‘Behind this door,’ said Madame Cous Cous, getting ready to open it, as the children gathered round her, and as the shadows of the great Venus spytraps outside crept heavily across the floor of the shop towards them, ‘is a very special and dangerous box indeed.’
What’s in the Box?
Madame Cous Cous pressed on the door and with a great KER-CHUFFF of hydraulics and a CHUNK-CHICK of steel locks, it slid slowly away.
Inside was a room full of piles of old wooden boxes. On each one, in black stencil, were the words: NORSKE SØTSAKER.
In the middle of the room there was a plinth, and on that plinth sat a box that didn’t look quite like the others.
‘Is it the button?’ asked Hamish, eagerly.
‘It is not,’ said Madame Cous Cous. ‘It is something even more dangerous than that.’
The kids gathered round, nervously.
‘Then what’s inside that box?’ asked Grenville, eyes wide.
Madame Cous Cous looked very serious.
‘Many years ago, on one of my annual sweet-finding missions,’ she said, ‘I found myself in the small port of Åyshøoderbroein.’
‘Bless you,’ said Grenville, thinking she’d sneezed.
‘I was there to meet Erik and Viktor Viktorius – the greatest salesmen of Norwegian sweets and candy in the world.’
The kids all seemed very impressed as, I’m sure, are you.
‘I was young and I was naïve. I was taken in by their top hats and twirly moustaches. One tall and bald with little glasses. The other much shorter and with a beret and monocle. I did not then understand the sheer power and force of . . . Norwegian confectionery.’
She shook her head, sadly.
‘I bought many, many boxes of their candies. I have never sold one single sweet.’
‘Why not?’ asked Hamish.
‘Because they are absolutely DISGUSTING,’ she said, furious. ‘Overwhelmingly, overpoweringly HORRIBLE. So bad that to this day I have banned ALL NORWEGIANS from my shop!’
‘What’s so horrible about the sweets?’ asked Grenville, inching forward to try and open one of the boxes. Madame Cous Cous slapped his hand away.
‘Oh, to Norwegians, nothing. They love them. But Norwegians are filled with Viking blood. They have the taste buds of bearded warriors. They didn’t tell me that when they sold me their terrible wares, though, did they? But look!’
She flipped open a box by the wall.
‘SALTED FISH BÅLLS!’ she said, and the kids all took a step back as the fish stink stung their poor eyes.
She flipped open another. A bright yellow pong-cloud of dust wafted out.
‘GOAT CHEESE GOBSTØPPERS!’ she yelled, and the kids all shouted ‘Eeeew!’
‘And the worst of them all,’ said Madame Cous Cous, back at the plinth, steeling herself for what was to come,
‘SCANDI CANDGRENADES!’
She flipped open the box to reveal dozens of large, round, purple sweets.
‘Cand grenades?’ said Hamish, picking one up. It was the size of a cricket ball and terribly heavy.
‘They’re packed full of popping candy,’ said Madame Cous Cous. ‘Industrial strength popping candy! Very dangerous!’
Grenville looked delighted. He loved popping candy. He loved the way it seemed to trigger a thousand tiny explosions on your tongue. He loved creeping up behind his mum and opening his mouth by her ear so she could hear them all rattling away. He quickly grabbed one.
‘Nonsense!’ he said, shoving it in his great blathering gob.
‘No, Grenville!’ said Madame Cous Cous, aghast.
Grenville started to suck, and tried to chew, and with his mouth completely full attempted to say what sounded a lot like, ‘Viking blood or no Viking blood, I’m sure I’ll be fine!’
He tried to bite it in two.
‘Nnnngggggg!’ he said, his face bright red.
Something was cracking. It was either the Candgrenade or his tooth.
‘NNNNNNGGGGGGG!!!’
Everyone held their breath as Grenville turned more purple than a Candgrenade. This great gobstopper was truly stopping his gob. But Grenville was stubborn. He had never been beaten by foodstuffs. Ever!
‘NNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!’
He bit the thing in two and looked overjoyed.
POP! came a noise from somewhere in his cakehole. Then another tiny POP!
A moment passed.
POP!
‘This isn’t so bad!’ said Grenville, chewing.
And then his eyes started to widen.
His brow began to bead with sweat.
His tummy started to rumble.
BANG!
Grenville looked startled.
He opened his mouth to speak and a great wisp of smoke puffed out.
Uh-oh! All the kids ran for the back of the room.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
‘Oh my goodness!’ yelled Grenville, hair now standing on end, feet leaving the ground with each bang. ‘It packs quite the—’
BANG!
Grenville was juddering about now on his heels. He had the startled look of an electrocuted newt.
Thousands of tiny explosions were going off in his mouth. It sounded like the grand finale to a major fireworks display.
He was spinning uncontrollably now, his tummy making the most disgusting noises. Every now and again, he rose into the air again slightly as a sharp gust of explosive wind shot from his rear end.
BANG! BOOM! BANG!
Poor Grenville!
‘Make it stop!’ he shrieked – BANG! – running around – BANG! – leaving a trail of smoke behind him. ‘I’ve had enough!’
The kids all screamed, bashing into each other as they tried to run away from Grenville’s strange and panicked bangs and booms.
But Alice nudged Hamish.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ she said.
POFF! went Grenville’s bottom.
Go Get ’Em!
The two huge spytraps still stood guard outside the shop.
It seemed like the plants were continuing to evolve. Long, viney arms were unfurling from their sides menacingly. One of them curled itself round the doorknob and rattled it.
Inside, the kids were just as rattled. But the PDF had prepared everyone for action.
Anyone with a school tie had taken it off and wrapped it round their head.
Clover had licked two massive sticks of liquorice until they were so wet she could use them to draw warpaint under the eyes of every brave kid in the shop.
Elliot had put together a quick battle plan for them that utilised whatever they had around them.
Now they were ready for action . . .
First Alice kicked the front door open with her big army boots.
Then came the big bags of Siamese Sherbet. Lola and Darcy threw them hard against the ground outside so that they puffed right up in the air, creating a sort of smokescreen.
The spytraps coughed and spluttered in the thick, sugary clouds.
Then Finch Swift and Puny Curdle rolled two Candgrenades out into the street.
They trundled and bounced towards the enemy and came to rest at their roots.
Confused, the spytraps sniffed at the air and then lowered their heads to check out these little purple things.
The plants looked at each other, seemed almost to shrug, then licked them up and began cracking at them with their horrible, clackety teeth.
Quietly, Alice used Madame Cous Cous’s stick to hook the door and quickly close it.
A second later . . .
BOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!
The windows of the shop were spit-spat-splattered with awful green gunk.
There was a moment of silence.
The children all peeked through whatever small parts of the window weren’t covered in plant slime.
‘It worked!’ said Hamish, amazed. ‘Now we know how to get rid of these things!’
‘May the world forever bless the noble Norwegians and t
heir terrible treats!’ said Madame Cous Cous.
‘Right!’ yelled Alice. ‘To the van!’
The kids could taste victory.
Well, what they could actually taste were those awful Scandi Candgrenades. Grenville absolutely stank of them. He reeked. He was ponging up the air.
But victory was in the air too.
This would send a powerful message to those invisible Superiors: don’t mess with the Starkley PDF! Hamish knew that Alice had been right about not giving up. He had to show his dad that he could cope with anything. That he could be trusted.
Every window in the ice-cream van was down. The lights were flashing and Madame Cous Cous was waving her stick out of the window, triumphantly. Buster had a stash of catapults in the glovebox and had handed them all out to anyone they passed. Now the PDF raced around town, firing Candgrenades up into the air, or flinging them into the open mouths of ravenous spytraps as they whizzed past.
BOOOM! went the one on top of Winterbourne School, flinging its filthy green goo everywhere.
BOOOM! went the ones by the town clock, and the ones outside The Queen’s Leg.
Poor old Mr Neate was in his front garden, being tossed between one spytrap and another as they decided who’d get first nibble. That guy was having a terrible few days. Venk took aim with a catapult and lodged a Candgrenade straight into the open mouth of one of them. Clover shot one straight at the other. The popping candy set to work. It seemed even more powerful when it was in those nasty plants, with their acid juices and gloopy sap.
‘I’m saved!’ yelled old Mr Neate, delighted, and then he just stood there for a second, as a shower of gunk rained down on him.
On the van went, dispensing with every single spytrap in town.
‘Never again will I criticise the proud Norwegian people!’ yelled Madame Cous Cous, and, to prove it, she whipped out a Salted Fish Båll and popped it in her mouth.
BOOOOOOM! went the last spytrap they could see – one of the fresh batch that had struggled its way out of a crack in the pavement outside Lord of the Fries. The people inside cheered, triumphantly, then went back to munching on their battered sausages.
‘Is that it?’ asked Buster. ‘Have we done it?’
‘I think we have,’ said Madame Cous Cous, looking queasy and stifling a fishy burp.
Buster rolled the van up to the town clock and put the hazard lights on.
The kids of Starkley clambered out and looked around.
No sign of spytraps. Anywhere!
‘Invasion averted. So now what?’ said Alice.
Hamish had a question of his own.
‘Madame Cous Cous – earlier, when you mentioned this button,’ he said, turning to the old lady who somehow didn’t appear quite as old any more. ‘What did you mean?’
Madame Cous Cous looked guilty, as if she’d revealed something she hadn’t meant to.
‘I think it’s better you talk to your father about that,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. I swore not to. When the time is right, he’ll tell you about the button.’
‘But—’
BVVVVVVVT.
What was that?
BVVVVVVVT.
Hamish felt something vibrating. He checked his wrist.
His dad’s watch – The Explorer – was glowing green.
It was vibrating wildly now, like it was panicking. Hamish did not think this meant good news. Surely, by vanquishing the spytraps, they hadn’t made things worse?!
Both hands suddenly shot round the watch face, pointing in one direction.
‘Home,’ said Hamish, worried. ‘It’s pointing towards my house!’
Forgotten Something, Hamish?
Leaping out of the van and running across his front lawn, Hamish had a good idea what he was looking for.
His dad was trying to send him a message from the front line of the battle against the Superiors. Maybe it was about this button thing. Maybe he was finally going to give Hamish something to do!
When he and the gang rocketed through the door of his dad’s study, Hamish could see from the glowing edges of a closed drawer that something inside was flashing red.
Carefully, he slid open the drawer.
‘The Holonow,’ said Buster, peering in. ‘Why’s it flashing red?’
Hamish carefully took the machine out and placed it on the desk. Then, just like he’d seen his dad do in Elliot’s shed, he pressed the single button on top.
VVVVVVVSHEW.
The room turned black.
The Holonow scanned the PDF, tracing around them with its lasers.
At first, all they could hear was noise.
Alarms.
Shouting.
Chaos.
Then the images flickered into life.
It looked like they were standing in front of a large, guarded building. Two enormous grey chimneys blew thick smoke into the sky above them. There was barbed wire, and towering gated fences, and sirens and barking dogs.
Now helicopters arrived, noisily chopping through the smoke, and men and women in black boiler suits flew through the air on ropes that cascaded down to the ground. Spotlights turned this way and that. Hamish could just about make out Belasko logos on the helmets of the people who now ran into the building.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Venk, absolutely petrified.
A Vauxhall Vectra seemed to drive through the room, coming from behind them, and smashed through the gates and towards the entrance to the building.
It was Hamish’s dad! He was there – wherever there was. He must be about to ask for Hamish’s help!
‘Port Fenland Nuclear Power Station,’ said Vapidia Sheen’s hologram, suddenly beside them, and very serious. ‘The scene of an attempted burglary this afternoon.’
She kept appearing and disappearing, as if the message had been recorded in a hurry or in a room with a terrible phone signal.
‘The Superiors,’ said Elliot, looking terrified. ‘They need power for their GravityBelch, don’t they? Well, what’s more powerful than nuclear energy?’
Next the room was filled by the sight of a giant yellow ball, the size of a grown-up. It had metal rivets and black hazard signs. It rolled towards them like an enormous heavy boulder; they all held onto each other for courage.
‘Beware the NUCLEAR BALL!’ said a flickering Vapidia, as agents in uniform loaded it into a van. Then she and the van disappeared with the click of her fingers.
Now the scene shifted and it was like the kids were at sea.
Monstrous waves crashed around them. The roar was deafening. There were great, craggy black rocks in the distance – the type that must have sunk a thousand ships. The whole room seemed to rise and fall as the kids swayed around, feeling seasick even though they all knew they were definitely still safe in 13 Lovelock Close. The damp in the air felt like it seeped right through them.
They shivered as another great wave rose and fell to reveal . . .
An island.
It was dark, with more black rocks and caves, and it was heavy with sinister black moss and wet, wilted trees. Tall, limp mushrooms and slick brown toadstools grew at its edges and, as they got closer, Vapidia flickered back and clicked her fingers.
The letters . . .
. . . spun through the room and settled in front of this most ghastly place.
‘FRYKT,’ Alice gasped, in shocked awe.
She knew of this place all too well. The last time they’d heard its name had been when they were fighting the evil Axel Scarmarsh. FRYKT was where the minion of the Superiors had done all his research. This was the small island on which Axel had developed his fearsome Terribles – the awful monsters he’d funnelled into Starkley to undertake their gruesome deeds. They’d lurched into town, as Hamish’s friends and neighbours stood frozen in time, stealing grown-ups and leaving the place in utter chaos. FRYKT had been where Scarmarsh had lived when he was hatching his plans to zap the world’s leaders using Otherearth and the Neverpeople. And, when they�
��d seen him off the last time, they’d never thought to check the place to see what else might be going on.
Now, as the projections from the Holonow made it look as if they were flying over the island, they could make out what appeared to be a concrete disc the size of an entire football pitch. And right in the centre of it was an enormous, twisted brass rope, anchored to the ground.
‘What’s that?’ asked Buster, though he felt like he’d rather not know. ‘What’s that weird big rope?’
Now the image started to stutter and change.
Vapidia stared upwards. But at what?
Her face turned to horror.
What was she staring at?
Then came Dad’s voice, breaking up, appearing and disappearing. He sounded strained and panicked!
And then everything disappeared in the blink of an eye, as Hamish’s mum walked into the room, flicked on the light switch and said, ‘Anybody fancy a chocolate Mustn’tgrumble?’
‘Okay, that was crazy,’ said a very pale Elliot, as they all sat around Hamish’s lounge.
The rest of the PDF looked as shaken as he did.
‘What are we supposed to do with all that information?’ said Clover, hoping the answer might be ‘absolutely nothing’.
‘Hamish’s dad was telling us the Superiors are going to strike,’ replied Alice.
‘But how?’ asked Buster. ‘Belasko hid the Nuclear Ball, right? Or have the Superiors got their own? Is that all they need to do a GravityBelch?’
Hamish nodded to himself. ‘I think the answer is on FRYKT,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ said Venk. ‘But what are we supposed to do about that? It’s in the sea. I don’t think many budget airlines fly there.’
‘Mr Slackjaw has a tugboat,’ said Alice, moving to sit next to Hamish. ‘How hard can a tugboat be to sail? You just point it where you want to go and then get there, extraordinarily slowly.’
Hamish and the GravityBurp Page 6
