Casper Candlewacks in the Attack of the Brainiacs! (12 page)

And if you got to the end of that sentence in one breath, CONGRATULATIONS! You and your iron lungs should consider a job in deep-sea diving, didgeridoo playing or pig farming.

“LUNCH MUNNY!” Bash's furious roar echoed down the corridor.

“We've got to hide,” said Casper.

“That h-history room,” said Snivel. “It's the only p-place we can be sure is safe.”

“Yessss!” Lamp did a little skip of glee.

Anemonie groaned.

They veered right, sprinting down another large hallway, and then into the little hallway with all the wrongly coloured lions. There was the history room – decaying teacher still slumped on the desk; everything in place just as before except for the door, which was nowhere to be seen.

“But where's it gone?” Casper couldn't hide the panic in his voice.

“My b-brothers must've t-taken it off its hinges. They're l-learning.”

“Oh no,” sagged Lamp. “But history's my favourite.”

Anemonie screeched. “Look!”

Spit Brewster loomed into the corridor. “Found dem, Bash!”

The four fled again, out of the other end of the lions' corridor and into a small hall lined with doors to classrooms. On one door was painted Art in messy orange letters; on another was a cracked wooden sign with wonky nails in the shape of the word Technology, and a third door simply said Speling.

The stampede was just round the corner now. The nearest door said Caretaker. It would have to do.

“In here.” Casper pulled open the door, tugged Lamp inside and let the other two squeeze in behind them.

“Cor,” said Lamp. “Whoever Caretaker is, he must be tiny.”

The caretaker's room was less of a room, more of a cupboard. Actually, it was less of a cupboard, more of a shelf. The four wriggled for space and Lamp found himself pressed against Anemonie.

“Eurgh, get off me!” Anemonie shrieked, giving Lamp a rough shove.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “There isn't the space not to cuddle.”

As three of them cuddled and Anemonie scowled, it was time to take in their stuffy surroundings. The shelf was laden with many multicoloured bottles, a collection of mop heads,
a deflated red balloon and a wonky bike wheel. But worst of all,
there was no lock on the door.

Casper gulped. “We can't hide here. They'll find us.”

“Ooh, chemicals.” Lamp stared at the bottles in awe.

The sound of irate Brewsters filled the corridor. Too late to move now.

“Find dem!” yelled Bash. “I want four lunch munnies an' I want dem now. Or at least by lunchtime.”

“Yes, Bash,” said Clobber.

“Yes, Bash,” said Spit.

“Yes, Bash,” said Pinchnurse.

“Yes, Bash,” said Clobber, who'd forgotten he'd said it already.

“Yes, Bash,” said Lamp, but Casper clapped a
hand over Lamp's mouth and Anemonie thumped him.

There were sounds of stomping and splintering doors.

Snivel trembled like a chipmunk in the fridge.

“Lamp, what are we going to do?” asked Casper. It was hard to stay calm in a room with about three gulps of air left.

“Hang on, Casper, I'm busy.” Lamp unscrewed a bottle and sniffed. “Ah, yummy.” He nodded, picked up the red balloon and poured a dribble of the liquid in.

This was wasting time they couldn't afford. “If you're not going to help, then come and hold this door.”

“But I am helping.” He picked up another bottle and read the label. “Ammonia. Mm. Just a drop.”

“Ugh, that stinks,” gagged Anemonie.

“It's s'posed to stink.” He forced a sticky handful of tar down the neck of the balloon, followed by a couple of glugs of floor cleaner. “I'm making a stink bomb.”

The Brewsters were getting nearer. In the next room, Casper could hear the sound of overturned tables, overturned chairs and overturned members of Maths Club.

“Anemonie, help us hold this door.”

“Shan't.” She turned her back on the others (which was silly, given that her face was now pressed to the wall) and made a
hmph
noise.

Bash Brewster's ugly voice hollered from right outside the caretaker's door. “Wot's this one say? C.A.R.E.T… carrots?”

“Th-that's us!” Snivel leant all of his little
shaking body against the door.

Casper's heart raced. “Lamp,” he rasped, “quick!”

“Almost there,” he hummed, dribbling some liquid from a bottle marked Gin. “You can't hurry science, you know.”

“Not even a bit? They're right outside!”

“One final thing,” smiled Lamp, fumbling around in his pocket. He pulled out his lunchtime boiled egg and grinned. “Ta-da!” Lamp squeezed the egg down the neck of the balloon, tied the whole thing up and shook it vigorously. Then he grabbed a glue stick and rubbed it on his nose. “You'll all need to glue your nostrils shut. Here.”

Casper followed Lamp's lead, plastering it all over his nose, then squeezing his nostrils shut. “Will it work?”

“Course,” honked Lamp. “Have I ever let you down?”

“Er…”

Snivel did the same. Anemonie turned up her pointy nose at the glue, plumping instead for a sparkly pink clothes peg she kept in her pocket, mostly for the purposes of pinching people.

Three heavy knocks vibrated through Casper's bones.

“LUNCH MUNNY!” yelled Bash.

“Pretend we're not here,” whispered Casper.

“Anybody in there?” called Bash.

“Nope,” honked Lamp. “We're not here. Try somewhere else.” He grinned at Casper with thumbs up. “What?”

“Shut. Up.” Casper mouthed. He bit his tongue, pleading beyond possibility that Bash was dumb
enough to fall for Lamp's trick.

There were a few moments of silence. “Oh,” Bash mumbled. “Well, fanks, anyway.” He plodded off for a few steps and then stopped again. “'Ang on a minute… Dey said… but…”

BAM!
Casper and Snivel landed on the opposite wall, feeling the sickening crunch of their bodies before they knew they'd even moved. Bash's silhouette blocked the doorway, ham fists clenched, caveman jowls shaking. Behind him stood Spit, Clobber, Pinchnurse and one nosy member of Maths Club.

Pain coursing through his limbs, Casper crumpled to the floor.

Bash cracked his knuckles. “Lunch Munny.”

This was it. Through the pain and the glue, Casper croaked, “Now.”

Lamp, clutching his balloon at arm's length like a stinky newborn baby, caught Casper's eye and nodded. With a nasal grunt, he lobbed the balloon through the doorway. It wobbled past Bash's shoulder, floated in the air for a moment and then plummeted to the polished floor in the middle of the Brewsters. All brutish eyes followed the mystery object, watching it strike the floor, watching it burst instantly and squirt its putrid filling into the air like a suicidal doughnut. All brutish bodies jerked backwards as flecks of black porridge-like slime spattered their clothes and skin. All brutish nostrils flared as the foul odour of rotten egg wrapped in a tramp's trousers and left to ripen in a rat-ridden sewer, hit the backs of their throats for the first fetid time. All brutish mouths choked and gagged, all brutish
knees buckled, all brutish eyes watered.

Casper stared at the chaos with a mixture of amusement and horror. With the Brewsters rolling about the floor in a stinky heap, their escape was in sight.

“Ready?” Casper grinned.

They all nodded.

“Then RUN!”

“You did it! You actually did it!” Casper leapt into the air, brimming over with triumph. “Thank you, Lamp. I'm starting to like those new brains of yours.”

“Boffin…” said Anemonie, who wasn't going to let any saving of lives get in the way of her grumpiness.

Lamp puffed up his chest proudly. “I'd like to
thank my mum, my two ever-supportive hens, and the wonderful world of science.” He pulled from his backpack a thick textbook called
Chemistry for Brainiacs (Advanced Version)
and kissed the woman in goggles on the front cover.

“I've had enough of this,” spat Anemonie. “You think that was a victory? We just hid in another stupid cupboard and then ran away again. All you wimps ever do is run and hide. I'm doing this on my own. Without you.” She stomped off as loudly as she could.

“Bye, Alemony,” sang Lamp.

“R-running and h-hiding's all right,” said Snivel. “It's w-what I d-do best, really.”

“We'll have to do a lot more running if we don't find Cuddles.” Casper's eyes scoured the playground, eventually pinpointing a tiny person
chewing a book under the oak tree. “Oh, thank goodness.”

Cuddles hardly noticed them approach. She was gleefully wolfing down Lamp's copy of
????? ? ????
in chapter-sized mouthfuls.

“My story!” Lamp gazed, heartbroken, at the shreds of paper drooping from Cuddles's chin.

“Sorry, Lamp.”

“It's OK.” He forced a brave smile.

Cuddles burped (in Russian).

Moments later, the Brewsters emerged from school, ripping at their clothes and rubbing furiously at their stinky skin, but the sticky, tar-based slop clung on like a leech to a blood bank. Staggering at the back was Bash. He'd taken the brunt of the explosion; his entire back half was caked in black sludge, and rubbing it on passing
children just made it stinkier. The smell wafting from the four Brewsters was so foul that flowers wilted, insects dropped from the air and a married couple five miles away decided to get a divorce.

The Brewsters stomped off through the gates into town to find a decent car wash without a glance round the playground.

The lunch bell rang and High Kobb kids flooded out of their classrooms. But for all the freedom to cross the playground without being pushed over, to buy lunch without having it snatched from your hands, Casper didn't feel relieved one tiny morsel. He sat on a bench, thinking of all the onions he could be slicing, all the chickens he could be stuffing, if only he was at The Battered Cod. Jean-Claude's meagre Monday offering had grown almost to a full menu by Tuesday. What
about today? Would it keep improving? Could Julius even compete by Friday?

 

At the end of the day, the tractor 'n' carriage rolled through the gates with the Corne-on-the-Kobb kids on board. They all sang Mr Flanty's ‘The Pi Song' on the way home, apart from Anemonie, Cuddles and Casper, who blocked their ears, screamed into their blazers or chewed on Lamp's shoe (but not in that order). Casper had a bad feeling about what he'd find in the square on his return, and as the tractor pulled up on the cobbles, his worries were confirmed. A bustling queue reached back from the entrance to
Bistro D'Escargot
to the other end of the square.

Casper leapt off the carriage and dashed over to the villager at the front, who turned out to be
Audrey Snugglepuss; she looked up from her encyclopaedia as he approached.

“Why are you all queuing?” asked Casper. “He doesn't open for hours.”

“Haven't you seen the menu? Oh!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in adoration. “Just the sound of those dishes stimulates my salivary glands!”

Casper looked at Jean-Claude's Specials board with horror. Just one glance told him all he needed to know.
Caramelised Air with a Bouffant Crust
, it read,
Mute Partridge in Quilted Gravy, Fois Gras Supreme in a Crisped Black Diamond Boat floating on a river of Doe's Tears.

“What are these things?” gasped Casper, awestruck.

A Figment of Puy Lentils, individually ordained
by the Pope, gently curried in Preserved Saffron Molecules.

Jean-Claude's rubbery little face popped out from the doorway of
Bistro D'Escargot
and smirked at Casper. “
Bravo
, boy.
Encore, encore!
” He clapped his hands sarcastically and Audrey Snugglepuss joined in. “Your little game of singy-song last night was not fooling anybody.”

Casper remained steely-faced. “My ‘singy-song' told me what I needed to know, thank you very much.”

“And what, I may be asking, is zat?”

“The village has gone clever, and somehow it's your doing.”

Jean-Claude laughed, his watery eyes full of pity. “Ahh, boy. Why would I be doing zat? What possible gain could I be making?” He hawked and
spat black snot at the ground. “Run along home, little one.”

“I will!” Casper shouted. “And when I get there, I'm gonna… erm… well… I'm on to you, Jean-Claude!” Purple and cringing, Casper stormed away from the chuckling chef, across the square, through the flock of hopscotch-playing pigeons and into The Battered Cod.

Ting-a-ling.

Julius sat at Table 6 with a mug of cold tea and a frown all over his face. (The cold tea wasn't all
over his face, by the way. Just the frown. And a beard.)

“Dad, have you—”

“Seen his new menu?” Julius groaned. “I've seen it all right.
Gold-leafed doodaahs
and
Deep-Cleansed whatnots
. How am I s'posed to compete, Casp?”

“Don't say that. I know you'll win on Friday. After all, the villagers are scared of foreigners. Remember the time they locked that Spaniard in the clock tower? And the Japanese tourists that they tried to make into soup? They're bound to tire of him soon.”

“But his food's getting better every day. How's he doing it?”

Casper rubbed his eyes. “I don't know, Dad. I wish I did.”

“I need you to go in there. Find out more about Jean-Claude's cooking.”

Casper laughed. “I can't just waltz into
Bistro D'Escargot
and ask for his secrets!”

“Why not?”

“Well, d'you think he'd tell the son of his arch-rival? He'd kick me out before I'd even ordered starters.”

“All right, clever-clogs. Got a better plan?”

“I need a disguise. I need to look like, well, not me.”

“Not you, eh…” Julius scratched his beard. “I've got just the thing.”

“I look like a prat.” Casper stood in front of the mirror in his mum's yellow dress with frilly sleeves and a plunged neckline along with six-inch scarlet stilettos and pink leggings, topped off with
a wide-brimmed straw hat to cover his blushing face.

“What are you talking about?” said Julius. “The colour matches your eyes!”

“As if you know anything about fashion.”

“Excuse me! I was something of an icon back in the seventies. Pink bell-bottoms, glittery silk shirts… they called me ‘Disco Inferno'.”

“I think you've just proved my point.”

“You ask your mother. When I stepped on to that dance floor, the crowd would part at my feet.”

“Scared of your bell-bottoms?”

“You haven't a clue, Casper. I've still got them somewhere…”

“Talking of Mum, do you think she'll mind? About this dress, I mean.”

“Hey, what she can't see won't hurt her.”

Casper and Julius had sneaked past Amanda on the way upstairs. She was down in the kitchen, picking scraps of
????? ? ????
out of Cuddles's hair. That left Casper and Julius free to root around in her wardrobe for pretty dresses.

“If you ever tell anyone…”

“I promise, Casper.” Julius masked a chuckle by coughing into his hand. “Blimey, if you find out Jean-Claude's secret,
I'll
wear that dress.”

“Can't believe I'm doing this.” Casper groaned. “I actually look like a girl.”

“A rather ravishing one, if I may say so,” chuckled Julius. “Just remember to talk like a girl too.”

Walking with heels was a lot harder than Casper had expected. Halfway down the stairs, he turned an ankle, missed the step and tumbled the rest of
the way, landing in a technicolour heap on the floor.

“Boys! Boys! Over here!” Amanda cried down the corridor. “Cuddles has learnt Russian!”

“Another time, dear. We've… erm… got to rescue the dumplings. Left the oven on.” Julius slapped the side of his head, tutted at himself and bundled Casper out of the front door under his jacket.

It was practically dark when they left the house. How many hours had passed since Casper started changing? Many hundreds, thousands, or probably about four if Casper actually thought about it. So many needless frills, so many bits to tuck and fold and glue in place. Casper felt like a Christmas present.

The walk to The Battered Cod was a painful
sequence of falling, climbing up, tottering and falling again. On the upside, at least he was starting to get used to it (the falling, that is, not the tottering – that was still as hard as ever).

The queue outside
Bistro D'Escargot
had disappeared and the restaurant was practically full already, but what with this afternoon's dressing-up session, The Battered Cod was still dark and locked up.

“This better work,” growled Julius.

“Just get the restaurant ready for eight.
Remember what to do?”

Julius nodded and looked at his watch. “I'll be there.”

“And you're sure you can't tell it's me?”

“Positive, Casp.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Promise you promise?”

“I wouldn't recognise you in a million years. Now, go on – get on with it.”

“All right. I'm ready.” Casper tipped his hat at Julius and trotted into the square, bumping straight into Lamp.

“Hi, Casper. Nice dress.”

So much for a million years. “Ahem,” Casper squeaked. “Casper? Who's Casper?”

“You are. What's wrong with your voice?”

“Oh no, but my name's… er… Elizabeth. You must have the wrong person. Good day.” Casper pulled his hat down over his face and trotted away, tripped straight over a cobble and clattered to the floor.

“Casper, are you OK?”

This was ridiculous. Casper clambered back upright using a wall for balance. He tugged Lamp to a corner of the square and hissed, “Look, I'm undercover and you're ruining it. I'm pretending to be a lady, so I'd appreciate it if you stopped using my name.”

Lamp frowned. “But why would you want to be a lady?”

“I'm infiltrating
Bistro D'Escargot
.”

Lamp looked horrified.

“Stop that. It's for my dad. Just pretend I'm
your mum or something.”

“Oh, that's easy. I'm good at pretending. Hello, Mum; you're my mum. See?”

Casper sighed. “Good, now take my arm and let's go in.”

Lamp obliged, giggling under his breath.

Muddy old Sandy Landscape stood outside
Bistro D'Escargot
, prodding the potted plants by the entrance.

“Hello, Mister Landscape,” chirruped Lamp, “have you met my mum?”

“Ooh, er… no… ohh!” He glanced at Casper and instantly fell in love. “I don't believe I've 'ad the pleasure, me darlin'.” Sandy leant forward to kiss Casper's hand.

Casper curtseyed. “Much obliged.”

Sandy hawked into a hanky. “Will you… er…
be dinin' tonight? After I finished taxonomisin' these ferns, I'll be right in.”

“She's my mum, you see,” said Lamp, “because it's true.”

Casper curtseyed again and tugged Lamp inside, where the garlic-scented villain himself, Jean-Claude D'Escargot, waited by the door.

“
Bonsoir
,
Monsieur Flannigan
.” His bow brought him out in a coughing fit.