The Wish List by Eoin Colfer Page B

watchman called the Brothers and they came over in the van and rounded the boys up like cattle.”
    â€œThey weren’t happy, I bet.”
    â€œNope. Mass expulsion. Everyone got kicked out. . . .”
    â€œExcept you.”
    â€œExcept me. Not only that, but I was held up as an example for making the sensible decision. Imagine being called sensible in front of four hundred boys at an assembly!”
    Meg shuddered. “Nightmare.”
    â€œNo one spoke to me for the rest of the year.”
    â€œSo now you want to go back.”
    â€œI have to go back. It was a moment when my life could have become completely different. You must have had one of those, Meg. A split second when it all goes wrong?”
    In her mind’s eye, Meg saw herself outside Lowrie’s apartment building, wondering whether or not to vault through the window.
    She nodded. “I understand. You have to go back.”
    Lowrie sighed. “Thank you.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you could just go back during the day and get a guided tour?”
    â€œNo. It’s the breaking in that’s important.”
    â€œI was afraid of that. This is going to play havoc with my aura.”
    â€œSo what’s the problem? With your powers, surely we can handle one fence and a night watchman.”
    Meg snickered. “Listen, old-timer. I think they might have beefed up the security since World War One.”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œWhatever. Just in, run around, and out. Nothing complicated, right?”
    Lowrie switched the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Nothing complicated. Just in and out. Honest to God.” Lowrie rolled his eyes. “Sure, why would they have beefed up security? Is not as if anyone’s going to steal the grass, is it?
    Belch and Elph were in holding cell nine. Customs had no idea what they were, and didn’t want to let them through without the go-ahead from the lower-downs. Beelzebub was pulled away from a World’s Greatest Dictators’ benefit, and was none too pleased about it.
    Two menials awaited him at the soul depot. Their rugged faces were the fire-blasted black of steam-engine drivers. These boys had generally been densely dangerous in their previous lives, so now they were kept out of harm’s way, prying reluctant souls from the tunnel wall. They were generally referred to as winkle pickers.
    â€œWhat?” he snarled at the customs official.
    â€œSearch me,” said the lead winkle picker, perhaps a shade less respectfully than he should have. Beelzebub summarily vaporized him with his trident.
    â€œWhat?” he said to the new first in command.
    â€œTwo new arrivals your worship. Holdin’ cell nine.”
    â€œAnd that concerns me because . . .”
    â€œBecause they stink, Majesty. Somethin’ awful. Dunno what it is. Never smelt nothing like it.”
    â€œI have never smelled anything like it,” corrected Beelzebub.
    â€œYou can smell it from here?”
    â€œNo, I—never mind. Are they sedated?”
    â€œNo need, your honor. Two of ’em are blankyblanky. They can’t see or hear nothin’.”
    Beelzebub fought the urge to point out the grammar mistake. Once upon a time, centuries ago, he had been private tutor to Attila the Hun.
    â€œSo? Tunnel shock. Put them through the blender. Use the residue to power my Jacuzzi.”
    The customs demon shifted uneasily on his three-toed feet.
    â€œIs there a problem with that?” asked Beelzebub. It was more a warning than a question—a trick all teachers know.
    â€œWell,” stuttered the unfortunate soul scraper, painfully aware that his next words might be his last.
    â€œWell what?” snapped Beelzebub, his patience wearing thin. He wanted to get back to the banquet before Mussolini’s famous impressions routine.
    â€œWell, these two are kinda strange.”
    â€œStrange?”
    â€œThe doggy one, he just sits there