Secret of The Lost Key

By Paul Kilmartin

Two young boys on a perilous journey.
An underworld gangster desperate for some leverage.
A mother, fierce and searching.

From the North East of England, to the Giza Plateau in Cairo, Secret of The Lost Key, tells the story of what happens when one boy decides to chase a dream, bringing his little brother alongside and leaving his frenetic mother chasing them across Europe.

A race against time to find the treasure, and reunite the family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Kilmartin
• Release date: Jul 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463597262

Paul Kilmartin

Paul Kilmartin, living in Dublin City, Ireland but from a small picturesque town in County Offaly called Tullamore. A writer of thrilling and fast-paced fiction, with three books, uploaded via the Amazon platform, now arrives at Smashwords. He says that writing is his life, and he is releasing new and exciting fiction like his life depended on it. A new and fresh voice, Paul writes in every genre, favoring great storytelling over a defined style. His first Smashwords release is a fast-paced thriller called Secret of The Lost Key. It is the first in a series, called The Cross Boys series. And it features two boys with a taste for high adventure. One thing is for certain. Paul Kilmartin is an author that will have you reaching for his next book time and time again.

Book preview

Secret

of

The

Lost Key

PAUL KILMARTIN

Copyright © 2017 by Paul Kilmartin. All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Canva. All rights paid for and used per licence.

Edited by: Aisling Wyer, Paul Kilmartin.

Proofing by: Rachelle Tully, Aisling Wyer, Richard Tully.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make any acknowledgments in future editions.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, resold or hired out without the authors prior consent. Permission must be sought for the use of short quotations, for the purposes of review.

Check out my other titles, available for download from Amazon. Search Paul Kilmartin.

ONE

The big blue bottle made his way over the grease lumped, the white tiled wall like a ditch-jumping racehorse, sleuthing his way past the ineffectual blue neon flycatcher on the wall and then stopped to survey his empire atop the stainless steel, deep fat fryer. The plop, plop, the fizz of two battered sausages, being dropped into the hot oil startled his fragile heart and off he flew to inspect the toilets.

Fly’s roaming around at will in the restaurant that the Cardiologists feared.

‘I will have a double hamburger and a meatball curry with two fries. Sorry, make that, two double hamburgers.’

‘No problem Sir. Would you like a drink with that?’ no reply came forth.

‘Eh, that will be £12.60 Sir.’

‘£12.60? What is the matter with you, Michael? It is £10.60.'

The short, fat and balding Italian restaurant and drive through businessman chirped up as he watched his enterprise crumble in Michael Cross’s hands, and all for the sake of two pounds. Michael looked up to the heavens beyond his red cap.

‘Oh yeah, sorry Dom.’

‘Do not tell me sorry, tell the customer. Quick Michael, before he drives off.’ barked Dominic. Michael realised his error and spoke calmy to the customer. ‘Excuse me, Sir, just to let you know that your order total will come to £10.60 and not the £12.60 as I said.' Silence. ‘Is it ready yet?'

‘Eh no Sir, not yet’ replied Michael.

‘Well, I'll give a shit about the price of it when I get it.' Came the voice, impatient, hungry and sorely dissatisfied before even tasting a morsel. To the casual observer, a rude and ignorant man, but in Gino's, he was their most regular of a visitor.

In the solitary Q of one car at Gino’s Diner, the customer sat in his car and wondered if the food was as crap as the last time he had been here.

Dom fluffed at his apron like it was covered in feathers and raised his two hands to the ceiling, offering it up to a higher power. He wiped his hands on his apron and spoke something to himself in Italian, cursing, despairing. Dominic would tell his wife later on that night, that it was mistakes like Michaels, which were ruining his chances of making this a successful business. He failed to mention the dirty walls, the lousy food, cramped toilet and the general shabby appearance of the only restaurant in the City that the hungry avoided, Gino's Diner.

Dominic Angelino or Gino to his customers, was the boss around here.

He was a short, fat man, who went to great lengths to avoid losing any of his carefully applied poundage, going so far as to eat his breakfast, lunch, and supper in the Diner whenever he could.

The few dark strands that remained upon the side of his head had been slicked back, giving him a greasy wind tunnel effect upon his sallow-skinned complexion.

The three staff of Gino's, which were not family, would all make remarks as to the fantastic ability Dominic had to produce stunningly attractive children. Two, a daughter, and a son. Amalfi and Francesca. Amalfi was just fifteen years old and had all the features of a future runway model, or clothes horses, as Michael called them. He was six foot; broad shouldered and had a square jaw that looked as if it were carved from granite. He would in time, develop the same leery eye his father had. Then, there was Francesca who now came to Michael's side by the till. To Michael, she spoke in sweet, velvety tones.

‘Michael, Dad wants you on the till in ten minutes if the drive-through is still quiet. Si?'

Michael thought that the drive-through was always quiet. He turned around and looked straight into Francesca's chest. He stared a little too much, wondering how they fought each other for space in her white collared t-shirt. The shirt was too small, as was the bra that she wore. Francesca turned in her self-imposed corset and walked towards the till. She would have to change into her red server's t-shirt.

‘Yeah ten minutes, that's fine.' responded Michael, still captivated by the sight of that t-shirt. He wished he were older, his nineteen to her twenty-six. Michael figured the age difference would eventually even itself out.

He would mature a bit past his twenty-first birthday, and she would be twenty-eight by then. It could work, he daydreamed some more.

Like Roman Centurions, Francesca and Michael dutifully operated their stations to receive the orders from the baying hordes of customers. They stood ramrod still in their red servers t-shirts like two big letterboxes and watched ahead as space ahead remained so for another twenty minutes. Dominic slugged through the door, having been out back smoking his Marlboro reds, trying to get a read on if the area was busy enough to remain open much longer.

‘Ok, I can close up, you two can go home.' Dom dismissed them both with his hands. Go, shush, get out, scram, that kind of a thing. Michael could recognize that Dominic had taken a hit financially, from a sick day's takings and he sensed it more intensely now as Dom exhaled a miserable whelp when he opened the main till.

‘Michael, you stay a second, I need to speak with you.’

Francesca picked up her bag and jacket, happy to be leaving. She had texted her lift that she would be ready in a couple of minutes and was glad that her father had made the call to go. Michael nodded at Dominic as he tried not to get caught staring at Francesca's rear as she bent over to change into a casual white pair of Lacoste. Dom came over to kiss his daughter goodbye.

‘I’ll see you at home later. Have fun on your date. Don’t keep Mario waiting.’ He kissed her once on the cheek, saying goodbye.

Date? Thought Michael. He thought inwardly that her father would only allow her to date Italians and that he was discriminating against a lad from the North East.

It was not Francesca’s decision at all, he thought. I have the better of any Italian. Francesca zipped up her tight black leather jacket, unfurled her long black hair from inside its ponytailed prison, and sent it bobbing onto her shoulders. The Italian and the Englishman both watched her as if on cue, a most potent roar came upon the front of Ginos. A small but powerful headlight illuminated everywhere it encountered, plotting a single beam across the street as it parked now parallel to the front of the takeaway. The mysterious Mario looked in from his visor as his passenger and date Francesca bounded out the door and threw her leg across the back of the bike. She placed her helmet in her hands, stuck her head inside and with that, the bike was away, screeching down the road. Michael looked to Dominic, That is far too dangerous for your daughter. He willed himself to say, but no, his declaration of intent would have to wait.

‘Here you go Michael, there isn’t as much there, but business is bad.’ said Dominic, handing to Michael a small brown envelope with his week’s pay inside it.

Feeling right about both being paid and not being spotted ogling his boss's daughter's rear end, it felt like a win-win for Michael.

‘It's ok Dominic, and I know times are tough. I'm glad that my hours are still the same.'

For how much longer? Thought Dom. With five staff and a business making little trade, it was hard for Dominic to imagine a future for his restaurant. What I think it is time to clean the front signage again. He pondered. The once yearly signage cleaning had taken place just eight months ago.

Dominic had always felt that it brought about a new rush of customers, but now, even that was a long shot.

‘I'll leave so. I am back in the morning.' said Michael, noticing a blank expression on his face.

‘Sure, sure Michael, don’t be late.’

‘Ok Dom, see you tomorrow.’ chirped Michael as he moved towards the door, leaving Dominic to dream up some new promotion or a lick of paint, whatever would grab the punters attention quicker.

Dominic watched from within himself as the figure of his staff closed the door and stood outside.

He daydreamed some more as the image of Michael became blurry, thinking of ways and means to make this the best restaurant in Britain, nay the world, in all of Newcastle.

TWO

The slumped figure bumbled along the cobblestones of old Dean Street in Newcastle Upon Tyne and struggled to keep pace with the man he was following, his old legs working harder than anticipated to keep up with the younger stranger. The warm wind crested his alcohol-sodden cheeks, fluttering a welcoming breeze through his tormented mind. The young prey of this late night stalker was too used to this route, passing by bars and nightclubs where the crowds would pour in and out of in all states of inebriation. Ten thirty was a sort of witching hour for a Friday night.

Those that were in pubs were staying there, and those on their way would be arriving soon, leaving the few stragglers meandering around the cobbles of Dean Street to one pub or another.

The older man scratched at his thick grey beard and noticed the last of the nearby stragglers vanish down a side street, just under the Tyne Bridge.

He quickened his pace to within striking distance of the slender young man and calmly, coldly, and in menacing tones and with distinction, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the boy and spoke.

‘Hello, son.'

Michael startled at the sight of his father, having been lost in a dream world of motorsport and big red motorcycles. He had not heard his parent sneak up in drunken steps.

‘Ray, eh hi, what are you doing here?’ The drunk stepped back in mock horror.

‘You're my son, and I've told you to call me Dad. I'm still your Dad, aren't I?' replied Ray, moving in closer.

‘And don’t mind asking what I’m doing here,

What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you to stay away from these streets?’

Ray lightly slapped Michael on the cheek.

‘Didn't I tell you that these streets were dangerous?' Slap. ‘Didn't I tell you to go a long way around?' Slap.

‘Are you stupid Son?' Slap and again slap.

‘Stop Dad.’ Michael began choking up.

‘Or what?’ Ray snapped.

‘You going to tell your Mum? Eh? Thinks divorcing me can stop me being your Dad. Eh? Slap. ‘Does she?'

Ray moved closer still to Michael, causing him to trip up and land backward onto his hip, crashing slowly. Ray looked at his son, seeing how pathetic he now appeared. Ray noticed his youthful, sharp face, his handsome looks, and lean torso and wished it were his own, that he had another chance.

Ray saw his dark brown hair without any greys and became angrier at his son's natural opportunities in life ahead of his own and how he had wasted his, how he still spent them.

I’ll give him a chance, thought Ray.

Show him what it is like to have something and to lose it.

Show him what it’s like to lose some of those pretty features for a while. Ray lined up Michaels' nose, and face with his boot and took a measured step towards his son. He planted down hard, finding only pain in his jaw instead.

Through emotional eyes, Michael had spotted the big stranger approach from his father's blind side, taking measured steps in Armani boots and a black overcoat over a crisp white shirt. He had the look of a professional, and that is precisely what Bill Cutters was. Bill, having taken his trademark tight back and sides haircut as a legacy of his time served in the army, also made his ability to throw a punch at him.

In menacing tones all of his own doing and without the influence of alcohol or any other substance, he spoke to Ray in such a quiet whisper, to prevent Michael from hearing what he had to say.

‘Aint you supposed to be on the job for me tonight?’ Ray began to pick himself up, still groggy and replied

‘I am Bill. I was talkin' to my kid.' Bill placed a steady right hand on Ray's shoulder, forcing him to stay grounded as he leaned over him.

‘Your ex-wife, his Mum, is hanging around that copper. He goes home all back and blue, and I'm the one that gets nicked because I'm the bigger fish. I'm the one the coppers want. They don't care about you. Your shit to them but they will arrest your boss, and I can't have that.'

Bill looked deep into Ray's soul and with such menace that it sobered him up a little.

He knew of Bills ways and means or his nasties as they were known. A pair of six-inch blades, which Bill kept on his person, though never always. He had never been arrested with his nasties in his possession. However, he carried the air about him like he still had them tucked away.

Ray remembered how Tony McCluskey had ended up, how he had gotten on the wrong side of Bill Cutters and how he had become dead very quickly. Ray stood up beside Bill and obediently took his place behind his master, awaiting permission to breathe before he felt it safe to do so.

Bill turned his back on Ray and went to comfort Michael who had by now picked himself up and had thought of running away, was now cursing his indecisiveness as the most prominent gangster in the North East of England came up to him.

‘Michael,' began Bill. ‘I have to apologize for your father, he is very drunk and is very sorry that this happened, very, very sorry.'

Michael looked to his father who now semi waved at his son, as he dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief, afraid now to speak out of turn.

‘I hope we can forget that this ever happened.’ smiled Bill as he took his hand out of his pocket and began counting notes out form hand to hand.

Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred pounds sat in Bill's hand. He expected Michael to take it since only stupid people refused an offer like this from Bill Cutters.

Michael leaned over and took the money, sending a genuine smile across Bill Cutter's hairless face with only his eyebrows doing a hairy dance of delight across his shiny scalp.

‘I'll take it, but you can't tell anyone. I'd get in trouble if I were down this way.'

Michael felt emboldened, even surprising his semi-comatose father. Michael thought the trouble that Bill Cutters could bring down upon me would be nothing compared to if my mother found out that I was taking this shortcut. Bill replied, ‘Eh, no problem. It will be between you and me.' But thinking, young Cross is either, very brave or very stupid to tell me what to do. Naive, thought Bill again as Michael offered up a cheery,

‘See ya.’

He casually walked off up the street, looking none the worse after his encounter with his father and Bill.

Bill turned to Ray again wiping away at his nose with the filthy handkerchief, looking for anything to distract from having to talk to