The Case of the Exploding Brains

by Rachel Hamilton

  “You honestly think he’s had his brain boosted?” Porter murmurs.

  “He did start from a very low base,” I say uncertainly.

  “One way to find out.” Holly leaps up from the wall and yells, “Hand over the brain ray, Joe Slater, or you’ll regret it!”

  It’s a vague threat, but that doesn’t matter. The sudden movement is enough to startle Smokin’ Joe. He drops the iPod, which falls to the floor pulling his headphones with it. He collapses to the ground beside it, sobbing into a large bunch of weeds.

  Fibonacci! My stomach feels hard and uncomfortable as we listen to him wailing.

  “It was me . . . I did it . . . At least I think I did. It was me! . . . Or maybe it wasn’t? Waaaaaah!”

  Is this a clue or is Smokin’ Joe Slater yet another person going completely mad?

  Porter shifts from foot to foot, opening his mouth to speak but saying nothing. Holly picks up the iPod and leans forward to return it to Smokin’ Joe. I grab her arm. The iPod would probably stop him crying, but during the Case of the Exploding Loo we learned that it’s usually a good idea to remove people’s earphones if they’re behaving oddly.

  “Maybe it’s not him,” I say.

  Holly pokes Joe with her finger. “Looks like him to me.”

  “No. I mean maybe Smokin’ Joe had nothing to do with the disappearing Space Rock.”

  “But the girl in the gift shop said—”

  “Look at him.” I crouch beside the snotty heap of wailing bully. “He hasn’t a clue, have you, Joe?”

  Smokin’ Joe wipes away mucus. “Dunnowhachatalkinbout.”

  “Someone messed with his brain in the Science Museum,” I say. “It was hard to work out what they’d done at first, because he didn’t have much of a brain to start with. But seeing the effects up close, I’m sure they zapped him with the negative brain ray, not the positive one. This isn’t his—”

  WALLOP!

  “Owww!” I scream, crashing to the floor beside Smokin’ Joe.

  I roll on to my back and stare up into the wild eyes of Ma Slater. She’s armed with a large iron frying pan and pulls her arm back, ready to strike again.

  Raising my hands in surrender, I wiggle backwards, pushing desperately at the weeds with my feet. “Mercy! Mercy!”

  “I won’t have you bullying my boy, you hear me?” she shrieks, bringing the frying pan down terrifyingly close to my left ear.

  “I hear you! I hear you!” If I wasn’t in danger of being lobotomised by a frying pan, the idea of me bullying Smokin’ Joe would be funny. “I’m not bullying him. I’m trying to help him. Please don’t frying pan me again, Mrs Slater.”

  Ma Slater squints at me, then swivels to brandish the frying pan at Holly. “You saying it was this one?” She peers closely at my sister. “Hey, I know you. Yer that Hawkins toe-rag what put my Joe in a wheelie bin a few months back.”

  Porter takes his life into his own hands by grabbing Ma Slater’s pan arm as I try to reason with her.

  “Holly only put Joe in the bin to stop him shoving me in there.”

  “My Joe wouldn’t hurt a fly. If you was in that bin, you musta got there by accident.”

  “Forty-three times?”

  “Don’t you go confusing me with numbers,” Ma Slater screeches, shaking Porter off and raising her arm above her head to give the frying pan greater momentum.

  “Afternoon, all,” a warm voice greets us. “Making the kids a spot of breakfast, Tracy?”

  PC Eric! Perfect timing.

  The crazed expression vanishes from Ma Slater’s face. She drops her pan arm and smiles like a woman who wasn’t about to batter two innocent schoolgirls to mush in her own front yard.

  “PC Eric!” she trills. “Fancy a custard cream?”

  “Not today thanks, Tracy.”

  “Not any day.” Aggressive Policeman steps out from behind the hedge. “No wonder it takes so long to get anything done out here in the sticks. You’re too busy wasting your time munching biscuits with scumbags.”

  “Who you calling a scumbag?” Ma Slater raises the frying pan, but PC Eric gently takes it from her.

  “No need to get excited, Tracy. My colleague doesn’t mean to be disrespectful. We just want a quick word with Joe.”

  “Well you can’t have one. Look at the poor beggar. These kids got the lad all upset.”

  PC Eric pats Joe sympathetically.

  Aggressive Policeman prods Joe with his foot and then growls in disgust as he realises his shoe is covered in snot. He looks round for something to wipe it on.

  “You!” he says, when he spots me.

  “Me,” I agree, hoping he’s not identifying me as a human handkerchief. “Why so far from London, sir?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m here to talk to this half-wit.” He points at Smokin’ Joe and snaps his fingers at PC Eric. “Come along, officer. And bring that lump with you.”

  “Ain’t you listening?” Ma Slater blocks the way, large hands on wide hips. “I said he’s not going nowhere!”

  Aggressive Policeman shoves her towards the house. “No, you listen, Mrs Scumbag. I’m talking to that boy whether you like it or not. We can do it here or we can do it down the station.”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Tracy.” PC Eric takes Ma Slater’s arm. “Let’s take this inside. We just want to have a little chat with Joe. Show him a film.”

  “Film?” Smokin’ Joe looks up. His eyes are still glazed, but they seem clearer than they were five minutes ago. “I like films.”

  Aggressive Policeman yanks him to his feet by his shirt collar. “You’ll love this one. It’s a hot new release with you in the starring role.” He hustles Joe indoors, closely followed by PC Eric and Ma Slater.

  Porter glances at the broken front window. “We’ll be able to hear everything from here.”

  “Only if we stay out of sight.” Holly presses herself against the wall beneath the window.

  Porter and I slither across to join her, hidden from view by tall weeds and piles of rubbish.

  10

  Up Periscope

  It’s noon. I don’t need a watch to tell me; my stomach likes routine and is now announcing it’s time for lunch.

  “Shh!” Holly glares at me.

  “It’s not my fault. We should have bought snacks.”

  “I’ll bring hotdogs to go with the show next time, shall I?” Holly asks.

  “That would be nice.”

  Holly gives me a dead arm. It seems she was being sarcastic.

  People aren’t getting on much better inside the house. Grunts and muttered insults drift through the window until Aggressive Policeman bellows that everyone needs to shut up now!

  Aggressive Policeman:

  Joe Slater, we are formally charging you with aiding and abetting in the theft of a priceless piece of Moon Rock.

  Ma Slater:

  No, you flaming ain’t.

  Aggressive Policeman:

  We’ll be taking your fingerprints and DNA, and we’ll need the trainers and the clothes you were wearing at the Science Museum.

  Ma Slater:

  Don’t give ’em nuffink, Joe.

  Smokin’ Joe:

  I did it.

  Ma Slater:

  Oh no he didn’t.

  Aggressive Policeman:

  Oh yes he did.

  PC Eric:

  Ahem . . . Can you tell us how you did it, Joe?

  Smokin’ Joe:

  Dunno. Just did.

  Ma Slater:

  Shut up, Joey. My boy ain’t done nuffink. You got no proof.

  Aggressive Policeman:

  That’s where you’re wrong. Watch this . . .

  I hear the faint whirring of ageing electronic equipment and wish I could see the film footage. But Aggressive Policeman will probably take samples of our DNA too if he sees us peering in through the window. Ooh! I have the solution. I scramble across the Slaters’ yard on my hands and knees.

  �
�What are you doing?” Holly hisses. “You’ll cut yourself on the broken glass.”

  “It’s the broken glass I need!” I crawl back, waving a juice carton and a few shards of mirror in triumph. I try to fix them in the right position.

  “A periscope?” Porter shifts closer, looking impressed. “Cool.” He’s less impressed by my DIY skills. “Pass it here, sausage fingers, and tell me what to do.”

  I hand over my wannabe-periscope, not bothering to protest about the ‘sausage fingers’ comment. I know how to do things in theory but they never work in practice, whereas Porter is Mr Make and Do.

  “I need a few more things before we start,” I say. “Holly, can you grab those bits of screwed-up newspaper?”

  Holly gives me one of her looks, but does as I ask. I pull a stub of pencil out of my pocket and start scribbling a diagram on the old newspaper. It’s something I remember seeing on the internet.

  I have to adapt a bit. The guy who made the diagram clearly wasn’t hiding in someone’s front yard without scissors or sticky tape.

  The bottom of the periscope is easy enough. I get Porter to rest the lower mirror shard on a piece of crumpled newspaper. The top mirror is more complicated. How can I fix it in place?

  “We could make homemade glue by mixing a cup of flour, a third of a cup of sugar, a cup and a half of water and a teaspoon of vinegar,” I say, uncertainly.

  Holly pokes me with a stick. “We’re in the Slaters’ yard, not a bakery.”

  “Maybe tree sap would work as a glue substitute.” I eye the tree hopefully.

  “Enough stupid ideas.” Holly snatches the carton from Porter. “Just hold it with your finger.”

  “Ah. Finger. Yes that’ll work.”

  Porter sniggers. “Remember that story about NASA spending millions to develop a pen that could get ink on to paper without gravity, while the Russians just used pencils?”

  “That is a myth,” I say with dignity. “And even if it wasn’t, I’d be on NASA’s side. What if the tip of the pencil broke off and started floating around the space capsule? It could have someone’s eye out. Or hit a vital space-button. Give me the million-dollar space pen every time.”

  “Forget space pens.” Holly points our periscope upwards so we can see the TV. “Check out ‘Exploring Space’!”

  We bunch together so we can see. Porter and Holly bump heads with a thud that echoes through the yard. We press closer to the wall as Ma Slater sticks her large, mullet-haired head out the window.

  “Can’t see nuffink,” she yells. “Must be them big rats again.”

  Pythagoras! I try not to think about giant rats as I peer into the periscope and watch the Science Museum’s security-camera footage.

  11

  The Hairspray Thief

  Building the periscope from scratch takes a few minutes, so we miss the beginning of the footage, but Ma Slater’s yawns suggest we haven’t missed anything important. As we start watching, the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery fills with people who’ve come to find out what’s causing the engine noises.

  14:59:12

  Smokin’ Joe clutches his head, and blood trickles from his nose. Remarkable Student Alexander pats his shoulder, subtly pushing him forwards.

  15:01:03

  Smokin’ Joe runs back and forth like a wind-up toy, knocking into exhibits and setting off alarms.

  15:03:59

  While everyone’s distracted by the chaos, Smokin’ Joe reaches into his backpack and pulls out a spray can.

  Ma Slater smacks her son on the side of the head. “That’s my bleedin’ hairspray, Joe. I’ve bin lookin’ everywhere fer that.”

  15:04:42

  Smokin’ Joe shoots the hairspray high into the air, missing his hair and coating the camera above him in an oily mist. Everything goes blurry as the hairspray settles over the lens.

  I peer through the periscope at the screen. My brain is tingling.

  CLUE 19

  There’s something missing from the screen footage. Something or someone.

  Before I have a chance to work out what, or who, isn’t there, Aggressive Policeman clicks the TV off.

  There is an uncomfortable silence. I half expect Aggressive Policeman to shout, “Ta-da!”

  “That don’t prove nuffink,” Ma Slater says stubbornly. “What’s my boy supposed to have done wrong, other than nick my flamin’ hairspray?” Ma Slater wallops Smokin’ Joe again.

  Aggressive Policeman gets huffy and puffy and big bad wolfy. “Even if we ignore his clear involvement with the theft of the Moon Rock, madam, vandalism is a statutory offence that can be prosecuted under criminal law.”

  “Y’what?”

  “Your son has recklessly damaged property belonging to the Science Museum, making him guilty of the offence of vandalism. Not to mention covering the camera lens with hairspray in an obvious attempt to obstruct our investigation.”

  “I don’t see nuffink obvious about it.”

  Smokin’ Joe blinks as if he’s coming out of a stupor. “I don’t remember what happened,” he mumbles, “but I did it. Didn’t I?”

  “Don’t go changing your story now, toe-rag.” Aggressive Policeman grabs the front of Smokin’ Joe’s shirt.

  PC Eric puts a restraining arm on Aggressive Policeman’s shoulder. “Let the boy speak. There’s something not right about all this.”

  I give a little air-punch. PC Eric never lets me down.

  Aggressive Policeman, in contrast, is a permanent disappointment. He’s like a human version of the chocolate-grabber machines you get in motorway service stations, which never grab anything except out-of-date Snickers. I hate Snickers.

  Aggressive Policeman drags Smokin’ Joe towards the front door, declaring, “I’m taking our friend here to the station.”

  “Not yet,” PC Eric protests. “I need another look at that film footage.”

  “You are joking?” Aggressive Policeman stops less than a metre from our periscope (and our heads). “You want to stay here?”

  Ma Slater takes advantage of their confrontation to snatch back her frying pan and grab a poker from the filthy fireplace. It’s a good look. Kind of Medieval Knight during Weapon Shortage.

  Using Smokin’ Joe as a human shield, Aggressive Policeman edges around her and runs for the police car, dragging Joe with him. He’s too busy wrestling with Joe to look back at the Slaters’ front yard, so we’re safe. For now.

  PC Eric moves slower, but thinks faster.

  “I had a feeling you’d still be here,” he says when he spots us huddled beneath the windowsill. He moves so he’s blocking us from view before calling to Aggressive Policeman, “You go on ahead with the patrol car. I’ve got a few things to sort out here.”

  Growling in irritation, Aggressive Policeman takes a minute to:

  1. Tell PC Eric he’s a disgrace to the force

  2. Tell Smokin’ Joe that annoying a police officer is a crime punishable by death

  3. Tell himself he’s superior officer material and shouldn’t be wasting his time with scumbags

  Then he slams the car door and accelerates away.

  PC Eric stoops to pick up our juice-carton-periscope. “Ingenious. So you saw the security footage?”

  Porter and Holly say nothing.

  I nod and wait to be told off.

  “Good,” PC Eric congratulates me instead. “What did you think?”

  “I think I’d like to see it again,” I tell him. “Ideally not through a juice carton.”

  I’d also like to listen to Smokin’ Joe’s turquoise iPod, which is still in my pocket. (That’s not stealing, by the way. It’s borrowing. Sort of.)

  PC Eric nods. “I’d like to see the footage again too. That shouldn’t be a problem. My colleague left in such a hurry he forgot to take it with him.”

  “Perhaps we could watch it at our house?” I suggest. The crashes we can hear coming from the Slaters’ living room suggest Ma Slater is frying-panning everything within reach.

 
“I’ll have to retrieve it from Tracy Slater.” PC Eric doesn’t look keen. “You three might want to wait out here. I’m going inside and may be some time.”

  12

  Caught On Camera

  PC Eric emerges from the Slaters’ house waving the USB drive like a knight flourishing the (very small) head of a conquered dragon.

  Holly and I cheer, but not too loudly. We haven’t forgotten the Frying Pan of Pain.

  As we cross the road, I notice Porter lagging behind. “You coming to watch?”

  “Nah.” He takes another step backwards. “Stuff to do. Catch you later.”

  “Stuff to do?” Holly folds her arms. “Since when do you have stuff to do?”

  “Since now,” Porter says, shuffling off into the distance.

  “That’s the third time he’s vanished in as many days,” Holly says. “I’m starting to think Porter Grimm is his mild-mannered alter-ego and he’s leading a secret double life.”

  I rub my arms, which have suddenly gone cold. “Both his identities could be good though, right?”

  Holly clears her throat but says nothing. She’s been weird with Porter ever since Gift Shop Girl.

  I decide to pretend she’s joking, because I don’t like the alternative. “What’s Porter’s secret identity then? News Re-Porter? Space Porter-l?”

  “Arsenal Su-Porter?” Holly adds with a reluctant grin.

  “Isn’t he a portaloo spotter?” PC Eric asks, and it takes me a minute to realise he’s not playing the secret identity game. “Maybe that’s what he’s doing when he disappears.”

  I shake my head as I push open our front door. “Porter always comes back from portaloo spotting trips with a load of film for us to watch. He hasn’t made us look at anything recently. Thank Fermat.”