The Crims #3

by Kate Davies

  “What’s the matter?” Imogen asked.

  Ava looked around to make sure no one was listening, which was a bit unnecessary—the only other person on the ship was the captain, and he was currently pecking at some birdseed on the upper deck. “Come down to the movie theater,” she said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Imogen looked at Ava. “This ship has a movie theater?”

  “Obviously,” said Ava. “As if I’d bother stealing a cruise ship without one.”

  The movie theater was all gold leaf and red velvet seats. There was popcorn scattered in the aisles, and an old movie was paused on the screen—the passengers had obviously heard the captain’s announcement and run out in the middle of the film. The whole place looked spooky, as though it might be haunted. Which it was. The ghost’s name was Albert, and he particularly liked romantic comedies.

  Ava found the remote control that operated the streaming device and turned the movie off. She and Imogen helped themselves to an abandoned tub of popcorn and sat down in the back row.

  “Listen,” Ava said.

  “I can’t hear anything,” said Imogen.

  “No, loser,” said Ava. “Listen to me, I mean. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

  “That’s not surprising,” said Imogen. “You are a supervillain.”

  Ava nodded. “It doesn’t come naturally to me to trust people. Last time I trusted someone, my cousin Bernard threw me in the shark tank, and I lost a little toe. Our family plastic surgeon reattached it, so it wasn’t a big deal, but you can see why I have issues.” She smiled at Imogen. “I think you’re nearly as good a supervillain as I am, though, so I’m going to try to trust you.”

  “Okay,” said Imogen, wondering whether to argue about the “nearly as good” thing and deciding it would probably be best to let it go.

  Ava ate a piece of popcorn. “I’m not just going to the Caribbean for a tropical vacation. Although that will certainly be a highlight.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m really going to the Caribbean to destroy . . . the Gull.” She looked at Imogen, clearly waiting for a reaction, but Imogen wasn’t sure what sort of reaction to give. Ava obviously really, really hated seabirds, which was understandable—they did have a tendency to steal your fries and poop on benches when you were about to sit on them—but going all the way to Aruba to kill a seagull when there were plenty in the UK seemed a little eccentric, even for someone who had once hijacked all the radio stations in Britain and forced them to play her brother’s terrible rap song on repeat so that the rest of the country would hate him as much as she did.

  “Is there one gull in particular that you have a problem with?” Imogen asked.

  Ava looked horrified. “Do you seriously not know who the Gull is?”

  Imogen shook her head. “Is that the new supercriminal from . . . Maine? Or something?”

  “No!” said Ava. “The Gull is way worse than a rival supervillain. He’s a superhero.”

  “Superheroes aren’t real,” said Imogen. “Are they?”

  “They’re not as common as the summer blockbusters would have you believe,” said Ava, “but they do exist.” She picked up the remote control and aimed it at the streaming device. “Here,” she said. “Watch this.”

  She clicked around for a moment on a menu, then the cinema screen flickered to life, and a news report started playing.

  “And this just in,” said a bored-looking newsreader. “We’re getting reports that Krukingham Palace, the underground headquarters of the Kruk crime family, has been destroyed. The superhero known as the Gull has claimed responsibility for planting the bomb. Law enforcement agencies worldwide were celebrating, as the location of Krukingham Palace had puzzled detectives for centuries. Police immediately swooped in: Two members of the Kruk family have been arrested, and more arrests are expected, as the Kruks seem to have no qualms whatsoever about informing on one another.”

  The video cut to Violet Kruk, giving a statement at a news conference, flanked by police. Imogen had always thought Violet was the most spoiled of all the Kruks—she liked to only wear clothes made out of endangered animals, and she ate Golden Grahams for breakfast (a cereal made out of men named Graham, who had been shrunk, freeze-dried, and coated in gold leaf). “My grandfather, the mass murderer Luka Kruk, is hiding out at 112 East Sheen Drive, Surrey,” said Violet. “Feel free to arrest him. He bought me Ireland for my birthday, but it turns out it’s not actually an Emerald Isle. The ground is made of grass, not precious stones! What a cheapskate! He does tend to eat police officers, though, so watch out for that. Also, my great-aunt Mabel murdered Marilyn Monroe and shot John F. Kennedy. And if anyone’s wondering why red diamonds are so rare, it’s because my sister, Lily, sticks them all over her body to pretend she’s got measles when she wants to get out of swimming.” She turned to the police officer next to her. “Is that enough? Will you let me go now? My pet Komodo dragon needs a manicure.”

  The bored-looking newsreader reappeared on the screen. “Most of the Kruks, however, did manage to get away, and there are no confirmed fatalities—though Don Vadrolga, who the Kruks were holding hostage, has not been seen or heard from since the attack. Which is odd, because they usually show Retro Love on the movie channels at least three times a day.”

  Imogen turned to Ava, who was eating popcorn and looking miserable at the same time, which is difficult, because popcorn is delicious. “Were you there, during the attack?” Imogen asked.

  Ava shook her head. “I was in New York for the weekend, taking measurements of Central Park—we were thinking of modeling our back garden on it. Only ours was going to be bigger, obviously, with more helicopter pads.” She sighed. “But now our whole house is essentially one big helicopter pad. Thanks to the Gull. Now can you see why I want to take him down?”

  The news reporter was now talking about all the other criminals the Gull had brought to justice: the Russian mafia; the Italian Genovese family; the Killer Clan from the Philippines; the West London line dancing association. (“The Gull really hates country music,” Ava explained.)

  “Strange that he’s never bothered the Crims,” said Imogen.

  Ava gave Imogen a pitying look. “You’re not exactly A-list criminals, though, are you?”

  Imogen was stung. But she had to admit that Ava had a point. How could the Gull take her family seriously when she herself couldn’t? Maybe if the Crims branded themselves more cleverly, they would be big-time enough for the Gull to target. . . .

  “So here’s the plan,” said Ava. “We’re going to sail to the Gull’s headquarters on his private island and attack while his attention is elsewhere. He’s in South Africa at the moment, dealing with some very deadly wildebeests.”

  “Hang on,” said Imogen. “The Gull has a private island?”

  Ava shrugged. “Obviously,” she said. “Every superhero needs a base. While he’s away, we can sneak in there and take it over. We’ll totally erase his DVR. He’ll go nuts: It’s the finale of 90 Day Fiancé this week, and he never misses a show.”

  Imogen wasn’t that impressed. “Is that it?” she asked.

  “Well, no,” said Ava. “Once he’s back, of course, we’ll turn his weapons against him and murder him. You have to make him miss his favorite show first, you see—it’s called ‘adding insult to injury.’”

  Imogen nodded slowly. That was just Villainy 101. “And if we defeat the world’s best superhero, that’ll make us the world’s baddest supervillains,” she said slowly. “Which would definitely be a strong brand.”

  “Exactly!” said Ava, looking even more wild-eyed than usual. “So . . . are you in?”

  “I am,” said Imogen, after thinking for a minute. As Big Nana always said, “Never disappoint a wild-eyed Kruk, unless you’re bored of having fingers.”

  “Great!” said Ava, and she went to hug Imogen, but she was still holding the remote control and ended up pressing one of the buttons, and the next thing they knew, Skype had l
oaded onto the big screen and they were in the middle of an eight-way call with several very famous supervillains.

  Imogen stared at the screen, openmouthed. “Ferret Man is real?” she said. “And Bonnie and Clyde are still alive?”

  “Sorry, guys! Wrong number!” Ava said to the supervillains, turning Skype off as quickly as she could.

  “Why do you have all those mass murderers as contacts on Skype?” asked Imogen.

  Ava looked at the floor. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the thing. The thing is—”

  “Just tell me the thing.”

  “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

  Imogen laughed, without smiling. “You haven’t even been slightly honest with me,” she said.

  “True,” said Ava. “So, here’s the deal. Those mass murderers are members of the International Association of Supercriminals. They are giving me strategic support to help me defeat the Gull—helping out with financing, acting as an IT help desk, that sort of thing. That’s where I’ve been disappearing to. We have daily Skype meetings so I can update them on my progress.”

  Imogen frowned. “How come I’ve never even heard of the International Association of Supercriminals?” she asked. “Why haven’t the Crims been asked to join?”

  “Again,” said Ava. “You’re not A-list.”

  “Well, I can join you on the Skype calls from now on,” said Imogen.

  Ava made a face. “They’re kind of selective about who they let in . . . ,” she said.

  Imogen felt crushed. Not as crushed as Uncle Knuckles had felt when he’d been trying to steal a skyscraper by pulling bricks out from the bottom, and the whole thing had fallen on top of him (he’d never been great at Jenga), but close.

  “Look,” said Ava, “I’ll work on them. Okay? I know what you’re capable of. . . .”

  Imogen nodded. If the plot to bring down the Gull succeeded, it might improve the Crims’ standing in the criminal underworld. Though that wouldn’t be hard; Larry the mountain rescue dog had recently been sentenced to more time than the Crims had ever served. (It turned out that he had been embezzling money from the ranger station to feed his rawhide habit.) They’d brand themselves as the Gull Destroyers, and Imogen would be their supervillain in chief—a definite A-list criminal. Imogen allowed herself to fantasize about posing on the Felony Awards red carpet in a stolen Oscar de la Renta gown, accepting the prize for Best Break-In Artist, and thanking her parents for never reading to her as a child—but then her daydream was interrupted by an explosion from somewhere above them that shook the whole movie theater. Imogen sighed. All her best daydreams were interrupted by explosions or people stealing bits of her house.

  “Keep low,” whispered Ava. “And follow me.” Crouching down, Ava and Imogen left the movie theater and ran up to the pool deck—and then they stopped running, because fireballs were flying through the air toward them like very flammable birds. One of them landed in the hot tub (which had been called the cold tub before the fireball landed in it).

  “Is it the Gull?” Imogen asked, looking around to see who was attacking them. And then she saw where the fireballs were coming from, and she groaned. Because sailing alongside the cruise ship was a small, extremely homemade-looking pirate ship. Imogen looked closer—someone had taken a commuter ferry and rigged up an old-fashioned mast with sails made out of bedsheets. And at the very top of the mast was a hand-drawn pirate flag. Down on deck, someone was aiming Molotov cocktails (the least delicious kind of cocktail) at the cruise ship with a slingshot. A very large person wearing an eye patch, a pirate hat, and a pink mohair sweater emblazoned with the words “I LOVE MY MUM.”

  “Uncle Knuckles,” muttered Imogen.

  “HELLO!” Uncle Knuckles said, waving before firing another Molotov cocktail in her direction.

  But Uncle Knuckles wasn’t alone. Of course he wasn’t; one embarrassingly dressed uncle wouldn’t have been humiliating enough.

  “Avast, me hearties!” cried Uncle Clyde, popping up behind Uncle Knuckles. He was wearing a plastic eye patch, a polka-dot headscarf, and a frilly shirt that looked as though it had once belonged to an elderly lady named Doris. “Fearsome Captain Itchybritches will make ye walk the plank, ye scurvy scallywags!”

  “I told you not to call me that,” said Big Nana, walking out onto the deck of the commuter ferry. She was also dressed in a pirate costume—a faded headscarf, woolen breeches, a yellowing shirt that looked as though it probably smelled quite bad. Her costume was quite realistic, as though it might once have belonged to a pirate. A pirate who had been dead for a long time and hadn’t been very keen on laundry when he’d been alive.

  “But Captain Itchybritches suits ye,” said Uncle Clyde. To be fair, Big Nana’s breeches did look pretty itchy.

  Big Nana ignored him and turned to Imogen. “We’ve come to get you back,” she said. “You know what I always say: You can’t abandon the family in the middle of a vacation, unless you’ve been asked to appear at Coachella. And I don’t think you have, have you, Imogen? So climb aboard.”

  6

  BIG NANA REACHED her hand out to help Imogen climb from the cruise ship to the Crims’ “pirate” ship, but Imogen didn’t move.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Big Nana.

  “For you to go away and leave me alone,” snapped Imogen.

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Big Nana, smiling very sweetly for a criminal mastermind. “So shall we do this the easy way? Or do I have to set fire to your hair?”

  Imogen looked at Ava and shrugged. She didn’t want to go back to her family, but she also really enjoyed not being bald.

  But Ava shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d give up that easily,” she said. Then she pulled a small but extremely dangerous-looking cannon out of her pocket and then aimed it at Big Nana.

  “Where did you get that?!” Imogen asked.

  Ava rolled her eyes. “Dude, we’re supervillains,” she said. “Or at least, I am. You seriously think I’d travel without a cannon? There are a couple of cruise missiles downstairs, too, if you want to go and grab them.”

  But before Imogen could do anything, Al ran out onto the deck of the commuter ferry, dressed in a beautifully ironed frilly shirt, an eye patch, and a black pirate hat, and blasted a Molotov cocktail their way. He was a good shot, which was weird, as he’d never been keen on violence (except during Scrabble—“violence” is a very high-scoring word). “AVAST, YE LILY-LIVERED SCURVY DOGS!” he shouted, sounding very pirate-y.

  “Dad,” called Imogen, “what are you doing?” She felt a prickle of foreboding: The last time her father had been good at crime, he’d turned out not to be her father at all, but a Kruk wearing a very convincing prosthetic nose.

  But Al didn’t reply. Though to be fair, he probably hadn’t heard her—Ava had just fired her cannon at him, and cannons are quite loud.

  Al dodged the cannonball and dusted the gunpowder from his pirate hat, as if he did this sort of thing every day. Which he didn’t, although he was fond of playing battleships when balancing profit and loss statements got a bit much. He waved his cutlass in the air and cried, “Let the battle commence!”

  Josephine rushed out on deck and flung herself at Al. She was wearing a bonnet and a white lace dress, and she was carrying what looked like a shepherd’s crook. She obviously hadn’t been able to bring herself to dress up as a pirate—the outfits weren’t very glamorous—so was wearing a Little Bo Peep costume instead. “Oh, Al!” she said in a flirtatious voice that Imogen never wanted to hear again. “You’re so manly when you’re pretending to be a pirate! Never take that eye patch off!”

  Al seemed to have taken charge of the battle. Imogen watched, amazed, as he handed cutlasses, daggers, and pistols to the other Crims and shouted orders at them in his most authoritative pirate voice. Imogen couldn’t remember her father ever taking charge of anything before—not even the shopping list. (He had a tendency of buying things like tripe and lard that no sens
ible person ever wanted to eat, so Josephine wouldn’t let him go to the supermarket.) “Dad,” Imogen called, “when did you learn to be a pirate?”

  Al shrugged modestly. “I was never any good at committing crimes on land, so Big Nana sent me to pirate summer camp when I was twelve. Best two months of my life. I learned to speak parrot; I stole thousands of pounds’ worth of treasure; and I negotiated an excellent exchange rate on pieces of eight.” He smiled sadly and shook his head. “Of course, there’s not much cause for pirating skills in Blandington. I tried to sail my boat on the village pond once, but the neighbors complained it was too exciting.”

  “Al,” said Big Nana, poking him with her dagger, “stop reminiscing about your glory days and get on with the raid!”

  “Aye-aye,” said Al, snapping back into his pirate captain character. “Hoist the mainsail!” he shouted to the twins, who were skulking near the dangerously homemade mast, dressed in matching sailor costumes (clearly there had been some misunderstandings at the costume shop).

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” they said.

  “Get ready to stab Ava with your knitting needles!” he said to Aunt Bets, who was wearing what looked like a cabin boy’s outfit, complete with ragged trousers and a headscarf, and was carrying it off surprisingly well.

  “I’ll dip the ends in poison first,” she said happily, whipping the needles and her bottle of laudanum out of her sewing bag.

  “Henry!” Al shouted. “Where are you? Come out here and sing Imogen and Ava your acoustic cover of that song with the ‘Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum’! That’s enough to make anyone surrender.”

  Henry stumbled out onto the deck, feeling his way with his hands— He was wearing an eye patch on each eye, which was taking stupidity to new heights, even for him. He grunted and cleared his throat.

  “I’d anticipated this,” said Ava, passing Imogen a pair of earplugs.

  Imogen couldn’t hear what Al said next because of the earplugs. He must have asked Sam to release his pet rats, because a moment later, Sam was on the deck, dressed in a lovely pair of stripy trousers, and the rats were scuttling toward the edge of the Crims’ boat and hurling themselves into the water.