The Great Brain Robbery Read online

  But the man who asked the question wasn’t satisfied.

  ‘So what did you find out?’ he puffed. ‘What do children want?’

  Dr Gore rolled his eyes. ‘My dear ssssir,’ he hissed, ‘you are asking the wrong question. Children, as we all know well, do not want anything for very long. One day it’s a toy castle, the next it’s a spaceship, the day after that it’s a pirate costume. Today, they all want Mechanimals but next week it will be something else entirely. All this makes life very difficult for toyshops.’ The audience nodded in agreement – he was spot on there. Dr Gore smiled his piranha smile. ‘So I have ssssimplified things. The purpose of Project Wishlist is not to find out what children want, but to tell them what they want.’

  ‘How do you propose to do that?’ the gentleman sniffed.

  ‘Sssimple,’ hissed Dr Gore, spreading his fingers like a magician. ‘Advertising.’ Dr Gore’s grin twinkled in the spotlight.

  ‘Advertising?’ scoffed the gentleman. ‘But that’s the oldest trick in the book!’

  ‘You misunderstand, dear sir,’ Dr Gore continued. ‘This won’t be any old advertising. It won’t be the sort that you watch as you’re eating your cornflakes and forget by the time you’ve brushed your teeth. No! This kind of advertising will go straight to the core of the child’s mind and lodge itself there for eternity. Think of it as upgrading their brains, giving their minds a makeover.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the woman with the pointy shoes.

  ‘As we speak,’ said Dr Gore, ‘there is a team of computing experts working on the memories that we have harvested from children’s brains up and down the country. Into this mind-matter they are inserting Marvella logos, Marvella products and the Marvella jingle. Let me demonstrate.’ Dr Gore pushed a button and the screen lit up. ‘This memory belongs to little Viola Fordham of Oxford, England.’ The screen showed a little girl playing cricket with her mum on the beach. ‘The sun is shining, the sea is sparkling, the ice-cream is melting. It is a perfect day, is it not? It is a memory that Viola will no doubt cherish for years to come. But our laboratory has added some finishing touches. I shall now give you the new and improved version of little Viola’s memory. See if you can spot the difference!’

  Dr Gore restarted the film. The exact same memory replayed, only this time there were two striking differences. Firstly, Viola’s mother was wearing a T-shirt with a large Marvella logo on it and secondly the ice-cream van in the distance was playing the Marvella jingle over and over and over again. Dr Gore had turned Viola’s memory into an advert for Marvella Brand’s Happyland. The audience oohed and aahed in astonishment. This was extraordinary! Revolutionary! The man was a genius, no doubt about it. Dr Gore puffed up like an adder.

  ‘At midnight tonight,’ he continued, ‘when little Viola is tucked up in bed dreaming of dancing sugarplums and other such nonsense, the Mechanimals will switch her old memories for these new, improved versions. All Viola’s warm, fuzzy feelings about family holidays, her mummy, the seaside and so on, shall be instantly transferred on to our toys. And the results shall be astounding. From tomorrow morning,’ Gore shouted triumphantly, ‘whenever children see the Marvella logo or hear the Marvella tune they will become convinced that owning our toys is the very key to happiness. At the same time, they will feel certain that – should they fail to own them – they will be as worthless as dung-beetles. In short, they will be overcome by an irresistible desire for as many Marvella toys as they can get their sticky little fingers on. Not just this Christmas, not just next Christmas, but every day till the end of their childhoods!’

  The audience exploded into waves of applause. They were impressed, very impressed.

  ‘He wants to turn us into drones!’ whispered Neet, appalled. ‘It’s horrible! Horrible! I can’t believe he’s been poking around inside my head!’

  ‘It’s OK, Neet,’ Frankie said, trying to sound much braver than he felt. ‘We’ll stop him. We’ll find a way.’

  All of a sudden there was a faint knock at the door, just next to where Neet and Frankie were hiding.

  ‘Hello?’ said a small, nervous voice.

  It was Timmy.

  ‘A five-minute break, my good people,’ Dr Gore grinned, spotting Timmy peeking round the door. ‘I have something urgent to see to.’ Gore and Marvella both headed towards Timmy as the audience chattered excitedly amongst themselves.

  ‘Well?’ smiled Marvella, in a voice that sounded like the squeak of snow underfoot.

  ‘Ummm . . . errrr . . . the thing is . . .’ Timmy fumbled. Frankie felt the air temperature drop as Marvella’s patience thinned like ice on a lake. ‘They didn’t come into school today,’ blurted Timmy. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Miss.’

  Dr Gore’s eyes bulged out of his head like a rat caught in a trap. ‘So where are they?’ he spat. ‘We must find them. We must root them out!’

  ‘It’s not my fault, sir,’ Timmy whined. ‘That’s all I came to say. Can I have my vouchers now?’

  ‘No you can’t have—’ spluttered Dr Gore, the veins on his head pulsing like earthworms.

  Marvella interrupted. ‘Don’t you listen to that mean old man, Timmy dear,’ she soothed. ‘Rudolph, my secretary, will give you as many vouchers as you can stuff in your pockets.’

  ‘Uh, OK . . . thanks!’ stammered Timmy. Marvella clicked her fingers and Frankie heard the thud of heavy feet advancing down the corridor.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Marvella smiled. Moments later there was the sound of a scuffle.

  ‘Ow! Let go!’ Timmy shrieked. ‘Get off! What are you doing?’ Marvella closed the door as Timmy was dragged away down the corridor. ‘Where are you taking me?! Heeeelp!’ he yelled. Frankie and Neet exchanged alarmed glances. The door clicked shut.

  Dr Gore was white with fury. ‘You told me they’d be here!’ he spluttered. ‘We must find them IMMEDIATELY!’

  ‘I don’t see why you’re throwing such a tantrum,’ Marvella tutted. ‘So what if we don’t find them? It’s too late for them to stop us now.’

  ‘Oh-ho!’ Dr Gore spluttered through his moustache. ‘You don’t know what the little vandals are capable of! Frankie Blewitt and Anita Banerjee are vicious little crooks, I tell you, criminal masterminds!’

  ‘Calm yourself!’ Marvella hissed slowly, like a snapping icicle. ‘People are staring. Now you have a job to do, so slap on a smile, get up there and get on with it!’

  Marvella’s orders were as clear as crystal. Dr Gore mopped his enormous forehead, ratcheted up a tense grin and returned to the admiring crowd.

  ‘This is all very impressive, Professor,’ ventured a man with a wispy moustache. ‘But . . . um . . . is it entirely ethical? I mean, it all seems a little . . . extreme, don’t you think?’ The audience murmured uncomfortably while Dr Gore’s yellow eyes flared with contempt.

  ‘My dear ssssir,’ he sneered, ‘scientific progress demands—’ But Marvella didn’t let him get any further.

  ‘At Marvella’s,’ she piped up shrilly, ‘we will go to great lengths to give children what they want for Christmas. We are extreme, yes, and I’m not afraid to say it. Extremely committed to children’s happiness, and . . .’ she added with a wink, ‘extremely committed to your bank balance.’ The audience chuckled and did not press any further. After all, why stand in the way of progress? Why stand in the way of children’s happiness?

  ‘One more thing,’ Gore hissed. ‘To make sure everything goes to plan, we are keeping the children under tight surveillance. Last week we targeted a test-group from the local school.’ The screen flicked on to show security camera footage of the Cramley children on their visit to the toyshop.

  ‘Good grief,’ gasped Frankie. ‘That’s you, Neet, look. And there’s Esther, and Jasmine, and Benny.’

  Dr Gore wrinkled his nose with displeasure and continued.

  ‘Each of these children was given a tracking device, so that we can keep an eye on their movements. We want to know their migration patterns. Do they t
ravel in groups, or on their own? How fast do they move past shop windows? And so on.’

  ‘I don’t remember getting a tracking device,’ said Neet. ‘I don’t get it.’

  The projection screen flicked on to show a bird’s-eye view of the town with several dozen small red dots moving around it.

  ‘Each dot,’ crowed Dr Gore, ‘represents a child of Cramley school and . . .’

  ‘Wow!’ whispered Neet, dazzled by the technical wizardry. ‘That’s pretty cool!’

  ‘No, Neet,’ said Frankie, turning pale. Dr Gore had halted mid-sentence and was glaring silently at a spot on the map. Frankie thought he could hear the scientist’s blood beginning to simmer. ‘Empty your pockets, Neet!’ whispered Frankie urgently.

  Neet did as Frankie said and – along with a few hairy toffees and a crusty old hankie – an I Love Marvella’s badge came tumbling out.

  ‘That’s it, Neet!’ Frankie panicked. ‘That’s the tracking device! The badge!’ Frankie peeped through the spyhole and saw Dr Gore striding off the stage towards them, his long fingers twitching like angry spiders. ‘He knows we’re here!’

  The audience gasped as two children in animal masks shot out from under the drinks trolley, dived through Dr Gore’s legs and flew out of the room faster than a pair of rocket-propelled rollerskates.

  ‘Bleeeeewiiiiit!!! Baaaaanerjeeeeeeeee!!!!’ the scientist shrieked in his chipmunky voice. ‘Get back here!!’ But Frankie and Neet were doing no such thing. They tore down the stairs as fast as their legs would carry them. Frankie was breathing so hard he thought his lungs would burst into flames. But he couldn’t slow down for a second. He knew what Dr Calus Gore was capable of and he wasn’t about to take any chances. Alarms wailed and flashed all around them. Marvella had alerted security. Frankie glanced over his shoulder to see two enormous security guards charging after them like angry rhinos.

  ‘Come in, Blitzen! Come in, Blitzen!’ one of them honked into his walkie-talkie. ‘We have located the party-poopers. Repeat. We have located the party-poopers.’

  ‘Read that, Donner,’ a voice crackled back. ‘I’ve got the exits covered.’

  Frankie and Neet exchanged panicked glances. ‘This way, Frankie,’ said Neet, pushing through a side door that led straight into the shop. The store was already heaving with shoppers. Frankie and Neet pushed into the throng, but the guards were catching up fast. Frankie turned his head to see one of them right behind him, reaching forwards with a huge, hairy hand.

  ‘The smoke-bomb!’ Frankie cried. ‘Quickly!’

  Neet pulled the perfume bottle out of her pocket and yanked the chain. Whooooooooooosh! Within moments the shop was filled with a thick blue fog, so dense that Frankie couldn’t even see his own feet.

  ‘We’re getting out of here, Frankie,’ called Neet. ‘Hold on to my ponytail.’ The crowd began to shout and shove their way towards the exit. Frankie felt himself being carried along on a surge of people that was so thick and fast-moving he was afraid he might drown. ‘Hold on, Frankie!’ called Neet. Frankie took a deep breath, then, before he knew it, he tumbled out of the fog and crush of the shop into the crisp winter air.

  ‘Nice one, Neet!’ said Frankie coughing the smoke from his lungs. ‘Now we need to get home and tell the others.’

  But Neet didn’t reply.

  ‘Neet?’

  Frankie felt an enormous hand clamp down on the back of his neck and winch him off his feet. It was Rudolph, the henchman that had taken Timmy away. Frankie saw that Neet was in his other hand, wiggling and squeaking like a gerbil. The guard turned them both around to face him and grinned like an enormous toddler playing with glove-puppets. Frankie tried to shout but Rudolph’s huge thumb was squeezing his throat so tightly, he could only draw the thinnest wisp of air into his lungs. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead and saw stars floating before his eyes. Then, just as he was about to black out, he heard a shrill howl of pain. The guard’s enormous fists sprang open, dropping Neet and Frankie on to the pavement. ‘Waaaaaaah!’ yelled Rudolph clutching, his bottom. ‘Owweeeeee!’ Frankie couldn’t work out what had happened. But then he heard the most ferocious barking. So savage were the growls he felt sure a wolf had escaped from the zoo. But no! Frankie recognised those fluffy white ears and that pink satin collar. Colette! The poodle let go of the guard’s trousers and, as he went howling back into the shop, she trotted delicately over to Frankie and licked the tip of his nose.

  ‘Thanks, Colette!’ gasped Frankie, catching his breath. ‘You’re a lifesaver!’

  The familiar sound of a motorbike engine revved behind them.

  ‘Let’s go, little cabbages!’ cried Alphonsine, chucking them a helmet each. ‘No time to be fandangling about!’

  Neet and Frankie swung themselves on to Alphonsine’s growling panther of a bike and within minutes they were roaring away from the toyshop and out of town. As they sped into the countryside, they told Alphonsine about everything they had discovered at Marvella’s. By the time they had finished, Alphonsine was crosser than a plateful of hot-cross buns.

  ‘Disgracious!’ she fumed. ‘Disgustful! Snitching children’s memories and turning zem into adverts! That Dr Calus is as mad as a mushroom!’ Colette growled in agreement. ‘We must stop him! Straightaway! Once and forever!

  The motorbike turned off the main road on to a muddy path that led into the forest.

  ‘Where are we going, Alfie?’ Frankie hollered over the engine.

  ‘We can’t go home,’ Alphonsine yelled back. ‘Somebody has been there. Somebody has turned the place outside-in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Neet shouted.

  ‘When Eddie got back, somebody had broken into the house,’ she shouted. ‘One of Gore’s little spies no doubt, sniffling around, trying to find you. It is not safe. I am taking you to a tip-top secret hideaway. We is meeting Eddie there.’

  Neet and Frankie clung on tightly as Alphonsine’s motorbike lurched valiantly over muddy ditches and around clumps of twisted roots. The forest was so densely tangled that, within minutes, Frankie felt completely lost. But Alphonsine’s sense of direction was as sensitive as a bloodhound’s nostril and, before long, they were nearing their destination.

  Wiping the mud from his visor, Frankie glimpsed a distant bloom of colour through the trees. The motorbike’s tyres churned on up a narrow, winding path and, little by little, a tall, rickety cabin came into view.

  ‘Ooooh!’ cooed Neet. The cabin was as colourful as a gypsy caravan. Huge petals of paint were peeling off the wooden walls and swallows flitted in and out of the holes in the sloping roof as if they were weaving it together with threads of air. It was clear that nobody had set foot there for a very long time, but it had a certain magic that hadn’t faded.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Frankie. Alphonsine put her finger to her lips and approached the cabin, eyes flicking from side to side to check they had not been followed. Then, toc-a-toc-toc, she rapped swiftly on the bright blue door.

  As Eddie opened up, Frankie’s eyes widened in astonishment. He stepped inside and looked around him. The dusty rays of light that streamed through the broken roof illuminated the most extraordinary collection of objects Frankie had ever seen. Draped with a layer of silky cobwebs were miniature merry-go-rounds and wind-up dragons, clockwork unicorns and mechanical mermaids. He felt like a giant who had accidentally wandered into a fairytale kingdom, frozen in time. Frankie approached what looked like a workbench. On its surface was a pair of dusty old spectacles and a log-book embossed with two deep-set letters. Frankie rubbed the dust away with his thumb to reveal two small, golden initials. C.W.

  Eddie nodded and told Frankie what he already knew.

  ‘A very long time ago,’ he said, ‘this was Crispin Whittle’s workshop.’

  ‘Do you think we’re safe here?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘Perfectly,’ Eddie replied. ‘Marvella is the only other person who knows about this place, but she never visits.’

  ‘Are you sure
?’ whispered Neet, nervously.

  Eddie nodded. ‘After her uncle died, many moons ago, she never returned. Too many sad memories, I suppose.’

  Frankie picked up a tarnished picture frame and gave it a wipe. In it was a yellowing photograph of a sprightly-looking fellow with round glasses and tufts of hair sprouting from his ears. A little girl sat daintily on his lap. She had sparkling eyes and an eager smile that seemed to warm the glass of the frame.

  ‘That’s her,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Really?’ Frankie replied, struggling to believe it. ‘You wouldn’t know it, would you?’

  ‘Hey look at this,’ said Neet, picking up a large cream-coloured envelope. The envelope had been lying on the bench for so many years it left a dark oblong shadow in the dust. ‘It’s addressed to Marvella. It must be from her uncle.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Frankie, taking the envelope and turning it between his fingers. He was about to open it when Eddie swiped it out of his hands.

  ‘Manners!’ said Eddie, tweaking Frankie’s ear affectionately. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to read other people’s mail?’

  ‘Sorry, Eddie.’ Frankie blushed.

  ‘I’ll make sure it gets to its owner,’ Eddie replied, dusting it off and slipping it into his pocket, ‘Better late than never.’

  Alphonsine made up a fire in the ash-filled hearth and, as they huddled round the greenish flames, they plotted their next move. There was no time to lose. Come midnight, Project Wishlist would launch into action. In bedrooms all over the country Mechanimals would be crawling out of their toy boxes, clambering on to their sleeping owners and giving their minds a full Marvella makeover.

  ‘We have to find a way to sabotage Project Wishlist,’ said Frankie. ‘All those logos and jingles need to be deleted before the Mechanimals put them into children’s heads.’

  Everyone nodded in agreement. Yes indeed, that was what had to be done. But who would do it? Who could do it? Alphonsine was a spectacular mechanic. She could fix a motorbike or rewire a radio in no time at all, but neither she nor Eddie knew the first thing about computers.