Mummy Madness, page 3
‘Stars,’ he remembered aloud. ‘He said it was written in the stars.’
He looked around at the walls. His cellmate’s scribblings were mostly in black felt-tip. In each corner of the cell was a star, coloured in gold. ‘Written in the stars,’ repeated Mr Big, sitting up with a jolt. He scanned the walls and ceiling again. ‘The legend of the Nile Ruby. Useless ramblings of a mad old man. What if they’re not?’
‘En-taaar,’ yelled the prison governor.
The door opened and Mr Big was escorted in. His hands were cuffed and he was accompanied by three prison guards. The governor clearly wasn’t taking any chances. He was proud to have been promoted to Hurtmore and, while the previous governor was considered a soft touch, he was determined to be the opposite.
‘Welcome, Big,’ he barked. ‘It must be a pleasure for you to make my acquaintance.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mr Big, faking his best smile. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘And me you,’ snapped the governor. ‘And seeing you locked in a cell twenty-three hours a day gives me great pleasure. Not so “big” now, are we?’ he scoffed.
Mr Big scanned the governor’s face, forming an instant dislike. Tall, grey and serious, he thought. Maybe prison governors look like their prisons. ‘I’m a reformed character,’ smiled Mr Big, seething on the inside, but remaining calm on the outside. If he was to get his favour granted then there was no room for error. Killing the governor for real would have to wait. For now Mr Big planned to kill him with kindness.
‘And to what do I owe this little visit?’ asked the governor.
‘Well, sir,’ began the world’s most cunning villain, ‘I’m after a favour …’
The governor’s belly laugh cut him off.
‘Not a favour for me,’ corrected Mr Big. ‘A favour for my cellmate, Dr Desmond Farquhar, sir. A surprise actually, sir. He’s a very old man and I want to do a scrapbook of his life story. For his birthday, sir.’ Big paused while this information sunk in. ‘He’s friends with the Queen, sir,’ he reminded the governor.
The governor nodded suspiciously. ‘He is indeed, Big. So what exactly is this favour?’
‘Well, sir, I’d like access to the library. And maybe the computer in the library, sir? Supervised of course. To do some research on my good friend, Dr Farquhar. He used to be a very famous archaeologist. And I thought that I could research his life story and give him the scrapbook for his birthday. A sort of “random act of kindness”, sir.’
The governor clasped his fingers together and pondered. Big was famous for doing random acts of evil. ‘Why the sudden desire to do good?’ he asked.
‘I figure that I’m stuck here for the rest of my days,’ said Mr Big. ‘No chance of escape,’ he lied. ‘It’d be stupid to even try,’ he lied again. ‘So I’ve turned over a new leaf, sir,’ he beamed, delivering a triple-fib. ‘And I’d be doing you a good turn too,’ he reminded the governor. ‘Because you’ll get yourself an OBE. Or a knighthood, sir. For getting me to change my ways.’
‘Rehabilitated,’ said the governor, rolling the ‘R’. There was some merit in what Big was saying. Farquhar did indeed know the Queen. ‘Changing your ways? A knighthood, you say?’
Mr Big was marched out of the governor’s office. Keeping Big locked up was the governor’s basic requirement. Getting him to change his ways would be a major bonus that would alert the Home Secretary and Prime Minister. Thirty minutes’ Internet a day couldn’t do any harm.
Big couldn’t hide a grin as he was accompanied back to his cell. His charm offensive had worked.
Mr Big booked himself into the prison library. His Internet access was closely monitored. He Googled ‘Egyptians’ and cursed. 52 million references. Even his life sentence wasn’t long enough to investigate all those. He tapped ‘Desmond Farquhar’ into the search engine. Then narrowed it down to ‘Dr Desmond Farquhar, Egyptologist’. He clicked on the first few references and started jotting down some notes.
Mr Big checked his watch. He was allowed thirty minutes’ Internet a day. ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?’ he snarled to himself. He had two minutes left as he entered his final Internet search: ‘The legend of the Nile Ruby’.
6. Dead Easy!
‘It can’t be that time already,’ whined Ollie, as Mum helped him into his coat.
‘The professor’s a very busy man,’ explained Mum. ‘And you’ve had a whole day with him. I’m sure he’s got better things to do than chatter to a bunch of kids and dogs.’
The professor pondered Mrs Cook’s comment. There were nearly six hundred things on his ‘to do’ list, but he couldn’t think of a single one that he’d rather do than spend time with his beloved GM451. And, if that meant the children came as part of the package, that was fine. He opened his mouth to explain this to Mrs Cook, but was cut off before he had the chance to start.
‘So say thank you to Professor Cortex and we’ll be on our way.’
‘Thank you,’ mumbled Ollie, sad to be leaving.
Ben shook the old man’s hand and Sophie hugged him tightly.
‘Careful, young lady,’ gasped the scientist. ‘Oxygen and all that. Keeps me alive.’
Spud and Star saluted. ‘Our hero,’ woofed Star.
Lara sat and waited until everyone else had turned to leave. Why do I find goodbyes so difficult? She knew the professor’s world was one of constant peril. He’s got the best brain on the planet, she thought, so there are bound to be enemy agents eyeing him up.
Lara sat and offered her paw. The professor bent down and shook it politely. ‘Thank you for popping by to see me,’ he said. ‘You’ve made an old man very … ahem …’ He dabbed a tissue at his eyes … ‘happy. It’s so pleasing to see how you’ve settled into family life.’
Family life’s brill, nodded Lara. I like being a pet. And I really appreciate you sharing your gadgets with us.
‘You are my greatest achievement, GM451,’ croaked the professor, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘And it’s thanks to you that Mr Big is locked up somewhere safe and we can all sleep well at night.’
Mr Big hadn’t slept well. He sat in the canteen, watching the prisoners queuing for their slop. He knew that Cannibal Joe had been a chef on the outside, but he questioned the decision to put him in charge of the cooking. The name alone was unnerving, but just one look at Joe told you that hygiene wasn’t his top priority. Mr Big played with his porridge as he watched Joe scratching his sweat patches. Cannibal Joe stopped serving for a second as he squeezed a spot, the yellow pus squirting into the porridge. Joe cheerfully mixed it in.
Mr Big felt some sick rise in the back of his throat. He pushed his bowl away and turned to a greasy plate of sausage and scrambled egg. Cannibal Joe? He imagined the sausages might be fingers. He wasn’t sure he could face them so he peered out of the window and watched as a hearse pulled into the grounds of the prison. Four prison guards emerged and heaved a cheap-looking coffin into the back of the vehicle.
One of the prison kitchen team approached Mr Big. ‘You’ve not finished your special porridge,’ he said, a note of disappointment in his voice.
‘No appetite,’ growled Mr Big. ‘This place is beginning to get to me. I need out.’
The prisoner followed Big’s gaze and they watched as the coffin was loaded into the hearse. The prison gates opened and the car drove solemnly away.
‘Another one gone,’ laughed the prisoner. ‘That’s the only way you’re ever going to get out of here, Big. In your coffin.’
Mr Big’s heart was pounding. All of a sudden he felt hungry. He sawed off a chunk of gristly sausage and looked up at his fellow prisoner. ‘What an excellent idea.’
Mr Big possessed the two most important characteristics for a master-criminal: ‘evil’ and ‘genius’. And, although he was behind bars, he still had power. He knew one of the inmates who worked in the pharmacy and managed to get hold of the pills by the next day.
‘For your nerves, old man,’ he said, offering Dr Desmond two pills. He held a cup of water in the other hand. ‘Get yourself a good night’s sleep.’
The old man looked grateful. Allowing the Nile Ruby to slip through his hands was a mistake that had haunted him for a lifetime. He shoved the pills into his mouth and swigged the water. ‘Sweet Egyptian dreams,’ growled Mr Big.
Dr Desmond lay down silently in the bottom bunk. His breathing stopped almost immediately.
Mr Big hardly slept a wink. His brain whirred with ideas and he knew that morning would be a big test. At first light he rose from his bed and took pictures of the cell wall on a stolen mobile phone. He emailed the pictures to himself and flushed the phone down the toilet. Then, just before 8 a.m., the hatch slid open and the guard’s face leered in.
Mr Big fixed the guard with his saddest eyes. ‘The old man has died.’
It was early afternoon when Big’s chance came. The empty coffin had arrived and Dr Desmond’s stiff body had been loaded in. Mr Big pretended to be distraught. ‘My cellmate,’ he whimpered. ‘We’d become very close. The old man was like a father to me. May I have a minute alone?’
The guard shifted uneasily. His orders were clear. ‘Never take your eyes off Big,’ the governor had warned. ‘And don’t trust a thing he says.’ Mr Big had bribed one of the prisoners to hit the fire alarm at 2 p.m. precisely. He managed to stay sad on the outside, but his heart was thumping as he eyed the clock ticking towards the allotted second. Yes! His heart leapt with joy. Right on time!
‘That’s the fire alarm,’ yelled one of the guards. Both guards backed out of Mr Big’s cell and ran down the corridor.
Mr Big was calm. He lifted the coffin lid and pulled the old man out by his arms. He hauled him into the top bunk and pulled the blankets over. Then he climbed inside the coffin and made himself comfortable before closing the lid. Mr Big looked at his luminous watch and grinned in the dark. ‘I’ll be out in an hour,’ he whispered.
The alarm was switched off and the guards returned. Mr Big was a tough cookie so neither wanted to wake him. The coffin was carried down several flights of stairs and Mr Big spent an hour in the prison chapel while the chaplain muttered a few prayers. The coffin was then hauled into the back of a hearse and driven away from Hurtmore Prison.
Mr Big lay in the darkness, grinning the grin of an evil genius. ‘I am now the only person ever to have escaped from ultra-security prison. Twice!’
7. The Living Dead
It was lunchtime and the gravedigger couldn’t believe his luck. It was such a rare treat to be sitting by the fire in his favourite pub on a work day! He watched the rain pelting down. He was on his fourth pint of his unexpected day off. He had an envelope of crisp twenties in his back pocket, with a note. ‘Ring in sick,’ Mr Big had written. ‘No graves to be filled in today.’ He looked at the foul weather outside and sauntered back to the bar. ‘One more, please, my good man,’ he slurred, ‘and some pork scratchings.’
Fifty metres away the vicar stood under an umbrella, sheltering his prayer book from the wet. The coffin had been lowered into the ground and he muttered a few words. ‘Ashes to ashes … whatever to whatever,’ he began. He looked up at the grey sky and then down at the hole in the ground. He considered it a double whammy. Bad weather plus the dead man is a prisoner. It’s no wonder there isn’t a single relative at the funeral. He pulled up his cassock and hurried back to the warmth of the vicarage.
It was 9 p.m. before the landlord decided to stop serving. ‘Come on, Albert,’ he soothed, wrapping the gravedigger’s coat round his shoulders. ‘You’ve had one too many. Best you get off home.’
Albert didn’t live far away, but the zigzagging tripled the distance. He’d forgotten exactly how many pints of beer he’d drunk, but most of the crisp twenties had gone. He took his usual short cut past the church, staggering through the graveyard.
The most evil man in the world counted patience as one of his best qualities. Just behind ‘evil’, ‘menace’ and ‘brutality’. He checked the luminous dial of his watch: 9 p.m. The rain had turned to drizzle and he knew that it would be dark outside. He also knew that the guards would soon work out what was going on. They’ll have found the dead Dr Desmond Farquhar in my bed. And, even though they’re incredibly stupid, they’ll be putting two and two together.
The coffin lid creaked open and Mr Big looked up at the night sky. Light rain fell on to his face and he grinned an evil grin. It was great to be on the outside. He scrambled out of the grave, muddy and wet.
The gravedigger stood and watched as the fingernails clawed at the earth and the soil-covered man rose from the dead.
‘Evening,’ mumbled Mr Big.
The gravedigger dropped his kebab.
‘Swapsies,’ growled the dead man. ‘I’ll be needing your clothes and then in you go,’ he said, pointing down to the empty coffin.
The gravedigger was regretting the last half-dozen drinks. He knew there was no way you should argue with someone rising from the dead. He clambered down into the hole and sat in the coffin in his pants.
‘Close it.’ The lid slammed shut and the gravedigger was glad to be somewhere safe and warm.
The dead man hobbled away into the night.
‘Sit upright,’ woofed Lara to Spud. ‘Your tummy’s sagging.’
The puppy breathed in, making an effort to hold his belly in. He was excited because this was a special day and he was sure there would be special food.
Lara thought Mum and Dad looked nervous. Ollie had been pointing at all the portraits and asking who they were. ‘Thatcher,’ explained Dad, recognizing the only picture of a woman. ‘And Churchill,’ he noted, spotting the famous ‘V for Victory’ sign.
‘I thought Churchill was a dog,’ exclaimed Ollie, looking puzzled.
‘Winston Churchill was a very famous British prime minister,’ said Mum. ‘In fact, all those pictures are of prime ministers.’
Ollie’s fizzy drink had kicked in. Everything’s exciting when you’re six, smiled Lara as the little boy sprinted to the window.
‘And why are the police stopping all those people from coming down this street?’ he asked.
‘We’ve got special permission,’ explained Sophie. ‘This is Downing Street, where the Prime Minister lives. And this is Number Ten. His actual house.’
Lara looked round at her family. I’m so proud, she thought. The pups are so happy to have the kids. And the kids so happy to have the pups. And don’t the children look splendid in what Mum calls their ‘Sunday best’? Lara wondered why they’d been summoned to Number Ten. We’ve met him before, she recalled. It might be good news, she hoped, thinking of a possible community award for the pups. We have slashed crime in our neighbourhood.
Lara was snapped out of her thoughts as the PM’s door opened and the Cook family were ushered into his office. Professor Cortex was already there, looking a little nervous. Not good, thought Lara, her instincts taking over.
There was no time to chat because the PM swept in. Lara couldn’t help but notice that he also looked rather nervous. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said. Mum and Dad chose luxury red leather armchairs. Sophie and Ben sat on the edge of the big sofa. Ollie leapt on to the other sofa and bounced up and down until he caught his mother’s glare.
Lara and the professor preferred to stand.
‘Mr and Mrs Cook,’ began the Prime Minister, ‘I’m afraid I have some, erm, news.’
‘What kind of “news”?’ demanded Mrs Cook.
‘Not particularly good news, I’m afraid,’ winced the PM. ‘It’s Mr Big, you see,’ he stammered, glancing at Mrs Cook.
‘What do I see?’ she enquired as the PM suddenly felt hot under the collar.
‘He’s … you know …’ He glanced at Professor Cortex, his eyes pleading for help.
‘Escaped,’ blurted the professor. ‘Gone and done it again! Not my fault this time,’ added the scientist, wincing at a bad memory. ‘The police found a dead man in his bed and a naked gravedigger in a coffin, and …’
‘We think we know where he is,’ interrupted the Prime Minister, scrabbling for some good news.
‘Well, capture him then!’ blurted Mrs Cook. ‘He’s evil. And he’s after revenge.’ All eyes fell on the family pet. ‘On Lara.’
‘Quite,’ added the PM. ‘If only it was that easy.’
Lara looked round at her adopted family. I chose well, she considered. They are fiercely loyal to me. She looked at the youngest, Ollie. He was jumping on the sofa, shooting imaginary bullets at the imaginary Mr Big. Sophie was biting her bottom lip. Ben patted Lara’s head reassuringly. I’m officially the family pet, she thought, but Ben is my best buddy.
Lara hadn’t always been a family pet. She thought back to her Spy Dog days. Adventure, excitement, missions … saving the world. But then it all went horribly wrong. Her mind sped back to her first encounter with the evil Mr Big. In a forest. He had a gun and all I had was my Spy Dog training. I took some bullets, she thought, her paw touching the hole in her sticky-up ear. But he came off worse. Teeth marks in his backside, she grinned. And a life sentence.
‘Letting him escape once is bad enough,’ said Mrs Cook, her finger waving at the PM just like it did at the children. ‘But twice is just … well …’
‘Criminal?’ offered Ollie, bouncing up and down.
‘Exactly,’ she snarled. ‘So where is he? You said you know where he is. So where exactly is he?’
The PM smoothed his hair and sat down. ‘Let’s all relax,’ he said, looking specifically at Mrs Cook. ‘We have a plan to recapture Big.’ Everyone immediately seemed at ease. ‘But,’ he said, looking the retired Spy Dog in the eye, ‘we need your help.’
8. Mission Impossible?
A man came into the room with a pot of coffee and some juice. Another man wheeled in a trolley and Spud eyed the plates of food, his eyes on stalks. Cheese and pickled onions, on sticks, he wagged. Only my fave thing in the whole entire universe! Drinks were poured while a lady in a sharp suit set up a projector and laptop. Lara took a sip of her juice and the PM pressed a button.
