Moone Boy 2: The Fish Detective

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Moone Boy 2: The Fish Detective Page 3

by Chris O’Dowd


  ‘Yeah,’ chirped Martin. ‘And when we do, we’ll make our own fig rolls!

  ‘Why do you keep talking about fig rolls, you amadán*?!’ snapped Bridget.

  He smiled and nodded cluelessly, pretending he understood the Irish word. ‘Múinteoir, an bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí ana leithreas, le do thoil?’

  *AMADAN - word number 79 for ‘idiot’. This one’s in Irish.

  TRANSLATION

  Teacher, may I go to the toilet please?

  She frowned at him. ‘Ya know, you’ve got a very weak bladder, Martin. I’d get that checked out if I were you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FRANCIE ‘TOUCHY’ FEELEY

  Francie ‘Touchy’ Feeley was a friendly man. Very friendly. Fiercely friendly and terribly touchy, I’d say. He got the nickname ‘Touchy’ Feeley because he’d hug and kiss anyone he met in the street, be they friend, foe or complete stranger. This wouldn’t have been a problem had his profession not been so fish-scented. How can I describe the dilemma? Well . . . ya know your auntie who insists on kissing your face every time she comes over? Well, imagine if your auntie washed in a bath full of tuna each morning. That’s what Francie smelled like. With the addition of bad teeth and a wispy moustache. (Some aunties also have wispy moustaches but you really shouldn’t mention those, and never, ever buy them shaving foam for their birthday. Trust me on this.)

  Despite living in Boyle for years, Francie had an air of mystery about him, and rumours followed behind him as closely as his unfortunate odour. He was thought to be from the west coast, the only son of a fisherman and a fisherwoman. Many said that he was even born in the hull of a fishing boat. Another rumour suggested that he was raised by dolphins on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and that he had gills on his back. But it was Padraic who started that rumour, so I’d take it with a pinch of salt.

  It was to his credit that, despite these vicious rumours and his unpleasant aroma, Francie Feeley had managed to create something of an aquatic empire. Intrigued by his story and bored by our own lives, Martin and I decided to delve into Francie’s world of fish. So we headed to the hub of his whole operation.

  Francie Feeley’s fish factory was a large redbrick building with tiny windows and thick-looking doors. The tall wrought-iron gates surrounding the property were decorated with elaborate fish designs, with spiky points at the top. It was very imposing indeed. As we stood outside we peeked between the bars, trying to see who was working inside.

  ‘No one goes in, no one comes out. It’s very mysterious, isn’t it, buddy?’ I said.

  ‘It is, Sean. It’s exactly like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.’

  ‘Yes!’ I agreed. ‘Although, Francie goes in and out a lot, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed he does, Sean, many times a day.’

  ‘So . . . he’s kinda the exact opposite of Willy Wonka really.’

  ‘That’s true. It’s like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory if Willy Wonka went in and out a lot and ran a small but very successful chocolate shop in the middle of the town,’ I suggested.

  ‘It’s exactly like that!’ Martin agreed.

  We walked around the walls, desperate for an opening. We were on a clue-search. Half an hour later, we were searched out and utterly clueless. We needed to get inside.

  Ping! I looked to Martin and noticed that a light bulb had gone on above his head. This always happened when Martin got an idea. It was an after-effect of the time he stuck a fork into a plug socket thinking some jelly had fallen in there.

  ‘I see your thinking bulb’s on, buddy,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘Yes, I really must see a doctor about that,’ he replied, looking up.

  ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘I do indeed, my bearded assistant.’

  ‘Assistant?’

  ‘Do you remember that episode of The A-Team* when Hannibal** went undercover as a biker to infiltrate that evil motorcycle gang?’

  ‘Remember it? It was the finest forty-six minutes of my life!’ I said.

  ‘Me too. And it’s just given me another one of my brilliant ideas that I got from television.’

  ‘We’re going to start an evil motorcycle gang?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Sean!’

  ‘We’re going do a short course on motorcycle management and take it from there?’

  ’Nope.’

  ‘We’re going to get tattoos of motorbikes and maybe wear some leather shorts?’

  *THE A-TEAM - an action-filled TV show about a group of renegades who solve crimes, kick ass and ask questions later. Not to be confused with The B-Team, who always asked questions first.

  **HANNIBAL - a character from The A-Team who was famous for his undercover Skills and beating people up. Not to be confused with Hannibal Lecter, who was famous for eating people up.

  ‘No, but we should definitely think about doing those things too.’

  ‘What’s your plan, Martin?’

  ‘Sean, we’re going to go undercover! We’re going to infiltrate the factory, like a couple of fish-moles, and we’re going to find out the truth behind this big weird mysterious place!’

  ‘Yes! I’ve always wanted to be in a motorcycle gang!’

  ‘What? Were you even listening to me?’

  ‘I’m going to be Dirtbag. And you can be Mild Thing. Or Hogwart. Or Roadkill. Take your pick.’

  ‘No, Sean! I’m going to be a fish detective!’

  ‘That makes more sense.’ I nodded.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MEAT SURPRISE

  ‘A fish . . . detective?’ asked a puzzled Bridget Cross.

  Martin nodded enthusiastically. ‘I also like to think of myself as a Fish-Mole. Or a Private Infishtigator.’

  ‘So you’d be my . . . spy? My eyes and ears?’

  ‘Exactamundo, Mrs C!’ Martin beamed.

  ‘And maybe her mouth and nose too,’ I added, ‘if we find any edible or smellable clues.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ Martin asked her.

  Bridget stroked her mousy moustache as she mulled it over. Then finally her thin lips curled into a devious grin. ‘It’s brilliant, Martin. Simply brilliant.’

  Martin looked confused - he wasn’t used to having his ideas praised. ‘It is?’

  ‘It’s so simple!’ she cried, ‘So simple it’s almost stupid.’

  Martin nodded, unsure. ‘But. . . it’s not. Right?’

  Bridget laughed – a gravelly, squeaking cackle, like a vampire choking on a whistle. ‘Nach bhfuil sé greannmhar!’ she chuckled. ‘I can’t believe I was actually going to fire you today.’

  TRANSLATION

  ‘Isn’t it funny!’

  ‘Fire me?!’ cried Martin, shocked. ‘Just because I dropped those pork chops on the floor and never bothered cleaning them and then sold them to that old woman and told her that all those bits of dirt were a crunchy apple glaze?’

  Bridget frowned. ‘What? No—’

  ‘Just because I found a rat and chased him around the shop with a broomstick and accidentally herded him into the sausage machine, which wasn’t on at the time, but then I accidentally switched it on?’

  ‘Eh? No—’

  ‘Just because I dropped your keys into the toilet when I was peeing into it, and then used that glove you’re wearing to fish out the keys, but dropped that into the pee bowl too, so I used your other glove to fish out the first glove and then used your hairnet to fish out the keys?’

  ‘No, Martin,’ she said with a sigh, shaking her head, ‘I was going to fire you because I thought you were an idiot.’

  Oh. Well, that’s a relief!’ said Martin.

  ‘Phew! Thought we were in trouble there for a sec, buddy!’ I chuckled.

  Bridget continued, ‘But you’re clearly not as stupid as you look. Or sound. Or behave in every way.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Mrs C!’

  ‘This fish-detective idea of yours changes everything. So I won’t fire you, Martin. Perhaps I’ll even start to pay yo
u.’

  ‘Pay me?!’ he cried, delighted. ‘This job is getting better all the time!’

  ‘Wow, maybe we’re going to be able to buy that Game Boy after all!’ I cheered.

  But when Bridget handed Martin his ‘wages’, our excitement quickly faded.

  ‘A bag of meat bits?’ he said, dismayed.

  ‘Do you know what a Lucky Bag is, Martin?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a bag of mystery sweets where you don’t know what sweets are inside it until you buy it. It’s basically the most exciting thing ever.’

  ‘Well, this is a Butcher’s Lucky Bag.’

  We peered back into the plastic bag, looking at the collection of bones and guts.

  ‘More like a Yucky Bag,’ I grumbled.

  ‘So . . . is this instead of money?’ Martin asked.

  ‘It’s better than money!’ declared Bridget. ‘You can’t eat money, can you?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ agreed Martin, ‘And believe me I’ve tried!’

  ‘You sure we can eat this?’I wondered doubtfully.

  ‘What kind of meat is in here?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Who knows?’ replied Bridget with a shrug, ‘That’s the fun of a Lucky Bag! Could be anything!’

  Martin’s eyes lit up, his excitement flooding back. ‘Anything?! Wow! Thanks, Mrs C!’

  Martin skipped home, whistling and dripping blood all the way. In the kitchen, his mother was poring over the family budget, trying to save money. So when her son presented his bloody bag to her, she beamed with delight, calculating that this would slash a whole eight pounds and sixty-three pence from their grocery bill.

  ‘Looks like we’re having Meat Surprise tonight!’ she announced happily.

  The three Moone sisters looked up - Fidelma from her homework, Trisha from her latest sewing experiment and Sinead from a sugar sandwich.

  ‘You didn’t hit another fox with the car, did ya, Mam?’ asked Sinead, spitting crumbs everywhere.

  ‘No, it’s not roadkill. It’s from our little butcher boy!’ she replied, patting Martin’s head proudly.

  ‘Hang on,’ started Fidelma. ‘Why’s the butcher giving that meat away? Has it gone off?’

  ‘No, no,’ chuckled Martin, ‘These bits were probably just too tough to go through the sausage machine.’

  ‘What does go through the sausage machine?’ asked Trisha suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, you know - bones, teeth, horseshoes . . .’

  Debra lifted out a misshapen bone with some fat hanging off it. ‘I think this is a hip. So I guess it’s hips and chips for dinner!’

  The girls were not amused. ‘Hips and chips?’

  Martin retorted, ‘Hey - at least someone in this house is bringing home the bacon*!’

  Sinead snapped back, ‘That is not bacon. That is bacon’s ugly, freakish, inedible little brother!’

  ‘Well, at least he’s making an effort,’ defended Debra, ‘which is more than any of you useless lumps are doing. Why don’t you get jobs too?’

  Trisha rolled her eyes. ‘Mam, in case you hadn’t noticed, this country is in a recession. No one’s hiring Punk-Fashion-Experimentalists right now.‘

  Debra gestured at Martin, ‘Well, if this little eejit can get a job, then anyone can get a job.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Martin. ‘Shame on ye all.’

  * BRINGING HOME THE BACON - a term for making money. This phrase began long ago when slices of bacon were used as bank notes and sausages were used as coins. It’s also Why your money box is shaped like a piggy!

  ‘Everyone needs to pitch in,’ Debra continued. ‘This Christmas has got to be more of a Budget Christmas. And this is exactly what Budget Christmas is all about!’ she declared, holding up Martin’s guts bag.

  ‘A bag of gristle?’ sniped Sinead.

  ‘A bag of initiative,’ Debra corrected her. ‘A bag of everyone helping out. A bag of the Moone family working together to make a festive, and very affordable, Christmas.’

  ‘What’s festive about Meat Surprise?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Well, there were cows in the manger too. And sheep,’ replied Debra.

  ‘And a donkey!’ added Martin.

  ‘I knew it - it’s donkey!’ snapped Trisha. ‘I’m not eating donkey!’

  Just then, Liam ambled into the kitchen, carrying a large cardboard box.

  ‘How did you get on in the attic, love?’ Debra asked. ‘Did you find the Christmas box?’

  ‘Yeah, slight problem though. Do you remember that time when we saw the hole in the roof but couldn’t afford to get it fixed, so decided to just pretend it wasn’t there?’

  Debra chuckled. ‘What hole? Hahaha!’

  ‘Haha, yeah. Well, the thing is, a lot of stuff in the attic got wet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Debra’s smile faded as Liam set the Christmas box down on the kitchen table with a worrying squelch.

  The family picked through the box to assess the damage. The Christmas lights were soaked, along with all the old decorations - not just the rubbish ones that the kids had made, but the nice ones they’d bought too. There was no tinsel. No Christmas star. Even the crib was destroyed. It was a sorry sight indeed.

  I peered at the soggy Christmas lights.

  ‘Hey, buddy, do you think if you plugged them in, that might dry them out?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Genius!’ cried Martin, and shoved the plug into the socket.

  ‘No, Martin!’ yelled his dad.

  But it was already too late - Martin was writhing around on the floor like a break-dancing bumblebee caught in a flashing spider’s web.

  ‘OHooHbbBaLLLSSS!!’

  ‘I did not see that coming, buddy,’ I told him honestly, as his sisters roared with laughter. ‘But, hey - at least you’ve cheered everyone up!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE FISH-MOLE

  Fresh from being electrocuted and embarrassed, Martin and I trudged unhappily along a country road. We were out for one of our famous ‘grumble walks’. This was where we would go for a sorry stroll and Martin would whinge about his pathetic little life. A bargain- basement Christmas, a sugar-free lucky bag and a family that laughed at his physical torture - it all added up to a truly awful yection. During a ‘grumble walk’ it was very likely that stones would be kicked, heads would droop and loved ones would be cursed. If you haven’t yet tried a ‘grumble walk’ yourself, I strongly suggest you do. It’s hugely rewarding.

  ‘Wait a flippin’ minute!’ I exalted. ‘We need to quit this grumble and start to rumble!’.

  ‘What are you on about, Sean?’

  ‘Remember, Martin, you’re a fish detective now.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I nearly forgot. We need to start detectiving.’

  ‘But how do we get into that flippin’ fish factory?’

  ‘What we need is a brilliant, utterly convincing lie,’ Martin declared.

  ‘Well, that’s never been a problem before,’ I lied.

  As we made our way to Feeley’s fish factory, we put our thinking jellies to work. Soon the ideas flowed out of us like unset thinking jelly.

  ‘How about saying that you’re a fish-machinery salesman from Leitrim*?’ I offered.

  ‘What’s fish machinery?’

  I shrugged. ‘How should I know? You’re the salesman!’

  * LEITRIM - this is a small, sparsely populated county in Ireland. There are no traffic lights in Leitrim. This is because they haven’t yet discovered the colour amber.

  ‘Or… I could pretend that I already work in the factory. And when they say they don’t recognize me, I tell them that I usually have a beard but. . .it escaped. . . through a hole in my jumper.’

  ‘Or. . . you shaved it off?’

  ‘Or I shaved it off!’ Martin repeated excitedly.

  ‘But you don’t have a shaving rash*,’ I noted.

  ‘Good point, Sean.’

  ‘You could knock on the door and pretend to be a Jehovah’s Witness*?’ I smartly
suggested.

  ‘That’s brilliant! Wait, I don’t have any of my Bibles with me.’

  ‘Nuts!’ I exclaimed.

  * SHAVING RASH - the cuts and bumps you inevitably get from dragging a rugged blade over your skin. This is why bearded people are considered to be extremely clever.

  * JEHOVAH’S WITNESS - a person who goes door to door spreading the news about the life of Jesus Christ. Although, since Jesus was born over two thousand years ago, it’s hardly ‘news’, is it?

  Our brainstorming wasn’t going brilliantly. We’d reached the factory gates and were standing outside, still without a plan. We dismissed ‘vengeful fisherman’, ‘gate inspector’ and ‘factory collector’ as being too far-fetched. We needed something less bananas.

  ‘How about I just say that I accidentally kicked my football over the gate and I need to retrieve it?’

  I looked at his scrawny little frame. ‘Do you think it’s believable that you could kick a football over a gate?’

  ‘Fair point,’ he agreed sadly.

  Just then we heard a van in the distance. A pan-pipe version of a song called ‘Fisherman’s Blues’ was blaring from it. And the stench of a tropical trout car-freshener soon hit us like a pong punch. It could only be one person.

  ‘Francie Feeley!’ I cried.

  ‘OK, OK. I’ve got it! Where’s my copybook?’ Martin squealed as he searched his backpack.

  He pulled out a page and started to draw. As the van approached us, Martin drew fast and drew strong, as if his job depended on it, which it kinda did.

  Francie’s fish van screeched to a stop at the gate just as Martin tore the finished sketch from his copybook. ‘Touchy’ Feeley poured out of his fish van with a slimy slurp.

  ‘Oh, who’s this at my private factory gate? Are you the gate inspector?’ Francie asked, as he strode suspiciously towards us.

  ‘No, sir, Mr Feeley.’

  ‘Then who da flip are ya, kiddo?’

  ‘Don’t tell him your real name, Martin! Quick, make up a fake one.’

 

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