Plugged - Eoin Colfer [22]
‘You down there, Irish? Can’t you keep your monkey friends under control?’
Monkey friends? Screw it. Zeb, Barrett and sweet Connie. I need to loosen the valve, let off some steam. So I throw my head back and roar like Tarzan.
‘Shut the hell up, you crazy bat.’
She comes back with ‘Hell is shut for crazy bats.’
‘Shut up,’ I shout, and I can feel my tendons stretch. ‘Or I swear to Christ I will come up there and wring your neck.’
‘No Christ in this neck of the woods.’
This kind of carry-on is infuriating, and now that Delano has me on her hook, she could keep it up for hours.
‘Drop dead, you lunatic. Why don’t you drop bloody dead?’
My face is red and tight. I’m not just shouting at Delano, I know, but I keep shouting anyway.
‘That’s right. Drop dead. The world would be a better place.’
‘Dead is a better place? You think dead is a better place for lunatics, Irish?’
There’s a new note in her voice. Wild, past caring. I’m a bit that way myself.
‘You heard me.’
She doesn’t respond, which is unusual. Ominous, even. Echoes of my own voice circle me like ghosts.
If this was a movie, something really bad would be just about to happen.
What is she going to do? What’s the big tease? How can Delano haunt me for ever?
There’s one sure way.
Something thumps on the ceiling overhead.
Four dead? Four in one day? Come on.
I race to the door, skirting my ruptured easy chair. The corner of my eye notices that they even took the weights off my barbells. Thorough.
Up the stairs three at a time, sick to my stomach, heart bouncing around like a lottery ball in the cage.
Please God, not too late. What the hell did she do?
Delano’s door is pretty solid, with a couple of extra bolts, but I’m running on adrenalin and take them out with a bull charge. Momentum carries me inside, and I lurch across the threshold, heaving breaths, shoulder throbbing, afraid to look and see.
I do look, in case time is of the essence, and I see Delano sitting in a straight-backed chair, a cigarette between two slim fingers. There is a large book on the floor beside her. A bible, I think.
‘Hello, hero,’ she says, smoke leaking from between her bow lips. ‘You owe me a door.’
I am such an idiot.
‘Sucker,’ Delano adds, which is a more accurate word.
My first thought is to launch into a rant, but by the time I draw breath I realise there’s no point. It’s funny; this whole thing is hilarious. Not ha-ha funny, so I don’t laugh.
‘You might cut me a break,’ I say quietly, ‘if you realised the kind of day I’ve had.’
‘I’ve been up all night listening to your friends,’ she snaps, without a shred of mercy.
This is the closest I’ve stood to Delano. She’s my age, a few years younger. Blonde hair, straight and long. Maybe a figure, hard to tell in a towelled robe. And blue eyes rimmed with kohl, staring right into me like she’s got mind powers. I notice for the first time that this lady has got cat’s eyes, like Ava Gardner or Madonna. Beautiful but dangerous.
The apartment is freaky neat, but cold. There’s a tube of wind coming in through a hole in the window.
She notices me looking. ‘I was having a moment,’ she explains. ‘Goddamn satsuma. Can you believe that? Made a helluva hole.’
Something to do, thank Christ. Take my mind off those eyes.
Get those idle hands to work, soldier, and do not even contemplate strangling this woman.
You learn to use your hands in the army. Things break down in the field and they need to be fixed; no use waiting for a requisitions crate. Ireland is a long way from the Lebanon, and even if your package makes it through the grifters on both ends of the pipeline, you’re still talking half a year. There was a guy in my squad fixed an old 77 radio with parts from a Rolf Harris stylophone he bought on Mingi Street. A real live MacGyver. I wasn’t good with electronics, but I could manage basic household repairs.
So I size up the window with a squint, then go foraging underneath the sink for something I can use.
‘Hey, Irish, what