Eoin Colfer by The Wish List

Author:The Wish List
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER 8: THE EQUALIZER

CROKE Park was well illuminated even at this time of night. Orange lamps buzzed high overhead throwing ominous shadows across the hulking stands. The grounds were littered with bottles and cans; the wind had swept them into corners like garbage drifts. Obviously the grounds crew hadn’t yet done the clean-up after a big game.

Lowrie limped on to the pitch itself. Night lights cast a pale wash over the grass, painting it a ghostly white. The old man couldn’t stop himself grinning. He was here. Actually here, after all these years. He strode out to the centre circle, arms outstretched, basking in the applause of his absent classmates. Now, yez mockers. Who hasn’t the guts? Who’s a big farmer chicken?

‘It’s me!’ he shouted, his voice echoing under the Hogan stand. ‘It’s Lowrie McCall sneaking in at the dead of night!’

Meg giggled, she could see the happiness emanating from the old man like little orange fireworks.

‘I’m here to put one over the bar in Croke Park!’

‘Are you, now?’ said a voice.

The partners turned to look. A security guard was pitching them a very intolerant look, his radio slung low on his hip like a six-shooter.

‘And what I want to know,’ he continued laconically, ‘is how the pair of ye intend to put one over the bar, when you haven’t a football between you?’

Lowrie swallowed. Meg blinked. Two thorny ones there. One: how indeed were they going to play football without a ball? And two: what exactly did the security guard mean by the pair of ye?

The guard’s fingers flexed, gunslinger style, over his holstered walkie talkie.

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t -

Lowrie interrupted his speech. ‘Don’t I know you?’

It was niggling at Meg too. Something familiar.

The security guard shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. Anyway, don’t be changing the subject. Give me one good –‘

‘You don’t have a brother, by any chance?’

‘Dessie?’

‘Same business?’

‘Security consultant like myself. Guards all the bigwigs over in RTÉ, if you don’t mind.’

‘With a degree in medieval poetry?’

‘Dirty limericks is more like it. Do you know him?’

Lowrie nodded. ‘Sort of. He opened the gate for me today.’

‘Small world,’ the guard extended a hand. ‘I’m Murt. Any friend of Dessie’s and so on …’

Lowrie shook the hand hesitantly, on the lookout for a sly handcuffing. Formalities over, Murt was all business again.

‘Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Ahem, give me one —’ the guard cut himself off this time, realization chasing itself across his face like a galloping virus. ‘Hey. Lowrie McCall! You’re him, aren’t you?’

‘Him who?’

‘Off the telly. Kissing Cicely Ward. You cheeky old monkey.’

‘Sorry, wrong man.’

‘Go on out of that, of course it was. I’d recognize that wrinkly old mug anywhere. Sure, you’ve been plastered all over the evening news, with your olé and your hopping around like Errol Flynn.’

Lowrie couldn’t help a little smug grin. ‘OK, it was me.’

‘What are you? An escaped lunatic, gallivanting around kissing celebrities?’ Murt’s eyes widened. ‘Here, you’re not staking out another victim at this very minute are you?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that!’

‘I hope not.

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