The Great Brain Robbery (16 page)

‘Let go, Timmy!’ Frankie yelled as the flying-machine lurched and dived like a dozy duck. ‘We’ll come back for you later! For all of you!’ But it
was too late. They were already way up high in the air. If Timmy let go now he’d end up splattered like a raspberry ripple on the ground below. Timmy’s fingers clutched and clawed at
the back of the saddle.

‘Oooooeeeeeee!’ he yelled, as he was flung left and right and shaken about like an old duster. Neet struggled to control the machine while Frankie pedalled so hard he thought his
legs might never stop. As the machine ducked and plunged, Wes turned himself around and grabbed on to Timmy’s wrists.

‘Quick!’ Wes called in panic. ‘He’s slipping!’ Wes was right. Timmy’s hands were so damp with sweat they were fast losing their grip.

‘Heeeeeeeelp!’ Timmy squealed, his eyes widening in fear. ‘Heeeeeeelp meeeeeeee!’

Frankie squeezed his eyes tight as Timmy’s dangling legs just missed the barbed wire mesh. They were over, but the danger had not yet passed. Frankie could feel the gear-box straining like
a carthorse. Then suddenly, there was an ear-splitting crack just above his head. He looked up to see one of the fragile wings tear off and go spinning down to the ground, where it broke into a
dozen mangled pieces. Neet tried desperately to wrestle back control but the machine was spinning and screeching like a cat in a dryer. Frankie could no longer tell which way was up and which way
was down. As they hurtled through the cold night air, the whole world seemed to blur into speeding, multicoloured stripes. Neet shouted something at the top of her voice, then Frankie heard a
terrific shattering sound as if somebody had broken a dinner plate on his head.

After that . . .

. . . nothing . . .

. . . blackout . . .

. . . silence.

The next feeling Frankie was aware of was a cold, mossy smell in his nostrils. He opened one bleary eye and swivelled it slowly around. It was still night time. His face was
pressed up against some wet bark and his limbs were dangling in space.

‘Euuuurgh!’ he grumbled, rubbing his sore head. ‘Where am I?’

He glanced downwards and his stomach clenched like a fist. He was high above the ground, caught in the branches of a sycamore tree. From where he was lying, he could just about see the remains
of the flying-machine scattered far below. Frankie took a deep breath and focussed his eyes on the branch in front of him. As his head began to steady, he remembered the terrifying descent.
‘Where are the others?’ he gasped.

He sat up straight and looked up through the branches, searching for his friends. He soon spotted Neet and Wes, who were perching on a higher branch, rubbing their heads and inspecting their
bruises.

‘You OK?’ Frankie shouted up to them.

‘Just about,’ Neet replied. ‘Where’s Timmy?’

Frankie looked around, but couldn’t see a trace of him. Then, just as he was suspecting the worst, he heard a soft snivelling coming from behind a cluster of leaves. Frankie pushed the
branches aside. There was Timmy, dangling upside-down, suspended by a single shoelace that had become caught in the branches.

‘Stay still, Timmy,’ said Frankie, worried that the shoelace might snap. But Timmy was far too upset to listen.

‘I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry, Frankie . . .’ he burbled. ‘I’m sorry everyone.’

‘You almost got us killed!’ Neet shouted down crossly. Large blue tears spilled from Timmy’s eyes. But these ones weren’t phoney.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I had to get out of there. I’m sorry for everything.’

‘It’s all right, Timmy,’ said Frankie, who could see the shoelace thinning fast. ‘Try to keep still.’

Frankie shuffled along the branch to get closer. But Timmy hadn’t finished. The apologies kept coming in big salty waves.

‘I’m sorry for being so mean to you,’ he burbled, ‘for leaving you out and everything. It’s just that . . . I was new and . . . if I didn’t have so many toys
. . . nobody would want to play with me.’ Timmy let out a short sob. ‘They only play with me because I have all the best toys.’

Frankie couldn’t believe his ears. He had never seen Timmy in such a state. Timmy who was always so popular, so sure of himself. Little Timmy Snodgrass, prince of the playground.

The shoelace was unravelling fast and looked set to snap.

‘Keep still, Timmy!’ Frankie yelled. But it was too late.

‘They call me Timmy Snotty-paaaaaaants!’ Timmy bawled, as he plummeted towards the ground.

‘Timmy!’ Frankie shouted after him in horror. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. As he waited to hear the terrible thud, he felt as if his heart had stopped beating.
Poor Timmy!
he thought.
Poor, poor Timmy Snottypants.
Frankie had been so upset by Timmy’s teasing, it had never occurred to him that Timmy might also be afraid –
afraid of not being popular enough, of not really being liked, of not having any real friends. And now he was going to end up, splattered like an egg, on the ground below.

But the thud didn’t come. Frankie gulped and peered down through the branches, terrified of what he might see. And he was right to be terrified. In the dim glare of the moonlight, he saw
two furious grey eyes looking right back at him.

‘Ach!’ shouted a cross French accent. ‘What did I tell you? That machine was never meant for four whole kiddlers!’ Alphonsine was standing at the foot of the tree holding
a trembling Timmy in her arms.

Frankie felt his whole body flood with relief. He had never been so happy to see little Timmy Snodgrass. He thought he might actually dissolve with joy. Frankie forgot his fear of heights and,
laughing loudly, he began to swing himself back down to the ground.

‘It is no giggling matter, Frankie!’ puffed Alphonsine. ‘You is lucky! Very lucky you is not dead as a doughnut!’

‘Sorry, Alfie,’ said Frankie, as his feet touched the earth. Alphonsine shook her head in annoyance then placed Timmy gently on the grass.

As Alphonsine and Eddie helped the others out of the tree, Frankie sat down next to Timmy, who was trembling like a bag of jelly.

‘It’s all right, Timmy,’ said Frankie. ‘You’re safe now.’ Timmy looked at Frankie with large wet eyes.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ he sniffled, ‘really sorry. Do you forgive me?’

‘Sure I do,’ said Frankie, without hesitation. He could see that this time Timmy meant every word he said. Neet and Wes wandered over to where the two of them were sitting.
‘We’re your friends. Aren’t we, guys?’

‘Of course,’ smiled Neet, ‘and believe me – it’s not because of your toys!’

‘Really?’ Timmy sniffled.

‘Absolutely,’ said Neet. ‘I never want to see another toy again in my life!’

‘Me neither,’ said Timmy. ‘And you know what? As soon as I get home, my letter to Santa is going straight in the bin – all twenty pages of it!’

The children giggled with relief and exhaustion. But there was no time to rest.

‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ said Frankie, checking his watch. ‘We need to get to the computer lab at Marvella’s before dawn and undo all the damage Gore has
done. It’s time to put a stop to all this.’ He looked at Timmy. ‘Are you coming with us?’ Timmy smiled and wiped away his tears.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Count me in!’

Frankie fidgeted nervously. They were in the computer lab at Marvella’s headquarters, surrounded by dozens of blinking monitors. Wes had set to work on the computer
systems, Alphonsine, Eddie and Colette were waiting below on the getaway bike and Timmy kept lookout at the door. Frankie parted the office blinds with his fingers. The morning star was glowing
ever more brightly on the horizon. He let the blinds snap shut and let out a shaky sigh. Wes had been tapping away at the computers for a couple of hours now, but Frankie had no idea if he was
making any progress.

‘How’s it going, Wes?’ he asked, cracking his knuckles anxiously. Wes was glued to the monitors, his fingers flying over the keyboards like tap-dancing spiders.

‘Getting there . . .’ he said, ‘. . . slowly. If I can hack into Dr Gore’s account then I should be able to delete all the Marvella logos from the hard drive.’
Frankie scratched his head. He wasn’t sure he understood.

‘You mean you can get everyone’s memories back to the way they were?’

‘That’s right,’ said Wes, his fingers still tapping away. ‘Then we can send those memories back to the Mechanimals and the whole process will be reversed.’

‘Can we delete all the Marvella logos from children’s memories tonight?’ asked Neet.

‘Everyone is still asleep,’ Wes nodded. ‘So we should be able to do it before sunrise.’

‘Genius,’ smiled Neet. Wes blushed with pride. Then his face lit up like a beacon.

‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m in!’

Dr Gore’s log-in page flashed on to the screen. It displayed a photograph of the scientist on holiday wearing a rubber ring in the shape of a duck. Frankie spluttered with laughter, but
there was no time for giggles. Wes was working so fast that Frankie couldn’t keep track of all the clicking and tapping. Then, after ten minutes or so, he touched down triumphantly on the
keyboard.

‘It’s working,’ he said, pointing at the monitors. Frankie looked up at the screens that panelled the walls of the room. Dozens of children’s memories flashed past at
high speed as if they were on fast-forward. As they sped by, Frankie saw birthday parties, visits to grandparents, sports days and school playtimes all crudely splattered with Marvella Brand logos
and Marvella Brand toys. But Wes’s reprogramming seemed to be working. As soon as the memories appeared, the logos were rapidly erased. Frankie breathed a long sigh of relief.

‘These cleaned-up memories are being sent straight back to the Mechanimals,’ said Wes, still tapping at the keyboard. ‘Within the next half hour, the Mechanimals will restore
everyone’s memories and everything should be back to normal.’ Frankie punched the air with joy.

‘You did it, Wes!’ Frankie laughed. ‘You did it! It’s over! Neet, it’s over!’ But Neet didn’t look so sure.

‘What’s up?’ said Frankie, deflated. ‘It’s over . . . isn’t it?’ Neet shrugged her shoulders.

‘For now,’ she said glumly, ‘but Dr Gore is still out there. What’s going to stop him doing this all over again, or worse?’ Neet was right. It was just a matter of
time before Gore hatched another evil plot in that swollen brain of his.

‘I agree. But what can we do?’ said Wes shaking his head in despair. ‘We’d need a whole army to stop Dr Gore.’

Suddenly, Frankie had an idea. Maybe the best idea he had ever had.

Neet’s grin spread wider and wider as Frankie explained his plan. ‘Brilliant,’ she smiled. ‘I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had!’

‘Do you think you can do that, Wes?’ asked Frankie.

‘Easy-peasy,’ nodded Wes, flicking back to the photograph of Dr Gore on holiday. ‘All I need is this photo here, and I can do that straight away . . .’

‘Fantastic!’ smiled Neet, clapping her hands together. ‘Gore won’t know what hit him!’

But Wes’s fingers had barely touched the keyboard when a red-faced Timmy burst into the room.

‘Guards!’ he burbled, waving his arms in the air. ‘We need to leave! Quickly!’