The Case of the Exploding Brains (11 page)

“I should ring and thank him.”

“Wouldn’t bother,” I grunt. “He was rude.”

“Not to me.” Holly skips to the telephone.

I have no interest in what the Lost Property Muppet has to say, but I tune in when Holly asks, “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

I move closer. “What’s wrong with who?”

“Security guys from ‘Exploring Space’,” Holly mouths.

“What
is
wrong with them?”

Holly covers the bottom of her phone. “They’re in intensive care. It may be Space Rock related. One guard was so sick in front of a school tour group yesterday that the kids fled the
building, terrified by all those news reports into thinking that his head was about to blow up. My Lost Property friend is complaining they left their toys behind.”

I nod. Then I stop nodding. What kind of kid takes a toy on a school trip? And if they’re that crazy about their toy, they’re not going to leave it behind just because of a bit of
projectile vomiting, are they?

I grab the phone. “Did any of these toys look like a space gun? Kind of plastic and turquoise-coloured?”

“Oh. It’s you,” Lost Property Muppet says without enthusiasm.

“Can you just answer the question?”

Holly snatches the phone back. “Sorry about my sister . . .”

“Oi! Don’t apologise for me.” I’m getting fed up with ‘nice’ Holly.

“ . . . But we
are
interested in turquoise space gun toys.” Holly flutters her eyelashes. At the phone! I mean, seriously? “I know it’s a silly question, but did
anyone hand in something like that?” She raises her eyebrows. “They did?”

“
Fibonacci!
Is this guy completely stupid? I asked him about brain rays the other day. Why didn’t he call us?”

Holly covers the phone speaker and glares at me. “You. Are. Not. Helping.” She removes her hand and continues all nicey nicey. “I don’t suppose we could pop in and see
it? What . . . ? You’ve already sent it to someone?” She kicks the wall.

That’s more like it. Bye bye Mrs Nice Holly.

“Address,” I hiss. “We need the address he sent it to.”

Holly grabs a pen and my
New Scientist
magazine. “He’s not just going to give me someone’s address for no reason,” she hisses back.

“Then come up with a reason. Fast. And don’t even think of writing on my magazine.”

Holly scowls, but starts talking. “You’ve already sent it? Well, that’s a relief. My aunt must have called you after our cousin lost his toy space gun. Can I check the address
you’ve sent it to, just to make sure? Ah. You want me to give you
her
address so you can see if it’s the same?” Holly gives a high-pitched laugh and then grabs my arm and
mouths, “Help!”

I start thinking. If we believe the brain ray was posted to Ms Grimm and we think Porter’s with her, then she can’t be far away.

“Ask if it’s in Lindon,” I whisper.

“Lindon?” Holly says to Lost Property Muppet. “Did my aunt ask you to send it to her Lindon address? . . . She did?
Brilliant
!”

I cough.

Holly gives me an apologetic grimace. “I mean, yes, of course, that makes sense. You want the road name? Um, did she give you her Castle Road address? She didn’t. Then it must have
been the other house. The one on . . . um . . . Bla– . . . no, Dar– . . . no, Arl– . . . Albion Road? Yes, that’s what I was saying. Because that’s where she lives. At
number . . . t – f – s – seven you say? Yes. 7 Albion Road. That’ll be it. Thank you very much.”

If my suspicions are right, Ms Grimm bought this new place after her rooms at LOSERS were damaged in the fire. She’d have needed somewhere to hide from the police while they investigated
the kidnapping and brainwashing accusations against her.

“Right. Let’s call PC Eric,” Holly says.

“Porter will hate us for doing it,” I point out. “We should try and get more proof first.”

Holly nods “Yes, you’re right. Time to check out 7 Albion Road.”

“What?” I stare at her in alarm. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Well it should have been. It’s a great idea. Come on.”

Uh-oh.

Days Left to Save the Earth: 8

It’s just after midnight and the moon is huge. Wispy clouds form freaky moon-fingers that point down at 7 Albion Road. The scene looks like a spooky screenshot from a
horror movie. The shot they play the dur-duh-dur-duh-dur-duh music over, warning you to flee while you still can. The shot they show just before all the bad stuff happens.

And in the corner of this shot, Holly and I lurk behind a large skip, planning our break-in.

My heart slams against my ribs as something leaps from among the rubbish in the skip. “Cat,” I tell myself, “It’s just a cat.” But that doesn’t stop my heart
beating out, “Monster! Axe murderer! Zombie!”

I glare at Holly, who looks barely human in the darkness. “Remind me why I let you talk me into this.”

“Because you know we have to find the brain ray.” Holly strokes the zombie-cat, which hisses at me threateningly. “We don’t know who Ms Grimm will use it on
next.”

“Us!” I say. “That’s who she’ll use it on next if she finds us here. US! Unless that scary cat gets us first.” I can’t meet the cat’s evil gaze so
I look up at the house. Black windows stare back, murky and malevolent.

“I want to go home,” I whimper.

“Pull yourself together! We only have eight days left to save the world from exploding brains!” Holly waves her hand for emphasis, accidentally dislodging the zombie-cat, which
miaows angrily and stalks off in search of superior prey. “As well as being dangerous in its own right, the brain ray is our best lead to the Space Rock. We have to find it.”

“Why can’t we just
ask
Ms Grimm if she’s got it?” I say.

“Because villains lie,” Holly pulls a ‘dur’ face. “It’s part of the job description. Now, move it.”

I glance at the house. “How can we be sure she’s out?”

“Because we saw her drive away and we didn’t see her drive back,” Holly answers. “Stop being a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby. I’m being a law-abiding citizen. If we can’t ask Ms Grimm, why can’t we ask Porter?”

“Because he’s not here to ask, is he?” Holly kicks the skip. “I’m fed up with this whole ‘missing’ thing. I don’t know whether to worry about him
or hate him for joining the dark side.”

“You can’t hate him. He’s Porter.”

Holly doesn’t hear my protest because she’s darting across the road to press the doorbell. She runs back and we wait a couple of minutes. No answer.

“There,” she says. “Satisfied?”

“Not really.”

Holly points towards a gate on the right-hand side of the house. “That’s our way in. You can’t see from here but it’s open a crack. Come on.”

When I show no sign of ‘coming on’, Holly drags me to the gate and pushes it open to reveal a perfectly landscaped garden. Even the shed is painted and polished. The straight lines
of the lawn remind me of Dad’s love of stripy grass and make me feel calmer. I let Holly pull me towards the back porch.

“We can work on the lock here without being seen by the houses on either side,” she says.

It’s all very well to be able to work on the lock, but it doesn’t look like we’ll ever be able to open it.

“This is a job for Porter,” I say when Holly starts kicking the door.

“Porter probably already has a key. I bet he’s been in league with his mother all along.” Holly kicks the door again and glares at the lock. “Grrr. I give up.”

Unfortunately, Holly never gives up for long. Two minutes later she’s running round the side of the house, calling over her shoulder, “Bet the windows are easier to unlock than the
door.”

As Holly is swallowed by darkness, a torch shines from a neighbouring window. The spotlight flicks from side to side, scanning the garden. Doors slam and voices carry over the fence. I
can’t make out what they’re saying but they’re heading this way. I race across the lawn and ram my shoulder against the door of the garden shed. It rebounds slightly but shows no
sign of opening. I run at it again and again. I’m groaning in pain before it occurs to me I haven’t tried the handle.

Ha. The handle turns and the door swings opens.

Feeling like an injured idiot, I nurse my arm and try not to breathe too deeply. Despite its perfect exterior, the inside of the shed smells of rust and mouldy feet. Tugging my T-shirt up to
cover my nose and mouth, I pull the door closed and peer through a crack in the wood.

Two torches enter through the side gate.

Galileo!
I’m trapped like a bug in a bathtub. The wall behind the shed is over two metres high. Even if I wasn’t a PE-avoiding climbing-disaster, there’s no way I
could scale it without being seen. Holly’s in a better position: if she moves fast, she can escape back the way we came. I close my eyes and decide my best option is to pretend I’m
invisible.

“Hello? Anyone in here?” One of the torches has a deep male voice.

Probably shouldn’t answer that.

Torchlight filters into the shed through the cracks in the walls. I dive behind a lawn mower. This is it. The end.

The handle of the door turns slowly. The hinges creak . . .

“Miiiiaaaaaaoooooooowwwwwwwwwww.”

The caterwaul is followed by a high-pitched scream and the crash of a torch hitting the ground. One of the lights goes out.

“What the heck was that?” Deep Voice yells.

“Flying jungle cat!” Female Voice fades as she runs from the shed. “Coming right at me. Huge, it was. Huge!”

“Don’t be a drama queen.” Deep Voice is still close. “It was probably more scared than you were.”

“Then it’ll need cat-therapy,” Faded Female Voice retorts from somewhere over by the house. “Unless it’s already dropped dead from heart failure. I’m not
hanging around here to be savaged by wild animals.” There’s a clatter of heels, another crash, and a scream.

Deep Voice mutters something about “attention seekers” and “imaginary animals”, but he doesn’t hang around either.

I breathe a heavy sigh, which morphs into a yelp of horror as the shed door swings open . . .

“
Pythagoras,
Holly! You scared me half to death. You want to be careful out there. There’s some feral cat flying about, attacking people.”

“Yeah. About that . . .”

I stare at her. “You didn’t . . . No . . . You didn’t throw the cat?”

Holly nods in shame. “I hate myself. But you were about to get caught and when it leaped into my arms it was a sort of automatic reaction. I didn’t mean to do it! It all happened so
fast. Poor kitty!”

I should be reporting my sister to the RSPCA, but I can see the cat prowling by the hedge, looking offended but unharmed. And if it wasn’t for Holly and her, er, cat-apult, I’d be
under citizen’s arrest right now, waiting for the police to arrive. My knees lose the power to hold me upright and I collapse on to the mower, shaking my head and murmuring,
“Cat-astrophe.”

Holly recovers enough to punch my arm, which still hurts from my attacks on the shed. Ow!

What next? The sensible thing would be to sit here for a while and convince the Voices there’s nothing to worry about except a crazy cat, but all I can think is, ‘Escape! Run
away!’

Holly has other plans. “We can still get into the house and look for the brain ray.”

“Are you mad?”

“Probably. I managed to get one of the windows open while you were having fun in the shed. Come, see.”

She drags me over flowerbeds planted with skin-flaying bushes and rams me through the window as if I’m mincemeat and she’s a sausage-maker. Groaning, I stumble through the moonlit
kitchen, crashing into an overstuffed bin before lurching into the hallway.

“Arggghhh!” I wail as a figure appears out of nowhere at the end of the hall.

It’s a terrifying sight, with outstretched arms, wide eyes and bared teeth. Clumsy with panic, I trip and the figure lunges straight for me.

“Get back,” I scream at Holly. “Save yourself.”

Holly’s laughing too much to move. “Mirror,” she splutters between giggles.

Mirror?
Copernicus!
She’s right. I’ve been terrorised by my own reflection. I try to laugh, but I sound like a cat in a bucket of water.

Holly starts searching the house. I can’t focus. I keep thinking I can hear something, but everything seems quiet and calm. Until. Suddenly. It’s. Not.

A key turns in the lock.

Fibonacci!
The Voices are back and they’re coming through the front door. No time to escape through the kitchen window. No place to hide in the hallway. No time to get up the
stairs. With a superhuman surge of speed, I make it to the living room a second before the front door swings open. I stop to catch my breath – and panic. Where are the large, overstuffed
sofas that would conceal a herd of elephants (and, more importantly, me)? What’s with all this slimline, modern furniture? It wouldn’t hide a skinny ninja.

I look around the room in horror. I’m doomed.

Footsteps approach. I fling myself behind the curtains, aware I’m now visible to anyone in the garden. The material clings to me and I’m convinced the Voices will
spot the black velvet me-statue the minute they enter the room.