by Chris O’Dowd
‘It really is, Sean. But just think what adventures we’d be having if my first-choice profession as a bin man had worked out.’
‘I’m not sure that—’
But before I could finish, a leather-jacketed figure appeared from the shadows.
‘Who you talking to, boy?’
‘Oh, hi, Declan,’ squeaked a surprised Martin, ‘I was talking to. . . nobody.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, I was kinda talking to myself, but you always say I’m a nobody, so—’
‘OK. Well, keep it that way.’
‘What?’
‘What happens in the factory stays in the factory, yeah?’
‘Even . . . the fish? Don’t they leave the factory?’
‘Don’t be a smart-hole, short arse. Just keep your mouth shut,’ he warned, ‘your head down, your arms folded, your ears closed and your hands deep in your pockets, and you’ll be fine.’
‘But, won’t I . . . bump into things?’
‘If you say another word about what goes on up there, you’ll look like you bump into things all right.’
As Declan delivered this threat, the second, ‘late’, bell went.
‘Right, kid, I gotta go.’ Martin and I shared a look, surprised by Declan’s class punctuality. ‘I gotta see a dog about a man,’ he said, correcting our thoughts.
‘OK, Mr Mannion, see ya later at the factory with all those mysterious workers!’ chirped Martin.
Declan turned, frustrated. ‘What did I just say?’
‘I’m really not sure,’ Martin admitted. ‘Can you remind me, please, sir?’
Declan sighed. ‘I said. . . when it comes to the factory, keep your lips sealed, your eyes down, your back straight, your knees bent and your fists behind your back. Capisce*?’
‘Cabbage!’ Martin wrongly repeated, with a nod.
Declan went to correct him, but a bark in the distance reminded him that he needed to be somewhere.
* CAPISCE - (pronounced ‘capeesh’) an Italian word used in Mafia circles to confirm that people understand what’s just been said. But nobody knows what capisce actually means. Which is probably why there are so many ‘misunderstandings’ in the Mafia.
CHAPTER TEN
THE GRILLING
When school finally finished for the day, we hurried off towards the factory, eager to gather more clues and crack this case.
‘I love a good mystery,’ I announced happily, ‘This is exactly why I always wanted to be a fish detective!’
‘Me too!’ agreed Martin. ‘As mysteries go, I think we’ve stumbled on to something big here, Sean. Bigfoot* big.’
‘Bigfoot? Pff!’ I scoffed. ‘What a phoney. I knew him when he was just Mediumfoot. Before he got those implants.’
*BIGFOOT - a legendary hairy apeman who hides in the wilds of America and only ventures out when someone calls, ‘who wants a pair of size 56 flip-flop?’
At the factory, Martin was about to ring the bell when the huge gates creaked open before us. Bill was standing there with Brendan, holding the gate clicker.
‘Hi, lads!’ Martin waved cheerily.
‘The boss wants to see ya!’ shouted Bill.
‘Okey-dokey,’ said Brendan, and started blindly walking off towards the office.
‘Not you!’ called Bill, and went hurrying after him.
Martin turned to me, looking worried. ‘The boss wants to see me?’
‘Wow,’ I replied, impressed. ‘Sounds to me like someone’s getting a raise!’
‘You really think so?’
‘Well, it’s either that or you’re getting fired. It’s fifty-fifty, I’d say.’
‘Fifty-fifty?’ Martin brightened. ‘Two fifties make a hundred! So that means I’ve got a hundred-per-cent chance of not getting fired!’
That didn’t sound quite right to me. But we’d been doing a lot of napping during maths class so I wasn’t really in a position to argue. ‘I’m liking our odds, Martin!’
We high-fived happily and strode away.
Martin gave a confident rat-a-tat-tat on the office door.
‘Entrez!’ called Francie in a French accent, for no apparent reason.
We went into the room to find him wearing a pair of paint-spattered overalls, carefully putting the finishing touches to a huge painting on the wall. It depicted Francie as a kind of octopus swimming underwater. One of his long tentacles held a spear, which he was pointing at a lion. Which was also underwater.
‘Er, you wanted to see me, sir?’ asked Martin.
‘Indeed I did, Fartin,’ said Francie, with his back to him. ‘Or should I say. . .’ he turned around dramatically, ‘Parton!’
We looked at him blankly.
Francie glanced down at a notebook on the desk. ‘Sorry, I meant, or should I say. . . Martin!.’
Martin and I gasped.
‘He knows your real name!’ I cried. ‘We’ve been ratted out. Someone’s a rat!’
‘I thought we were the rats,’ he whispered back.
‘No, we’re not rats - we’re fish-moles! Or some kind of. . . spy gerbils.’
Francie put aside his brushes and walked towards us slowly. ‘I know that you know, Martin.’
‘I don’t know anything!’
‘You don’t know anything about what?’
‘About the mysterious men jumping out of the truck and doing loads of fish-gutting!’
‘Aha! You do know! I knew it! I told you I knew that you knew!’
‘Oh balls, he tricked us!’ I cried. ‘He’s an evil genius!’
‘But how did you know that I know?’ asked Martin.
Francie put a hand on his shoulder. ‘In some ways, I’ve always known, Martin. I have senses, you see. Long tentacles of knowledge, like an octopus’s brain,’ he said mysteriously, glancing at his painting. ‘And also, Declan told me.’
Declan gave a wave from the corner of the room. ‘Howaya.’
We both scowled at him.
‘So now - what to do?’ mulled Francie.
He paced around, considering his options. ‘I could: A. Have you gutted like a fish; B. Have your memory wiped clean; or C. Bide my time. Do nothing about it for ages. And then, when you’re least expecting it, have you gutted like a fish! Unless I’ve totally forgotten about it by then. Those are your options, Moone - choose now!’
Martin looked alarmed and whispered to me urgently, ‘What do you think, Sean?’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What was “A” again?’ I kept getting distracted by that weird painting.
‘Time’s up!’ shouted Francie. T guess I’ll just gut you like a fish.’
‘No!’ cried Martin. ‘Look, Mr Feeley, sir, I know I haven’t been totally honest with you - about my name, or the whole. . . competition- to-work-in-your-factory thing, but—’
‘You lied about the competition too?’ interrupted Francie. ‘But what about the scratch card?’
‘It was a fake. I made it myself.’
‘What are you, some kind of scratch-card forger?’ he demanded angrily.
Martin looked to me for advice.
‘Just speak from the heart, buddy,’ I told him, ‘Or else punch him in the goolies* and run. Up to you.’
*GOOLIES - for a visual explanation of this word, just take away the G, L, I, E, S.
Martin turned back to Francie. ‘I may have forged a scratch card. But I’m no scratch-card forger.’
‘Then what are ya?’
‘I’m just a man who loves fish,’ stated Martin simply.
Francie’s face softened a bit.
‘That’s it, Martin, keep going,’ I urged.
‘Ever since I was a little boy,’ continued Martin, ‘I had a dream. A simple dream. To work in a fish factory. To smell the stinky air. To shovel the fish ice. To walk on a slippery or sometimes crunchy floor. And to follow the great Fish King. To learn his ways. To swim in his footsteps. You see, Mr Feeley, I’m just a young you.’
Francie was clearly mo
ved by this. ‘Me too, Martin,’ he said. ‘But how do I know this isn’t more of your scratch-card fakery?’
‘Don’t worry, boss,’ Declan assured him coolly, ‘Moone won’t be any trouble. He’s too stupid to be a threat.’
Martin half nodded, unsure if this was an insult or not.
‘You’re sure?’ Francie asked Declan.
‘Well, put it this way - I once saw him eat a whole plastic display of fruit and not know the difference.’
Martin chuckled with amusement. ‘Haha, no, that’s not true. But I did once eat a whole display of fruit in a shop once. That part is true.’
‘And how did it taste?’ asked Francie.
‘Not great. Completely juiceless. I think it had been sitting on the counter for a few days.’
Francie shared a look with Declan, then turned back to Martin and smiled. ‘All right, Moone. “C” it is. I won’t gut you just yet.’
‘Aw, thanks, Mr Feeley!’ beamed Martin with relief.
‘Now let’s find a proper use for you,’ said Francie, and handed him a sweeping brush.
Martin was delighted with himself - until he noticed that the brush’s bristles were covered with blood
We shared a worried look,
Gulp.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A BOY CALLED FISH-GUTS
‘Hmmm, good question.’ Francie mused, ‘I suppose the trickiest thing about clearing up fish-guts is brush-bristle blockage.’
‘Did you even ask a question, Martin?’ I whispered to the boy. A confused shrug in my direction suggested that Francie was actually answering his own question, a question he hadn’t spoken out loud. Bill, Brendan, Martin and I stood watching him hold court in the middle of the foul-smelling fish-factory floor.
‘Over the years, I’ve developed a method to overcome this nuisance. I call it the ol’ sweep- sweep-bang-bang.’
Martin stared back at his new boss, none the wiser.
‘“How does the ol’ sweep-sweep-bang- bang method work?” I hear you ask,’ Francie continued.
‘Don’t think you actually heard us ask that,’ I murmured to myself.
‘It’s fairly self-explanatory,’ said Francie, taking Martin’s brush to demonstrate. ‘You sweep, you sweep -’ he swept - ‘and you bang, you bang,’ he instructed, as he tapped the brush on the floor, ridding it of fish morsels. ‘Got it, little fella?’
‘Got it, Mr Feeley, sir. But where should I sweep the fish-guts to?’ asked Martin, looking around. ‘Is there a big waste hole somewhere?’
‘Another brilliant question, Moone! No. There is no waste hole somewhere. Nor is there a waste chute, nor a waste tank.’
‘But where do all the useless bits of fish go, Mr Feeley, sir?’
‘Moone, I don’t believe in the word waste.’
‘A junk trunk then. Maybe a scum drum? A slop drop.’
Francie shook his head as he put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘There’s only two things you need to know about me, little Moone. If you remember these things, everything I do will seem logical and understandable. If you don’t, may your god help you.’
Martin listened, intrigued.
‘Number one is - I love fish. I flippin’ love them. If I could marry a fish and the world wouldn’t judge me poorly, I would. This love means that I’m not fond of killing them. But they’re so damn tasty. Look at them there,’ he whispered fondly, as he pointed to a box of gross-looking trout. ‘They’re just crying out to be eaten, aren’t they, the delicious little blighters?’
‘They sure are,’ lied Martin, between gritted teeth.
‘If we’re gonna kill them for their tasty flesh, I insist on using the whole fish. Waste is for wasters, I always say.’ He gestured to a handwritten sign behind him which read ‘Waste is 4 Wasters’.
‘So we don’t waste our fishy friends here, Moone. We sweep unused fish bits into this pretty little stream, where it gently flows into. . . the tasty tank of mystery.’
‘Wow. That’s. . . useful.’ Martin smiled. ‘Then what happens to the fish bits?’
‘They have many, many applications. For example, some of the guts go through the pulping machine. From there, we add some salt, some sugar, half an onion - and that’s how we make sherbet!’
Martin and I shared a look of disgust.
‘That’s what’s in sherbet?!’
‘It’s fish flippin’ tangtastic!’ Francie exclaimed, whipping out a packet of ‘Francie Feeley’s Finest Sherbet’.
Martin and I stared at the popular packaging, aghast.
‘Martin. . . you’ve eaten. . . tons of that stuff,’ I pointed out to my gagging friend.
He cleared his throat and tentatively asked, ‘What else is the “Tasty tank of mystery” used for, Mr Feeley, sir?’
‘Loads of things! For example . . . do you enjoy marmalade?’
BBRRiiinngg. BBRRiiinngg. BBRRiiinngg.
Before a disgusted Martin could respond, the factory bell clanged loudly.
BBRRiiinngg. BBRRiiinngg. BBRRiiinngg.
‘Is that the seven bells, Mr—’
Francie quickly silenced Martin with a stiff finger to his lips.
BBRRiiinnggg.
‘The hour is seven. We are a go!’ Feeley announced as we watched the giant gates swing open. A fish truck slowly entered and came to a stop in a corner of the factory floor. Its back doors burst open and the mysterious workers again poured out, singing, whistling and jostling with each other as they donned their hairnets and readied their fish-gutting tools.
‘There they are, Martin, the men of mystery. Time to gather some intel*, M double-0 N E,’I suggested in my best secret-agent voice.
‘Mr Feeley, sir? Who are those men?’
‘Just the finest fish-gutters this little world has ever produced,’ answered Francie.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen them around town. Are they from outside Boyle?’ prodded Martin.
‘Hahahaha. You can say that again.’ Francie laughed. ‘Hahahahhahahaha.’
At the start of this laugh it sounded rather evil, but by the end it also sort of sounded like he had forgotten what he was laughing at.
‘Yes, they’re from out of town,’ Francie said, matter-of-factly.
‘Ya think maybe you could. . . introduce me, Mr Feeley, sir? It’d be an honour to meet such fine fish-gutters.’
*INTEL - short for intelligence. Mostly used by those who can’t spell inteligence.
‘Oh. Well, I suppose that wouldn’t do any harm.’
Francie banged a broom on the floor to get everyone’s attention. The tanned workers turned and stared back obediently.
‘Moone, these are the fish-men. The men of fish. If a salmon needs descaling - look no further. If a tuna needs retuning - come right here. No guts, no glory, but tons and tons of delicious John Dory*.
Francie continued. ‘And, men, this is the new fish-guts sweeper.’
Martin waved shyly, a little disappointed by his underwhelming introduction.
They all looked to Martin, then back at Francie. They clearly didn’t understand him.
‘Fish-guts!’ Feeley persisted, using Martin’s broom to demonstrate the act. ‘Fish-guts!’ he repeated as he swept, then pointed to Martin.
*JOHN DORY - a popular coastal marine fish. It’s also where the expression ‘Hunky Dory’ comes from as the male fish were considered very attractive.
Eventually the men nodded politely, still not really getting it.
‘Fish-guts!’ Martin chirped, pointing at himself in the hope of clarifying matters.
The men stared back, bemused.
‘All right then!’ Francie proclaimed. ‘Now everyone is introduced, you best all get to flippin’ work!’ And he stomped off towards his office.
‘Wait, Mr Feeley, sir,’ Martin mumbled.
‘You said there were two things I needed to remember to understand the way you work.’
‘Yes?’
‘But . . . you only told me one.’
‘That’s right,’ he said plainly. Then turned again and walked away.
‘Well, Martin, it seems there’s more than one mystery under this roof. I guess we’ll just have to keep . . . fishing for answers!’ I instantly regretted this poor joke, but Martin had stopped listening anyway. He’d wandered off to check out what the fish-men were up to.
‘So. . . colleagues … I was hoping you might show me the ropes. As it were,’ Martin merrily suggested. ‘Under your expert guidance, I’m sure I’ll catch on quickly.’
I expected his wordplay to raise at least a polite snigger, but the men barely acknowledged him. They paused momentarily, but continued their important work without so much as a smile.
We spent the next two hours watching the mysterious fish-gutters. Francie was right; they were wonderfully skilled. Their hands were rugged but their technique was delicate. Their fish focus was unfaltering. Their control unwavering. As they chopped and pulled and pulped and sliced, they barely raised a sweat. This was probably helped by the sub-zero temperatures in the factory, but also their brilliance seemed effortless. Like they were naturals.
As the clock hit nine, and with his hands raw from fish-bit sweeping, Martin hung up his work overalls and plodded towards the exit.
‘Well, goodnight, colleagues. See you all tomorrow!’
Martin waited for even a glimmer of a response. When none came, he turned, disappointed, and started to leave. His hopes of solving this mystery in one night and perhaps making some new friends at the same time were dashed.
‘Bye-bye, Fish-Guts!’
Martin quickly turned to find the source of this response. But every head was still lowered, buried in their watery work.
‘Not to worry, buddy. It’s a start,’ I said.
‘Night-night, Fish-Guts!’ came another lone voice as Martin walked out, smiling.
‘Wait, do they think that’s your name?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
A MAN’S WORLD
By the time Martin got home that night, it was 9.27 p.m. and he was zonked. He’d completed a gruelling day in school, followed by four hours work in the factory. Then, excited by his new job as fish-guts sweeper, he’d skipped the whole way home. He really regretted skipping now.