The Case of the Exploding Brains (2 page)

“Shh!” Dad lifts a finger to his lips, wincing as he pokes his swollen nose.

Heads swivel: heads attached to enormous, muscular bodies.

I lower my voice. “You said Neanderthugs tended to end up in prison because they were too stupid to cover their tracks.”

“Turns out I was right,” Dad mutters. “Most of them
are
in prison. With me. And most of them spent last Tuesday evening watching the documentary.”

A huge human bicep lumbers past our table and ‘accidentally’ kicks Dad’s chair out from under him. Dad’s face hits the table. When he lifts it, he has a nose to rival
Rudolph’s.

“Neanderthug Number One,” Dad mutters through swollen lips.

With a pang of guilt, I remember the moment during the Case of the Exploding Loo when I could have let Dad wriggle free to escape the police. Sadly, I can’t travel back in time (yet). But
perhaps I can fix things in the present. I jump up and grab Neanderthug Number One’s arm, trying not to notice how small my fingers look beside his ‘No Mercy!’ tattoo.

“Stop hurting my d-dad,” I stutter, aware we’re breaking Rule 1 and possibly Rule 5. “He didn’t mean to upset you and – blimey, aren’t you big? –
there must b-be a way he can m-make things up to you.”

Neanderthug Number One studies me as if I’m something on the bristles of his toilet brush. “Want moon,” he grunts eventually.

“Moon?” I repeat with an anxiety that comes from too much time spent reading the dictionary:

“Is this a bare buttocks thing?” I ask nervously.

“NO!” Neanderthug Number One’s bellow thunders through the hall. “WANT MOON! MOON MAKE HELL RAIZAH STRONG.”

“Mr Raizah may have a point.” Vigil-Aunty says. “I’ve heard that crime rates soar during a full moon. So do hospital admissio—”

“Baloney!” Dad barks. “Idiot woman! Scientific research shows no link between criminal activity and phases of the moon.”

“
You’re
the idiot.” Vigil-Aunty raises her voice to be heard over Dad’s spluttering and thrusts her face in his.

They both rise to their feet, going chin-to-chin over Table Eight.

“Rule 1!” I remind them. “And it doesn’t matter which of you is the idiot. Science or no science, what matters is Mr Hell Raizah
believes
the moon will make him
stronger.”

“WANT MOON!” Hell Raizah roars. “YOU GET MOON, I GET NICE.”

Six Days Later

I’m the first to sense something’s wrong on the LOSERS (Lindon-based Opportunities for the Superior Education of Remarkable Students) trip to the Science Museum. I
scan the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery, trying to work out what tripped my ‘uh-oh’ switch.

I study the moon landers that dangle from the ceiling, hinting at shiny adventures in other places. Nope. Not them. Not the missile parts lurking in the background either. Something simpler has
aroused my suspicions – something made of turquoise plastic.

I hate turquoise. Turquoise is the colour that connected all the sinister organisations during the Case of the Exploding Loo. I suppose you could say turquoise helped me, my sister Holly and our
friend Porter crack the case; but it also landed Dad in jail, so the turquoise walkie-talkies make me uneasy. And they’re not the only problem.

I’ve never been a fan of Remarkable Student Alexander. I don’t like the way he keeps reminding everyone that LOSERS invited him to join back when the school only admitted the
‘brightest and the best’. This is a dig at students like Holly, who weren’t accepted until LOSERS was forced to relax its admissions policy after the science teacher blew up half
the building and the headmistress (Porter’s mum and Dad’s evil sidekick) was accused of kidnapping and brainwashing children.

But LOSERS is still a good school. At least it
was
until it relaxed its admissions policy so far it admitted Smokin’ Joe Slater – who got his nickname by spending break and
lunch times lurking in the school toilets, smoking cigarettes he’d nicked from his mum. He was expelled from Butt’s Hill Middle School for trying to sell cigarettes to a dinner lady and
then dumping her in the kitchen wheelie bin when she threatened to report him.

This brings me to my third clue.

If Smokin’ Joe is a well-behaved student, then I’m a prize-winning turnip. There’s trouble brewing, as Vigil-Aunty is always saying (as if trouble’s something you drink
with milk and sugar).

I try to warn Holly, Porter and the rest of the LOSERS, but no one listens until the ‘Making the Modern World’ gallery erupts in an explosion of smoke and engine noise.

“It’s
alive
!” Holly grabs my head and angles it so we’re both looking in the same direction. “That train thing is
alive
!”

“That ‘train thing’ is Stephenson’s Rocket,” I tell her. “Chosen as the best steam engine to power the railway in 1829.”

“Seriously? You’re geeking out on me
now
?” Holly grits her teeth. “Fine. Let me rephrase. That Stephenson’s Rocket thing is
alive
!”

“Don’t be silly, Holly. It’s just an exhib— oooh . . .” My voice trails off as Stephenson’s Rocket gives an impressive toot and releases a puff of smoke.

“Run for your lives before it flattens us all!” Holly squares her hips to face the engine, ready to save everyone, single-handedly.

“At ease, Wonder Woman,” I say. “There are no tracks. Without them, Stephenson’s Rocket is going nowhere. Even with tracks, its top speed was under thirty miles per hour,
so all we’d have to do is step out of the way and let it power into the lift shaft.”

“Jeez!” Porter slams his hands over his ears as a deep roar shakes the Science Museum. “What is that
noise
?”

“That would be the sound of the Apollo 10 command module’s thrusters firing up,” I yell over the racket as visitors run from all corners of the museum to see what’s
causing the commotion. “But that makes no sense. I doubt very much that the module has working thrusters, but
if
it did, and
if
they were firing, this place would be like a
furnace.” I look around the room. “And why is there
smoke
coming out of Stephenson’s Rocket? It should be steam.”

I move closer and spot the smoke bomb on the seat.

Thomas Edison!
Trickery!

Now I know what I’m looking for, it takes me less than a minute to find smoke bombs and mini-speakers under all the major displays.

“Red herring!” I yell. “None of this is real. It’s just a distraction. Something bad is about to happen. Run away! Run away while you still have legs!”

I get a few odd looks, but no one runs – unless you count Smokin’ Joe, who doesn’t so much ‘run away’ as ‘run towards’, knocking into exhibits, setting
off motion sensor alarms, smashing glass cases and turning ‘Exploring Space’ into a frenzy of howling security alarms, rioting children and people yelling wildly that everyone should
“just calm down”. One woman is so scared she’s covered herself with a fire blanket, like a fancy-dress ghost but without the eye-holes.

“Good Lord!” A shrill voice cuts through the chaos. “What’s happened to the Moon Rock?”

All heads swivel to the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery’s prize exhibit.

The case is smashed and . . .

The security alarms continue to howl, but the volume in the room drops dramatically with a mass sucking-in of breath.

“Sit down!” an official voice commands. “Sit down exactly where you’re standing. Nobody move.”

I lower myself to the floor and stare at the empty glass case as Neanderthug Number One’s voice thunders through my memory: “YOU GET MOON.”

Looks like someone else wants the moon too.

Or is there a connection?

Hell Raizah doesn’t seem like a museum kind of guy, but you never know. Plus, even if he had nothing to do with the disappearance, maybe this is an opportunity to save Dad. I’d never
have stolen the rock myself. Obviously! I’m not a criminal. But what if I find it? Would it be okay to give it to Hell Raizah in exchange for Dad’s safety? Maybe the museum would let me
borrow it for a while as a thank you for locating it.

I study my fellow Science Museum visitors. Is the key to Dad’s protection hidden in someone’s pocket or handbag?

My eye twitches as another thought hits me. What if Dad’s behind this? Is he trying to make his own deal with Hell Raizah? It’s possible. Sometimes Dad can be too clever for his own
good. He’s a genius, but he forgets what’s right and what’s wrong when he’s focusing on an invention or science experiment.

“Nobody move!” the official voice repeats as a woman scrambles to her feet, muttering about needing the toilet.

The official voice belongs to a small, bearded man wearing a badge that labels him ‘Museum Curator’. He looks spookily similar to Vigil-Aunty’s garden gnome, even down to the
green trousers and waistcoat. All that’s missing is the pointy hat.

Museum Curator Gnome paces up and down the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery, keeping time with the howling alarms, muttering under his breath and glaring at the empty display case.
He’s obviously important, because no one tells
him
to sit down.

“Good people of the Science Museum, we must find this Moon Rock with speed,” he declares, tugging at his collar and sweating visibly. “The rock must be returned to its
nitrogen-filled glass container and stored at a fixed temperature. It is perfectly safe under those conditions. But in the oxygen and humidity of the Earth’s atmosphere . . .” Museum
Curator Gnome trails off as the security alarms fall silent.

Everyone stares at him expectantly.

“What?” Holly asks. “In the oxygen and humidity of the Earth’s atmosphere – what?”

“If not stored correctly, certain unidentified properties within this particular Moon Rock could become dangerous to mankind. I fear, my dear child, we have an international incident on
our hands.”

That doesn’t sound good. No one likes an international incident.

People start firing questions at Museum Curator Gnome:

“Dangerous – how?”

“What do these properties do?”

“COULD IT KILL US?” a voice shouts from the back.

We all look to Museum Curator Gnome, waiting for him to laugh and say, “Ha, don’t be silly.”

But he doesn’t.

“How long have we got?” I ask.

Everyone laughs nervously, except the gnome. “Two weeks,” he says. “I estimate we have two weeks before the first people’s brains start to blow up. After that it will
spread further and further.”

“Blow up? Do you mean swell or actually explode? Hello? Hello?”

The Museum Curator Gnome signals that he won’t be answering any more questions and walks across to join the other museum employees. The room shrinks under the weight of panic. You can
learn a lot about people from how they handle life-threatening news.

Holly throws her biro at a space probe.

Porter misquotes an old Flash Gordon movie: “Flash, I love you . . . but we only have fourteen days to save the Earth.”

“He can’t mean people’s brains will literally explode, can he?” I ask, as we sit in the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery, staring at the empty Moon
Rock case and waiting for the police to arrive.

“I think that’s exactly what he means,” Porter says. “If you measure panic in sweat patches, the Museum Curator guy’s stress levels are off the scale.”

Porter and Holly might not have IQs of one hundred and fifty-seven but they’re smart in other ways. Porter often spots things I miss, like sweaty Museum Curator Gnomes, and he’s
brilliant at picking locks and making things work. Holly is good at, um, kicking things. Oh, and yelling at people until they tell us what we need to know. We make a good team.

“But what about the other missing Moon Rocks?” Holly interrupts my thoughts. “Remember that documentary we saw, Know-All? Tell Porter about the Irish Moon Rock.”

It’s hard to remember a time when we watched TV
without
Porter. We’ve done everything together since Mum invited him to live with us. It made sense. Porter had nowhere to
stay – not only was his Mum on the run but his old dorm room had also been burned to the ground. And with Dad locked up, there was space in our house. Plus, having each other for company
stopped us thinking too much about our notably absent criminal parents.