‘A microwave?’ Janey suggested.
‘No money for microwaves.’
‘Where’s the nearest takeaway?’ asked G-Mamma.
‘No money for takeaways.’
‘I’m sensing a theme here,’ G-Mamma said. ‘Big house. New lord. No staff and no money.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Jack.
Janey felt a surge of sympathy for him. Fancy being all alone, responsible for this great big castle of a place with no means of doing anything to it, and nobody to look after his mother for him while she mourned the loss of her husband.
She walked over to the fridge and peered inside. ‘G-Mamma, you like cooking. Could you make us bacon and eggs while I talk to Jack?’
G-Mamma’s eyes had glazed over into an “incoming rap” expression, and she was muttering to herself: ‘Big house, new lord, no staff and no money. On your own in the Abbey; well, it just ain’t funny.’
‘G-Mamma,’ repeated Janey. ‘Could you cook?’
The SPI:KE huffed as if she was about to object, as Jack leaned forward. ‘What did you call her? I thought she said her name was Rosie Big Enough or something. Who … who are you guys?’
Here we go again, thought Janey. Still, it was a long time since she’d had anything to tell people other than ‘Yes, I’m doing French and Russian GCSE,’ and it was fairly obvious already that Jack was going to be a kindred spirit.
‘Have you heard of someone called Gideon Flynn?’
The helmet clanked from left to right. No. ‘Would I know him from Eton?’
Eton was a posh school, as far as Janey knew. It made sense that it would be the kind of place that Jack studied. ‘I don’t know. He might have left school; he looks about seventeen.’
‘Sorry. No, I don’t know him.’
Janey pondered where to start, and decided to dive right in. ‘Flynn is gathering a team together, starting with us. G-Mamma – that’s Rosie Biggenham’s spy name, like Jane Blonde is my spy name. That’s right,’ she said when Jack’s shoulders tensed, ‘we’re spies.’
To her astonishment, Jack simply sat very still for a few moments, then nodded for her to continue. This was definitely someone unusual.
‘The team’s job is to take back some items that were stolen from Gideon Flynn and his family. He needs them to create a cure because he has this condition where he can’t touch anyone, sit down or use his hands properly.’
He was so silent, it was unnerving. Then the metal helmet moved up and down. ‘Okay. Honestly, I’ve seen many things that are way, way weirder than that.’
So far so good, then.
‘I’m the first one he found,’ said Janey. ‘He’s paid to have all our spy gear updated, and we just met with him earlier to find out what he wants. Which, basically, is you.’
‘Me?’
‘And two other people. But you’re the one for this first job of breaking into a bank vault. We need to find a stolen Indian ring that was worn by someone playing a guitar.’
‘Sitar,’ corrected G-Mamma from the stove top, busily sizzling bacon on the ancient range that she’d somehow managed to ignite. Lured by the smell of food, Trouble appeared at the window, eyes focussing instantly on the goodies. Janey spotted him and flicked open a window to let him in.
‘Why me? I’m not very musical,’ declared Jack through his visor. ‘I’m not very anything, really. Not usually.’
Not usually, huh?
‘What are you when you’re not … usual?’ said Janey carefully, picking Trouble up and carrying him across to the table.
Jack emitted that same hollow laugh. ‘Oh, I’m … ah,’ he said, catching sight of Trouble. He reached a hand across towards the cat; Trouble retaliated instantly by lashing out with a sharp claw. It was a good job he hadn’t Wowed, or it would have been as sharp and deadly as a pirate’s cutlass. As it was, he managed to slash through Jack’s finger, and the boy quickly withdrew his hand.
‘Trouble! Bad cat.’ What was wrong with him? Trouble was so easy-going these days that he hardly got up off his mat, even to chase frogs. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack.’
‘It’s me,’ Jack said. ‘Cats don’t like me. Well, not all cats – certain Egyptian ones practically … ahem … worship me. But ordinary domestic cats pretty much hate me.’
Weirder and weirder. Trouble vacated the room with a flick of his enormous tail, resenting the insult of being called an ordinary domestic cat, as Janey sat down again.
‘Jack, do you … would you mind taking off your helmet? It’s a bit hard to talk to someone when you can’t see their face.’
‘That’ll be the spy in you, reading facial expressions,’ Jack replied. ‘I go by other senses, mainly.’
He was playing for time. ‘Please, Jack?’
G-Mamma arrived at her side with two overloaded plates of fried eggs and streaky bacon. ‘You can have your food when you take your helmet off.’
Under one plate, G-Mamma held the Taser gun. She dropped it into Janey’s lap and an unspoken agreement passed between them: if this turns nasty, stun him. A tiny bit unwillingly, as Jack seemed genuinely nice, Janey trained the stun gun on his midriff, below the table.
Jack’s head was leaning visibly towards the food. He was making some very odd snorting sounds. It must have been a really long time since he ate.
‘Not fair,’ he said. ‘I can’t resist food, but you really won’t like it. I scare people.’
‘We’re not people,’ said Jane, sliding back the safety catch. ‘We’re spies.’
‘Yeah, but you’re still human.’
Still human? Of course they were. What did he mean?
‘Aren’t you? Human, I mean?’
Dropping his head into his hand, Jack sat opposite them for a long moment, clearly undecided how to answer. Then G-Mamma wafted the bacon closer to his face and his resolve disappeared.
‘I’m a bit human. And a bit not,’ he said simply, and then he pulled off his headgear.
Dropping the plates with a crash, G-Mamma body-rolled under the table. ‘Shoot it, Blonde girl. Shoot!’
But Janey didn’t. Couldn’t. She simply sat wordlessly and took in the sight that had appeared before them.
Jack Bootle-Cadogan had the body, mind and mannerisms of a teenage boy … and the head, neck and collar bones of an enormous black dog. Its liquid black eyes were gazing at her, not threatening in any way, but in fear. He looked as if he was most worried that she’d be scared of him- when only a few hours ago she’d been afraid of never being afraid again.
And she wasn’t afraid of him. She just knew instinctively that there wasn’t a bad bone in Jack’s body, and that he’d never harm anyone or anything if he had a choice about it.
Finally, she forced herself to speak. ‘So Trouble doesn’t like you because you’re a dog.’
Jack nodded miserably. ‘I’m only a dog some of the time, and only the head. Plus some of the instincts. I’m usually better at controlling it but these last few weeks have been rather emotional and … well, I’ve been finding it hard. Everything,’ he added simply.
Poor Jack. He needed them as much as they – apparently – needed him. Though how he was going to help them break into an underground bank vault with his canine senses, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe he could sniff it out, or something.
He seemed to be remembering why they were there at the same moment. ‘So, this Gideon Flynn. You said he’s paying?’
‘Wh … what?’ said Janey.
‘Is he hiring us with actual money to do this bank vault heist thingummy?’ Jack pointed to the dilapidated walls. ‘Only I’ve got a castle to maintain, and I’m thinking of setting up a school.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Janey. ‘I never thought to ask. But he’s sorted out all our spy gear, so I expect so.’
‘There was even a mention of gold in that bad poem he wrote, remember?’ said G-Mamma.
That decided matters for Jack. ‘Then I’m in.’
Jack loped around the table and pumped Janey’s
hand up and down. Her own fingers felt tiny in the grip of his enormous fist, and she wondered if he also became bigger when he was in dog form.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘We’ll get some more instructions about the ring, and then I’ll message you.’
‘Please do. Please, please do,’ he said, writing his number down for her on a frayed linen napkin. Jack sounded wistful, and once again Janey could sense how lonely and out-of-touch he’d become.
But with business completed, it was time to leave. They still had a couple of hours to power-drive back home, and perhaps Wow up so that Janey could get through school after a night of no sleep.
Handing over the napkin, Jack accompanied them to the kitchen door through a damp cloakroom full of muddy boots and dogs’ beds. ‘Not mine,’ he pointed out quickly. ‘It was Roger’s, our gun dog. He died too.’
‘Oh, Jack.’ She felt like giving him a hug, but Janey suspected it was too soon for that. She patted his arm instead, hoping he didn’t mistake it for dog-like affection. ‘You’ve been having a really tough time, haven’t you?’
He laughed. ‘That’s okay. I can cope with death. It’s the living I find a tad difficult.’ Lifting his head, Jack pointed to a rustling bush halfway across the tangled kitchen gardens. ‘That’s your cat in the raspberries. Troub-le!’ he called hopefully.
But as soon as Trouble saw Jack he scarpered, haring through the gardens and out beyond the low hedges surrounding them.
‘He’s heading for the maze!’ shouted Jack. ‘Don’t let him go in there, or you’ll never get him back.’
‘Trouble!’ shouted Janey and G-Mamma at the same time, but it was too late.
It took forty-five minutes, Jack’s deliberate absence and several packs of fried bacon to lure Trouble out of the maze, which left them only one hour to get home. They wished Jack good night again as he wiped bacon juices from his muzzle, and the spy trio raced back to the Octobus.
Only it wasn’t there.
‘I’m going to be so late. Maybe Jack will know where it is – and a short cut,’ said Janey, texting Jack as she spoke.
Van gone. Ideas?
Where are you? he texted back.
She looked around for a landmark. Fountain with 4 dolphins.
To her astonishment, she was still only putting her phone back in her pocket when Jack appeared at her shoulder.
‘You must have been close by. Were you following us?’
‘Not really.’ Jack was now wearing a balaclava and there was no sign of the clanking helmet, so he must have gone back to the house. ‘And so sorry about the van. I’ve got the local police doing patrols because of all the press people hanging around. They must have taken it to the pound.’
‘No! Do you have a car? I’ve got to get back home in less than an hour or my folks will have heart attacks. Sorry,’ she added, just in case that was what had happened to his father.
Jack winced. ‘Well, yes, there’s the Daimler, but I can’t drive it, and my driver …’
‘Let me guess,’ said Janey. ‘He died?’
‘Yes and no, no and yes,’ said Jack vaguely.
This was all getting a little worrisome. Had he murdered all these people? Maybe they should have stunned him. G-Mamma was clearly having the same thoughts and was backing away from Jack as she rummaged in her bag for the Taser.
Then it all became even stranger.
‘Do you trust me?’ said Jack suddenly. ‘I can get you home in time, but you have to really trust me.’
G-Mamma was still fumbling in her bag, but Janey put a hand on her arm. ‘We don’t have a choice, G-Mamma. And anyway, I do trust him.’
The SPI:KE stared at her, then nodded as she saw the determination on Janey’s face. ‘Okay, Blonde. Your instincts have never let us down in the past.’
Janey turned to her new friend. ‘We trust you, Jack.’
‘Good. Because what I didn’t mention when I fessed up about the dog thing is why Egyptian cats worship me.’ Jack shrugged modestly. ‘I’m also … well, a god.’
‘A god?’
Jack nodded. ‘Yes. Anubis, Egyptian god.’
‘Of … death?’
‘Correct. Not that I kill people. Just process them.’
‘I don’t even want to know what that means,’ said Janey.
‘And I hope you never have to find out,’ Jack replied softly.
Janey stared at him. If what he was saying was true, it would explain why he hadn’t been too worried about letting them in. ‘Are you immortal?’
‘Pretty much.’
He gave his modest little shrug again, then, ‘Grab your cat,’ he announced, ‘and show me a picture of home.’
He glanced briefly at the street view of Janey’s house and the Spylab next door on Janey’s phone and closed his eyes.
Placing an enormous hand on each of their shoulders, Jack took in a deep breath. ‘Hold Trouble very tight,’ he said in a voice which was suddenly extremely deep, ‘and I apologise in advance for how hard my grip has to be. Three, two, half …’
Before Janey had time to shout or even think, Jack’s powers took over. It suddenly became abundantly clear why he was going to be extremely useful in plundering a sunken bank vault.
Because nothing – absolutely nothing – got in his way.
Chapter 5 - Octo-Bus and Jack-Train
Gideon was so tired of following, always following. Always in the shadows and the half-light. His condition made it necessary, but with every single atom of his being, he wanted it to be different.
That was why he’d hidden in the Octobus when Jane Blonde and her strangely energetic mentor had leapt into it to track down the next member of the team – Jack Bootle-Cadogan. Doghead. He’d only wanted to be sure that the meeting would go well. Jack BC had to be on board, or there was no hope. They hadn’t detected Gideon’s presence as they ploughed up fields on the way to Lowmount, and he hoped that nobody had detected theirs either with the Invisibubble shield across the van.
The changes in the spies’ circumstances hadn’t, however, gone un-noticed. It was probably the money disappearing from his account. The recent expenditure must have alerted the others to the team he was pulling together – or at least to the meeting with Jane Blonde – and so they were watching every move the spies made.
Now some of their henchmen were here, prowling around the van, sweeping their sensors across it to work out what equipment was contained within. Soon they’d open the door, and see exactly how far they’d already gone.
He had to get the Octobus out from under their noses. But how? He could hardly touch anything as it was. Then he remembered the slender silver cabinet in the corner. The … Wower, he believed it to be called. The previous day, it had given him some relief from the horrors of his condition so that he’d at least been able to meet with Blonde and GM. Unrolling that scroll had been the most tactile thing he’d been able to do in ages, even if it was all for effect. Without the Wower’s powerful intervention, even that would have been impossible.
Perhaps, now, it could help him again.
The tapping and quiet discussions beyond the metal walls of the van were approaching the door. There wasn’t much time if he was going to stop them uncovering the equipment … stop them ending the game before it had even begun.
Gideon eased silently into the cabinet and whispered, ‘Wower, do your thing. Please!’
Instantly, the top of the cabinet above him slid back to reveal an enormous showerhead the size of a sunflower. Multi-coloured sparkles with the lightness of dandelion clocks cascaded from the sunflower as if it were shedding its seeds over him, and Gideon felt his skin tingle. It was such a miraculous sensation that he only just managed to prevent himself from gasping aloud. The tingle descended across his whole body, past his elbows, his fingertips, his knees and the tops of his feet, and then a warm breath of air parted his flowing hair and enveloped him like a tropical sea breeze. It felt as though the Wower was blow-drying him. Blowing the paint dry.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured to the Wower, although he knew that it was really the people who’d invented it – the people whose blueprints he’d followed and even improved upon - that he needed to thank.
And one day, he would. But right now, there was something he needed to do.
His enemies were about to infiltrate the Octobus. Gideon could hear their voices as they reached the door.
‘… operate from the inside or remotely?’ said one of them. The voice was young and light; its owner didn’t sound threatening, but then, voices often played tricks on people. Gideon knew that better than anyone.
He had to go. Hardly able to tear his eyes from the glory of a pair of normal, teenaged hands poking out beneath the turned-back cuffs of his shirt, Gideon pushed open the Wower door. He could touch it, effortlessly. Amazing! And if he could touch that, he could also handle a steering wheel.
‘Now or never,’ he told himself, before running up the narrow aisle between the banks of technological devices and sliding through the curtains that separated the equipment from the van’s cabin.
Behind him, he could hear a knife scraping down the edges of the back door. The men from the company he thought of as ‘the Org’- he couldn’t bring himself to use its proper name - were prising it open.
The key to the van was a button on the dashboard. Amazed that he could press down on it just as hard as he liked, Gideon Flynn sparked the engine just as the Org guys slid open the back door and stepped into the van.
Then his foot – his miraculous right foot that felt normal and functional again thanks to the Wower – slammed down on the accelerator, and the Octobus took off, slamming through a fence and ousting the Org guys one after the other as Gideon threw the van around the grounds, rattling them out of the open door like dice from a cup.
They hadn’t seen him. Of that he was pretty sure.
And they weren’t going to see him, either. That was definite.
S*W*A*G*G 1, Spook Page 5