Milo and the Pirate Sisters

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 come
from 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 would
scare 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, most of all, I have two very good friends.’ Then there was another sigh. Was the hot chocolate oozing into his brain and making him go soft in the head?

‘You’re talking a bit weird, Mister Lewis,’ said Shane. ‘Your mouth is down and your eyes are foggy.’

‘Shane’s right,’ I added. ‘And you’re talking in the past tense, like “had” instead of “have”. You’re not …’ I gulped. ‘You’re
not dying or anything, are you?’

‘He’s always been dead, you dope,’ whispered Shane. ‘At least for as long as we’ve known him.’

Mister Lewis waved his hand around the room that Big Ella, Shane and myself had made cosy for him. We had even found him a statue of a ginger cat in a skip. Shane said that old people like cats – especially ones that sit still and don’t wee or cough up furballs.

‘My lovely home,’ Mister Lewis whispered. ‘I heard the castle authorities mooching around downstairs yesterday. They were discussing a makeover for the tower.’ He stopped and took a big, spooky breath. ‘They’re going to strip the tower and do it up to make it part of the whole castle complex.’

‘No way!’ Shane exploded.

‘For real?’ I put in.

‘Afraid so,’ Mister Lewis sighed. ‘I must move out before they start work on it the day after tomorrow.’

‘That means—?’ I began.

‘It means, my dear, good friends, that I shall be homeless.’

CHAPTER TWO

WEDGE AND CRUNCH

‘
W
hat will we do, Milo?’ Shane asked on our way home from school next day. ‘Poor dead man with no home. Couldn’t he hide at your place?’

I stopped and looked at him. ‘Are you serious? My mum would freak out and run screaming down the road in her pyjamas, and my dad would sling him in jail for
scaring folks with his corpse-coloured face and creepy old hat. Couldn’t he live with you and Big Ella? After all, she knows him well and she isn’t spooked.’

Shane’s lip curled downwards. ‘We’ve only two bedrooms,’ he muttered.

‘You could share,’ I put in. ‘He could sleep under your bed.’

‘No way,’ snapped Shane. ‘All my precious stuff is under there.’

‘Like what?’ I asked.

‘Old stuff,’ he muttered.

‘What old stuff, Shane?’

‘Just stuff, OK?’ he grumped.

‘Your old toys?’ I laughed. ‘It’s where you keep your old toys!’

‘Mind your own business,’ Shane muttered and headed off down the road like a gigantic soccer ball in motion. I watched him for a few moments. This wasn’t right. Good pals
shouldn’t be like this. But before I could call him, two familiar guys came around the bend. I groaned out loud. They were our old enemies, Wedge and Crunch from sixth class – like, whenever they actually came to school. Wedge grabbed Shane’s jacket and Crunch was already searching the pockets. Well, you don’t stand around and watch your best mate being mauled by a couple of low-lifes. So I ran to help him.

‘Hey!’ I shouted – well, to be honest, it was really more of a shaky croak. ‘You guys leave my buddy alone.’ I nearly added ‘please’, but they would just laugh. These two guys don’t do polite.

‘Ha,’ grinned Wedge. ‘The skinny weasel has come to rescue his roly-poly pal.’

‘Aww,’ sneered Crunch as he grabbed my jacket and pulled me so close to his skinny nose I could see snot getting ready to dribble.

‘Hey,’ he laughed. ‘Ain’t you the little gentleman?’

‘Hey,’ said another voice, a voice we knew so well – Mister Lewis! He came around the corner wheeling a supermarket trolley, filled high with his stuff. On top of the lot was a large, decorative paper bag.

‘Good day to you, boys,’ he said. ‘Having a nice chat together?’

‘None of your business, old man,’ sneered Wedge.

‘What’s in the fancy bag?’ asked Crunch, reaching towards it.

‘I don’t think you should touch …’ began Mister Lewis. Before he could finish, Crunch snatched the bag, laughing as he ran down the road shaking it.

‘Wait for me!’ shouted Wedge, running after his greedy mate.

Mister Lewis shook his head. ‘Oh dear,’ he whispered.

The screams came first, followed by a blurry cloud of bees that buzzed angrily over Wedge and Crunch – mostly Crunch, because Wedge had pulled his hoodie over his head. They turned and ran back towards us, flapping their hands and shouting at Mister Lewis for help as they passed.

‘But what about your bees, Mister Lewis?’ asked Shane. ‘Those guys will stamp them into the ground!’

‘Not at all, boy,’ said Mister Lewis. ‘My buzzing friends will come back to me when I get to our new dwelling place.’

‘Where?’ I asked. ‘The castle is out of bounds now, and there are no other places where a ghost could live.’

Mister Lewis stopped and tapped his
nose (gently, because bits fall off if he’s not careful). ‘Well,’ he began, ‘thanks to an old history of the town that I found on one of my nightly visits to the castle library, I think I have found the solution to my, eh, situation. I hope both of you, my two best friends – indeed, along with Big Ella, you are my only living friends – will help me. It’s not very far.’

‘Of course we will,’ we said together.

‘We’ll give you any help we can,’ I said.

‘Any help at all,’ added Shane, just to get in the last word.