The Great Brain Robbery (3 page)

‘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 Frankie 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.