by Eoin Colfer
We dismounted from the bike in a yard of cracked paving stones. Weeds clawed their way through every crack, and at least a dozen cats hissed at our passing. The back door was massive and black. The edges were chipped to reveal rainbow stripes of glossy paint beneath. A century’s worth of layers.
Red stowed his bike by the wall, then put his shoulder against the door. He was still wearing the ski mask, and I got the feeling he was comfortable in there.
“I haven’t cleared this with Papa yet, Half Moon,” he said, rolling the woolen cap from his face. “So you stay out of sight until I do.”
“Out of sight? I thought you had a plan.”
“I had the first part. The breakout. I thought you could handle the rest of it, bright spark.”
“My name is Fletcher, Red.”
“Oh, really? And what’s my name?”
I waited for my brain to supply the information, but it didn’t come. I had no idea what Red’s actual name was. He’d been Red since we were little.
Red winked at me, his point made. I had no idea what that point was, but as far as Red was concerned he had definitely made it.
We crept into the house. The ceilings were high, and faded wallpaper curled in the corners like pages from an old book. Red pushed me into a room.
“Just stay in there until I come and get you,” he whispered. “There’s a bed in the corner. The light doesn’t work, but that’s okay, because you probably want to spend your time thinking.” He handed me a disposable cell phone. “Here, take this; there’s no call credit, but you can send texts. The number is withheld so nobody can call you back.”
The door closed slowly against a buffer of air, and I was alone in a dark room in the house of someone I wasn’t sure I could trust. I felt a sudden welling of panic in my stomach. What had I done? I was a fugitive hiding in the lion’s den.
I lay on the bed and all my aches and pains came rushing back. The dregs of prescribed painkillers were still swilling around my system, but only enough to make me sleepy. I held the phone’s screen close to my face like a candle, and with numb fingers I typed out a short message.
HZL, IMOK. TELL M+DNO 2 WORRY. HOME SOON. MST FIND ARSNST. LUV U ALL. FLETCHR.
I sent the message to Hazel’s phone, then switched off. What had happened to me? This was not the way detective stories were supposed to go. I was supposed to be in my office, bent over my desk, examining the evidence. That’s how Bernstein described it in the manual. But the manual wasn’t the real world. This was the real world here and now, and I had dropped myself directly into the deep end without ever pausing to test the waters.
I threw the phone across the room then closed my eyes against the darkness. I kept them tightly closed for a long time, until eventually I fell into a deep sleep haunted by dreams of raging fires and broken bones.
I woke sometime later to see sunlight glowing through my eyelids, highlighting the veins. The warmth felt good, so I lay there savoring the sensation. Peace at last. A quiet moment in which to plan my investigation.
Something tugged on my toe. I looked down. A small, filthy child was slipping off my shoes. The boy was a miniature version of Red, with fiery hair and a wiry frame. It was Herod before his weekly wash and brushup.
“What are you doing?” I croaked.
Herod glared back undaunted. “You’re dying. What would you want shoes for?”
“I am not dying, go away!”
Herod straightened to his full height, the crown of his head barely cleared the mattress.
“You go away. This is my house. Buttercups, my eye.”
I wrestled my shoe from his grasp. “I will go away, far away. Bet on it. And next time you stash your booty, watch where you step.”
I sat up slowly, and was surprised to find my head remained relatively pain free. Now that I could see the room’s decor, I decided that the headaches would probably come back if I stayed here much longer. The bedcover appeared to have been cobbled together from a thousand other bedspreads, every one of them luminous. The walls were that particular bright green generally associated with the Caribbean, and the curtains seemed to be fashioned from some type of metallic foil.
In the light of a new day, my escape seemed utterly ridiculous. The police would have listened to reason. After all, I was a respectable student from a respectable family. Not anymore, I argued with myself. I had abandoned my studies and my family. And all to solve a mystery. Now there was no way back into my cozy life, except by solving that mystery.
“I thought you were leaving,” said Herod, chewing absently on a wart on his knuckle.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon enough. I just need to talk to Red. Where is he?”
The boy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the kitchen. They’re waiting for you. The three of them.”
This piece of news filled my stomach with acid bubbles. The Sharkey clan was waiting for me, and probably not with hot chocolate and croissants.
Herod left the room and I followed, deeper into the house. With every step, my own world seemed further away. The walls were old-house high, covered with ancient thick wallpaper that was coming loose at the top, curling over us like a rain-forest canopy.
We turned off the dark passageway through a rectangular doorway of light, into a stone-flagged kitchen. The Sharkeys were gathered around a huge pine table digging into heaped plates of sausage and bacon. I stood quietly, and for a brief, happy moment, nobody noticed I was there.
Then Herod cleared his throat noisily and three Sharkey heads swiveled slowly in my direction, like tank turrets. I knew every inch of their faces. I had read files on all of them. Nobody was smiling.
Red winked at me. He was going for jaunty, but all he looked was worried.
Papa was there of course, massive and hairy, a wiry beard sprouting just below the eye line. His police file was as thick as a redwood. Papa had been involved with every caper from ticket scalping to lobster poaching.
Red’s big sister, Genie, was there, too. Strikingly beautiful, with the trademark Sharkey red hair and lack of fashion sense. She had once been the lead singer with a girl band called Sharkey Attack. They had managed to build up quite a following on the local circuit. That was, until Genie had socked an admirer with a microphone, knocking out four of his front teeth.
“Morning,” I said weakly.
Papa stood. He was so tall that all I could see was a belly and a beard. “This is him?” he boomed in his movie-trailer-guy voice.
Red nodded. “Yes, Papa. This is Half Moon—I mean Fletcher Moon.”
Papa loomed over me, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“This little speck of a thing is investigating me?”
Red jumped from his seat, tugging on his father’s sleeve. “It’s not really investigating. It’s more play-investigating.”
Red winked at me. Go along with it, the wink said.
“Is that right?” Papa asked me. “Play-investigating?”
“Yes,” I began, then felt my badge dig into my thigh. “No, actually. It’s real investigating. I have a badge and a notebook. And if I were you and I had me on my case, then I’d be worried.”
Papa frowned. “Well, if you were me and you were on my case, then you’d be chasing your own backside.” This observation was followed by a huge bark of laughter that would have scared off a pack of wolves. Red laughed too, in relief. I tried to chortle along, but all that came out was a trickle of Morse code squeaks.
Papa’s laughter petered out, but its ghost remained. He didn’t see me as a threat. I didn’t mind. A lot of adults make that mistake.
“Sit,” he boomed.
I sat.
“Hungry?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to feed me or eat me.
“Half a grapefruit would be nice.”
Genie piled a plate high with fried pork, spinning it along the table like a Frisbee. It rotated before me for several seconds, spraying my shirt with grease.
“Or sausages would be nice, too.” I said, attempting a smile.
I ate slowly, feeling four pairs of Sharkey eyes boring holes in my skull. Nobody spoke, and my chewing seemed louder than a farmer striding across a field of mud.
For a while I cared about this, then I realized that I was famished and that the sausages were delicious. I devoured three rapidly, the third wrapped in a slice of soda bread.
“Shy little chap, aren’t you,” said Papa when I had finished.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’ve only had hospital food for the past few days.”
“Oh, yes, that’s where you told the police that my son assaulted you.”
“That’s what I thought at the time,” I said into the remains of my breakfast.
Papa sat at the head of the table, staring at me from under eyebrows that would have thatched a fair-sized cottage. His serious face was back in full force. “And now?”
“And now I think that probably both of us have been set up. Red for the assault, me for the arson.”
Papa popped a jumbo sausage into his mouth. It barely hit the sides on its way down.
“I don’t see what this has to do with me, Half Moon. The police have been setting us up for years, and now all of a sudden I need some kind of midget detective to help me out. A midget detective who said that this entire family has, and I quote, ‘a history of theft, fraud, and assault.’”
The last lump of sausage stuck in my throat.
“It sounds bad when you put it like that,” I admitted. “In my defense, you do have a history of theft and fraud. I may have been wrong about the assault.”
Papa bristled. “Theft and fraud?”
I suddenly felt invulnerable, as though this was all a dream. “Well, there was the time Red fed white bread to Byrne’s greyhounds before a race.”
Red sniggered. He couldn’t help it, even though he was trying to turn over a new leaf.
“Not to mention the time Herod stole the duck race machine from Tramore carnival.”
“Quack, quack,” said Roddy.
“And Genie was collecting money for her Confirmation until she was eighteen.”
Genie winked. “I’ll be going out next year, too.”
“Shut up, you lot!” roared Papa. “I’m jittery enough with this chap in the house.”
Red tugged his father’s sleeve again. “Papa, if I don’t clear up this assault thing, they could take me away. I know that I’ve been in fights before, but no Sharkey would ever sneak around in the night beating up midgets like Half Moon. Don’t underestimate him, though. He’s titchy, but he’s as sharp as a razor. He nailed Roddy fair and square for stealing Bella’s organizer.”
Herod slapped the table with both hands, his face distorted in a scowl. He looked like a redheaded monkey.
“I did not take that stupid thing!” he objected. “Half Moon set me up. I was framed!”
The Sharkeys laughed, all except Herod.
“Of course you were,” said Papa. “If I had a penny for every time you said that, I’d buy the Dublin Spire and feed the parking meter for a month with the change.”
Papa picked up another sausage, waggling it at Red. “The two of you have twenty-four hours to play Sherlock Holmes. After that, Half Moon goes home. His parents must be losing their minds. I don’t want to be accused of kidnapping, along with everything else.”
I frowned. Twenty-four hours. Not a lot of time to clear up a major case.
“I’ll need my stuff. My laptop and notes.”
“Not a problem,” said Red, looking slightly shifty. “Follow me.”
He led me down the hall past a dozen Sacred Heart lamps, into the end bedroom. Unlike the room where I had slept, the decor was quite tasteful. In fact . . .
“This is my stuff!” I shouted, gathering my duvet in my arms. “You burgled my house!”
“I thought you might need your detective gear,” said Red. “I told Genie and Roddy only to take your computer, and any maps or files. They got a bit carried away.”
I grabbed a reading lamp. “They didn’t hurt anyone?”
“No. Your parents were out looking for you last night. It was perfect.”
I felt as though my heart had turned to ash and a good breeze would scatter it irretrievably. I had caused my parents pain.
“I need to go home,” I whispered.
Red took the lamp gently. “In twenty-four hours, Half Moon. As soon as you’ve solved this case.”
“How can I solve anything?” I asked, feeling desperate and alone.
Red shrugged, heading back to the kitchen. “You’re the detective, Moon. Detect something.”
I followed him, spreading my arms. “I can’t set foot outside the front door without being arrested.”
Red wiggled his eyebrows, as though he was the man with all the answers. “I have a plan.”
“What plan?” Suddenly I was nervous.
“Actually, it was Genie’s idea. We were working on it all night. It’s simple. You become one of us. A Sharkey. No one will look at you twice.”
I didn’t like the sound of this plan much. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Genie was suddenly fluttering around me like a shop assistant.
“Of course it will,” she said. “Your tan is coming on nicely.”
“What tan?”
Genie took my hand and led me to a full-length mirror. It barely registered that the mirror was from my own bedroom.
“You look like one of us already.”
Terror took hold of my gut. I couldn’t look.
“Go on,” said Genie. “It’s not that bad.”
That might have been encouraging had everyone not collapsed in fits of giggles.
“Oh, no, please no,” I said, because I had looked.
Someone had cut my dark hair while I had slumbered in a deep painkiller-induced sleep, and what was left of it was dyed red.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. Dangling from my left ear was a large silver pirate hoop. Genie flicked the earring with a spangled nail. It pinged.
“Sign of quality,” she said. “I think it suits you.”
My complexion was several shades darker than normal. I tried to rub off the color, but it refused to shift.
“Hollywood Glow fake tan,” explained Genie. “It’s a bit patchy because I didn’t have time for moisturizer. That stuff won’t wash off for at least a week. Your elbows and knees may be brown for a few weeks. It says on the box not to use it on the facial area, but if you’re not burning by now, then you’re probably okay. Okay?”
My nose was still swollen, and between the dyed head, the swelling and the new color, I was a different person.
Genie rolled up my shirtsleeve, revealing a tattoo on my forearm.
“Don’t have a freak attack, Half Moon,” she said when I began hyperventilating. “It’s only henna. It’ll wear off in a few weeks.”
I lifted my arm, and read the tattoo. “‘Don’t X me?’”
“Don’t cross me,” corrected Genie, slightly miffed. “It’s a cross.”
I was grateful that my other arm was in a cast, or heaven knows what the Sharkeys would have done to it.
Red elbowed his way into my reflection, draping an arm around my shoulder. “Do you remember at the sports field? You said that being me would be easy?”
I nodded. I remembered.
“Well, now’s your chance to prove it.” Red held me at arm’s length, grinning. “Welcome to the family, Half Moon.”
I hadn’t just bent the rules of investigation, I had stomped on the manual, shredded the pages, and burned the strips. Instead of being the discreet detective on the shadowy outskirts of the case, I had become the case. My involvement was changing things. Now my own future depended on the outcome. This case was no longer just a job; it was my life.
I tried to concentrate on the facts, but images of my parents crept into my thoughts.
Twenty-four hours, I told myself. Twenty-four hours.
If I didn’t use the day to solve this crime, then I would always be seen as the crazy Moon kid who went around starting fires and playing detective. I decided to do what I always do when life won’t leave me alone. I lost myself in my iBook.
The Sharkeys had broadband. Not because they paid for it, but because they were piggybacking on a neighbor’s wireless modem signal. I opened my Internet browser and logged on to the police site. In a few keystrokes I was downloading all the September cases that were not related to the Sharkeys. I hadn’t done this at home because it would have taken hours with a regular modem and tied up the phone line. With broadband it took less than five minutes.
I searched through the files, looking for something unusual. Something an adult might view as trivial. I speed-read for half an hour until the phrase “chocolate report” caught my eye. That was nothing if not unusual. I opened the file and read the following statement:
Complainant: Maura Murnane. 18 yrs. Female.
I had been off the chocolate for ages. Six months and three days, that’s half a year. The trick is to avoid the stuff. There was none in the house. I never went shopping alone, and Mom made me leave the room during commercials. I was in the local paper as Slimmer of the Year.
Chocolate. I was off it. Staying away from it. Then one day, it just started showing up. I woke up and there was a Mars bar on my pillow. I thought I was dreaming. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them again there it was. Looking at me like a chocolate kiss. Like the sweetest good morning you ever had. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. I thought it must be a joke. My little brother, maybe. Not a chocolate bar at all. Otto is like that. Once he tied my dog to a bus fender. Mom threw the Mars bar away, but the next morning there was another one. And the next, and the next. It was like the chocolate fairies were stalking me. But I resisted. I was very good. So Mommy moved into my room, to try and catch whoever was planting the Mars bars. But there were no more Mars bars. And I thought that was the end of that, until one day at lunch, I made a sandwich. Brown bread, lean ham, and low-fat mayonnaise. I left it on the table for a minute, a second, but when I bit into it—ten seconds later, I swear—the ham had been replaced with After Eights. They were lovely, even with the mayonnaise. I’ve been hooked on those sandwiches ever since. Mayonnaise and After Eights.