Molly Moon Stops the World

by Georgia Byng

  “But okay, open it,” said Molly.

  Nockman nodded and thrust his face clumsily toward the safe as if he were about to kiss it. He banged his nose. Then he put his ear up to the copper wheel and with his right hand began to turn the dial.

  “I hope he can do it hypnotized,” said Rocky.

  “Aha!” gloated Nockman, clicking the dial forty-five degrees to the right.

  “It better not be alarmed,” said Molly.

  “Mmmmmnn,” mulled Nockman, turning the dial six degrees to the left.

  “How does he do it?”

  “Beats me. I wish he’d hurry up.”

  “Haaaaah,” grunted Nockman, as if he’d just caught a fox undoing the latch of a chicken run.

  While Nockman hummed and tutted and clicked, Molly reached for the micro camera in her bag. What had Cell hidden in the secret safe?

  All at once Nockman sighed. He pulled the safe’s handle down, and a satisfying clunking noise reverberated inside.

  “Hey presto,” he said.

  The door swung open.

  Then his face dropped with disappointment as he saw there were no diamonds or jewels. Instead, four black file folders, one on top of the other, lay inside like sleeping monsters. Nockman passed them to Molly.

  “You go first,” said Molly.

  “No, after you,” said Rocky.

  Molly opened a file.

  “Wow.” Molly could hardly believe what she was seeing. Staring up at her from the top sheet of a stack of paper was a photograph of Cosmo Ace. It was stuck above the heading “Heaven Bar Campaign.” Dates and addresses were printed below. But this was not the familiar, handsome face from the TV ads. This man looked dazed—or drugged—or … hypnotized.

  “Lucy was right,” said Rocky huskily.

  With shaking hands, he and Molly each took a file and rifled through them. They had indeed hit the jackpot. All the sheets inside were laid out in the same way—with the name of a person at the top of the page and a passport-size photograph of them on the righthand corner, like a stamp on an envelope. Molly and Rocky couldn’t contain their amazement.

  “So many of them! He’s hypnotized practically every star who exists.”

  Some pages bore a note in red ink. It read simply E DAY.

  Molly came to Suky Champagne’s sheet. It was strange to see her world-famous face in the small blackand-white photograph. Suky Champagne didn’t look her usual lovely, vivacious self at all. This Suky looked dopey. Her sheet also included the words “E Day.”

  “What do you think E Day is?” asked Molly.

  “The day he’s got what he wants? I don’t know,” Rocky replied. “Look, Billy Bob Bimble’s here too.”

  “Shall I take a picture of every document?” whispered Molly.

  “Yes. I’ll hold them up and you photograph them.”

  So that was what they did. Molly took off her sticky rubber gloves and began snapping away. Photographs of celebrities she recognized and ones that she didn’t passed before her camera. There was Hercules Stone looking half asleep, Gloria Heelheart with her mouth open like a goldfish. King Moose, cross-eyed, and Stephanie Goulash smiling like a plastic doll. But there weren’t just actors and pop stars in the files. There were American TV announcers, sports stars, newscasters, business leaders, newspaper editors, journalists, artists, writers, restaurant owners, doctors, police chiefs, army commanders, and politicians.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to hypnotize the president of the United States,” said Rocky.

  The documents were in alphabetical order, and Molly noticed there were lots of empty pages with names on them, but no photograph. Were these the people Primo Cell planned to hypnotize? On a few of these the red ink said ACTIVATE BEFORE E DAY.

  “What is this E Day?” Molly asked again.

  “A day he’s planning something big. We’ll have to find out what it means.”

  The worst sheet they found was Davina Nuttel’s. She stared out of the picture like someone who’d just seen a bomb go off. A bloodred cross traversed her page like a murderer’s mark.

  “Oh,” Molly gasped. “You don’t think he’s …”

  Rocky stared in horror. “So Primo Cell really did have something to do with her kidnaping.”

  “But why?”

  “All I know is that we’re playing with fire and we should get out of here as fast as we can.”

  Rocky and Molly worked as quickly as possible. They crouched on the floor, hoping that flashes from the camera wouldn’t be seen from the street. Nockman sat on a velvet chair, occasionally muttering “Tick, tick,” or “Click, click,” or “Hmmmm,” and picking at his thumbs.

  An hour later, Molly had taken 760 pictures and the magpie picture was back in its place.

  “He’ll never know we’ve been here,” said Molly.

  “Unless he’s watching us.”

  “Don’t give me the creeps,” said Molly.

  The building was quiet as a tomb, the street outside silent as a graveyard except for the distant horns and sirens of the Los Angeles traffic. Molly instructed the security guard to order them a cab and then, after they’d gone, to completely forget that they’d been there at all. Petula was still waiting outside the building. Molly picked her up and gave her a hug.

  “You’re a naughty monkey, Petula.”

  Back at the Château Marmont, Nockman was instructed to forget the evening too.

  “You can tell Mrs. T. that we spent the evening at the Benefactor’s house, which is very fine, er, you know—very posh and full of expensive furniture and thick carpets. You can say you met the Benefactor, but only for a moment, as he was off to a business dinner. Say he looked like …”

  “Like a kind old man,” suggested Rocky.

  “Yes, with gray hair, and with a mustache, and wearing …”

  “A pink suit?”

  “Yes, say he looks like Father Christmas in a pink suit. If Mrs. Trinklebury asks you any other details, say you don’t remember.”

  Molly couldn’t help adding, “And, er, Mr. Nockman, well done for the way you’ve improved. You’re a much nicer person than you were. Everybody really likes you.”

  Nockman nodded. Then Molly snapped her fingers and woke him from his trance.

  They went back to their bungalow and hid the camera and rolls of film in a drawer in Molly’s bedroom. Molly found Lucy’s telephone number in the briefcase and dialed her number.

  “Lucy will be amazed,” she said.

  “Hope her phone’s not bugged,” said Rocky.

  At the other end of the line the hollow ring tone continued.

  “She must be up—it’s ten in the morning in Briersville,” said Molly. But there was no answer from the cottage.

  “I suppose it takes her ages to do her shopping on crutches,” said Rocky, yawning. “Call her tomorrow.”

  Molly longed to tell Lucy about Davina and the hypnotized stars. She wanted to ask her what they should do next. She put the phone down reluctantly.

  “See you in the morning, Marshmallow,” Rocky said, trying to make them both feel less scared.

  Molly had never felt more like a marshmallow—soft, squashy, and lightheaded as a cloud. She was so exhausted that she hardly had the energy to get undressed. She went to sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Fourteen

  The second day at the Château Marmont was hotter than the first. In fact, the temperatures were breaking records. Fans whirred in the lobby, where people sat flapping books under their chins.

  The atmosphere of Los Angeles was also heating up, because the Academy Awards were the following night. Already, in the hotels and smart houses, famous directors, producers, actors, actresses, screenwriters, musicians, lawyers, and agents were getting their beauty sleep and preparing themselves for the big event. The clothes designers, hairdressers, beauticians, jewelers, limousine companies, flower shops, image therapists, and speechwriters of the city were working overtime. All over town, parties
were being organized, and the names of the Oscar nominees were on everybody’s lips. Except Molly’s.

  She hurried through the lobby. She’d braved the sizzling midday streets to visit a photo lab to have the film developed. Now the precious information was in a large envelope under her arm. She kept her head down, because every time anyone crossed the hotel floor, the whole lobby looked up to see whether they were famous or not. Molly didn’t want to be recognized again, and with the knowledge they’d gleaned the night before, she felt very vulnerable. She half expected to find two heavy-duty Cell protectors waiting for her outside their bungalow. But she rejoined Rocky in her cool, air-conditioned bedroom without incident and sat down to look at the photographs.

  “That’s 217 not hypnotized, but 542 already under his power,” Rocky said.

  “And then, hypnotized or not, alive or dead, there’s Davina,” Molly solemnly reminded him.

  “How do you think Cell does it?” asked Rocky. “Does he use a pendulum, or do you think he does it like me and uses his voice? Or mainly his eyes?”

  “We just don’t know,” said Molly with a shudder. “What’s for sure is we’re never going to be able to dehypnotize over 700 people.”

  “All their addresses are here,” said Rocky.

  “Maybe. But even if we manage to dehypnotize two a day, there’s only 365 days in a year. We’d be at it for over two years. And what if Cell goes and hypnotizes them all over again? Anyway, how are we going to dehypnotize them without him realizing we’re doing it? He’ll be onto us. He’ll snap us up like … like a crocodile snapping at …”

  “Wading toddlers?”

  “Yes,” said Molly, finding the image sickening.

  She collected the pictures and locked them in her room’s safe. She could hear Mrs. Trinklebury outside telling Roger not to climb quite so high in the tree. Molly wandered onto the lawn to watch the others in the pool below. She looked down at them enviously.

  “We’d better call Lucy. She might have a good idea about how to dehypnotize these stars. Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to have nothing to do, no work, no … mission.”

  They could see Mrs. Trinklebury in an old-fashioned bathing suit and a broad-brimmed hat, lounging on her sun chair, with a pile of celebrity magazines on her lap. She was throwing bits of cookie to nearby blackbirds. A white-suited pool waiter was placing a tall green drink on the table beside her. Mr. Nockman was on the diving board about to jump. Roger’s feet were dangling from the big-boughed tree near the wall. He was hanging blue paper airplanes on its leaves.

  Mr. Nockman bombed into the water, making an almighty splash. This was followed by a yell from Mrs. Trinklebury.

  “Simon, how could you? You’ve soaked my Oscars Special!”

  Molly suddenly brightened. She turned to Rocky. “When are the Oscars, Rocky?”

  “Molly, haven’t you noticed? The whole place is buzzing with Oscar fever. The Oscars are tomorrow. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

  “Well, I kinda did,” said Molly thoughtfully. “I just hadn’t really realized they were so soon. Who goes to the Oscars, Rocky?”

  “Everyone goes. All the important movie people.”

  “Yes,” said Molly. She remembered all the television clips she’d seen of the Academy Awards. There were so many awards. Prizes for the best actors, directors, cameramen, screenwriters, soundtrack composers, special-effects makers, designers, and producers.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It’s perfect. Where else could we dehypnotize each and every one of these stupid stars so quickly? We’ll go to the Oscars too.”

  Rocky raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Fun for some, but the trouble is, Rocky, for us it’s work. If it’s tomorrow, we’ve got to get moving. If we’re going, we’ve got to look like movie people’s kids. I’ll need a dress, we’ll both need shoes, and you have got to get a tuxedo.”

  “A tux what?”

  “A special evening suit. We better get to the shops quick. We’ll call Lucy later.”

  With that, Molly ran inside to get her knapsack.

  Little did they know that nearby, some new hypnotism students were having their first session.

  “I think we need it to be really quiet if we’re going to do this,” Gemma said, kneeling on the carpet. At that moment there was a scratch at the door. Gerry let Petula in.

  “Okay, Petula, you can come in, but no noise.”

  Petula cocked her head and lay down by the bed to watch what the two young humans were up to. Gemma and Gerry crouched in front of a glass vase. In it sat Victor, the biggest mouse.

  Victor was annoyed to have been lifted out of his warm straw bed where he’d been sleeping off his jet lag. He chewed on a piece of seed and shot what he hoped was a filthy look at the two humans outside his container. His favorite human, the boy he called Big One, and the girl who was often with him, were looking at him, their bodies distorted through the glass. The furry beast was there too.

  “Okay, so we’ve done the first bit,” said the girl. “You’re sure that mice squeak like that, Gerry?”

  “Yes. It’s the kind of squeak they do before they go to sleep.” The boy made a whispery, squeaky noise. “Ssssssssqqquuuueak. You do it,” he said. The girl copied him.

  “That’s it. Do that.” Gerry studied the photocopied instructions in front of him. “It says,” he read, “‘Repeat the ani—mal’s voice, in a lullin’ way, until the animal be—comes rocked into a tran … a tran…’ I can’t read it.”

  “A trance.” Gemma took the paper. “It’s like a dreamy thing just before you get hypnotized. A bit like being in a sort of daydream.”

  “We gotta make Victor go into a daydream?”

  “A trance. ‘Once the animal is in a trance, you will know it from the fusion feeling.’ Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Victor scratched his ear with his back foot and wondered whether there were still any potato chips hidden under his exercise wheel. All of a sudden, the girl outside the vase began to squeak repetitively, like a very large mouse.

  After five squeaks, Victor pricked up his ears. The girl seemed to be trying to communicate with him in mouse language. Her tone wasn’t exactly “mouse.” It had a strong human accent, but was an understandable squeak all the same. It seemed to translate into “Slaap, slaap, slaap.” Victor assumed she meant sleep, sleep, sleep. He felt slightly peeved. That was exactly what he’d been doing before he was so rudely awakened and put into this glass vase.

  Petula lay with her head between her front paws. She often listened to the mice talking to one another. What was more, Petula understood what Gemma was trying to do as well. Living with Molly in New York, Petula had seen, heard, and, more importantly, felt lots of people being hypnotized. Petula could feel Gemma trying to hypnotize Victor. The feeling wasn’t right, Petula thought. The girl’s voice was calming, but she didn’t have that extra something that Molly had.

  Petula edged forward until she could see the mouse in the vase. She growled softly.

  Victor watched the furry beast approach. He knew it wasn’t dangerous, as he’d often run around floors where it had been lying. Once he’d even run over its back by mistake. But one thing he’d never done was look into the furry beast’s eyes. Now he did. Petula’s eyes looked kindly back at him. Victor found the experience lovely. It was like looking into the eyes of a lovely, big, friendly, relaxing, friendly, relaxing, tasty, friendly, lovely, relaxing cheese. And the more he looked at the cheese—or was it a furry beast?—the more Victor felt himself tipping sideways.

  When he finally slumped onto the bottom of the vase, as comfortable as if he was lying in a predatorfree, flower-filled meadow, he felt as if all he ever wanted to do was lie in that vase, with the furry cheese sitting there forever.

  “Look at Victor,” said Gemma. “I think I’ve done it!”

  “You mean Victor’s hypnotized? Have you got the fusey feeling?”

  “Fusion,”
Gemma corrected him. “I don’t know. But I must have. Now we have to make him do something, Gerry. What shall we make him do?”

  “I know,” said Gerry, and got up to switch on the tape player.

  Victor’s meadow was suddenly filled with gentle panpipe music. Through the curved bowl, he saw Big One moving about rhythmically to the sound.

  Victor was far too relaxed to move. He shut his eyes and imagined that he was sitting in a hammock-shaped petal, under the great big furry beast-cheese.

  Gemma and Gerry were disappointed at Victor’s failure to dance, but at least they felt they’d hypnotized him—which they hadn’t, of course.

  Fifteen

  At five thirty, Molly and Rocky arrived back in their bungalow. Rocky went to the kitchen to get them both drinks, and Molly checked her alarm clock. She really wanted to call Lucy Logan, who had still not answered the phone. So as soon as Rocky came back with some Qubes, she dialed the number.

  The phone was answered by a husky, groggy, halfawake voice.

  “Lucy—is that you? It’s me.”

  The librarian coughed and cleared her throat several times. “Yes, yes, it’s Lucy here. Molly! Is everything okay? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Everything’s fine,” said Molly. “I’m sorry to wake you up. Lucy, we’ve made some amazing discoveries. You were completely right about Primo Cell.” And Molly launched into a detailed description of the past twenty-four hours.

  She told Lucy what they had found in Primo Cell’s office. Molly explained that they planned to go to the Academy Awards to dehypnotize as many stars as they could, and to find out, if they could, whether Davina was still alive. Molly hoped Lucy would know what the mysterious red-inked words that spoke of E Day referred to, but she didn’t. After ten minutes of talking, the conversation felt like it was coming to an end. Molly asked, “And what about you, Lucy? Have you had any more trouble?”

  “I’m fine. It’s difficult to get to sleep with my burns, that’s all.” Lucy sighed. “I’m astounded by how well you’re doing, Molly. But please, do be careful. Remember, the man’s not normal. He’s a monster.”