Spy Dog: Superbrain

by Andrew Cope

  ‘But getting someone on the inside of this place may be tricky. Who do we know who would stoop to such low levels? We’re talking about fraud and theft here, ladies and gentlemen,’ added Miss Hutchins from the back.

  ‘Theft for a good and honourable purpose, though,’ assured Dame Payne. ‘We are like modern-day Robin Hoods. We steal from the rich and give to the poor … That is, the poor little blighters who need good exam results.’ She smiled unpleasantly. ‘We’ll try to steal this formula and continue with our own experiments as well. Always nice to have a backup.’

  Ben’s science teacher raised his hand. ‘Yes, Mr Wilde?’ chirped the head.

  ‘We need someone on the inside. Someone as dishonest as the day is long,’ he growled. ‘Someone who would sell their grandmother for a bag of sweets. Leave it with me. I have just the person in mind.’

  8. The New Recruit

  The professor’s plans to build a robotic cleaner had been put on hold while he sorted out a glitch with the first one he’d created. The robot insisted on cleaning everything it saw, and no one could get any work done with a feather duster in their face every five minutes. ‘It does the job brilliantly,’ explained one of the team. ‘It’s just a little over-enthusiastic. I dropped my car keys yesterday and, quick as a flash, they were hoovered up!’ Professor Cortex had no choice but to advertise for a part-time cleaner while he tweaked his invention. He was irritated that people were complaining about his robot and annoyed further when he found out that only one person had applied for the cleaning job.

  Christopher Bent arrived in reception and Professor Cortex watched him on the CCTV camera. The professor’s nose scrunched up in disgust as the boy stuck a finger in his ear and started rummaging. Then he winced as the teenager examined the result and wiped his finger under the seat. ‘Not ideal,’ admitted Professor Cortex under his breath as he observed Bent’s scruffy appearance and constant scratching. ‘But then he’s the only applicant, so I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.’

  The interview was rather painful. The professor was amazed by the teenager’s lack of skills and ambition. He marvelled at the number of piercings, imagining that Bent would never make it through an airport metal detector without setting off the alarm. Even his tattoos were spelt wrongly. But his team desperately needed a cleaner so he’d have to give Bent a try until he could find someone better.

  And so the school teachers’ mole was in. Bent was well known to Mr Wilde, having caused him problems in the past with his disruptive and criminal behaviour. He was totally dishonest, had no friends and was an excellent thief. He had dropped out of school and, by all accounts, was a waster. ‘Perfect for what we want,’ was how Mr Wilde had described him.

  Christopher Bent was recruited for the early and late shift, cleaning the pet superstore before opening and then coming back later. It gave him the perfect opportunity to snoop, find out any secrets and report back to the committee. Each evening he was to email a report to them, highlighting what he’d seen and heard. The lady with the sharp nose had been a bit vague but had said if he saw any interesting or unusual liquids then he was to steal them. It was made clear that he would be handsomely rewarded.

  Bent wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to be looking for. The lady had told him to keep his eyes peeled for any unusual behaviour but, to him, everything about this pet shop was weird. He noticed early on that a lot of staff came through the door in the morning, but not many worked in the shop. It was as if they were disappearing somewhere.

  On his second day, as Bent swept up at the far end of the shop, he noticed it was the exotic animals’ area that most of the staff headed to. He put his brush down and sneaked into one of the nearby dog kennels to watch. Before long a smartly dressed lady marched down the shop, right past his kennel and into the exotic animals’ corner. She stroked a parrot’s beak and Bent rubbed his eyes in disbelief as the floor started to sink and the lady disappeared. ‘Wow!’ he gasped. ‘Watch out for anything unusual. It doesn’t come any weirder than that. I must get to know Polly Parrot …’

  Christopher Bent was deliberately late for his evening shift. He apologized to his supervisor. ‘I’ll work a bit longer tonight to make up,’ he volunteered. His boss was happy with this solution and so his plan was in action.

  Bent swept the floor and hovered, keeping one eye on the staff as they left the building. By eight o’clock he reckoned there was hardly anyone left. ‘Here goes,’ he whispered to himself, his heart beating fast. He’d watched at least twenty people disappear underground today and could hardly wait to try it himself. He took Professor Cortex’s ID card from his pocket and smiled to himself. It had been fairly easy to pick the professor’s pocket – he’d pretended to bump into him as he left work that night. ‘The silly old fool won’t realize until tomorrow,’ he grinned, pleased that his days of petty crime were about to pay off after all.

  Bent continued sweeping as he made his way into the exotic animals’ corner, head down but eyes darting all around. There didn’t appear to be anyone watching so he quickly tapped the parrot’s beak. His ears popped as the platform descended into the secret underground bunker.

  The lift stopped and Bent stepped off, still sweeping. If he got caught he intended to say that he had no idea how he’d got there – one minute he was cleaning the parrot’s cage and the next second he was here. Thankfully, there was no one around so he carried his broom down the long white corridor, padding silently, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. ‘Which door do I choose?’ he thought. Suddenly he heard footsteps and swung into a nearby room. A man and a woman wearing white coats were in the middle of some sort of experiment. They looked up but carried on working.

  ‘Er, just making sure everything is spick and span,’ Bent explained, sweeping busily. This must be some sort of laboratory, he thought to himself as he looked around.

  The footsteps passed and he went back to the corridor, hurrying down the passageway. He stopped in front of the final door, his hands shaking with excitement. ‘Top Secret’ said the notice. ‘This must be it,’ he thought. He leant his broom against the wall and took the professor’s ID card out of his pocket. As soon as he pressed the card against the panel, the door slid open. Bent looked right and left before scurrying through with his broom. He breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the room.

  Inside there were test tubes filled with all sorts of coloured potions, and Bunsen burners glowed underneath glass jars containing bubbling liquids. In the background a whole bank of computers flickered. Bent was surprised to see half a dozen monkeys tucked up in a bed with an A4 pad covered in drawings and poetry. He noticed a small box on the table with a big ‘Do not touch’ label stuck to it. He crept over to look. ‘Poo-cam?’ he read. ‘The lady said to steal whatever I could so I’ll pocket one of those.’

  His eyes followed a series of pipes and levers before coming to rest on a test tube of purple liquid. He tiptoed over to the liquid and sniffed. It had a sweet aroma. He looked at the label stuck to the tube. ‘Brain formula’ it said in bold letters. Bent let out a gasp. ‘Oh, boy,’ he said. ‘Brain formula! This must be what the lady’s after.’ He took a cork and stuffed it into the top of the test tube. Then he pocketed it and backed out of the top-secret laboratory, picking up his broom once more. The two scientists he’d seen earlier came round the corner.

  ‘There you are,’ said the man.

  ‘We’ve come to check you are allowed down here,’ said the woman. ‘This is a restricted area, you know.’

  ‘Oh, soz,’ gulped Christopher Bent. ‘I was just sweeping up, that’s all. Professor Cortex asked me to clean in here.’ He hoped if he mentioned the professor’s name they would leave him alone.

  ‘Can I see your ID?’ said the male scientist cautiously.

  ‘Haven’t got any ID,’ replied the teenager, thinking as quickly as his slow mind could. ‘I’m new, you see.’

  ‘So how did you get down here without ID?’ asked the woman suspi
ciously.

  Bent’s pea-sized brain couldn’t cope with a question like that, so before long he was being ushered into a room and told to wait while someone called security. He sighed as he heard the door lock. He knew his story wouldn’t add up. He didn’t want to be caught with the evidence, so he took the test tube from his pocket and uncorked it. He sniffed once more. ‘Smells OK,’ he thought, his nose twitching. ‘And I could certainly do with some brain power right now.’

  He put the sweet liquid to his lips and downed it, spluttering a bit as the top-secret formula slid down his throat. His eyes rolled and his head shook a couple of times. He blinked and finished with an enormous belch – a purple one! ‘Wow, that’s good stuff,’ he gasped. He rinsed the test tube and sat down just as the security guard entered.

  Christopher Bent was searched and found to be in possession of a stolen poo-cam. He was sacked that night and banned from the building. Professor Cortex was worried Bent would let out the secret of what was hidden below the pet shop. But then he remembered that the teenager had trouble remembering his own name. He doubted anyone would believe him anyway.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ Bent shouted as the security team ushered him into the car park. ‘I ain’t stolen anything,’ he lied. ‘I’m not stupid, you know.’ That was also a lie. At that moment he was incredibly stupid. Christopher Bent’s new brain power wouldn’t kick in until the following morning. And when it did, there would be trouble ahead.

  9. Clever Clogs

  Christopher Bent slept most of the next day and didn’t wake until late afternoon. He lay still for a few minutes, cursing the fact that he’d lost his job and wondering how he’d explain it to the teachers. Would he still get paid? He stumbled out of bed and looked in the mirror. ‘Same ugly mug,’ he thought. But he felt different. Sort of alive. He made a cup of tea and helped himself to a bowl of Frosties. He took his bowl into the lounge and flicked on the TV. Countdown was his favourite show, even though he was only good at making three-letter words. He’d once got a four-letter one but it was a swear word so it didn’t count.

  He stared at the row of vowels and consonants that Carol had arranged on the shelf. ‘Intestine,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Dead easy.’ He shovelled a big spoonful of Frosties into his mouth and crunched noisily.

  The time was up and the contestants had both scored five. Even the lady with the dictionary hadn’t got a nine-letter word. ‘Intestine, you daft woman!’ he shouted at the screen. ‘Are you thick or what?’ He frowned. ‘Hang on,’ he said to himself. ‘How did I know that? I’m rubbish at this game.’ Bent shook his head and continued to crunch on his cereal.

  The contestants moved on to the numbers game. He hated it when a seventy-five came up. ‘Rock hard,’ he thought as Carol pressed the button and the number 616 appeared. He looked at the numbers and the spoon fell from his hand. ‘616,’ he gasped aloud. He worked it through under his breath, all the pieces falling into place. ‘Multiply the six and the nine, add the two. Then add the eight and three together. Then multiply eleven by fifty-six. 616. A doddle!’ The teenager furrowed his brow. He’d always struggled with his two times table and now here he was, beating Carol at her own game. His Frosties went soggy as he sat glued to the TV, scoring maximum points for the rest of the game.

  That evening Bent filed his email report. He was so proud of the way he could string sentences together. He had a big grin as he read the last sentence again. ‘Big news to report so I need an urgent meeting with the committee.’ He clicked ‘Send’. ‘Big news indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m about to double-cross a bunch of teachers.’

  Christopher Bent appeared before the school teachers the very next day. He sat, head bowed. ‘Got sacked,’ he said, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Unfortunate,’ sneered Dame Payne, who wasn’t really surprised. She gave him a piercing look. ‘However, in your short time there did you see anything, you know, unusual?’ she asked uncomfortably. ‘Any strange liquids, for example?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lots of weird stuff going on there, lady,’ replied Bent, making eye contact for the first time. ‘There’s this mad professor in charge. He’s the big cheese down there. I think he’s an inventor.’ Bent slid a grainy photo of the professor across the table. ‘I took this on my mobile,’ he explained.

  ‘Good work, Mr Bent,’ purred the head teacher.

  ‘Oh, but I did much better than that,’ grinned the teenager, coming alive at last. He pulled a test tube from his pocket. ‘I managed to steal this from a downstairs laboratory,’ he boasted. ‘As you can see –’ he pointed to the label – ‘it’s the professor’s secret brain formula. I’m guessing this is the kind of thing you were after?’ He held the test tube out to the audience and they all leant in towards it. ‘Something like this could change the world,’ he said slowly and deliberately. ‘But it’ll cost ya.’ He rested the test tube on his knee. ‘Big time.’

  Bent felt an icy atmosphere fall on the room. He looked at Dame Payne’s forced smile and Mr Wilde’s wonky grin. All eyes were fixed on the test tube. He moved the purple liquid from side to side and all eyes followed, like spectators at Wimbledon. He’d worked out it was the brain formula they were after so he’d created a fake one. He’d mixed honey, washing-up liquid and hair gel to form something really yucky. Well, he assumed it was yucky. The old Bent would have tasted it but the new one was far too clever. And they weren’t to know it wasn’t the real thing – that in fact he’d swallowed the true formula. They had no idea that he was now superintelligent – able to outsmart them – which was exactly what he was doing now.

  Narrowing her eyes at him, Dame Payne made a call on her mobile. The room was deadly silent for the next ten minutes until there was a knock on the door. A man in a suit entered, carrying a briefcase. ‘Your extra money as requested, Dame Payne,’ he explained, placing the bag on the table. He left the room and all eyes turned back to Bent.

  The teenager smiled with satisfaction as the head woman handed over the briefcase of cash. ‘Don’t snatch, lady,’ he warned as Dame Payne wrestled the test tube from his hands. But all she could do was stare at the formula as Christopher Bent was escorted off the premises by the two biggest teachers.

  ‘Like taking candy off a baby,’ he muttered on the way out.

  10. Game On

  Ben couldn’t understand why all the school water fountains tasted funny. Some of them even blew bubbles instead of water. As a result, none of the children drank the foul-tasting stuff, choosing to buy the bottled variety from the school shop.

  Dame Payne couldn’t understand it either. She’d tipped the liquid into the school water supply. The aim was to share the brain formula all around the school and she was expecting a massive uplift in school performance as a result. She monitored the results closely and all she got were a few upset tummies, an increase in bottled water sales and some water fountains that blew bubbles. She’d even tasted the water herself and could understand why the kids were avoiding it. ‘Ugh,’ she grimaced, wiping the taste from her lips and the bubbles from her chin. ‘Tastes like honey and … and,’ she said, rolling her tongue around her mouth, ‘… washing-up liquid?’ She was impressed that the professor had come up with a brain formula but not so impressed that he couldn’t make it taste nice. ‘Still,’ she thought, reflecting back to her childhood, ‘all medicine tastes horrid. If it tastes this bad then it must be doing me some good.’

  As head of science, she’d instructed Mr Wilde to undertake some scientific experiments on the liquid. ‘We need to know the active ingredient. And quickly,’ she’d ordered.

  The school regime didn’t improve. Ben and his classmates were thoroughly miserable, working long hours in and out of school. Lara was worried about him. They hardly ever had time to play football or go fishing and Ben had become sullen and quiet. Lara thought the rules were unusually harsh and, as far as she could tell, homework grades didn’t seem to be better than the other schools. If anything, many of the children were su
ffering from exhaustion and results would go the wrong way.

  ‘We have to relax and have fun sometimes,’ Ben complained to his parents. ‘We’d work so much harder if we were allowed a break.’

  Unfortunately for Ben, his results had stayed strong, meaning he was now head and shoulders above the rest. It seemed as though he was destined to be the chosen one.

  Dame Payne logged off her laptop. It was Saturday night and she’d spent fourteen hours studying children’s performance. There appeared to be one child who was brilliant across the board and she was happy that Benjamin Cook would be nominated as the superbrain. He was a fine specimen – she was sure the other teachers would agree.

  The head teacher flicked on the kettle and checked her text messages while it boiled. She thumbed through a message from Mr Wilde.

  Experiments dun. Active ingredients hunny,

  wash-up liqid + hair gel. Weird

  ‘Weird indeed,’ she agreed, stirring her coffee. Dame Payne was deep in thought as she sank into her favourite armchair and switched on the TV. She hardly heard the familiar theme tune to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? She was still thinking of honey and hair gel so she missed the host’s sprightly introduction and fifteen new contestants waving enthusiastically. Her attention became focused when she heard the name ‘Christopher Bent’.

  ‘That’s the fastest finger ever,’ beamed the host as he pumped Bent’s hand up and down. ‘Come and take your place in the hot seat.’

  Dame Payne perched on the edge of her chair as Bent flew through to £32,000 without using a single lifeline. He asked the audience on £64,000. The audience got it wrong but Professor Cortex’s temporary cleaner got it right. There was a huge round of applause as he progressed on to £125,000. He hesitated at a quarter of a million. ‘I’m not so good on the history of art,’ he’d said bashfully. But 50:50 had narrowed it down and he’d plumped for the right answer. Half a million was tricky but he flew through it.