Rory Branagan

by Andrew Clover

  “Yes,” I say. “But where have those boxes come from?”

  “I don’t know!” she says, turning again.

  “Because I think they’re from the Deadly Pirate,” I say.

  “Ah . . . I think it came from a real person,” she says, “not a pirate.”

  “It’s a restaurant,” I tell her, and to prove it to her I get out the leaflet. “I think we should go there right now. And find out who put the poison in Guinea Pig’s food!”

  “I’m not sure about that,” she says.

  “If there is poison in that restaurant,” I tell her very fiercely, “then I also need to warn my Auntie Jo because she works there!”

  She looks into my eyes.

  “I think we should go back to your house,” she says, “and investigate your dad.”

  “I thought that I was the detective,” I growl, “and you were the Sidekick.”

  She looks back at me a long time. Then suddenly . . .

  “All right, boy!” she says, smiling. “You’re on!”

  And we go.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Trip into Town

  “Where is this place?” she says as we head off.

  “It’s on Main Street!”

  “Isn’t that miles away?”

  “Don’t worry!” I tell her. “I know some shortcuts.”

  “Like what?” she says.

  “Like this,” I say, and I dive through a break in the fence.

  We come to a bank that is very steep but it has a whole load of sandy earth on it.

  “And this is how you get down this,” I tell her.

  And I just surf down.

  At the bottom there’s a ravine with a river. There’s also a rope swing.

  “I’ll show you how to do this,” I say, and I swing.

  You have to come flying off at the end . . .

  . . . then you have to leap like a squirrel to the top of the bank, and you have to grab one of the tree roots . . . then you pull yourself up.

  Cassidy is watching me and luckily I do it perfectly.

  But in the end she just swings her own way.

  First she climbs up the tree to make the swing longer.

  Then she flies down . . .

  . . . and at the end, she springs off (way higher than I did) . . .

  . . . and then finally she leaps like a cat to the top of the bank.

  After that we’re right outside the Deadly Pirate.

  Looking through one of their round porthole windows, I can actually see Auntie Jo. I like how she let me off for going into her room. I am glad I am going to rescue her.

  “I’ll do the talking,” I tell Cassidy, and I stride over.

  As I open the door to the Deadly Pirate, I am thinking: This is about the coolest place I’ve ever seen. It has wooden stairs, like on a ship. The walls are decorated with swords and lanterns and rusted pirate stuff.

  I go up.

  At the top of the stairs I see a fish tank. There is a light and bubbles and a castle, and outside that a tiny octopus is sitting, looking like an old lady on a bench.

  In the restaurant, Auntie Jo is facing me.

  As I arrive, for 0.26 seconds, her eyes are blank. Then . . . she beams. “Rory Branagan!” she says.

  Then she crouches and whispers in my ear, “What are you doing here?”

  I lean close to her ear. “Someone has been poisoned,” I whisper. “In this restaurant.”

  “Who?” she says.

  “Guinea Pig Gilligan.”

  She smiles. “Is that a person?” she asks. “Or a guinea pig?”

  “What is going on?” says a voice behind me.

  And I now turn and see a very shady-looking person.

  Well . . . I’m not a real detective yet, and so I cannot point at people saying “That is definitely the criminal!” But this man’s got a stubbly face and angry eyes, and he looks like Dracula.

  “This restaurant,” I say (approaching), “has given out some food that has poisoned my friend’s dad.”

  “Who?” says Dracula.

  “Guinea Pig Gilligan,” I say, and . . .

  Even Dracula laughs.

  And his laugh is a very Dracula type laugh. “Uh-huh-huh!”

  “Is that a real person?” he says. “Or a cartoon?”

  “It’s a REAL PERSON!” I shout. “I am telling you . . . there is a poisoner here, and we need to find out who it is!’

  They are laughing even more.

  I am not liking this at all. When I became a detective I did not expect to be laughed at by everyone. Where the heck is my Sidekick?

  I look out of the round porthole window, and I now see that Cassidy hasn’t even come in. What?!! I am in here all alone, and meanwhile she is outside rooting through the trash cans like a little fox.

  “Does your mother know you’re here?” says a voice.

  Oh no! I turn and see Mrs. Daniels. She is the lady from the school office whose main job is to give you an evil look when you’re late for school.

  Now she’s sitting here, about to eat some soup.

  “I wouldn’t eat that,” I tell her. “It could be poisoned.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “I shall make up my own mind about that,” and before I can stop her she takes a big slurp.

  She then smiles. It’s an evil, sarcastic smile and she’s got a bit of spinach on her teeth, and for a second she looks all deadly like a big jellyfish.

  I just run out.

  I find my Sidekick still out by the trash cans.

  “Did you tell your aunt?” she says.

  “Yes!” I tell her.

  “And what did she do?”

  “Laughed. They all laughed.”

  “If you’re going to be a detective,” says Cassidy, “they’re going to try to stop you in loads of ways, and laughing won’t be the worst.”

  “But do you think they’re poisoning people?” I ask.

  “Well,” she says. “These boxes do have the skull and crossbones. But I couldn’t know for sure that someone inside is a poisoner unless I saw where they’re getting the poison from, or if I could see them putting it in the food.”

  “But where would they actually do that?” I ask.

  “Probably the kitchen.”

  “But how would you get to the kitchen?”

  “I don’t know,” says Cassidy Callaghan, shrugging. “But if it were me, I’d go down that alleyway.”

  She points.

  I turn.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Alleyway

  There is a dark alleyway along the side of the restaurant.

  At the end there’s a wooden door that stops you from going into the little yard behind the restaurant. As we look down the alleyway we hear a strange shriek, like an animal being hurt. Then the door at the end opens, and a man appears.

  He’s a round man with a big belly that is peeping out of the front of his shirt like an eye. He comes waddling toward us. He’s holding a garbage bag, and trying to listen to his phone.

  He’s right over us before he actually sees us.

  “What are you guys doing?” he says.

  “We think that Guinea Pig Gilligan was poisoned,” Cassidy tells him, looking at him carefully. “We’re trying to find out who did it.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” says Belly Man. “Guinea Pig must be the biggest thief in town! At some point someone was going to put a stop to it!”

  He puts the garbage bag down by a lamppost and turns away.

  I go after him.

  “Who would put a stop to Guinea Pig Gilligan?” I ask.

  “There’re basically two people, aren’t there?” he says.

  “Who?” I say.

  He really doesn’t want me
asking him.

  It’s obvious I’m annoying him, but I am already thinking this is something that might make me special as a detective: I don’t mind being annoying. I have a brother; I spend my days being annoying.

  And as the man tries to go I think: You can turn away and head off into the darkness like a big fish. But I will follow you, like the little line of poop that is always trailing behind the fish’s bottom.

  I almost knock into the man as he stops to unlock the door at the end of the alleyway.

  “What do you want?” he says.

  “I want to know,” I say, “who are the two people who might put an end to a thief.”

  “Well . . . the first is Michael Mulligan,” he says.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s basically the biggest crime lord in the land,” he says.

  As I look back up at him I am imagining Michael Mulligan . . .

  MICHAEL MULLIGAN

  The biggest crime lord in the land

  Huge as a mountain, he has a hundred homes on each shoulder.

  “And who’s the other person?” I ask.

  “The other person is Jack ‘Muscle’ Thompson. You do crime in this town, you answer to Jack ‘Muscle’ Thompson, and if he thinks you might talk to the police, you get SHUT DOWN.” And he gives me a fierce look, as if just the name Jack “Muscle” might scare my very soul.

  But the trouble is I am not imagining Jack “Muscle” Thompson.

  I am imagining . . . Jack Russell Thompson.

  He’s a gangster, but he’s also a little dog.

  He breaks into your house, and bites your postman.

  He beats up your cushions.

  And if he really wants to annoy you, he drags his bottom on the carpet, like a dog with worms.

  I’m so busy imagining Jack Russell, that Belly Man goes off and shuts the door.

  Then there’s a smell, like one hundred dead fish all being sick at once, and my brother’s BIG EVIL FACE comes looming out of the darkness. He’s eating a fish stick all slathered in ketchup.

  “What are you doing?” he says.

  “Just being a detective,” I tell him.

  “You are not a detective,” he says. “And you’re also not allowed to go into town. I am, because I am thirteen, but you . . .”

  Right away he is being so annoying.

  Cassidy walks off ahead of us.

  I then have to walk all the way home, being followed by my brother, who is saying, “Face it, you are not a detective!”

  He is being so annoying.

  Then, even when we have reached our home, and Cassidy has been driven off into her own house, my brother is still saying: “Face it, Rory, you are NOT A DETECTIVE!” and then he shoves his fish stick in my face, and . . . I know that Cassidy has told me, if I want to be a detective, I must Master My Emotions and Investigate the Facts like Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock Holmes was never hit in the face by a wet fish stick, so I suddenly lose it, and I try to JUMP KICK my brother.

  But I miss. I always miss. And I end up with my brother sitting on me as if I’m a chair.

  “Face it,” he says. “You’re not a detective!”

  “GET OFF ME!” I shout. I’m just thinking this could not get any worse, but then my mom appears, and right away she screams,

  “Why are you two fighting?”

  My mom has gone full witch. But luckily my brother gets off me. He then goes inside. And luckily my mom goes inside too. She bangs the door shut.

  So then I’m just standing out on the street, trying not to cry.

  And I am all alone—except for Corner Boy. (He is also standing, as per normal, out in the street.) Even Corner Boy is sorry for me.

  “You OK?” he says.

  If I speak, I know I’ll cry. I just nod.

  “My mom just called an ambulance,” he says.

  I say: “Good.”

  But I still don’t dare look into Corner Boy’s eyes. I just stare at his sneakers. They’re new ones.

  He comes walking over. I can tell he wants to talk.

  “But I don’t know why someone would do that to my dad!” says Corner Boy.

  I look at him. I look at the hoodie he’s wearing. It’s a new one, an expensive kind.

  “Corner Boy,” I say, “I think your dad might be a thief!”

  “He is not!” shouts Corner Boy. He’s immediately very angry. He thrusts his spear at me. (I don’t mind. I just catch it!) And then he runs off crying.

  “Corner Boy,” I shout. “Don’t you even want your spear?”

  I go after him, offering up his spear. I try to give it to him.

  Corner Boy turns. “KEEP IT!” he shouts, and he pushes the spear back at me so hard I fall over.

  Unfortunately that’s when my mom comes out.

  “Rory!!! Have I not told you a million times that you are not to fight in the street? Right! You can go to your room! What were you doing? WHAT were you doing?”

  “I am just being a detective,”I tell her.

  “You are not a detective, and you will NEVER be a detective

  EVER AGAIN!!!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  In a Deep, Dark Hole Under My Brother

  One minute later, I am in my room. And I am feeling like a tiny, shivery worm that is right down the deepest, darkest hole, trying not to cry.

  There’s a knock on the window. Cassidy’s face appears.

  “You have to go,” I tell her. “If my mom finds me being a detective again, she’ll kill me.”

  Right then my mom appears.

  Luckily Cassidy has disappeared in time. I look up at my mom. I am hoping she has come because she wants to show me that she’s not mad anymore. But then I look at her face, and I see she still is.

  “I am still angry,” she says (as if I didn’t know), “that you tried to kick your brother, which is extremely stupid, and dangerous. I am going out in five minutes. I want you to go and apologize to him.”

  Once she’s said that she goes.

  So now I have to go and apologize to my brother, which is my worst thing in the entire world.

  So now I’m feeling like a tiny, shivery worm that’s at the bottom of the deepest hole, and who has just been bitten by a snake.

  I am feeling paralyzed. I feel so bad. I am actually feeling like Corner Boy’s dad must have when he’d just eaten the poisoned food! I feel I can’t move.

  But I make myself move. I go to my brother’s room.

  As I walk in, I feel about as big as a shrimp.

  “Seamie,” I say.

  He says nothing. I can tell I am going to cry and so I need to speak fast.

  “I am sorry,” I say, “that I tried to kick you.”

  My brother gives me a look that is actually not that evil.

  “It’s OK,” he says. “I know you’re bothered about Dad and sometimes it gets to you.”

  I say nothing. I always expect my brother to be horrible, and now that he is being nice I find it SO CONFUSING, and now I’m definitely in danger of crying. I can feel the lump in my throat.

  “You’ve just got to face it,” says my brother. “Dad was a great dad, and we loved him. But he isn’t coming back, and that’s all there is to it.”

  And I wish he hadn’t said that. As soon as he does the tears just come pouring out of my eyes, and I can’t stop them. They just roll down my face, and I cry. I cry loads. Soon there’ll be so many tears I could be swimming in them.

  I am thinking of last summer. Corner Boy’s dad had one of those long inflatable mats. He squirted water, then he slid down it like a crazy beetle on its back. And now I’m thinking: I actually like Corner Boy’s dad—who is about the only dad on our block—and I definitely do not want him to die, and I cry more.

  And then I think of Mike Tyso
n the guinea pig. He didn’t mean anyone any harm (unless they were eating his vegetables) and now he’s been POISONED, and I definitely don’t want him to die either for something that wasn’t even his fault, and I cry even more.

  But . . . one good thing about my brother: if I’m crying, he doesn’t try to stop me. He lets me cry. I cry. (I actually start to enjoy it.)

  But suddenly I’ve had enough . . . I open my eyes, and I see my brother, who has been waiting for me to finish. He wants to say something.

  “Did you hear?” he says. “Jo persuaded Mom to meet that man at the Deadly Pirate. I would not go there. Craig Hairfield went last week, and he said they have a blue-ringed octopus, which is about the most lethal animal in the sea.”

  “I have seen that octopus,” I say. “It is about as big as a lemon, and about as scary.”

  “Welllllll . . . ,” says my brother, and as he reaches around to his computer, for a moment he looks like a blue-ringed octopus, and I can’t help but smile. I’m like that when I’ve been crying. My emotions are everywhere! I could easily start laughing now. My brother moves his fingers like tentacles.

  “Let me see,” he says, and I am definitely starting to feel a laugh filling my chest like a bubble.

  And just then I look out the window. I can see Mom is leaving and Mrs. Welkin is arriving. I can see she’s brought Boggle. I can also see she’s brought Wilkins Welkin. I can see he’s brought his hedgehog.