Colm & the Lazarus Key

by Kieran Mark Crowley

  Cedric took out his wallet. ‘Here’s a hundred,’ he said handing over the money. He gave him his business card. ‘My mobile number’s on the card. That car even moves an inch, you give me a call. And if your information is accurate there’ll be another two hundred in it for you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Murphy. Thank you,’ Mark beamed.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Cedric said to Kate.

  Mark began to move off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go back into your office?’ Kate asked him.

  ‘Nah, I’m off on my break. That lot of whingers can wait,’ Mark replied.

  ‘One other question. Was the man alone?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘No, there were two others with him. Not the sort that you’d forget either,’ said Mark with a wink.

  ·•·

  The Book of Dread (5)

  April 14th, 1896

  Before I left for the Red House I met with Mr Stoker again. We talked in a teahouse on George’s Street. He showed me some notes he had made on the Lazarus Key. When he was paying for our teas I stole them and ran from the place. I could hear him shouting after me, but I did not care. A short time later I took the train south.

  The journey passed quickly as I read his notes. One of the Keys was in America in the earlier part of the century. It was in the possession of a vicious gang of thugs in Boston. They were known as the Sign of Lazarus and every ne’er-do-well member of the gang had their symbol – a diamond inside a skull – tattooed on their finger or the inner part of their arm. They ruled the city with a fist of iron and were as cruel as one’s imagination allows. But then the Key was stolen from them! If my drunken friend from the public house was telling the truth, then I believe I know who the thief was.

  Upon my return to the Red House I found my uncle there. He is now overseeing the project, but he would not allow me into the house. He tried to attack me with his walking stick, but I ran away. Later, after nightfall, I crept into the house. It was dark and cold and though I do not like to admit it, I was afraid. Not of my uncle, but of the house itself. There is an eerie feeling about the Red House once darkness falls. I crept into the cellar and by candlelight I found a treasure chest of papers belonging to the family who once owned this house – the DeLancey-O’Brien’s. The papers have confirmed what I suspected. I must take some time to order my thoughts. When I have things clear in my head I will begin my search. Soon I will be rich and I shall laugh in my uncle’s face.

  Eight

  There were fifteen tables in the restaurant and fourteen of them were empty, but every one of them was still laid out as if guests were going to arrive at any moment. Soft music played in the background; nothing Colm recognised, but it was the sort of thing his mother must have liked because she hummed along. His father held a wine glass up to the light as if searching for some sign of dirt or dust.

  ‘Put it down, Joe,’ said Colm’s mother. Her lips were thin when she spoke. Never a good sign.

  She didn’t want her husband embarrassing her in a nice place like this. Even though she spoke quietly her voice seemed to echo around the room.

  ‘The tablecloths are lovely. High quality linen. We should get some,’ she said. Her husband and son looked at her blankly. Sometimes it was hard for her being the only woman in the house. Nobody ever really talked about the things she was interested in.

  ‘Where’s Michael? I thought he’d be down by now,’ Colm’s father said.

  ‘I warned him not to be late,’ said his mother, looking at her watch.

  ‘He’s not coming down for dinner,’ Colm said.

  ‘And why not?’

  Make it a good lie, Colm thought.

  ‘He’s sick. He’s in the bathroom,’ he said. On a scale of one to ten that lie was a one. It was rubbish, but it was out there now. It would have to do.

  ‘Has he been vomiting?’ his mother asked.

  ‘No, the other thing.’

  ‘The other thing? Oh, you mean … Oh.’

  Not something any of them wanted to think about.

  ‘Maybe I should go and see if he’s all right,’ she said, getting up from her chair.

  Colm’s dad placed a hand on her arm. ‘Better to leave it, love. You don’t want to embarrass the boy,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t embarrass him. I’ll be very discreet,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll check on him in a minute. It’d be better if I did it,’ Colm said quickly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said his mother, still unsure.

  ‘Colm’s right,’ said his dad. ‘I know teenage boys. I was one once. They’re fierce easy to embarrass. Colm can go up in a few minutes.’

  ‘Mmm, OK. I suppose you’re right. It was probably those chips he ate. I told you that roadside café was filthy.’

  The waiter – who was the porter dressed in a different uniform – arrived and took their order. His new clothes didn’t appear to make him any happier. He managed to take the whole order without speaking once. He just nodded curtly and wrote things down in his little black note-

  book.

  ‘I gave him twenty euro already so that covers the tip for the meal as well,’ said Colm’s father when the porter-waiter had gone back into the kitchen.

  The meal was more like a work of art than a dinner. It looked great but there wasn’t much of it. Colm didn’t care. Even if it had been his favourite – double cheeseburger, chips and curried beans – he wouldn’t have had much of an appetite. He had other things on his mind.

  His mother seemed to like it though. She was smiling and even holding his father’s hand from time to time when she thought Colm wasn’t looking.

  Colm wolfed down the meal because he knew if he didn’t his mother would start asking awkward questions. It didn’t take too long to finish. A sparrow with a small appetite could have scoffed it and not ended up with a swollen belly. He was about to ask if he could leave the table when the porter-waiter brought the dessert menu.

  ·•·

  The Brute looked at his watch for the tenth time in the last nine minutes. He was nervous. He checked his armpits. Still not a whiff. Good. Not a night for him to stink. He paced up and down the bedroom measuring the distance from the window to the door for no particular reason. Fourteen steps.

  He bit his nails. Checked himself out in the mirror. Apart from a couple of spots on his chin and one unsqueezable monster right at the corner of his nose, he was looking good.

  Still no sign of Lauryn. He began to worry that she might not show up. It wasn’t a date, so he couldn’t really be stood up, but he didn’t want to be rejected. He couldn’t take that.

  Not again.

  In the last twelve months he’d asked thirteen girls out and they’d all said no. Even Una Ryan. And she’d gone out with Johnny the Goat with the stupid laugh. Typical. Of course he’d told Colm that he’d had thirty-two girlfriends and he’d believed him. The dope.

  At least he wasn’t here to see him fail miserably. He probably wouldn’t say anything even if he was. He’d just look at him stupidly and maybe even feel sorry for him. There was nothing worse than that.

  He couldn’t stand waiting any longer. He had to get out. Do something. The room was far too stuffy and warm. Maybe if he let in some fresh air. He looped his fingers around the sash hooks on the window and heaved it up. Cool, clean air rushed into the room. That was better. He felt refreshed. He fastened the window so that it stayed open and was about to go and brush his teeth for the third time when he spotted the small figure far down below at the edge of the woods. Was that Lauryn? It looked like her.

  ‘Lauryn. Up here,’ he called.

  She didn’t look up. She probably couldn’t hear him. The figure, if it was Lauryn, took a few steps to her left and disappeared into the woods. The Brute hesitated for a split second before he made his decision. He’d go after her.

  He ran out of the room and down the stairs, three at a time. He sprinted across the foyer and out into the courtyard, where he stopped for
a moment. OK, he thought, our room is at the back of the hotel, so that’s where she went into the woods.

  He passed through a small garden, all shrubs and flowers, leaped over a low hedge and passed a navy BMW that was parked around the back.

  He stopped and looked up to check where his room was. Second storey, fourth room from the left, which meant Lauryn was just about where he was standing now when he last saw her. The woods were quiet and there was no sign of her, but he saw her footprints on the soft mud of the path. He followed on, not sure if it was a good idea. It made him look like a weirdo, following her like this, so he called out: ‘Lauryn. Hey. It’s me, Michael. Wait up.’

  His voice reverberated through the trees, but there was no reply. Just silence. Decision time again. Should he keep going or turn back? He kept going. He wasn’t a quitter. He moved further into the woods and even though he could see some of the fading daylight through the tops of the trees, it had already begun to get dark where he was. The mud was ruining his new trainers too. He thought he saw a movement off to his left. A shadow in the trees.

  That must be her.

  ‘Lauryn,’ he called out again. There was no reply other than his own voice echoing back at him.

  He broke into a jog. He was a good runner and he was certain he’d catch up with her easily, but after a few minutes he still hadn’t spotted her. How had she slipped away from him so quickly?

  ·•·

  He’d gone much deeper into the woods now and when he looked back he couldn’t see the top of the hotel any more. That wasn’t good. He hoped he wouldn’t get lost. That would be embarrassing. He’d rather spend the night out here in the cold and dark than shout for help.

  He thought he felt something brush against his foot, but when he looked down there was nothing there. He hoped it wasn’t a rat. He was terrified of them. He’d told Mrs Mc-Mahon that if he found one in the hotel that he’d take care of it, but the thought of seeing a rat almost made him sick.

  He looked around. He was in amongst the scrub grass and brambles now, and he realised with a growing horror that he’d drifted off the path. That wasn’t clever. He tried to think. Could he remember when he’d left the path? Nope. This wasn’t good.

  He’d seen a horror film once with his dad. The people had accidentally left a path when they were in some creepy part of the English countryside and they’d been attacked by werewolves. His mam had come in halfway through the film and given out to his dad for letting him watch it. She’d said he was far too young. Typical. She was always trying to ruin his fun. It was a good film, but the thought of it didn’t cheer him up. OK, there was no such thing as werewolves, but even thinking of them made him shiver. He kept walking and it kept getting darker.

  Brilliant.

  The woods were much larger than he’d imagined. From the hotel bedroom window they’d looked small enough, but now that he was down here among the trees and briers he began to wonder if he’d just made a huge mistake. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Which way had he come from? It was difficult to make anything out, but he must be close to the river – he was certain he could hear the sound of running water. Well, if the river was that way, then the hotel was in the opposite direction. Had to be.

  He set off back in the direction he thought he’d come from, but there was still no sign of the path and it really was getting dark. And cold. He hoped Lauryn wasn’t stuck out here too. She’d probably be scared if she was. What was she doing in here anyway? He hadn’t thought of that before. Was she just going for a walk? Who went for walks on their own? Middle-aged women and other boring people. Not gorgeous teenagers. Unless she was looking for something. But what could she be looking for?

  ‘Lauryn. Can you hear me?’ he shouted. No reply.

  He crossed his fingers. ‘Let her be OK,’ he thought. Then he reminded himself that this was her grandmother’s hotel and she probably knew the woods like the back of her hand.

  The brambles grew thicker as The Brute carried on in the wrong direction. After a while he knew that there was no need to wonder any longer if he might be lost. He was. Hopelessly so. In the distance there was a crack of thunder and then he heard the first trickle of rain on the leaves. A big fat drop landed right on his head with an annoying plop. Just when you think things can’t get any worse they always do, he said to himself.

  He felt tired and miserable and stupid. He could imagine Colm lying cosy and warm in the hotel room with the central heating on full blast. Probably eating a bar of chocolate too.

  ·•·

  Colm was cosy and warm and he was eating chocolate, but it was a chocolate dessert. He finished it and asked to be excused.

  ‘Are you going to check on Michael?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he lied.

  ‘Thanks Colm,’ she said.

  That made him feel guilty, but not for long. Before he had the chance to leave the table Mrs McMahon called over to see how they were getting on.

  ‘It’s a beautiful meal. Delicious,’ said Colm’s mother. ‘And thank you again for getting the chef in at such short notice. He can’t have been too happy to have been called in on his day off.’

  ‘Ah, sure that fella’s never happy. If he won a million euro on the Lotto he’d be moaning that the lad that won it the week before got two million. He can grumble if he wants, but he’ll grumble himself out of a job if he’s not careful. So, do you like the rooms?’

  ‘They’re fabulous. Very comfortable, aren’t they, Joe?’

  Colm’s father grunted a reply.

  ‘Well, if you want anything, just give me a call. Sure, I’ve nothing else to be doing.’

  ‘Thank you, we will. I hope we didn’t get your daughter in trouble by just turning up like this.’

  ‘Yerra, we had a big blowout and she went off in a huff, but she’s been like that ever since she was a child. A crier and a sulker. It was all a misunderstanding.’ She winked at Colm as if to say ‘remember our little secret’, then shuffled off to the kitchen.

  ‘Will we get another bottle of wine, Joe?’ Colm’s mother asked.

  He could see his father was about to complain about the cost of the wine – posh wine is always expensive, especially in restaurants – but for once his dad held his tongue.

  ‘Go on. Since we’re out for the night we may as well enjoy ourselves. You’ll come down and tell us if Michael isn’t feeling better soon, right?’

  ‘Will do. See you later,’ Colm said.

  ·•·

  He didn’t go back to the hotel room. Instead he wandered through the lobby trying to look like he didn’t have a care in the world. Act casual, he told himself. Look as if you’re just strolling about. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and tried a jaunty whistle. But there was nobody around, so his little ruse was unnecessary. With a quick look behind him, just to be sure, he snuck into the library. There was nobody in there either and it would have felt creepy if it wasn’t so hot; the central heating was on full blast.

  He stood before the book. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this, but The Brute was right – he couldn’t just sit around doing nothing. If the book was cursed then he’d have to find out more about it. And if it wasn’t then what had he got to lose? He’d already touched the book once, so there was no harm having a proper look at it. You couldn’t be cursed twice, right?

  He took a deep breath, reached out and grabbed it from the shelf. It was lighter than it looked. The cover was scratched and stained, as if someone had spilled a cup of tea or coffee on it many years before.

  He sat down in one of the leather armchairs – no point in being uncomfortable – and opened it. The first few pages were like a scrapbook. Yellowed newspaper cuttings about the opening of the hotel. Nothing too interesting there. He glanced over them then turned a few more pages until he found what he was looking for. The writing was thin and spidery, but just about clear enough to read. It was a diary of some sort. It told the story of a man who over a hundred years a
go had been here to do some work on the hotel. He read through the diary entries until he reached the final few.

  ·•·

  The Book of Dread (6)

  April 15th, 1896

  I have pieced the puzzle together! In 1817 the Red House was owned by a rich family known as the DeLancey-O’Brien’s. They had a son, Hugh, and everyone agreed there was something strange about the boy. He was a cruel child given to fits of vile temper. He was un-usual in appearance too – his eyes blazed red around the rim of his pupils giving him a fearsome look. An accident at the age of eleven left him with a scar running from the corner of his eye to his mouth. If he was a bad child, he was a brutish adult. He spent his days horse riding – his long black hair flowing behind him, his red eyes blazing – and his nights drinking and fighting. Whenever people in the village heard his horse’s hooves on the road they hid in their houses. At night he would prowl the streets of the village with his only friend, a giant, black dog who was as mean-tempered as his master, looking for trouble.

  He grew bored of the countryside and his black heart longed for excitement and adventure, for even though he was merciless and spiteful, he was also brave and wild. He begged his father for some money so that he could travel the world and make his own fortune. His father agreed, yet he didn’t know that when he waved him farewell one cold winter’s morning that he would never see his son again, for it would be ten years before Hugh returned and his father was dead by then.

  There was a knock at my door. My heart leapt, but it was only the owner of the inn telling me my supper was ready. I am nervous these days, yet I don’t know why. I should not be fearful when my fortune will soon be in my hands, yet every sound, every whisper frightens me. I shall continue my writing after I have eaten.

  One hour later:

  I have just had a most awful meal of boiled cabbage and cow’s tongue. When I am rich I shall eat like a king. Where was I? Ah, yes. Nobody knows for certain what Hugh did when he left Ireland. Once or twice a year his family would get a letter from some foreign land in which Hugh would tell them of the adventures he was having. Nothing was heard from him for almost eighteen months until his family received a letter from Africa. Hugh was excited. He said that he had little money left, but he had a feeling that he was about to make a fortune if his luck held. He wrote of a treasure he had heard about from a penniless ex-soldier he’d met on a sea voyage. I have found his letter among the items stored in the treasure chest in the Red House: