Birthday (Iano replacing the standard words with rude ones) Ziggyâs mother got to her feet.
âRight, everyone. Into the living room for a game of charades.â
There was a chorus of disapproval.
âMuuum. Weâre not playing charades,â Ziggy wailed. Colm had to admit that Ziggy had got this wailing thing down pat.
âWhatâs wrong with charades? I used to love that game when I was young.â
âBack in the 1800s,â somebody whispered.
âWhat do you want to play so, Jonathan?â she asked, using Ziggyâs real name, which sounded odd because even the teachers didnât use it any more.
âAnything that involves you leaving us alone,â he replied.
âOK, love. You lot get out while Granny and me clear up.â
The fourteen party-goers squeezed into the small living room â some on the couch, others on the arms and seats of the leather chairs. Those who werenât quick enough to find a perch ended up on the floor. Colm was one of them. When theyâd all settled down, Ziggy lit a large white candle and placed it in the centre of the coffee table, then switched off the main light. The candleâs flame flickered. A girl giggled nervously.
âWhat are we going to do?â she asked.
âWeâre going to tell ghost stories,â Ziggy replied.
Eight
C
edric Murphy, the private detective, sighed as he ripped open the white envelope. Another bill. He took a look at the figure at the bottom of the page. He owed them how much? He felt like heâd been punched in the gut by a man with rocks for fists. He crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room where it bounced once before rolling gently into the pile of sixteen other scrunched-up bills that sat beside the wastepaper basket. Murphyâs cramped flat now doubled as his office and the neatness and orderliness that had once been an important part of his life were long gone.
He took a slice of cold pizza from the takeaway box and wondered if it was safe to eat. It hadnât been in the fridge since heâd bought it the previous night and the two dead flies stuck in the congealed cheese made it a little unappealing. He picked them out and wolfed down the pizza before thoughts of bacteria, gut-wrenching illnesses and days spent on the toilet had fully formed in his barely awake brain. Cedricâs head hurt, his hair was a mess and he hadnât slept in almost three days. He wasnât even sure if it was morning or night and he couldnât summon up enough energy to open the curtains and find out. He scratched his enormous belly, broke wind, then frowned as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Was that really him? He wondered how he had let himself get so out of shape.
Eighteen months ago, when the rat-faced little man had engaged his services for the oddest case in all his years of detective work, Cedric had been so frightened heâd promised himself that if he got out of the situation alive heâd go on a major diet. He had too. For a while. Green tea and porridge for breakfast. Cabbage soup for lunch. Brown rice and vegetables for dinner. It was vile. Heâd lost weight, plenty of it, but he was always hungry. Always. Thin people didnât really know what true hunger was, he thought. It gnawed at you constantly. Your stomach growled, begging to be fed a tasty morsel, preferably something made from fat or sugar. He was almost at the point where he was imagining other people as steaks or hamburgers like they did in cartoons.
And the headaches. No one had told him about the headaches heâd get when he began dieting. It was as if Woody Woodpecker had taken up residence in his skull and invited all of his raucous woodpecker friends around for a wild house party.
Sure, Cedric looked better, felt better too eventually, but there was always a tiny voice in his head telling him to have one teensy little biscuit. And a slightly larger voice in his office
âRight, everyone. Into the living room for a game of charades.â
There was a chorus of disapproval.
âMuuum. Weâre not playing charades,â Ziggy wailed. Colm had to admit that Ziggy had got this wailing thing down pat.
âWhatâs wrong with charades? I used to love that game when I was young.â
âBack in the 1800s,â somebody whispered.
âWhat do you want to play so, Jonathan?â she asked, using Ziggyâs real name, which sounded odd because even the teachers didnât use it any more.
âAnything that involves you leaving us alone,â he replied.
âOK, love. You lot get out while Granny and me clear up.â
The fourteen party-goers squeezed into the small living room â some on the couch, others on the arms and seats of the leather chairs. Those who werenât quick enough to find a perch ended up on the floor. Colm was one of them. When theyâd all settled down, Ziggy lit a large white candle and placed it in the centre of the coffee table, then switched off the main light. The candleâs flame flickered. A girl giggled nervously.
âWhat are we going to do?â she asked.
âWeâre going to tell ghost stories,â Ziggy replied.
Eight
C
edric Murphy, the private detective, sighed as he ripped open the white envelope. Another bill. He took a look at the figure at the bottom of the page. He owed them how much? He felt like heâd been punched in the gut by a man with rocks for fists. He crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room where it bounced once before rolling gently into the pile of sixteen other scrunched-up bills that sat beside the wastepaper basket. Murphyâs cramped flat now doubled as his office and the neatness and orderliness that had once been an important part of his life were long gone.
He took a slice of cold pizza from the takeaway box and wondered if it was safe to eat. It hadnât been in the fridge since heâd bought it the previous night and the two dead flies stuck in the congealed cheese made it a little unappealing. He picked them out and wolfed down the pizza before thoughts of bacteria, gut-wrenching illnesses and days spent on the toilet had fully formed in his barely awake brain. Cedricâs head hurt, his hair was a mess and he hadnât slept in almost three days. He wasnât even sure if it was morning or night and he couldnât summon up enough energy to open the curtains and find out. He scratched his enormous belly, broke wind, then frowned as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Was that really him? He wondered how he had let himself get so out of shape.
Eighteen months ago, when the rat-faced little man had engaged his services for the oddest case in all his years of detective work, Cedric had been so frightened heâd promised himself that if he got out of the situation alive heâd go on a major diet. He had too. For a while. Green tea and porridge for breakfast. Cabbage soup for lunch. Brown rice and vegetables for dinner. It was vile. Heâd lost weight, plenty of it, but he was always hungry. Always. Thin people didnât really know what true hunger was, he thought. It gnawed at you constantly. Your stomach growled, begging to be fed a tasty morsel, preferably something made from fat or sugar. He was almost at the point where he was imagining other people as steaks or hamburgers like they did in cartoons.
And the headaches. No one had told him about the headaches heâd get when he began dieting. It was as if Woody Woodpecker had taken up residence in his skull and invited all of his raucous woodpecker friends around for a wild house party.
Sure, Cedric looked better, felt better too eventually, but there was always a tiny voice in his head telling him to have one teensy little biscuit. And a slightly larger voice in his office
Similar Books
