Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy

don’t need anything else,” Skulduggery had explained. “I don’t need a kitchen or a bathroom, and I don’t need a bed so I don’t need a bedroom.”

      “Don’t you sleep?”

      “I don’t have to, but I’ve developed the skill and I quite like it. Though I suppose you’d call it meditation. The effect’s still the same – I shut down completely, let my mind wander where it wants to wander, totally unhindered by conscious thought. It’s good. It’s relaxing.”

      He’d shown her the chair he liked to sit in while he ‘slept’. It was an armchair, nothing particularly impressive about it. Valkyrie had looked at it, felt pretty bored and gone snooping.

      There were a lot of books and a lot of files. The biggest room in the house had a large sofa, and whenever Valkyrie had to spend any time on Cemetery Road, this was where she’d usually end up.

      The front door opened and Valkyrie walked in, dropped her coat on the floor and sprawled on the sofa. Skulduggery walked in after her, picked up her coat, folded it neatly, and put it on the table.

      “Will you be OK there?” he asked. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

      “You never have anything to eat or drink,” Valkyrie said, her words muffled by the cushion her face had sunk into.

      “I think I have some leftover pizza from last time you were here.”

      “That was two weeks ago.”

      “You think it’s gone off?”

      “I think it’s walked off. Really, I’m fine. Have you figured out what the Isthmus Anchor is yet?”

      “I’m … working on it.”

      “You might want to work faster. When are we going to look for the gate?”

      “First thing in the morning.”

      Valkyrie sighed. “In that case, I need to get some sleep.” Friday came, with a morning that threatened rain, and they drove out of Dublin, took the motorway and turned off at Balbriggan. Half an hour later, they pulled up beside a sign that announced, in faded red letters, that this was Aranmore Farm and that it was private property. The land was vast, with hills and meadows that stretched deep into the woodland that bordered it.

      “So this is where the world ends,” Valkyrie said, putting the map away. “Certainly prettier than I’d imagined.”

      Skulduggery put the Bentley in gear and they started up the hill. Long grasses grew on either side of the track and the wheels rumbled heavily. A white farmhouse came into view, with a slate roof and large windows. Behind it, stone sheds of varying sizes surrounded a yard on which old farm machinery stood in neat lines.

      They reached the house and Skulduggery turned off the engine. He made sure his disguise was in place and then they both got out.

      They approached the front door and Valkyrie knocked. She knocked again and looked back at Skulduggery.

      “Who do you think lives here?”

      “At a guess? A farmer.”

      “You’re amazing,” she said dryly.

      “A single farmer,” Skulduggery continued, “living alone. Never married, by the looks of things. No children. I’d say he’d be in his early seventies, judging by the clothes on the line we passed.”

      “We passed a clothesline?”

      “What have I told you about keeping your eye out for details?”

      “You said I shouldn’t worry about that because I have you to do it for me.”

      “Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s the exact opposite of what I said.”

      “Maybe he’s taking an afternoon nap or something.” Valkyrie peered in through the window. “I don’t think there’s anybody around.”

      “That’s lovely, that is,” said a voice from behind them, and they turned to see an elderly man striding towards them. He had wiry grey hair, bald on top, and a large nose. He was dressed in a tattered shirt with black braces holding up his trousers, which were in turn tucked into mucky wellington boots. “Reach a certain age and suddenly you’re a nobody, suddenly you’re not even worth counting. You know the problem with people your age, young lady?”

      Valkyrie remembered her talk with Kenspeckle. “We think we’ll live forever?” she answered hopefully.

      “You have no respect for your elders.”

      She scowled, wondering how she could ever get that one right if the answer kept changing.

      “So what do you want?” the farmer continued. “Why have you come all the way down here? And you,” he said, turning his attention to Skulduggery, “why are you all wrapped up like the Invisible Man? You got something wrong with your face?”

      “Actually,” Skulduggery said, “yes. My name is Skulduggery Pleasant. This is my associate, Valkyrie Cain.”

      “What, do they give out prizes for silly names now?”

      “And you are …?”

      “Hanratty,” the old man said. “Patrick Hanratty.”

      “Mr Hanratty—” Valkyrie began, but he shook his head. “Call me Paddy.”

      “OK, Paddy …”

      “Wait, I’ve changed my mind. Call me Mr Hanratty.”

      Valkyrie smiled patiently. “Have you noticed any strange people in the area lately?”

      “Strange how? Strange like you or just normal strange?”

      “Any kind of strange.”

      Paddy folded his arms and pursed his lips. “Well now, let me see. There was that O’Leary lad, from the village; he comes by every Wednesday with my bag of shopping. I’d call him strange, I suppose. He has a thing in his eyebrow. An iron bar. Haven’t a clue what it does. Maybe it picks up radio.”

      “I think Valkyrie meant strange people that you haven’t seen before,” Skulduggery said.

      “Apart from you two?”

      “Apart from us two.”

      Paddy shook his head. “Sorry, you’re the two strangest people I’ve never seen before that I’ve seen in a long time. Do you want to tell me what this is about, or do you want me to guess?”

      “Mr Hanratty—” Valkyrie began.

      “Call me Paddy.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Probably not.”

      Skulduggery took over. “We have reason to believe that a gang of criminals will be using your land as a rendezvous point.”

      Paddy looked into Skulduggery’s sunglasses. “A gang of criminals, you say? Kidnappers? Jewel thieves?”

      “Bank robbers.”

      “Bank robbers,” Paddy repeated, nodding his head. “I see. Yes, that makes sense. I can see why they’d choose my land. The fact that the nearest bank is over half an hour’s drive from here would mean that this gang of criminals, after pulling off their daring heist, would need to make their way back through thirty miles of narrow roads, pulling in occasionally to allow tractors and assorted farm vehicles to get by, then pass unnoticed through the local village where the neighbourhood watch scheme is enforced with exceptional vigour, then—”

      “Fine,” Skulduggery interrupted. “Your land is not going to be used by a gang of bank robbers.”

      Paddy nodded, smug in triumph. “Well, that’s a relief to hear. I may as well save us all some time, all right? I have no interest in selling up. I’ve lived here for forty years and I’m