by Chris O’Dowd
‘Fish-Guts!’ came the friendly call from across the factory floor.
‘Oh -’ the startled boy waved back - ‘hi,
Fabio . . . Fancy meeting you here.’
‘Here . . . where we work?’ asked the baffled Brazilian.
‘Hahaha. Yes, no, I guess it’s not that . . . fancy.’
‘You funny, Fish-Guts. Listen, I see you sweep-sweep-bang-bang every night, and you good. You a swift sweeper, Fish-Guts.’
‘That’s . . . the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Fabio,’ Martin babbled.
‘What?!’ I butted in. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has . . . ? Martin, have you gone mad?’
‘But I think you ready to move up the ladder, Fish-Guts. I want to teach you. Let me uncover for you the inside secrets of the fishes’ insides.’
Martin looked deeply honoured.
‘I’ve been watching you work, Fabio. You’re the best in the whole factory, hands down,’ Martin said, in earshot of a few disgruntled Brazilians. ‘How do you do it? How do you gut the fish so brilliantly?’
‘I don’t gut the fish, Martin,’ Fabio said, flicking his hair and speaking softly. ‘I just look at them with my beautiful eyes, and the fish spill themselves out in my big manly hands.’
I looked to Martin, hoping he wasn’t really believing this nonsense.
‘C’mon, buddy, tell me you’re not buying this pile of old sh—’
‘Show me, Fabio!’ exclaimed the little eejit.
*
Despite my own misgivings about this flash fish filleter, Martin seemed quite taken with him and his glossy hair. Before I knew it, Fabio was teaching Martin the various techniques of fish- guttery. They were soon slicing salmon, cutting up cod and trimming trout like a pair of happy hairdressers. They worked in tandem for the rest of Martin’s shift, until it was nearly time to go home.
‘OK, Fish-Guts. Now I want you to try one all on your own self.’
‘You want me to gut a fish on my own?’ asked the worried boy.
‘Take this bream*. Feel it. Listen to it. What is it saying?’
To my surprise, Martin held the fish to his ear.
* BREAM - a type of freshwater fish. It’s known to give people who eat it nightmares. Which is where it gets its name. Bad dream = bream.
‘It’s pretty quiet. Maybe . . . because it’s dead?’
‘Listen with your hands, Fish-Guts!’ exclaimed the barmy Brazilian.
Martin felt around the scales and the tail of the deceased fish. I held my head in my hands.
‘Now close your eyes, Fish-Guts. And dare to bream!’
I watched from the side, slightly embarrassed by this whole ordeal. But then something extraordinary happened. Martin, eyes closed, began cutting into the fish. He prodded and picked it, diced and sliced and removed the mess of brittle bones and gruesome guts with his fiddly fingers. I noticed that a few of the other men had gathered around to watch his artistry. Martin stopped for a moment, listening to the bream with his hands, and pulled out one last little bone, before gently laying the dish-ready fish on the counter.
Fabio smiled. ‘Tonight, Fish-Guts, you are one of us,’ he whispered.
Martin opened his eyes to see his crowd of colleagues as they began to applaud. I can’t lie - it was a pretty special moment.
‘Next week there comes a special day for us, Fish-Guts. In our village of Aldeia de Lágrimas e Peixes Mortos, every year we celebrate the day the whales came.’
‘The day the whales came?’ Martin echoed.
‘Yes, yes. In our village we have big feast to remember when a dozen white whales came to our shore to guide us to new fishing grounds. We eat, we dance, it is like heaven, and we would be honoured if you would join us for the festivities.’
Martin was clearly touched. He’d been included as part of the family and wasn’t sure how to respond. I was getting worried Fabio was about to start another long flippin’ song about sad whales, so I urged him to get on with it.
‘Just tell him you’ll go, Martin.’
‘The honour would be all mine, Fabio.’
The other men nodded with approval as the bell went to signal the end of Martin’s first night as an official fish-gutter.
‘Hey, I bet we’ll have . . . a whale of a time!’ Martin added, completely ruining the moment.
As the men walked off towards the exit, they shook their heads at this terrible joke. But Fabio winked back warmly as he tossed his luscious mop of hair over his shoulder.
Martin waved the men goodbye, but then felt a crinkle against his chest. He suddenly remembered the secret file tucked into his overalls, and a huge wave of guilt washed over him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FACE BOOK
Martin was torn. He realized that if he gave Bridget the file, it could get Fabio and the Brazilian boys in trouble. But he really wanted his reward. A Game Boy is a hard thing to come by. But a good friend is an even harder thing to find. It was quite the pickle. And not a tasty pickle like you get from a jar. More like a shrivelled-up pickle slice that ruins your delicious hamburger. It seemed like the perfect time for wise ol’ Sean to deliver some of my world-famous advice.
‘Buddy, you could just remove the pickle slice from the burger?’
‘What are you on about, Sean?’
‘Sorry, sorry, I think the cold weather made my thinking jelly go solid.’
It was a terribly chilly morning in Boyle and we were on our way to Cross Country Meats. For some reason, Martin hadn’t imagined me until breakfast time that morning, so I was eager to catch up on some good guidance-giving.
‘The way I see it, buddy, you did promise to get that intel for Padraic. And it’s not nice to break a promise to a friend.’
‘Like that time you promised to turn me into the world’s strongest man?’ he scoffed.
‘Actually I said I’d turn you into the world’s strangest man. And for the record, things are progressing pretty well on that front.’
‘Look, Sean, I’ve come up with a solution that will help Fabio and also get us that Game Boy.’
‘Without my consultation?!’ I asked, a little hurt.
‘Well… I think your advice on this matter has become biased*, Sean.’
* BIASED - an unfairly skewed opinion formed from a personal standpoint. But an opinion is like a pair of underpants - every bum needs one.
‘What?! My advice is always biased, Martin - towards you!’
‘No, Sean, I think you want me to take the Game Boy because you’re jealous of Fabio.’
‘Hah! Jealous of him?!?! Me??! What? Who? Why would I be jealous of that eejit? His soft olive skin? His strong, skilful hands? His majestic musical mind?!’ As I listed these things I was starting to agree with the little man, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
‘Martin, you stole that file for the right reasons. You’re a secret agent, and sometimes an agent’s gotta do what an agent’s gotta do, for the greater good, even if they don’t feel brilliant about it.’
‘I agree with you, Sean, it’s all about the greater good.’
He smiled as he put his hand on my shoulder. I found that a little odd, but as we approached the door of Cross Country Meats Martin pulled something from his schoolbag. It was the folder.
‘You’ve seen sense!’ I cheered.
A glint in the boy’s eye gave me the impression that all was not as it seemed.
We marched into the butcher shop to find Bridget and Padraic huddled over some lanky lamb legs. Martin held the folder aloft like an Olympic torch.
‘Good morning, Mrs Cross, sir. I’m happy to inform you that all went to plan.’
‘Maith thú, buachaill Moone,’ she beamed. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’
TRANSLATION
Very good, Moone boy.
She grinned as she took hold of the secret dossier.
‘Yup, Mr Rely-Upon, that’s me,’ said Martin.
‘All the information you could possibly need
on the mysterious factory workers is safely in your hairy hands.’
Despite his unfortunate choice of words, Bridget looked delighted with this outcome. As Padraic threw Martin a congratulatory wink, she opened the game-changing folder. But her expression of joy quickly darkened as she perused the document.
Martin had switched the folder! The profiles of the workers in the factory were now all made up fellas from Martin’s head. As Bridget turned the pages she came to a horrible conclusion.
‘But . . . all these men are Irish!’ she spat.
‘That’s right, Mrs Cross, sir, just normal, silly Irish men with their silly Irish heads and hands.’
Bridget crossed her bony arms and glared at Martin. ‘And you’re telling me that these are the men who work in the factory, Martin?’
‘Yup, that’s them, Mrs Cross, sir. So I guess it’s case closed. I have to head to school now, but I’ll pick up my Game Boy later on.’
Bridget turned her wicked gaze on Padraic, who looked dumbfounded. He had brought Martin into this food fight, and he was beginning to fear he’d get caught in the Crossfire.
‘Martin, you said they had foreign accents,’ Padraic reminded us.
‘Did I? Nope, they sound just like us. Oh, I think maybe their accents sounded funny before because . . . I had an ear infection.’
‘An ear infection?’ asked Bridget, disbelieving.
‘That’s right. I’d been swimming in the lake that week and I think I got a bad case of lake lobe.’
‘Lake lobe?!’ I asked, equally bewildered. He answered me for some reason.
‘It’s an ailment that makes your hearing go bad because of all the frog poo in Boyle Lake.’
Bridget said nothing as Martin jiggled his finger in his ear for effect.
‘Anyhoo . . .’ he said awkwardly, ‘now that we’ve finally got to the bottom of this confusion, I’d best head off. Cheerio, all!’
Padraic and his auntie stood frozen, staring after their silly spy as he skipped away.
Bridget had a glint in her eye of someone who was accustomed to strangling turkeys. As her mind tracked back over Martin’s story, a question trickled down her throat.
‘Who goes swimming in the lake in December?’ she murmured.
‘Well . . .’ Padraic offered, ‘he has been eating a lot of fish.’
‘I don’t buy it, Padraic. I don’t buy it one bit. Why would all these Irish men work so cheaply?’ she continued. ‘How did they learn to gut fish so well? And, most importantly, why do their profile photographs look like badly drawn sketches done by a child?’
She glared at her nephew. ‘Padraic, Agent M double-O N E has been turned. He is no longer trustworthy.’
‘But . . .’ Padraic wanted to jump to his friend’s defence, but as he examined the fake file, it was impossible. His auntie crashed her palm on the counter in rage. Well, it would have crashed, but there were some errant sausages lying there, so she kind of ‘squished’ her palm in rage.
‘No one double-crosses Bridget Cross!’ she snarled. ‘Tail him, Padraic.’
‘Tell him what?’ asked her confused nephew.
‘Tail him. Follow him! I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he meets. Don’t let him out of your sight.’
‘But I can’t follow him - he’s my friend.’
‘Ah, friendship my hoop. Friendship goes like the tides, Padraic. But I am family. And blood is thicker than water.’
‘Right. But . . . isn’t friendship thicker than blood?
‘No, no. Friendship is about the thickness of cream. Or a weak gravy.’
‘And family is thicker than that?’
‘Oh yes. Family is like a warm bisque.’
‘What’s a bisque?’
‘It’s a kind of smooth soup.’
‘So is marriage like . . . a thick soup?’
‘No, no. Marriage is like syrup.’
‘And an engagement . . . ?’
‘Paint.’
‘Hmm. What about a passing acquaintance?’
‘Padraic, this is not relevant.’
‘I’m just eager to learn, Auntie Bridget.’
‘Fine. Milk. A passing acquaintance is the thickness of milk.’
‘And . . . complete strangers?’
‘Follow that turncoat*, you thick brick!!!’ she hollered, as she pointed angrily at her nephew, leaving Padraic with dread in his eyes and sausage meat on his tie.
* TURNCOAT - a person who deserts one party or cause in order tojo-an opposing one. This is why political parties no longer provide new members with coats.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE WOOLLY WRECKING BALL
Having turned over the fake file, Martin felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. And this weight wasn’t just the actual file - it was weirdly heavy, so he was glad to be rid of it - but it was also . . . guilt. All that sneaking around and spying had made him feel pretty bad, and given him a lot of shoulder pain. Guilt weighs a lot - I estimate it to be about 3.6kg - so if you’re going to carry it around, then here’s a tip: don’t carry it all on your shoulders. Try to spread that guilt evenly around your body. Get some guilt on to your back, or your waist would be even better, maybe by wearing some kind of Guilt-Belt.
By delivering the fake face book, Martin had cast off his Guilt-Belt, and as his
Remorse-Trousers fell to his ankles, he now felt the cool Breeze of Tranquillity blowing between his legs.
He felt sure that Fabio and the lads would now be left alone by Bridget. And so he turned his attention to his many other tasks - starting with ‘Operation Budget Christmas’.
The rest of the Moones had already made good progress. With a lot of sweat and tears and glitter, Fidelma had managed to construct an Advent calendar. However, since she hadn’t found enough religious pictures to put behind all the little doors, she’d used clippings of her favourite heart-throbs instead, much to Liam’s annoyance.
Sinead had the task of ‘Christmas Lights’ and came home one day with fistfuls of candles, which she said she’d bought from the church. This sounded a bit suspect to Debra, who grilled her about it.
‘I just went to that part of the church where they have all the candles, then I stuck a coin in the slot and helped myself,’ explained Sinead.
‘You took the prayer candles?’ gasped her mother.
‘I bought them.’
‘They weren’t for sale, Sinead! You put in a coin to say a prayer. It’s not a candle-vending machine!’
Trisha fared even worse - she stole six wreaths from doorways and two from graves. And Debra made her return them all.
Trisha seemed genuinely confused. ‘I don’t understand - you told me to steal them!’
‘I told you not to steal them!’
‘Then what was all that winking about?’
‘You were the one winking!’
Martin, on the other hand, had done very little about the Christmas tree, in spite of his parents nagging him about it.
‘Have you got the tree yet, Martin?’ asked his mother, ‘It won’t feel like Christmas until we’ve got a tree.’
‘Er . . . yes! I’m on it!’ he lied. ‘Just one question. With these tasks, you said we could either make them or find them. But how does that work with a tree?’
‘Well, you can either make a tree or find a tree,’ explained Debra simply, to her simpleton son.
‘Find a tree?’
‘Martin, there’s trees everywhere!’ interjected Liam, ‘Look out of that window. Tree, tree, tree, tree, tree,’ he said, pointing. ‘Just pick one and chop it down.’
‘Well, not any tree,’ said Debra. ‘I don’t want a flippin monkey puzzle* in the living room. It’s got to be a Christmas tree.’
‘But what if I can’t find a Christmas tree?’ asked Martin.
‘Then make one!’ she ordered. ‘Now where’s your old Lego box? I need to finish building the crib.’
Later that day we did actually try to build a Chr
istmas tree. But the less said about that the better.
It turned out that Martin and I were way better at destruction than creation, and we had far more success with busting a hole in the back wall.
* MONKEY PUZZLE - an exotic, spiky tree that monkeys seem to think is a giant puzzle. They stick branches together like it’s a jigsaw, but they never solve it because it’s actually just a tree.
Like a gentle, woolly wrecking ball, Martin had been smashing it slowly and softly, chipping away at it piece by piece. And sure enough, his parents barely seemed to notice the widening hole. Although one morning we found Debra peering out at it from the kitchen window.
‘The ol’ wall isn’t looking great today,’ she commented to Liam.
We froze, midway through mouthfuls of Readybix.
‘Was there always a hole in it?’ she asked.
Liam joined her at the window. ‘Ah yeah, I noticed a little hole in it yesterday.’
‘Probably just natural erosion!’ blurted Martin with his mouth full. They looked at him and he blundered on. ‘Rain damage and the like Rain is a terrible divil with walls. Always puts holes in them.’
Debra looked back at Martin. ‘But if it was rain, why would that make a hole in the middle of the wall?’
Martin nodded, munching fast and thinking even faster. ‘Good point, Mam. Actually, you know what? It’s probably, er. . .’
‘Squirrel damage?’ I suggested.
‘Squirrel damage!’ he cried. ‘That’s right! I saw one nibbling on a brick just yesterday.’
‘Squirrels?’
Martin nodded. ‘They must be building their nests.’
‘Squirrels build nests. . . ?’ asked Liam.
‘Out of bricks?’ queried Debra.
Martin shrugged in wonder. ‘That’s nature for ya!’ he marvelled, as he dumped his bowl in the sink.
‘Mystery solved,’ I said happily. And we sauntered off, leaving his parents looking bewildered,
We soon discovered that there was one downside to pulling bricks out of a wall - you end up with a lot of unwanted bricks. So we had to come up with ingenious ways to get rid of them. We hid them in school lockers, tucked them in drawers, threw them in the river, shoved them in postboxes - we even went down to Wall Street and left a stack of them in Mr Ball’s wall shop, Ball’s to the Wall.