by Chris O’Dowd
We developed a system for the smaller chunks of cement and little brick bits too. Martin poked holes in his pockets and filled them with fistfuls of rubble. Then he strolled around the school yard, scrunching them up and scattering them out of his trouser legs.
One lunchtime he was in the middle of doing this when he found himself standing on a metal grate that he hadn’t noticed before.
He kicked a little rock out from his trouser leg into the grate and heard it bounce around as it fell further and further below ground, making lots of echoey sounds. We looked at each other, puzzled, and peered down to take a look.
‘Whoa . . .’ murmured Martin as he gawked into the darkness. ‘Have we just found the Batcave?’
‘Well, it’s about time!’ I declared, shaking my head. ‘Always the last place you look.’
‘Or, wait - You don’t think this is one of those tunnels that Mr Jackson was talking about, do you?’
‘Hmmm. You could be right, buddy . . .’ I nodded, thinking. ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s deep. And you know what we can do with a hole like this?’
He shrugged blankly. ‘Spit into it?’
‘Big time!’ I agreed excitedly. ‘And also - fill it with bricks!’
‘Brilliant!’
But just then the school bell rang for the end of lunchtime.
Martin hopped up from the grate. ‘Let’s remember this for later, Sean.’
‘Remember what?’
‘That we found this tunnel!’ he reminded me. ‘I really feel like it’s important that we don’t forget about this key piece of information!’
I gave a salute and he ran off.
What a weird thing to say, I thought to myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FESTIVAL OF THE WHALES
Martin counted down the days on the Advent calendar of handsome hunks until it was finally time for the Festival of the Whales.
It was a Sunday. But that was no day of rest for ol’ Two-Jobs Moone. And as usual he was back at the factory, slogging away at the ol’ sweep-sweep-bang-bang.
But Francie let them finish early that day, and the workers all piled into the back of the fish truck. With Declan Mannion at the wheel, and Martin and I beside him, we were soon speeding away into the hills of Just Outside Boyle.
The workers sang all the way - songs about whales and starving villages and, for Martin, they even sang the Brazilian version of Jingle Bells.
‘Haha! I can’t wait for Christmas, Fish-Guts!’ laughed Fabio.
‘Me too!’ beamed Martin.
‘It will be so great when we return to our village with our Christmas bonuses,’ said Fabio excitedly. ‘No one will go hungry and we will be heroes!’
The men all cheered. ‘YAYYY!’
But Martin’s face fell, and he looked back at Fabio. ‘Wait - you’re leaving at Christmas?’
‘I thought you knew that! Once the Christmas fishes are ready, our work will be done.’
‘Oh,’ Martin murmured, looking crushed.
Fabio leaned forward. ‘You OK, Fish-Guts?’
Martin nodded glumly. ‘I just thought . . . you’d be sticking around for a bit longer.’
Fabio smiled, touched. ‘Aww, Fish-Guts. We’ll miss you too. With your silly little face.’
He pinched Martin’s cheeks and then launched into another song, strumming his fish guitar.
His name is Fish-Guts!
So pasty white he’s like a pearl,
Or like a seasick little girl.
His name is Fish-Guts!
Always talking to himself.
Like a crazy little elf.
His name is Fish-Guts!
‘Well, this isn’t very complimentary,’ I grumbled to Martin.
But Martin was bobbing his head happily along to the music. ‘Are you kidding? He actually wrote a song about me!’
I rolled my eyes as we rolled on through the hills.
Just then I spotted a familiar plump figure, wearing a trench coat and squatting in a grassy field.
‘Hey, look, it’s Padraic!’
Martin waved out the window and Padraic waved back, watching him through binoculars.
‘That’s weird,’ I commented as we sped away.
‘Why was he using binoculars?’
Martin shrugged. ‘So he could see us better, I suppose.’
I frowned. ‘You know, Padraic’s been acting pretty strangely recently. I’ve noticed him following us around a lot - making notes, taking photos, wearing trench coats. . .You don’t think he’s spying on us, do you?’ I asked.
But Martin wasn’t even listening, he was singing along to Fabio’s song -
His name is Fish-Guts!
He smells like rotten fish butts!
*
Finally we reached a pub in the hills where the workers were living. The whole place was decked out with Brazilian flags, Irish flags and colourful bunting. There were even fake palm trees, and big bowls of pineapples and coconuts and other exotic fruit.
‘Look, Sean! Bananas!’ cried Martin in wonder.
‘You’ve got bananas at home, buddy.’
‘Yeah, but these are Brazilian bananas, not stupid Irish bananas!’
Fabio laughed. ‘Irish bananas, Fish-Guts? They’d probably look like potatoes! And taste like onions! Hahaha!’
I scowled at him. ‘Well, that’s just rude. I’m sure they’d be delicious! A bit oniony maybe, but delicious.’
Suddenly there was a thunderous roll of drums and Fabio held up his arms. ‘It is time to give thanks to the whales! Let the festival begin!!’
And with that the place erupted with cheers and the party began.
That night, Martin had the time of his life. The workers pounded on drums and blew whistles, belting out a rhythm. They sang songs of South America and even taught Martin how to do the samba*.
‘Now you teach us a dance, Fish-Guts! An Irish jig!’ urged the men.
Martin had no clue how to do an Irish jig - but that wasn’t going to stop him. So he lined them all up and led them in dance.
Now leap around and pat your nose!
Smack your belly and touch your toes!
One two three and snort like a pig!
Do the hokey-pokey and that’s a jig!
*SAMBA - a Brazilian dance that involves a lot of wiggling. If you don’t have time to learn it properly, then pop an ice cube down the back of your shirt.
The guys all cheered, delighted that they’d learned a proper traditional Irish dance.
‘We will teach these steps to everyone in our village,’ Fabio told him, ‘so they can all do the Fish-Guts Jig!’
As the party continued, Martin ate weird shellfish, learned new football tricks and wore a huge headdress made of brightly coloured feathers. He also met other locals that the Brazilians had befriended - their landlady, Mrs Dunphy, who stared so adoringly at Fabio that even her blind husband Brendan noticed. ‘Stop looking at him! I can hear ya looking at him!’
Bill was there too, of course, trying to play the spoons along to the music, even though he couldn’t hear either of them. And there were other locals who were in on the secret, like Noreen, one of the hairdressers from Scissors Palace, and Ann from Paw City the pet shop, and even Debra’s best friend, Linda, who was partying it up and flirting with all the handsome foreigners.
‘Woooooooh!!’ she whooped, as she danced beside Fabio and slurped from a glass of Brazilian rum.
He chuckled, amused by her. ‘Haha! You know, Linda, one of the Portuguese words for “beautiful” is actually “Linda”.’
‘Oh really?’ she said, giving what she hoped was a seductive smile. ‘So when you said, “Hi, Linda,” earlier, you were actually saying, “Hi, Beautiful”?’
‘Er, no. I was just saying, “Hi, Linda”.’
Linda laughed and tossed her hair. ‘Hi, Linda, yourself.’
Fabio looked a bit confused. ‘Er, no, I’m Fabio. You’re Linda.’
‘Keep talkin’, ya bi
g smoothie,’ she giggled. ‘You’re making me feel like the most Linda lady here.’
‘But I think you are the only Linda here.’
Fabio looked around. ‘There’s a Laura maybe.’
‘Shut up and kiss me, ya big Linda lug,’ she ordered, trying to grab him. But Fabio ducked out of her grasp.
‘Time for the Whale Dance!’ he called, eager to escape, and the musicians launched into a new tune.
Soon the whole crowd was dancing in a line, following one of the workers, who was wearing a big white whale head. Martin and Fabio were having a blast dancing away, but then Martin spotted me in a corner and came over.
‘Hey, Sean!’ he beamed, panting from all the dancing.
‘Hey, Martin,’ I grumbled. T see you’re having a great time with Fabio
Martin chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Is that why you’re being such a wallflower*?’
I shrugged grumpily.
* WALLFLOWER - a non-dancer. The only thing that’ll get them moving is to spray them with foot fertilizer and chase them on to the dance floor with snails.
‘Look, Sean, Fabio is great and all . . .’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s wonderful,’ I said sarcastically.
‘. . . but he’s not my wingman,’ said Martin. ‘And I need my wingman. At my wing.’
I looked at him and he grinned. ‘So stop moping around and let’s break in those dancing shoes.’
‘What dancing shoes?’
I looked down to see that I was now wearing a shiny pair of black tap-dancing shoes!
‘Whoa!’ I cried, delighted that he’d finally got rid of my stilettos. ‘That’s more like it!’
I hopped around, pulling a few moves.
Martin laughed. ‘C’mon, let’s have a dance-off with that whale fella!’
And we ran off into the crowd together, joining the celebrations.
As we partied, I noticed Padraic hiding behind a palm tree, spying on us again. But I was having too much fun to give it much thought. I guessed that he must have been bitten by the detective bug and was just copying Martin as usual. So I soon forgot all about it, and Padraic kept watching, taking notes, snapping photos and eating sherbet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SEVEN BELLS FALL SILENT
The next day, when Martin woke up, he was excited. And late. And looking like a lady.
Excited - because there were only four days left of school before the Christmas holidays.
Late - because he was so exhausted from doing Fish-Guts Jigs that he had forgotten to set his alarm.
And looking like a lady - because his sneaky sisters had sabotaged his face once again.
‘Argh! I gotta get to school!’ he yelped when he saw the time. He frantically stuck his arm into his trousers, and pulled his shirt on to his leg.
‘Whoa, slow down, buddy,’ I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. ‘No need to rush. Remember?’
Martin paused, and then his eyes lit up. ‘The short cut! It’s ready!’
‘It sure is, pal. Time to enjoy the fruits of your labour.’
‘Ugh, don’t mention fruit. Think I might have overdone it last night. All those pineapples have got me feeling a bit. . .explosive.’
A small fart squeaked out of him, like air leaking out of a balloon. It continued for quite a while.
I caught a faintly tropical stench and I coughed. ‘Right. Well, you’ve got plenty of time to take care of that, buddy. And to check yourself for make-up too.’
And it was a good thing he did, because his hair was tied in pigtails, he was covered in glitter and the word ‘spanner’ was scrawled across his forehead in lipstick. It seemed that his sisters had abandoned the more low-key approach.
A few minutes later Sinead was pounding on the bathroom door. ‘C’mon! Hurry up, Trisha! I’m gonna be late!’
But when the door flew open, she saw with surprise that it was her brother standing there - looking fresh-faced and lipstick-less.
‘Gah!’ she stomped in frustration.
Martin grinned at her triumphantly. ‘You know what, Sinead? If you spent more time on your own make-up and less on mine, then maybe you wouldn’t look like such a scabby old spinster*!’
We strutted away happily as she stormed into the bathroom.
‘EUUGHHH!’ she wailed, as she inhaled Martin’s pineapple pong.
*SPINSTER - an old, unmarried woman who celebrates her freedom by growing out her moustache and populating her home with dozens of weak-bladdered cats.
*
In the back garden, the hole in the wall was looking magnificent and now cut a direct path into the school yard.
‘It’s so perfect,’ I marvelled.
‘I know,’ he agreed, nodding proudly. ‘This might be the greatest thing I’ve ever done, Sean.’
‘It’s your Mona Lisa, buddy!’
Two steps later, we were in the school yard, make-up free, with four whole minutes to spare.
And we soon discovered that we weren’t the only ones who were loving the new short cut. Word had got round and loads of other kids had been using it all morning, and congratulated Martin on his handy handiwork.
‘Hey, Wrecking Ball!’ yelled Alan.
‘Hey Alan . . . ball,’ replied a confused Martin.
Tommy swaggered past, singing at him ‘I wanna be . . . your Sledgehammer*.’
‘Oh, actually I just used a small chisel. But thanks, pal. Love that tune’
Padraic ran over to us, excited. ‘The whole school’s talking about your wall exploits!’ he told Martin breathlessly. ‘They’re starting to call you the “Dozy Bulldozer”.’
‘Hey, ask him why he was spying on us yesterday,’ I urged. But Martin was too distracted by Padraic’s face, which seemed to be decorated with eyeliner, blusher and a little lipstick.
Padraic could feel his friend peering at him. ‘So. . . you’e not doing the make-up thing any more?’ he asked, a bit self-consciously.
‘Er, no,’ said Martin, confused, ‘That was my sisters. They put it on me in my sleep.’
‘Hah, yeah. My sisters got me pretty good too. Flippin’ sisters!’
*SLEDGEHAMMER - Peter Gabriel’s hit song about his favourite work-tool. It sparked a wave of other songs like I Wanna Be Your Cement Mixer, Trowel of My Heart, and My Love Is A Wobbly Wheelbarrow.
‘You don’t have any sisters, P.’
‘That’s cool. Whatever. I need to go and do a wee!’ he cried, and ran off to the bathroom, leaving us a bit baffled.
After school, Martin headed straight to the factory, eager to see the gang again and recall the fun times from last night.
But when we got there, we found the place eerily quiet. There wasn’t a single Brazilian to be seen. No sign of Francie or Fishsticks either. There was just Declan, Bill and Brendan, and a huge thawing crate of dead fish that had just been delivered.
And these were no ordinary fish, oh no. A large stamp on the side of the crate told us that these were the Christmas fish. The freshest and fattest fish of the year. Hundreds of families in Boyle had ordered fish for Christmas and they were due to be collected on Christmas Eve for all the Christmas dinners. But here they were, lying in a pile of melting ice!
‘What the flip is going on?’ demanded Martin. ‘These fish need to be filleted. Fast! Where is everyone?’
Declan stubbed out a cigarette under his boot. ‘Show’s over, Moone. Someone ratted out the Brazilians.’
‘What?!’
‘The police raided our pub this morning,’ said Brendan. ‘The lads would’ve been caught - except we got an anonymous tip-off. Someone called before the raid and told them to scarper.’
‘So where are they now?’ asked Martin.
‘On the run,’ said Declan. ‘The cops have set up a checkpoint on the factory road, searching all the cars for Brazilian fish-gutters.’
Martin was stunned. ‘How could this have happened?’
Brendan began the story again. ‘Well, like I said, t
hey raided our pub this morning, and then—’
‘I know how it happened!’ snapped Martin.
‘Then why did you—’
‘Lads!’ yelled Declan, shutting them up.
‘The clock is ticking. The ice is dripping. All the frozen fish will thaw soon. And ya know what thawed fish smells like?’
‘No, what?’ asked Martin.
‘Fish,’ Declan explained glumly.
Just then, we heard a clatter upstairs.
‘What’s that?’
‘Maybe it’s the Brazilians!’ cried Martin, and we all raced up the steps.
But it turned out to be Francie Feeley carrying armfuls of tinned tuna into his office. He jumped when he saw us. ‘Argh! Oh, I thought ye were the cops.’
‘What are we going to do, Mr Feeley, sir?’ asked Martin.
Francie paused and looked at his faithful band of workers. ‘We’ll do whatever it takes. Everyone who has ordered a Christmas fish must get one, no matter what. So keep them iced up, lads. We’re not going down without a fight. Right?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Martin saluted.
‘Good stuff. Give it everything you’ve got! I’m counting on ye!’ called Francie, and hurried into his office.
We followed him inside and saw that the dolphin painting was wide open, revealing his secret hiding place. Some of his artwork was crammed inside it, along with Fishsticks the cat and stacks of tuna cans. Francie squeezed himself in with his armful of tins and started closing the door.
‘If anyone’s lookin’ for me, I’m in Siberia,’ he told us with a wink.
‘But . . . you’re in your secret cupboard,’ said Martin, confused.
‘It’s a press, Moone! And I’m not in it. I’m in Siberia!’
‘But wait - What about the workers?’ asked Martin. ‘Fabio and the lads? You’re the one who brought them here, Mr Feeley. You can’t just . . . lock yourself in there?’
Francie put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Worry not, Martin. Francie Feeley isn’t finished yet.
