Enemies
I glance around the bathroom for a place to hide the phone, the flyers and Porter. Ms Grimm can’t know for certain who freed Gemma, but if she finds us plotting in the girls’ bathroom, stolen phone in hand, it’s not going to look good.
Fermat! There’s nowhere to hide. My eyes are drawn to the tiny toilet window. Porter groans when he sees the direction of my gaze. We checked out the bathroom windows earlier as they’re the only ones that aren’t locked shut, but we decided no one could ever fit through them. Unfortunately, I can’t see any other option.
Porter props the window open, glancing miserably at his bandaged ankle.
I jam my loo roll letter into his back pocket, grab his good foot and launch him at the tiny gap.
“Go straight to the police,” I urge him. “Find PC Eric.”
Ms Grimm pumps the door handle. “Hawkins? I know you’re in there. Open up.”
Porter grabs the frame and pulls himself higher. He starts wriggling, yelping as his bum gets wedged in the frame. I push, he pulls. Both of us are sweating with the combination of fear and effort.
Crash!
Ms Grimm keeps coming. She must have unbelievable shoulder muscles.
Smash!
She’s almost in.
“Open this door now!” she roars. “Or I will be forced to break it down.”
I press my back against Porter’s foot to give him something to push against. “Just . . . a . . . minute,” I grunt.
“Just nothing. Open up. What are you doing in there?”
“Er. Toilet things. Nearly done.” I give Porter a final shove.
“What’s that noise? I warned you – I’m coming in.”
The wooden door frame splinters under the power of Ms Grimm’s assault. We only have seconds and Porter’s feet are still sticking out the window. I push with all my strength.
Whoosh!
Whomp!
“Arrrggghhh.”
The clatter of the door masks the thump of Porter’s crash-landing, but his squeal of pain is unmistakable.
“Arrrggghhh,” I howl in an attempt to disguise the sound.
Ms Grimm stares at me.
I rub my stomach. “Must be the herrings.”
Ms Grimm pushes past me and searches the bathroom, frowning when it becomes obvious we’re alone. “Enough of this foolishness. Get back into bed.”
She taps her foot to hurry me along. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it sounds like she’s beating out the theme tune from Jaws.
Everyone else in the dormitory is either asleep or pretending to be. I kick Porter’s laptop further under the bed and climb beneath the duvet. Ms Grimm stands over me and glares me to sleep.
I feel like I only closed my eyes a second ago, but the clock reads 05:41. I’ve been out for over two hours. Galileo! How could I have fallen asleep when there’s so much to do? I glance around the dormitory. When I’m satisfied Ms Grimm’s gone, I root around under the bed for Porter’s laptop and find another email. This one’s not from [email protected]. It’s from [email protected]:
The Age of Intelligence will not be defeated.
Our enemies must from victory be cheated.
Ensure they’re at this address,
with iPods, at nine a.m.
And your problems will be deleted.
What does the second line mean? Why does LOSERS’ poetry always sound like it was written by Yoda from Star Wars?
I scroll down to look at the address where everyone is supposed to meet. I’m deafened by the sound of blood pumping through my body.
It’s my address!
CLUE 38
My home is being treated as enemy territory.
Why are LOSERS sending their enemies to my house? And what does it mean when it says, “problems will be deleted”? Is Mum a problem? Holly? I have to warn them. But how?
There’s only one thing for it. If Porter can squeeze through that bathroom window then so can I. I dart into my cubicle and pull on jeans and a thick jumper. Grabbing my purse, I empty the contents on the bed. Five pounds and forty-two pence. That won’t get me far in a taxi.
“Are you and Porter helping Gemma?” a voice whispers in the darkness.
“We’re trying to,” I whisper back. “But I’ve run out of money.”
Remarkable Student Aisha slides out of bed. A minute later she’s pressing five ten-pound notes into my hand.
“That’s not what I meant,” I protest, trying to give it back. “I wasn’t asking for a handout.”
“Please,” Aisha squeezes my hand into a fist, trapping the money inside. “I’ve been a coward and I’m ashamed. Giving you my birthday money will help me as much as it will help Gemma.”
I don’t know what to say. There’s no denying I could do with the cash.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“If there’s anything else I can do?”
“How good are you at pushing people through small spaces?”
31
Rescue Attempt
The taxi driver lets me borrow his mobile to ring Porter. No one has ever sounded so happy to hear from me. I knew Porter was in his pyjamas with no coat when I shoved him out the window, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he didn’t have any money either.
“A drunk homeless guy felt sorry for me and gave me his blanket. Which was nice,” Porter says. “But now I smell like an abandoned portaloo. An early-morning delivery driver offered to give me a lift in the back of his van on condition I held on to his watermelons and stopped them rolling about. But the smell made him retch, so he dumped me at Asda on the outskirts of Butt’s Hill. I don’t know how to get to the police station from here. I don’t know how to get anywhere from here.”
“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
The cabbie agrees to pick Porter up but demands an extra five pounds to cover the cost of fumigating his seats. Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at my house.
Porter and I skulk in the back garden and throw stones at Holly’s window. I check my watch. 06:42. Holly’s going to love this.
After the third handful of stones, she appears at the window, all wide eyes and unruly ringlets. When she sees Porter, she vanishes for a minute and then reappears with a large glass of water, which she pours over his head.
Porter shakes the water from his hair, his breath hanging in the early-morning air as he yells in frustration. “What’s next? Burning oil? We’ve come to rescue you, you lunatic.”
“He’s with me,” I step out from under the tree and wave at Holly.
She grins. “Hey, Know-All. Are you coming up the usual way?” She opens the window wider.
“Can’t.” I point at Porter’s leg. “Window-related injury.”
“I’ll get the front door,” Holly offers. “I haven’t heard The Voice for a while so hopefully no one’s watching.”
I spare a sympathetic thought for poor Jangly Keys Dave at his fish station and cross my fingers that Ms Grimm is still asleep.
My stomach heaves as we enter the living room. The combination of Porter’s blanket and Mum’s leftover curry is overpowering. The room looks and smells like a pig sty – or like a pig sty would look and smell if pigs dined on Indian takeaways. Mummy Pig is snoring beneath stuffed Santas and Curry in a Hurry containers, earphones in place.
Porter pretends not to notice and hops towards the small space between the sofa and the window. He beckons for us to follow. Smart thinking. No cameras there and the microphones will struggle to pick up sound. I just hope it’s not too late. Mentally preparing myself for a deafening scream, I reach over the back of the sofa and carefully remove Mum’s earphones. She grunts, but continues sleeping. Thank Fibonacci! I pass an earphone to Porter.
Rule One:
Hang the surrealist picture above the fireplace where Know-All can see it. Never remove it.
Rule Two:
Don’t listen to your idiot sister. Listen only to this iPod.
Rule Three:
&n
bsp; Stop obsessing about your appearance. You’ll give people the wrong impression. Take that milkman fellow—
It’s the same mechanised voice from the talking shoes.
CLUE 39
The distorted voice on Mum’s iPod sounds familiar.
Before I have time to process what I’ve heard, I’m distracted by a movement in the garden. Tim Berners-Lee! Someone must have seen us and called the troops – Fake Insurance Man, Ug and Thug are edging along the front path towards the house.
Wallop! Ug batters down the front door.
Crunch! Thug smashes through the living room, thrusting furniture aside as he heads for the sofa.
Holly and I pull Porter to his feet – well, foot – and we stumble across the room in a five-legged panic, keeping the tinsel-covered coffee table between ourselves and our attackers and leaving Mum to sleep through the invasion.
With a savage grunt, Thug swings an ape-like arm across the table. His fat fist brushes close to Holly’s cheek. She ducks, twirls, seizes one of the Indian takeaway cartons and throws leftover pilau rice in his eyes. Holly whispers something in Porter’s ear and he grabs a handful of broken poppadoms to use as cover fire while Holly slides across the coffee table and drops a carton of chopped red chillies down Thug’s trousers.
Thug goes down.
As Holly races towards the front window, Ug powers after her, his boots battering the floorboards while Porter and I pelt him with poppadoms. When he sees Holly reaching for the window lock, Ug throws himself across the room in an attempt to get there first.
Holly hits the floor.
Ug sails over her head and crashes through the window onto the front lawn, leaving a large, henchman-sized hole in the splintered glass, neatly framed by Christmas lights and fake snow.
Holly jams a sofa cushion over the sharp edges and flings herself out of the house, using Ug’s crumpled body as a springboard to jump, run, leap, turn . . . and then stop.
When we reach the window, she mouths “NOW!” at Porter before launching into a sprint. She only manages a few steps before she comes crashing down. I’d swear she paused before diving to the ground and when Fake Insurance Man bundles her into the van she wails in a way that’s completely out of character. The Holly I know would be kicking, biting and clawing his eyes out. I swivel to ask Porter what he thinks, but he’s fiddling with his phone.
Ug clambers to his feet and Porter raises his hands in surrender, giving me a sharp nudge with his elbow, which I take to mean I should do the same. I lift my arms, happy that surrender now feels strategic rather than cowardly.
Fake Insurance Man stares at Mum, who’s still sleep-dribbling on the sofa, and jabs at the screen of his mobile phone. After a brief conversation, he shoves Porter and me towards the van and leaves Mum where she is. The person on the other end of the phone obviously doesn’t consider her a threat; nor do they consider her worth saving from the negative brain ray.
We’re halfway down the front path when Mum stirs. She gazes around the room in confusion – it must be odd to wake up without earphones for the first time in weeks. As Porter and I are pushed towards the van, Mum picks up a photo of me from the table by the sofa and hugs it to her chest. I sniff. Must be allergic to something in the van.
“Wait!” I protest. “I want to talk to Mum.”
Fake Insurance Man doesn’t wait. But just before he bundles us into the van with Holly, I’m convinced I see Mum roll off the sofa and grab the loo roll letter Porter dropped earlier.
32
The Great Leader
When the van stops outside LOSERS, I shove Ug and Thug out the way and storm towards the building. The Grimm Reaper is waiting by the door, perfectly positioned to rip me into bite-sized pieces, but I’m too angry to be scared.
“I want my audience with the Great Leader. And I want it now!”
“I was about to suggest the same thing,” Ms Grimm says, which is annoying because it leaves me with nothing to shout about.
As we travel through the turquoise maze of corridors, Ms Grimm confuses me further with niceness and reminds me how well she’s treated me since my arrival. Apparently this is the kind of thing I should mention during my audience with the Great Leader.
Her fidgeting is contagious.
As we enter the Great Office, I smooth my hair and fiddle with the buttons on my top. This is more than nerves about meeting someone new. My brain is still in hyperactive shock mode and clues dance in front of my eyes:
(RECAP)
CLUE 7
Someone wants Dad’s belongings: cufflinks, underpants and all.
(RECAP)
CLUE 11
Dad came out of the portaloo!
(RECAP)
CLUE 18
The missing word on Dad’s painting is LOSERS – the name of Ms Grimm’s school for the gifted.
(RECAP)
CLUE 27
Ms Grimm knows Dad and is clearly a fan.
(RECAP)
CLUE 39
The distorted voice on Mum’s iPod sounds familiar.
Part of me knows who I’m going to find in that room, even before the door swings open.
But it’s still a shock to see him there, in the flesh and very much alive.
The Great Leader . . .
My dad!
33
Stage Magician
Dad rises from behind his desk, an impressive vision in black velvet until he spoils the effect by tripping over his robes. On closer inspection, the heavy cloak¸ strange goatee beard and exaggerated hand movements make him look like an ageing stage magician – the kind who pulls rabbits out of hats and sticks knives in his assistants. I wonder what Dad would call himself if he became a magician.
The Great Hawkini? The Incredible Hawk? The Professor?
“Know-All?”
I can’t avoid his eyes forever. Why am I even trying? I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months and when it comes all I can do is gaze into space and make up magician names.
Breathtaking “Big Brain” Brian? Exploding Toilet Man?
I stare at the floor.
Dad’s feet turn in Ms Grimm’s direction. “Can I have a moment alone with my daughter?”
Ms Grimm taps her ugly left boot in annoyance, but she does as he asks and leaves – probably to watch us on the Bat Screen.
I still can’t look at Dad.
“KNOW-ALL!”
I snap to attention and raise my eyes.
Dad holds his arms out towards me. A hug? He can’t seriously expect me to give him a hug?
When it becomes obvious I’m not planning to move, Dad makes a big show of stretching and scratching his nose. He pulls out the chair opposite his desk before taking his own seat.
“It’s good to see you, Know-All. It’s been too long.”
“Whose fault’s that?”
I sit, but only because my legs are shaking. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react. I’ve imagined being reunited with Dad every minute of every day since he disappeared. Maybe that’s the problem: those long days, those long hours, every single one of those long minutes. Only to discover he’s not dead, he doesn’t have amnesia, he wasn’t kidnapped. He just left, to come here and be the Great Leader.
A million questions tie my tongue in knots. A thousand accusations burn the back of my throat. Where to start?
“I hate fish.”
Dad twirls his strange little beard and shrugs apologetically. “Mallory’s in charge of menus.”
Mallory? Ugh. Dad’s on first name terms with Ms Grimm.
“I hate violins.”
“Mallory likes her music.” Dad pulls at his velvet collar. “I’ve found it’s usually best to let her have her own way.”
“Most of all, I hate people who fake explosions so they can abandon their families.”
Dad stiffens. I’ve never spoken to him like this before.
“I didn’t abandon you. You were always with me – in here.” He pats the place where his heart
should be. “My daughter. My greatest hope.”
I try to believe him. “So where have you been?”
“Here.” Dad waves his hand around his office, taking in the multi-screen computer on the desk, the large chess board beneath the window and the pictures of him winning scientific prizes and awards that cover the walls.
Behind him, through a half-open door, is a bedroom furnished with the items Fake Insurance Man took from our house.
“I’ve been working to make the world a better place,” Dad says grandly. Then he adds, “Besides, I can’t leave. People might recognise me.”
“What about my world?” I search for a picture of me, Holly or Mum among the images on the wall. Nothing. “You didn’t make that better.”
“You’re approaching this from a very negative angle, Know-All. I thought you’d understand my need to complete my research.”
“I think you’ll find it was our research.”
“That’s enough.” Dad adjusts his robes. “No one challenges the Great Leader – Mallory says it’s an important part of the image.”
Image? Has Dad gone mad?
“I’m not challenging the Great Leader. I’m talking to my dad who’s been missing for over two months. It would be weird if I didn’t have questions – like why didn’t you tell us what you’d planned? Or at least let us know you were alive?”
“I did. I left clue after clue. I’ve been disappointed by your failure to work them out.”
He’s disappointed in me? Arrrggghhh!
“Did you consider that losing my father in a freak toilet accident might have affected my ability to think clearly?”
“I built that into my calculations and still expected you here before the end of January.” Dad reaches for a folder on his desk and scans its contents. “It says here you lost a game of chess on Tuesday.”
I shake my head in disbelief. This reunion is not going the way it did in my dreams.
The Case of the Exploding Loo Page 11