by Ivan Brett
The question remained – why had everyone suddenly added the word ‘million’ to the end of their IQ? Surely it wasn’t a coincidence? The chance of a whole village of idiots suddenly turning into geniuses was about as likely as winning the lottery while getting hit by an asteroid and a bolt of lightning and being swept into the air by a freak tornado, flying once round the world on the back of a talking cow and landing in your bed with a cowboy hat on.
But the mere fact of the village getting brainier didn’t bother Casper in itself. What worried him was what the villagers’ new brains were being used for. The food they grew, the drinks they brewed, the machines they built… Jean-Claude was reaping the benefits. And that was the thing that kept Casper wide awake long into what he guessed was the night. However he looked at it, this whole mess came tumbling back to Jean-Claude D’Escargot. Whatever was going on, the grubby little Frenchman couldn’t not be involved.
But that’s the point where Casper had each time hit a brick wall. Jean-Claude was a world-class culinary critic; he lived, breathed and (most importantly) ate food. He’d drunk every wine in the Loire Valley and could identify any cheese from six hundred paces. So why would a man of such status go to the effort of turning a whole village into brainiacs, wait for them to make food-related discoveries, poach the results and palm them off as his own? Unless…
“No…” Casper chuckled to himself, “don’t be an idiot.”
“I wasn’t!” Lamp was crushing eggshells together in an effort to make a black hole.
“It’d be ridiculous, but…” Casper jumped to his feet. “It makes perfect sense!”
Lamp tossed his eggshells over one shoulder, his interest finally sparked. “What are you on about, Casper?”
“Seems so obvious now… Jean-Claude can’t cook!”
Lamp snorted. “Don’t be silly. I’ve eaten his food. It’s good. Speshally the omlits.”
“But those are your omelettes, Lamp, from your omelette gun.”
“Are they?” Lamp squinted. “Oh yeah. But he serves loads of other things. French fries and croissants, and this red stuff with chunky bits.”
“But those are all made with your machines! With food stolen from the villagers. Didn’t you see his kitchen? I’ll bet Jean-Claude’s never picked up a knife in his life.”
“But if he can’t cook, then why’s he starting a restaurant?”
“For revenge against my dad, Lamp. But he can’t do it by himself. You see, Jean-Claude’s spent his entire life criticising other people’s food, without taking one moment to learn how hard it really is to actually cook it. And that’s where you come in.”
Lamp looked at the door. “But I’m already here.”
“No, I mean… how can I put this?” Casper was, both literally and figuratively, treading on eggshells here. “How often do you normally know the answer to a question?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question,” said Lamp.
“Right, well, it’s not very often.”
“Ooh, I knew that!” Lamp cried, slapping his thigh.
“But then, more recently, you’ve known everything. And I mean everything. ‘The Pi Song’, tidal patterns in Vietnam, how to read Russian, for goodness’ sake. All that boring knowledge isn’t really yours.”
Lamp frowned and tapped his head like a squirrel taps a nut. “Well, then, how did it get here?”
“This’ll sound mad, Lamp, and I’m sorry,” Casper continued, “but I think Jean-Claude’s planted it there. I don’t know how he’s done it, but you’ve changed. You and everyone else in this village.”
“Not you, though.”
“No, not me. And not my family or Anemonie Blight, either. Whatever Jean-Claude’s done, it hasn’t worked on us. But why are we different? What marks us out from the rest of the village?”
As he racked his brain, Casper’s mind touched on something Anemonie had said in the classroom, her eyes squinting scornfully. As if I’d eat your swill… I’ll get my servants to cook my dinner. Casper gasped, “That’s right! Anemonie never ate at Bistro D’Escargot. I almost did, but the omelette never touched my lips, and Mum, Dad and Cuddles definitely haven’t. We’re the only ones who haven’t eaten Jean-Claude’s food!” Casper clapped his hands victoriously. “So that’s what’s making you clever! His food!”
“But, but” – Lamp scratched his head furiously – “you’re wrong.”
“Sorry, Lamp, I’m not.” Casper was excited now, pacing round the room on the tips of his toes. “The food has made you clever and now you’re inventing at five times your normal speed. Jean-Claude tricked you and now he’s got your inventions. Same goes for all the villagers; all they needed to do was to eat his food on Monday, and they did.”
Lamp’s face was squished and red. “No, I mean you’re wrong. The restaurant opened on Monday night, yes, but geography was Monday morning. I’d not eaten none of Jean-Claude’s food, but I still got full marks, remember?”
“Oh…” Lamp’s logic felt like a punch to the stomach.
“Maybe my brain just grew. My mum said I was a late bloomer, but I didn’t understand because that’s about flowers. Now I get what she meant.”
“But you’re not a brainiac! You can’t be.”
Lamp’s face dropped.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s OK. I’m stupid.” He turned to face the wall and mumbled, “Three hundred and sixty-seven bricks.”
“Lamp, you know I don’t mean that. There’s just a difference between being a brainiac and being a genius. You’re a genius, Lamp. All your inventions, they shouldn’t work by normal logic – sometimes they shouldn’t even work by your logic – and yet they still do. Nobody else could create them but you. But this brainy stuff, that’s new. That’s not you.” Casper wished the air were less stuffy, that his dress would stop itching, so that just for one second he could think straight. “We need to get out of here.”
Lamp shook his head. “Not possible. The door’s locked.”
The boys sat down.
Lamp had an egg.
Lamp had another egg.
Lamp had another egg.
Lamp wet himself.
Hours passed.
Casper searched the walls for loose bricks, but he only found tight ones.
Lamp tried to prise the door open with a hydraulic jack made of wine bottles and frothed egg white, but that just ended up with a big puddle of wine and a sticky door. “It’s no use,” huffed Lamp, “we’ll just have to save the day first and escape later.
There was a knock at the door.
Lamp screamed.
“Someone in there?” shouted a muffled voice.
“Yes! I’m Casper Candlewacks and the screaming one is Lamp Flannigan.” Casper could feel his voice shaking. “Who’s that?”
“Casp? It’s Dad.”
“Dad!” A rush of excitement spread through Casper’s bones. “He’s come to save us!”
“Can I come in?”
“I really hope so. It’s locked on our side.”
The bolt clicked, the door creaked open and Julius’s face appeared from behind it. “Casper! Oh, thank goodness, you’re OK.”
Casper rushed forward to hug his dad, something he saved only for special occasions (mainly because Julius only showered before special occasions). “Thought you’d never come. I thought we were stuck down here, Dad.”
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he grinned, the relief etched on his face. “I was beginning to think Jean-Claude had cooked you or something.”
Casper laughed and gave his dad another hug. “Still raw, thank goodness. What kept you?”
Julius’s face went stony. “Jean-Claude’s got me beaten and he knows it. Last night he served food so good the customers wouldn’t leave. He’s been protecting his kitchen in advance of this evening.
“Then, how’d you get down here?”
“Well, he’s gone now.”
“Gone where?”
&nb
sp; Julius tutted. “Don’t ask silly questions. Come on, there’s no time.” And with that he was already trotting back up the creaky wooden stairs.
Uh-oh. There was that rumbly feeling again. It had only been breakfast a minute ago. Why was there no time?
“Can I bring some eggs for the journey?” asked Lamp, looking around hungrily.
Casper yanked Lamp by the arm and dragged him moaning out of the room, not one shaving of an amoeba sorry to be leaving.
“You’re not going to like this…” Julius was already upstairs in Jean-Claude’s kitchen, but Casper and Lamp were hot on his heels.
“All the machines? Yeah, we’ve seen th—Oh.” Casper’s mouth dried up. The machines were, in many ways, not there any more. What replaced them was perhaps more terrifying – eggs. More eggs. There were eggs on the floor, eggs on every shelf, eggs filling the basin and eggs caught in spiders’ webs in dusty corners. There were more eggs in that kitchen than the entire prized egg collection of Egbert Von Egglestein, a man with strange hobbies and terrible wind.
“Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-five,” breathed Lamp. “That’s a new record!” He tried to set off a party popper, but realised he’d left them all at home.
“But where are they all coming from?” frowned Casper.
As if to answer that question, two familiar hens picked their way out from a shadowed corner across the eggy floor. Their feathers were threadbare and they had thick leather collars round their tiny necks, but there was no mistaking their grand red wattles and rusty feathers.
“Mavis? Bessie? My girls?”
Lamp’s lip quivered.
Mavis clucked the saddest cluck Casper had ever heard.
“It’s OK, girlies,” said Lamp. “I’ll get those collars off.” He crunched across the eggs, but the hens cowered away from his hands, back towards the shadows.
“What’s wrong? It’s me, remember? Old cousin Lamp?”
Bessie popped out an egg and clucked apologetically. Mavis cawed and popped one out as well.
Mavis and Bessie. Here. Laying eggs. But that means… Casper’s jaw dropped as the answers to his questions plopped into his head like eggs plopping out of a chicken.
“Boys, we’re wasting time.” Julius was hopping up and down by the door. “You’ve got to come outside.”
“It’s the chickens!” gasped Casper. “It’s the chickens and their eggs!”
Julius shook his head. “Right, but I do need you outside, Casp. It’s a bit of an emergency.”
“Free omelette for every customer and they all turn clever. Lamp eats more eggs than anyone and he’s the biggest genius this side of Einstein!”
“But we’ve gone through this,” said Lamp. “I was getting brainy before the bistro opened.”
“But you were eating omelettes on Monday morning!” Casper clicked his fingers. “Omelettes from those hens.”
Lamp looked from Casper’s pointing finger to Mavis and Bessie, and then back to Casper’s finger. “You don’t think… all these eggs…”
Mavis laid three eggs in one plop.
“But they’ve hardly been laying any eggs at all,” objected Lamp.
“That’s what we thought. I’ll bet they’ve laid as many as usual, only Jean-Claude’s been stealing them. I saw him steal all sorts of things on Tuesday. Would’ve been easy to pop over and nick a dozen eggs each day. Soon he’d have, well, this many.”
Julius was pacing in circles. “Boys, as much as I love chatting about livestock, we really have to go.”
“Dad. This is important.” Casper turned back to face Lamp. “Look, Jean-Claude’s been lurking around the village for a while now, but can you remember when he arrived?”
“Maybe two months ago. Shortly before Mavis and Bessie arrived… Oh dear.”
“Oh, I am so stupid! What if they’re Jean-Claude’s hens, Lamp? What if Jean-Claude came to Corne-on-the-Kobb with his plan and his hens, spotted your potential and gave you Mavis and Bessie so you’d have a head start? You’d eat their eggs and start getting brainy even earlier than the rest of us.”
“But they’re my cousins,” whimpered Lamp. “The tags on their necks said so.”
“They’re not your cousins. Those are French hens, Lamp.”
“Oh,” Lamp’s lip quivered. “French? S’pose that explains why I could never understand them.”
“You were Jean-Claude’s first test-subject and it worked. How he got the hens laying clever eggs, we’ll never know. Feeding them books? Sending them off to school? Probably something cruel, knowing him.”
“Poor chickies.” Lamp tickled Mavis’s head.
“Guys,” Julius looked up at the clock with desperate eyes. “It’s good that you’ve solved it, but come outside and you’ll see we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
This made no sense. “What’s the hurry? It’s only seven o’clock. Why are you even up this early?”
“Early? It’s seven in the evening!” cried Julius. “And I’m supposed to be serving food!”
“What?” Any remaining joy slipped off Casper’s face. “The evening?”
“Yes! Evening, with the cook-off, in the square. Didn’t you wonder why the kitchen was so empty?”
“No, I mean, I noticed, but—”
“This was the first time Jean-Claude left the kitchen, my only chance to rescue you before the cook-off. I had to leave Amanda alone with my food to come and find you. I need your help, Casp. This is desperate. Come on!” Julius dashed from the kitchen, Casper and Lamp hot on his heels. They danced through the empty tables of Bistro D’Escargot and pulled open the door, and the sound from the square hit them full in the face, like a frying pan of noise.
The cook-off had begun.
The square was packed; let’s just get that straight. Every single villager of Corne-on-the-Kobb had turned up at least twice to see the grand cook-off. The pigeons were out in force, perching on both the statue and the real head of Mayor Rattsbulge. Some outsiders were here too – muddy yokels from Little Grimston and snooty aristocrats from Upper Crustenbury – all scrabbling about and falling over and getting tangled up with each other.
To the left of the square, in front of the pub, a long trestle table had been set up to hold all of Jean-Claude’s equipment (most of which Lamp had invented): the Fry-Frencher, the Steam-powered Casserole, the spinny thing that turned bricks into chocolate mousse and, of course, the wheezing, sneezing, tartan Omelette Gun, which floated wobblily above the heads of the villagers and screeched like a burst Cuddles.
There stood Jean-Claude D’Escargot, the chef who couldn’t cook, proud in his new chef whites and enormous puffy chef’s hat. A huge chunk of the crowd watched him work with adoring oohs and aahs as he pretended to cook, lifting and putting down a knife or turning a tap on.
None of the crowd could get near to Jean-Claude’s machines, however, owing to the four enormous bollards that separated his tables from the rest of the square. Those bollards had pale-blue tracksuits and hairy arms and spotty bruised faces. And worst of all, those bollards had names. Casper tried to say those names aloud, but his throat felt as dry as dust. Bash, he thought, Clobber, Spit and Pinchnurse. The Brewster brothers.
“He p-p-paid them in l-lunch m-money.”
Little Snivel Brewster had crept up behind the boys. He wore a tiny version of the very same tracksuit his brothers had on and a grimace that said, You’ve lost.
“I’ve b-been to your t-t-table. She’s serving b-bowls of t-tap water. S-says it’s the only f-fing she c-can c-cook.”
“Oh, cripes,” cried Julius. “Amanda!” He launched off towards a long table draped with a Union Jack, set up outside the front door of The Battered Cod. This side of the square was empty, apart from Amanda and Cuddles Candlewacks and three pigeons queuing for a bowl of water. Cuddles sat on a stack of plates, gnawing on some fingers, while Amanda flustered about as if she was running a country.
“Just a minute!” Amanda cried, desperately sloshing the contents
of her water jug with the wrong end of a wooden spoon. “I can’t keep up with all these orders.”
“Amanda, darling. What about the Crown Jewels Kebabs? Steak ’n’ Kidney Pies? Those Bulldog Toffees I boiled up?” Julius looked like he might pull his few remaining hairs out. “Tell me you’ve been selling the Jellied Eels, Amanda.”
“But I like water!” sang Amanda.
Casper looked from his dad’s empty table to the swarm of brainiacs surrounding Jean-Claude’s, and felt his heart sink. This cook-off was more one-sided than last year’s Kobb Valley Bodybuilders versus Pensioners Rugby Match, where the pensioners shuffled off halfway through to watch Antiques Attic.
Anemonie Blight’s pointy black shoes clicked on the cobbles as she skipped past. “Candlewacks is leaving home!” she sang. “Candlewacks is leaving home! Pack your bags, loser! Need help with the bus fare?” The point of her nose wrinkled as she flicked a single penny piece at Casper and skipped away.
BOOM!
Across the square, green confetti filled the air and the crowd cheered.
“That’s my Omlit Gun,” puffed Lamp proudly. “Jean-Claude would be nothing without it.”
“Yeah,” sighed Casper. “And with it, he’s everything. But hang on… that’s exactly it!”
“It is?” said Lamp.
“Just like you said – he’d be nothing without all your inventions. He relies on them to win. All we have to do is destroy those machines and Dad can’t lose!”
Lamp chuckled. “Oh, Casper, you are silly sometimes.”
“N-n-no,” muttered Snivel, “h-he’s right.”
Lamp grinned at Snivel, and then at Casper, and then noticed neither was grinning back. He put the grin in his pocket for later and replaced it with a wide-eyed look of horror. “But… I made them. They’re mine and I made them.”
“If we let Jean-Claude win, I have to leave the village. For ever. Would you prefer that?”