A Mind of its Own

by Martyn Ford

  Tim checked behind to see Eisenstone staring idly at a huge landscape painting.

  ‘Sir,’ a voice from beyond said. Tim and Dee sidestepped behind the corner arch, peering round. A suited security guard emerged and told the professor he shouldn’t be wandering about, as the gallery was technically closed.

  ‘Oh no,’ Tim whispered.

  Eisenstone flicked an eye their way and gave them a quick nod as he was escorted back down the hallway. They were on their own now.

  Tim, Dee and Phil made it all the way up the gallery’s floors, through various exhibits and art from different eras. Although they were moving quickly, one or two works caught their attention. There was a sculpture of a chess set but, instead of normal pieces, every square on the board was occupied by a hazy grey hologram – sixty-four little flickering cuboids.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Tim said.

  ‘I think …’ Dee whispered, passing her fingers through the ghostly light, ‘I think it’s like a game of chess, but all the pieces are in every possible place all at the same time.’

  ‘Infinity Chess,’ Phil read from the plaque. ‘Chinfinity. Ha.’

  ‘Come on,’ Dee said.

  They arrived on the roof, where thankfully it was quiet besides a slight breeze and a distant siren somewhere below. And, as they had previously established, a large yellow crane formed a sort of balance beam from this roof to the sheer face of Crowfield Tower.

  They pulled their disguises off their faces and Dee shook her real hair out of the wig.

  ‘Right, well, I guess we’ve got to climb,’ she said, rolling her gown down and stepping out of it – she was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt now.

  There had been talk of jetpacks, zip wires and more. But all these ideas, as well as being dangerous, would draw a lot of attention.

  So Tim put his reader hat on and then gripped the cold ladder – his feet clanged as he climbed and climbed. Along the way, he stopped to catch his breath and saw ‘Whitelock Industries – Automated Construction’ stamped on the yellow metal by his hand. Looking up the ladder, he noticed there was no place for an operator. This crane must be robotic. Luckily it seemed to be switched off.

  ‘Come on,’ Dee said from below.

  He carried on pulling himself up and up until, eventually, he arrived at the top, on the horizontal platform of the crane, panting and sighing. Dee clambered up just behind him – he helped her to her feet. The whole thing creaked and swayed, rattled and shuddered in the exposed weather. They shuffled around the main section, holding on to the rails.

  Then they climbed up a shorter ladder and on to the base of the crane’s long arm. Clearly, this section was not designed for people – there was no walkway, no safety barriers. Tim looked along the lattice of metalwork, all the way across to Crowfield Tower.

  Here we go, he thought. He went first, stepping carefully along the crane arm, shuffling round each vertical piece of metal, holding on tight and taking it slow.

  ‘Don’t look down,’ Dee yelled.

  Wind howled and whistled through the struts as they went.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, no,’ Tim shouted.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘I just looked down.’

  ‘I said don’t loo—kuuurrrh. I just did it too. We’re so high up.’

  ‘What is all the fuss abo— GOODNESS GRACIOUS,’ Phil added.

  ‘Calm, keep calm,’ Dee said. ‘Always have three limbs in contact at all times. And don’t rush.’

  Gusts strong enough to remind Tim of the seaside flapped his clothes and pushed against his back. But still, they went on. About three quarters of the way along, Tim began to notice white splodges on the thick steel beneath his shoes. By this point, the crane was hanging over the transparent roof of the indoor gardens below. It was a deadly fall just to get to the glass, and then another deadly drop should you go through it, which, from this height, you probably would.

  ‘Right, we’re nearly there,’ Tim said, placing his foot on to what he’d now decided was spatters of paint. But why would there be paint up here, he wondered.

  On that thought, something cooed above his head. He looked up as a pigeon erupted, flapping close enough for him to feel feathers on his face. Flinching away, he yelped and then – at precisely the moment he realised it was bird droppings he was standing on – slipped.

  ‘Tim!’ Dee yelled.

  He clanged to a sitting position, his arms flailing as he tilted off the crane. It all happened in a blink, with a surge of instant panic – like when you lean too far back on your chair. In a hopeless moment, he knew that it was happening and that he couldn’t stop it.

  His face scrunched in terror and he groaned, unsure which way was up. But, when he looked, he wasn’t falling.

  Instead, somehow, his rucksack had snagged on a protruding bolt and saved him. Dangling there, like a parachutist, he had nothing to grab, nowhere to put his feet. His legs kicked desperately in thin air as his armpits began to ache from the straps, which were supporting his whole weight.

  Whimpering, Tim wiped disgusting pigeon gunk off his hands and tried to look round to Dee. But, with his shifting weight, there was a loud rip from above and, one by one, the rucksack’s straps snapped. He fell lower, grabbing a tattered strap just in time.

  Now Tim was holding on by just his fingers, dangling at least fifty feet above a flat glass roof, and a further two hundred feet below that was concrete and distant plant life.

  ‘Stupid pigeon idiot!’ Tim yelled.

  Anger was little use. He was slipping.

  Phil had ended up on his shoulder and was scrabbling around for ways to help.

  ‘Wait there,’ Dee said. She was stepping along the crane towards him.

  ‘Hurry,’ Tim shouted, his heart punching his throat, his fingers sliding, aching. ‘Gah, I’m slipping, I’m slipping, I’m slipping.’

  ‘Timothy, create something!’ Phil yelled, clinging on to his collar.

  But the second Tim closed his eyes to imagine, there was another, longer ripping sound and the imagination box slid out of a frayed hole in the side of the bag. The cube went down fast, spinning and glistening below him. It hit the flat glass directly beneath, with a tiny, almost silent thud.

  Dee was his final hope. She had almost reached him.

  The last thing Tim saw was her desperate hand stretching out for his. But, with a final rip of stitching, the bag was torn in two, and he fell.

  Chapter 13

  What struck Tim, who was of course falling to his death, was how peaceful these final moments were. Strange, really, to think that after all he’d been through, after all he’d survived, it was an especially slippery patch of pigeon slop that would ultimately introduce him to his maker. He’d always thought his demise would be somehow more glamorous than this.

  The wind, blasting through his hair and clothes, felt as thick as water. Above, Dee was disappearing fast into the night sky. And below, well, he didn’t want to think about that, but it was a flat glass roof and it was rushing towards him at quite a speed.

  It astonished Tim just how many thoughts he had during that rapid descent – it was as though time slowed down – maybe it was the adrenaline. Or maybe his memory of the incident had changed. After all they say dreams only last a brief moment and yet often seem like hours.

  Good job, actually, because it gave him time to have these very important thoughts:

  Pigeons suck. Pigeons have feathers. Feathers are in pillows. Pillows are soft.

  Lots of pillows.

  He landed with a terrible crunch, his knees jutting into his chin and sending him flat. A metallic taste filled his mouth.

  For at least a few seconds, he assumed he was dead.

  But no. Tim was looking up at a long yellow crane arm – Dee was there, looking back down at him, almost invisible in the dark sky. He assessed the damage. His legs were still attached. He could move his arms. His eyes were fine. This was all good news.

  ‘My hat,�
�� Phil yelled. ‘My hat has gone.’

  His ears worked too.

  Sitting up, Tim noticed he was lying on a very large pile of pillows. At the edge of the squidgy mound was the imagination box, the device’s lid snapped – a squished, half-formed pillow still protruding from the opening. Hundreds of them must have materialised so quickly that they forced their way out, creating a sort of crash mat. While far from ideal, it had saved his life – he patted them in appreciation.

  ‘I cannot see it anywhere.’ The monkey was darting around, growing quite panicked and grabbing his head.

  ‘Phil,’ Tim groaned.

  ‘Oh, Timothy, you survived as well? Positive stuff, old chappy bean. But, alas, my hat.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make you another.’

  ‘When? Now?’

  ‘Later.’

  Brushing himself off, Tim stood. Dee was too far away to shout – plus he didn’t want to draw attention to them. The area below was dark, closed to the public luckily. However, if someone on the street with a keen eye were to look up, their plan could be ruined.

  So he gave her a thumbs up and then clambered over the pillows towards the imagination box. With every movement, which was cumbersome on this squishy terrain, he heard what sounded like creaking ice. It wasn’t until he noticed a thousand hairline cracks running outwards beneath him that he realised he was still in a fair bit of trouble.

  He retrieved the device extremely carefully, and hid it away in a replacement rucksack – along with the Timtex he’d made earlier to blast through the vault door. Considering how weak that last rucksack proved to be (another poorly created item), Tim was impressed that his imagination box had survived the fall. Its new bag was made of bulletproof, fireproof, tearproof material. He flung it on to his back and tightened the straps.

  Then he stepped slowly off the island of pillows. As gently as possible, he lowered his toes towards the glass. Below, two hundred feet below in fact, was the hard ground. Why make a roof out of glass, Tim wondered.

  As his shoe made contact, one, two, three tiny cracks appeared, running across the expanse like crevices in an earthquake.

  His stomach felt hollow and his chest tight.

  ‘This is not a good situation,’ Phil said on Tim’s shoulder.

  ‘That was a helpful comment, thank you. As long as I tread slowly and distribute—’ A terrible crack from below froze him. ‘As long as I distribute my weight,’ Tim whispered, ‘we should be fine.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I dunno. I feel better if I whisper.’

  ‘OK,’ Phil whispered. ‘Timothy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know the new hat you promised to make for me?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘It is just that if we are about to die I worry that—’

  ‘Phil!’

  ‘Of course, continue.’

  A few more paces and Tim decided to crawl on all fours, watching lines appear beneath each hand and knee. Eventually, he managed to make it on to the next pane, which only had a few cracks. The one after that had none and then he was able to get to his feet and run the remainder of the way, leaving the sizable amount of pillows and damage behind him.

  Now safe-ish, he created a grappling-hook gun and, valiantly, pointed it upwards declaring, ‘Hold on, Phil.’

  Once the hook and spiralling rope had disappeared above him, snaking round the crane arm, he pressed the trigger. However, Tim didn’t realise just how strong you have to be for this kind of thing. Instead of dragging him heroically into the air, it was just snatched from his hand and flung off somewhere into the night sky.

  ‘Pfft,’ Tim said, rolling his shoulder and wincing. ‘Batman is a pack of lies.’

  ‘Basic physics, Timothy,’ Phil said.

  Luckily the second try saw Tim create a mechanical winch that he clipped in place around his belt and, with a flick of a switch, he was lifted straight up. It wasn’t the fastest mechanism, but it got them up there in one piece, where they were reunited with Dee near the tall face of Crowfield Tower.

  ‘Be more careful,’ Dee said. Which was good advice.

  Together they approached the windows, which were actually a metre or so away from the end of the crane’s arm. They glanced up the daunting height of the building.

  ‘Right,’ Tim said, pulling a sharp hammer from his rucksack. ‘I’ll throw this at the window – then we’ll jump inside.’

  ‘Got it,’ Dee said.

  ‘The alarm will probably go off immediately, so once it’s happened, we run.’

  Leaning back and lifting a leg like a baseball bowler, Tim threw the hammer with all his strength. However, as though he’d thrown it at a trampoline, it bounced straight back and clanged, spinning off the crane near their heads. They both flinched and ducked.

  ‘Pretty hard glass that,’ Dee said.

  ‘All right, how about this?’ Tim closed his eyes, imagined, and then pulled a gun-like device from his imagination box.

  ‘What is it?’ Dee was frowning.

  ‘Not entirely sure,’ Tim admitted, feeling its weight in both hands. ‘I imagined a glass blaster, whatever that is.’

  Turning his head and bracing himself, he took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bang jarred his arm, the window shattered and, as predicted, a very loud alarm blared out.

  ‘Go, go, go!’

  Pushing off the crane, they leapt the gap, landing on a lower carpeted hallway inside an office. Glass shards crunched underfoot as they bolted for the stairs.

  Both Tim and Dee were barely jogging by the time they reached the right floor, panting and tugging themselves up the banister. But they made it, shouldering through a door and turning a corner and spotting a huge silver circle at the end of the corridor.

  ‘That’s it, that’s the vault door,’ Dee said, checking the location on the floor plan she had on her mobile.

  Tim placed the rucksack on the ground, removed the plastic explosives, then ran and stuck it on the thick slab of metal. It reminded him of a giant safe – like something from a bank. When he returned, he closed his eyes and imagined a detonator, then dragged Dee behind the wall.

  Tim held up the little stick and hovered his thumb over the red button on top. For a moment he wondered just how powerful the bomb would be. Of course it was a difficult thing to judge – he thought maybe they should get a little bit further away to ensure they were safe from any—

  ‘A little less conversation, a little more action please,’ Dee said as she slapped the detonator’s button.

  The explosion was incredible. Debris and rubble and the loudest bang Tim’d ever heard blasted down the corridor at their side – he shielded his face and leant away. Smoke came rushing past a second later, in a dark rumbling gust.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Phil said with a cough.

  When they stepped round to look, the vault door was hanging open, strip lights above were dangling from wires, the carpet was gone, bricks and concrete were strewn along the floor. A few small fires were also crackling away, peppered among blackened smears and glowing in the brownish dust. It smelled like barbecues and building sites.

  ‘Quick style,’ Dee said.

  A slight fizz in Tim’s chest and a ringing in his ears continued as he covered his mouth with a sleeve and ran into the vault. The previous alarm was joined now by a fire bell and, a second later, sprinklers burst on above them.

  Inside there were rows and rows of shelves, some of which had been knocked over. It seemed mostly to be paperwork, boring boxes of useless junk. Tim and Dee went off searching, scanning the vault for the imagination station. Before long, Tim was soaked to his skin, shivering in the spraying water. It ran down his face, in his mouth, in his eyes. He could taste his own sweat and the dampened smoke.

  He started to breathe fast, almost whimpering, when he couldn’t see anything that looked even remotely like the device. Where is it? Where is it? he repeated in his head.

  All the container
s were too small. Most of the shelves held only folders. There was nowhere it could be.

  It was just simply, ‘Not here,’ Tim whispered, staring at the wall.

  ‘What?’ Dee yelled from the other side of the vault.

  ‘It’s … it’s not here.’

  ‘So …’ Dee stepped back towards him. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It could mean a lot of things, none of them good.’

  ‘We didn’t plan for this,’ Dee was shouting over the alarms and artificial rain. ‘The guards will be on their way … the police. Tim, what we’ve just done is enough to go to prison. Like, kid’s prison. Young offenders or whatever. Even if we convinced them we had no part in Fredric’s murder, we have still done all this.’ She gestured at the mess.

  ‘We need—’

  ‘This is why most people don’t do crimes,’ Dee continued, talking to herself now. ‘Not because it’s necessarily difficult, but because the consequences suck so much. We are in an enormous amount of trouble. That can’t be stressed enough.’

  Her cold, straight summary made Tim feel sick. Up until this moment he’d taken comfort in the vague idea that none of this was real. But it was. It was too real.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he yelled. ‘We’ll … we’ll run, we’ll head for the roof and—’

  ‘Watch out!’

  Tim turned to see the vault door – a huge slab of thick, chrome-polished steel – tilt and fall towards him. He took a step back, stumbled into a shelf, but was knocked to the ground. He screamed – a sharp squeezing pain clutched his foot.

  The door had started a domino effect with the shelf units, two of which had fallen and sandwiched Tim’s lower half in place.

  ‘I’m stuck,’ he said, sitting up and tugging. ‘My leg! It’s completely trapped.’

  ‘Right.’ Dee took the rucksack off his back. ‘We’re just going to have to chop it off. Quickly, create an axe.’