Rory Branagan

by Andrew Clover

  But she’s not here now.

  In fact, her room is weirdly empty.

  There’s just a pile of leaflets on the bedside table for the Deadly Pirate, the new restaurant where she’s started working. I take one.

  Cassidy is still standing in the doorway.

  “How long has she lived here?” she says.

  “Two years.”

  “And did you clear the room out before she came?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then there won’t be any evidence of your dad here,” she says. “Not unless he’s hiding in the attic—like a big rat.”

  “Ratman!” I say.

  I like the idea of this! Ratman! He climbs up the drainpipes. He steals your cheese.

  I open the door to the attic. I look around. Cassidy has gone. Oh no.

  I catch up with her outside my mom’s room.

  “I don’t think you should go in there!” I whisper. “I’d definitely feel bad about you doing that.”

  “Listen, young man,” says Cassidy, raising her finger, “if you want to be a detective like Sherlock Holmes, you must Master Your Emotions and Investigate the Facts!”

  Then she goes straight into my mom’s room.

  I so want to go in too. But, if Mom catches me in here, she will definitely go full witch. But if I don’t go in, I may never find Dad.

  Should I go in?

  I go in.

  I enter to find Cassidy rooting through the closet.

  “So how long is it since your dad disappeared?” she whispers.

  “Seven years,” I tell her.

  “Well, your mom seems to be keeping his clothes,” she says. She hands me a pair of jeans.

  “And what did he look like?” she says, now moving to a chest of drawers.

  “Tall, dark hair,” I say.

  “Sort of like that?” she says. And she pulls a photo out of a drawer.

  I see a picture of my mom. She’s with my dad. He is handsome and kind looking, and he’s standing by a car. Right away, I recognize him.

  I also recognize the car. I haven’t seen it since Dad disappeared and that seems important, but I don’t know why.

  It’s as if the memory is buried deep, deep underwater and I would need to swim down past big, evil creatures to find it.

  But I so want to find that memory in my mind.

  But then the door opens and my brother’s BIG HEAD appears. You can tell he’s very bothered we’re in Mom’s room.

  “What are you doing?” he says.

  “Just . . . being a detective!” I say.

  “Why would YOU ever be a detective?” he says. “You’re a dork!”

  And I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I don’t.

  I just stuff the jeans on his head.

  Cassidy laughs. And he just runs out, furious.

  BOOMTOWN!

  RESULT!

  Then suddenly we hear my mom on the stairs. I get the fear. We both get the fear, and we leg it out of there. It takes us 0.2 seconds, and we’re out and the door is shut by the time my mom gets there, but somehow—I don’t know how (I think that all moms are actually half witch) . . .

  . . . she still knows we’ve been in her room.

  “You need to go home now,” she says to Cassidy in a voice that is so calm it is actually creepy. Then she turns to me. “And, Rory, Mrs. Welkin is coming soon. You need to clean up your art project in the living room.”

  Now some people— usually teachers— always say: “Why don’t you boys try saying what you feel a little more?,” which is the worst advice.

  What I want to say is: I have told you a HUNDRED TIMES that I will clean up the art project in the living room.

  Or I could say: “Mom, why do you have a picture of Dad that you never show me? I have told you a THOUSAND TIMES I want you to show me things!”

  I could easily say that.

  But then my mom could so easily say:

  “And I have told you one million times not to go into my room!!”

  And then the people on the other side of town will see my mother burst through the roof as she turns into the biggest, evilest witch IN THE WORLD!

  And I do not need that.

  The world does not need that.

  So on behalf of the world I suck it up and keep quiet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I Suck It Up

  I go to the living room, where, if I had to talk about my feelings, I’d say I feel bad.

  Even though it was a little scary, I was enjoying showing Cassidy around, and I’m ANNOYED my mom’s made her go home. And as I look around at the mess, and I see that most of it is actually my brother’s, I feel worse.

  I notice I’m still holding the leaflet for the Deadly Pirate.

  There is a picture of the front of the restaurant. It looks like a ship.

  I am thinking: I wish it was a ship . . .

  I’d sail it far, far away . . .

  I’d sail past islands . . .

  I’d sail so far off there’d be big whales leaping from the waves . . .

  . . . then I think: Even if I could sail so far that the farthest-flying seabirds couldn’t reach me . . .

  . . . I know that—SOMEHOW—my way would still be blocked by . . .

  . . . the big head of my brother.

  Then I am thinking: What would I actually do, if my way was blocked by the giant head of my brother?

  And I am thinking . . . I would sail my ship right up his nose!!!

  And then I am having a grand old time, thinking how funny it would be, if I could sail an actual ship into the head of my brother, when suddenly I realize that . . .

  in the REAL world . . .

  Auntie Jo has come in.

  “Did you go into my room?” she says.

  “No!” I tell her.

  “I know you’re lying!” she says, and she smiles.

  “How?” I say.

  “Because you closed your eyes,” she says. “Like this . . .”

  And she closes her eyes slowly.

  “It’s a classic sign of lying!” she says.

  I’m thinking: She’s right! And I am also thinking: And where else did I see someone do that today? I’m trying to remember. It seems important.

  “Plus,” says Jo, “you are holding my leaflet in your hand.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, don’t worry,” she says. “You’re all right with me! Just don’t do it again!”

  She gives me a gorgeous smile, then she heads off to work.

  And if I were a real detective, I would probably be thinking, as I watch her walking past the front window: Why was her room so empty? But I’m not. I am thinking: Ah, and you’re all right with me, Jo!

  I am thinking: If I did have a ship that could sail far, far across the sea . . . you could come.

  But then I stop thinking about boats and Jo. I even stop thinking: Why is there a picture of my dad that my mom’s never shown me?

  Because right then I notice something very interesting out the window . . .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  An Actual Crime

  First of all, I see . . .

  Corner Boy who is standing on his corner.

  He looks around. Then I look around.

  And we see . . . arriving, with a swish of tires, a mysterious car. It’s a silver Mercedes-Benz. It has blacked-out windows. Whose is that? I am thinking. Then . . .

  As I watch, Corner Boy’s dad gets out holding a box of take-out food. His real name is Graham Gilligan. But we call him Guinea Pig Gilligan, because he is the one who breeds all the guinea pigs.

  Everyone knows Guinea Pig Gilligan, who is about the friendliest man on our block. Every evening you’ll hear a knock, and you’ll open
the door to find Guinea Pig with a big smile on his face and a blender, or a George Foreman Grill, that he’s offering to sell for almost no money at all.

  But the friendly man is not smiling now. As I watch, he takes a forkful of his food. And then suddenly he freezes. And then he bends right over, and he starts going honnnnnnnnk honnnnnnnnnk like a donkey.

  Why is he doing that?

  Right away I am very bothered and very interested. I need to know what’s going on, and I run toward the front door.

  But then suddenly my brother appears (because my brother always appears when I am trying to do something).

  “WHAT are you doing?” he says.

  “Something is wrong with Guinea Pig!” I tell him.

  “So,” says my brother. “Why are YOU going out there?”

  “Because I need to know what’s going on!”

  “Rory, you’re NOT a detective!”

  This is annoying me.

  “What will you give me,” I say, “if I PROVE I am a detective?”

  “I would give you,” he says, “my complete collection of trading cards from the years 2010 to 2018, but I would never do that, because you are not a detective!”

  “Well,” I shout to him, “I will prove to you that I am!”

  “How are you supposed to do that, you big bumhead?” he says.

  “For a start,” I tell him, “I will find out what’s happened to Corner Boy’s dad!”

  And I pull open the door.

  And I go over to investigate.

  Guinea Pig Gilligan is still doubled over, but he now staggers to his front door all stiff. He goes in. Corner Boy tries to follow. His mom appears. She pushes Corner Boy out.

  I then appear.

  “Corner Boy,” I say, walking up his path. “What happened to your dad?”

  When Corner Boy sees me coming to help, something comes over him.

  He punches me and I go down.

  “Corner Boy!” I say. “Why did you DO THAT?”

  “I’m sorry!” he says. “I have a medical condition that makes me hit people!”

  I don’t believe there’s a medical condition that makes you hit people.

  But I don’t say that. I get to my feet.

  And when I get up I see Corner Boy is trying not to cry. He’s not doing well. He’s staring into the distance, and his bottom lip has gone all quivery.

  I hate it when people cry. I don’t think I could be a detective, if people cry.

  But then someone else arrives.

  Hallelujah!!

  It’s Cassidy. She’ll know what to do. For some reason she’s standing up on her front wall.

  “Cassidy,” I call. “This is my friend Corner Boy!”

  “Hello!” she says.

  He looks at her, all confused.

  She beams at him. “I’m Cassidy Callaghan,” she says (leaping off the wall and swaggering over). “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She smiles and holds out her hand to shake.

  Now, we’re not used to shaking hands on our block, and, seeing Cassidy advance like that, Corner Boy panics.

  He dodges Cassidy’s hand.

  Then he tries to whack her.

  But it’s as if she’s expecting it.

  She ducks, and then, using the speed of his whack, she just casually swings Corner Boy around . . . and then she neatly judoes him down.

  One second later, she’s pinning Corner Boy to the ground.

  “I’m sorry!” he says. “You just scared me!”

  “It’s fine!” she says. “But don’t do it again!”

  “I won’t!” he says.

  “Good!” says Cassidy, and then, totally cool, she pulls him up. “You threw a nice punch, by the way.”

  She pats him on the back, while winking at me over his shoulder.

  “How come you’re so good at fighting?” I whisper to her.

  “Ah . . . You just have to think what the other person is about to do,” she says.

  “Then you surprise them.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cassidy Starts Her Investigation

  “But are you OK?” Cassidy asks Corner Boy.

  I look into his face and see one big tear that’s ready to burst out.

  “My dad has just collapsed!” he says (sounding a little squeaky).

  “What happened?” Cassidy asks.

  “I don’t know!” he says. “He was just eating his take-out food, then he collapsed. I think someone might have POISONED him!”

  “But who would want to poison him?” she says.

  “I don’t know!” he says.

  “But why might they?”

  “Well, I am not saying he would,” says Corner Boy, “but some people might think my dad might want to speak to the police.”

  For a moment Cassidy’s eyes flash.

  “How come your dad might want to speak to the police?” she asks.

  Just then there’s a loud vroom-vroom and a police car arrives.

  It stops.

  Then a shiny shoe steps out of the car, followed by the biggest man we’ve ever seen. Corner Boy actually runs off. I just stand there, and moments later, he’s looming over me, as big as a whale.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I am Stephen Maysmith,” he says, “police detective!”

  “Wow! Have you come to investigate the poisoning of Guinea Pig Gilligan?” I ask. “I’ll help you!”

  “Er . . . no,” says Maysmith. “I am just here to have a routine chat!”

  And he waves a package of cookies at me.

  “He won’t be eating those!” I say. “I think he’s been poisoned!”

  Right then the door opens behind me. It’s Corner Boy’s mom.

  “Of course he hasn’t been poisoned, officer!” she says. “He’s fine! He’s in the living room!”

  She smiles at Maysmith and gives us an evil look. Then she shuts the door with a bang.

  “Is he in the living room?” asks Cassidy.

  “I’ll look!” I say, and I pin my eye to the mail slot.

  “What can you see?” she says.

  “More than you’d expect,” I tell her (glad I’ve got some information at last). “Normally this hallway is filled up with blender boxes, but Corner Boy and I had to burn them.”

  “What?” says Cassidy. “How come you had to burn them?”

  “His mom said she didn’t want the mess!” I say. “We made a Guinea Pig Olympic Stadium. But the only part left is the medal podium. I’ll ask Corner Boy to show you!”

  “Corner Boy!” I shout.

  He appears at the garden gate.

  “I don’t think you should shout,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “My dad has collapsed!” he whispers.

  “Yes,” I tell him, “but your mom says he’s fine now!”

  “Yes,” says Corner Boy. “But I don’t think he is.”

  “Oh,” I say (feeling serious all over again).

  “And the worst thing is . . . ,” says Corner Boy (sounding very squeaky indeed), “Mike Tyson has escaped!”

  Corner Boy seems more bothered by the loss of Mike Tyson than the collapse of his dad.

  He goes still. And I can tell why. He’s wondering what could have happened to Mike Tyson, and suddenly he works it out. We both do. We both run. Right away we’re both fearing what we might find, and we’re both right.

  Mike Tyson is lying on his side.

  He has food near his mouth. His eyes are shut. He actually looks dead.

  And now Corner Boy can’t help himself. He picks up Mike Tyson. Then he bursts into tears and runs screaming into the house. He slams the door.

  As it shuts with a BANG I turn to Cassidy, who’s totally
cool. It’s as if this is what she expected to happen.

  “Interesting,” she says. “Very, very interesting.”

  “What’s happened?” I say.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure,” she says. “But it looks as if the dad was selling a whole load of stolen goods, including blenders—probably on behalf of a gang. Then the police want to talk to him, so your man Guinea Pig has tried to destroy the evidence by burning the boxes. But the gang was still worried that Guinea Pig might squeal, so they poisoned him.”

  As I am looking at her, the questions are swirling in my head like fish. I am thinking . . .

  I am thinking . . .

  I am thinking . . .

  I thought I was supposed to be the detective. She just worked out about ten detective things in four seconds flat.

  “How did you work all that out?” I ask.

  “Oh,” she says. “Well . . . the whole family has got a suspicious amount of money. (I mean . . . look at the new car.) And then the mom is obviously trying to hide something from the police . . . (Why? What’s she hiding?) Those are the main clues.”

  I just look at her with astonishment.

  She is now peering at a box on the floor.

  “And then of course there is that!” she says.

  I look. There’s a skull and crossbones on the box.

  “Do you think that’s a message,” I say, “from the poisoner?”

  “No,” she says. “I think that’s printed on all the boxes.”