Colm & the Ghost's Revenge Read Free Page A

stinking socks and laid them on the hearth to dry.
    He took another look around the room. Now that he noticed it, there weren’t any homely touches: no flowers or plants, no paintings or photos, nothing to indicate the owner had any family or friends. Just like me, Wickerly thought. He didn’t have friends because he thought most people were boring eejits and why would you want to waste your life hanging out with boring eejits?
    As for his family, well, most of them hadn’t spoken to him since he’d tripped over a poorly positioned nephew in his sister’s house and broken his leg. They’d got annoyed with him just because he’d sued them. Why shouldn’t I have sued them, he thought. Stupid child lying in the middle of the floor drooling like a puppy. He’d won the case and the compensation money they’d been forced to give him had paid for his holiday to America. Of course, it also meant his sister and her husband had to sell their house to pay the legal bills, and now there were seven of them living in a rented two-bedroom flat, but that’d teach them to control their children rather than let them run wild around the place like a congress of baboons.
    When his feet were toasty and the rest of him had dried out, he decided it was time to locate a telephone and a directory. He had to find a mechanic if he was going to get his car sorted and get back to his holiday. There was another reason too. Even though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, and didn’t want to admit it to himself, there was a gnawing feeling of doubt at the back of his mind. The bravado he’d felt when he first arrived was fading. Maybe being here wasn’t the greatest idea he’d ever had. The owner would be back soon if that fire was anything to go by, and even though any reasonable person wouldn’t mind someone in trouble warming themselves by the fire, perhaps the owner wasn’t a reasonable person. And this was America, not Ireland. They had guns here. Guns were scary. Especially in the hands of an unreasonable person. Yes, better hurry and find that phone.
    He began to search the small cabin. Nothing in the kitchen. No phone in the bedroom. Or the bathroom, which was a good thing. It’d be terribly unhygienic. He turned the place upside down, but he still failed to unearth a phone. And the gnawing feeling grew stronger.
    Think, Fintan, he told himself. There might not be a phone, but there had to be a computer. Everyone has a computer these days. He could get in touch with someone on the Internet and they could help him. The only thing was that there was no sign of a computer either. Aha, Fintan thought, clearly on a roll, if the man has a laptop he may have hidden it to prevent it from being stolen. Now where would you hide a laptop?
    After a further ten minutes of searching, he thought he’d found it at the back of the kitchen dresser, hidden behind the cereal boxes. But he was wrong. It wasn’t a laptop. It was a long, thin wooden box with gold trim on the edges. It was held closed by a small brass clasp. No padlock though. Wickerly unhooked the clasp with his thumbnail and opened the box. His mouth dropped open when he saw what it contained. I’ve got to get out of here now, his mind screamed, as his legs buckled under him. He grabbed the dresser and steadied himself. This was bad. This was really bad. He was in so much trouble his mind was unable to take it all in.
    â€˜I see Goldilocks hasn’t aged well.’
    Fintan’s eyes widened in surprise when he heard the velvet voice of the man who was standing behind him. If he hadn’t opened them to their maximum potential at that particular moment, he’d have opened them even wider when he turned and saw the two dogs flanking the man. Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Like every good postman, Fintan Wickerly knew his dogs. This breed was big and strong, with a distinctive stripe on its back. Ridgebacks had often been