Thor Is Locked in My Garage!

by Robert J. Harris

  To my friend Jane Yolen,

  who made me be a writer.

  Thanks, Jane!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Who is Larry O’Keefe?

  2. A Box Full of Winter

  3. A Man Called Mallet

  4. Your own Personal Avalanche

  5. Christmas Lights

  6. A Wolf, a Snake, and an Ice Maid

  7. The Sign of the Trickster

  8. Maybe I’m Amazed

  9. The Actor Factor

  10. People in Glass Houses

  11. Money to Burn

  12. Spaghetti and Meatballs

  13. Turn Left at Niflheim

  14. The Rough Guide to Asgard

  15. Ragnarok and a Hard Place

  16. A Splash in the Pool of Urd

  17. Bifrost is on the Menu

  18. Who is Larry O’Keefe?

  The Day the World Went Loki

  Copyright

  1. Who is Larry O’Keefe?

  It was the third day of a heatwave that had Scotland baking like pancakes on a griddle. Old people were advised to stay indoors, everybody smelled of sun block, and there were warnings all over telling you not to leave your dog in the car.

  Lewis McBride was seated on a folding chair in the back garden reading a detective novel about a scientist who tracked down a murderer by using a neutrino detector. Lewis had calculated that fifteen minutes in the sun was enough to soak up a healthy dose of vitamin D without risking sunburn, and he had decided to take it early in the morning before the heat became too intense.

  He was just finishing the final chapter of the story when his watch beeped three times to indicate the fifteen minutes was up. As if on cue, the kitchen door burst open and Lewis’ brother barged into the back garden, shattering the peace. At fourteen, Greg was a year older than Lewis, but Lewis had always considered himself to be the mature one.

  Greg was dressed in baggy shorts, flip-flops and sunglasses. In one hand he was swinging a bag full of empty cola cans that jangled noisily. Cradled in his other arm was an enormous water gun called a Splazooka that he had bought last summer. The day after he bought the Splazooka it rained and went on raining for three weeks. The Splazooka had been hibernating in Greg’s cupboard ever since.

  Whistling the theme tune from Match Of The Day, Greg took out the cans he’d retrieved from the recycling bin and set them up in a line across the picnic table at the back of the garden.

  “What are you doing?” Lewis asked.

  “Target practice,” Greg answered, setting down the last of the cans. He took six paces back and started making adjustments to the Splazooka. Lewis noted that his brother had added extra tubing and some springs.

  “Your water gun looks different,” he observed.

  “That’s right,” said Greg. “I’ve cranked it up to double its firepower.”

  “What do you want to do that for?”

  “Because EU regulations stop them making it as strong as it could be.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? The government needs water cannons to stop riots and stuff, so they can’t have people shooting back with things that are just as powerful.”

  “So you’ve given it a boost?” said Lewis dubiously.

  “Sure,” Greg said. “It’s just a matter of hydraulics.” He turned the gun in Lewis’ direction. “Here, do you fancy a blast? It’ll cool you off.” He placed a finger on the trigger.

  “No!” yelled Lewis. “This is a library book!” He hid the book behind his back and threw a protective arm up in front of his face.

  Just then there came a loud whoop from behind the hedge. The back gate flew open and Susie Spinetti burst into the garden.

  Greg promptly shot a stream of water in her direction. Susie ducked under it nimbly and poked him hard in the stomach as she darted past.

  Greg doubled over. “Oof! Not so rough, Spinny!”

  “Aw, Greg, you can take it. Did you not eat your porridge this morning?”

  “I’m a chocolate nut flakes man.”

  “No wonder you’re so slow, eating that muck.”

  Susie was dressed in shorts and a Fife Flames T-shirt, with a rainbow-coloured headband around her short black hair. At school Susie was captain of the girls’ football team, champion of her year in running and javelin, and was a top scorer for Fife’s junior ice hockey team, the Flames. She often burst in on the McBrides at the end of her morning jog.

  “It’s a gorgeous day, Greg!” she enthused. “How about a dip in the Castle Rock Pool?”

  Still rubbing his stomach, Greg gave her a disgruntled look. “You should watch yourself, Spinny. They used to drown witches there, you know.”

  “I’ll take my chances. So, how about it?”

  “It’s too hot to go swimming. If you want to cool off, I’ve got just the thing.”

  He aimed the Splazooka at her again. Susie stepped forward and plugged the nozzle with her finger. “Careful, Greg,” she told him. “If you press the trigger now, it’ll blow up right in your face.”

  Greg pulled the water gun away. “It would be just like you to break it, right when we’ve finally got the weather for a water fight.”

  Susie rolled her eyes. “Stop worrying about your toys, Greg. How about we go skating at the Kirkcaldy ice rink?”

  “Can you not see I’m busy? Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow I’m off to hockey camp for a week. Got to work on my slap shot.” She swung an imaginary hockey stick with such ferocity Lewis jerked back as if she’d fired a puck straight at him.

  “You dragged me off to play tennis yesterday,” said Greg, “and before that it was cycling out to Tentsmuir. Could we not take a break?”

  Susie put her hands on her hips. “Greg, you’re not being much of a boyfriend.”

  Greg scowled back at her. “Spinny, I am not your boyfriend.”

  “Of course you are, Greg. You’ve even come up with a cute nickname for me.”

  It’s not cute. It’s supposed to be offensive.”

  Susie hiccuped with laughter and gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Oh, Greg, you’re so funny. The things you say!”

  Lewis decided it was time to intervene. “I see you’ve got new trainers, Susie,” he observed.

  “Well spotted, that boy,” said Susie, hoisting her leg up at an impossible angle so that her foot was right in front of Lewis’ face. “They’re Skyliners, the Rolls Royce of sporting footwear. My dad’s just got a load of them in for the shop.”

  Susie’s family owned a sporting goods store, so she always had access to the latest equipment.

  Lewis gently pushed her foot back down. “I’m going inside now, before I turn into a lobster.”

  “Lewis, you’ve only been out here five minutes!” Greg said scornfully.

  Lewis ignored him and headed into the kitchen. Susie followed him inside. “I’m parched,” she said, clutching her throat. “Have you got anything to drink in here?”

  Before Lewis could respond, she flung open the fridge and helped herself to a carton of cold orange juice. From outside came the sound of cans being shot off the table and bouncing off the back fence.

  Lewis’ dad came in from the other side of the house, waving a copy of the local paper. “Fame at last,” he declared. “I expect Hollywood will be on the phone any time now.”

  “Dad, have you been out in the sun too long?” asked Lewis.

  His dad folded the paper open and displayed it. “Look at this picture here.”

  It was a large colour photograph of a group of golfers on St Andrews’ Old Course. Mr McBride was in the middle of them.
Since he was the golf course manager there was nothing unusual about that. What made it newsworthy was the figure standing right beside him, smiling brightly enough to shatter the camera lens.

  Susie craned over Lewis’ shoulder. “Hey!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Isn’t that Garth Makepeace?”

  “That’s right,” said Lewis’ dad, “the big film star. He was after my autograph, of course, but I wouldn’t give it to him.”

  Susie laughed through a gurgle of juice. “Mr Mac, you crack me up.”

  Lewis was still studying the photo. In his last action blockbuster, Garth Makepeace had played the part of a brave explorer in search of a lost city deep in the Amazon jungle. Lewis was surprised to see that in real life the actor was hardly any taller than his father.

  “That’s funny,” he said. “In his films he looks nearly seven feet tall.”

  “Nice chap though,” said his dad. “Bought us all lunch after the game.”

  There were half a dozen other men in the picture, all prominent members of the St Andrews business community, but as Lewis’ eyes drifted along the line, he almost choked.

  The man on the far right was smiling just as much as Garth Makepeace, but there was a nasty edge to his smile, like somebody who’s left a family of frogs in your bed after stealing your valuables. He had red hair, a lean, wily face, and a small, tapered beard. It was a face Lewis knew only too well, one he never expected to see again.

  He grabbed the paper so abruptly his dad almost jumped out of his skin.

  “Lewis!” his dad gasped.

  Lewis was out the back door. He seized Greg by the shoulder and spun him round to face him. “Look at this!”

  Greg gave the picture the barest glance and went back to his target practice. “Sure, Dad’s in the paper again. Big deal.” He blasted a can off the table and yelled, “Bullseye!”

  “Look who else is there,” Lewis insisted. He shoved the paper under his brother’s nose and pointed out the red-haired man.

  Greg whipped off his sunglasses for a closer look and jumped back with a yelp. “Are you kidding me?” His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger of the Splazooka and Lewis took the full force of the jet right in the face.

  “Watch where you’re pointing that thing!” he spluttered, shoving the gun barrel aside.

  Greg pocketed his sunglasses and dropped the water gun. “Loki!” he said, snatching the paper and glaring at it. “What’s Dad doing hanging around with that creep?”

  Months ago, Lewis and Greg had accidentally cast a magic spell that restored a long-lost eighth day of the week, Lokiday, the day belonging to Loki, the god of magic and mischief. The effect was to turn St Andrews into a mad fantasy world filled with ogres and goblins, ruled over by Loki himself. The boys had only just managed to reverse the spell and send him back where he came from.

  The brothers charged into the kitchen where Susie had polished off the orange juice and was helping herself to a banana. “Greg, did you see your dad’s palling around with Garth Makepeace?”

  “I see who he’s palling around with,” Greg retorted. “Dad, who is this guy?” He pointed at the picture. “The one with the beard.”

  “Him? Let me think.” Mr McBride tapped his moustache as though checking it was still there. “Larry, he said his name was. Larry O’Keefe.”

  “Larry O’Keefe,” Lewis repeated. “And who is he, exactly?”

  Dad thought for a moment. “Some sort of businessman. Flew in from America a couple of days ago. He’s staying at the Old Course Hotel. I think he said he owned a string of joke shops.”

  “That figures,” said Lewis.

  Greg tossed the paper onto the table and he and Lewis went into a huddle by the microwave.

  “What do you think he’s up to?” Lewis said in an anxious whisper. “I thought we’d seen the last of him.”

  Greg screwed up his face in thought. “Remember the other gods took away his powers when they banned Lokiday, his special day? He told us he was living as a gambler in America, so how much trouble can he be?”

  “Hey, did you guys get air conditioning or something?” asked Susie. “It’s turned awful cold all of a sudden.”

  Lewis and Greg looked round and saw her rubbing her bare arms.

  “She’s right, you know,” said their dad. “It has turned chilly.”

  Lewis glanced out the back window and groaned. “No wonder. Look outside!”

  The sky, which had been a brilliant blue a minute before, was now covered in dark clouds, and thick snowflakes were falling on the garden.

  “That’s queer,” said their dad. “Snow in the middle of July. What could have brought that on?”

  Lewis and Greg looked at each other. “Loki!” they both declared at once.

  2. A Box Full of Winter

  “What was that, boys?” said Mr McBride.

  “Just saying ‘look’, Dad,” said Lewis, covering quickly. “You know, at the snow.”

  No one but the boys themselves remembered anything about the spell Loki had cast on the town before. There was no way to explain it that would be believable.

  “Here comes Mum,” said Greg.

  Mrs McBride had just pulled up in the car at the back of the house. She was dressed in a short sleeved blouse and a summer skirt, and hurried into the house, shivering. She dropped two bags of groceries on the kitchen table and shook the snow out of her hair.

  “Who broke the weather?” she asked. “When I went off to the shops it was like the Bahamas out there. I nearly froze to death on the way back.”

  “It must be some unusual climatic thing,” said Mr McBride, flicking the switch on the central heating. “A funnel of cold air coming in from Iceland or something like that.”

  “That weather girl on the BBC didn’t say anything about this,” said Mum. “You’d think she’d know her business, being Scottish.”

  “It’s going to play havoc with the course,” said Mr McBride. “I’d better get on to the groundskeepers.” He pulled out his phone and disappeared into the study.

  “If this keeps up, the car’s going to get buried,” said Lewis, glancing out the window.

  “I’d put it away in the garage, if there was any room,” said Mum, sorting through the shopping, “but it’s full of junk. I keep asking your dad to clear it out.”

  “Is this freaky or what?” said Susie, bouncing on the spot to keep herself from freezing. “No trips to the beach today.”

  “And I was planning to visit the Botanic Gardens too,” said Mum, “to see their new orchids.” She finished stacking some tins on a shelf. “Susie, I’d better loan you a coat and give you a lift home.”

  “It’s only a couple of streets, Mrs Mac,” said Susie. “I’ll just run and wrap up warm when I get there. I’ll see you boys outside for a snowball fight,” she added as she jogged out the door. “Better watch your backs!”

  “I think we’d all better get some warm clothes on,” said Mum, “before somebody catches a chill.”

  Lewis and Greg went upstairs to change out of their summer clothes into jeans, jumpers and winter socks. They met up again in Lewis’ room and stared out the window at the impossible snow.

  “Be straight with me, Lewis,” said Greg. “You haven’t been messing around with any old books or reading out magical rhymes, have you?”

  It was an ancient rhyme in an old book Lewis had found that had enchanted the town and summoned Loki a few months ago.

  “Do you think I’m off my head?” retorted Lewis. “And can I just say that last time it was your idea to say the rhyme that brought Loki here.”

  “There’s no point dwelling on the past,” said Greg, waving a dismissive hand. “We need to focus on the here and now. Look, at least nothing’s happened to change the town.”

  “No, but this freak weather and Loki turning up at the same time – it can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Last time we saw him he had the power to conjure up fire,” Greg recalled, “but that was only because
he’d brought his special day, Lokiday, back from the past. Without that he can’t do magic any more than we could.”

  “Something different is happening this time,” said Lewis. “And I’m sure it will get worse.”

  “Then we’d better get busy, Lewis,” Greg declared. “We need to find this Larry O’Keefe and shut him down.”

  “Last time he nearly roasted us alive,” Lewis pointed out with a worried frown.

  “Yes, but without his powers he’s just a conman in a fancy suit. We can take him.”

  “I don’t suppose we have a choice. It’s not like anybody would believe us if we told them.”

  “Too right, “said Greg. “I don’t see the police arresting him for causing magical mayhem just on our say so.”

  Lewis peered out the window. The snow was still falling, if anything, even heavier, it seemed to him. He shivered. “We’d better dig out our winter gear.”

  They put on their woolly hats, coats and heavy boots and headed downstairs. Mum had the TV on in the front room and they could hear the voice of a news reporter.

  “The Met Office is baffled by the freak snowfall in St Andrews. While the wintry conditions are limited to this one area, they show no sign of easing.”

  Dad came out of the study, still with his phone in his hand. “This blizzard is messing up the signal,” he said. “Where are you two going? Off to do a bit of sledging, I suppose.”

  “That’s right, Dad, we’re taking the sledge over to Hallowhill,” said Greg.

  “You have fun,” said Dad, poking at his phone. “If I can’t get through to the clubhouse, I’ll have to drive down there in person.”

  “Dad can you tell us anything more about Larry O’Keefe?” Lewis asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, son.”

  “I mean, did he do or say anything strange or unusual?”

  “Well, he slices the ball something awful, I can tell you that. He was only part of the group because he’d met Garth Makepeace on the flight over.”

  “He was with Garth Makepeace?” blurted Greg.

  “Garth – he said to call him Garth – had a round booked on the Old Course and he invited Larry along,” Dad explained. “But anybody with eyes could see Larry wasn’t much of a golfer.”