by Chris O’Dowd
I’ve got enough tuna in here to last me years!’
And with that, he slammed the door shut.
I looked at Martin. ‘Not sure that’s quite what we were worried about.’
‘Well,’ said Brendan, trying to stay upbeat, ‘at least we got rid of that flippin’ cat.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE GREAT BARRIER GRIEF
To make sure it didn’t rot, we spent the next couple of hours covering the precious festive fish-harvest in tonnes and tonnes of ice. It was unusual to see the little fella working so hard By the time we’d finished, Martin had shovelled so much ice his nose even had a touch of frostbite. This made him look as if he’d been attacked by an Arctic vampire.
Declan informed us that the police checkpoint was on the main road between the school and the factory, so we rushed up there pronto.
We were surprised to find a small but rowdy throng of people gathered at the roadblock. There were the police, of course, securing the barricade, and Bridget Cross hovering by them, like a loyal shark. Padraic was there too, looking a little guilty for some reason, and as we approached, Crunchie Haystacks put a big paper bag over his head. It was an odd thing to do. I think he thought it hid him from sight. Even though he’s already imaginary. And I should remind you that Crunchie Haystacks is a giant of a man. The size of a haystack, in fact. So he just looked like a haystack with a paper bag at the top, like a rubbish Christmas tree. I wanted to ask him what he was doing, but we had more pressing matters to attend to.
At the barricade, as well as the group looking to catch the Brazilian boys, there was also a crowd of local protestors from Just Outside Boyle. But they weren’t protesting against the Brazilians, they were protesting against the police!
Debra’s friend Linda was there. As was Mrs Dunphy, who was trying to tell the police what a lovely bunch of lads they were chasing.
‘They’re lovely, lovely lads. Ricardo made me a wicker basket. I put eggs in it. Before I had that basket I had to carry my eggs around in my hands.’
There were many other ladies there too - weirdly they all appeared to be ladies - and they all seemed very worried about the prospect of the Brazilian guys being deported.
‘Those boys really brighten up the town. With their muscles and their glossy hair and their juicy lips,’ called out some quivering granny.
‘Please let them stay - my husband refuses to massage my feet any more!’ hollered another.
From the back, Linda piped up, much louder than the others. ‘Leave them be, you dogs!’ she screamed. ‘If you deport those beautiful men, I swear to the Lord God I will burn your houses to the ground!’
I should point out that she was also crying. Quite violently. It was some scene. The Garda* looked ready to deploy a water cannon to cool the women down.
But there was one lady who seemed unmoved by the entire affair.
Bridget Cross was standing with one of the baffled guards when Martin marched over to her like a wee man possessed. She had a smug look on her face. She was even eating an ice cream, which for some reason made her even more annoying.
*GARDA - the Irish word for Police. Because they’re like guards. Sorta.
‘Mrs Cross, sir, why are you doing this?’
‘I’m not doing anything, Martin,’ she smirked. ‘I’m just a concerned citizen making sure our tidy little town doesn’t get littered with foreign objects.’
‘Foreign objects?! They’re my friends.’
‘Well, perhaps you need to pick your friends more wisely, little man Moone.’
When she said this, she threw a look towards Padraic, who suddenly looked pretty sheepish and bowed his head. Martin didn’t spot this and kept looking for answers.
‘I just don’t understand what they’ve done wrong,’ he protested.
‘Well . . . they don’t have the right working papers and visas and things,’ explained Bridget.
‘So what?’
‘Well, that means they’re illegal immigrants.’
‘But what exactly have they done that’s illegal?’
‘Well . . .’ she said, searching her brain, ‘they’re from Brazil.’
‘Is it illegal to be from Brazil?’ Martin asked, confused.
‘No, no, it’s not illegal - if you stay there.’
‘So what did they do wrong?’
‘They left there.’
‘But they had to. All their fish died.’
‘Well, I didn’t kill their fish, did I?’
‘No, but if your animals died, you’d have to leave, wouldn’t you?’
‘I run a butcher shop, Martin. I’m pretty sure my animals are already dead,’ she snorted.
Martin was clearly getting nowhere with this line of questioning, but in fairness to him, when he has the bit between his teeth, he never lets go. (Unless the bit in question is a bit spicy, then he quickly lets go and has a nice glass of milk to cool his lips down.)
‘Mrs Cross, sir, please just explain this to me like I’m a child.’
‘You are a child.’
‘Why are these hard-working men, who are helping their families, being treated like criminals?’
‘The thing you need to understand about these Brazilians, Martin, is that they might seem pleasant and what have you, but they come over here and they take our jobs.’
‘But . . . who worked in the fish factory before they got here?’
‘The fish factory was closed before they got here.’
‘Then . . . didn’t they . . . create jobs?’
I was impressed with the little fella’s logic and I could tell Bridget was getting frustrated. In fact her hands were getting so overheated that her ice cream was beginning to resemble a dairy volcano. Seeing this, the guard standing nearby tried to intervene.
‘You’re upsetting Mrs Cross, young lad. Maybe you should go home.’
‘Maybe you should go home,’ Martin replied cheekily.
‘Look here,’ said the flustered guard, ‘the law is the law is the law and—’
‘And what law have they broken?’
‘Well, they moved from one place to another place without the correct—’
‘And in the place they were before . . . they killed someone?’
‘No. They didn’t do anything wrong where they were.’
‘But when they got here, they stole something?’
‘No, no, they didn’t steal . . . They just, th-they . . .’ he stuttered, ‘they . . . they just weren’t allowed to move here.’
‘Well,’ Martin said finally, ‘that seems stupid.’
Bridget dropped her dripping cornet to the ground and turned to Martin.
‘Maybe you’re the stupid one, little Moone. I know what local people want. And it’s to be left to be by themselves.’
‘No, that’s just what you want. All the people I know like them,’ Martin announced. ‘And people love the fish too. My mam says it’s way better than the rip-off ribs and pricey pork you’ve been peddling us for years.’
‘My pork is perfectly priced!’ she insisted. But Martin had already begun walking away, to the applause of the gathered gaggle of local ladies.
‘I don’t know why you’re so upset, little Moone,’ she hollered after him, ‘if it wasn’t for your fish-detective work, none of this would have happened.’
The ladies stopped their applause and stared at Martin.
‘You made an excellent fish-mole,’ Bridget continued. ‘I should be rewarding you for helping me clear up the litter.’
Martin heard a gasp at this. And it wasn’t just his own. He looked into the bushes by the side of the road and saw a pair of sad, handsome eyes staring back at him. It was Fabio! He’d been hiding by the Garda checkpoint and had heard the whole thing. He was devastated to learn of Martin’s secret life as a spy. But not half as upset as Martin was. They shared a look of absolute despair for what seemed like minutes. Then Fabio slowly shook his head and disappeared into the trees.
Mar
tin, the fish-gutting hero, was completely gutted. So he turned his shame on the cause of it all.
‘Ya know what, Mrs Cross? You can keep your stupid Game Boy. I don’t take rewards from witches.’
‘Your Game Boy?’ She smirked. ‘I think you mean Padraic’s Game Boy.’
Martin turned to look at his old friend. I could see the confusion on his face and the growing distress on Padraic’s.
‘Oh, didn’t he tell you?’ She smiled. ‘I gave it to him for tailing you and informing me where the Brazilians were living. You two are quite the pair.’
Padraic’s heart sank into his socks. As tears formed in Martin’s eyes, he turned away from his old buddy and marched right up to the beastly butcher.
‘Ya know what your problem is, Bridget? You’re just like your manky turkeys - you’re fowl.’
‘You little amadán!’ she shrieked.
TRANSLATION
‘idiot!’
But Martin was past caring. He had betrayed his new pals and been stabbed in the back by his oldest buddy, and as he trudged away through Bridget’s dropped ice cream he thought to himself, That’s about the thickness of friendship.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DEAD FISHES SOCIETY
It was Christmas Eve Eve.
This was usually one of Martin’s favourite days of the year. It was the day the school closed for the festive holidays. It was the day when presents would start appearing under the tree and it was always a Thursday, Martin’s favourite day of the week.
‘I don’t think Christmas Eve Eve always falls on a Thursday, Martin,’ I pointed out.
‘Really?!’ The boy sighed. ‘Is nothing sacred?’
Martin was sitting alone at a desk in the back of Mr Jackson’s class. This was a first. For five long years, Martin and Padraic had always sat together. Like peas in a pod in a classroom. But not today. Since learning of his buddy’s betrayal, Martin had spent the whole day avoiding him.
He switched desks, he hid behind the sheds at break time, he even destroyed some of his most treasured pictures of the boys together.
‘We came third that day!’ came a hopeful voice.
Martin turned to find Padraic leaning over from their old desk by the window. He was eyeing the portrait fondly. But Martin looked back at the sketch angrily and quickly tore it in half.
‘But that was our best year!’ Padraic squealed.
‘We made a promise to each other, P,’ barked Martin.
‘We did?’
‘Yes! We made an unspoken promise to always stick by each other, no matter what.’
‘I don’t remember saying that,’ Padraic said, confused.
‘It was an unspoken promise!’ Martin repeated.
‘Oh yeah, so . . . what did we not say?’
‘We promised to be loyal. We agreed that we were embarking on this voyage of life as more than friends. We were crew-mates. We knew the stormy sea of our schooldays would batter our friendship with waves of woe—’
‘Are you making all this up on the spot?’ Padraic asked, verging on impressed.
‘No! I remember this promise like we made it yesterday. Also, I scribbled some new stuff down at breakfast.’
‘Righto.’ Padraic nodded.
‘We knew the stormy sea of our schooldays would batter our friendship with waves of woe and cliffs of cruelty,’ Martin continued wistfully, ‘but as long as we stayed afloat, I’d always be your loyal captain, and you’d always be my first mate.’
There was a long pause as Padraic took this promise on board.
‘But now you’re just some crusty old crustacean that’s stuck to my hull,’ Martin concluded bitterly.
Padraic looked pretty hurt. He’d never been called a crustacean before. A mollusc? Sure. A cockle? Every day! But a crappy crustacean? His head dropped like he’d been battered with chalk. Which coincidentally, he had!
‘Whisht, O’Dwyer!’ Mr Jackson hollered, raising another stick of chalk threateningly. ‘I don’t know what you two ladies are arguing about, but I’m trying to teach here!’
‘Sorry, Mr Jackson,’ Padraic muttered as he turned sadly away from his old friend.
‘Now, what was I talking about?’ their teacher continued, ‘Oh yes, the Berlin Wall. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, boys – some people are just not meant to live together. Take these Brazilian lads hanging out in the fish factory. What do they know about Irish culture? We’re best off left to ourselves. I think it’d be in everyone’s interests if they swam back to their capital city of Rio de Janeiro and let Boyle be Boyle.’
‘What a hunk of junk!’
The class turned to find Martin staring defiantly at their teacher.
‘Excuse me, Moone?!’ Jackson demanded.
‘What a bucket of bullroar,’ the boy mustered, taking to his feet.
‘Sit down, Moone!’
But Martin had no intention of lowering himself any more. He’d let Fabio and his friends down before. He wasn’t about to turn his back on them again.
‘I said, sit down, Moone!’
The hushed classroom waited for Martin’s next move. He had the look of someone who had planned something brilliant to say.
‘I like potatoes!’ he blurted.
Oh balls, I thought.
‘Who doesn’t? They’re the best,’ Mr Jackson agreed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I like chips, I like wedges, I like mash, but ya know what else I like?’ the boy asked the confused teacher.
‘Curly fries?’ Mr Jackson asked, followed by murmurs of approval in the room.
‘No!’ Martin yelped, determined. ‘Spaghetti! And bananas. And chocolate.’
‘Now you’re talking my language,’ Padraic said, suddenly interested.
‘Sure, we could all live on spuds, and sometimes I think my mother believes we do. But we deserve more,’ Martin pronounced, including the class with a sweeping gesture of his arms.
‘My mind is a hungry palette and it needs feeding. Yes, sir. If we left our noggin nosh to you, you’d starve us all, you silly old head-chef!’
This brought some giggles of discomfort from the group, but Martin kept on keeping on.
‘It would be like the Famine all over again. And we’d need to jump on coffin ships in the hope that our destination was more welcoming than this one.’
‘Nice recall on the famine lesson, buddy,’ I murmured, hoping not to put him off his stride.
‘Those men are my friends. Before they were my friends, they were my co-workers and they worked hard and played harder than anyone I’ve ever met. And no, I haven’t met a lot of people, but I’ll tell you something: I can’t wait to. Because people are different. That’s what makes the world taste good. You have in front of you the most enthusiastic eaters in the world, and you want us to just eat spuds. Shame on you, Mr Jackson, shame on you!’
There was a collective gasp from the classroom. Mr Jackson was fully flummoxed. We all were. And I’m in his head!
‘And while we’re on the subject, the capital of Brazil isn’t Rio, it’s Brasilia. You should be able to remember that; it sounds like Brazil!’
Apart from a brave couple of nods, the entire class was stunned to silence. Just as the startled schoolman went to open his mouth in response -
BBBBBBRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG!!!!
The holiday bell rang to save Martin like a clattering cliche*.
As the whole class jumped up in festive joy, Mr Jackson could only watch, mouth agape, as Martin sprang from the room. But as he reached the doorway, a sudden call stopped him in his tracks.
‘O Captain! My Captain!’
Martin turned to find Padraic calling after him. He was standing on his desk! It was quite the sight. It was like a film. Very like a film. The whole class, including Mr Jackson, was staring at this act of courage with a mix of wrath and glee.
* CLICHÉ - a phrase that seems overused or unoriginal. Unless you put the wrong accent on th
e wrong letter, which makes it hip and cool.
I’m sorry, Captain,’ Padraic continued, unfazed.
Martin smiled at his first mate, knowing he couldn’t stay mad at him forever. But then he noticed that Padraic was holding the torn sketch to his chest. On the back he’d written some fresh intel. The first half read ‘Our new friends’. Martin looked perplexed. But then Padraic held up the other half. It read ‘are hiding in the forest’.
As Mr Jackson hauled Padraic off his desk, to the hoots and hollers of the giddy grade, Martin saluted his old sea P-Dog and rushed into the corridor.
As we hastily set sail to our next port of call, Martin looked concerned.
‘You think Fabio and the boys are really in the forest, Sean?’
‘Actually I do, buddy.’
‘But, how would Padraic know that?’
‘Well, to be fair, he’s pretty good at following people.’ I shrugged.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE MERRY MEN
‘FABIO!!’ yelled Martin, at the top of his little lungs.
His voice echoed around the trees and we listened for a cry of ‘Fish-Guts!’ but no response came back.
It was the morning of Christmas Eve. And while everyone else in Boyle was battling through Bridge Street doing their last-minute Christmas shopping, Martin and I were battling through Boyle Forest, doing some last-minute Brazilian-fish-gutter-saving. At least we were trying to – if we could ever find them.
‘Does my voice really sound like that?’ asked Martin, listening to his echo.
‘Like what – kinda squeaky?’
He nodded.
‘Kinda high-pitched and squeaky?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Kinda silly and shrilly and high-pitched and squeaky?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, it doesn’t sound like that at all,’ I lied. ‘You’ve got the burly baritone of a Welsh lumberjack, Martin.’
‘Or like an Irish Mr T*?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Nail on the head, buddy.’
‘Huh. I guess the echo around here must be broken.’