by Chris O’Dowd
Though too afraid to say anything, it was clear that the class thought this suggestion ridiculous.
‘Not altogether a terrible idea, Bonner,’ the teacher said, to everyone’s surprise. ’Building secret tunnels has worked for thousands of years. Even our own town of Boyle retains a network of underground passages which helped Catholic children go to school during the British occupation*.’
*BRITISH OCCUPATION - Ireland was invaded and occupied by the British for hundreds of years. It’s believed they came to Ireland because they heard the weather was always wonderful. This turned out to be untrue, so they left. The British retain power in Northern Ireland, where the climate is very similar to Tenerife.
‘Hold on a minute!’ Martin started, thrusting his hand in the air. ‘You’re saying there are secret passageways under the town, sir?’
‘First of all - yes! There’s a tunnel right under this very school in fact. Not that I want you to worry that the whole school might suddenly get swallowed up into some kind of massive sinkhole with us all trapped inside it. Hahaha. But that is definitely a possibility.’
The class looked at each other, concerned.
‘And second of all,’ Mr Jackson continued, looking at Martin’s raised hand, ‘why are you wearing nail varnish, Moone?’
Every eye in the room turned to Martin’s paw. His nails were indeed painted a sparkly red. As the class erupted with glee, Martin let out a small shriek and desperately tried to scrape the varnish off.
‘All right, all right, all right,’ Jackson said, trying to regain some calm.
Padraic leaned over to Martin. ‘I see you’re still going with the lady look. That’s brave.’
‘Bloody sisters,’ grumbled Martin, scratching at his nails. ‘I never have time to wash properly in the morning and those flippin’ females keep plastering me with their womanly warpaint in me sleep.’
‘What shade would you call that?’
‘I don’t know, Padraic.’
‘Crimson Blush, I’d say,’ mused Padraic, admiring the shiny colour.
‘Boys, boys, boys, calm and ciúnas*!’ hollered the teacher.
‘I need to step out for a second, boys. Please control yourselves in my short absence,’ Mr Jackson muttered, as he hastily left the classroom.
Their teacher would often leave the classroom abruptly like this. The boys used to think it was because his patience was being tested and he needed a short break to stop him from battering someone. But it turned out that the real reason he went into the corridor was to do a little fart in peace.
*CIÚNAS - the Irish word for quiet. It’s usually shouted at children very loudly, which is confusing.
‘Listen, Agent M double-O N E,’ started Padraic, watching Martin trying to remove his nail paint with the sharp end of a compass, ‘while Jackson is outside doing a bum belch - Auntie Bridget is going to be delighted about your new intel but—’
‘Of course she is. I know she was worried that Francie had an army of fish-gutting robots or trained dogs or monkeys or whatever. But now we know he’s just using loads of lovely foreign workers from Brazil, I suppose it’s case closed.’
‘No, don’t you see? This info has just blown the case wide open!’ cried Padraic excitedly. Martin noticed that his friend was getting a kind of evil look in his eyes. ‘And once we prove it, Auntie Bridget will take that case, punch holes in it and feed it to the sharks!’
Martin wasn’t quite sure what Padraic meant, but he was starting to regret telling P about his new pal.
‘Well, maybe it would be better if the case was just put away safely under the stairs or something?’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Listen, Martin, I know this is hard for you, but you’re going to need to go back to that factory and hang out with those foreign weirdos a bit more. Get us some solid proof. We need hard evidence about these guys - who they are, where they live, that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t know, Padraic. I’m not sure I want to do this any more. It feels kind of wrong.’
Padraic took a photo out of his bag. ‘Maybe this’ll change your mind, Agent M double-O N E.’
Martin peered at the picture.
‘Why are you showing me a photo of your Auntie Bridget holding a Game Boy?’ asked Martin, confused.
‘It’s your Game Boy, Martin.’
‘My Game Boy?!’ beamed Martin, delighted.
‘At least, it could be - if you play your cards right . . .’
Martin’s smile faded - he was looking worried now. ‘And what happens if I don’t play my cards right?’
‘Then it’s my Game Boy!’ Padraic grinned.
‘And what happens if neither of us plays our cards right?’ asked Martin.
‘Then . . . she said she’d throw it into the sea.’
‘Throw a Game Boy in the sea?!’ I shrieked. ‘The woman’s a monster!’
‘So … what do you say, Agent M double-O N E?’ Padraic asked, staring at Martin. ‘You ready to finish your secret mission?’
It was quite the pickle. Thankfully Martin’s decision was interrupted by the return of their trouser-trumpeting teacher.
‘OK, lads, back to work,’ Mr Jackson ordered. ‘I have finished my important business in the corridor, so please turn to page 175 of your textbooks,’ he continued, ignoring the fact that we all knew he’d just been playing his own arse orchestra outside.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OPERATION BUDGET CHRISTMAS
After school, Martin returned home, doing his best to ignore the catcalls and insults from his idiotic schoolmates.
‘Hiya, Sparkles!’
‘Lookin’ good, Swish Fingers!‘
‘All right, Pet Shop Boy*!’ yelled the Bonner brothers.
‘I’m a Butcher Shop Boy!’ Martin corrected them defiantly. Then he turned to me.
‘Although, I suppose a butcher shop is kind of a pet shop.’
*PET SHOP BOYS - a pop band from the 1980s who were fond of keyboards, make-up and lasers. They often performed in pet shops and were the most popular band among hamsters for eight straight years, until the Chipmunks made a comeback.
‘Kind of,’ I agreed. ‘One where all the pets are dead.’
Martin tried not to let the taunts bother him, but by the time he got home he was more determined than ever to put a stop to his sisters’ make-up assaults. Not by actually confronting his sisters obviously - he was far too cowardly for that - but instead by shortening his morning commute. So he marched over to the annoyingly tall barricade of bricks at the end of the garden and picked up his dad’s sledgehammer.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ I cried, alarmed.
‘No more whoas, Sean. It’s hammer time! This wall has tormented me enough. If I don’t get rid of it, I’m doomed to go through my entire life as a painted lady!’ He held out his sparkly fingernails in anguish. ‘Look at me, Sean. LOOK AT ME!’
‘OK, calm down, Crimson Blush. Obviously I’m all for smashing up the garden wall, that goes without saying. But we’ve got to be clever about this, Martin. We can’t just start busting it up willy-nilly. Your parents would flippin’ flip out!’
He considered this and gave a reluctant nod. ‘Good point. I need to use my brains here, not my brawns*.’
To be honest, I wasn’t convinced that Martin possessed either, but I kept that to myself.
‘So how should we do this, Sean?’
I gave a knowing smile - the smile of a man with a plan. ‘We’ll do it the same way you build a wall, Martin. But backwards!’
He nodded excitedly. ‘Brilliant! Where are my plans for that time machine?’
‘Er, no -1 just meant we’ll do it brick by brick. Slow and steady. That’s the only way we’ll get away with this, Martin. We’ll knock out little bits of the wall every day and scatter them around town, so your clueless parents won’t even notice their garden wall disappearing from right under their stupid noses!’
*BRAWN - a word used for strength.
Brawns - a
word used by a dimwit.
‘Genius!’ he cried. ‘They’ll think it’s just wearing away!’
‘Exactamundo! Like natural erosion!’
‘Like an oxbow lake!’ he added.
‘A what?’
‘An oxbow lake. It’s a kind of lake that’s formed by glacial erosion.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Argh, I don’t know, Sean,’ he moaned, ‘That bloody school has my head full of useless information!’
‘Well, yeah,’ I said, confused, ‘like an oxbow lake. So you think it’ll work?’
‘It can’t fail! Now let’s get started on that time machine!’
‘Hold your horses, Crimson Blush. All you need is a chisel.’
‘Even better!’
Martin chucked the sledgehammer aside and picked up a small chisel instead. He chipped out a single red brick and popped it into his school bag. We were about to head off to fling it into the river but got interrupted by a holler from the house.
‘MARTIN!’ screeched his mother.
We looked at each other and gulped.
‘They’re on to us!’ I cried. ‘Abort, abort!’
He was about to sprint back to the wall and replace the brick when his mother stuck her head out the back door. ‘Ah, there you are, Martin. Family meeting,’ she said, and yanked him inside.
The Moones were gathered around the kitchen table.
‘OK, lads, I’ve got some bad news,’ Debra announced. ‘Christmas is just around the corner and we’re still broke. So it’s time to move on to Plan B.’
The girls groaned and looked accusingly at their father.
‘We’re still broke?’ snapped Sinead. ‘Why haven’t you earned any money?’
‘It’s not my fault,’ said Liam defensively.
‘The signwriting business is always slow at Christmas. Everyone’s making their own bloody signs, scrawling on windows with snow-spray like a bunch of amateurs. Christmas is the season of shoddy signage, is what it is!’
Sinead hung her head. ‘So how are we going to have Christmas if we have no money?’
‘Christmas isn’t about money,’ Liam reminded her unconvincingly.
‘He’s right,’ agreed Martin. ‘Christmas is about food. And presents. And having a tree in your house!’
Debra shook her head, ‘No, Martin, Christmas is about family.’
‘Lovely, cheap family,’ agreed Liam. ‘And a big ol’ turkey!’
‘Actually we’re having fish this year,’ Debra told him, ‘Francie Feeley is doing some great deals.’
‘Lovely, cheap fish,’ said Liam. ‘That’s what Christmas is about.’
‘I thought Christmas was about celebrating the birth of Jesus,’ piped up Fidelma.
Debra nodded. ‘Right, yes. Christmas is about a lot of things really.’
‘Don’t forget crackers!’ added Martin. ‘Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without Christmas crackers!’
‘Or setting the pudding on fire!’ yelled Sinead, who was fond of setting anything on fire.
‘Or chasing away carol singers,’ grinned Trisha.
‘Or watching the Dynasty Christmas Special,’ added Fidelma.
‘Or having a brandy at ten in the morning,’ said Liam dreamily.
Debra raised her hands to shut them all up. ‘OK, yes, we all love Christmas. But it’s not going to happen this year unless everyone pitches in. And if we can do that, then I’m sure this will be the best Christmas ever!’
Martin punched the air. ‘Yes! The best Christmas ever!’
‘But in a low-budget sort of way,’ added Liam, not wanting to raise hopes.
Martin frowned. ‘So then . . . it’s probably not going to be the best Christmas ever.’
‘No, that seems unlikely,’ admitted Debra. ‘But it can still be an OK Christmas.’
‘An OK Christmas!’ beamed Martin. ‘That’s good enough for me!’
‘That’s the spirit, Martin,’ said Debra. ‘That’s exactly the attitude we need for Operation Budget Christmas.’
The three sisters scowled at her. ‘Operation what?’
‘Don’t give me that look. This is going to be fun, I promise!’ said Debra, and pulled out an old stocking. ‘See? I have a Christmas sock and everything.’
‘That better not be your Christmas present, buddy,’ I grumbled, shooting a glance at Martin.
‘Ah, you found my old sock!’ said Liam, delighted. ‘It’s like Christmas already.’
Debra continued, ‘I made a list of everything we need. So you can each pick one out and that’ll be your Christmas job.’
No one liked this idea very much, or the idea of putting their hands into Liam’s old sock, but they grudgingly passed it around and picked out their tasks.
Trisha looked confused. ‘So do you want us to steal these things?’
‘No!’ said Debra firmly. ‘You can make them. Or find them.’
‘Find them. Gotcha,’ said Trisha with a wink.
‘No stealing, Trisha.’
‘No stealing, got it,’ said Trisha, and winked again.
‘You keep saying it like you’re going to steal.’
‘Don’t worry, Mam -1 read ya loud and clear,’ Trisha assured her, and then tapped her nose.
‘What does that mean?’
‘What does what mean?’
‘It’s my turn now,’ interrupted Martin, and grabbed the sock.
I crossed my fingers hopefully. Please just be Christmas Cheer . We ve got enough to do already. Christmas Cheer! Christmas Cheer!
But when Martin opened the scrap of paper, he found the biggest task of all.
Oh balls,’ murmured Martin.
‘Where are we supposed to find a Christmas tree??’ I moaned. ‘And when are we gonna have time to get one? We’ve already got two jobs, a wall to demolish, a bunch of Brazilians to betray, a Game Boy to earn, and at some point we really need to get revenge on your sisters too.’
‘You’re right, Sean,’ whispered a worried Martin. ‘My schedule is really filling up!’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE SPY WITH TWO FACES. MAYBE MORE
Martin went about his shift in the factory that night with one thing on his mind - bananas. He was particularly peckish and for some reason had a hankering for a banana.
‘I wonder if there’s a banana machine in the break room, Sean. Or a banana tree?’
‘Buddy, forget about bananas. Remember, you have to gather some proper proof for your secret mission this evening,’ I reminded him, not for the first time.
‘Oh yeah,’ he remembered. ‘That’s far more important than the banana thing.’
‘Yup,’ I agreed. ‘We really need to sneak a peek into Francie’s office before that crazy butcher lady throws our Game Boy in the sea.’
‘Absolutely, Sean. Bridget is completely bananas.’
*
When the break bell went, Martin hung up his gut-sweeping broom and tried to sneak away without anyone noticing him. He wasn’t brilliant at that.
‘Just heading off on my boring old break now, lads,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be in the break room, or the toilet, if you need me. I’ll certainly be nowhere near Mr Feeley’s office, so I wouldn’t look for me there.’
Once out of sight, he lightly tiptoed down the long corridor. There was really no reason to tiptoe - it was a terribly noisy factory - but Martin liked to make things exciting for himself.
We eventually reached Francie’s office. It took quite a while. Tiptoeing is definitely one of the slowest forms of transport.
Martin sneaked a peek through the blinds and saw that the office was empty. He took one last look down the corridor and quietly crept inside the forbidden room.
Francie’s messy office was brimming with oddities. The last time Martin was here he’d been too nervous to look around. But now that he was alone, he noticed all sorts of bizarre instruments and implements that littered the windowless cavern.
There was a small piano
with all the white keys missing. Hanging from the ceiling was a birdcage, but no bird. There was a jukebox which played only the greatest hits of the Bee Gees.
‘It’s like the garden shed of a retired cruise- ship magician,’ I noted.
‘That’s a very specific observation, Sean,’ Martin said.
We quickly went to work looking for intel. We opened drawers and searched under tables and behind filing cabinets, but couldn’t find any concrete proof. Until -
‘Sean, do you see what I see?’
‘Almost exclusively,’ I answered.
He pointed to a large painting on the wall. It was an elaborate image of Francie riding a dolphin through stormy waves in the high seas.
‘It’s certainly eye-catching, Martin, and a little disturbing, but we’re not here to critique the art.’
‘No, Sean, look.’ He pointed to the side of the painting’s frame. There was a hinge. He pulled at the opposite side and the entire picture opened up like a door to a hidden hiding place. Sitting alone in the private press* was a solitary folder.
Martin pulled out the folder tentatively. The file inside it had a sticker on the top. It read:
THE FZLE GONTAZNZNO ALL THE INFORJIATZON ABOUT
THE SECRET FOREZON WORKERS IN THE FZSH FACTORY
‘That’s handy,’ I said. ‘Didn’t think it would be quite this easy.’
*PRESS - in Ireland, a cupboard is often called a press. Nobody knows Why, and you’re not supposed to ask. If you do, they Stick you in a dark cupbotrrd press.
‘Everything’s easy when you’re the best fish detective in Boyle, Sean.’
‘The best?’ I queried. ‘You’re top three, buddy, I’ll give you that.’
True to its title, the file contained the name, address and photograph of every Brazilian worker on the factory floor. Jackpot! Martin stuffed it into his overalls and quickly exited Francie’s office before anyone spotted him. He tiptoed the whole way back. It was a long night.
As he went to grab his broom from its hanger, he was halted by a holler.