The Case of the Exploding Brains Read online

  “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 . . .

  CLUE 5

  The Moon Rock is missing.

  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.”

  3

  Lunar-cy

  “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.

  Since then, Porter, Holly and I have become a unit. Actually, not a ‘unit’ – that makes us sound efficient and coordinated. We’re more of a three-headed beast with a multiple personality disorder.

  “Hello?” snaps Holly, our impatient, prone-to-violence head. “Tell him the Irish Moon Rock story.”

  I try to remember the details. “After the Americans ended the Apollo moon missions, they shared their collection of Moon Rocks with countries around the world. Ireland was one of those countries and they kept their Apollo 11 Moon Rock in the Dunsink Observatory, until one morning in 1977. A fire started in the observatory, so they shifted all the debris from the fire to a landfill site across the street and didn’t realise until too late that the Moon Rock was amongst the rubble.”

  “No!” Porter’s eyes grow bigger. “They tipped the moon into a landfill site?!”

  “Yup. The papers call it ‘the pot of gold under a dump’. They reckon it’s worth millions to anyone who finds it.”

  “Where was this landfill site?” Ms Meeks, the ‘responsible adult’ of our trip, shuffles across from her position with the other LOSERS, a few metres away. Nosy.

  “Opposite Dunsink Observatory in Dublin,” Holly tells her. “Why? Planning a holiday in Ireland, Miss?”

  “Anyway,” I say, with a loud cough. “The Irish rock has been missing since 1977 and the people there haven’t gone mad or exploded or anything.”

  “I dunno,” Porter says. “I’ve got an uncle from Ireland and he’s completely bonkers . . .”

  “QUIET!” yells the Museum Curator Gnome. “The ladies and gentlemen of the Metropolitan Police have arrived and will be wishing to speak with you all. The return of the Moon Rock is of the utmost importance. I repeat, the utmost importance.”

  The police officers stride through the gallery, glaring at us in that forbidding police-person way that says, “Own up now – or else!”

  Unfortunately, no one owns up. The police need to work on the ‘or else’ bit of their glare.

  Two officers – one male and one female – conduct a thorough search of our bags and belongings. Visitors in the other parts of the Science Museum are allowed to leave, as long as they provide a contact address. But the police ask all of us in ‘Exploring Space’ to fill in a witness statement before we go.

  An aggressive-looking policeman marches us to the museum’s ground floor café and tells us to sit at one of the long tables and write up our reports. Aggressive Policeman patrols the room, pausing every few seconds to scowl at someone before moving on.

  I glance around the t
able, from Remarkable Student Alexander to Remarkable Student Shazia, from Remarkable Student Giles to Remarkable Student Omar, from Porter to Holly, to Smokin’ Joe . . . urgh . . . and then quickly away again.

  I survey RS Alexander’s clothes for Moon-Rock-shaped bulges. I’ve never trusted him.

  “What if it was one of us?” I ask.

  Aggressive Policeman’s head snaps up as if I’ve confessed to murdering my own grandmother, which would be impressive as all four of my grandparents died before I was born.

  “I’m not saying it was,” I add quickly. “But it is possible, right?”

  Everyone shushes me. Holly crushes my hand until the bones click. Aggressive Policeman makes his way round the table until he’s standing opposite me. He reads my name from the top of my witness statement, pronouncing it as though it’s an insult: “Noelle Hawkins.”

  Holly describes me as police-Marmite. It seems that every police officer I meet (and I’ve met a few now) either loves me or hates me. Sadly, despite my law-abiding nature, the haters outnumber the lovers. In fact, as far as I can tell, PC Eric is the only police officer who loves me. (In a non-weird, fatherly kind of way.) And he’s coming up for retirement.

  “You can leave the crime-solving to us, Noelle Hawkins,” Aggressive Policeman says. “Your role is to fill in that witness statement.”

  “It would help if we knew how the crime was committed.” I pull out my notebook.

  “Why don’t you tell me, if you know so much?” Aggressive Policeman whips out a bigger notebook.

  “Am I a suspect?” I quite like the idea. “Are we all suspects?”

  I study my fellow LOSERS. You couldn’t find a less-likely looking bunch of criminals if you tried. Type ‘teen nerds’ into Google images and you’ll probably find a picture of Shazia, Omar and Giles. You might have to type ‘posh teen nerd’ to get Remarkable Student Alexander. Who knows what you’d have to type to get an image of Smokin’ Joe? ‘Primeval troglodyte’ might do it. The trickle of blood from his nose could be the result of a run-in with a woolly mammoth.

  As I glance at the blood, I get a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. This isn’t Smokin’ Joe’s first nosebleed today and I’ve learned to be suspicious of nosebleeds. I get out my notepad.

  CLUE 6

  Smokin’ Joe (who I have never seen have a nosebleed) has started having nosebleeds.

  “Suspects?” Aggressive Policeman’s sneer shatters my thoughts. “This was a professional job, not something a bunch of silly school kids could have pulled off. I’m simply following procedure. You were close to the exhibit at the time of the theft. You might have seen something important without realising.”

  We might not look like master criminals, but it’s wrong to write us off as ‘silly school kids’. Except for Smokin’ Joe. It’s probably best to write him off. That boy has the brain capacity of a garden slug.

  “Can I see your clues?” I ask.

  “No, Miss flaming Marple, you can’t,” Aggressive Policeman snaps. “This is an important police investigation, not a game of Cluedo. Just write down what happened while you were in the museum.”

  “Shouldn’t you interview each of us separately, to see if our stories corroborate?” I ask.

  Aggressive Policeman balls his hands into fists.

  Previous experience with angry officers of the law suggests this would be a good time for me to stop talking.

  Jabbing his finger at my paper, Aggressive Policeman says, “Just write a factual account of what happened during your trip. And do it without speaking.”

  4

  My Trip Record

  11=10

  The eight members of our school trip and Ms Meeks get on the school minibus. (see Diagram A - Bus)

  11=11

  Ms Meeks asks Smokin’ Joe to remove his headphones. He doesn’t.

  11=12

  Smokin’ Joe says he feels travel sick. I point out that the bus hasn’t moved yet.

  11=13

  RS Shazia screams that Smokin’ Joe is picking his nose and wiping it on her.

  11=14

  Ms Meeks tells Smokin’ Joe to stop picking his nose. He doesn’t.

  Ms Meeks tells RS Shazia to stop screaming. She doesn’t.

  11=16

  Minibus Driver charges down the bus, throws a sick bag and a loo roll at Smokin’ Joe’s head and drags RS Shazia to the snot-free seat beside me (see Diagram A - Bus), telling her to “Shut up or get off the bus.”

  11=18

  RS Shazia stops screaming long enough to threaten to report Minibus Driver for unnecessary use of force.

  Minibus Driver points out that RS Shazia can only report him if he doesn’t chop her up and hide the pieces in motorway service stations across the UK first.

  RS Shazia agrees there’s nothing to report.

  11=20

  Ms Meeks asks RS Alexander if he wants to move away from Smokin’ Joe too.

  RS Alexander says he’ll stay where he is and “look after poor Joe.”

  11=21

  I tug my ears to check they’re working. Did RS Alexander just offer to help someone?

  Diagram A – Bus

  Aggressive Policeman rests one hand on the café table and peers over my shoulder. “Your bus journey is irrelevant,” he says. “Start at the Science Museum.”

  “With all due respect,” I say, “when you’ve worked on more cases, you’ll realise it’s impossible to tell what is and isn’t relevant until the case is solved.”

  Aggressive Policeman pokes Diagram A – Bus, pushing so hard his knuckle goes white. “With all due respect,” he says, mimicking my voice, “I’m not surprised the seats near you on the bus were empty.”

  RS Alexander sniggers.

  “Start. At. The. Science. Museum,” Aggressive Policeman repeats. “Or. I. Confiscate. Your. Pen.”

  “Police brutality,” I mutter and consider drawing Aggressive Policeman beneath the wheels of Diagram A – Bus.

  Instead, I continue my record of our trip – from the minute we arrived at the museum.

  2=08

  Minibus Driver gives us two minutes to get off the bus before he takes advantage of being able to take his hands off the steering wheel and uses them to throttle us.

  2=09

  The minibus is empty.

  2=10

  Ms Meeks splits us into pairs - putting me with Smokin’ Joe. I explain that Holly, Porter and I are a trio. Ms Meeks explains that if I don’t want to be paired up with Smokin’ Joe, she’ll pair me with the Minibus Driver.

  I shuffle closer to Smokin’ Joe, ready to defend myself.

  Joe just nods at me and continues listening to his iPod.

  Maybe he really is sick.

  2=18

  The museum tour begins.

  2=19

  RS Alexander goes to the bathroom.

  2=40

  RS Alexander remains in the bathroom. Porte joins him.

  2=50

  RS Alexander is STILL in the bathroom.

  I ask the security guards to check whether he’s fallen down the loo. They ignore me and listen to their turquoise walkie-talkies.

  2=51

  Both Porter and RS Alexander reappear. (No thanks to walkie-talkie guards.)

  2=55

  RS Alexander flinches at every sound as if he’s expecting something big to happen.

  2=57

  Smokin’ Joe’s nose starts bleeding and blood spurts on to the Mars Lander. The museum guide asks when we’re leaving.

  3=00

  BOOM! The gallery shakes with the sound of engines firing up. Everyone squeals that the exhibits are coming to life. (Everyone watches too much TV). I explain the chaos is the result of smoke bombs and sound flx. No one listens.

  3=01

  Smokin’ Joe runs around, smashing glass and setting off alarms. Ms Meeks tells Smokin’ Joe to stand still. He doesn’t. Mass panic, including a woman under a fire blanket who keeps knocking into things.

 
; 3=07

  A museum official announces the Moon Rock is missing and orders us to sit down. More alarms go off.

  3=30

  The police arrive . . .

  Aggressive Policeman collects the records and asks us to remain in our seats. No one else’s report fills two sides of the A4 paper. The police must be glad I’m here.

  It’s the details that count.

  5

  Majority Rules

  The museum café serves light lunches and a range of daily specials like pizza, pasta bakes and soup. I know this because it says so on their menu board. Also, I can smell them. However, the museum café is not serving those things to me, because I have no money and because the serving staff are waiting to be questioned. It’s been hours since lunch and by the time Aggressive Policeman marches back in I’ve started to wonder which of my fellow LOSERS I’d eat first.

  “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—”