After that, I race to the Science Lab. Porter’s not there either. Where is he? What’s the Grimm Reaper doing to him?
I set up my combustion experiment and picture myself pointing the Bunsen burner at Mr Kazinsky, forcing him to reveal Porter’s whereabouts. In my enthusiasm, I accidentally burn a hole in the workbench.
Mr Kazinsky confiscates the Bunsen burner, gazing into the flame with a strange, absorbed expression before handing me an electromagnetism worksheet. Considering I’ve only been at LOSERS for two days, I’ve spent a lot of time completing electromagnetism worksheets. Is this another coincidence?
The design sketches for the brain ray included notes on using electromagnetic energy to increase intelligence. Dad said we were on the verge of a huge discovery. And then he disappeared.
Did LOSERS build their brain ray using the plans Fake Insurance Man stole? Or have they tortured the details out of Dad?
I pick up the pen to fill in the electromagnetism worksheet. My hand shakes as I remember how I was tricked into calculating how to blow up a portaloo-sized box. Just because I can work out how to do something, that doesn’t necessarily mean I should. I put the lid back on my pen and refuse to complete the worksheet.
But it may be too late. What if Ms Grimm has already figured out how to use electromagnetic waves to alter IQ levels?
22
Breaking Rules
Mr Kumar announces Porter is unwell and won’t be joining us for dinner. I’m desperate to leave the dining room and find him – partly to check he’s okay, partly to keep my promise about updating him on the secret spy room, but mainly to escape yet another fish supper.
Tonight’s fish has its head attached and the big, bulgy eye follows me all the way to top table, where Ms Grimm’s gobbling up her dinner, bulgy eyes and all.
“I feel sick,” I say truthfully. “Can I lie down in the dorm?”
Ms Grimm dribbles fish juice. I take that as a yes and I run from the dining room, gulping in non-fishy air. I find Porter lying on the sofa in the sitting room, reading a book called Tracing Missing Persons.
He drops it when he sees me. “So? What did you find?”
I describe the room behind the mirror with its still-warm chair, its computer files and its real-life brain ray. Porter listens closely, nodding as if it all makes perfect sense. His head shoots up when I mention Gemma Gold.
“Did you get copies of the files?”
I pull my memory stick out my pocket and confess, “Only my own. Fibonacci! I should have copied yours too, shouldn’t I? Especially when you were the one doing the risky stuff. Sorry, Porter, I wasn’t thinking and then I ran out of time.”
“Don’t worry. It wasn’t my file I wanted. And there was no risk. My mother wouldn’t hurt me. I can’t believe she took my phone.”
“I can’t believe she let you keep it in the first place. I’ve seen how seriously they take the no-phone rule here. No mobiles. No internet access. Only one call home a day and you have to have a teacher in the room.”
CLUE 30
LOSERS are obsessed with blocking our access to the outside world.
“Mother trusts . . . trusted me.” Porter squeezes the sofa cushion until his knuckles turn white. “And I trusted her. Also past tense. I can’t believe she took my phone.”
“If it’s so important to you, why were you waving it about in front of her?”
“I was creating a distraction. I saw Mother take you into the Mental Conditioning Room and I didn’t want her to plug you into anything. There’s something wrong with that room. A few kids come out super-bright. Others not so much . . .”
“What do you mean?”
Porter glances over his shoulder, even though we’re the only people in the room. “I’ve said too much already.”
“You haven’t said anything,” I protest. “And you know what’s going on around here, don’t you?”
“I thought I did.” Porter frowns. “I thought this was a money-making scam where Mother got geeks – no offence – to do complicated calculations for big businesses and try out new products for weirdos like Kazinsky. But there’s something else going on. Something no one’s talking about. Something that makes people vanish.”
“Do you mean Dad?”
“Among others.” Porter scans the room, checking the exits. “We should listen to your file, Noelle. Who knows how long we’ve got before they come for us?”
“But you haven’t explained . . .” I pause as the recording starts.
“Don’t let others drag you down. It’s not enough to have a good mind. The important thing is to use it. Nobody remembers who came in second. The first man gets the oyster; the second man gets the shell . . .
Whoa. This sounds familiar. I can see Porter recognises it too. The recording in the in LOSERS’ brainwashing file matches the one in Dad’s shoes.
I yank out the memory stick, failing to follow the correct removal procedures for the second time today. I’m turning into a cyber-rebel.
“Talking shoes and two-way mirrors?” Porter frowns. “Meals aren’t the only fishy things around here. I don’t understand half of what’s going on any more.”
“If it makes you feel better, I don’t understand any of what’s going on.”
It doesn’t make Porter feel better because he’s not listening.
He pauses, halfway through the door. “Remember that locked room I wanted to get into earlier?”
I nod.
“It’s full of screens showing CCTV footage from secret cameras they’ve set up here and in other places around town. If we can get in, we’ll find out more about what’s going on. You up for it?”
“You are joking? You’re already in trouble for the mobile phone thing. Wait . . . Did you say CCTV footage?”
“Yup.” Porter keeps walking, forcing me to jog down the corridor behind him. “Come on. Best time to break a rule is straight after you’ve been punished for breaking the last one. No one suspects you’re still up to no good.”
It sounds logical, but the glint in Porter’s eye makes me nervous. I consider the possibility that he’s gone completely mad.
“Besides,” he adds, “you want to see the CCTV footage.”
“No, you want to see the CCTV footage.”
But Porter’s right. I do want to see it – because I haven’t forgotten CLUE 17:
(RECAP)
CLUE 17
Someone has installed CCTV cameras around our home.
23
Spy Cameras
Porter slows to a halt outside the CCTV Room. He tries the handle.
“Still locked?” I’m torn between relief and disappointment.
“Don’t worry. I made a deal with the IT bloke while he was ‘keeping an eye’ on me earlier.”
“Short Trousers Jangly Keys Guy?”
“I call him Dave.” Porter knocks on the CCTV room door.
The door creaks open and an arm shoots out, pulling us into a small, dimly lit room that looks just how I’ve always imagined the New Scotland Yard CCTV room must look. A heavy desk runs the entire length of one wall. Above it are rows of box-shaped shelves. Each gap contains a laptop, creating a wall of monitors. I count quickly – ten along, two up: twenty in all. A mirror on the opposite wall gives the impression the screens go on forever.
“Oi! What’s she doing here?” Jangly Keys Dave hisses when he spots me. “Flaming Nora. As if one of you wasn’t bad enough.”
“Relax,” Porter says while I wonder if Flaming Nora is a famous mathematician.
Jangly Keys Dave doesn’t relax. “You’ve got five minutes.” He snatches Porter’s laptop and flounces out the door.
“Ignore Dave,” Porter says. “He’s a bit touchy but he’s agreed to open locked doors if I let him use my laptop.”
“Huh? The place is full of laptops.”
“Yes, but mine has internet connection.”
I gape at Porter.
Porter grins. “It’s also the only computer in
this building that’s not being monitored.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Because Dave’s in charge of monitoring it.”
Porter’s grin fades and he reaches for two of the CCTV room laptops laptops and turns their screens towards me.
“Is this why you were interested in the footage?”
Archimedes! Images of home flicker in front of me.
CLUE 31
It was LOSERS who installed spy cameras to monitor my family.
I gaze at the laptop screens in disbelief. Each screen is split into four smaller windows. One laptop shows images from inside my house, the other shows images from outside. Holly is standing in the top-left square of the indoors laptop. As I watch her gaze out through our living-room window, I get a sharp pain in my stomach. Must be the herrings.
Holly’s spiky hand movements suggest she’s arguing with someone outside. I check the other laptop and see Smokin’ Joe and the Toilet Trolls swaggering up the garden path. I turn up the volume. I shouldn’t have bothered; all I hear are nasty jokes about Mum’s weight.
“Who are those idiots?” Porter asks.
I give him a brief history of my life with Smokin’ Joe. He brightens up when I mention the Toilet Trolls until I explain they hang out in traditional toilets rather than portable ones. When I get to the part about being dumped in the wheelie bin, Porter grabs the microphone beside the laptop and presses the on switch.
His voice thunders through the speakers, distorted and robotic.
“Smokin’ Joe Slater,” Porter booms. “This is your God speaking.”
Smokin’ Joe looks up at the sky, clutching his chest.
“Leave the Hawkins family alone,” God/Porter orders. “Or I shall be forced to smite you.”
Smokin’ Joe mutters something to the Toilet Trolls, who shrug and screw up their faces.
I put my hand over the microphone. “I don’t think they understand ‘smite’.”
Porter frowns. “Hello! God again. Just to be clear, I’m saying if you continue to bully the Hawkins family I will strike you down with a massive bolt of godly lightning.” Porter pauses and adds, “Like Thor. From The Avengers.”
That works. The Toilet Trolls grab each other for support and Smokin’ Joe cowers behind the hedge.
I grab the mic. “And then I’ll give you a wedgie.”
Although the microphone alters my voice, it’s still higher pitched than Porter’s. Fortunately, no one seems to notice.
Porter mouths, “Not very godlike.”
But I’m on a roll. “And if you don’t get away from my house, I’ll remind everyone about the time you wet your pants in Year Three.”
The Toilet Trolls snigger. Smokin’ Joe punches the nearest one and storms off down the street.
Porter mouths, “My house?”
Oops.
“When I say my house, I obviously mean in the sense that all houses are my house. Because I am God. Of everything. Especially houses.”
The Toilet Trolls are too busy pushing and shoving each other to notice the slip-up. But in the top corner of the indoors laptop, Holly’s jaw drops open and she stumbles backwards, hitting the sofa. The force of her momentum carries her over the back of the couch and on to Mum’s stomach, which bounces her back on to her feet.
Porter slides off his chair, spluttering with laughter.
“Know-All?” Holly straightens her top, trying to act like nothing happened. “Is that you?”
Outside in the corridor, footsteps are thudding towards the CCTV room. Our five minutes are up. I grab the mic.
“Yes. Quick, Holly! I need to talk to you—”
The door bangs open behind me.
“Run, Holly. Go to the comput—”
24
Missing Girl
Jangly Keys Dave snatches the microphone. “What do you think you’re doing? Ms Grimm watches these recordings.”
The colour drains from Porter’s face.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “You’re still alive. She can’t know you’ve been sneaking out.”
Some of Porter’s colour returns.
“There must be lots of things Dave doesn’t show her.”
Little blobs of red appear on Dave’s cheeks. “I don’t like giving her bad news. She gets a little . . . excited.”
“Yeah. I can imagine.” Porter sits up. “So can we agree this won’t appear in your highlights reel?”
“I’ll go one better and edit it out altogether. You’re not the only ones who’ll suffer if she sees it.” Dave plugs in his earphones and scans the footage in reverse. “Blimey. Does that girl ever sit still?”
He plays it forwards and we watch at high speed as Holly tries to get through the front door disguised as a dog, a rat, a potted plant and a large cockroach. I’m particularly impressed by her attempt to scuttle out beneath the folds of Vigil-Aunty’s vintage fox-fur coat. I’ve never been convinced that old fox died before it became a piece of clothing, so it’s good to see Holly emerge unbitten. She doesn’t make it through the door though. Vigil-Aunty fishes her out and deposits her back in the living room.
Dave shakes his head, presses a few buttons and scans forward to real time as Holly heads up to my room, presumably to use the computer.
He thrusts Porter’s laptop at us and sticks his earphones back in. “Done. Now clear off.”
“Distract him for five minutes,” I hiss at Porter. “Get him away from that computer.”
Porter tugs at Dave’s earphones and pulls him across to look at another laptop, where Remarkable Student Aisha is punishment-jogging up and down the stairs. I hope it’s not because of our conversation.
Scowling at Dave’s laughter, I rub my leg muscles, still sore from my own punishment-jog, and vow Aisha will not suffer in vain.
One eye on Dave, I switch on the indoor laptop’s webcam and point it at the mirror. The webcam will now capture all the footage reflected in the mirror – from our front room, my bedroom, my parents’ bedroom and the entrance hall. All I have to do is make a call to Porter’s laptop and send the images from the webcam to his screen. Then I’ll be able to see everything that’s happening at home on Porter’s laptop, wherever I am in the building.
Perfect. “Time to go!” I announce.
“Too right!” Dave tears his attention away from Aisha and bundles us out the door, locking it behind us.
I head for Reading Hour with Porter’s laptop clasped beneath my arm.
Porter veers left.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
“Out. Digging for gold,” he says with a twisted smile.
“Wait for me. I’ll come with you. I want to talk to Holly.”
He shakes his head. “The receptionist will call Mother if we leave together, but she’s used to me popping out after school to check on new portaloo displays. Better if you stay here and cover for me. I’ll pop in on Holly if you want.”
“But she won’t . . . Wait . . .”
Too late. Porter slips through the front door before I can warn him that he might not get a very friendly greeting from my sister.
I feel lost. Even though I’m not sure I can trust him, Porter is the closest thing I’ve got to a friend in here.
No one looks up when I walk into Reading Hour. They’re all either plugged into their iPods or fussing over Remarkable Student Aisha, whose nose is bleeding. Must be all that running. I keep telling people exercise is dangerous.
It’s weird. I’d never seen anyone have a nosebleed before Mum had hers last month, but now they’re happening all over the place. I try to convince myself it’s just a coincidence and my brain is fooling itself into creating patterns where they don’t exist. But I can’t escape the feeling that everything is somehow connected.
I glance around the room and spot a quiet corner out of camera range and half hidden by a fake pot plant. I don’t turn on my iPod, but I slip in my earphones. Easier to blend in when you act like everyone else.
Noelle Hawkins:
Holly! Itz me. Tlk n txtspk. Sm1 cd b watchn
Holly Hawkins:
NoL? C%l! HRU?
Noelle Hawkins:
Gd. Woch ot – LSRs cn c u & heA u & c yr emsgs
Holly Hawkins:
ru sAyn they set ^ d cams?
Noelle Hawkins:
Yes. Trst n01. BTW Porter iz comin 2 c u
Holly Hawkins:
Rly? Cnt BLEv he lied bout LSRs N bn d son of d TGR! Wot a :@)
Noelle Hawkins:
. . .
I’m halfway through replying that Porter’s not ‘rly’ a ‘:@)’ when the Grimm Reaper walks into iPod hour. I stuff the laptop into the pot plant and pretend to be listening to my iPod. For the next fifteen minutes I put all my energy into looking innocent.
When Ms Grimm is distracted by yet another student nosebleed, I risk a glance through the fake foliage at the CCTV images on the laptop screen.
Fibonacci! Fake Insurance Man is back at the house with Ug and Thug. I watch in horror as Ug grabs Holly, who wriggles like a hyperactive worm and makes a dive for the chainsaw.
Too slow.
Thug whips the chainsaw from her grip and whirls it dangerously close to her head. Nasty. You don’t want to be hit by a chainsaw, even if it’s switched off. As Holly tries to break free, Thug carries the tool out of the room.
Why does Holly have to fight everyone? She’s going to get hurt and I’m not there to help or at least to call for someone else to help! I’m clutching the tops of my arms so tightly I cut the skin with my nails. I try to relax my grip but it’s hard when Ug has Holly in a headlock.
Thug is back. He heads across to the window. What’s he doing? No. NO. NO! Not my computer. Archimedes! There goes the hard drive. And one, two, three, four, five, six monitors. They must know we’ve been in contact.
The Case of the Exploding Loo Page 8