste in aftershave.’
‘He sure does,’ agreed The Brute.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ Colm said. He didn’t know why he was lying for The Brute, but he was too tired to argue.
Lauryn sat down in the armchair by the window. ‘That’s why I called up. Just to say sorry. What are you guys up to?’
‘Just chilling,’ said The Brute. He tried to make himself look as cool as possible, but it wasn’t easy to look cool while sitting on the edge of a bed with a pink duvet.
Lauryn didn’t notice. She seemed distracted, as if there was something else on her mind. Something important that she wanted to say to them, but she wasn’t sure how to say it. Instead she just continued to make idle chit-chat.
‘Do you like the room? Number thirteen is my favourite room in the hotel,’ she said.
‘Yeah, it’s class. You can even see the river if you jump on the bed,’ The Brute said.
‘You noticed that? I’m impressed. When we came to visit when I was small I used to love jumping up and down on the bed so I could see the river.’
‘Yeah, well Michael’s fourteen and he still loves jumping up and down on the bed,’ Colm said.
The Brute shot him an angry look. He raised his index finger as if to say that he owed Colm one. Yep, welcome ladies and gentlemen to the Red House Hotel, scene of this evening’s punchathon.
Lauryn spotted Colm’s book on the dresser and reached across to pick it up. She turned it over so that she could see the cover.
‘This is one of my all-time favourites. Which one of you guys is reading this?’
‘Me,’ lied The Brute. He glared at Colm with the sort of look that said, if you disagree with me I’m going to beat you to a pulp. Colm kept his mouth shut even though he already knew there was a good chance he was going to be beaten to a pulp.
‘I know a lot of people say it’s not the best book he’s written, but I think it’s brilliant. Do you read a lot?’
The Brute appeared to give this some thought. ‘Do you?’
‘Oh, yeah. I always have my head stuck in a
book. My mom says that even if the Superbowl was taking place outside my bedroom window, I wouldn’t look up from whatever book I was reading.’
‘Books are great,’ said The Brute. He had started to squirm a bit. He was uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going, but he didn’t know how to stop it. It was like a runaway train.
‘So what other books do you like?’ Lauryn asked.
The Brute looked terrified. If he was honest and said that he never read anything, then Lauryn would think he was a fool; if he lied and she asked him some questions about the books he was supposed to have read then she’d know he was a fool. Either way, he was bound to lose.
He was saved by the unusual sight of Colm’s mother skipping into the room. She had a huge smile on her face, the sort of smile that Colm hadn’t seen for a very long time.
‘I love this hotel,’ she said in a weird sing-song voice. She sounded giddy. And then Colm realised, with a rising feeling of panic, what was going to happen next. He knew by the wild look in her eyes. She was going to hug him. Or kiss him. In front of The Brute and Lauryn.
It was worse than that.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. First she grabbed him in a huge bear hug and held him so tightly his face was squashed right against her chest. Then she planted a big, juicy smacker right on his forehead. A hug and a kiss. The double-whammy.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lauryn and The Brute smirking. Great, now they were thinking that he was a mammy’s boy, the worst sort of boy to be. Why did these things always happen to him? He was used to his dad embarrassing him, but now his mam was at it as well. Why were parents so mental? He wished they’d just disappear.
‘Isn’t it just fantastic to be here?’ his mother said. Then she noticed Lauryn and her voice changed. She sobered up. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Hi, I’m Lauryn,’ she said with a confident handshake.
‘And who exactly are you?’
‘I’m Mrs McMahon’s granddaughter, Marie’s daughter,’ Lauryn said.
‘You’re American,’ said Colm’s mother who had a knack for pointing out the obvious.
Colm & the Lazarus Key Page 4