Read The Case of the Exploding Brains Online
Authors: Rachel Hamilton
The Case of the Exploding Brains
Rachel Hamilton has studied at Oxford and Cambridge and has put her education to good use working in an ad agency, a comprehensive school, a building site and a men’s
prison. Her interests are books, films, stand-up comedy and cake, and she loves to make people laugh, especially when it’s intentional rather than accidental.
The Case of the Exploding
Brains
is the second book in her series about Noelle “Know-All” Hawkins, after
The Case of the Exploding Loo
.
www.rachel-hamilton.com
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © 2015 Rachel Hamilton
Illustration © 2015 The Boy Fitz Hammond
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Rachel Hamilton and The Boy Fitz Hammond to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and
78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor,
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN: 978-1-47112-133-3
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47112-134-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
For my gorgeous godsons – Brad, Ollie and Eliot – whose parents are foolish enough to believe that I’m a responsible adult
Contents
18: Lost And Found And Insulted
35: Exploring ‘Exploring Space’
Go Directly To Jail
Prison?
What am
I
doing in prison?
Prison! Jail! Clink! The slammer! The pen! (Hmm. Not sure about that last one. I read it in an American mystery novel, but it sounds more like somewhere you’d put sheep.)
Who’d have believed that I, Noelle ‘Know-All’ Hawkins, winner of Butt’s Hill Middle School’s Annual Achievement Award for the last five years, would end up visiting
my father in prison?
I’ve been nervous about coming, particularly since Holly told me the iron in my multivitamin tablets might set off the metal detectors. I think she was joking but it’s hard to tell
with my sister. She also said I should watch out for fellow prison visitors carrying concealed weapons.
con·ceal
(k
ə
n-s
ē
l')
tr.v.
con·cealed, con·ceal·ing, con·ceals
To keep from being seen, found, observed or discovered; to hide.
That doesn’t make sense. If visitors are keeping their weapons from being ‘seen, found, observed or discovered’, I can hardly watch out for them, can I? Besides, being
concealed strikes me a good thing in a weapon. I suspect most weapon-related problems start when people are forced to reveal them – say because some stupid prison alarm goes off.
WOWOWWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW
When the siren starts to wail, I’m at the front of the Prison Visitors’ Centre queue, holding out the ID that proves I’m the daughter of celebrity scientist (and convicted
exploder of public toilets) Professor Brian ‘Big Brain’ Hawkins. I dive to the ground and curl up into a ball. I can’t make myself concealed-weapon-proof, but I
can
form
a smaller target. Twelve is too young to die: I have things to do, dictionary definitions to read, imprisoned parents to visit . . .
As I peek from my safe, beetle-like position on the floor, a pair of shiny official-looking shoes approaches the metal detector and stops in front of the scuffed boots of the man who set off the
alarm.
“Empty your pockets please, sir,” Mr Shiny Shoes says. “No sudden movements.”
Scuffed Boots Man reaches inside his mouldy raincoat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, a ball of fluff and a round metal tin.
What’s in the tin? What’s in the tin?
Explosives? Mini hand grenades? Ninja throwing stars?
I press my lips together but a whimper escapes.
“You alright, pet?” Scuffed Boots Man opens his tin and crouches beside me. “Fancy a mint?”
“A mint?” I echo. “The tin’s full of mints?”
Mints are good. Mints don’t kill. Well, not unless you swallow too many and they block your windpipe. And these ones do look a bit furry.
“No. Thank you.” I clamber to my feet and dust off my corduroy suit. “I had a big lunch.”
“What are you doing, you silly girl?” Aunty Vera (a.k.a. Vigil-Aunty) grabs my arm and drags me back to the front of the queue. “Show the man your ID.”
I avoid eye contact with the prison guard but I can hear him sniggering, even after he’s buzzed me through two heavy-duty security doors.
An official pointy-finger directs us towards Table Eight. Vigil-Aunty unclenches her right fist and scowls at our visitor reference number. Every visitor is issued with one in order to prevent
people who want to harm the inmates from entering the prison – which is ironic, because if anyone wants to hurt Dad it’s Vigil-Aunty.
Holly gave Aunty Vera that nickname. A vigilante is someone who takes the law into their own hands to avenge a crime. And if the police hadn’t arrested Dad for blowing up a portaloo, Aunty
Vera would have vigil-auntie-d him good and proper for abandoning Mum, Holly and me. She insisted on coming today, vowing she’d chain herself to the prison bars before she let “that
flaming man” convince me he’s innocent.
I thought about protesting, but I needed an accompanying adult, so here we are. While we wait for Dad, I read the list of rules stuck to the table.
1. Prisoners must remain seated at all times
2. Children must not run in the Visiting Hall
3. No chewing gum
4. No foul or abusive language
5. No visiting any other inmates
6. Nothing to be brought in.
7. Nothing to be taken out
Fine by me. Especially Rule 5.
The prisoners enter the Visiting Hall and scan the room for friends and family.
“Like caged Velociraptors hunting their prey,” Vigil-Aunty murmurs. She’s in the middle of a creative writing course and her task for the week is ‘introduce similes into
your life’. Unfortunately, this involves introducing similes into everyone else’s life too.
“You’re confusing Velociraptors with Utahraptors,” I explain. “It’s a common mistake. Velociraptors were only around a metre high, but they made them bigger in
those old Jurassic Park movies so they’d be scarier . . .”
I pause, distracted by the sight of Dad limping into the hall behind the Utahraptors. He’s covered in purple bruises, and his red, swollen nose makes him look like a clown who’s lost
a fight.
“
Archimedes!”
I squeak. “What happened to him?”
Vigil-Aunty tuts. I’d like to think it’s an expression of horror at Dad’s battered appearance, but I suspect it’s because she hates my habit of calling out the names of
famous scientists at times of stress. It’s hard to imagine anyone failing to feel sorry for Dad after seeing him like this, but Vigil-Aunty seems to be managing fine.
“Your limp would be more convincing if you could remember which leg was supposed to be hurt,” she mocks as he approaches. “Who’ve you upset this time, Brian? You look
like you’ve gone two rounds with a Veloci . . . bah! . . . Utahraptor.”
Dad glances over his shoulder and whispers, “My fellow inmates objected to a documentary I filmed last year.”
“Poor Brian,” Vigil-Aunty says with mock sympathy. “Last year? Would that have been while you were trying to brainwash small children with your brain-ray inventions? Or while
you were abandoning your family to blow up toilets?”
“I’ve apologised for that, Vera. Several times. I can’t believe you’re still going on about it.”
“Several times? SEVERAL TIMES?” Vigil-Aunty is clearly on the verge of breaking Rule 4. “You could apologise a million times and I WOULD STILL BE GOING ON ABOUT IT!”
“Please don’t shout! You’ll get us thrown out.” I put a hand on her arm and then turn back to Dad. “I can understand why Aunty Vera is angry, but I don’t get
why some old documentary would make the prisoners here want to hurt you?”
“It wasn’t any old documentary.” Dad closes his eyes. “It was the one where I identified a particular class of criminals with huge muscles and tiny brains.”
“I remember!” I say. “You called them Neanderthugs!”
