The Wish List Page 6

  Elph blinked again, scrolling through Belch Brennan’s case file. “Doubtless because you are a dullard. My log informs me that you were prone to acts of extreme idiocy.”

  Belch jumped off the sofa, sending it crashing into the wall. “I knew a teacher like you. All smart comments and saying I was thick. Well, I fixed him, all right. Slashed his tires, and scratched his hood.”

  Elph nodded. “Yes. I have video. I see you scratched your own name into Mister Kehoe’s paint-work. Ingenious.”

  “I’ll fix you,” growled Belch, lunging for the hologram.

  “I doubt it,” sneered Elph as the dog-boy passed through his electrical impulses. “I am an intangible projection. In order to ‘fix me,’ you would have to remove your own head and bury it in holy ground. Unlikely, to say the least.”

  Belch extracted himself from the wall, casting a vicious eye at his supposed helper. “Right-o, Mister Elph. Truce for now. But some day . . .”

  “I suggest we look for clues as to our quarry’s whereabouts.”

  “Glues?”

  “Ask the furniture.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  Elph sighed. “No, moron. Residual memories.

  Spirits are very receptive to them.”

  “You do it, then. I don’t fancy having a chat with a three-piece suite.”

  “I am not a spirit. I am an . . .”

  “I know, I know. An intangible projection, whatever that is. Okay, but if you’re having a laugh at my expense, then I might just have to remove this implant myself. How much deader can I get?”

  Belch faced the battered sofa. “Well, sofa,” he mumbled, feeling a complete fool, “any idea what Finn and that old guy are up to?”

  He waited, half expecting the raggedy old cushions to form themselves into a mouth and answer him. Instead, Meg appeared on the settee. Not Meg exactly. More like a painting of her, with the colors swirling of their own accord.

  “Good,” said Elph. “A grade-four residual memory. Quite recent.”

  “Oh shut up, Spock. I’m trying to make out what she’s doing.”

  “Any aural input?”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you hear her?”

  Belch listened, his pointed ears twitching in concentration. Words flowed from Meg’s mouth like multicolored birds. The colors were dark. Finn had not been happy: “It has to be this? We have to travel the length and breadth of Ireland to complete four idiotic tasks? Nothing else will do for you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Elph hovered thoughtfully. “So, the old man has set tasks. Doubtless they have already departed on their quest.”

  “How much of a head start do they have?”

  “Difficult to say. Time works differently on the spirit level. Judging by the memory dissipation, I’d say perhaps six hours.”

  Belch tried a sarcastic chuckle. What came out was more of a poodle yip.

  “Six hours? They could be out of the country by now. Well, that’s it then. There’s no way to find them. Might as well just sit here and watch a bit of television until they come back. If ever.”

  Elph chewed a holographic lip. It seemed as though the half-wit was correct. The old man had defeated them simply by leaving his house. How infuriating. Myishi would not be happy if his prototype failed him. The hologram could well be demoted to a microwave for Beelzebub’s curries.

  Belch flicked through the stations looking for some cartoons. News, news, ads. Rubbish. He was just about to switch off the set in disgust when a familiar face flashed onto the screen. It couldn’t be . . . but it was.

  A predatory growl rumbled in the back of his throat. How lucky can you get? Somebody down there liked him.

  Meg strolled down O’Connell Street enjoying the cool breeze on her scalp. Who’d have thought there was an advantage to being bald?

  She knew exactly where she was. Mam used to bring her Christmas shopping here every year, before the accident. Got a day off school and everything. Clothes, toys, whatever she wanted, and topped off with a visit to McDonald’s. The good old days.

  Every now and then she caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window, and the shock reminded her of her mission. Get this old coot looking half-human so he’ll have some chance of a smooch with Ireland’s favorite grandmother.

  A spot of shoplifting had been her first thought, but you can’t shoplift a haircut. Plus, her aura had enough red in it already without her breaking a few more commandments. So Meg rifled her host’s pockets. It was not a pleasant job. A bit like being a digger trawling through the dump. Her search yielded several crumpled tissues, cough drops from various decades, a comb covered in Brylcream, and a pack of old bingo cards. Not exactly the oldest swinger in town. Finally Meg hit gold. Deep in the folds of a frayed wallet, she discovered a shiny new Visa card. Perfect.

  The first zone of concern was the general head area. Lowrie had probably grown accustomed to it over the years, but seen through new eyes, it was a disgrace. Gray hairs sprouting from everywhere except the scalp. Eyes that had been rheumy and bloodshot since God knows when, and a raggedy stubble that broke the surface like wandering sandpaper. Something had to be done.

  NU-U was the answer. Her mother had taken her there once when she felt they were both in need of pampering. Manicures and facials all around, then home on the one-twenty feeling like a million dollars.

  Meg pushed in the glass-and-steel doors. Her entrance to the NU-U salon had the same effect as a gunslinger’s into a western saloon. Frosty silence descended on the establishment. You could have heard a pin drop, and in fact did when a trainee hairdresser dropped several from between her teeth.

  A black-clad blond-headed young lady approached Meg warily. She kept her hands close to her chest in case they might accidentally brush against this unexpected visitor.

  “Hi, I’m Natalie. May I help you?” was what her mouth said, but her eyes said: Get out before I call the police.

  Meg cleared her throat. “Do you do men here?”

  Natalie nodded reluctantly. “Yes . . . generally.”

  “Good. Could you do this one then?”

  Natalie blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Ah . . . me. Could you do me?”

  “Our services are not inexpensive, perhaps the local barber . . .”

  Meg flashed the credit card. “Put the whole whack on this, Natalie.”

  Natalie leaned in to examine the card. Not too close though. A relieved, almost charming smile spread across her plum lips. “Well, that seems to be in order. What would you like done?”

  Meg snorted. “I’d say now, that’s sort of obvious. I want the works.”

  Natalie snapped her fingers, and two similarly clad assistants magically appeared at her elbows. “This gentleman would like the works. And, if I might say so, none too soon.”

  Meg was whisked into a space-age chrome chair, and various beautifying machines were arranged around her head. Some she recognized: dryers, highlight lamps, and electrolysis lasers. But others looked like they came straight off the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

  “Is this going to be noisy?” she asked nervously.

  Assistant number one twittered delightedly. “No, no. These are the very latest, all stealth-muffled for the patrons’ comfort.”

  Meg nodded. “Good. Because I don’t want to wake me up.”

  By lunchtime, Lowrie McCall had been plucked, shaved, moisturized, exfoliated, manicured, pedicured, trimmed, colored (burnished autumn, six-wash fade-out) and wrapped. All without rousing him from his slumber. Every time his consciousness twitched, Meg would simply tell it to go back to sleep. Gently, of course, without the usual rudeness she generally used with adults. The old man was only allowed to surface to sign the credit-card slip. And then only partially. Poor old Lowrie thought he was dreaming about winning the lottery.

  The transformation was phenomenal. Even Natalie was impressed. “If it wasn’t for the clothing,
you could almost think sir was a native Dubliner.” The highest compliment any Dubliner could pay to a country bumpkin.

  Right, next stop. New outfit. Time to introduce this old fossil to the twenty-first century.

  The Stephen’s Green Center had always been Mam’s favorite, so Meg dragged Lowrie’s old legs along the length of Grafton Street and up to the second floor of the mall. She picked the shop with the loudest music pumping through the doors, and went in. Techno dance beats enveloped her immediately, inside her head—or McCall’s head to be precise. Lowrie’s mind stirred irritably in its sleep.

  Hush there now, off you go, no need to wake up just yet.

  A flat-headed nose-ringer slimed over to guide the old guy to the denture shop. “You’re in the wrong place, pops. This is a clothes shop. For people less than a hundred.”

  Meg took this personally—after all, she was in the insulted body at the time. “Pops?”

  Nose-ring swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Well, you know, you being an oldish gent and all.”

  Meg opened Lowrie’s mouth to respond, and then found she couldn’t. That creepy idiot was right. Maybe she belonged here, but Lowrie certainly didn’t. You wouldn’t put the president or one of those other ancient fellows in combat boots and a bomber jacket. Older people had their own fashions from the days before PlayStations. Sad looking, but they were happy.

  Meg speared nose-ring with a haughty glare. “I was considering purchasing a gift for my . . . great-great-granddaughter, but now I shall take my big roll of cash somewhere else.”

  Meg stormed out, delighted with the long words she’d used, and with the look on the guy’s face. Three doors down there was a place called Townsend’s & Sons. Heaps of nonfashion in the window. Ties and everything. One of the plastic dummies even had a top hat on him. Oh, this was definitely the place for Mister Has-Been McCall.

  She pushed in the door hesitantly, still thinking of herself as a young girl, who’d been hunted out of a dozen similar establishments in her short lifetime. A group of snobby-looking chaps were flitting around with measuring tapes hanging around their necks. None of them looked young enough to be the sons in Townsend’s & Sons.

  One strolled over. He had bits of chalk sticking out of his shirt pocket, and a droopy moustache like Yosemite Sam.

  “Sir?” he said, really cool, as if to say, Can I help you, sir? was too much effort.

  Meg squinted. How should she put this? Be confident, she told herself. Like you belong here.

  “Righto . . . ah . . . shop servant. I’ve had my head done by Natalie. Now I want a few decent things to wear. A suit or something. None of those top hats though, or he’ll kill me. Well, he would if he wasn’t too late.”

  Meg giggled nervously.

  “A suit, sir? Any particular label?”

  “No, just give me something expensive. Put the lot on my Visa.”

  Suddenly there were smiles all around. Measuring tapes were whipped out like Indiana Jones bullwhips, and jammed up Lowrie’s armpits.

  “Would sir prefer tailored or off the rack?”

  “Um . . . not sure, just give me something already made up.”

  “Very good. Stand still, please. Two- or three-piece?”

  “Dunno. No vest though.”

  “Of course.”

  “And a pair of those brown shoes. With the swingy yokes.”

  “Tassels.”

  “That’s the ones.”

  “Size?”

  Tricky one. Time for some cute thinking. “Size? I forget. The old memory isn’t what it used to be. Me being so ancient and all.”

  “As long as sir remembers how to sign his name.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just my little joke.”

  Meg felt as though she were being dressed by a whirlwind. Father and sons flashed around her, shouting incomprehensible figures and phrases.

  After several interminable minutes of poking and fitting, the tailors stopped their feverish activity.

  “Et voilà!” The elder Townsend admired his creation.

  Meg risked a peek. Not bad, she supposed. Lowrie’s threadbare outfit had been replaced by a navy jacket and gray trousers. The cuffs fell perfectly onto a pair of dark brown, tasseled, lace-up shoes. The shirt was crisp and pale blue, and complemented by a deep red tie.

  “Sir?”

  The Townsends hovered around their client. Awaiting a compliment as vultures await a desert fatality.

  “Um . . . It’s uh . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Now then, what would James Bond say in this situation? “Outstanding, gentlemen. Terrific job.”

  This seemed to do the trick, and the Townsends fell to twittering among themselves. Papa approached with a small silver plate. Here came the bad news. And it was bad news. Very bad. Eight hundred and forty pounds! If poor old Lowrie had any idea what was going on, this would have killed him for sure.

  She handed over the Visa card, hoping that dying in debt didn’t color your aura. If it did, Lowrie was in big trouble.

  A son glided over. He held Lowrie’s old clothes out in front of him in a carrier bag, like a nurse with a diaper sack.

  “Does sir wish to have these . . . things?”

  Meg considered it. She’d already removed the wallet, the train ticket, keys, and few measly bills.

  “Nope. Sir doesn’t. Trash the lot of them.”

  “A wise choice.”

  No turning back now. It was these swanky new clothes, or try to get into the television station in his underwear. And there was a sight the free world wasn’t ready for yet.

  It was time to wake the old man up. Meg eased herself from his body and waited for the fireworks. The old green eyes blinked dreamily and a slow smile spread across Lowrie McCall’s lips.

  “Hello,” he mumbled, to no one in particular.

  Strange behavior. The Townsends all clustered at the far wall.

  Lowrie raised a finger. “There’s something familiar about you.”

  Meg looked around. Who the hell was the old guy talking to?

  “I never forget a face.”

  What face? Maybe the possession had pushed Lowrie over the edge. She followed his bleary gaze. The dozy old guy was talking to his own reflection in the full-length mirror. A whoop of delighted laughter burst from her mouth.

  The familiar irritated crease appeared in McCall’s brow. “What are you laughing at?”

  The Townsends flushed; they had indeed been tittering discreetly at their latest customer’s behavior.

  Meg swallowed her giggles. “Oh, nothing, apart from the fact that you’re talking to yourself in the mirror.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! That’s not me.”

  “Take a closer look, McCall, it’s you all right.”

  Lowrie studied the suave figure in front of him. It did indeed seem that there was a frame surrounding the gentleman. Most unusual. Unless, of course, the figure was a reflection.

  “Oh dear,” he sighed, the penny finally dropping. “This is who I could’ve been.”

  Meg snorted. “God almighty, McCall. You can turn anything into a whining session. You’re supposed to be happy.”

  Lowrie touched the glass, just to make sure. “I am happy. This is . . . unbelievable. Thank you.”

  “Welcome. Anything to give you a better chance of snagging Cicely Ward.”

  “For a second there I thought you did this for me.”

  “I did. You really are a moody old coot. Do you never just smile, and not worry about the consequences?”

  Lowrie smoothed his silk tie. “I used to. A lifetime ago before . . . before everything.” A sudden thought struck the old man. “Here, how did you pay for all this?”

  Somehow, even without a drop of blood in her veins, Meg managed to blush. “I didn’t.”

  “Oh no. You used my body to hold up this shop!”

  “I did not!”

  “Then what?”

  Meg floated ahead of him out the d
oor. “Never mind. We have to get out to the TV station, remember? It’s out in Donnybrook.”

  Lowrie ran under his own steam for the first time in years. “Come back here you. Tell me the truth!”

  “Okay, then. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “I don’t care. Tell me anyway.”

  Meg told him. He didn’t like it.

  THEY TOOK A BUS TO THE STUDIOS. EVEN LOWRIE HAD a few layers knocked off his grumpy shell by sitting on the top deck. It was a bright spring day in the city, and the streets flowed by beneath their window like a river of life. Of course Lowrie, being Lowrie, couldn’t stay happy long.

  “Listen, spook. Where’s my other stuff?”

  “Trashed it.”

  “What? I’ve had that jacket nearly twenty years!”

  “I know, it told me.”

  This being Dublin, no one was too concerned about some old fellow chatting to himself on a bus. “You had no right!”

  “Are you serious about this Kissy Sissy thing or not?”

  “Dead serious, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “Well, she’s hardly going to plant a kiss on some old idiot lugging around a tote bag full of smelly rags.

  And I’ll tell you another thing, you’re lucky those Townsend guys didn’t sell underwear, or your century-old shorts would’ve been in the garbage as well.”

  Lowrie blanched. “How did you . . .”

  “Yes, I saw your old stringy underpants. And it’s a sight that’ll stay with me for the rest of my . . .” Meg trailed off, suddenly realizing just how dead being dead was.

  “I know, Meg,” said Lowrie, calling her by name for the first time. “We all think we’re going to live forever. Then bang! Our time is up and we haven’t done any of the things we thought we’d do. Well, not me. I’ve got a chance to redeem myself. And a partner to help me do it.”

  Meg sniffled, even though there were no tears on her cheeks. “Partner?”

  “You.”

  “I’m only here because I have to be, remember?”

  Lowrie nodded. “I know that, but maybe your heart is in it all the same.”

  “No, McCall. Don’t rely on me. There’s no point. I could never help anyone, even myself.”