The Brain Sucker Page 2

  Callum followed Sophie into the yard. It was a big area surrounded by a low picket fence. A flat lawn was broken by a selection of flowerbeds, trees, shrubs and a kidney-shaped fish pond. Dour concrete gnomes sat around the water’s edge. One dangled a fishing pole into the pond.

  The Dudman twins stood in the adjoining yard, technically still on their own property. Shane Dudman had a remote control in his hand and was directing the movements of a miniature yellow helicopter that buzzed over the head of Churchill. The little animal ran in confused circles and took mad flying leaps into the air, snapping at the helicopter as it passed.

  Sophie called politely to the twins. “Good morning. Would you mind keeping your helicopter away from my dog please? Thank you so much.”

  Wayne Dudman poked out his tongue. Shane said something that sounded like “Fizzle me pizzle” and continued dive-bombing the dog.

  This time the helicopter’s rotor blades got so close to Churchill’s tail that they shaved off a few strands of fur. Churchill let out a yelp and ran under a nearby hedge. The twins laughed.

  Sophie called to Callum. “You’re a witness. I tried to be civil.”

  “Yep, they’re asking for it all right,” agreed Callum.

  Placing the battle tank on the back lawn, Sophie switched on the remote control.

  The tank’s massive engine kicked into life with a throaty roar. She steered it into the middle of the yard then swivelled the turret until the cannon tracked the helicopter. The twins stared at the tank in slack-jawed amazement. Their helicopter hovered in midair just inside the Barnsworths’ fence.

  With her tongue between her teeth, Sophie raised the tank’s gun so its gigantic muzzle faced just above the helicopter and pressed the fire button.

  KABLAMO!

  The concussion blast alone was enough to knock the helicopter out of the air. The craft spun end over end, buzzing erratically until it collided with a tree. The impact smashed the helicopter into dozens of pieces. The main rotor blade broke away and spiralled through the air before finally embedding itself in the nose of the fishing gnome. The remainder of its shattered body plummeted to the ground, making a sound like an old car trying to start on a cold morning. It crunched into the grass and sat broken and silent on the ground.

  No one even looked at the wreckage. All eyes were on the projectile that had blasted from the tank’s gun turret.

  Callum shouldn’t have been surprised that Sophie’s tank fired a miniature ballistic missile, but he was. He had expected a BB pellet or a ball bearing, not a sleek and deadly rocket with stabilising fins and an explosive charge in the nose.

  And it hadn’t finished yet. The rocket hit the upstairs window of the Dudmans’ house. There was a blast so loud that Callum could feel the vibration through his chair. In a split second the window was reduced to thousands of wood splinters and twinkling shards of glass. The fragments rained down upon the Dudmans’ driveway, covering the concrete with a layer of debris. As the last echoes of the explosion faded away, a roar of fury rose from within the Dudmans’ house.

  Callum looked at the wreckage open-mouthed. “If that was a warning shot, I’d hate to see what would happen if you really meant it!”

  “Hmm,” said Sophie. “I may have made some miscalculations.”

  “You think?”

  “Time for school, I reckon.” Sophie was already heading out of the yard.

  Callum pushed on his rims, caught up to his friend and the two of them disappeared up the road.

  Two

  Callum and Sophie joined a mass of other schoolchildren filing through the gates of Thanxton School.

  They were just about to enter when they saw a small boy with bright red hair and a freckly face pushing a damaged bicycle up the road. It was their friend Jinx Patterson. His real name was Toby Patterson but nobody ever called him that, not even his parents. Jinx was way more appropriate, given that bad luck followed him wherever he went.

  Callum waved. The boy waved back in a dejected manner and trudged towards them. The front wheel of his bike was badly bent and his clothing was mud stained and dishevelled.

  Jinx reached into his schoolbag and withdrew a battered package. He handed it to Callum. “Happy birthday,” he muttered.

  Callum shook the package, the contents tinkling brokenly.

  “It’s a model car, but it may have got a bit crunched in the crash.”

  Callum and Sophie exchanged a look.

  “Another accident, eh, Jinx? How many is that?”

  Jinx thought for a minute. “Twenty-seven this year.”

  “It’s only February,” gasped Sophie. “What happened this time?”

  “Sudden wind gust. Blew me into a drainage ditch.”

  Callum looked at his friend, concerned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, you know what my luck’s like. Bad stuff happens but I never get hurt much. Doesn’t do my popularity any good though. Did you guys hear what happened yesterday?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Some kids actually picked me to play in their rugby team at lunchtime. Just as I was about to score, the goalpost fell over. It knocked the ball out of my hand and smashed Reggie. That’ll be the last time anyone has me in their team.”

  Callum suppressed a grin. “Don’t worry. We’ll always be your friends. Won’t we, Soph?”

  “’Course. Bad luck doesn’t scare me.” Sophie wiped some of the mud off Jinx’s jacket. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

  The three friends entered the school grounds and made their way towards the classrooms.

  Suddenly, Jinx’s thumb began to shake.

  “Uh-oh,” said Jinx. “Watch out. When bad luck’s going to kick in, my thumb starts doing this crazy dance.”

  Jinx’s thumb jerked about like it was trying to escape from his palm. He grabbed it with his other hand and tried to hold it still but it was no good; the thumb kept wriggling like a hyperactive worm.

  Callum and Sophie looked around uneasily. “How long’s this been going on?” asked Callum.

  Jinx continued to battle his thumb. “Just started recently. Scared the hell out of me the first time it happened, but don’t worry – it stops as soon as the bad luck hits.”

  At that very moment a massive splodge of bird poop fell from the sky and landed on Jinx’s head. His thumb immediately stopped shaking. Jinx reached up and patted the splatter that was already beginning to matt his hair. To Callum’s and Sophie’s surprise, he smiled.

  “Phew. It’s only bird poo. I thought for a minute that something really horrible was going to happen.”

  Callum and Sophie left Jinx to clean up and headed for class. English was their first subject and they arrived just before the bell. A crowd of students milled around outside waiting for the lesson to start. The classroom was one of many that didn’t have a wheelchair ramp, and three steep steps stood before Callum and the door. Sophie walked behind the Thunderkit and took hold of the rear of Callum’s seat, ready to pull him up the stairs, but Callum jerked the wheelchair forwards, breaking her grip.

  “Hey,” she cried, rubbing her wrist.

  Callum spun around, a determined look on his face. “Sorry, but I want to get up by myself. It’s a new chair. I can do it.”

  Sophie stood aside, arms folded tightly across her chest.

  The assembled students turned to watch as Callum wheeled his chair up to the first step.

  The Thunderkit was fitted with “in and out” adjustable settings. In “out” mode the wheels slanted out from the seat giving the chair width and stability, allowing it to cope with almost any terrain. When “in” mode was selected, the wheels straightened so it could cruise through doorways.

  Callum activated the rear wheel, retracted the front wheels and clicked into out mode. He felt the chair drop, then nudged the big wheels closer to the step. Leaning back, he pushed hard on the rims. The chair climbed the first step with ease. Pausing to find his balance, Callum grasped the rims once more. He grunted with eff
ort and pushed forwards. The big wheels bounced up the second step. Just as it looked like he would make it to the top, the rear wheel jammed on the edge of the previous step. Callum lost his balance and the chair tumbled down the steps, tipped over and threw him to the ground. A gasp rippled through the crowd and someone at the back gave a cruel laugh. Sophie glared at the group then ran to Callum’s side. She righted the chair and reached down to help him back into it. Callum brushed her away, his face burning with embarrassment and frustration.

  “Leave me alone,” he snapped.

  Sophie retreated.

  With considerable effort Callum slowly dragged himself back into the seat. His uniform was dusty and crumpled, and he was breathing heavily.

  “Show’s over,” he growled at the crowd.

  The students wandered away, whispering amongst themselves.

  Sophie stalked over, leaned in close and hissed into Callum’s ear. “You don’t have to be so stubborn. We all need help sometimes.”

  Callum looked away and said nothing.

  Sophie grabbed the rear of the chair and pulled him roughly up the steps. She let go once they’d reached the top and stormed into the classroom. Callum sat where Sophie had left him for a few moments, blinking back angry tears. He wiped his eyes, drew a deep breath then followed her inside.

  When the class had finished, Callum rolled over to Sophie and passed her an amusing sketch he’d drawn of her battle tank blowing out the Dudmans’ window. Sophie smiled. She knew this was as close to apologising as Callum would get. He didn’t like talking about his disability or how it affected him. He was constantly trying to prove he didn’t need help. In fact, Sophie and Rose were the only ones Callum would let touch his chair, and she was worried that the Thunderkit would encourage him to be even more reckless.

  The rest of the school day passed slowly. Finally, the bell went and Callum rushed home. He pushed open the door, jumped the jamb and rolled inside.

  As soon as he entered, he knew something was wrong. It was after four o’clock and there were no cooking smells in the air. Normally the scent of freshly baked scones or biscuits would fill the room and he’d hear the reassuring sound of a hearty stew bubbling away on the stove. Today there was nothing, literally not a sausage.

  Panic rose in Callum’s throat like a geyser steaming up from his stomach. Had his grandmother had an accident? He called out, his voice cracking with worry. “Gran, are you okay?”

  Rose bustled into the room. She seemed to be fine physically but was in a most uncharacteristic flap. “Gracious me, no.”

  Rose planted a kiss on his cheek. Callum wiped it away with his hand.

  “Sorry, dear. Where are my manners? Good afternoon, young man. How was school?”

  “Fine thanks, Gran, but what’s going on? You look terrible.”

  Callum wasn’t being rude; his grandmother did look a mess. Her hair slumped to one side, her make-up was smudged and her clothing was rumpled. He had never seen her in such a state.

  Rose sighed, walked to the drawer in the kitchen and withdrew the letter that had arrived in the post. She passed it to Callum. “It’s from the Welfare Department. Now that you are thirteen, you are classed as a young adult, and they believe you’ll need a higher level of supervision. They think I’m too old to provide it and want to review your case.”

  “You’re not too old. That’s rubbish,” scoffed Callum.

  “Yes, it is, but we have to convince them that I’m still capable of being your guardian. I’ve been on the phone all day, and they want to see us in person.” Rose wrung her hands and added another wrinkle to her dress. “It means we have to go to the city.”

  All of a sudden Rose’s extreme agitation made sense. Callum knew his grandmother hated going to the city. He’d listened to many lectures about what an overcrowded, noisy, polluted and dangerous place it was. Last time Rose was there a rude young man bumped into her on the footpath and knocked her to the ground. Then he carried on walking without a word of apology. To make matters worse, no one had stopped to help her up. Rose also noticed ex-students of hers who moved to the city couldn’t be bothered staying in touch, unlike their counterparts in the village who visited her regularly. From this she concluded that everyone in the city was ill mannered and only interested in themselves. Callum thought she was being a bit harsh but knew better than to contradict his grandmother. He tried to be positive instead.

  “It’ll be all right, Gran. We’ll go to the city together, and I’ll convince them you’re doing a brilliant job of looking after me. Everything will be fine.”

  Callum couldn’t imagine being taken away from his grandmother; it would be his worst nightmare and he was determined not to let it happen.

  Rose calmed slightly. “I suppose.” She hesitated, her mind clearly on something else. “The letter got me thinking. I’d like to be more than just your guardian. Your mother has been out of contact for many years now, long enough for me to apply to adopt you.” Rose glanced at her grandson and hurried on. “But we don’t have to worry about that, if it isn’t what you want.”

  Callum grinned. “Of course it’s what I want.” He rolled closer to his grandmother and threw his arms around her.

  Rose squeezed her grandson, a smile returning to her face. “I’m so pleased. I’ll file the papers as soon as I’ve got this silly interview out of the way.”

  After a few minutes Callum broke the hug. “They wouldn’t really take me away from you, would they?”

  His grandmother grew serious. “It’s unlikely, but if they did find me unsuitable, they could place you under the guardianship of another relation.”

  “Like who?”

  “Aunt Rebecca,” said Rose.

  Callum repressed a shudder. Rebecca was Rose’s eldest daughter. She had moved to the city many years ago where she married a wet fish of a man called Ken. Callum didn’t mind Rebecca; she was a bit of a drama queen but was harmless enough. The problem was her two kids – ten-year-old Mitchell and eight-year-old Bradley. They were loud, obnoxious, hyperactive and generally behaved as if pieces of their brains were missing. The thought of living with his aunt’s brood of monsters was too horrible to contemplate, but Callum pushed his fears aside.

  “No one could look after me better than you, and the welfare people will see that. I’m sure of it.”

  Rose nodded. “Well, I guess we’d better get ready for a trip to the city then. Unfortunately, we’ll have to stay with Rebecca.” Rose put on a brave face. “Perhaps it won’t be as awful as we think.”

  Callum forced a smile. “It’ll be fine.”

  They both knew it was going to be horrid, but if they’d had even the smallest clue of what was in store, they would have bolted the front door and never left the village.

  Three

  Lester Smythe heaved a heavy sigh. He ran his skinny fingers through his black scraggly hair then scratched his hooked nose. He was standing behind a large walnut inlaid desk in the plush office of his warehouse lair. Lester owned a successful car parts importing business, which funded his more insidious activities, like being an evil criminal genius. The business gave him an air of respectability and allowed him to hide his other projects from prying eyes.

  Lester slammed his fist onto the desk with surprising strength and the two men standing before him jumped.

  “Why is this so difficult?” he roared.

  Darryl Yarmouth bowed his bald head and stared at his huge feet. He was a giant of a man, more than two metres tall, with a body that looked like it’d been sculpted out of rocks. But still he shuffled nervously and waited for the man beside him to speak.

  “It’s pretty complicated stuff, boss,” muttered Parson Richie, the other man in the room. Parson was shorter than Darryl but not by much. His frame was lean and he had abnormally long arms. He wore his shoulder-length black hair twisted into dreadlocks.

  Lester stalked around to the front of his desk. He pointed to a clear cylindrical flask that lay on the desk. A tube an
d suction cup were attached to the top of the flask.

  “No, it’s not,” he said as he picked up the flask and waved the suction cup at the two men. “You stick this over the kid’s ear, turn on the engine and it sucks the goodness out of their head. The goodness comes out as a pulsating green blob and gets trapped in the flask. Then you quickly screw on the lid so the blob of goodness doesn’t escape. Easy-peasy. You’d have to be a moron to mess that up. You’re not a moron, are you, Parson?”

  Parson shook his head; his dreadlocks waved back and forth like seaweed in a tidal pool. He was scared of Lester, partly because of Lester’s weird eyes (one was blue and the other brown), but mainly because the man was a psychotic lunatic.

  Darryl held up a baseball-sized hand, as if he was still in school. “I’m still not sure why we’re doing it.”

  “You don’t have to be,” snarled Lester. “You just have to do what I tell you.”

  Lester stared at Darryl until the big man looked away. He had no intention of explaining to his henchmen why he detested goodness and wanted to rid the world of it.

  His mind drifted back to his first day at Jacktown Primary School in the city. He’d arrived in a taxi, his mother was too busy drinking gin to drop him off. He stared at the big building he was supposed to enter, took a deep breath then pushed his way through the crowds of children being hugged by teary-eyed parents. He made it through the first half of the day by staying out of everyone’s way, ignored at school almost as much as he was at home. Then came lunchtime. He entered the school cafeteria, grabbed a plate and stepped in front of a long queue of hungry children. Lester didn’t realise he was doing anything wrong; his parents hadn’t let him mix with other kids or bothered to teach him how to behave properly. This mattered little to the large, red-faced officious man who grabbed his arm and pulled him from the queue.

  “It seems we have a dirty little queue jumper,” bellowed the man, who turned out to be Jacktown Primary’s principal. “Don’t you have any manners, boy?”