The Case of the Exploding Brains (4 page)

“Right, LOSERS.” Aggressive Policeman slams the reports on the table. “We need to iron out a few discrepancies between your statements.”

Smokin’ Joe screws up his face. “You want us to iron?”

“It’s a metaphor,” I tell him, wrinkling my nose as I smell something burning. I wonder if that happens a lot. (The burning I mean. I don’t wrinkle my nose any more than
the average person.) I’ve never seen a place with as much firefighting equipment as this museum café – extinguishers, sand buckets, fire blankets and the works. I don’t
know whether it makes me feel safer or more alarmed.

“I ain’t ironing no metaphor,” Smokin’ Joe mutters. “My dad says ironing is girls’ work.”

“I’m a girl and I don’t iron,” Holly says. “Porter usually does it before I get the chance.” She ignores Porter’s squeak of protest and pokes Joe in the
chest. “So, your dad is talking absolute—”

“When you’ve finished, geniuses,” Aggressive Policeman interrupts, “there’s some confusion about the length of time Alexander West was missing from the
group.”

“No time at all,” Remarkable Student Alexander protests. “Unless you count a quick toilet break.”

“Quick? You were gone for over thirty minutes,” I say.

“More like five.” Alexander stares at Shazia, Omar and Giles until they murmur in agreement.

“We’ll go with the majority,” Aggressive Policeman says, scribbling in his notebook.

“Why?” I protest. “Why go with the majority when the majority is wrong? Go with the person who’s right – me!” I add, in case that part’s not clear.

Porter pulls my sleeve and murmurs under his breath, “He wasn’t in the toilet.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know where Alexander was,” Porter whispers, “but he wasn’t in the toilet.”

I try to share this important clue with Aggressive Policeman.

Aggressive Policeman isn’t interested. “What about Joe Slater? Was he, or was he not, close to the Moon Rock when it vanished?”

I’d be more than happy for them to lock up Smokin’ Joe and throw away the key, so it’s hard to admit, “He was nowhere near it.”

“That’s not what your friends think.” Aggressive Policeman scowls.

“I saw Joe smash the glass,” Holly says apologetically.

I nod. “But he was on the other side of the room when the Moon Rock disappeared.”

“How can you be sure?” Aggressive Policeman glances at the wall clock, clearly keen to move things along.

“Because I can picture it.” I close my eyes and visualise my last glimpse of the Moon Rock, less than a minute before Museum Curator Gnome announced its disappearance. Smokin’
Joe is at least ten metres away from the smashed display case.

“What do you mean, ‘
picture
it’?” Aggressive Policeman snaps.

“Know-All has a photographic memory,” Holly says. “She can remember everything she sees.”

“Then she must have had her eyes closed,” Remarkable Student Shazia says. “Because Joe Slater was right next to that Moon Rock. I saw him.”

Alexander, Giles and Omar nod in agreement.

“Great,” I mutter. “Another majority. I guess that means he must have been where they say he was.”

Aggressive Policeman seems to think so. He notes it in his book and clicks the end of his pen, up and down, up and down, staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Why does your account differ from everyone else’s?”

“Because everyone else is wrong?”

“Are you saying your friends are lying?” Aggressive Policeman asks.

“No. I’m saying the Remarkable Students are lying and my
friends
weren’t paying enough attention.”

“Guilty as charged,” Holly admits.

“Someone else must have seen what I saw,” I say. “What about the woman under the blanket?”

“What woman under the blanket?” Aggressive Policeman flicks through his reports.

Remarkable Student Alexander points at me and then twirls his fingers beside his head, making the universal sign for ‘crazy person’.

Aggressive Policeman’s mouth tightens. “You do not want to play games with me, young lady.”

“Absolutely not,” I agree. No way would I ever sit down to a game of Cluedo with Aggressive Policeman. He strikes me as a very bad loser.

Aggressive Policeman scribbles something else in his notebook.

“What are you writing?” I ask. “What have I done?”

“Why don’t
you
tell
me
?” This seems to be Aggressive Policeman’s idea of sharp interrogation.

“How can I tell you if I don’t know?”

“What
do
you know?”

“Lots of things. My sister’s right, I have a photographic memory. I can remember everything I’ve—”

Aggressive Policeman raises his hand. “Not interested in your memory,” he says, “Tell me what you know about the Moon Rock.”

“I wrote everything in my statement. If you read it properly, instead of ignoring it because it doesn’t match everyone else’s, you’ll see—”

“Watch your attitude,” Aggressive Policeman blusters. “You think you’re smarter than the police because you’ve got some kind of photogenic memory . . . ?

“Photographic,” I point out politely. “I doubt my memory looks particularly good in pictures.”

“Photographic, photogenic, photic-schmotic. I don’t care, Miss. Let me tell you—”

I don’t get to hear what he’s planning to tell me because we’re interrupted by the Museum Curator Gnome.

“Which of you young folk would be Noelle and Holly Hawkins?” He glances from our table to the other school party.

I’m about to step forward when I notice his shirt sleeves are covered in blood.

He sees me flinch. “Fear not, small person. This blood is not mine. It came from the nasal passages of one of our poor, unfortunate security guards.”

Reassuring. Not.

“Nosebleed, you say?” Aggressive Policeman scribbles in his notebook. “Could that be an effect of the Moon Rock?”

Museum Curator Gnome scratches his chin. “Seems a bit early, but we must be on our guard. One of these young gentlemen was similarly affected, I recall.” He spots Smokin’ Joe.
“You, my fine young fellow! How are your nasal passages?”

Smokin’ Joe ignores Museum Curator Gnome and fiddles with his headphones.

Archimedes!
Look at the colour of them. How did I not notice that before?

“Excuse me.” I pull the gnome’s sleeve, carefully avoiding the blood. “Did the security guard with the nosebleed have a turquoise walkie-talkie?”

“What a strange question, child. I have more important things to do than . . . Wait! Yes, I think he did. I noticed something off about the fellow, but I was too busy being bled on to give
it my full attention. Turquoise walkie-talkies? Yes, indeed. Whatever next?”

I look at Holly and Porter. They’re already looking at me. So is Museum Curator Gnome.

He peers over his glasses at my face. “You’re one of the Hawkins girls, aren’t you? Striking family resemblance.” He turns to peer at Holly. “You too. A less
striking resemblance, but it’s still there. The daughters of Professor ‘Big Brain’ Brian, I presume?”

I nod. Aggressive Policeman’s lips twist and he makes another note in his book. I try not to sink in my chair. I used to be proud when people linked me to Dad, but that was when he was
just a famous celebrity scientist. Now he’s an infamous crazy-scientist who faked his own death by blowing up a public toilet.

Museum Curator Gnome doesn’t seem to hold that against him. “Terribly sorry to hear of your father’s misfortunes,” he says. “He was a wonderful supporter of the
Science Museum and a splendidly clever fellow. He’d have found a solution to this dreadful situation. When I discovered his daughters were on the premises I thought you might be able to help
– I didn’t realise how small you’d be. Still, I’m sure you’ll be smashingly bright when you’re older, just like your father. I was devastated when I heard
he’d perished. Delighted to discover he’d just . . . er . . . just . . .”

“Just blown up a public toilet and pretended to be dead?” Holly spits out the words in disgust.

“Mmm. Yes. That.” Museum Curator Gnome nods.

“I’m not that young,” I point out. “I’m twelve and I have an IQ of one hundred and fifty-seven.”

Museum Curator Gnome isn’t listening. “Do ask the old chap if he plans to return and complete his research after his . . . break. Shouldn’t be embarrassed about . . . er . . .
you know. These things happen to us all.”

I’m so busy wondering what Museum Curator Gnome gets up to in his spare time if he thinks being arrested for exploding a toilet ‘happens to us all’ that I forget to ask what
Dad was researching.

Never mind. I know who can tell me about the research. And the nosebleeds. And the moon connection.

Dad.

Luckily I’ve already booked a visit for tomorrow.

Days Left to Save the Earth: 13

I stride through the Prison Visitors’ Centre. Vigil-Aunty scuttles along behind me. The metal detector doesn’t scare me now I’ve swapped to
multivitamins-with-zinc, which have the added benefit of protecting me from jail germs.

Dad joins us at Table Eight, looking much better than he did last time. Maybe he’s taking zinc too. His limp is gone, the bruises are fading and his nose is more Ernie from
Sesame
Street
than Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Plus he’s shaved off the stupid goatee beard he grew when he was the Great Leader of LOSERS.

It’s harder to be mad at him when he looks like the Dad I remember.

“How are the Neanderthugs?” I ask.

The smile wobbles and Dad glances over his shoulder, relaxing when he sees no one’s listening. “All good.”

“So tell me what happened at the Science Museum,” I whisper.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do . . .
Louis Pasteur!
” I cling to my chair as Hell Raizah approaches. “How can one man be so
big
?”

Vigil-Aunty reaches for her Handbag of Mass Destruction, forgetting she had to leave it with security. I doubt it would have worked against Hell Raizah anyway. He’s built to withstand
Armageddon. Like a large cockroach. With biceps.

He slaps Dad on the back in a way you’d only welcome if you had mints blocking your windpipe. But there are signs it might have been intended as a friendly whack as Hell Raizah is carrying
a fluffy moon toy with miniature arms and legs and he lifts one of the spindly arms to give Dad a wave.

Freaky. Yet interesting.