Colm & the Lazarus Key Read online

  ‘Don’t try to leave. Just sit there quietly and in a few hours this will all be over,’ he said.

  Colm wasn’t sure what he meant by that. What would be over? Was he going to steal the Lazarus Key and then just let them go? He didn’t think so. Somehow he knew that things weren’t going to work out that easily.

  Drake slammed the door, locking it after him. Colm heard the click as the key turned. His heart sank.

  ‘Oooooooohhh.’

  The sound came from between the two beds. The Brute was lying on the ground, his face a sickly colour.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Colm asked. Stupid question. He looked like death warmed up.

  The Brute slowly opened his eyes. ‘Colm?’

  Not Dogpoo or Eighth Dwarf or Piggy Piggy Four Eyes. He’d called him Colm. That wasn’t a good sign.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Water. I need water.’ He propped himself up against the side of the bed. It took him ages, as if all the energy had drained out of him.

  Colm ran to the bathroom, filled a glass and took it to his cousin.

  He held the glass out but The Brute didn’t reach for it. Colm saw that he was trying to focus on it, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open and his head kept flopping from side to side.

  Colm knelt down beside him, held him by the back of the neck and pressed the glass to his lips. He gulped back the water as if he hadn’t had a drink in days. Streams of it poured down the sides of his mouth and onto his shirt.

  Colm refilled the glass and set it down on the floor beside The Brute. He didn’t know what to do. He must have got sick from being stuck out in the rain when he went looking for Lauryn, he thought. That girl was making him really angry. What did she have against him and his family? He didn’t care if she went looking for the Lazarus Key. The tall, thin man and her could look for a hundred keys as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t going to try to stop them. There was no reason for her to have locked them up like this. He wanted to kick something. Now he knew how The Brute felt most of the time.

  He calmed himself down. Being angry wouldn’t help him. Not now. He needed to think. First, he had to make sure The Brute was OK. He’d put him on the bed. Could he lift him? He was about to find out.

  He put his hands under The Brute’s armpits.

  ‘Michael, I’m going to lift you on the count of three,’ he said.

  The Brute didn’t seem to register what he was saying.

  ‘One. Two. Three.’

  He heaved with all his might, but it was no good. He weighed a ton. There was no chance of him lifting him on to the bed. But he had to.

  ‘OK, this time I’m going to save some energy. I’m only going to count to one,’ he said.

  He took a few deep breaths and tried again. The first time he tried The Brute didn’t budge an inch, the second time, he did. Literally an inch. Colm dropped him back to the ground and something fell from The Brute’s hand.

  ‘The room key,’ Colm thought. Joy and hope exchanged high-fives in his mind. The man who called himself Drake had had a large bunch of keys in his hand. They must be the master keys of the hotel. But he had forgotten something – The Brute had the room key Mrs McMahon had given to him. Some professor he was.

  He bent down to pick it up only to find it wasn’t the room key at all. It was a diamond, one-tenth the size of his hand. It looked like there was something inside it. How did that get in there? He lifted it up to the light to get a better look at it.

  He was right. There was something in there. No bigger than his thumbnail. It was a tiny skull.

  ‘At least it’s not the Lazarus Key,’ he said, remembering the story from The Book of Dread.

  ‘No,’ said The Brute.

  Colm didn’t hear him. Was there something in the book about a skull with a diamond inside it? There was a mention of a tattoo, wasn’t there? He stared at the diamond. How had they even managed to put a tiny skull in there? Maybe it was some technique, like the way they put a ship in a bottle. He wondered what The Brute was doing with it.

  ‘NO,’ shouted The Brute, his face a mask of terror.

  He heard him this time.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong, Michael?’ Colm said, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. The Brute needed a doctor. He looked dreadful.

  ‘It’s coming for me,’ he said.

  ‘What’s coming for you?’ Colm asked.

  ‘The creature,’ said The Brute.

  ·•·

  ‘Are you sure you don’t remember?’ Drake asked.

  ‘I’d tell you if I could. Do you think I want to be part of this mess? You’re going to ruin my reputation. Closing the hotel. Kidnapping guests. Ghosts on the prowl. I’ll be destroyed,’ said Mrs McMahon.

  ‘Could you please look at the map again? Anything you can think of, no matter how small or insignificant it might be,’ he said.

  The map of the Red House estate was spread across the stainless steel kitchen counter. Pots and pans of all shapes and sizes were stacked up neatly by the sink. Steam rose from the kettle as it came to the boil.

  ‘Turn that thing off,’ Drake said.

  ‘Don’t be telling me what to do in my own hotel,’ Mrs McMahon said, using glare number fourteen from her collection of vicious looks.

  Drake lit up a cigarette as Marie and Lauryn came into the kitchen. Lauryn hopped onto the countertop, her legs dangling over the edge.

  ‘Don’t be sitting there like some useless article, Lauryn. Make us all a cup of tea.’

  Drake grabbed a saucepan and flung it against the wall. It clattered to the ground.

  ‘There’s no time for tea,’ he roared.

  Mrs McMahon had faced tougher men than him and she wasn’t about to back down.

  ‘But there’s time to smoke a cigarette, is there?’ she asked.

  Drake lit another cigarette even though he hadn’t finished the first one. He tapped his watch.

  ‘We don’t have time for all of this. We have to find the Key and get out of here,’ he said, thoroughly frustrated by Mrs McMahon’s stubbornness.

  ‘Explain it to me again. I want to understand it fully,’ she said.

  ‘What good will that do, Mam?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Because if you let me know exactly what you’re looking for,’ said Mrs McMahon, ‘I might be able to tell you where you can find it.’

  ·•·

  Colm had searched the room three times before he thought of looking in the bathroom. It was there all right, just where he’d least expected it to be. The Brute’s fleece, still soaking wet, was thrown in the bath. Colm couldn’t even imagine what had led his cousin to put it there, but he was acting so strangely – because of an illness, because of something else? – that he knew he should have thought of looking there earlier.

  He put his hand in the wet, slimy pocket. Nothing other than a handkerchief – and it had been used. Great. The room key was in the other pocket.

  He checked on The Brute. Colour was coming back to his cheeks. That was good. He looked even more frightened than he had earlier. That wasn’t so good.

  He pocketed the diamond, not really knowing why. Maybe it would be of some use later.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said to The Brute.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Colm. Please. I don’t want to be alone when it comes for me,’ he replied.

  Colm didn’t want to be there when it came for him either. But he would. No matter how much he disliked The Brute, and he disliked him a lot, he couldn’t let him face the creature alone. You don’t desert family in their hour of need, he told himself.

  ‘I’ll only be five minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to go down to reception. There’s a phone there. I’ll ring the guards and I’ll come straight back up.’

  ‘Promise,’ The Brute said in a thin, reedy voice.

  ‘I promise.’

  He hated seeing his cousin like that, all weak and scared. He hoped that The Brute was just delirious from some bug or illnes
s he’d picked up, but as soon as he’d mentioned the creature he knew, he just knew, that The Book of Dread wasn’t some creepy story. It was very real.

  He thought back to when The Brute had come back from his trip to the woods. He’d been happy. Far too happy for someone whose moods were limited to grumpy, very grumpy and pure rage. The man who’d written the book had said he was happy too. Just for a short while. And then he’d said the sickness followed. Colm wasn’t a doctor, but even he could see that his cousin wasn’t an advertisement for good health.

  The last words the man had written were something about how the creature was coming for him. He knew it before it had arrived. Just the way The Brute knew it now. The Brute had held the Lazarus Key. He wanted to ask him about it, but there wasn’t a chance of getting him to say anything sensible when he was in this state.

  Colm reviewed the situation. Here he was in a place he didn’t like. With his parents locked away somewhere. With his older cousin sick. With a creature on the loose. And it was dark. And cold. And he didn’t have a weapon. Well, he supposed, things couldn’t get much worse.

  Of course, he was wrong.

  Fourteen

  Colm put the key in the lock. For one horrible moment he thought it wasn’t going to turn, but it was just rusty and with a bit of effort he managed to open it. He pressed his fingers to his lips letting The Brute know he should be quiet, but there was no need. His cousin just sat silently on the ground, his head resting on the edge of the bed.

  He eased the door open and snuck out into the corridor. The carpet softened his footsteps and he was as quiet as a mouse. He reached the stairs and peered through the banisters. He couldn’t see all of the lobby from up there, but it looked like the coast was clear and he wasn’t going to waste any more time just waiting. He’d already done too much of that.

  His heart was thumping as he crept down the stairs. With every step he took he expected the boards beneath the carpet to creak and for someone to come running, but the stairs didn’t creak and nobody appeared. He walked past the paintings and glanced up at the strange portrait of the man with the scar and the long black hair. And the blood-red eyes.

  That must be Hugh DeLancey-O’Brien, was his first thought. Well d’uh, was his second. He should have known that ages ago. There was something about this hotel that clouded the mind, stopped people thinking clearly. Either that or he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.

  He stepped on to the tiled floor and looked around more carefully than he would if he was crossing a busy road. Still nobody around.

  Fog slipped beneath the front door. He’d never seen that happen before. It didn’t worry him too much, but it didn’t make him feel good either.

  The reception desk was only a few yards away. His heart beat even faster, if that was possible, and his legs wobbled like a giraffe on stilts. His brain told him to walk out the front door and keep walking out the driveway until he was far, far away from here. There was no doubt about it. He was afraid. And he couldn’t shake it off.

  That was the thing about fear. It grabbed you by the scruff of the neck and refused to let you go. He knew that. He didn’t know that it also made you want to pay a visit to the bathroom. His stomach was churning. This was what his mother must have meant when she said she got butterflies in her stomach when she was nervous. If there were butterflies in his stomach then it felt like they were armour-plated and carrying machine-guns.

  He had to block out the fear somehow. He wasn’t going to be able to help anyone if he gave in to it. He closed his eyes for a second and tried to think calm thoughts. What made him calm? Watching the National Geographic channel. He tried to think of something he’d seen on a nature programme. Antelopes peacefully drinking at a waterhole. That’d do. But then another image popped into his head. Antelopes being chased by a bloodthirsty lion. Not helpful at all. He tried to get the image out of his head, but it just stuck there as if someone had superglued it to his brain.

  He didn’t have time for this. He tiptoed to the reception desk and slowly, carefully lifted the phone from its cradle. He listened for the dialling tone. Nothing. Zip. Nada. The line was as dead as a wasp in a jam jar of water.

  Either Mrs McMahon hadn’t paid her telephone bill or someone had disconnected the line. Why would they do that? Because they don’t want someone – me – ringing the Gardaí, he thought. What now? His dad had a mobile, but he didn’t know where that was. They’d probably taken it from him. Unless he’d left it in the car. He might have. He was always leaving his mobile lying around the place. It was worth a look.

  Before he took a step towards the front door – a shroud of fog seemed to be building up around it – he heard the raised voices somewhere off to his right in the direction of the restaurant. Without thinking, he crossed the lobby and pushed through the swing doors.

  Fifteen tables all neatly laid out. No diners. Creepy.

  The voices were clearer now and he knew they were coming from the kitchen. He was sure of it. He inched his way through the restaurant. Halfway there he realised that if someone came out of the kitchen they’d see him straight away. There wouldn’t be time to hide by ducking under one of the tablecloths. Stupid decision to come in here Colm, he said to himself. Should he keep going or turn back? When he overheard the words ‘Lazarus Key’ he decided to keep going.

  The door to the kitchen was half-open. He pressed himself against the wall off to the side. Not a great place to find cover. He was too exposed, but if he wanted to find out what the argument was about this was where he needed to be. How come James Bond or Sherlock Holmes were never stuck like this? At least now he could hear the voices clearly. Drake and Mrs McMahon. Those two were definitely in there.

  He slid down the wall, lowering himself to the ground until he was on his haunches. Through the thin gap between the door hinges he could see a sliver of the kitchen. Legs dangled from a counter. The shoes looked like Lauryn’s. That must be her, he thought. And there was her mother. She kept moving in and out of sight, a teapot in her hand.

  ‘So are you going to tell me or not?’ Mrs McMahon asked.

  Drake lit up yet another cigarette.

  ‘You know by now that your daughter works for me at the university in Philadelphia. Has done for years. She’s my invaluable assistant and I couldn’t do without her,’ Drake said.

  Mrs McMahon nodded. It was as grim as a nod can be.

  ‘I’m a Professor of Antiquities. That means I’m involved with items or relics from ancient times,’ Drake said.

  ‘I know what antiquities means,’ barked Mrs McMahon. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘Seven days ago a man arrived in my office. Not the type of man you’d usually find in a university. He looked like a thug, didn’t he, Marie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said somewhat anxiously.

  ‘He was carrying a briefcase. It looked out of place in his possession.’

  Mrs McMahon sighed.

  ‘I’m getting to it. Let me remind you that I’m not the one who wants to waste valuable time telling this story,’ Drake said.

  ‘All right, all right, carry on,’ said Mrs McMahon.

  ‘The man laid the briefcase flat on my desk and opened it up. It was full of money. I’d estimate that there must have been in the region of one hundred thousand dollars in there. He said that the money was mine if I helped him in his quest,’ Drake said.

  ‘To find the Lazarus Key,’ said Mrs McMahon.

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘Because it’d be a pretty pointless story if he was looking for something else, wouldn’t it?’

  Drake coughed to cover up his embarrassment. ‘Quite so.’

  He drew something on a piece of paper and held it up for them to see. His back was to the door so that it was impossible for Colm to make out what it was.

  ‘This is the Key,’ Drake said, pointing to the picture he’d drawn. ‘I had come across it before, although it was only mentioned briefly in text books. It was thought to b
e more of a myth or legend than a true relic. Something like UFOs or the Loch Ness monster. An interesting story, but unlikely to be true.

  ‘There were rumours that there were three Keys ori-

  ginally,’ Drake continued.

  ‘What’s that got to do with us?’ Mrs McMahon asked.

  ‘He’s getting to that, Mom,’ said Marie.

  ‘Don’t call me Mom. Your daughter may be American, but you’re Irish. Call me Ma or Mammy.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma.’

  ‘Can we focus, please?’ Drake said. ‘Time is passing quickly and he will find us. The man has many resources at his disposal.’

  ‘Go on, so.’

  ‘The Key is mentioned in some historical texts along with its supposed powers.’

  His voice was almost a whisper now and Colm had to strain to hear what he was saying.

  ‘Naturally, as a man of logic and reason, I didn’t believe in these so-called supernatural powers, but my research and the events of the last few days have made me change my mind. What I have uncovered has me worried. And this is vitally important. If you know how to use it, then whoever has the Key will not die. Ever. It is an evil thing. When your body fails you and you die as people normally do at the end of their lives, you will come back again. You will not be human, not as we know it, but you will live. Something in the Key – magic, something we do not understand – draws life from those around you. Hugh DeLancey-O’Brien, the last known holder of the Key, never died.’

  ‘Of course he did. They buried him, didn’t they?’

  ‘You know the stories. When he died the maid took the Key in her hand. She died the following morning. All the life in her transferred into the Key and when it was buried with DeLancey-O’Brien he drew her life’s power back into him. He rose again. He is not dead, he is not living, he is something in between.’

  ‘So if I hold the Key in my hand …’

  ‘Then the creature that was once Hugh DeLancey-O’Brien will come and take it from you. But it isn’t only the Key that he seeks, it is your life. The life that is held in the Key. It will sustain him and you will die.’

  ‘The lesson then is not to hold the Key, isn’t it?’ said Mrs McMahon.