Moone Boy 2: The Fish Detective

by Chris O’Dowd

  ‘Yeah, that makes more sense,’ I agreed, and we ventured on.

  We’d been in the forest all afternoon the previous day and had come back at first light this morning, but we still weren’t having much luck. Then, as we were strolling past a huge tree, Martin yelled out again. ‘FABIOM’

  * MR T - a muscly, milk-loving member of the A-Team. He would often say, ‘I pity the fool,’ which was confusing because he didn’t take much pity on them at all and usually just beat them up.

  ‘Ow my freakin’ ears!’ wailed a voice beside us. ‘Who dis howling like flippin’ werewolf?’

  Suddenly the huge tree turned around, whacking me with a branch and sending me tumbling into the weeds. I looked up to see our old friend, the great imaginary tree, Bruce the Spruce.

  Martin was stunned. ‘Bruce!’

  The tree peered down at him with no sign of recognition.

  ‘It’s me, Martin Moone!’

  ‘And his trusty imaginary friend, Sean Murphy!’ I called, hopping up from the ground.

  ‘I know who you are, you stoopids!’ barked the tree. ‘You tink I some kind of brainless bush with no memory or shometin’? I told you befores - trees are de elephants of da woods, yesh? We remember everyting!’

  He then turned around again, whacking me with another branch, sending me toppling back to the ground.

  ‘Now what da flip was I jus doing?’ continued the tree. He seemed confused for a moment, but then spotted a string of ivy hanging between two other trunks like a clothes line.

  ‘Ah yesh, my laundry! Martin, can you pass me my leafs?’

  He held out a branch expectantly to the clueless boy.

  ‘Your what?’ asked Martin, who always struggled to understand Bruce’s strange accent.

  ‘My leafs.’

  ‘Your leaves?’

  ‘Leafs, Martin, leafs! Like briefs. But made out of leaves.’

  ‘I think he’s talking about his underpants, buddy,’ I whispered, as I clambered to my feet.

  ‘Oh right, your underpants!’ said Martin, finally understanding. He picked up a giant pair of wet, leafy Y-fronts from the ground, but then looked even more confused. ‘Wait - Your underpants?’

  ‘They clean, no? You see shkid marks*?’ asked a worried Bruce.

  ‘No, no. Sorry, I just didn’t know that trees wore underpants.’

  ‘Yesh, well, some of de others prefer to wear trunks inside der trunks. But for me, it’s too shweaty,’ explained Bruce. T prefer leafs, you know? So my bottom can breathe and stay freshy-freshy. You get me?’

  Martin and I both nodded politely, unsure what to say.

  ‘Anyhoo,’ I began, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve noticed thirty Brazilian fellas knocking around the place, have ya, Bruce?’

  ‘De fishy men?’

  ‘You’ve seen them?!’ cried Martin.

  ‘Oh yesh, they been entertainin’ us big times. With der fishy songs. Us trees hardly ever gets to the seaside, so it’s been real shpecial, you know?’

  * SKID MARKS - fart art in your under-canvas.

  ‘Can you take us to them?’

  The tree shrugged. ‘Okeley-dokeley. If you guys helps me finish my laundry. I gots a lot of leafs with a lot of shkid marks to shift,’ he said, and dumped a massive pile of tree knickers at our feet.

  ‘Oh balls,’ we muttered, and rolled up our sleeves.

  Twenty clean cacks later, we were following Bruce through the woods. And as we strolled, a thought suddenly occurred to Martin.

  ‘Hey, Bruce. You’ve actually got quite a festive figure - ever thought about working as a Christmas tree?’

  Bruce snorted. ‘Dis a joke? I spruce! Not fir! Bruce the Spruce! We too prickly to be Christmas trees. See?’

  He poked Martin with a bristly branch.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘And besides, buddy,’ I added, ‘Bruce is imaginary. It wouldn’t be very festive if no one else could see him.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right. I guess we’ll just have to chop down a nice fir on the way home.’

  ‘What?!’ snapped Bruce. ‘Chop down one of my firry friends? Never!’

  ‘But we need a tree, Bruce,’ pleaded Martin.

  ‘It won’t be Christmas without a tree.’

  Bruce sighed wearily. ‘OK. Tell you whats, Martin. See that cone on the ground?’

  Martin plucked the fir cone eagerly from the weeds.

  ‘Plant zis in your garden. And I sees what I can do, yesh?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No promises, OK? But I’ll have word with Mother Nature. She owes me a favour. Half of those undies were hers.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Bruce!’ said Martin, and gave the old trunk a warm embrace.

  ‘Hey, don’t be such a tree-hugger,’ chuckled Bruce. ‘Now go say hi to your friends.’

  Martin looked around and realized that we’d arrived at the Brazilians’ camp! He rushed forward.

  ‘Lads! I found ye!’

  The gang of fish-gutters were living in the woods like Robin Hood and his Merry Men - but they certainly weren’t looking very merry.

  Martin spotted Fabio sitting in a tree, strumming his fish guitar sadly. ‘Fabio?’

  Fabio glanced down, but then looked away, ignoring Martin.

  A short, bearded man named Paulo stepped forward. ‘Fabio busy. What you want, Fish-Guts?’

  Martin and I looked at each other, a little taken aback. ‘I, er. . . just wanted to say . . . I’m s-sorry,’ he stammered.

  ‘You sorry? OK. All forgiven,’ said Paulo.

  Martin brightened. ‘Really?’

  Paulo laughed. ‘Hahaha! No. Get lost, Fish- Guts,’ he grunted, and walked off.

  ‘I know you’re all mad at me, but I want to help!’ cried out Martin. ‘I want to help you get the festive fish gutted! So you can earn your Christmas bonuses and save your village!’

  Paulo came back. ‘And how you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a plan,’ said Martin.

  ‘What kind of plan?’

  ‘A plan that cannot fail.’

  ‘Well, let’s not oversell it, buddy,’ I whispered.

  Paulo chuckled. ‘Oh, Fish-Guts has plan. Fish- Guts going to save the day!’

  All the men started laughing.

  But just then there came an almighty shout. ‘SILÊNCIO!!’

  The men stopped laughing and Fabio leaped down from the tree, not unlike a South American Spider-Man. He turned to Martin and looked him right in the eye.

  ‘You betrayed us, Fish-Guts.’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Martin. ‘I’m sorry, Fabio. All of you - I’m sorry. I was led astray by a Game Boy.’

  Fabio frowned. ‘What is that - some kind of demon?’

  ‘Eh. Sort of . . .’

  ‘Fish-Guts, just tell me this. Can we trust you?’

  Martin nodded solemnly.

  ‘Swear it. On your mother’s life.’

  ‘Can I swear it on my sisters’ lives instead?’

  Fabio shrugged. ‘OK.’

  ‘Then I swear it. May they all experience terrible hardship and some really annoying stuff if I’m lying. Or if I’m telling the truth, I really don’t mind.’

  Fabio stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I knew you’d come, my friend.’

  He then turned to the others and proclaimed, ‘What we need is a plan! And this boy has got one! So let’s see if Fish-Guts has the guts to get us fish-gutters gutting fish again!!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ESCAPE TO FISHY VICTORY

  Martin cracked open the back door of the Moone home and we peeped inside. The kitchen was deserted, but we could see his three sisters sprawled on the couch in the living room, watching the Dynasty Christmas Special. Martin smiled, knowing they wouldn’t be budging any time soon.

  He turned to the gang of Brazilians who were crouched at the back door beside him.

  ‘OK, lads, looks like the coast is clear,’ he whispered. ‘Keep low an
d quiet. Eyes on me, people.’

  He then made several confusing hand gestures that he’d seen in The A-Team.

  ‘Tango tango,’ he whispered, and crept into the house.

  The Brazilians looked bewildered, but just shrugged and followed after him.

  They crawled through the living room in a long line, like a silent centipede of foreign fish-filleters.

  We managed to make it to the hallway undetected, and could hear Martin’s parents arguing in their bedroom.

  ‘But, Liam, you were supposed to do Christmas crackers,’ complained Debra. ‘These are cheese crackers.’

  ‘They’re crackers, aren’t they? And it’s Christmas. So they’re Christmas crackers,’ retorted Liam.

  ‘But crackers are supposed to have fun stuff inside them, like jokes and party hats.’

  ‘No one’s stopping ya wearing these as hats, Deb.’

  We quickly slipped inside Martin’s bedroom. It was a bit of a squash, but we managed to shut the door.

  ‘Fish-Guts, who this?’ whispered Fabio, looking worried.

  The men were peering at the round-faced boy who stood in the middle of the room waving at them.

  ‘Olá, amigos! Call me P-Dog. I come in peace.’

  Martin hurried over. ‘Er, this is Padraic. He’s going to help us.’

  ‘Indeed I am. And as I understand it, we have little time and much to do. So let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we, gentlemen?’

  Fabio looked to Martin. ‘So what’s the plan, Fish-Guts?’

  ‘Oh, actually - speaking of pleasantries, I brought some buns,’ interrupted Padraic, opening a tin. ‘Who wants one?’

  The men all helped themselves to Padraic’s buns as Martin pitched his plan.

  ‘My friends, firstly, thank you all for trusting in me - you won’t regret it. Secondly, please save me one of those buns. And thirdly, the plan is this. For the past several weeks I have been the victim of a series of attacks. Nocturnal assaults from my three sisters. While I slumbered in my bed, they carefully painted my face to look like a lady. And although this brought me much mockery from my classmates, it also gave me an idea.’

  He stopped and faced them all. ‘One word: camouflage.’

  They looked at him blankly. ‘What is . . . camel flags?’ asked Fabio, with a mouth full of bun.

  ‘OK, another word - disguise.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘OK. Let me try lots of words instead. Right now, the authorities are searching for thirty Brazilian guys. But you know what they’re not searching for?’ He lifted a sheet from his bed, revealing three make-up kits, with brushes and lipsticks at the ready. ‘Thirty Brazilian women!’ he declared triumphantly.

  ‘Boom!’ I cried. ‘You’re welcome, Brazilians!’

  But the men just stared at Martin, clearly too impressed to applaud.

  ‘Lipstick?’ asked Fabio. ‘This is your plan, Fish-Guts?’

  ‘Tell them the kicker, buddy,’ I urged.

  He nodded. ‘And here’s the cherry on top,’ Martin continued. ‘Not only will we avoid detection and get you to the factory, but we’re also going to use up all my sisters’ make-up - so they won’t be able to deface me any more, or even hide their own spot-riddled ghost faces!’

  ‘Double boom!’ I cried, punching the air twice. ‘This plan works on so many levels!’

  Fabio frowned. ‘Have you really thought this through, Fish-Guts? Paulo’s got a beard.’

  Martin chuckled. ‘You think he’ll be the first bearded lady in Boyle? Not by a long shot, hombre.’

  ‘It’s going to be brilliant!’ chirped Padraic excitedly. ‘We’re all going to put on make-up and pretend to be women!’

  Martin frowned at him. ‘But why would you need to do it, Padraic? No one’s looking for you.’

  ‘I just want to be part of the gang.’

  ‘I can’t just be one guy with thirty-one women,’ protested Martin. ‘What am I, Magnum, P.I.*?’

  Just then, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Hush!’ said Paulo. ‘Somebody’s coming!’

  Liam wandered out of his bedroom and answered the door. Then there were muffled voices in the hallway, but we couldn’t make out what they were saying. We all stood there, frozen, straining to hear.

  *MAGNUM, P. I. - a moustachioed private investigator on TV. He loved his moustache like he loved his ladies - smooth, silky, and with a faint taste of soup.

  ‘Who’s for more buns?’ asked Padraic.

  ‘Shush!’ Martin hissed.

  He cracked open his bedroom door and peeked out.

  And there, standing in the hallway, was Bridget Cross!

  There were several Gardai* with her too, looking very bored.

  ‘Illegal immigrants were spotted, Mr Moone,’ Bridget was telling Liam, ‘approaching this very house.’

  ‘Immigrants? In Boyle?’ asked Liam. ‘Sure who’d immigrate here?’

  ‘Brazilian fishermen, that’s who.’

  This confused Liam even more. ‘Hang on.

  *GARDAI - Irish policeman, pronounced ‘gardee’. Although, if they’re in a car, they’re known as ‘cardee’. And if they’re in the distance, they’re ‘fardee’.

  So you’re saying that a bunch of guys left Brazil, the land of rainforests, sunshine and the most beautiful ladies on Earth, and have come here to Boyle in the west of Ireland - to do what exactly?’

  ‘To gut fish, Liam,’ replied Garda Pat. ‘Isn’t it gas? Haha. How are tricks with you anyway? Still playing the handball?’

  ‘Ah, not much any more, Pat. The ol’ back is giving me gyp.’

  Bridget was losing her patience and shoved a photograph in Liam’s face. ‘These are the people we’re looking for, Mr Moone.’

  It was one of Padraic’s snaps from the Festival of the Whales, and Liam peered at it.

  ‘Is that Martin . . . doing the samba?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ replied the Garda. ‘In a pub. With illegal immigrants, one of whom was dressed as a whale.’

  Liam looked a bit shocked and yelled out, ‘Martin!’

  ‘He’s probably in the bathroom,’ suggested Bridget. ‘He has a very weak bladder.’

  Liam marched off to the bathroom and Martin quickly shut his bedroom door.

  ‘We’re cornered!’ he whispered urgently. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Way ahead of ya, Martin,’ said Padraic. He was now wearing a lady’s dress and was covered in make-up.

  ‘We don’t have time for makeovers, Padraic! We’ve got to escape! But how?’

  I strode over to the window and pointed into the garden. ‘That’s how, buddy.’

  Martin’s eyes followed my finger. ‘In the wheelbarrow? We’ll never fit!’

  ‘The wall, Martin, the wall!’

  Realization slowly dawned on his dopey face. ‘The wall!! Of course!’ he cried.

  Three seconds later we were all piling out the window into the back garden. And three seconds after that, we were all charging through the hole in the wall.

  At the same time, Liam returned to the others in the hallway.

  ‘No sign of him in the jacks,’ he reported. ‘I’ll check his bedroom now.’

  ‘Right-o, Liam,’ called Garda Pat.

  Liam knocked on Martin’s door. ‘Martin? The police are here for ya! Were you off in some pub, dancing with a whale?’ he called. ‘Martin?’

  Sick of waiting, Bridget barged past him and threw open the door. But the room was empty apart from Padraic, who was wearing a dress and eating a bun. ‘Hiya, Auntie!’

  Bridget spotted the open window. She pushed past Liam again and came rushing out into the garden, followed by the Gardai and Martin’s parents.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Debra.

  ‘They’ve escaped!’ squawked Bridget furiously.

  Just then, Debra saw the full destruction of the wall. ‘Holy moly,’ she gasped. ‘Look at that flippin’ hole!’

  ‘That’s no squirrel damage
!’ said Liam angrily. ‘MARTIN!!!’

  But by this stage Martin was in the far corner of the school yard, holding open the metal grate, as the last of the Brazilians dropped into the secret passageway.

  ‘I knew this would come in handy!’ he cheered.

  We high-fived each other and followed the Brazilians down. Then we pulled the grate shut and headed off with the workers, strolling through the darkness, evading the checkpoint and singing the Fish-Guts song.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  RETURN OF THE KING

  We made it to the factory undetected. Thankfully the Christmas fish were still nicely iced up, as plump and plucky as a pile of pregnant plums. The Brazilians got to work right away and Martin grabbed his bits-brush - but Fabio stopped him.

  ‘No, Fish-Guts. No sweep-sweep-bang-bang for you today. We need all the help we can get. Today you are fish-gutter.’

  Martin looked stunned. And honoured. And worried. And a teeny bit sleepy. ‘But . . . these are the Christmas fish,’ he protested, shaking his head. ‘I couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘You are ready,’ said Fabio firmly, with his dark, chocolaty eyes fixed on the boy’s peanut- butter-speckled face. (We’d had a very rushed breakfast.) ‘The people of Boyle are depending on us. It is time, Fish-Guts. Today you are little girl no more.’

  Martin brightened. ‘Oh! That’s good!’

  ‘Now you are like big woman.’

  Martin gave an uncertain nod. ‘Er, OK.’

  The men cheered. ‘Senhora Fish-Guts!’

  TRANSLATION

  Lady Fish-Guts!

  I thought they were making fun of him, but they actually saluted him respectfully when they said this, which was even more confusing.

  ‘Wait, do they actually think that’s a compliment?’ I asked.

  But before Martin could reply, Fabio thrust a filleting knife into the boy’s hands. ‘Gut like the wind, my friend.’

  Martin nodded and quickly joined the others at work.

  He sliced and sang with his fellow fishermen as they swiftly cleaned the huge fish stock, preparing a beautiful boneless bounty for the hungry bellies of Boyle.

  *

  A while later, they were down to the last few fish when suddenly they were interrupted by a loud banging on the factory doors.