The Wish List (13 page)

FRANCO KELLY HAD SOLVED THE BROKEN REMOTE problem. Not that the television's remote control was actually broken, but it might as well be for all the chance there was of Franco dipping into his cigarette money for new batteries.

Anyway, he'd solved the remote problem. The problem being: what do you do when your remote's broken, and you want to change channels?

You could get up out of the armchair. But that was a bit extreme. Bad enough that you had to raise yourself for food and bathroom breaks, without exerting yourself every time the advertisements came on.

You could befriend some local kid and get him to lie in front of the set. But kids these days were notoriously unreliable, and their parents had an annoying habit of wanting them back around news time, just when Franco needed channels changed the most.

Franco reluctantly decided that it was up to him.

He would have to rise above his distaste for mental exercise and devise a plan. Something ingenious to dazzle his critics. Couch potato, am I? he thought. I'll show them.

His first thought was to use his toes. But they were pudgy and inaccurate. Plus sometimes the sweat caused the buttons to stick. Back to the drawing board.

The second idea was a masterpiece of simplicity. Franco dragged the armchair over to the television. Close to perfect, but there were bugs. Placing the screen directly in front of him meant that he still had to lean forward to manipulate the now slightly sticky buttons. Placing it to the side caused a shift in his viewing position and a resultant pain in the neck muscles. Such a conundrum. Was he to be denied his only pleasure?

At last, with a craftiness born of thirty years of lying around, Franco hit upon the solution. He lumbered up to the bedroom and wrenched the wardrobe's door from its hinges. Propping the mirrored side before the chair, he angled it slightly to reflect the television screen at his side. Ingenious.

Not only were the speakers now playing directly into his good ear, but the convex nature of the mirror meant that for all intents and purposes he now had a twenty-eight-inch screen. Ah bliss. Now if only he had a potty . . .

He wouldn't have to suffer at all if it wasn't for those Finn women. Dead—the gall. Two in one year. What were the chances of that? How was a man supposed to look after himself with no women to order around?

Franco didn't mind them being dead as such. He didn't miss them as people. But he missed their service. Not that the young one had been much good. She hadn't given anything but lip. But the mother. What a cook. A good little worker, too. Twelve hours in the video store and then home to make the dinner. None of that microwave garbage either. Oh no. Franco insisted that everything be made from scratch. Then she had to go and walk out under a taxi, didn't she. Just when his back was starting to play up, too. Some people have no consideration.

Elph was not impressed.

“I had thought you were on the bottom rung of the evolutionary ladder,” he commented dryly. “I can see now that I was mistaken.”

“Woof,” said Belch, who was still a bit punch-drunk from the pure goodness episode. It seemed that his
Homo sapiens
genes had taken the brunt of the explosion and he was more hound than human now.

“This place is such a hovel,” muttered Elph distastefully. “The kind of place I would expect to find . . . well, someone like you, actually.”

“Shut up!” snarled Belch, swallowing the urge to rip the hologram pixel from pixel. “Tell me what I have to do.”

Elph flitted above Franco's armchair.

“This,” he said, pointing a 3-D finger at Kelly's greasy head. “Is your last chance. A psychological profile of the target soul indicates obsessive tendencies. . . .”

Belch licked a newly sprouted canine. Ectoplasmic slobber dripped from his lips.

Elph noted the new developments. Perhaps I should, as they say, dumb it down, he thought. “There is a strong possibility that Meg Finn will show up here.”

Belch nodded. It made sense. Meg hated Franco more than anything. Given the chance, she'd be back to settle the score. “So. What do we do?”

Elph's electronic lip wrinkled in disgust. “We wait. We wait, and try to ignore the smell.”

“Hee-hee,” said Lowrie. “Ha-ha, hic.”

“You're drunk!” giggled Meg. It was good to giggle. There hadn't been much to laugh about since the gas explosion.

“No, no,” responded Lowrie, waving a shaky finger. “Not drunk as such. Tipsy. Different thing entirely.”

They were traveling by rail again. Northbound toward Dublin. The other passengers gave Lowrie a wide berth. The old man was obviously inebriated. There was a distinct smell of alcohol, and he was talking to himself, for heaven's sake! Needless to say, Lowrie had not utilized Meg's otherworldly strength to bash Brendan Ball. Quite the opposite, in fact, he had ignored Meg altogether and proceeded to polish off half a bottle of brandy with his old classmate. They parted the best of friends, promising to meet again and soon. Lowrie would never have made a promise like that sober. Not when he knew he couldn't keep it.

“That means we have a spare wish,” said Meg.

“Hmm?” mumbled Lowrie. He could have said, What do you mean by that? But it was too much effort.

“Well, I didn't punch anyone, so we have a wish left over.”

“S'true. Wish left over.” That sounded lyrical, so Lowrie made it into a song. “We have a wish left oooooover. . . .”

Meg wasn't laughing now. Something had occurred to her.

“Can I have the wish, then?”

“Hmm?”

“Give me the wish. There's someone I'd like to punch in the face.”

Lowrie's eyes narrowed craftily.

“I know,” he said pointing an accusing finger. “I know what you want to do.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yep. 'S a fact. You want to punch Franco.”

“Okay, so you know. Now, how about it?”

“Go ahead. Punch him. I'm not stopping you.”

Meg scowled. “I can't. I've tried, but I can only go where you go.”

Lowrie thought about it. Or rather he tried to think, wading through the fog enveloping his brain. At last he arrived at a conclusion.

“Okay,” he pronounced. “On one condition . . .”

“What?” asked Meg, even though she already knew what that condition was.

“I want to know what he did,” said Lowrie, suddenly sounding very sober indeed. “I want to know what he did to make you do that to him.”

Meg sighed. She'd never talked about this. Not to anyone.

“I can't,” she said finally. “I just can't.”

“Couldn't you just show me?” asked Lowrie, tapping his head.

Meg chewed her lip. “Maybe. But with your weak heart . . .”

“I'll risk it.”

“Okay. But don't come chasing after me in the afterlife if you have a heart attack.”

Lowrie smiled weakly. “I won't.”

Meg rolled up the sleeve of her jacket, plunging her hand into Lowrie's ear.

Lowrie giggled. “That tickles!”

“Stop fidgeting, would you? You might get brain damage or something!”

He stopped fidgeting.

“Right. There we are.”

Lowrie paled. He was being chased by a group of angry rugby players with girly shirts.

“Oops. Wrong memory.”

Meg closed her eyes and concentrated. Think about that day, she told herself. Let it all come back to you. I'm twelve years old plus one day. I've stayed out as long as I can, but it's cold and I'm hungry and there's nowhere else to go. . . .

I remember sitting in the back of Videovision for hours watching a film on the big monitor. Trish asked me to leave when the evening crowds started coming in. Nicely though. Because she knew Franco. Knew what I had to go home to.

“Sorry, Meggy,” she said. “You know the drill. The bossman will be checking in any minute.”

I got up off the windowsill. My rear end was numb from sitting there anyway.

“That's all right, Trish. Thanks for the Star Trek. I hadn't seen that one.”

“Come back later. I'm on till twelve.”

“Maybe. Depending on You Know Who.”

Trish shook her head. “I know what I'd do with that fella.”

I nodded. “The same thing I'd like to do with him.”

I zipped the jacket right up to my chin and stepped out into the wind. The town was busy with people jumping out of cars or going into the fish-and-chips shop. Mothers treating their kids. Like my mam used to treat me. Funny how almost everything reminded me of Mam. I'd be just walking along not feeling too bad, when a picture of her would pop into my head. Anything could cause it, from someone wearing a sweater like hers to a quick sniff of jasmine, her favorite perfume.

I put on my best hard face so no one would annoy me. You have to go around frowning in our neighborhood, or the young lads will start hassling you on the way home. One chap tried it on me once, and I squirted ink all over his tracksuit top. He ran off home, squealing like a baby. These lads are very particular about their clothes. It's hard to be cool covered in blue squiggles. I always keep a Magic Marker in my pocket, just in case.

I took the long way around, even though the wind was blowing a hole in me. I could have cut across the green, past the swings. But I didn't. One, because that's where all the teenage couples hung out, and the boys would be only dying to make a show of some young one to impress their girlfriends. And two, because the quicker I got home, the quicker I'd have to look at Franco's greasy face.

The house was in an awful state. Even after four months. You'd think it'd take longer than that for a house to fall apart. But there were already green fingers creeping up the walls. The grass had crested the window ledges, and the gate hung limply from the hinges. Of course, when Mam was alive we wouldn't have tolerated any of this. The two of us would have been out with the sleeves rolled up doing whatever needed doing. That was back when number forty-seven had been a home. Now it was just a house.

Mam had never been very lucky with men. First my dad, who disappeared off to London at the first sign of responsibility on the horizon. And then Franco, probably the most useless, disgusting layabout ever to glue himself to a sofa with his own sweat. I could feel a shudder beginning at the base of my spine and working its way up. I couldn't help it. Every time I thought of that man . . .

I had developed a way to open the front door without a key. You put your shoulder in just the right spot and heaved. The frame was so warped that the lock just popped right out of its slot. Of course, Franco pounding on it every time he forgot his keys didn't help. It was handy, though, if you wanted to sneak in unnoticed.

I popped the door gently. As usual, the television was blaring from the sitting room. I didn't go in there anymore, no matter what was on. That was Franco's room now, and he was welcome to it. No television was a small price to pay for not having to look at his face.

I had the stairs figured out too. Every one of the steps was creaky, so you had to slot your feet into the gaps between the banisters and go up like a crab. Not too comfortable, but quiet.

I tiptoed across the landing and into my room. I was safe now. Franco might shout and roar, but he'd never drag his fat backside up the stairs after me. Too much effort.

I'm ashamed to admit it, but even my own room was a mess. Mam would've been disgusted. She wouldn't have stood for it. But Mam wasn't here. She was dead. Knocked down at a crosswalk by a sleeping taxi driver on his third shift in a row.

My schoolbag was lying in the corner where I'd tossed it that afternoon. There was homework in there waiting for me, like a bear trap in a hole. But I wouldn't do it. No point pretending. I was so far behind at this stage. . . .

I decided to go out again. Maybe I'd have a night on the town. Hop on the supermarket bus and catch a late show at the movies.

My money was well hidden. Tucked away with all my treasure. I'd figured that the one place Franco would never venture near was the bookshelf. So all my personal stuff was stashed inside a hollow binder for the
Lord of the Rings
box set.

I pulled the carton down, spilling my hoard onto the bed. The unmade bed. The unmade-for-about-two-months bed. If Mam had been alive, I wouldn't have been for much longer.

There was the shoelace bracelet given to me by Gerry Farrell, back in grade school. And the essay certificate for that competition I'd won. “The Whale: Our Gentle Friend.” And the petrified starfish I'd found on Curracloe Beach. And Mam's engagement ring, the one she always said would be mine one day, and now it was. Years too soon.

I frowned. Where was the ring? Probably down in the corner of the box. Wedged in a cardboard flap. I groped around inside the container. Nothing. And my money. My two fifty. That was gone too. A sick feeling caught hold of my stomach, and clawed its way to the base of my throat. Franco!