Free The Wish List by Eoin Colfer Page A

something. None of those top hats though, or he’ll kill me. Well, he would if he wasn’t too late.”
    Meg giggled nervously.
    â€œA suit, sir? Any particular label?”
    â€œNo, just give me something expensive. Put the lot on my Visa.”
    Suddenly there were smiles all around. Measuring tapes were whipped out like Indiana Jones bullwhips, and jammed up Lowrie’s armpits.
    â€œWould sir prefer tailored or off the rack?”
    â€œUm . . . not sure, just give me something already made up.”
    â€œVery good. Stand still, please. Two- or three-piece?”
    â€œDunno. No vest though.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAnd a pair of those brown shoes. With the swingy yokes.”
    â€œTassels.”
    â€œThat’s the ones.”
    â€œSize?”
    Tricky one. Time for some cute thinking. “Size? I forget. The old memory isn’t what it used to be. Me being so ancient and all.”
    â€œAs long as sir remembers how to sign his name.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œOh, nothing. Just my little joke.”
    Meg felt as though she were being dressed by a whirlwind. Father and sons flashed around her, shouting incomprehensible figures and phrases.
    After several interminable minutes of poking and fitting, the tailors stopped their feverish activity.
    â€œ Et voilà! ” The elder Townsend admired his creation.
    Meg risked a peek. Not bad, she supposed. Lowrie’s threadbare outfit had been replaced by a navy jacket and gray trousers. The cuffs fell perfectly onto a pair of dark brown, tasseled, lace-up shoes. The shirt was crisp and pale blue, and complemented by a deep red tie.
    â€œSir?”
    The Townsends hovered around their client. Awaiting a compliment as vultures await a desert fatality.
    â€œUm . . . It’s uh . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    Now then, what would James Bond say in this situation? “Outstanding, gentlemen. Terrific job.”
    This seemed to do the trick, and the Townsends fell to twittering among themselves. Papa approached with a small silver plate. Here came the bad news. And it was bad news. Very bad. Eight hundred and forty pounds! If poor old Lowrie had any idea what was going on, this would have killed him for sure.
    She handed over the Visa card, hoping that dying in debt didn’t color your aura. If it did, Lowrie was in big trouble.
    A son glided over. He held Lowrie’s old clothes out in front of him in a carrier bag, like a nurse with a diaper sack.
    â€œDoes sir wish to have these . . . things?”
    Meg considered it. She’d already removed the wallet, the train ticket, keys, and few measly bills.
    â€œNope. Sir doesn’t. Trash the lot of them.”
    â€œA wise choice.”
    No turning back now. It was these swanky new clothes, or try to get into the television station in his underwear. And there was a sight the free world wasn’t ready for yet.
    It was time to wake the old man up. Meg eased herself from his body and waited for the fireworks. The old green eyes blinked dreamily and a slow smile spread across Lowrie McCall’s lips.
    â€œHello,” he mumbled, to no one in particular.
    Strange behavior. The Townsends all clustered at the far wall.
    Lowrie raised a finger. “There’s something familiar about you.”
    Meg looked around. Who the hell was the old guy talking to?
    â€œI never forget a face.”
    What face? Maybe the possession had pushed Lowrie over the edge. She followed his bleary gaze. The dozy old guy was talking to his own reflection in the full-length mirror. A whoop of delighted laughter burst from her mouth.
    The familiar irritated crease appeared in McCall’s brow. “What are you laughing at?”
    The Townsends flushed; they had indeed been tittering discreetly at their latest customer’s behavior.
    Meg swallowed her giggles. “Oh, nothing, apart from the fact that you’re talking to yourself in the mirror.”
    â€œDon’t