Moone Boy 2: The Fish Detective

by Chris O’Dowd

  He snatched the paper and ran outside. Then he stuffed it through the letter box as fast as he could. When it dropped to the floor, he barged back into the shop. ‘How’d I do?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘You’re hired.’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Martin, and punched the air.

  ‘Be here at 6 a.m. to collect the papers.’

  ‘6 a.m.?!’

  ‘Oh balls,’ I murmured. ‘I knew this was too good to be true. Next he’ll probably tell us that our delivery motorbike doesn’t even have a sidecar.’

  ‘Is 6 a.m. a problem?’ the man enquired.

  ’It’s just, er … I’m not a big “morning person”,’ Martin confessed. ‘I struggle with mornings, truth be told. I’m cursed with a terrible fondness for sleep.’

  ‘You want the job, don’t ya?’

  ‘Oh very much so, sir!’ replied Martin. ‘But perhaps I could deliver the papers a bit later in the day. Maybe in the afternoon?’

  ‘About 4 p.m. would be perfect,’ I suggested, consulting our diary.

  The shopkeeper frowned at Martin. ‘But people like their paper in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, but we could be different!’ Martin countered. ‘We could be the afternoon newspaper!’

  ‘But . . . it’d still be the same paper. Just delivered late.’

  ‘Or early!’ replied Martin confusingly. ‘Cos if you think about it, the afternoon is actually earlier than the morning.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, right now is earlier than tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  The shopkeeper was struggling to keep up with Martin’s logic. ‘But delivering it now would only be earlier if you had tomorrow’s paper.’

  ‘Even better! I’ll deliver tomorrow’s paper! Today!’

  ‘But I just have today’s paper.’

  ‘Then get me tomorrow’s paper! And I’ll deliver it every day, some time in the late afternoon, probably between four and six-ish - sharp! Do we have ourselves a deal, sir?’ asked Martin enthusiastically.

  ‘You’re fired,’ droned the shopkeeper, and went back to his lollipops.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CROSS COUNTRY MEATS

  ‘I hear ya, Martin. Finding decent work is tricky in this day and age.’

  Martin was filling in his best friend, Padraic, on his job-hunting woes. He often looked to his pal for advice on these matters because Padraic was wise beyond his years. Also, nobody else wanted to listen to Martin’s boring problems. It was break time, so the boys were walking through the school playground, avoiding various calls and balls whizzing past their dopey heads as Padraic pondered Martin’s career complaints.

  ‘I blame Wall Street,’ Padraic said wisely.

  ‘Wall Street, P-Dog?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s that road just outside Boyle that has a bunch of different wall-building companies on it.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Martin remembered.

  ‘The local job market has been a nightmare since walls went out of fashion.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all fences and hedges these days,’ Martin agreed.

  ‘To be fair, they are a lot cheaper.’

  ‘Yeah, even Dad’s got a hedge fund going now.’

  ‘Where could you work?’ Padraic asked himself, rubbing his pudgy chin. ‘Who could use a Martin Moone around? It’s a tricky one, Martin. I’m afraid I’m fresh out of ideas at the mo-OWW!’

  A large marble had just flown past Martin’s head and smacked into Padraic’s temple* with a dull thud.

  *TEMPLE - a part of the human head, halfway between the top of your ear and the bottom of your eyebrow. It’s called the ‘temple’ as it’s where hair nits go to pray.

  Luckily the clatter to the cranium seemed to wake up Padraic’s thinking jelly and he raised his finger in triumph. ‘Hey! Maybe I could get you some part-time work in my family butcher shop?’

  ‘Your family owns a butcher shop?’

  ‘Only the finest meats and poultry in Boyle, Right Beside Boyle and Just Outside Boyle!’

  ‘But. . . I thought your family were farmers?’

  ‘Well, my dad is a farmer, but his six brothers run an abattoir* and my Auntie Bridget runs the Cross Country Meats butcher shop on Grub Street.’

  ‘Wow, your family has really cornered the meat market.’

  ‘Yeah, we like to think of ourselves as a cradle-to-grave dinner service.’

  *ABATTOIR - this is like a boudoir** for animals. They go to sleep there. (But they never wake up.)

  **BOUDOIR - a type of bedroom in France where, historically, magic has happened.

  ‘Ya really think your auntie would give me a job?’ Martin asked eagerly.

  ‘Well . . . Let’s see - do you have any meat retail experience?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Are you a hard worker?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you steal?’

  ‘Rarely.’

  ‘Are you punctual?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Can you lie about all that?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘Then I don’t see why not. I’ll set up an interview!’

  After school that day, Padraic took Martin to meet the meat queen. But on their way through town, Martin started to get nervous about the impending interview with Bridget Cross. Nerves always gave him a dry mouth. To counteract this, he had chugged down three cans of Lilt*, two glasses of Milt** and a carton of Kilt*** by the time they hit Grub Street.

  *LILT - a popular fizzy drink with a totally tropical taste.

  **MILT - a slightly less popular fizzy I drink with a totally dairy taste.

  ***KILT - an extremely unpopular fizzy drink with a totally Scottish taste.

  ‘So tell me about your Auntie Bridget, P-Dog. How do I make a good impression? Should I use my boyish charm or my macho manly moves? I’m equally mediocre at both.’

  ‘Hmm. She’s a tough nut, Martin. She was the only girl in a family with seven bawdy brothers. Then she got married to an eejit called Christian Cross, who ran off with a South American choral singer he met at their wedding.’

  ‘So…’ Martin asked tentatively, ‘go easy on being male at all, maybe?’

  ‘I’ll tell ya what, Martin - she loves talking in Irish. She’s old school like that. If you can speak Irish, you’ll be nailed on for the job. How’s your Irish?’

  ‘Ahm. . . Thing is… Mr Jackson always teaches Irish right after lunch, which, as you know, is when I like to take my main school nap. So. . . long story short, I only really know one sentence in Irish.’

  ‘O-kaaay. What is it?’

  Martin cleared his throat, and said, ‘Múinteoir, an bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas, le do thoil?’

  TRANSLATION

  ‘Teacher, may I go to the toilet please?’

  ‘That’s the only Irish you know?’

  ‘That’s it, I’m afraid. After nap time and pee time, Irish class is usually over and we’re into history class, or as I call it, fidget- and-doodle hour.’

  ‘Right. Well, maybe try to keep the conversation in English,’ Padraic suggested, with the tone of someone who could feel a failure coming.

  Martin nodded glumly as they reached the front door of Cross Country Meats. A cowbell above the shop door clanged clunkily as they entered the butcher shop.

  ‘Auntie Bridget?’ Padraic called into the seemingly empty room.

  Martin straightened his elastic tie as his eyes searched the shop for a living lady. He could see plenty of deceased creatures behind cold glass - turkey legs, minced meat, lamb balls - but nobody with a pulse. At a counter in the back he seemed to spot what could only be described as a floating hat.

  ‘As Gaeilge, a Phádraic, as Gaeilge!’

  TRANSLATION

  ‘In Irish, Padraic, in Irish!’

  Confused, Martin watched as the floating hat moved from behind the back counter and turned into a human woman.

  Bridget Cross was a tiny little lady, barely taller than
Martin. I’m not great at judging age, but if I had to guess, I’d say she was around a hundred and three. Though it’s more likely she was about half that. Her cheeks were the colour of red roses that have been sitting in a vase a week too long. She wore her tangerine hair high in a bun beneath her butcher’s hat. The height of the white cap made it look as if her hair was trying to carry her off into space or something. Every inch of her was covered in wool. She had a woolly cardigan and a moss-coloured woolly skirt which met tall woolly socks at the knee. She had slightly fluffy sideburns and a faint ginger moustache above her thin, cracked lips, so even her face was a little woolly. On her chest sat a bronze brooch, which sagged a bit because of its weight. When the sun caught it, light would beam from it and temporarily blind you if you stood too close. She was the most Irish person Martin had ever met,

  ‘Pádraic, an séú nia is fearr liom, cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?’

  TRANSLATION

  ‘Padraic, my sixth-favourite nephew, how are you?’

  Auntie Bridget. This is Martin, who I called you about.

  He’s a wonderful fella, and I think he’d make a brilliant—’

  ‘Whisht*!’ she spluttered.

  We all fell silent.

  She stared at Martin, taking him in. ‘Let me have a look at you then.’

  *WHISHT - the Irish equivalent of ‘Shush a bit wetter, like most things Irish.

  She was already looking at him, but seemed to expect more. Martin looked to me, slightly confused.

  ‘I think. . . she wants you to do a little twirl, buddy,’ I suggested.

  Martin did a little twirl, like a toddler in a beauty pageant. As he finished his spin, he felt a rumble in his tummy. All the Lilt, Milt and Kilt from earlier had made their way to his bladder and were now eager to join the potty party. He desperately needed to wee. But Bridget Cross was still staring at him.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ she said, in Irish. Or any language I suppose.

  ‘Mairtín, sé an rud is táhachtaí sa ghnó bia, ná glantanas. Má tá tú míghlan in aon chaoi ar bith, inis dom anois é!

  TRANSLATION

  ‘Martin, the most important thing in the food business is cleanliness. So if you’re unclean in any way, let me know right now.’

  Martin stared at her, completely clueless. All he could think of was his bursting bladder. His eyes narrowed as he looked blankly back at Bridget Cross, certain he was about to wet himself.

  ‘Do something, Martin!’ I shouted unhelpfully.

  ‘Múinteoir, an bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas, le do thoil?’ he said hopefully.

  TRANSLATION

  Teacher, may I go to the toilet please?

  Bridget seemed taken aback by his response.

  ‘Of course, my boy!’ she beamed as she pointed past the lamb counter to the toilet in the back.

  Martin waddled off desperately, presuming he’d blown his chance of a job.

  Bridget turned to Padraic. ‘What a lovely young man. Good Irish, and the honesty to appreciate that his hands needed cleaning, and… he called me his teacher! I like that. I like when someone instantly realizes that there are many things they can learn from me.’

  ‘I told you he was a wonderful fella, Auntie Bridget.’

  ‘And I told you whisht!’

  They stood in silence a moment as Bridget considered what to do with Martin.

  ‘Fine,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll take him on.’

  And just like that, with a full bladder and an empty head, Martin Moone managed to get his first job. He was going to be a butcher boy!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BUTCHER BOY

  After the initial excitement of gaining employment, Martin was disappointed to discover that there was actually very little for him to do in Cross Country Meats. He ran there straight after school every day and quickly donned his handy hairnet, stylish butcher’s cap and white coat, but after that he mostly just stood around trying to make the pigs’ heads make funny faces or kiss each other.

  The butcher shop was strangely quiet. Business was slow - much slower than usual - and this was worrying Bridget Cross.

  Christmas was fast approaching, but they’d had hardly any orders for turkeys. Ham sales were down too.

  Only giblet* sales were steady. (They sold one bag of giblets every year, and Martin’s teacher, Mr Jackson, had already placed his order.) But apart from this, meat numbers were down across the board.

  *GIBLETS - foul-looking fowl guts.

  Something was clearly not right, and Bridget Cross seemed to know exactly where to lay the blame for her meat misfortunes. Every day she stood at the window and glared across the street with contempt.

  ‘That flippin’ fish shop,’ she growled.

  Francie Feeley’s Fabulous Fishatorium stood directly across the road from Cross Country Meats. The little shop was painted a bright salmon pink and decorated with colourful pictures of anchors, buoys and smiling shellfish. A large blue plastic dolphin was displayed proudly above the entrance - although, confusingly, dolphin was the one fish they didn’t seem to sell. (Martin and I had discovered this one day after watching a TV show called Flipper about a crime-solving dolphin. We decided that a dolphin detective would make the perfect pet for us and could happily live in the bath. But - because apparently dolphins aren’t actually fish! Who knew?! - the Fishatorium didn’t sell dolphins, so all we got was a tin of sardines, whose ability to float was about as impressive as its ability to solve crimes.)

  Under the plastic dolphin, there was a sea- blue door with a cockle-shaped doorbell, and on either side of this were two large round windows. These were home to the Fishatorium’s famous window displays. Each week, fish would be arranged in a kind of ‘diorama*’, wearing little costumes and all carefully arranged to show a dramatic scene. For example, they did The Last Fish Supper- similar to the painting The Last Supper-except instead of Jesus and his disciples, this one had a bearded bass eating dinner with several sole, and an evil-looking piranha, which symbolized Judas. Other memorable ones were Starfish Wars, Indiana Fishbones: Raiders of the Lost Carp, and Snow Whiting and the Seven Squids.

  *DIORAMA - this word can either mean ‘a model of a scene with little figures standing inside it’ or else ‘the diarrhoea of a llama’. Just the situation.

  In contrast to the tumbleweed rolling through Cross Country Meats, the Fishatorium was always packed to the gills. It was only open for a couple of hours every day, but that just seemed to attract the customers even more, and it did ten times more business in those two hours than Bridget did all day. Customers would line up outside, waiting, until finally the doors would open and loud music would blare out on to the street - songs like Under the Sea, Gone Fishin’ and the theme music from Jaws. Every day there were great deals to be had, and Bridget just couldn’t compete.

  ‘All anybody wants these days is fish, fish, cheap flippin’ fish,’ she’d grumble.

  But it wasn’t simply that the Fishatorium kept its prices low. The fish were also so finely filleted. Not a bone in sight. And so fresh too! ‘It’s like eating a live fish!’ the customers would say. ‘Like taking a chomp out of the ocean!’

  ‘Conas a dhéatar é, Martín?! How do they do it?!’ yelled Bridget one day, both in Irish and English, as she was doubly furious.

  Martin, who was in the middle of trying to build a sausage pyramid, jumped to attention. ‘I dunno,’ he replied, unsure what she was on about. ‘Maybe they just inject the fig inside the roll?’

  ‘I’m not talking about fig rolls, I’m talking about fish!’ she snapped. ‘Every day, crates and crates of them arrive from the factory – but how? No one works up there, Martin. The factory hasn’t been hiring for years. So who’s doing it all? A family of elves? A load of fishgutting robots?

  ‘Or maybe an army of trained monkeys!’ I suggested excitedly.

  ‘There’s something fishy going on,’ she muttered darkly, ‘Rud éigin an-fishy go deimhin.’

  TRANSLATION


  Something very fishy indeed.

  Just then, the music across the street fell silent and a friendly-looking man with greasy hair strolled out of the shop, stuffing bundles of cash into his pockets.

  ‘There he is now,’ said Bridget hatefully.

  ‘Féach air, Martin. Cock of the walk. Johnny come lately. Captain flippin Birdseye.’

  TRANSLATION

  ‘Look at him, Martin.’

  Martin watched the man locking up the shop, curious. He was dressed in green corduroy trousers, a woolly jumper with a picture of a fish on it and a brown tweed jacket. He also wore a glittering array of rings on his fingers and a shiny gold chain that dangled around his neck.

  ‘Who is that handsome grease-ball?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ I mused, ‘based on his jewellery, I’d say he must be either a mayor, a gypsy king or some kind of fish-loving rapper.’

  ‘Who is he?!’ grunted Bridget, ‘He’s the fish king of Boyle, that’s who. The Kingfisher himself, the Codfather of Sole: Francie ‘Touchy’ Feeley.’

  Francie was waving goodbye to his customers, giving everyone lots of hugs and kisses.

  ‘Now don’t forget to order your Christmas fish, ladies!’ he was telling them, pointing to a notice on the door. ‘I’ll have something very special for ye. Once you’ve had one of these beauties you’ll never go near a miserable ol’ turkey again!’

  ‘Fish is the new turkey?’ muttered Bridget. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  FISH IS THE NEW TURKEY!

  Order your Christmas Fish NOW and collect it right here on Christmas Eve. Only 5 pound! (Or 4 Pound with a sloppy kiss! Hahaha. That’s a genuine offer.)

  Francie started to amble away, but then spotted Bridget peering at him through the window.

  ‘Oh, hi, Bridget!’ he called, with a big friendly wave.

  ‘Hiya!’ she called back, waving sweetly. But as he disappeared down the street, her face darkened again. ‘I’ll find out your secrets some day, Francie Feeley,’ she whispered threateningly.