He marked the page in his book, placed it on the dresser, then went over and picked up the piece of paper. He opened it up and read:
Leave the hotel now
Before it’s too late
Ten
His name was Paddy but everyone called him Bullkiller. Because that’s what he told them to call him. It’s never cool to give yourself a nickname, but nobody was brave enough to point this out to Paddy. He was huge and unpleasant, both in features and personality. He had spent twenty years on the Alaskan pipelines, one of the hardest jobs in a frozen climate, working alongside some of the toughest men that had ever existed. And even they were afraid of him.
It was a Thursday night and on Thursdays Paddy had a routine he had followed ever since he’d returned to Ireland. First he’d have a dinner of two steaks and chips, then he’d go to his local pub, drink a few pints and finally he’d pick a fight with someone. It didn’t take much – if you looked at him the wrong way or made some innocent remark that he pretended to be offended by, then you’d be the one he’d choose – and less than two minutes later it would all be over. As a result most people avoided the pub on Thursday nights, but tonight Paddy the Bullkiller was happy. A stranger sat at one of the tables quietly reading a newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.
Paddy got up from his seat at the bar. This took some time because his bulk made him a slow mover. The barman realised what he was up to and ducked down behind the dishwasher for safety as Paddy ambled to the man’s table.
His large frame cast a shadow across the newspaper, but the man at the table didn’t look up. Paddy scratched his chin and thought about the best way to start the fight. Maybe to-night he’d just give the man a shove and take it from there. He’d had a long day at work and wasn’t in the mood for making conversation. But before he had the chance to do anything the man did something unexpected – he took off his watch and placed it carefully on the table.
Paddy was confused. To be honest, it didn’t take much to confuse him, but he didn’t understand what the man was doing. He was about to ask when the man spoke, as if anticipating the question.
‘The watch is very expensive.’ He picked it up and held it out in front of him so that Paddy could get a better look at it. ‘Those are real diamonds where the numbers twelve and six should be. Do you like it?’
Paddy began to feel uneasy. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. Usually at this point his victim would be lying on the ground whining about his nose or his teeth or his fingers, not telling him about a watch.
‘I asked you a question. Do you like it?’
Paddy the Bullkiller nodded. ‘Very nice,’ he mumbled. What was wrong with him? He was finding it difficult to speak. There was something about this man that frightened him and he didn’t know why. The man was small. Weedy too. There was no obvious reason to be afraid of him. But he was. He wished he’d stayed sitting by the bar drinking his beer.
‘Do you know why I took off my expensive watch?’ asked the man, placing it on the table once more.
Paddy shook his head.
‘I took it off so that it won’t get damaged when I break you into tiny pieces.’
The man got to his feet. His head barely reached Paddy’s chest, but Bullkiller took a step backwards.
‘Don’t break me into tiny pieces,’ he said in a voice so small it could have been a little girl speaking.
‘Say please,’ said the man.
‘Please don’t break me into tiny little pieces,’ Paddy squeaked.
The man sat down, put on his watch and began reading the newspaper again.
‘Leave now,’ he said to Paddy without even looking at him.
Paddy the Bullkiller didn’t need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and left the pub immediately, not even stopping to collect his coat or the wallet he’d left lying on the bar.
The rat-faced little man nodded to the barman. ‘Another coffee,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the barman who’d never called anyone sir in his life before.
Eleven
Colm heard his mother before he saw her. She was singing as she walked down the hotel corridor. He stuffed the paper into his pocket before she entered the room.
‘Hi love, everything OK?’ she asked.
Colm half-expected her to kiss him again, but she didn’t. No point doing it unless there were crowds of people to witness his humiliation.
‘Everything’s fine, Mam,’ he answered.
‘That was the nicest meal I’ve had in ten years,’ she said. ‘We’re so lucky to have found this hotel.’
Colm felt like laughing. If she thought this was good luck then he’d hate to think what bad luck must be like.
‘How’s Michael?’ she asked.
‘Fine. I think. He’s still in the bathroom.’
‘Still?’
She banged on the bathroom door.
‘Michael, are you all right in there?’
No answer.
‘Michael, it’s me, Auntie Mary. Look there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We’ve all been … er … sick at some time in our lives. Just let me know you’re OK, hon.’
Still nothing.
‘How long has he been in there, Colm?’
‘I dunno. An hour.’
‘An hour?’
Lines appeared on her forehead. A sure sign she was worried. She banged on the door again. ‘Michael, if you don’t answer me in the next thirty seconds then I’m going to come in.’
Five seconds later she opened the door and stormed in. Colm cringed. This could be unpleasant. When she emerged from the bathroom all the colour had drained from her face.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. It didn’t look good.
‘He’s not there,’ she said. Her lips went dry and thin. ‘Where is he, Colm?’
‘I don’t know. I thought he was in there.’
‘This is serious, young man.’
Oh no. ‘Young man’ meant trouble. Big trouble.
‘I-I-I don’t know, Mam,’ he stammered.
‘I’ll put it this way, Colm. If you don’t tell me what’s going on in the next ten seconds, then you’re grounded until your thirteenth birthday. And that’ll only be the start of your punishment. I’m too angry right now to even begin to think up any others, but believe me, I will. So, what’s it going to be?’
·•·
Within five minutes Colm’s bedroom was a flurry of activity. His dad arrived along with Mrs McMahon, Lauryn, Lauryn’s mother Marie – who was as beautiful as her daughter, but looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks – as well as the porter-waiter, the only one of the staff who was still in the hotel. There were plenty of raised voices and pointed fingers until eventually Colm’s dad managed to calm them down with a few well chosen words.
‘SHUT UP,’ he roared.
Six faces turned towards him.
‘We can argue and point fingers later. Now we need to find Michael. Agreed?’
There were a few nods and muttered words.
‘Right. Lauryn, is it?’
Lauryn stepped forward. Colm noticed that her shoes were covered in mud.
‘Colm seems to think that you and Michael might have arranged to meet up. Is that true?’
‘Yes, but I forgot about it. Sorry,’ Lauryn said.
‘You forgot? How could you forget?’ Colm’s mother asked angrily.
‘She has a lot on her mind,’ said Marie, her accent a strange mix of Irish and American.
‘I’ve a lot on my mind. My nephew is missing,’ Colm’s mother replied.
‘Easy, Mary,’ said Colm’s father.
‘Don’t easy me,’ said his mother. ‘Anything could have happened to him.’
‘But losing our heads won’t do us any good. Not now. Where were you going to meet him, Lauryn?’
‘I was supposed to call to his room. Here.’
‘Where did you go instead?’
Lauryn looked to her mother, as if checking that it was
all right to answer. Marie smiled which Lauryn took as a yes.
‘I went into the woods,’ she said.
‘What would a young girl like you want to go into the woods at that time of night for?’ Colm’s mother asked.
‘That’s got nothing to do with you,’ said Mrs McMahon.
‘It does when my nephew’s missing.’
‘No. It doesn’t,’ Mrs McMahon said firmly.
Colm’s father ignored the conversation.
‘Do you think it’s possible that he went into the woods by himself?’ he asked.
Lauryn was surprised at the suggestion. As if it had never occurred to her.
‘I suppose so. I didn’t see anyone else when I was in there,’ she said.
‘Right. This is what we’re going to do,’ Colm’s father said. ‘You, what’s your name?’
‘Mr Jenkins,’ said the porter-waiter haughtily.
‘Mr Jenkins and me are going to go into the woods and look for him.’
‘Those woods are much larger than they look,’ said Mrs McMahon.
‘Well, we’re still going to go. Mrs McMahon, Lauryn and Lauryn’s mother – I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Marie.’
‘You three know this hotel inside out, I bet. I’d like you to check it from top to bottom.’
‘No problem,’ Lauryn said.
‘Colm and Mary, you stay here in case he comes back.’ He took his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘If you haven’t heard from me in thirty minutes, ring the Gardaí.’
‘Mr Sweeney,’ said Jenkins.
‘What?’
‘I’d like to make a request,’ he said.
‘If this is about money, I’ve already given you twenty euro.’
‘No, sir. If you would like to turn slightly to your left you might find the young gentleman that appears to be the cause of all this concern.’
The Brute stood at the door.
‘Hiya. What’s going on?’ he asked.
·•·
It took some time for everything and everybody to calm down, but finally there was some sort of order. The Brute looked exhausted and bedraggled. He was filthy and soaked and his clothes were torn, but he was in good health. He was also in good spirits. Even when his aunt had stopped hugging him and started to give out.
‘You had me at death’s door with the worry.’
‘Sorry, Auntie Mary.’
‘How dare you pretend to be sick and then sneak off like that.’
‘Sorry, Auntie Mary.’
‘Anything could have happened to you and if it did what would I tell your poor mother? She’d be heartbroken.’
‘Sorry, Auntie Mary.’
Eventually she ran out of complaints and gave him another hug, not even caring that she was ruining her own clothes. They made him drink cups of hot, sweet tea – for the shock they said – and Mrs McMahon told them how once, long ago, a man went into the woods and never came out again.
‘That’s why I always warn the guests to stick to the path,’ she said.
Lauryn apologised to The Brute for not meeting up with him as they’d planned, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just laughed – laughed! – and said it didn’t matter. He’d had a great adventure. He even started talking about how much he loved the hotel, which seemed to please Mrs McMahon, and he would have rambled on for even longer if Colm’s mother hadn’t told him to have a shower and change his clothes before he caught pneumonia.
They all began to drift out of the room then, glad that the drama was over. Colm’s mother told him to keep an eye on The Brute and if he was ill during the night to call her immediately. He promised he would.
He walked his parents out to the corridor and when they were safely in their room he ran after Lauryn. He caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Is your cousin all right?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Colm. ‘I just wanted to give you this. You left it in our room.’
He took the folded piece of white paper from his pocket and handed it to her, watching for her reaction. Nothing. She just looked at it.
‘What’s this supposed to be?’ she asked. ‘Some kind of joke?’
‘You tell me,’ Colm said bravely.
‘I’ve never seen this before in my life,’ she said.
‘Except when you wrote it,’ he replied.
Lauryn flinched. It lasted less than a second, but it was enough to convince Colm that she’d written the note.
‘Why did you do that? Is it just another stupid joke, like The Book of Dread?’ he asked. His angry tone surprised him. He was usually the quietest one in any room.
‘I told you I didn’t write it,’ she said. Her lips were set tight as if she was angry at the accusation.
‘OK,’ Colm said calmly. He took the paper from her, folded it neatly and put it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘If you didn’t write it then someone in this hotel did. I’ll show it to my parents and see what they think. After what’s just happened with The B … Michael, I don’t think my mam will be too happy. She’ll probably ring the Gardaí.’
He started back up the stairs. He’d only reached the third step when Lauryn called after him.
‘Wait,’ she said.
·•·
The Brute was surprised to find the room was empty when he’d finished his shower. Two showers in one day. He wouldn’t have to wash for a week. He dried his hair with a towel and then tried to brush it into shape. No matter what he did, it didn’t look good. Normally, he’d have spent ages trying to style it with American wax, but he was too tired to do that now.
He lay down on the bed. All of a sudden he was ex-hausted. Funny. Only a few minutes before he’d been in great form. Happier than he’d been in years and now it had worn off him. Just like that. Maybe he was coming down with something.
His eyes began to close. He was on the edge of sleep. Images kept popping into his head. The woods. Had he really been there? It seemed like a dream now that he was safely back in the hotel room. The trapdoor. That was real, wasn’t it? He’d climbed down the ladder. He could almost feel his feet on the wooden steps that had splintered and cracked. They were rotten from age. It was dark down there. Pitch black. He couldn’t see anything at first. Even when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness things hadn’t been any clearer. But he remembered the smell. That horrible musty smell. That was it. It was like he was still there. The spongy earth beneath his feet. The rotten stench. The cold touch of granite.
What happened then? The hissing. He’d thought it was a snake at first until he realised that was a stupid thought. He knew it had to be something else. Something trying to breathe. As if every breath was a struggle. Something ancient. He’d walked towards it. Why was he even there? He’d been looking for Colm. That was it. But as soon as he knew Colm wasn’t down there why hadn’t he just climbed up the ladder and run away?
Because he couldn’t. The thing, that vile old thing, was calling to him. That was when he realised that the voice he’d heard hadn’t been coming from under the ground. It had been inside his head all the time. The thing was com-municating with him. No, not communicating. What was it? Commanding him.
He’d gone towards it without even stopping to think why. He’d reached out and felt its robes. Foul smelling and damp. What then? Now he remembered. The eye. One blood-red eye.
He woke up with a start. His forehead was covered with sweat. He wiped it off and sat up. That was one bad dream, he thought. He got up from the bed. His jacket was hanging on the back of the chair. Water dripped from it on to the floor forming a little pool on the carpet. His favourite jacket ruined. He sighed. He wished he was at home. In his own bed.
He inspected the arm of the jacket. Even if his mother sewed it up it’d look manky. And she wouldn’t buy him another one. He knew she’d just bang on about how expensive jackets were and how money didn’t grow on trees and stuff like that. She’d had enough money to go to Lanzarote
though. Maybe he’d say that to her if she made a fuss.
There was something in the jacket pocket. It all came back to him in a flash. It wasn’t a bad dream. He had been there. Under the ground. With that thing. And he’d taken something. Even though every part of him had screamed to leave it behind, he’d taken it.
He shook the jacket until the object came loose and rolled onto the floor. It gleamed in the light.
The Brute’s stomach lurched. He thought he was going to be sick. He slumped to the floor. What had he done?
Twelve
Colm used to love libraries. He loved finding books he had never heard of before and taking them home like some secret treasure. He was beginning to change his mind. Every time he’d visited this library bad things had happened.
‘When are you going to tell me?’ he asked.
‘Just a couple more minutes,’ Lauryn replied.
‘What are we waiting for?’
‘Please be quiet,’ she said.
Lauryn got out of her chair and began pacing up and down.
‘Look, if you’re not going to tell me, then I’m leaving,’ Colm said.
The library door creaked open and a man appeared. He had long dark hair and a beard, and he wore a tweed jacket over a check shirt and a pair of jeans. He looked about forty years old. He held a cigarette between his yellow, stained fingers, the smoke curling up towards the ceiling.
‘Hello, Colm,’ he said.
Colm had never seen the man before in his life, so he assumed Lauryn must have told him his name.
‘Hi,’ he replied.
The man stood in front of him and Colm had to arch his neck just to look him in the face. The man was tall. Very tall. Thin too – the fingers that wrapped themselves around the cigarette were long and bony.
‘My name is Peter Drake,’ said the man in a deep, rich voice. ‘There’s no need to be afraid.’
Colm hadn’t been afraid. Not until the man had men-tioned it. Now, he began to wonder if there was yet another thing to worry about.
‘Professor Drake will explain everything,’ Lauryn said.
Colm & the Lazarus Key Page 8