Moone Boy 2: The Fish Detective

by Chris O’Dowd

  The workers froze mid-song, apart from Bill who kept on warbling away happily. Brendan blindly cupped a hand over his friend’s mouth (it was actually his nose, but Bill got the idea).

  THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! went the doors again.

  ‘Oscail an doras!’ hollered Bridget. ‘We know you’re in there!’

  TRANSLATION

  Open the door!

  ‘How did they find us?’ I whispered to Martin.

  As if to answer me, Bridget yelled, ‘We could hear ye singing!’

  ‘Oh balls,’ moaned Martin. ‘What are we gonna do?’

  Just then we heard a familiar ‘Mmeeaauurggghgh!’

  We looked down to see Fishsticks at our feet. And a moment later we were hit by a powerful stench.

  ‘Mr Feeley!’ Martin gasped, partly in shock and partly because of the pong.

  ‘The fish king is back!’ announced Francie, looking even greasier than usual, standing before us in a fishnet vest*.

  ‘You here to save us, Senhor Feeley?’ asked Paulo.

  ‘Actually, no, Paulo, I just popped out because I was dyin’ for some nice—’

  Francie’s eyes then fell on the pile of filleted Christmas fish, and he paused. He stepped forward slowly, marvelling at their beautiful boneless bodies.

  ‘Good God,’ he murmured, ‘they’re perfect. . .’

  ‘Thank you, senhor,’ said Fabio.

  THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!

  The noise startled Francie and he looked at the workers, suddenly concerned. ‘Go, Fabio. Paulo. All of you. Go.’

  *FISHNET VEST - a vest with lots of holes in it. Very handy if you unexpectedly need to net a fish, or catch a butterfly, or strain some pasta.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Use my secret hiding place.’

  ‘But . . . we’ll never fit.’

  ‘It’s actually roomier than it looks,’ Francie told him. ‘There’s fifty of my finest paintings in there. Chuck them out, and that should do it.’

  ‘Chuck them out?’

  Francie was still looking at the fish with deep admiration. ‘It’s you who are the real artists. I see that now,’ he whispered. ‘Now go!’

  Fabio turned, but Francie pulled him back. ‘Wait! C’mere and give us a hug, ya big bronzed beauty.’

  He squeezed Fabio tight.

  ‘Now go, I said!’ he yelled, suddenly releasing him.

  The Brazilians sprang into action, each grabbing an armful of the Christmas fish. They hurried away, desperate to get themselves and the fish out of sight, and even more desperate to avoid a hug from Francie. They rushed up the narrow staircase towards the office.

  A moment later, a loud BOOM reverberated around the factory.

  ‘What the flip? They’re breaking down the door!’ I yelled to Martin.

  The workers were still scampering upstairs. Brendan tripped over Fishsticks and several of the men went tumbling over each other, dropping the precious fish.

  BOOM went the door again, and this time it strained on its hinges.

  Francie looked worried now.

  ‘They’re never gonna make it, buddy!’ I cried.

  Martin called to Francie, looking desperate. ‘They need more time, Mr Feeley, sir!’

  Francie nodded. And with a determined look he marched over to the factory doors. He threw them open, facing the angry mob head on.

  ‘Stop this madness!’ he cried. ‘I’m the one you want, not them. Them who aren’t even here. But me who is. Francie Feeley!’

  Bridget stood there with her posse* of police and other folks who were against the workers.

  They looked startled by Francie’s arrival, and he stood tall, with fire in his belly, strength in his heart and tuna fish on his lips.

  ‘I confess it all!’ he continued. ‘I’m the one who nabbed them from their starving village and brought them here on my yacht. Why did I do it? Because my yacht was broken and I needed thirty strong men to row me back to Ireland? Probably. To be honest, I can’t remember -1 was very sunburned at the time. But I took care of those lads like they were my own spawn. I let them eat all the fish they could catch and sing all the depressing songs they wanted. Did I let them use my jet ski? Of course not. Every time they asked, I told them it was broken. Was that wrong? Probably. But I’m no hero, people. I’m just a man who loves fish.’

  He paused, glancing to his side, and could see that the workers were still struggling to get out of sight, scrambling up the stairs, climbing over Brendan who was still wrestling with Fishsticks.

  *POSSE - a gang. It’s pronounced possey, but there’s no Y because the other letters all formed an angry posse and chased it away.

  ‘And that’s why I brought them here and put them to work,’ continued Francie. ‘Did I pay them less than my cat? Yes, I did. Did I make them sleep four to a bed in the cheapest pub in Just Outside Boyle? Absolutely. Is that a crime? Is it a crime to create jobs? Is it a crime to hug everyone you see and put a smile on their face? Is it a crime to use fish-guts as the main ingredient of sherbet and sell it to unsuspecting children all around the country? Probably. But it’s too late now because I’ve used fish-guts in more products than you could ever imagine. I’ve turned it into powder, jellies, glues, paint, onion rings, toothpaste, face cream, chicken nuggets, microwaveable popcorn -’

  Upstairs, the workers were frantically hauling out the paintings and cramming themselves inside the secret chamber.

  ‘Hurry, lads, hurry!’ urged Martin.

  Below them, Francie continued: ‘It’s the most versatile substance known to man! Name any product. Dolls’ eyes: 56% fish-guts. Cake sprinkles: 93% fish-guts. Tennis-racket grips. Ever wondered why they sometimes get sticky? Two words, my friends. Mackerel livers. Magic birthday candles. Why do they keep relighting? Eel hearts, that’s why. What makes chewing gum so stretchy? Shark stomachs.’

  Finally, when the lads were out of sight, Martin raced back downstairs. He gave a thumbs-up to Francie, who gave a nod and wrapped up his speech.

  ‘So, in conclusion, all I did was save a village and give some young fishermen a taste of freedom by sneaking them into the country and forcing them to gut fish. And if that’s a crime, then you might as well just lock me up and throw away the key!’

  The Gardai and Bridget looked at each other.

  Francie gave a satisfied smile, confident that his noble words had swayed their opinions of him.

  ‘Right, lads, lock him up,’ said Garda Pat.

  ‘Oh balls,’ muttered Francie, as they clamped a pair of handcuffs on him.

  But before they could haul him away, Martin ran over to him.

  ‘Mr Feeley, sir, thank you!’ He then whispered, ‘But why did you come out? You could have just stayed hidden.’

  Francie smiled. ‘Martin, when we first met, I told you that there were two things you needed to know about me. The first was that I love fish. Well, the second thing is this: I also love chips. And after eating all that tinned fish I was dyin’ for some nice chips.’ He turned to Garda Pat. ‘Garda, can we stop at the chipper on the way to jail?’

  Pat shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Lovely stuff,’ said Francie.

  And with that, they led him away.

  Bridget barged past him and peered around the empty factory.

  ‘They’re here somewhere,’ she growled. ‘Find them!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  Bridget’s mob moved in and began to search the factory. And among the Brazilian-begrudgers, I suddenly spotted a familiar face.

  ‘Whoa! What’s Mr Jackson doing here?’ I whispered to Martin.

  We hadn’t seen his teacher since Martin had made his big, fiery speech about freedom and potatoes.

  ‘Aw no,’ he gulped. ‘Hide!’

  He grabbed a big coat that was hanging nearby and threw it over us like a tent.

  ‘Good thinking, buddy,’ I told him. ‘If he can’t see you, then he can’t expel you.�
��

  ‘You think he’s going to expel me?!’

  ‘Not now, he won’t! All we have to do is stay under this coat forever.’

  Martin peeped out through one of the sleeves. His teacher was standing near Bridget, who had clearly taken over the operation and was barking orders at everyone.

  ‘You, search the fish truck. You lads, secure the perimeter. Jackson, check Feeley’s office.’

  Mr Jackson nodded and moved towards the office, where all the workers were hiding.

  ‘Oh balls . . .’ we murmured.

  A few minutes later, the sleeve of our large coat peeped through the office door. We could see Mr Jackson searching the room.

  ‘Don’t worry, buddy, he’ll never find the secret hiding place,’ I whispered. ‘I mean, it took us ages to—’

  ‘He’s found it!’ yelped Martin.

  And sure enough, Mr Jackson was now peering at the little hinge beside the painting!

  In a last-ditch effort to save his pals, Martin suddenly threw off the coat and burst into the room.

  ‘Hey there, Mr Jackson!’

  His teacher swivelled round, startled.

  ‘Moone! What do you want?’ he grunted. ‘You here to have another spuds rant?’

  ‘Hahahahahaha!’ laughed Martin, for a bit too long. ‘Spuds? I’d forgotten all about that.

  No, no, I just came here to . . . to say Merry Christmas . . . Eve.’

  Jackson frowned. ‘Merry Christmas Eve?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound right, does it? What do you say on Christmas Eve? Happy The-Day- Before-Christmas?’

  ‘You don’t say anything, Moone.’

  ‘Hahahaha! Good old Mr Jackson,’ Martin laughed, and patted his teacher on the arm. ‘Well, this room looks empty! Shall we check the break room now? Could’ve sworn I saw a few Brazilians hanging out near the Skiffles machine earlier.’

  Twang!

  Mr Jackson’s head snapped round, hearing the faint musical hiccup that came from behind the painting. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  Martin and I shared a worried look. We both knew that it was Fabio’s guitar - someone must have brushed against it.

  ‘That was. . . me sneezing!‘ said Martin.‘I have a very musical sneeze.‘

  ‘But you didn’t sneeze, Moone.’

  ‘Did I not? That’s weird. Oh well. Want to see where I keep my fish-gut brushes?’

  But Mr Jackson was peering at the painting again. He grasped one side of it and suddenly pulled it open like a door. And there before him were the thirty fish-gutters, crammed into the secret space like sardines.

  There was a pause as Mr Jackson took in the sight.

  Martin and I gulped.

  We could hear Bridget approaching, and our hearts sank, knowing that our friends were doomed.

  But then his teacher did something unexpected - he took hold of the painting and closed it again.

  Martin and I looked at each other, confused. We were so thrown that we almost forgot to hide. But at the last moment we leaped behind the Bee-Gees jukebox just before Bridget walked in.

  ‘Any sign of them, Jackson?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Nah. Just a bunch of pictures of Mr Feeley riding dolphins,’ he said, gesturing at a pile of paintings nearby.

  Bridget sighed in frustration. ‘Well, keep looking. They’ve got to be here somewhere.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I need to get back to the butcher shop. Something tells me that business is about to start really picking up . . .’ she said with a smirk.

  Then she walked off, treading on one of Francie’s paintings as she went.

  When she was gone, we popped out from behind the jukebox.

  ‘You saved them, sir!’ said Martin in amazement.

  His teacher shrugged. ‘I suppose I did,’ he grunted. ‘Hadn’t really planned it like that, to be honest. But I’ve been thinking about your little outburst, Moone,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t just eat spuds. And maybe they don’t need that ol’ Berlin Wall. And maybe cats and dogs should marry.’

  ‘Not sure we’re really behind that one,’ I murmured to Martin.

  ‘I must say, it’s rare that a pupil teaches you anything,’ continued Mr Jackson. ‘Extremely rare. To be honest, the last people in the world that I’d expect to teach me something are you shower of dopey little dimwits. I thought I’d be more likely to learn something from a freshly pooped cowpat in a field than from you stupid muppets.’

  He put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘But you changed my mind, Martin. And you only need to change one person’s mind to make a difference.

  ‘I read that in a Christmas cracker once,’ he added. ‘There’s more than hats and jokes inside them, you know. There’s wise sayings too. And sometimes even a whistle or something.’

  He patted Martin on the head and went to leave.

  ‘Merry Christmas Eve, Martin,’ he said with a wink, and walked away.

  I looked at Martin. ‘Did he just call us muppets?’

  When Bridget arrived at Cross Country Meats, she saw a large crowd outside the Fishatorium. And for the first time ever, this pleased her very much. Francie’s customers had come to collect the Christmas fish they’d ordered, but there was no sign of Francie.

  ‘Hello?’ called Debra Moone, as she knocked on the door. ‘Anyone in there?’

  ‘He’s not coming!’ cried Gerry Bonner, starting to panic. ‘We’ve been shafted, Debra! I knew I shouldn’t have paid for those fishes upfront! Why am I always so bloody trusting?!’

  ‘Calm down, Gerry. He’s probably just running late.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ he snapped. ‘What are we going to eat for Christmas dinner? Just a whole load of vegetables? Jonner and Conor won’t stand for it. They’ll slash my tyres again. Just like they did last year when I forgot the cranberry sauce*!’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Feeley will be here any minute.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t count on it, Mrs Moone!’ called Bridget. ‘I’m afraid fish might be off the menu this year!’

  They all turned to her, looking alarmed.

  *CRANBERRY SAUCE - ham jam.

  ‘But never fear,’ Bridget reassured them, ‘I’ve got plenty of tasty meats to go around.’

  ‘Oh thank flip,’ sighed Gerry.

  ‘However,’ added Bridget, ‘I’ve decided to raise my prices. I’ll be charging five times the usual amount.’

  ‘Five times?!’ gasped Gerry.

  ‘We’re not paying that!’ yelled Debra. ‘You can’t hold this town to ransom!’

  Bridget chuckled. ‘Oh, can’t I, Debra?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I make it just after 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Your shopping options are very limited - unless you want broccoli sandwiches for your Christmas dinner?’

  ‘Good God, no,’ murmured Gerry.

  A meat delivery truck pulled up nearby and started to unload more turkeys for Bridget - she was clearly stocking up.

  ‘I’ll be open tomorrow morning at 9 a.m.,’ she announced to the crowd, ‘the only place open on Christmas Day. And by then,’ she said, with a malevolent grin, ‘I bet you’ll all be begging me to sell you a turkey!’

  She cackled with laughter and sauntered into her shop.

  *

  ‘Twas the night before Christmas,

  When all through the factory,

  Not a creature was stirring,

  Except a boy on a tractor-y.

  It was Padraic! After the police had left empty- handed, he rolled up in his dad’s Massey Ferguson*, eager to help.

  ‘P-Dog!’ cried Martin, and the two pals high- fived.

  The boys joined the others, who were gathered together on the factory floor - Declan Mannion, Bill and Brendan, and the Brazilian fish-gutters. They nodded at Padraic and pretended not to notice that he was still wearing a dress.

  *MASSEY FERGUSON - the Rolls-Royce of tractors (if a Rolls-Royce drove at four miles an hour, stank of manure, a
nd was constantly being chased by a dog) .

  ‘So what’s the plan, Fish-Guts?’ asked Fabio.

  ‘Well, we may not have been able to get the fish to the Fishatorium for collection,’ Martin admitted, ‘but we can still get a Christmas fish to everyone who ordered one.’

  Declan held up a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve got the list of customers.’

  ‘He’s making a list, and checking it twice,’ sang Padraic with a chuckle.

  ‘No, I just checked it once,’ said Declan blankly.

  Padraic nodded. ‘Okey-doke. That’s probably enough.’

  We found several large sacks in the sack room and divided the fish between them. Then our Father Fishmases hoisted them over their shoulders.

  They clambered on to Padraic’s dad’s tractor, and Martin and I ran in front to make sure the coast was clear. Like a couple of reindeer, we guided them through the sleeping town as they delivered the fish to everyone’s door, stuffing them through their letter boxes.

  And Martin yelled out,

  Giving us all a good fright,

  ‘Happy Christmas to all,

  And to all a good night!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ZERO SLEEPS TO CHRISTMAS

  Surely there is no greater festive tradition than a giddy family skipping to their front door on Christmas morning to discover a freshly wrapped haddock lying on the mat.

  Oh, that’s not a tradition in your house, you say?!

  Well, you’re really missing out. I pity you. Because as the excited boys and girls of Boyle rushed downstairs to discover their pongy present, a collective gasp could be heard throughout the county. It was a gasp of joy, surprise, but also confusion. You can understand the concern. A fish through the letter box feels like a symbol* for something. But for what exactly?

  *SYMBOL - a thing that really represents another thing. For example, a symbol for a toilet is usually an outline of a man or woman, and a symbol for a drum kit is always a cymbal.

  ‘Simon, I’m confused . . .’ a local girl lisped to her big brother as she held the fish aloft. ‘I knows if we’ve been nice all year, we gets presents, and if we’ve been naughty, we gets lumps of coal, but what does a fish gift mean?’