CHAPTER ONE
BAD NEWS
‘ R ain, Milo,’ Shane groaned, pulling his football shorts out of his sports bag and putting them over his head. ‘What awful thing did the ancient Irish people do to this country to turn it into a giant loo that’s always flushing?’
‘That’s gross,’ I said, jumping over a puddle and landing on one foot in the middle of it. ‘But,’ I added defensively, ‘it’s the rain that makes Ireland so green. People comefrom all over the world to see the amazing scenery.’
‘Greenery me eye,’ Shane laughed as he jumped in the same puddle and splashed my other leg. ‘Whoever planned the earth must have been so fed up by the time they got to Ireland that they just dumped all the leftover dirty rain clouds here and then scarpered.’
That so annoyed me, but I couldn’t think of any brilliant words because I was focusing on my squelchy wet feet.
We were heading home from football training. It’s not that we’re hoping to be soccer trillionaires, it’s just that we figure it makes us look kinda macho. We steer clear of the ball and the mad guys who steamroll after it. Best of all, it gets us out of boring chores at home.
‘Think of it, Milo,’ Shane went on, holding out a hand to catch raindrops. ‘Gran told me that when we lived in Africa when I was a baby, people had to walk miles for water. They still do. Wouldn’t it be great if we could invent something that would whoosh buckets of those watery clouds over to Africa and sweep months of sunshine back here?’
I stopped and looked at him, the legs of his football shorts flapping over his head like elephant ears and the raindrops bouncing on his coffee-coloured face.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he scowled.
‘You, of course! Come on, we’ll nip through the castle side-gate and have a hot chocolate with Mister Lewis.’
‘Smart thinking, Milo.’ Shane’s scowl changed to a grin and he patted his fat tum.
Our good friend Mister Lewis once lived in Shane’s old house until he died. That was over a hundred years ago, when he had a fatal run-in with a very unpleasant character. Now, as a sort of half-ghost, Mister Lewis was living in the derelict tower that’s across the courtyard from the town castle. When Shane pushed open the creaky door, there was a very scary screeching sound, followed by loud wailing that echoed eerily down the winding stairs.
‘It’s only me and Shane,’ I shouted up.
‘Ah,’ the voice changed to normal. ‘Come on up, lads. Mind the holes on the stairs.’
Not that we needed his warning; we were well used to going up those stairs to the very top where no one ever ventured because it was rumoured that it was haunted. Which was true, of course. Mister Lewis can do a really mean, gurgling death rattle that wouldscare the toughest trespassers.
He was already putting on the woolly gloves that Shane’s granny, Big Ella, had given him. Being a halfway sort of ghost, you see, his hands would just go through things if he didn’t wear the gloves. As usual, his putty-coloured face lit up when we opened the door. He had already lit the little gas ring Big Ella had given him along with some Bart Simpson mugs. She insisted that, ghost or no ghost, he must have at least a warm drink inside him.
‘Score any goals, lads?’ he asked as he stirred drinking chocolate into the heating milk and then added a spoonful of honey from the friendly bees that had settled up in the rafters.
‘Nearly,’ said Shane. ‘Just missed the post.’
‘That’s because you were at the wrong goalpost,’ I laughed.
Strangely, Mister Lewis didn’t laugh like he always does when we tell him fun stuff. He just sighed as he poured the hot chocolate from Big Ella’s saucepan into the mugs and handed them to us. We sat down on her squishy scatter cushions.
‘Ah,’ Mister Lewis sighed again, easing himself carefully onto the biggest one. ‘What a lucky old ghost I am. I have had every comfort up here in my tower and,
BAD NEWS
‘ R ain, Milo,’ Shane groaned, pulling his football shorts out of his sports bag and putting them over his head. ‘What awful thing did the ancient Irish people do to this country to turn it into a giant loo that’s always flushing?’
‘That’s gross,’ I said, jumping over a puddle and landing on one foot in the middle of it. ‘But,’ I added defensively, ‘it’s the rain that makes Ireland so green. People comefrom all over the world to see the amazing scenery.’
‘Greenery me eye,’ Shane laughed as he jumped in the same puddle and splashed my other leg. ‘Whoever planned the earth must have been so fed up by the time they got to Ireland that they just dumped all the leftover dirty rain clouds here and then scarpered.’
That so annoyed me, but I couldn’t think of any brilliant words because I was focusing on my squelchy wet feet.
We were heading home from football training. It’s not that we’re hoping to be soccer trillionaires, it’s just that we figure it makes us look kinda macho. We steer clear of the ball and the mad guys who steamroll after it. Best of all, it gets us out of boring chores at home.
‘Think of it, Milo,’ Shane went on, holding out a hand to catch raindrops. ‘Gran told me that when we lived in Africa when I was a baby, people had to walk miles for water. They still do. Wouldn’t it be great if we could invent something that would whoosh buckets of those watery clouds over to Africa and sweep months of sunshine back here?’
I stopped and looked at him, the legs of his football shorts flapping over his head like elephant ears and the raindrops bouncing on his coffee-coloured face.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he scowled.
‘You, of course! Come on, we’ll nip through the castle side-gate and have a hot chocolate with Mister Lewis.’
‘Smart thinking, Milo.’ Shane’s scowl changed to a grin and he patted his fat tum.
Our good friend Mister Lewis once lived in Shane’s old house until he died. That was over a hundred years ago, when he had a fatal run-in with a very unpleasant character. Now, as a sort of half-ghost, Mister Lewis was living in the derelict tower that’s across the courtyard from the town castle. When Shane pushed open the creaky door, there was a very scary screeching sound, followed by loud wailing that echoed eerily down the winding stairs.
‘It’s only me and Shane,’ I shouted up.
‘Ah,’ the voice changed to normal. ‘Come on up, lads. Mind the holes on the stairs.’
Not that we needed his warning; we were well used to going up those stairs to the very top where no one ever ventured because it was rumoured that it was haunted. Which was true, of course. Mister Lewis can do a really mean, gurgling death rattle that wouldscare the toughest trespassers.
He was already putting on the woolly gloves that Shane’s granny, Big Ella, had given him. Being a halfway sort of ghost, you see, his hands would just go through things if he didn’t wear the gloves. As usual, his putty-coloured face lit up when we opened the door. He had already lit the little gas ring Big Ella had given him along with some Bart Simpson mugs. She insisted that, ghost or no ghost, he must have at least a warm drink inside him.
‘Score any goals, lads?’ he asked as he stirred drinking chocolate into the heating milk and then added a spoonful of honey from the friendly bees that had settled up in the rafters.
‘Nearly,’ said Shane. ‘Just missed the post.’
‘That’s because you were at the wrong goalpost,’ I laughed.
Strangely, Mister Lewis didn’t laugh like he always does when we tell him fun stuff. He just sighed as he poured the hot chocolate from Big Ella’s saucepan into the mugs and handed them to us. We sat down on her squishy scatter cushions.
‘Ah,’ Mister Lewis sighed again, easing himself carefully onto the biggest one. ‘What a lucky old ghost I am. I have had every comfort up here in my tower and,
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