Casper Candlewacks in Attack of the Brainiacs!. Ivan Brett

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СКАЧАТЬ the boys would find fewer and fewer eggs, with no explanation why.

      “I don’t like this,” said Casper suspiciously. “Maybe they’re ill or something.”

      “Chicken pox?” said Lamp.

      “Do chickens get chicken pox?”

      “Er, yeah.” Lamp clicked his teeth. “Clue’s in the name, silly.”

      Bessie pecked at a little vending machine. It gave a bloop and its dispenser scattered a handful of seeds on to the garage floor.

      “Come on, Lamp, we’ve a bus to catch.”

      “Ooh!” Lamp squealed. “We’re going to big boys’ school!”

      The pit of Casper’s stomach wiggled. He wished he shared his friend’s enthusiasm, but in truth, he was terrified. Corne-on-the-Kobb wasn’t big enough to have its own senior school, so once the kids were old enough, they were shipped off to the sprawling city of High Kobb. You could see its grey towers from the top of the Corne-on-the-Kobb village hall, climbing high into the clouds and beyond, probably into space. Casper had never been to High Kobb, or any city, as a matter of fact. The villagers had told stories and Casper had listened, quivering: the never-ending traffic, murderers on every street corner and giant alligators that crawl out of the sewers and eat your firstborn. Cities struck fear into Casper’s heart. And now he had to go to school inside one!

      If Casper survived the day, though, he’d have worse waiting for him back in Corne-on-the-Kobb. Tonight was the opening of his dad’s brand-new restaurant, an event two months and three kitchen fires in the making. Casper was to be head waiter and mopper of spills, his least favourite job since nappy-recycling.

      “Oh, Casper, aren’t we gonna have so much fun?”

      Casper was jolted back to reality as Lamp stuffed a handful of marbles and an iron into his oil-stained backpack.

      “D’you think they have chairs there? Otherwise I’ll take this one with me.”

      “They’ve already got chairs. I think. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

      “Race you to the bus!” Lamp galumphed out of the garage and veered left down the road.

      “This way, Lamp.”

      “Righty-ho!” He wheeled round and galumphed back into the garage.

      Lamp Flannigan was Casper’s best friend. He wasn’t the fizziest bottle in the fridge in terms of brain power. Directions weren’t his strong point, and neither were counting, spelling, herding cattle, walking, breathing, not falling into puddles… Actually, this list is going to continue for an awfully long time. To save money and rainforests it’d be easier to flag up his one and only strong point. Lamp Flannigan was an absolute genius at inventing. He invented the things that nobody in their right mind would ever attempt. But that’s the point: Lamp didn’t have a right mind. He didn’t even have a left mind. He had a sort of slushy heap that mulched around in his skull and gurgled when you shook it. But whatever it was, it sure as beans made him good at inventing. He’d invented telepathic typewriters that type what you think and collapsible caravans that fit into your lunchbox. He’d made rubber paint for bouncy walls and disposable flags that you only wave once. Inventing wasn’t just Lamp’s hobby, it was his life.

      Casper walked through the park with Lamp trotting behind him, stopping every so often to sniff a flower or re-Velcro his shoes.

      At the entrance to the village square sat Casper’s dad’s brand-new restaurant, The Battered Cod. There were about two weeks’ worth of jobs to do before The Battered Cod was ready to open, which was fine, except that tonight was the opening night.

      Ting-a-ling.

      “Casp!” The balding head of Julius, Casper’s dad, popped out of the front door like a hairy egg, but without much hair. “Glad I found you. Can you help me with this oven? It’s still in bits, and Cuddles ate the manual.”

      “Sorry, I can’t. The bus leaves any minute.”

      “Bus? Where d’you think you’re going on a school day, young man?”

      “School, Dad. St Simian’s, remember?”

      “Oh yes.” Julius scratched his scalp. “Course I remember. Well, have fun. I’ll just do the oven myself, then.”

      “Good luck,” Casper grimaced. He wouldn’t normally leave his dad alone with an oven, even though he was a chef. “Don’t… explode… or anything.”

      “I’ll try not to.”

      “Hi, Mister Candlewacks,” piped up Lamp.

      “Hi, Lamp.” Julius waved and disappeared back into his restaurant.

      Ting-a-ling.

      (One thing Julius had fixed was the thing that went ting-a-ling when you opened or closed the door. It’s a very important piece of equipment, particularly to deter robbers, who are generally terrified of bells.)

      The village square was packed that morning with weeping mothers and trembling children standing by a huge train carriage lashed to a green tractor. It was the closest thing to a school bus Corne-on-the-Kobb could muster, but it didn’t half look grand there, grumbling away on the cobbles. In the centre of the square stood the massive gleaming stone statue of Mayor Rattsbulge, clutching his bejewelled sword in one hammy fist.

      The real Mayor Rattsbulge stood in the shadow of his chiselled stone twin, twice as fat, not nearly as handsome, and clutching a sausage rather than a sword. The statue had been finished two weeks ago, and every day since, the mayor had stood proudly beside it, pointing it out to passers-by and loudly telling them how accurate it was.

      Other villagers trotted across the cobbles on their morning errands, waving at each other and giving their mayor a wide berth. Betty Woons – a sprightly 107-year-old – whizzed in skittering circles across the square in her turbo-powered wheelchair, running over so many toes that she lost count and had to start again; village gardener Sandy Landscape leant against a wall, chatting to a hedge; bent-backed Mrs Trimble tugged at the nine leads attached to the collars of nine stubborn cats that licked their paws and meowed throatily; and four-foot-tall pub landlord Mitch McMassive puffed and wheezed as he tried once more to roll an enormous beer barrel towards The Horse and Horse, only for it to roll backwards and flatten him against the cobbles.

      Casper and Lamp passed through the crowd, bumping into a grubby little man with a pinched face hidden under his grubby black beret.

      “Hullo, Mr Renée!” Lamp said.

      “’Allo, boys,” growled Renée in his thick French drawl. He grinned, his rubbery lips parting to reveal a few brown teeth. In the corner of his mouth hung a soggy, thin cigarette that wobbled as he talked. Renée’s gaze settled on Casper, and Caspar shivered.

      “Hi,” Casper said briskly. He didn’t know why Renée made his skin crawl like that. He wasn’t a cruel man, just a little cold. Renée had come to Corne-on-the-Kobb from France a couple of months ago. Quite why he’d done that, nobody had bothered to ask. None of the other villagers paid the poor chap the slightest СКАЧАТЬ