The Great Brain Robbery Read online

  ‘Straight away,’ Alphonsine went on, her eyes sparkling, ‘everyone is saying that the prince is a butt.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Frankie, confused.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Alphonsine, ‘he is the butt of all jokes, the stock of laughing.’

  ‘A laughing stock, dear,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Zat is what I said,’ puffed Alphonsine. ‘He is the laughing butt, the biggest laughing butt in all the kingdom!’ Frankie chortled with delight. ‘So he sends out his army to catch this rascally Mr Gravity, but of course Gravity is a most tricksy fellow to catch. So what does the great nincombooby do but arrest poor Mr Whittler instead.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Frankie, ‘what happened to him?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Eddie sadly, slipping the walnut into his jacket pocket. ‘Mr Whittle was thrown in jail – and there he stayed until his poor old heart gave out.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Awful indeed,’ said Eddie, ‘but the story doesn’t end there. When he passed away, Mr Whittle’s workshop was inherited by his youngest and most beloved niece – a tiny girl of six called Marvella Brand.’ Frankie pricked up his ears. ‘Marvella was a little dear. She was always clutching a sparkling fairy wand that her uncle had crafted for her and she had a charming pink smile that never quite left her lips.’

  ‘Except for once,’ Alphonsine interrupted, slurping up a string of spaghetti. ‘The day she is told of her dear uncle’s death.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eddie, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘They say that on hearing the news, little Marvella’s smile instantly vanished and her eyes iced over like two wintry pools.’ Frankie shuddered. ‘From that moment on,’ Eddie continued, ‘Marvella’s smile was never quite the same again. It came back, but it was more static, more stiff around the edges. And it never quite melted those two frozen eyes.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Well she turned her uncle’s workshop into the booming business you see today,’ said Eddie. ‘Little Marvella became one of the richest tycoons in the world. But it is said that she has never recovered from the death of her uncle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Frankie.

  ‘Well,’ Eddie continued, ‘children may love Marvella Brand, but she certainly doesn’t love them back. She blames them for what happened to her poor uncle, you see, and she has never, ever forgiven them.’

  Frankie felt a chill on the back of his neck. Perhaps it was the draught. He wasn’t sure.

  ‘That is enough chatterboxing,’ smiled Alphonsine, ‘it is late and it is somebody’s birthday tomorrow, is it not?’

  Frankie grinned and yawned. It had been a long day and he was ready to put it behind him. He finished his dinner and clambered up the stairs to bed. But sleep did not come easily. Frankie tweaked back the curtains and watched a dark, starless sky swirling over the house like an enormous whirlpool. An electrical storm was brewing. He buried himself deep in his blankets and, as the thunder rolled overhead, he began to dream the strangest, most vivid dreams. In his mind’s eye, he saw an army of Mechanimals marching out of Marvella’s golden doors. Nobody could control their movements and nobody could switch them off. They just kept marching and marching and marching, row after row after row of them, on and on and on.

  When Frankie woke up, he couldn’t believe it was the same bedroom he had gone to sleep in. The storm had cleared the air and a bright sunshine reached through the window and tickled him under the chin. But, best of all, it was his birthday! Frankie bounced out of bed as if he were made of springs and ran downstairs, to where Alphonsine and Eddie were waiting for him with big wrinkly smiles.

  ‘HAAAAPEEEE BURRSSDAY FRANKIEEEEE!’ sang Alphonsine. The breakfast table was laid and in the centre was a fresh pile of pancakes topped with ten birthday candles. Frankie glanced along the table but there was no sign of a present. He felt a sharp stab of disappointment, then blushed with shame. Alfie and Eddie couldn’t afford to buy presents and he wasn’t about to make them feel bad about it. So, as Alphonsine pushed the plate of pancakes towards him, he smiled his brightest smile.

  ‘Now make a wish!’ she urged. Colette, the poodle, yipped and nudged Frankie’s hand. Frankie wasn’t sure what to wish for. So he closed his eyes and, as he blew out the candles, he just wished that he would not have to spend another lunchbreak sitting on his own, staring at his trainers.

  ‘Thank you,’ smiled Frankie, ‘this is going to be a great birthday.’

  Alphonsine and Eddie exchanged mischievous glances.

  ‘Well, don’t you want to know what your present is?’ said Eddie.

  ‘But, I thought . . .’ Frankie stammered, not sure what to say. Alphonsine put her fingers between her lips and gave a sharp whistle. Suddenly, a mechanical whirring sound started up from behind the sofa.

  It couldn’t be . . .

  Could it . . . ?

  Frankie could hardly believe his eyes. Hopping across the carpet on its mechanical paws was a sheeny blue Gadget the Rabbit.

  ‘Frankie!’ it crackled in its mechanical voice. ‘Be my friend!’

  ‘But, Alfie . . .’ said Frankie, ‘we can’t afford—’

  ‘I find him at ze dump!’ grinned Alphonsine.‘He was all dents and scratches and broken bits. Some children zey do not look after their things, tut, tut.’ Alphonsine shook her head disapprovingly. ‘But I fix him up, good as gumdrops!’ Frankie threw his arms around Alphonsine’s neck. This really was going to be the greatest birthday ever.

  Minutes later, Frankie was racing to school with his new Gadget the Rabbit in his rucksack. No more lunchbreaks sitting alone on the bench! No more teasing from Timmy Snodgrass! Not now that he had a Mechanimal! He sprinted across the playground to join his classmates, who were busy playing Spacestation Mechanimal near the climbing frame. Straight away, everybody crowded round to see Frankie’s new toy.

  ‘Wicked!’ said Bernard. ‘I really want a Gadget. I’ve got a Gigawatt, and a Sparky, but I really want a Gadget – he’s the best!’ Frankie’s cheeks prickled with pleasure as his classmates started squabbling over who would have Frankie in their team for the Great Mechanimal Space-Battle. But not everybody was impressed. No. Somebody was not impressed at all.

  ‘Let me see that!’ Timmy Snodgrass, who had been skulking by the bushes, pushed his way through the crowd and snatched Gadget out of Frankie’s hands.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled Frankie. ‘Give it back!’ But Timmy wasn’t listening. He briskly turned Gadget upside-down and inspected the underside of his foot. Frankie glimpsed two scratchy little marks.

  ‘Ha!’ Timmy shouted triumphantly. ‘Just as I thought!’ He shoved the toy under Frankie’s nose. Scratched on to the sole of Gadget’s shiny blue foot were the letters ‘TS –’ Timothy Snodgrass.

  ‘I chucked this out last week,’ smirked Timmy. ‘Mummy’s getting me the new model. Generation two.’

  ‘Ooooooohhh!’ cooed the other children, turning their attention back to Timmy. ‘Generation twooooo!’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ Frankie stammered. He was so embarrassed he didn’t know what to say. But Timmy had only just started to enjoy himself.

  ‘How did you get hold of this anyway?’ he sneered. ‘I bet it was that weird old lady you live with.’ Timmy’s eyes glinted like a lizard’s scales. ‘My mummy’s seen her at the dump, fetching bits of other people’s rubbish. That must be where she got this – at the dump!’ Timmy wrinkled up his lips as if he’d been chewing a Brussels sprout. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  Frankie clenched his fists and his stomach tightened. He felt as if a ball of lightning were forming in his belly – a ball of pure, white-hot anger. Then, before he knew where he was, he hurled himself at Timmy, arms flailing like windmills.

  ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ chanted the other children. The two boys plunged to the ground, where they struggled and wrestled, kicking up huge clouds of dirt.

  ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ The crowd quickly swelled, but Franki
e was so furious he could hardly hear them. Nor could he hear Mrs Pinkerton manically blowing her whistle.

  ‘Frankie Blewitt! Timothy Snodgrass!’ she yelped. ‘In my office NOW!’

  Frankie and Timmy sat in Mrs Pinkerton’s office like a pair of muddy socks.

  ‘He started it, Miss!’ Timmy sniffled, blinking his eyes and trying to dredge up some nice fat tears. ‘Frankie’s bullying me.’ Frankie couldn’t believe his ears – the lies! The unfairness! But Mrs Pinkerton was not completely silly.

  ‘That’s enough, Timothy,’ she said, looking sternly over her silver-rimmed spectacles. ‘I don’t want to know who started it. You were both fighting, so you are both getting a detention for misbehaviour.’ Now it was Timmy’s turn not to believe his ears. Timmy had never, ever got a detention before in his whole life.

  ‘But . . . but . . . but . . . Mrs Pinkerton . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘No buts!’ snapped Mrs Pinkerton. ‘Now go and get yourselves cleaned up or you’ll be late for class.’

  Frankie and Timmy sloped out of Mrs Pinkerton’s office and walked silently to the boys’ toilets to scrub up. As he was dabbing some mud off his shirt, Frankie heard a small, teary sniffle. He glanced sideways at Timmy, who was wiping his nose on the cuff of his jumper. For the first time, Frankie actually felt a little bit sorry for him.

  ‘I’m sorry I hit you, Timmy,’ he said. ‘Can’t we just be friends?’ Timmy drew himself upright and stared at Frankie with swollen, red eyes.

  ‘Friends?’ he spat. ‘I’ll never be your friend!’ Then, lowering his voice to a mean little whisper, he added, ‘And I’m going to make sure nobody else is either.’ With that, he turned and stomped out of the loos with a face like an angry turnip.

  When Frankie arrived at school the next morning, he wondered if he had forgotten to take a shower. As soon as they saw him coming, the other kids in his class turned away as if a foul stink had just wafted up their nostrils.

  ‘Hey, Dave! Hey, Charlie!’ Frankie waved to two of his classmates, ‘What’s up with everyone today?’ Dave and Charlie glanced at each other awkwardly then looked at the ground.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Frankie. ‘Did I miss something?’

  ‘Ummm,’ Dave started. ‘No, Frankie. It’s just . . . we can’t be your friends any more.’

  Frankie felt his cheeks flush red. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘What did Timmy say?’

  Charlie shuffled his feet. ‘He said that if we speak to you, he won’t let us come over to his house to play.’ Dave was so embarrassed he couldn’t even look Frankie in the eye. ‘I’m really sorry, Frankie, but he’s got a Mechanimal racetrack you know, and . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Frankie replied sadly as the two boys shuffled guiltily away.

  Frankie felt like a walking dustbin. He had never been so miserable. He thought about his best friends, Neet and Wes. He hadn’t seen them for so long he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have friends. Frankie sighed and pushed his hands deep into his empty pockets. Had Wes stopped writing because he didn’t want to be friends either? And what about Neet? Would she still be his pal when she came back to school?

  He heard some whoops and cheers coming from near the climbing frame. A crowd of children was hopping up and down as Timmy, prince of the playground, let them take turns with his new remote-controlled Mechanicopter. Frankie turned around and trudged back across the playground, his heart sinking all the way down to the bottom of his wellies.

  ‘Oh dear, you look glum,’ said Eddie, the moment Frankie walked through the door that evening. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  Alphonsine clasped Frankie’s face between her hands and studied him carefully.

  ‘You is right, Eddie,’ said Alphonsine. ‘A face like a soggy pancake. What is the bother, little cabbage?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Frankie, trying to sound cheerful. ‘I’m just tired.’ But Alfie and Eddie were far too old and far too wise to believe him. They sat him down on the sofa and made him a cup of hot chocolate while Colette gave his cheek a friendly lick.

  ‘Spill the peas, Frankie,’ smiled Alphonsine. So Frankie spilled all the peas he had. He told them about the teasing and the fight and Timmy Snodgrass and feeling like a walking dustbin. As he let all the words come tumbling out, Alphonsine nodded her grey head and patted him gently on the knee.

  ‘Don’t you worry, little cabbage,’ she said kindly. ‘You don’t need this Timmy What’s-his-face.’

  ‘Snodgrass,’ Frankie sighed.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Alphonsine. ‘You do not need this Timmy Snotgrass.’

  Frankie giggled. ‘Snodgrass.’

  ‘But zat is what I said!’ grinned Alphonsine. ‘Zis Timmy Snottypants is not a proper friend.’ Frankie spluttered with laughter. ‘Is that not right, Eddie?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eddie. ‘Proper friends don’t behave like that, do they, Colette?’ Colette yelped and gave Frankie another lick on the cheek.

  ‘Proper friends,’ Alphonsine continued, raising one finger in the air, ‘is not like toys. You do not pick zem up and put zem down and get bored with zem. You do not swap zem or take zem to the dump when they get old. No! A proper friend is for life, not just for Christmas!’

  ‘But . . . I don’t have any friends,’ said Frankie. ‘Nobody wants to be my friend any more.’

  ‘Nonsenses,’ Alphonsine replied, squeezing his shoulders tightly. ‘We is all your friends, is we not?’ Eddie and Colette nodded vigorously. ‘And we think you is fine and dandy as you are.’

  Frankie looked around at the three kind, smiling faces. For that moment he felt as warm and safe as a bird in a nest.

  By the time Frankie went to bed that night, he was so tired a brass band couldn’t have kept him awake. So at first he couldn’t work out whether what he saw was just an effect of his exhausted imagination.

  It was at that time of the night when sleepers sink into the darkest depths of slumber. It was just at the moment when Frankie touched the bottom of the dark, watery world of dreams, that he had the oddest sensation. He felt a strange pressure on his chest and his ears filled with an uncomfortable electrical crackling. Opening his eyes wide, he saw that his bedroom was bathed in a weird blue light. Perched on his chest, looking straight at him with swivelling mechanical eyes, was his Gadget the Rabbit, glowing like a blue beacon, sparks flying between his long mechanical ears.

  Frankie screamed and jumped out of bed. Immediately, the blue light vanished and, by the time Alphonsine burst into his room waving a burglar-bashing tennis racket, everything looked perfectly normal. Gadget had tumbled to the floor and was lying on the rug like a completely normal toy.

  ‘Where is he? Where’s he hiding himself?’ yelled Alphonsine, leaping round the room swinging her racket like a champion.

  ‘There’s nobody here, Alfie,’ said Frankie, feeling bewildered. ‘At least I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then why all this hollering and squallering, Frankie?’ Alphonsine asked. ‘It is bang-wallop in the middle of the night!’

  ‘Sorry, Alfie, I think I had a bad dream. That’s all.’

  Alphonsine tucked him back into bed. ‘Ah,’ she said, nodding wisely, ‘nightscares are terrible things.’

  ‘Nightmares,’ Frankie corrected her, smiling.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Alphonsine, ‘but lucky for us, nightscares are not real.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Frankie, as Alphonsine kissed him goodnight, ‘nightscares aren’t real.’

  All the same, before Frankie turned out the light he picked up Gadget the Rabbit, put him in the bottom of his wardrobe, and shut the door.

  Frankie stamped his feet and clapped his hands against the cold morning air as he waited for Mrs Pinkerton to blow the whistle. As usual, he was sitting on the bench, waiting for playtime to end. Never in a million years had Frankie thought he would actually prefer lessons to playtime, but when you have no one to play with, double Maths with Mr Gripe suddenly doesn’t seem so bad.
r />   ‘What are you doing over here?’ said a bright, smiley voice.

  Frankie looked up. ‘Neet!’ he cried. Frankie sprang to his feet and gave his best friend a hug. ‘You’re back!’

  Neet grinned. ‘Good to see you, Frankie!’ she smiled. ‘Chickenpox is rubbish, by the way, don’t try it.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Frankie giggled. He was so glad to have Neet back again. Everything was better when she was around.

  ‘Wanna go play with the others?’ asked Neet. Frankie wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Errr . . . I think . . . um . . . no, not really,’ he stammered.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Neet frowned.

  ‘Well . . . nobody’s talking to me. Timmy told them not to.’ Frankie looked at his friend. ‘And if he sees you talking to me, well . . .’

  Neet’s eyes went as round as ping-pong balls.

  ‘Well what?’ she said, folding her arms crossly. ‘I’m not doing what Timmy Snotbags tells me to. Oooh!’ she growled, ‘he gets right up my nose. Tell you what, I’m going over there right now and—’

  ‘No, wait!’ said Frankie, catching her arm. ‘It’s OK. Anyway . . .’ Frankie shuffled awkwardly. ‘I already walloped him once.’

  ‘Really?’ beamed Neet. ‘Good for you, Frankie!’ Frankie grinned. He was so, so glad that Neet was back.