The Case of the Exploding Loo Page 4

A few minutes later, there’s movement at the far edge of the screen.

  “Freeze!” I say. “Is that Dad’s portaloo? Why are you moving the camera in the wrong direction?”

  “Sorry,” says Porter, backing away and head-butting Venus. “People get a bit funny if they think you’re filming them on the toilet.”

  Fortunately, at that moment, the camera wobbles, giving a clearer view of Dad emerging from the portaloo.

  “Where’s the bag, Holly? You said Dad was carrying a bag. I don’t see one.”

  “Seriously? You’re obsessing over Dad’s bag?” Holly flicks Saturn at me. “Haven’t you noticed something slightly more important?”

  I reattach Saturn’s rings. “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that Dad, who is supposed to have spontaneously combusted in a portaloo, has just come out of the portaloo! Dur!” Holly grabs Dad’s shoe and hits me with it. “You’re supposed to be the observant one. Look! Dad came out of the portaloo.”

  CLUE 11

  Dad came out of the portaloo!

  9

  Missing

  The camcorder’s time code reads 15:18:04. According to the newspapers the portaloo is due to explode in one minute and fifty-six seconds, “wiping out” my dad and leaving only his smoking shoes behind. But how is that possible? Dad came out of the portaloo.

  What about my theory that Dad was kidnapped? Where are the kidnappers? Where are the villains who rigged the red-herring explosion? Did the explosion even happen?

  An on-screen boom answers that question, shaking my bedroom walls.

  The camera tracks the source of the blast, zooming in on the portaloo Dad left only minutes earlier.

  Black smoke belches from the toilet’s air vents. Angry orange flames flicker through the gaps in the door, creating a heat haze in front of the camera. Blurred figures run across the screen; some fleeing for safety, others fighting the fire with bottled water.

  A woman wearing reindeer antlers emerges from a nearby Christmas grotto carrying a mop bucket full of water, which she throws at the toilet door. Following behind her is a red-faced, middle-aged man, squeezed into an Elf’s outfit several sizes too small. He loosens his belt and rams his body against the burning portaloo. Oblivious to the smoke and the water, he smashes the toilet backwards, away from the other units, preventing the fire from spreading along the row.

  “What an Elf,” Porter murmurs. “What a hero.”

  A large crowd gathers as Super-sized Super Elf pulls his green sleeves over his hands and heaves at the portaloo door. The fire must have warped the plastic, moulding the door shut, because it’s not shifting. People push and shove to get a better view. I feel squashed just watching them elbow each other and press in together. The door finally breaks free and the mob pushes forwards, united by one common goal – to look inside.

  There is a mass groan and I can hear people gagging as the stench hits them.

  Porter’s camcorder zooms in and I repeat Holly’s words: “Dad came out of the portaloo. Dad came out of the portaloo. Dad came out of the portaloo.”

  It’s the only way I can keep Vigil-Aunty’s carrot casserole down.

  The poo-plastered, blood-splattered cubicle looks like something from one of Holly’s horror movies. Dark reddish-brown gloop covers everything: seeping from the plastic walls; squelching on to the loo roll fires burning on the U-shaped toilet seat; splattering the soot-streaked, water-drenched bag at the back of the portaloo and the splintered glass on the ground.

  Projectile poo – the result of many visits by many bottoms over many hours – has exploded on to the ceiling, walls and door. People back away, covering their mouths and noses, avoiding puddles of water and vomit. There’s blood everywhere. But whose? PC Eric says they found Dad’s blood at the scene, but if Dad wasn’t there, where did it come from? And who dropped that glass on the floor?

  The microphone picks up the sound of Porter retching, but he manages to hold the camera steady as the emergency services arrive. Uniformed police order everyone back and cordon off the nearby roads and alleyways with thick yellow tape. Porter follows their instructions and moves away, but the zoom function on his camera allows him to capture the action. The volume is muted but we can still hear what’s happening.

  Super-sized Super Elf pushes past the policemen and police cordons. “What’s going on? And what’s that bag doing in there? How can a person explode, but not their bag?”

  “Polybenzimidazole,” I mutter.

  “Bless you!” says Porter.

  “No. That’s what the bag’s made of. It’s a fire-resistant fabric. I remember Dad ordering it online. He said it would be cool to have a fireproof bag.”

  “Cool . . . and convenient,” Holly says.

  “Where are Dad’s shoes?” I ask. “I thought they were all that was left after the explosion.”

  As if on cue, a man in a crinkly white suit and blue rubber gloves brushes small slivers of glass off the Polybenzimidazole bag and unzips it to reveal a pair of familiar-looking brown lace-ups. He loosens the laces to get a better view of the name printed inside.

  “See?” Holly says. “Convenient! You should be writing this in your stupid notebook.”

  CLUE 12

  Dad left a fireproof bag in an exploding toilet.

  I squint at the screen. Something’s wrong. The shoes in my hand are scorched and stained, whereas the shoes on the screen seem completely unharmed.

  With an unprofessional grunt, the crime scene examiner wipes a splat of ceiling poo from his forehead. The movement overbalances him and he slips on wet, bloodstained glass, landing on the toilet and dropping the shoes into one of the little loo roll fires that are still burning between the puddles on the floor. He whips the lace-ups out the fire, wipes off the poo, and rubs at the burn marks on the leather uppers.

  I stroke the identical marks on the shoe I’m holding and realise I should probably wash my hands.

  The camera zooms out and an ill-looking policeman appears in front of the cordon. He demands that everyone hand over their cameras. The screen goes dark. Dark but wavy. Like a close-up of the threads inside a coat pocket.

  I glance at Porter.

  His face turns pink. “I didn’t want to lose my footage of the Splendaloo mini-model. I didn’t realise. The minute I saw your message I got in touch. You have to understand . . .”

  “I don’t have to understand anything. You let everyone believe my dad died in that explosion.” My words fill the room. I want to scream into the silence that follows.

  “You have to show that to the police,” I tell Porter, shoving my hands into my pockets to suppress the urge to throttle him. “When they see Dad didn’t blow up, they’ll help me find out what happened. It doesn’t make sense. If Dad didn’t explode then where did all that blood come from? Could there have been a smaller blast while Dad was out of shot? Maybe he was injured and wandered on to the streets, dazed and confused.”

  “What about the bag?” Holly asks.

  “People forget things when they’re concussed,” I tell her. But it’s harder to come up with an explanation for the shoes.

  Holly shakes her head. “And I suppose Dad carried a spare pair of shoes around in case of unexpected footwear emergencies?”

  “Yes! What you said. Spare shoes.” I jump up and down, pulling Holly with me. “Dad’s alive! We just need to work out where he went. He could be wandering the streets with no memory, waiting for us to find him.”

  “If he has no memory, he won’t remember us, so he won’t be waiting for us to do anything.” Holly pulls her hands free and ejects the memory stick. “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

  “Of course he wants to be found,” I say. “We’ll start where he disappeared. You told me they’re setting up a Valentine’s market in the same place as the Christmas market. Come on, Holly. This is our chance.”

  “The Valentine’s market?” Holly says with the enthusiasm of a stepped-on snail. “How do you suggest we ge
t to Lindon now Mum’s permanently attached to the sofa?”

  “We take the train.”

  “You? On a train?” Holly scoffs. “You’ve spent your life with your head buried in science books. I bet you don’t even know how to buy a ticket.”

  Porter stands, carefully avoiding dangling planets and poo-shoes. “I’m taking the one-twenty to Lindon on Friday. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “During school hours?” I can’t hide my shock.

  “Nice.” Holly brightens up. “We’ll meet you at the station, Porter. One-fifteen, Friday.”

  10

  Lies

  I can’t believe we’re skipping school. What if someone sees us in town? What if someone doesn’t see us in school? What if I miss something important? What if I fail my exams?

  “Stop thinking!” Holly says sternly. “And what are you wearing?”

  My sister has no taste. My brown corduroy skirt and jacket (with orange leather elbow patches) are perfect. Not only do they provide warmth and comfort, but they’re also similar to the suit Dad was wearing when he disappeared. (Not the skirt, obviously. Dad doesn’t wear skirts. Except that one time in Spain when Mum made him wear her sarong because his Speedos were too small. But I don’t think that counts.)

  I’m hoping the outfit will jog people’s memories. I do seem to be attracting attention, but that may be because of the scorched lace-ups I’m wearing round my neck.

  We find Porter, who takes one look at my shoe necklace and shakes his head.

  “Lose the shoes,” Holly says, shoving us onto the Lindon train and finding me a plastic bag.

  I place the shoes in the bag and make sure I keep them close during the journey, until the train pulls in at Lindon station and Holly gives us another shove.

  “Brrr,” I grumble, rubbing my arms as we head out into the street. The Met Office says the average minimum temperature in Lindon in February is 1.2 degrees centigrade, but this is definitely colder. I can see my breath in the air and that’s only good if you’re a fire-breathing dragon. I gaze longingly at the warm(ish) station building.

  Porter tugs the strings on his hood so it covers his face.

  “Portaloos that way.” He points up the steep hill.

  I groan and wonder if I’ll ever be warm again.

  “It might help us figure out what happened if we go through what we know about the Christmas market,” Holly suggests as we climb the hill.

  I scan my frostbitten brain. “We know over three hundred thousand people visited last year. We know when it began there were only eleven stalls, but last year there were more than two hundred and fifty. We know—”

  Holly yawns. I try and think of something that isn’t yawn-worthy. Nothing. Except . . .

  “We know Dad hated the Christmas market.”

  “We do?” Holly stops yawning.

  I nod. “Dad said he admired Oliver Cromwell’s attempts to ban all Christmas celebrations and wished, every year, for a contemporary Cromwell to come along. But not before he got the chance to blow up the tannoy system and cyber-massacre Jingle, the Christmas market Twitter-elf.”

  Holly raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I should be glad he only wanted to kill a virtual elf.”

  “He said the carol singers would be no great loss either. But I think he was joking.”

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Holly mutters. “I don’t get it. I mean, why would someone who hates Christmas call their kids Holly and Noelle?”

  “Mum must have overruled him.”

  Holly frowns. “Can you remember Mum overruling Dad about anything? It doesn’t say much about how important we are to him if our names are the only thing he gave way on, does it?”

  “It explains why he always calls me Know-All.”

  Holly kicks a frost-covered hedge. “He calls me Holly.”

  11

  Talking Shoes

  Valentine’s Market outdoors is even worse than regular outdoors. The air tastes of cremated chestnuts and sick people’s sneezes; the harsh wind feels like a thousand pins being stabbed into my face; and in the hour we’ve been walking, my toes have been crushed by designer pushchairs, mobility scooters and fast-moving pensioners desperate to grab their free heart-shaped loo roll covers. I’m starting to understand Dad’s hatred of the tannoy system too. The constant announcements about the history of the marketplace make my teeth hurt and I wish someone would fix that stupid hissing sound.

  The plastic bag with the shoes is getting heavy too. I should have left them around my neck. They were more comfortable there. I hoist the bag higher under my arm.

  “Losers quit when they’re tired. Winners quit when they’ve won.”

  I scowl at Porter. “I am not quitting. And knowing all about portaloos doesn’t make you a winner.”

  “Never said it did.” Porter rubs his ankles after a particularly vicious mobility scooter attack.

  “Then who said it?” I whirl round.

  “Said what?” Holly shoves me forward.

  “That thing about winners and losers.”

  Holly and Porter look blank.

  “I’m hearing voices. That can’t be good.” I reach into the plastic bag to stroke Dad’s shoes. They make me feel calmer.

  “Don’t let others drag you down.”

  I slam the bag shut. Impossible! The voice is coming from inside. But that’s ridiculous. The bag’s empty except for the shoes.

  “Don’t stop here, idiot.” Holly points up the hill. “We’re on the main route to the cathedral. We’ll be trampled to death by a herd of over-sixties.”

  She has a point. A large cloud of blue-rinsed hair is drifting towards us. But I can’t move.

  “Dad’s shoes are talking to me,” I murmur. “Isaac Newton! Am I having a mental breakdown?”

  “Talking shoes?” Holly grabs the bag, accidentally bumping into two sweet-looking old ladies. Holly tries to apologise but the grannies are having none of it. One raises her cane to rap Holly’s ankles as the other mutters about “young people today”. On the plus side, Holly’s new image as a granny-basher creates more space around us.

  Holly opens the plastic bag. “What did they say?”

  “It’s not enough to have a good mind,” the shoes hiss. “The important thing is to use it. Nobody remembers who came in second. The first man gets the oyster; the second man gets the shell . . .”

  That doesn’t even make sense. I tried an oyster once and it tasted like snot, whereas shells are shiny and sound like the sea.

  “Dad’s shoes are mean,” Holly says, dumping them on the nearest wall.

  Thank Zuckerberg! Holly heard them too! I’m not mad. Or maybe we both are. Could it be genetic? I need to find out if Porter can hear them too.

  Holly glances at her watch. “It’s half-four. Isn’t this nap time?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t you think the timing is odd? You nap at the same time every day for a week and that’s the exact time the shoes start chatting.” Holly waves a talking shoe at me. “This sounds like a recorded message. What if it plays at the same time every day?”

  “I wouldn’t know, would I? I’m asleep.”

  “You can’t always be asleep. Surely sometimes you just lie there?”

  “Nope. Always asleep. It must be all the effort I’m putting into finding Dad.”

  “That or something someone’s putting into your Curry in a Hurry hot chocolate.” Holly shivers as the temperature drops further.

  “Shhh,” Porter says. “The shoes are talking again.”

  So Porter can hear them. That has to be a good thing.

  “Keep these shoes close in memory of your father.”

  “Unbelievable!” Holly picks up one of Dad’s shoes and bashes the other with it. “Can’t you see what’s going on, Know-All? You’re being brainwashed!”

  “Work hard,” the shoes squeak as Holly smashes the one in her hand against the one on the wall. “W-w-w-work . . . h-h-ha-ha-aaarrrgghhh . . .”

>   “You killed the talking shoes.” Porter looks impressed.

  “Mercy killing,” Holly says.

  Porter grins. “Death penalty!”

  “Brainwashed?” I say slowly. “You think I’m being brainwashed?”

  Holly nods.

  “Like a prisoner of war?”

  “Yeah,” Holly says. “Except you’re not a prisoner and you’re not at war.”

  “And you think they’re putting something into my hot chocolate,” I say. “You mean drugs, don’t you? You think I’m a non-imprisoned, non-warring prisoner of war who has been drugged!”

  Who would do something like that?

  CLUE 13

  Someone installed a recorded message in Dad’s shoes and (might have) drugged me so I’d hear it in my sleep.

  12

  Blood Stains

  I don’t notice Porter has stopped moving until I walk into the back of him. When I look up, I see a row of portable toilets. They’re familiar from Porter’s film, but bigger than they seemed on-screen. A quick scan tells me they’re approximately ninety centimetres wide and two hundred and ten centimetres tall. The numbers are familiar. I flick through the images in my brain until I figure out why. They’re from a maths problem I was given for extra homework a few months back.

  The question gave variables like detonation velocity and material density, and asked what quantity of a particular explosive would be required to blow up a lightweight plastic box measuring ninety by ninety by one hundred and twenty centimetres.

  That wasn’t a hypothetical maths question box. It was a non-hypothetical plastic toilet.

  CLUE 14

  I was tricked into calculating how to blow up a portaloo.

  Why didn’t I figure this out earlier? Ms Grimm is right about me being unable to connect maths to real life.

  Ms Grimm!

  Ms Grimm set the extra homework. She’s back as my number one suspect. The woman is obsessed with blowing things up.

  Thinking hard, I trip on a pile of rubbish and fall hard, cutting my hand on broken glass. I clutch my hand against my chest.