Moone Boy 2: The Fish Detective

by Chris O’Dowd

  Martin Moone is not the quickest thinker, but he tried his best to conjure a new identity on the spot.

  ‘What? . . . My name? My name is . . . what I’m called, which is . . . my name, and that is . . . Fartin Foone.’

  ‘Farting?’ asked a confused Francie.

  ‘No! Haha. Fartin,’ Martin repeated slowly.

  ‘Farting?’

  ‘Fartin.’

  ‘Right. No, hold on, are you saying your name is . . . Farting?’

  ‘No. Fartin. As in . . . Sounds like . . . Martin.’

  ‘This is going really well, buddy,’ I snorted sarcastically.

  ‘Oh. Well, hello, Fartin Foone!’ said Francie, apparently believing Martin’s lame name change. He pinched Martin’s cheek with his fishy fingers and offered him his hand.

  ‘I’m Francie, but you can call me Mr Feeley.’

  As Martin shook it, Francie pulled him into a big bear hug, lifting him off the ground. Martin recoiled as the waves of fish aroma flooded his nostrils. It was as if someone had used a tin of mackerel juice as mouthwash.

  ‘So what are you doing here, Fartin Foone? You’re not another vengeful fisherman, I hope?’

  Martin and I shared a look. It was a look I recognized. It was an ‘I’m about to put my ridiculous plan in motion now’ look.

  ‘Nope. I’m here. . . because I won a competition.’

  ‘Oh. Well done, you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Feeley, sir.’

  ‘What sort of competition?’ He looked Martin up and down. ‘I’m assuming it wasn’t sports! Hahaha!’

  ‘Haha. God, no, it was a competition to work in your factory.’

  Francie stopped laughing and frowned at him. ‘What’s that now?’

  ‘I won a competition to work in your factory. So here I am! Ready to go! Where do I clock in?’

  ‘But, er . . . I wasn’t running a competition.’

  ‘Oh. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I think that’s something I’d remember all right.’

  ‘Well, I definitely won it,’ said Martin, whipping out his folded-up drawing from his pocket. ‘See?’

  ‘What’s this?’ Francie asked as he squinted at the sketch.

  ‘It’s a scratch card, scratch three fishes to win,’ explained Martin.

  ‘I see.’ Francie frowned. ‘OK, let me get this straight. . . You went into a shop to purchase a scratch card. You ignored all the usual scratch cards that have actual cash prizes, and went instead for this one, which looks like it was hand-drawn by a small child, where the top prize was to work in my fish factory?’

  ‘That’s right!’ Martin nodded excitedly. ‘And I won!’

  ‘And when you went to collect this prize from the mad newsagent’s where they sell scratch cards to children where the prizes are jobs - did they mention anything about me paying you?’

  ‘No, sir. I just presumed I’d be working for free.’

  Francie considered all this information. He used his fishy finger to retrace all the points of the story in his head, until finally -

  ‘Well, congratulations, Foone!’ he exclaimed as he pulled Martin into another foul-smelling bear hug.

  ‘So . . . I can come inside?’ Martin asked tentatively.

  ‘Well, you won’t be much use to me out here, will you?’ Francie replied as he got into his van. He pulled a starfish-shaped remote control from the glovebox and opened the tall factory gates. Martin and I gave each other a very silent high five.

  As the fish van passed us, Francie leaned out of his window.

  ‘Just make sure you’re out of here by seven bells, Fartin Foone. I don’t want you getting under the feet of the night shift.’

  ‘No problemo, Mr Feeley, sir!’ Martin chirped back.

  ‘Ha, imagine if your name was Farting!’

  ‘Haha. Yes, Mr Feeley.’

  ‘It’d be awful to be the kind of person that people always associated with horrible smells,’ Francie said, shaking his head at the ridiculous thought.

  The gates slowly opened and Martin held his nose as we followed the stench-mobile into stink city.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SEVEN BELLS

  ‘Welcome to Francie Feeley’s Fabulous Fish Factory!’ announced Francie dramatically as he hopped out of his van. He’d parked it in a corner of the huge factory room, and Martin gazed around.

  ‘Ooooooooh,’ he said, pretending to be impressed. But in truth, the Fabulous Fish Factory was quite far from fabulous. It was disappointingly drab and run down, with rusted pipes, broken windows and peeling paint. I gagged a little as I breathed in the fish stench. The air stank like an ocean of octopuses’ armpits.

  ‘Mmeeeaaghgggrrr!’ came a nearby noise. I thought it might have been my stomach preparing to puke, but it turned out to be a large Siamese cat who was peering up at Martin. She had a crooked tail and a slightly stupid-looking face.

  ‘Hiya, cat!’ waved Martin.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ warned Francie. ‘That’s our guard-cat, Fishsticks. She doesn’t respond well to friendliness.’

  Fishsticks hissed at Martin, baring her razorsharp teeth. The boy gulped. Then Francie casually pulled a fresh fish from his jacket pocket and flung it into the distance. The cat licked her lips and darted after it.

  ‘Bit of advice, Fartin,’ said Francie. ‘Always keep a pollock in your pocket.’

  ‘Well, that’s just common sense,’ I agreed.

  ‘Thanks for the tip, sir!’ chirped Martin, and made a note of it on his hand.

  Francie showed Martin around and introduced him to the other workers - two

  old codgers who were sweeping the factory floor. ‘This is Blind-Man Bill and Deaf-Ears Dunphy.’

  The two old men laughed genially. ‘Haha.

  You always gets us mixed up, Francie.

  Bill’s the deaf one.’

  ‘And Dunphy’s the blind one!’ shouted Bill.

  Francie looked confused. ‘So it’s Blind-Man . . . Dunphy? That doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘Well, you could just call me Brendan.’

  ‘Just. . . Brendan?’

  ‘Or Blind Brendan, I suppose?’ he added reluctantly.

  ‘Deaf-Ears Brendan!’ proclaimed Francie. ‘That’s way better!’

  ‘Except I’m not deaf.’

  Francie ignored him and turned back to Martin. ‘Foone. Deaf-Ears Brendan here will show you the ropes. Now listen, you can help out a bit, sweeping and stuff, but kids aren’t allowed to actually work in the factory. Ya get me?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Martin, a little disappointed. ‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose. You wouldn’t want a bunch of silly kids running the place!’ He chuckled.

  Just then an engine revved behind us and we turned to see a forklift speeding around the factory floor, skilfully arranging large crates of fish packed in ice. It skidded to a stop nearby and we gasped when we recognized the driver.

  ‘Declan Mannion!’

  Martin’s classmate looked over, flicking his cool, rebellious hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Ah, you know Dec!’ said Francie. ‘Good stuff. Me and him go way back. . .’

  He ruffled Martin’s head with his stinky hands and swaggered away, giving warm hugs to Bill and Brendan as he went.

  Declan climbed out of the forklift and sauntered over to Martin, lighting a thin cigar. ‘I recognize you from somewhere. Do you owe me money?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Er, I don’t think so. You took my lunch money yesterday, so I think I’m all paid up.’

  ‘Were we in a band together? Do you play keyboards?’

  ‘Well, if by “band”, you mean “our class”, and by “keyboards”, you mean “nothing”, then yes!’

  ‘Our class?’

  ‘In school. You sit three tables away from me. I let you copy my maths homework yesterday,’ Martin reminded him.

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘You stole my pencil case last week and threw it on the schoo
l roof?’ said Martin.

  Declan shrugged blankly.

  ‘You fell in love with my sister for a while and were going to be my bully protector, but then I accidentally told my whole family the plan and we all got grounded, so you never managed to do it.’

  Declan shook his head. ‘Sorry, fella. I don’t normally forget a face. But you have an extremely forgettable face.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I nodded. ‘You do. If it wasn’t for all my reminder-tattoos, I’d never know who you were.’

  ‘So anyhoo,’ started Martin, eager to change the subject, ‘how did you get the job here?’

  ‘Oh, me and Francie go way back,’ replied Declan as he blew a smoke ring.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He hit me with his van once. And we became friends after that.’

  Martin gave an uncertain nod. ‘Right.’

  ‘But I knew him before that too. I fixed his plumbing for him. Didn’t do a great job though, which is probably why he hit me with the van.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I taught him how to play drums. We go way back.’

  Martin nodded, wondering how old Declan really was. How many times had he repeated sixth class. . . ?

  ‘Anyway, better get back to it, fella. Nice to meet ya!’ Declan called as he sauntered away.

  ‘Nice to meet ya?’ repeated Martin, hurt. ‘Am I really that forgettable?’

  I gave him a reassuring look. ‘No, of course not. . .’ I glanced at my tattoos,’. . . Martin.’

  Martin sighed glumly and walked off.

  *

  Martin pottered around the factory with a sweeping brush, trying to help Bill and Brendan. We were surprised to find the place so quiet. There was certainly no explanation for its impressive output. We snooped around a bit, keeping our eyes peeled, but there was no sign of any elves or fish-gutting robots. I kept an ear out for trained monkeys too, but the place seemed to be annoyingly ape-free.

  A few minutes before seven, Francie returned. He thanked Martin for his ‘work’, led him outside and pressed a button to electronically open the gates.

  ‘Bye now!’ Martin called as he strolled off.

  ‘See ya next time, Fartin!’

  Francie hit a button to close the gates and walked away. But as soon as his back was turned, we whipped around.

  ‘Now’s our chance, Martin. Quick!’ I whispered urgently.

  ‘But the gates are closing!’

  ‘You’re a spy, Martin - think! What would James Bond do?’

  In a panic, Martin pulled off his shoe and threw it at the gate. This made me wonder if Martin had ever actually seen a James Bond film. But miraculously the shoe landed in the gap, jamming the gates open just enough for us to slip through.

  ‘Yes!’ I cried, punching the air. ‘That should shoe it.’

  Martin looked at me. ‘What a weird thing to say.’

  ‘That’s what spies do,’ I explained, ‘Make quips and puns* and stuff.’

  ‘I thought we were fish detectives.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but I’m sure they make puns too - it’s all the same general area.’

  Suddenly the factory bell gave a loud BONG!

  ‘The seven bells!’

  *PUN - a humorous play on words. But trying to explain a pun is like trying to eat a clock. It‘s very time-consuming.

  We hurried back to the main building and peered through a grimy window.

  Once the seventh bell had struck, we heard a noise from a big fish truck that had been parked there all along. The back doors burst open and suddenly two dozen spritely, boisterous young men poured cheerily out, yawning and stretching, as if they’d just woken up from a nap. They were olive-skinned and handsome, with black hair and bohemian-looking attire.

  They unloaded crates of fresh fish from Francie’s van and quickly got to work, cleaning and gutting them with incredible speed and skill, singing and laughing as they worked.

  Martin and I were stunned. But before we could discover anything else, we heard a growl at our feet.

  ‘Mmeeaauurggghgh!’

  We looked down to see Fishsticks snarling up at us with her big, stupid, scary head.

  ‘Run, Martin!’ I cried, and we bolted away.

  The cat chased us to the gates, where we squeezed through the gap, grabbed Martin’s shoe and fled from the factory as fast as we could.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FISH DETECTIVE FIELD REPORT NUMBER 1

  ‘You ran away from a cat?!’ asked a confused Padraic.

  ‘Not ran, P! I’d say it was more like a very speedy walk. In my defence, I’m pretty sure it had rabies,’ Martin replied defensively.

  The boys were huddled under the big cherry-blossom tree by the school sports field - although it had neither cherries nor blossoms at the moment, which was lucky, since Martin was allergic to both.

  ‘You can’t be too safe with rabies,’ Padraic conceded. ‘My cousin Fintan lost a toe when that family of squirrels he kept under his bed got restless.’

  ‘What?’ asked a stunned Martin.

  ‘Don’t worry about Fintan’s feet right now - tell me more about the fish factory.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I wait until I go into your auntie’s shop later?’

  ‘No, no, it’s far too dangerous for you to be seen at the butcher shop any more, Martin. There’s a lot of heat on you, and we don’t want your cover to get blown.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re safe here at school, P.’

  ‘Safe my hole,’ Padraic scoffed. ‘The walls have ears, Martin. . .’

  Martin thought Padraic was being overly mysterious, until he pointed to a nearby wall where the Bonner brothers were putting the final touches to their latest ‘work’ of graffiti.

  ‘But if I’m not allowed to go into the shop, how will I pass on further findings from my fish-detectivery?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Well, Auntie Bridget has officially made me your “contact”, Martin. Your “minder”, if you will. The “behind people’s backs go-between”. All information goes through me now. I’m like “M” in James Bond.’

  ‘Cool!’ beamed Martin. ‘We’ll be undercover brothers from another auntie! Martin and Padraic, mission improbable!’

  ‘That’s another thing . . . I don’t think we should use our real names any more. It makes things tricky.’

  ‘Yeah, Padraic is kinda hard to pronounce,’ Martin agreed.

  ‘No, I mean in terms of secrecy. We should start using code names or something.’

  ‘That’s a great idea. Hmm . . . Code names . . . What if I’m . . . Fartin . . . No, wait, I’m already using that.’

  ‘Let’s just stick with the James Bond theme, shall we? From now on,’ Padraic whispered, ‘you should call me “P”.’

  ‘P?’

  ‘Kinda like “M”. Except with a P.’

  ‘But I already call you P,’ Martin whispered back.

  ‘Perfect! It’ll be easy to remember.’

  ‘Okey-dokey, Mr P.’

  ‘And you should have a number, like Bond. But double-O seven is already taken. And double-O eight seems too obvious.’ Padraic scratched his head.

  ‘What if I’m called . . . M double-O N E?’

  Padraic considered this.

  ‘Perfection,’ he declared, to Martin’s delight.

  ‘Agent M double-O N E, shaken not stirred,’ whispered Martin excitedly. ‘Licensed to kill. God, I can’t wait to kill something. What should I kill first, I wonder? Maybe that flippin’ cat. Hey, should I get a big gun?!’

  ‘Easy there, soldier,’ Padraic whispered, laying a calming hand on Martin’s shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t you just fill me in on what you saw at the factory last night?’

  ‘Sure.’ Martin nodded. ‘We can work out the gun situation later.’

  ‘What else can you remember about the handsome lads who got out of the fish truck?’

  ‘Well . . . they weren’t robots.’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned that
. Anything more . . . specific?’

  ‘Let me think. One thing I did notice was that they were pretty tanned. Come to think of it, there wasn’t a single freckle among the lot of them. Just standing near them, I felt like a snowman!’

  ‘Interesting,’ Padraic nodded, scribbling in his notebook.

  ‘I don’t think they were from Boyle. They had funny accents, but I couldn’t tell where they were from because I’ve never been anywhere BUT Boyle. The only time I’ve been outside Boyle was when we went on that school pilgrimage to Knock*. But everyone there had accents because they were speaking Latin**.’

  ‘OK,’ Padraic mused. ‘This is pretty useful stuff, M double-O N E.’ He smiled as he continued to scribble in his pad. ‘I wonder who the heck these fellas are.’

  ‘Well, let’s look at the evidence,’ Martin said as he opened his evidence copybook. ‘The funny accents, the bronzed skin, the music. . . I think it’s safe to conclude that the fish-factory workers are a collection of boy bands from some place outside Boyle that has a tanning shop.’

  Padraic looked unsure about this analysis.

  * KNOCK - a small, holy town in rural Ireland where people claim to have seen the Virgin Mary appear. She then disappeared. Then appeared again, pulled a dove out of a hat, sawed a woman in half and yanked the nine of Hearts out of her sleeve.

  ** LATIN - an old, holy language from the Mediterranean island of Lat. The Lat people found Latin so hard to learn that they mostly communicated in whistles.

  But before he could respond, the school bell clanged the boys back to reality.

  ‘Listen,’ Padraic said, getting up, ‘just keep looking for clues, M double-O N E. We need more info. I gotta run now. Keep safe out there, agent.’ He started to move off.

  ‘Wait, P, where are you going? Are you in danger?’

  ‘I need a wee before class.’

  ‘Cool,’ Martin replied, with a wink, as if ‘I need a wee’ was code for something, which it wasn’t.

  As Martin and I ambled slowly back to class, there was a feeling that this yection was showing great promise.

  ‘Code names, killer cats, boy bands - this is exciting stuff, buddy,’ I said.