by Alan Durant
CONTENTS
Title Page
Jez Fisher and the Case of the Cocky Robin
by Alan Durant
A Dish Best Served Cold
by Julia Willaims
Skyjack
by Tish Farrell
Summer, Mia and Me
by Finn Rickard
More Shades 2.0 Shorts titles
Copyright
Jez Fisher
and the
Case of the
Cocky Robin
by Alan Durant
Jez Fisher and the Case of
the Cocky Robin
by Alan Durant
My name is Fisher, Jez Fisher. I’m a boy detective. My speciality? The weird and bizarre. Check this out.
My first client is a robin.
‘My name’s Peter,’ he tweets, ‘and I’ve got a problem. A cat problem.’
‘A cat problem?’
‘Yeah. This cat’s giving me grief. I want her off my tail. Will you take the case?’
‘Can you afford me?’ I ask.
‘How much do you charge?’
‘Fifty pounds a day plus expenses.’
‘Hmmm,’ he muses. ‘How about some stale lardy cake and a bacon rind? With a few holly berries thrown in.’
I shrug. Times are hard.
‘I’ll take the case,’ I say.
I arrive at the cat’s house and walk up to the door. There’s no knocker or bell, just a cord dangling down. I pull, setting off a tinkly chorus of ‘Hi, ho! Hi, ho! It’s off to work we go …’
The door opens and there’s no one there.
‘You rang,’ a voice says.
I look down on a matted bird’s nest. Then the nest goes back and a face appears. I am now looking at a dwarf with a wig. That explains the Snow White theme tune.
‘My name’s Fisher,’ I say. ‘I’m a private detective. I wonder if I might have a word about your cat.’
‘Has she been telling tales again?’ asks the dwarf, frowning.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m actually here on behalf of a robin.’
‘Oh, well,’ he says. ‘You’d better come in.’
He takes me through to the back room. There are coloured pencils, paints, brushes and paper everywhere. In one corner stands an easel.
‘This must be the drawing room,’ I say.
‘Are you an artist?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘But Leonardo is.’
‘Leonardo?’
‘The cat,’ he replies. ‘Her name is Leonardo da Vinci. You may have heard of her. She’s a very famous painter.’
‘So, Leonardo da Vinci’s a cat, eh?’
This case is proving to be more complex than I thought.
‘May I ask where your cat is now?’ I ask.
‘Huh!’ the dwarf exclaims. ‘Making an exhibition of herself somewhere, no doubt.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘While I am waiting for her, do you mind if I take a look around?’
‘Be my guest,’ he says. ‘I have a parrot in the study, waiting for his French lesson.’
And with that he departs.
There’s something creepy about the room. I feel like I’m being watched. Then I realise what it is. It’s the windows. They follow you wherever you go.
‘You boys must see everything that goes on around here,’ I say.
‘But of course, Monsieur Detective, we are ze ice of ze rhume.’
I stare at them, bemused.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I say.
‘We are ze ice of ze rhume,’ they repeat, slowly this time.
And then the light dawns. Of course, they are French windows! And the dwarf gives French lessons. The French connection …
‘So,’ I say. ‘If, as you say, you are the eyes of the room, what can you tell me about this Leonardo character?’
‘She ees a cat,’ they say smugly.
It’s time to get tough.
‘Now, look here, you greasy fenêtres,’ I growl. ‘I can see right through you, so don’t get cute. I want some straight answers and I want them now – or it’ll be curtains for you.’
‘Ah Monsieur Detective,’ they whine, coming over all misty, ‘do not be ’ard on us. We ’ave ze pains all over.’
‘OK, quit whimpering,’ I order. ‘Tell me what you know about Leonardo and Peter, the robin.’
‘Ah, that robin!’ they cry. ‘ ’E is a scallywag. ’E try to steal Leonardo’s paintings.’
Now I see what a cunning rascal this robin is. He comes to my office to hire me to keep a cat off his tail – and the reason this cat is on his tail is because he’s an art thief after the cat’s paintings. So, while I’m busy with the cat, he makes off with the swag. Some scam. I turn to the curtains.
‘What can you guys tell me about this business?’ I ask.
But they refuse to be drawn.
I continue my inspection of the room. If Robin Peter is a thief, then he must have some means of access. I peer up the chimney. It’s blacker than Humpty Dumpty’s bananas. I get the poker and have a poke around. Two things happen. First, I get a face full of soot. Second, a little voice chirps, ‘Quit poking me, birdbrain!’
Into the grate tumbles a small, angry blackbird. I’ve never seen such a small blackbird before. But then this bird isn’t a blackbird at all, as I soon discover: he’s a very sooty sparrow.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone up there. I’m looking for a robin art thief whom I suspect to be operating in this house.’
The sparrow glares at me like I’m an undernourished worm.
‘Well he would be, wouldn’t he?’
‘Would be what?’ I enquire.
‘Robbin’, of course,’ says the sparrow. ‘That’s what thieves do, ain’t it?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean the art thief is a robin – Robin Peter.’
‘The robin’s robbin’ Peter?’
‘No, the robin is Peter. And he’s also an art thief.’
‘Ah, now I get you, kid,’ twitters the sparrow. ‘This robin’s a criminal, a hood, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You catch on quick.’
‘Yeah, well, I only know one Robin Hood and his name ain’t Peter.’
‘What is his name?’ I ask.
‘His name’s Robin, of course. And he’s a real cocky jailbird. Peter must be his alias.’
I sigh deeply. This case has got more twists than a bowl of spaghetti.
Suddenly, the door flips open and the sparrow flies. A sleek, blue cat waltzes into the room. She comes in a few paces, then stops and licks her delicate whiskers. This is one kitty that definitely gets the cream.
‘My name’s Fisher, Jez Fisher,’ I say.
‘You must be Leonardo.’
‘No,’ she replies. ‘I’ve just eaten, thank you. Now, what can I do for you, young man?’
‘Well, Leonardo,’ I say, ‘this robin comes to my office claiming you’re bothering him and asking me to get you off his tail, when –’
I get no further. There is a loud and terrible caterwauling and Leonardo throws herself on the floor.
‘My painting!’ she wails, pointing at the empty easel. ‘Someone has stolen my latest painting!’
This discovery cracks the case wide open.
‘Can you describe the picture to me?’ I ask, when Leonardo has stopped screaming.
She tells me it’s a picture of a giant nose growing up out of the desert. In the background is a man with a French horn and a Spanish smile.
‘This discovery cracks the case wide open,’ Leonardo declares.
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I say.
Leonardo shakes her head. ‘No, no. That’s the
title of the painting.’
I go over to the windows.
‘Our frames are sealed,’ they say, with a glazed expression.
I inspect them anyway. They’re locked. But I still don’t trust them. ‘Keep them covered, chums,’ I say to the curtains.
The door opens slowly and the dwarf appears in the doorway.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ he says. ‘You know the old saying, “You can take a parrot to a study, but you can’t make it speak French.”’
I don’t know this saying, but I nod anyway – a trick I learnt from Mr Noddy, one of the teachers at my old school, who had a very large head. He had big ears too, but that’s another story.
The dwarf frowns.
‘What’s happening here?’ he enquires.
‘Well, er –’ I stop, realising I don’t know the dwarf’s name.
‘Paul,’ he says, and he gives a little bow. And suddenly everything’s as clear as the wig – or toupee – on his head. The case is solved.
‘Toupee Paul, right?’ I say.
The dwarf looks shaken.
I take a quick step forward, grab hold of his matted toupee and whip it off his head.
There, sitting on the dwarf’s bald head, is my startled client.
‘So, it’s a case of Robin Peter, Toupee Paul,’ I say.
‘It’s a fair cop,’ says the robin. ‘Got any peanuts?’
I can just make out the man with the French horn, peering out from under the notorious thief’s bottom. He’s not smiling anymore, but then who would be?
‘That was a pretty smart game you played, Peter,’ I say, ‘calling me in to look after Leonardo, while you and Paul here made off with the paintings. You nearly got away with it, too.’
Suddenly, click, the lights go out. Something whirrs through the air. I dive for cover. Leonardo starts caterwauling again. The door slams. I jump up and fumble my way to the light switch. I flick it on.
Robin Peter is lying on his back with his legs in the air and his wings crumpled about him like soggy wafers. There is a growing patch of red across his breast, and it’s not embarrassment. Sticking in his heart is a small but deadly arrow. I go over and nudge him with my foot. He’s dead as a dodo. I pull a white sheet of paper over his face.
‘Now,’ I say. ‘Who killed this cocky robin?’
But I have no need of a reply. It’s obvious really. Think about it. He’s done it before, hasn’t he? Remember the old rhyme:
Who killed cock robin?
‘I,’ quoth the sparrow, ‘with my bow and arrow …’
Case closed. It’s time for me to fly.
A Dish
Best Served
Cold
by Julia Williams
A Dish Best Served Cold
by Julia Williams
‘Oi, Harry Potter, where’s your magic wand?’ A paper dart flew over my head as I walked into class on Monday morning with my friend Lizzie. I spun round to see my mortal enemy Kieran Allthwaite grinning at me. As I did so, I accidentally tripped over Lizzie’s feet and flew down the classroom on my stomach. It would have been a great move if I’d been breakdancing.
‘Loser,’ I said, with what remained of my dignity.
‘I’m not the one on the floor, Turniphead,’ said Kieran with a grin.
I got up stiffly, trying to ignore the hysteria of my classmates and the fact I had chewing gum stuck to my skirt.
‘Leave it, Goofboy,’ I snarled. ‘Or I might tell the whole class about the time you wet yourself at infant school.’
Kieran simply made the ‘L’ sign at me and my classmates laughed even louder. It’s great to start the week knowing you’ve given pleasure to so many.
‘Ooh, so original.’ I smiled sweetly at him and sat down with Lizzie. If anyone’s a loser, it’s Kieran. I’ve known him like forever. Unfortunately our mums bonded over coffee when we were infants. As I happened to get my amazingly attractive glasses around the first time we watched Harry Potter at his house, the name’s stuck. I retaliated with Goofboy when he got his psychedelic orange train tracks.
Just then, the door of the classroom was flung open and Hazel Carruthers sashayed in with her chav crew. She is the Queen of Mean. I swear she’s a witch, with her long, black, spikey hair and purple nail varnish. She never wears the correct uniform and no one ever says anything. Yet the one time I shortened my skirt by a measly centimetre, it was straight into detention for me. Hazel even has a spooky familiar, like a witch. Well, OK, it’s a rabbit, but it could mean she’s a witch.
Hazel cast a malevolent look at the back of the class, where we’d gone to sit so we could pass notes to each other while Nutty Nora, our drama teacher, showed us Sweeney Todd. It is all about this barber who slits people’s throats and puts them in pies. It sounds gross. I keep telling Nutty Nora she’s going to scar me for life, but she says Sondheim is a genius and it is part of our musical theatre training.
‘Hop it,’ Hazel said to Kieran. ‘Neeks like you shouldn’t be sitting in the back.’
‘I’m not a neek,’ began Kieran (he so is), ‘and I can sit where I want –’
‘Really?’ Andy Parsons marched over. He’s nearly a metre taller then the rest of the boys in the class, and nearly as wide. He has a face like a squashed-flat bulldog and arms like a gorilla’s. Andy fancies the pants off Hazel, so she uses him as her muscle.
It wasn’t a pretty fight. Kieran tried to throw a punch, but his fist just bounced off Andy’s fat stomach. Andy grabbed Kieran by the neck and lifted him off the floor. Kieran flailed wildly, but Andy just gave him a pitying smile, before dropping him on the floor like a pathetic maggot.
Before Kieran could get up again, he found himself pinned to the back of the classroom, with his nose pressed against the wall and his arm twisted behind his back.
‘Where are you sitting?’ Andy said.
‘Snorf, snorf,’ said Kieran, but I think he meant: It’s OK, I’m moving.
‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ Hazel smiled dangerously at me. ‘You two creeps aren’t going to cause us any trouble either, are you?’
Lizzie and I sighed. We didn’t want to become punching bags for Andy. We’ve seen him sit on enough Year Sevens in the playground. No one does that. That’s like squishing ants.
‘Who’s the neek now?’ Kieran said to me, as I reluctantly sat down in the only available seat, which happened to be next to him. This day just got better and better.
‘I’m no neek,’ I said.
‘No, you’re a geek,’ grinned Kieran, like he was being so original.
‘And you’re a – a –’ I searched my brain for a suitable insult and could only come up with ‘leek’.
‘Loser,’ said Kieran.
‘Oh be quiet,’ I said.
At that moment Nutty Nora came in and started to tell us about Sweeney Todd.
It sounded even worse than I had imagined. I was all right until she mentioned the B word. I have a fatal weakness. I cannot stand the sight of blood.
‘Did you know you’ve gone green?’ said Kieran, looking at me with interest.
‘Shut up,’ I hissed. I was beginning to feel faintly sick. This was so going to be a film I couldn’t watch.
I lasted until the first murder. I stood up to ask to be excused. Then I keeled over. Right there in front of the whole class. Talk about humiliating.
‘Told you she was pathetic,’ said Hazel, so loudly they could probably have heard it on the Moon. And yet, miraculously, Nutty Nora didn’t. I knew she was a witch.
I sat out the rest of the lesson in the nurse’s office, but when I joined the rest of the class for PSHE, it was clear that I had been a hot topic of conversation.
‘Ooh, Andy, save me, save me,’ Hazel said, as I walked back in the classroom. ‘I cut my finger and I can’t stand the sight of blood.’
‘Ha, ha,’ I said and sat down grumpily. What did I have to go and faint for? Now Hazel would never leave me alone.
Soon the whole sc
hool knew I’d fainted in drama. Every time I came into the canteen, people would call: ‘Watch out, Vampire Girl, blood’s on the menu today,’ or ‘What’s your next trick going to be, throwing up in Biology?’ (Actually, it was a close-run thing the time they showed us how babies are born.) Everyone joined in, even Lizzie.
‘What can I do?’ she said, when I protested that as my bezzie she was supposed to protect me. ‘Hazel says she’ll tell everyone that I kissed Joe Spamhead behind the bikesheds at the last school disco.’
‘But you didn’t,’ I said.
‘I know, but I can’t afford for my reputation to be ruined for ever,’ said Lizzie.
I thought about this for a moment. Joe Spamhead was so geeky, neeky, and leeky he made Kieran look like He-man. Lizzie would never get a decent boyfriend ever again if word got out she’d kissed him.
‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘but try not call me a vampire every day.’
The only person who didn’t tease me was Kieran. This was very weird. He is supposed to tease me. That’s like, his job. What was going on?
‘Fancy getting your own back?’ Kieran sidled up to me in our library period. ‘Nice to see you’re reading something educational.’
I hastily hid my copy of Mizz underneath The Lord of the Rings.
‘It is educational, I’m learning how to cope with being bullied,’ I said loftily. ‘What do you mean about getting my own back?’
‘Oh come on,’ said Kieran. ‘You must want to get your revenge on Hazel, and I have just the way to do it.’
Accepting that Kieran was being nice to me took some doing. This was the boy who cut the legs off my Barbie when I was six, and tried to flush my head down the toilet when I was eight. But given that no one else was helping me, I couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘suppose I accept this great plan of yours, what’s in it for you?’
‘Such cynicism in one so young,’ sighed Kieran. ‘I just want to get Hazel back.’
‘So what’s the plan, then?’ I asked.
‘Well, you know Hazel has that dumb lop-eared bunny, Flopsy?’
‘I think the whole world knows about Flopsy,’ I said. Hazel is devoted to that stupid bunny. She’s housetrained it and everything. She even takes it out for walks.
