The Case of the Exploding Brains (7 page)

“I won’t have you bullying my boy, you hear me?” she shrieks, bringing the frying pan down terrifyingly close to my left ear.

“I hear you! I hear you!” If I wasn’t in danger of being lobotomised by a frying pan, the idea of
me
bullying Smokin’ Joe would be funny. “I’m not
bullying him. I’m trying to help him. Please don’t frying pan me again, Mrs Slater.”

Ma Slater squints at me, then swivels to brandish the frying pan at Holly. “You saying it was this one?” She peers closely at my sister. “Hey, I know you. Yer that Hawkins
toe-rag what put my Joe in a wheelie bin a few months back.”

Porter takes his life into his own hands by grabbing Ma Slater’s pan arm as I try to reason with her.

“Holly only put Joe in the bin to stop him shoving me in there.”

“My Joe wouldn’t hurt a fly. If you was in that bin, you musta got there by accident.”

“Forty-three times?”

“Don’t you go confusing me with numbers,” Ma Slater screeches, shaking Porter off and raising her arm above her head to give the frying pan greater momentum.

“Afternoon, all,” a warm voice greets us. “Making the kids a spot of breakfast, Tracy?”

PC Eric! Perfect timing.

The crazed expression vanishes from Ma Slater’s face. She drops her pan arm and smiles like a woman who wasn’t about to batter two innocent schoolgirls to mush in her own front
yard.

“PC Eric!” she trills. “Fancy a custard cream?”

“Not today thanks, Tracy.”

“Not any day.” Aggressive Policeman steps out from behind the hedge. “No wonder it takes so long to get anything done out here in the sticks. You’re too busy wasting your
time munching biscuits with scumbags.”

“Who you calling a scumbag?” Ma Slater raises the frying pan, but PC Eric gently takes it from her.

“No need to get excited, Tracy. My colleague doesn’t mean to be disrespectful. We just want a quick word with Joe.”

“Well you can’t have one. Look at the poor beggar. These kids got the lad all upset.”

PC Eric pats Joe sympathetically.

Aggressive Policeman prods Joe with his foot and then growls in disgust as he realises his shoe is covered in snot. He looks round for something to wipe it on.

“You!” he says, when he spots me.

“Me,” I agree, hoping he’s not identifying me as a human handkerchief. “Why so far from London, sir?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m here to talk to this half-wit.” He points at Smokin’ Joe and snaps his fingers at PC Eric. “Come along, officer.
And bring that lump with you.”

“Ain’t you listening?” Ma Slater blocks the way, large hands on wide hips. “I said he’s not going nowhere!”

Aggressive Policeman shoves her towards the house. “No,
you
listen, Mrs Scumbag. I’m talking to that boy whether you like it or not. We can do it here or we can do it down
the station.”

“Don’t upset yourself, Tracy.” PC Eric takes Ma Slater’s arm. “Let’s take this inside. We just want to have a little chat with Joe. Show him a
film.”

“Film?” Smokin’ Joe looks up. His eyes are still glazed, but they seem clearer than they were five minutes ago. “I like films.”

Aggressive Policeman yanks him to his feet by his shirt collar. “You’ll love this one. It’s a hot new release with you in the starring role.” He hustles Joe indoors,
closely followed by PC Eric and Ma Slater.

Porter glances at the broken front window. “We’ll be able to hear everything from here.”

“Only if we stay out of sight.” Holly presses herself against the wall beneath the window.

Porter and I slither across to join her, hidden from view by tall weeds and piles of rubbish.

It’s noon. I don’t need a watch to tell me; my stomach likes routine and is now announcing it’s time for lunch.

“Shh!” Holly glares at me.

“It’s not my fault. We should have bought snacks.”

“I’ll bring hotdogs to go with the show next time, shall I?” Holly asks.

“That would be nice.”

Holly gives me a dead arm. It seems she was being sarcastic.

People aren’t getting on much better
inside
the house. Grunts and muttered insults drift through the window until Aggressive Policeman bellows that everyone needs to shut up
now
!

I hear the faint whirring of ageing electronic equipment and wish I could see the film footage. But Aggressive Policeman will probably take samples of our DNA too if he sees us peering in
through the window. Ooh! I have the solution. I scramble across the Slaters’ yard on my hands and knees.

“What are you doing?” Holly hisses. “You’ll cut yourself on the broken glass.”

“It’s the broken glass I need!” I crawl back, waving a juice carton and a few shards of mirror in triumph. I try to fix them in the right position.

“A periscope?” Porter shifts closer, looking impressed. “Cool.” He’s less impressed by my DIY skills. “Pass it here, sausage fingers, and tell me what to
do.”

I hand over my wannabe-periscope, not bothering to protest about the ‘sausage fingers’ comment. I know how to do things in theory but they never work in practice, whereas Porter is
Mr Make and Do.

“I need a few more things before we start,” I say. “Holly, can you grab those bits of screwed-up newspaper?”

Holly gives me one of her looks, but does as I ask. I pull a stub of pencil out of my pocket and start scribbling a diagram on the old newspaper. It’s something I remember seeing on the
internet.

I have to adapt a bit. The guy who made the diagram clearly wasn’t hiding in someone’s front yard without scissors or sticky tape.

The bottom of the periscope is easy enough. I get Porter to rest the lower mirror shard on a piece of crumpled newspaper. The top mirror is more complicated. How can I fix it in place?

“We could make homemade glue by mixing a cup of flour, a third of a cup of sugar, a cup and a half of water and a teaspoon of vinegar,” I say, uncertainly.

Holly pokes me with a stick. “We’re in the Slaters’ yard, not a bakery.”

“Maybe tree sap would work as a glue substitute.” I eye the tree hopefully.

“Enough stupid ideas.” Holly snatches the carton from Porter. “Just hold it with your finger.”

“Ah. Finger. Yes that’ll work.”

Porter sniggers. “Remember that story about NASA spending millions to develop a pen that could get ink on to paper without gravity, while the Russians just used pencils?”

“That is a myth,” I say with dignity. “And even if it wasn’t, I’d be on NASA’s side. What if the tip of the pencil broke off and started floating around the
space capsule? It could have someone’s eye out. Or hit a vital space-button. Give me the million-dollar space pen every time.”

“Forget space pens.” Holly points our periscope upwards so we can see the TV. “Check out ‘Exploring Space’!”

We bunch together so we can see. Porter and Holly bump heads with a thud that echoes through the yard. We press closer to the wall as Ma Slater sticks her large, mullet-haired head out the
window.

“Can’t see nuffink,” she yells. “Must be them big rats again.”

Pythagoras!
I try not to think about giant rats as I peer into the periscope and watch the Science Museum’s security-camera footage.

Building the periscope from scratch takes a few minutes, so we miss the beginning of the footage, but Ma Slater’s yawns suggest we haven’t missed anything
important. As we start watching, the ‘Exploring Space’ gallery fills with people who’ve come to find out what’s causing the engine noises.

Ma Slater smacks her son on the side of the head. “That’s my bleedin’ hairspray, Joe. I’ve bin lookin’ everywhere fer that.”

I peer through the periscope at the screen. My brain is tingling.

Before I have a chance to work out what, or who, isn’t there, Aggressive Policeman clicks the TV off.

There is an uncomfortable silence. I half expect Aggressive Policeman to shout, “Ta-da!”

“That don’t prove nuffink,” Ma Slater says stubbornly. “What’s my boy supposed to have done wrong, other than nick my flamin’ hairspray?” Ma Slater
wallops Smokin’ Joe again.

Aggressive Policeman gets huffy and puffy and big bad wolfy. “Even if we ignore his clear involvement with the theft of the Moon Rock,
madam,
vandalism is a statutory offence that
can be prosecuted under criminal law.”

“Y’what?”

“Your son has recklessly damaged property belonging to the Science Museum, making him guilty of the offence of vandalism. Not to mention covering the camera lens with hairspray in an
obvious attempt to obstruct our investigation.”

“I don’t see nuffink obvious about it.”

Smokin’ Joe blinks as if he’s coming out of a stupor. “I don’t remember what happened,” he mumbles, “but I did it. Didn’t I?”

“Don’t go changing your story now, toe-rag.” Aggressive Policeman grabs the front of Smokin’ Joe’s shirt.

PC Eric puts a restraining arm on Aggressive Policeman’s shoulder. “Let the boy speak. There’s something not right about all this.”

I give a little air-punch. PC Eric never lets me down.

Aggressive Policeman, in contrast, is a permanent disappointment. He’s like a human version of the chocolate-grabber machines you get in motorway service stations, which never grab
anything except out-of-date Snickers. I hate Snickers.

Aggressive Policeman drags Smokin’ Joe towards the front door, declaring, “I’m taking our friend here to the station.”

“Not yet,” PC Eric protests. “I need another look at that film footage.”

“You
are
joking?” Aggressive Policeman stops less than a metre from our periscope (and our heads). “You want to stay
here
?”

Ma Slater takes advantage of their confrontation to snatch back her frying pan and grab a poker from the filthy fireplace. It’s a good look. Kind of Medieval Knight during Weapon
Shortage.

Using Smokin’ Joe as a human shield, Aggressive Policeman edges around her and runs for the police car, dragging Joe with him. He’s too busy wrestling with Joe to look back at the
Slaters’ front yard, so we’re safe. For now.

PC Eric moves slower, but thinks faster.

“I had a feeling you’d still be here,” he says when he spots us huddled beneath the windowsill. He moves so he’s blocking us from view before calling to Aggressive
Policeman, “You go on ahead with the patrol car. I’ve got a few things to sort out here.”

Growling in irritation, Aggressive Policeman takes a minute to: