“Help!” I whimper.
Porter starts texting, hopefully summoning emergency medical assistance.
Holly prises my fingers open and rolls her eyes at me. “I think your vital organs can still function without that millilitre of blood.”
I glance down and see a small scratch instead of the gaping wound I was expecting. Why don’t my injuries ever look as gruesome as they feel? And why am I so dizzy?
Staggering to my feet, I stumble towards the road, desperate to escape the portaloos. My head is full of black smoke belching from air vents.
Holly and Porter call my name. I can hear them running behind me but I don’t slow down.
Ow! My hand stings. I remember the online medical journal entry about “First Aid for Cuts and Scrapes”. It said, “Raise the wounded part of the body above the heart to slow the bleeding”. Perhaps my blood vessels are frozen. Who knows what will happen when I get back in the warm and they defrost? I raise my arm in the air just in case.
A taxi pulls over. I try to explain that I wasn’t signalling but Porter dives into the cab and pulls me and Holly in behind him. I protest at first, but once I’m in that warm interior, my protests die down.
The driver growls when he sees me cradling my hand. “Bleed in here and it’s a fifty quid clean-up fee. This is the second time some fool’s bled all over my cab. You even look like the Christmas market guy, just younger and with less facial hair, which probably comes from being a child. And a girl.”
“You called me a fool,” I protest. “I’m not a fool. I have an IQ of a hundred and fifty se—”
“Shut up, Know-All.” Holly peers around the front seat at the driver. “Who did you say she looked like?”
“Like the fella that bled all over the cab after the Christmas market. Except that guy’s foot was bleeding, not his hand. Served him right for wearing flip-flops. Who wears flip-flops in winter? Where were the guy’s shoes?”
Ah! Now I understand why Holly’s so interested.
CLUE 15
After the portaloo explosion, a taxi driver picked up someone matching Dad’s description.
“Do you remember where you took him?” Porter asks.
“It was months ago,” I point out. “Of course he doesn’t—”
“Grey building, up by Lindon castle,” the taxi driver says. His voice squeaks, but why would a taxi driver lie?
“Who was with him?” I ask. “One person? A group? Man or woman? What did they look like?”
“Slow down,” the cabbie protests. “I can’t remember the details. Like you say, it was months ago.” He’s squeaking again. What’s he hiding?
“Can you take us to the place you dropped him?”
The driver strokes his chin. “One drop of blood and there’s trouble.”
Holly glances at my hand. “She’s already lost her drop for today. Let’s go.”
“How much is this going to cost?” I’m worried about my calculator money.
“I’ll pay,” Porter offers.
Holly and I stare at him in surprise. Porter looks at his feet. The taxi driver nods and pulls out into the traffic. As his sleeve rides up his arm, I spot a flash of turquoise. I shake my head. What is it with that colour?
13
Grim Statue
I recognise the route the taxi’s taking. We used to come this way with Mum all the time. Her favourite shoe shop is on the right as we pull up outside the castle walls next to a large grey stone building.
I buzz down the window and stare at the sign above the double doors.
Lindon-based Opportunities for the Superior
Education of Remarkable Students
I nod in approval and wonder why Holly’s giggling.
“You’re sure this is the right place?”
“Positive.” The cabbie points at the petrol station across the road. “That’s where I cleaned up the blood. Couldn’t get it all out, mind. You can see the stain on the carpets.”
“Nice.” Holly doesn’t even glance down.
But I’m mesmerised by the faded proof that Dad might have sat here and may still be close.
“Come on.” Holly shoves me from behind. “Out!”
I open the car door and I’m hit by a blast of cold air.
“Holly, are you sure it was Dad?” I ask, clinging to the warmth of the taxi.
“Who else would be wandering around the Christmas market without any shoes, looking like an older, blokeier version of you?”
Holly has a point. So does her elbow, which she uses to force me out on to the pavement. I stumble into Porter, who’s frozen in place like a videogame avatar that’s had its last action cancelled.
Side-stepping to avoid him, I bump into the ugliest statue I’ve ever seen – a misshapen, yet oddly familiar, grey-stone woman with lopsided features, bulgy eyes and a tiny, angry mouth that makes her look like she has just sat on a wasp. The statue is new. There’s no way we could have missed something this hideous when we came here with Mum.
I study the plaque at the bottom:
Pythagoras!
CLUE 16
An ugly concrete version of my maths teacher is perched on a plinth in the place where Dad was last seen.
This must be the other school where Ms Grimm teaches. PC Eric didn’t explain she’d founded it as well. Strange that it’s beside Mum’s favourite shoe shop. Stranger still that it’s in the exact spot Dad may have been dropped off after the explosion. Strangest of all that Porter and I were picked up by the same driver who dropped Dad off.
What are the chances?
My brain tingles. There’s something about the plaque. Something I should be noticing. I just need a minute. It’ll come to me.
“Hawkins?” A familiar voice grates across my thoughts. “What are you doing here?”
Ms Grimm! In the flesh, lurking behind her grey-stone twin.
I look at my feet. I look at the sky. I look at the gloomy, grey school for the gifted. I look everywhere except at Ms Grimm, which is how I spot the silhouette at a second-floor school window. I’m too far away to see clearly, but it looks like a male figure signalling to someone, or something, over my shoulder. Then, just as suddenly, he’s gone, vanishing behind a curtain as Ms Grimm whirls to see what caught my attention.
I check whether Holly or Porter saw the mysterious figure. No. Holly’s too busy watching me and Porter is nowhere to be seen. He’s slipped away into the shadows, vanishing as hastily as the face in the window. The taxi driver has disappeared too. Ms Grimm seems to have that effect on people.
“Hawkins? I’m talking to you,” Ms Grimm snaps. “What are you doing here?”
“Um. Sightseeing?”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“This is a lovely statue,” I blurt in desperation. “What an honour for you.”
“Ah, well . . .” The hard line of Ms Grimm’s mouth softens. “The school’s financial backers thought it would be a good idea.”
“And you founded a school for remarkable students. How amazing!”
Ms Grimm purrs.
“And you called it LOSERS?” Holly sniggers.
The purr becomes a growl. Ms Grimm points to the sign on the grey stone building. “No. I called it ‘Lindon-based Opportunities for the Superior Education of Remarkable Students’.”
“L . . . O . . . S . . . E . . . R . . . S . . . LOSERS.” Holly grins. “What’s so remarkable about your students, anyway? I bet they’re the usual top-set types – freaks and robots.”
“Oi!” I protest. “I’m in top set. So what does that make me? A freak? Or a robot?”
Until yesterday I’d have gone with popular opinion and said freak, but I can’t get the hissing shoes out of my mind. What if I’m a robot, programmed to behave in a particular way?
Perhaps the answer is a Venn diagram with the set of freaks in one circle, the set of robots in the other and me in the overlapping bit in the middle. Noelle Hawkins – freak and robot.
I don’t get
a chance to share my theory with Holly because Ms Grimm’s growl has become a roar. She grabs Holly by the collar and forces her into the back of a nearby black Honda Civic.
I dive in behind my sister, worried Ms Grimm is going to shout her to death and then dump the body in a dark alley. I glance around for Porter. Still no sign.
“Insolent child,” Ms Grimm screeches, slamming into the driver’s seat and accelerating away from the kerb. “I’m taking you home.”
“Home?” That’s it? No dark alleys. My heart rate slows slightly. But only slightly. How would Ms Grimm react if I asked her, politely, to look at the road instead of glaring at Holly?
“You need taking in hand.” Ms Grimm pokes Holly with a witchy finger that should definitely be on the steering wheel. “I’ll be speaking to your mother about grounding you, and making sure the head keeps you in at breaks and lunchtimes.”
“You can’t do that,” Holly protests, but she doesn’t sound certain.
“You would not believe the things I can do.”
I would. I would totally believe the terrible things Ms Grimm can do. I shudder as she turns her attention to me. But she’s calmer now.
“You, Hawkins, are a different story. Easily led astray, but a brilliant mind. I am delighted to see you showing such an interest in my organisation—”
“Cyclist,” I squeak. “Watch out for the cyclist.”
Ms Grimm swerves sharply, nearly hitting a lamp post.
“She’s going to invite you to join her freak show,” Holly hisses in my ear while Ms Grimm is distracted. “You have to say yes!”
“Where was I?” Ms Grimm says.
“You were wrapping us around a lamp post,” Holly replies.
Ms Grimm ignores her. “Ah yes, Hawkins, we were discussing your interest in LOSERS. I’ve been considering this for a while and I have decided to enrol you in my school. You will need to be ready for collection at two p.m. on Sunday – Bah! Idiot!”
I flinch. Then I realise she’s shouting at a pedestrian who’s been foolish enough to stand on the pavement she’s just mounted.
Holly hisses in my ear, “This is the perfect opportunity for us to get inside the LOSERS building.”
Hmmm. What’s all this “us” business? This isn’t us, this is me, and that is not how I imagined the investigation going. I pictured Holly doing most of the brave bits with me taking more of a desk-based-investigator role.
“You have three days to gather your things,” Ms Grimm says, hitting a signpost with her wing mirror. “You must be terribly excited.”
I must? Then why do I feel so sick?
14
Under Surveillance
Twenty-three hours and counting until LOSERS come to take me away. What am I supposed to pack? How can I conduct my investigation or contact Holly without my computer? And why is there a loud speaker attached to the front door?
“GET BACK IN THE HOUSE, SPAWN OF SATAN!” the speaker growls as Holly decides to forget she’s grounded again.
The electronic voice has been going off every few hours, since Ms Grimm dumped us home last night. It sounds like something from the age-inappropriate Terminator film Uncle Max brought round last week – evil and robotic, as if a hundred murderous machines are yelling at once.
“It’s probably an automated response triggered every time we open the front door,” I reassured Holly the first time it went off.
Holly, being Holly, tested my theory by clambering over the Christmas lights and straddling the sill of the bay window.
“BEHAVE YOURSELF, SCRUFFBUCKET, OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES!” Terminator Voice boomed. “AND TIE YOUR SHOELACES!”
Terminator Voice has a sense of humour. This morning, when Smokin’ Joe tried to hide beneath the front hedge, Terminator Voice bellowed, “I CAN SEEEEEEEEE YOU.” When Smokin’ Joe loped off down the road, Terminator Voice called after him, “RUN, FAT BOY, RUN!”
I grin at the memory.
“Hey, Spawn of Satan,” I call as Holly slams the door.
She throws a reindeer cushion at me. “Just because you never want to leave the house doesn’t mean we all like living in a prison. That voice is evil. How can it see us?”
“That’s obvious.”
CLUE 17
Someone has installed CCTV cameras around our home.
But who? And why? Surely Ms Grimm wouldn’t go to all this trouble?
One thing is clear. Holly’s going crazy under house arrest. I don’t blame her. I just wish she wouldn’t take her excess energy out on me.
“Ow!” I yell. “I like to have fun as much as the next person, Holly, but if you ninja-jump onto my back one more time I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll lock myself in the bathroom.”
I need space to think. I’ve finally worked out what was bothering me about the plaque beneath Ms Grimm’s statue. It came to me while I was staring at the portrait of Dad, trying to figure out the strange note in his hand. My eyes were drawn to that blanked-out word:
L _ _ _ _ S?
Eureka!
CLUE 18
The missing word on Dad’s painting is LOSERS – the name of Ms Grimm’s school for the gifted.
I grab Holly. “Look! This proves there’s a connection between Dad and the Remarkable Students’ building.”
Holly is less impressed than she should be. “We already knew that.”
“We suspected it,” I correct her. “Now we have proof.”
Holly yawns. “One of your many problems, Know-All, is you waste too much time proving things you already know. Now, if that’s all, I need to get to work. The back door is under surveillance but I’m pretty sure the cameras don’t cover the back yard or the kitchen. So I’m digging a tunnel to emerge near the gate.”
“Great plan. Definitely not a waste of time. It only took eighty odd prisoners eleven months to tunnel out of Stalag Luft III in World War II.”
Holly’s recoils as if I’ve suggested Santa’s a kitten smuggler.
I feel bad. “On the bright side, it worked a treat for Fantastic Mr Fox.”
That’s enough to encourage Holly.
While my sister smashes kitchen floor tiles with a corkscrew, I go up to my room to check out LOSERS’ website. It doesn’t say much – it’s really just a slide show of attractive, clever-looking teenagers doing attractive, clever-looking things. I stare at one of the photographs.
Is that . . . ?
No, it can’t be. For a minute I thought it was a picture of Porter, but that’s ridiculous. Isn’t it?
The attractive yet slightly toilet-like face disappears as LOSERS’ mission statement flashes over the top.
“To increase the intelligence of bright young people and contribute to the betterment of society as a whole.”
What’s interesting is what the website doesn’t show. No list of staff. No contact details. No record of the people in authority.
“G R R R R R R R R R R R R R - G - G - G - G - GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”
I jump up, smashing my knees beneath my desk.
Tim Berners-Lee!
What is that roaring sound? It rises to a whine and then deepens to a throaty grind. Holly must have raided the garage for tools to help with the tunnelling. Don’t tell me she found a pneumatic drill?
“STOP THAT, THIS INSTANT!” Terminator Voice might not be able to see Holly, but it can obviously hear the racket she’s making.
I shut my bedroom door to muffle the lunacy and continue my internet search. Unfortunately, Google can’t tell me any more about LOSERS or why those letters were written on the picture. I give my six computer monitors a pat and stroke my Meccano solar system. Why can’t I stay here, at home? Why do I have to go to this mysterious school? I’m not one of those people who dream of adventure. I’m more the type that dreams of non-adventure.
I wince as the mechanical whining becomes a steady roar. Holly must have wandered into camera shot because Terminator Voice thunders, “HOLLY HAWKINS, PUT THAT CHAINSAW DOWN!”
&nb
sp; 15
Poster Boy
The driver opens the sliding door of LOSERS’ van and glances at his watch while I take Holly through my list of Things to Remember While I’m Away.
#1: DO NOT use the chainsaw.
#2: DO keep an eye on Mum – especially her nosebleeds.
I squint through the front window and wave at the back of Mum’s head. She turns slightly and for a moment I think she might make eye contact, but the moment passes and she burrows deeper into the sofa.
The driver helps me into the van, explaining that the eleven Remarkable Students inside are on their way back from a field trip to a nuclear power plant. They have paired off, leaving the person no one else wants to sit by up front, reading a book. That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with that person. That person is usually me.
The unwanted student turns and I see it’s not a book he’s reading – it’s a catalogue of portaloo toilets and accessories.
Porter Lewis!
CLUE 19
Porter is a student at LOSERS.
“Porter? What are you –?”
“Shhh.” Porter puts his finger to his lips.
“Why?”
Why didn’t Porter say he was a student at LOSERS? “What happened to you on Thursday?”
“Shhh,” he hisses again. “Talk about something different.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you at all.” I pull out my mobile phone and text Holly, using textspeak in case anyone’s looking over my shoulder.
UR nvr gonna geS hu iz n d LUSRs bus . . . Porter! smTIN wErd goin on.
I can’t believe it. I was right. Toilet-faced Porter was one of the attractive, clever-looking students I saw on LOSERS’ website.
“I need a ruler.”
“Why?” Porter asks.
Oops. Didn’t realise I said that out loud. Well, he did ask me to talk about something different.
The Case of the Exploding Loo Page 5