Blackout (4 page)

The best thing in the world was when the children and animals got to visit Professor Cortex in his lab. But today they'd had to settle for second best, watching as the professor's black van swept on to the drive. He was visiting them.

Ollie jumped down from the sofa and started tearing round the lounge. ‘He's here, he's here …'

Spy Pups, Spud and Star, were so excited that their whole bodies wagged. Shakespeare watched Lara.
She's what I aspire to be
, thought the cat, learning fast.
Fully qualified secret agent. Baddie-catcher extraordinaire
. He noticed that even the coolest dog on the planet was failing to control her enthusiasm, her tail batting hard against the table, her bullet-holed ear standing
higher than ever.
And what a silly doggy grin
, noticed the cat.

Shakespeare was good at noticing things. He observed his newly adopted family with pride and reflected on his first month with them.
Mum seems to be in charge. Dad does as he's told
. At twelve, Ben was the oldest and therefore the leader of the children and Lara seemed to be this little man's best friend. Ollie was the youngest, a whirlwind of innocent trouble, always asking questions and always a whisker away from breaking something.

And then there was Sophie.
My beloved Sophie
, thought Shakespeare, his eyes fixed adoringly on the little girl. He loved her freckles and her warmth. Her grin lit up the room as the white-coated Professor Cortex swept through the door. Ollie hurled himself at the scientist, burying his face in his tummy.

‘Quite,' fussed the elderly man, patting Ollie on the head and shaking Ben's hand at the same time.

The professor was, as always, flanked by black-suited, sunglass-wearing minders. Ollie was always intrigued, trying to engage them in conversation when he knew they weren't
there to chat. He had no idea what was going on behind their dark glasses, but he could imagine their eyes swivelling right and left, always alert. There was a curly wire sneaking out of the top of Agent P's jacket and into his ear so Ollie knew he was listening. ‘Is that an iPod?' asked the little boy, pointing at the wire. ‘Have you been downloading?'

Agent P looked straight ahead, his lips sealed.

‘Can you speak?'

‘Affirmative,' snarled the man from the corner of his mouth.

‘Affirmative?' repeated Ollie. ‘Cool. That must be a foreign language. Are you from Belgium? Or Swindon? Have you got a gun?'

Ollie thought he saw Agent P twitch. ‘And, when you kill baddies, do their guts explode?' he asked, shooting the bodyguard with an imaginary gun.

‘Enough questions, Master Oliver,' chirped Professor Cortex. ‘Agents P and Q are my personal bodyguards. We go everywhere together.'

‘Even the toilet?' gasped Ollie. ‘What if there's only one toilet and there are three of you? How does that work?'

‘We go
almost
everywhere together, Master Oliver. And do you know why?' He moved on before the little boy had the chance to jump in. ‘Because my science experiments are the most advanced in the world. And because the graduates of my Spy School training programme –' he paused, nodding at the wagging dogs – ‘are some of the most highly trained secret agents in the world. One can only imagine what would happen if enemy agents got their hands on my technology. Or my brain.' He shuddered. ‘Unthinkable.'

Ben considered this rather big-headed so he thought he'd bring the professor down a peg. ‘But,' he reminded him, ‘some of your inventions are rubbish. That automatic hair-cutter that almost took Dad's head off, for instance.'

Dad was nodding vigorously. ‘That was a close shave,' he agreed. ‘Literally!'

‘Or those pants you invented. The ones that you tested on Agent Q. The ones that were supposed to heat up in the cold and cool down on warm days. The ones that you wired wrong.'

‘Well, yes,' agreed the professor, glancing at Agent Q whose body language had sagged a
little at the traumatic memory. ‘A good idea. Just badly engineered.'

Agent Q shivered. It had taken three days for his private parts to defrost.

‘Theory and practice are sometimes different,' suggested the scientist. ‘And I have had plenty of successes,' he reminded them, regaining his mojo. ‘Plus, I'm pretty sure you'll find some of these rather thrilling.'

The children and dogs crowded round, eagerly awaiting some of Professor Cortex's latest inventions, keen to give them the thumbs-up or down. The professor glanced at Agent Q and was passed a small rucksack. ‘This,' he said triumphantly, ‘is a little bag of gadgets that I call my Cat Kit.'

Spud grinned a silly doggy grin. ‘That sounds like my fave chocolate,' he woofed, slobber dribbling from his chops.

‘And I call it a Cat Kit because it's got gadgets aimed at our
newest
secret agent,' the professor said, glancing at Shakespeare. ‘The world's finest feline and, I have to say, the world's top ginger secret agent.'

Shakespeare liked it when Lara sometimes called him a ginger ninja. He sat tall, his
translating collar flashing and his eyes shining.
Less chat, Prof
, he thought.
I can't wait to see what's in the Cat Kit
.

‘First things first,' began the professor. ‘This video will give you a clue. But, before any canines get too excited, this invention is for
cats
. Dogs are simply too heavy,' he noted, glancing at Spud. ‘Check this footage of flying
squirrels.' He clicked on his laptop and the children gasped as they watched a short sequence of squirrels leaping from trees, spreading their limbs and gliding through the forest.

‘Is that for real?' asked Ollie, holding out his arms and pulling at his armpits, hoping to see little wings.

‘One hundred per cent real,' nodded the professor, beginning to hop from foot to foot as his excitement mounted. ‘These squirrels have evolved. They have loose skin so that when they raise their arms and legs it increases their body surface area. They can't fly as such. They glide. And,' he said, his smile turning into a full-blown beam, ‘if we wait four million years, cats might have evolved to do the same. But I've taken a short cut. Basically, I've trimmed evolution by four million years to create this,' he said, pulling a small Lycra suit from his briefcase.

‘It looks a bit small for you,' giggled Sophie.

‘It's not for humans,' continued the professor. ‘It's a catsuit!'

Shakespeare gulped. He felt everyone's eyes turning in his direction.
A what suit?
he thought, patting his translating collar to check it hadn't mistranslated.

‘I haven't tested it yet,' admitted the professor. ‘But I've run various computer simulations that seem to show it'll work purrrfectly well,' he jabbered. ‘Did you see what I did there, Agent CAT? I added an extra-long “urrr” to turn “perfect” into “purrrfect”. Because cats …'

‘We get it, Prof,' sighed Ben. ‘If you have to explain your jokes, that basically means they're not funny.'

‘Oh,' said the professor, his hopping slowing a little. ‘That's a CAT-astrophe. Hey, everyone, I did it again,' he said, missing the point entirely. ‘I emphasized the “cat” bit of …'

‘No,' interrupted Sophie, ‘a catastrophe would be strapping poor old Shakespeare into this thing and it
not
working. Poor puss,' she said, running her hand along Shakespeare's back. ‘That'd be an awful thing to do.'

Shakespeare was enjoying being fussed over, but he refused to purr.
I agree
, he nodded.
If cats were meant to fly, we'd have feathers!

‘I'll test it,' yapped Spud. ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No it's “Super Spud”, swooping down and grabbing sweets from children or pies from fat people, making the world a healthier place …'

‘Please stop the yapping, Agent Spud. Dogs have too much body fat. This is for cats and, from the swishing of the tail, I'm assuming Agent CAT isn't impressed. It's for emergencies only,' assured the professor. ‘But you never know. In the world of baddies and spies, sometimes unexpected moments crop up.'

Well, I can't see a moment when I jump off a tall building, swooping through the sky like super-cat, cropping up
, thought Shakespeare, swishing his tail to confirm his annoyance.
Although
, he considered, a second thought sneaking into his mind,
how about surprising a few birds by swooping from the rooftop?

‘OK,' said Professor Cortex. ‘Let's be a bit more “down to earth”.' He quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his clever use of language again. Lara had, shaking her doggy head just enough to show she'd got it, and it was rubbish, so he pressed on.

He pulled a book from his bag. ‘Cast your eyes over this, young Oliver,' he said, handing the book to the youngest member of the family. ‘It's my greatest invention yet!'

‘It's a book,' said Ollie matter-of-factly.

‘I think you might find they've already been invented,' said Sophie, still upset that the professor could even think about throwing her beloved cat off a tall building.

‘Designed to stimulate the olfactory and gustatory senses,' noted the professor, waiting for the inevitable looks of confusion on the children's faces. ‘I love reading,' he said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. ‘In fact, what you eventually realize is that all the best people in the world love reading. But traditional books have always stimulated the eyes, ears and hands. What I mean is that you need your eyes to read it, your ears to listen to the words as you read them and your hands to hold it. Books also have a smell, of course, but, as the world moves on
and people use electronic books, that smell will die out. A bit of a shame, to be honest.'

‘Professor,' sighed Sophie, ‘what on earth are you babbling about?'

‘I want to enhance the experience of books so you can enjoy them through
all
your senses,' enthused the professor, waving his hands in a volcanic eruption. ‘Master Oliver,' he said, grinning over the top of his spectacles, ‘what book have I given you?'

Ollie looked at the cover. ‘
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
,' he said, holding the book up so everyone could see.

‘Then I suggest you turn to page one.'

Ollie did as he was told and a smell of melting chocolate filled the room. ‘Wow,' he smiled, ‘chocolate!' The little boy flipped through a few pages, letting the aroma waft around the room.

Spud was wagging hard.

‘Olfactory means “sense of smell”,' explained the professor. ‘So
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
smells of chocolate, bringing life to the book. But that's only half the story,' he continued. ‘Gustatory means “sense of taste”. Lick a page, young Oliver, or maybe nibble a
corner.' He mimicked a mouse nibbling some cheese.

Spud had joined the little boy.
This sounds like my kind of book
, he thought, a bit of drool landing on page six.

Ollie licked a page. ‘Yum,' he said, beaming at everyone in the room. ‘Choccy flavour.'

Spud couldn't resist; his long tongue slapped on to page six, his eyes spinning in chocolate heaven. Lara cast a warning eye. ‘Spud,' she woofed. ‘Dogs and chocolate don't mix.'

Ollie had ripped out a page and was chewing it. ‘
Nom
,' he said. ‘It smells
and
tastes of chocolate.'

‘Exactly,' grinned the scientist. ‘Imagine how many children will want to read my brand-new “sensory stories”. Imagine when all books smell and taste, as well as pleasing the eye and ear.'

Ben was licking the book. But he looked unsure. ‘So you've invented a book that smells and tastes of chocolate. I'm not sure I get the point.'

‘The point, Master Benjamin,' said the professor, rolling his eyes in frustration, ‘is that it's not just chocolate. All books can come alive. You can use my invention for any flavour and smell. It doesn't have to be just chocolate.
The Secret Garden
will be roses and fresh air.
James and the Giant Peach
…'

‘You could make that smell of giants,' interrupted Ollie.

‘Or peaches,' corrected the professor. ‘That might work better.'

The family were silent for a minute, brains whirring.

Spud was wagging so hard his body was
rocking.
I hope he does a Peppa Pig one
, thought the puppy.
A spicy bacon-flavoured book. Yum!

‘A couple of problems spring to mind,' snorted Sophie. ‘First of all, won't kids just eat the books instead of reading them? I don't think a book needs to be a snack.'

‘Well, yes,' flustered the professor. ‘That is a possibility.'

‘And I'd avoid
Winnie the Pooh
,' suggested Ollie. ‘That might put children off reading forever!'

‘Quite,' smiled the professor. He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest, trying to hide the deflation he felt on the inside.
Maybe I'm too old
, he thought. He cast his mind back to the wonderful inventions of the past. He looked at Spud licking at the chocolate book.
And it's come to this. A chocolate book and a Lycra catsuit
. He shook his head and exhaled, his shoulders sagging.
Rocket science it isn't
.

Eddie put on his extra-magnified spectacles and studied his calculations one last time. ‘Rocket science,' he chuckled, ‘my favourite subject.' His merry band of ancient volunteers didn't know much about the Past Master. If they'd
been able to access the Internet, they would have found out he was a war veteran, aeroplane engineer, scientist and inventor. He was proof that age was no restriction on ideas.

His tweezers rummaged through the small mound of diamonds, searching for the best one. He chose the largest and dropped it into place. He wasn't just working on an invention. He was planning a revolution. Eddie had spent forty-five years as an engineer and, although his hands were a bit wobbly, his brain was in fantastic shape. He'd started out designing and
building aeroplane engines. After the Second World War he'd been part of a top-secret government project that was involved with advanced weaponry. His team had built the world's first laser gun. It sat, unused, in an underground bunker. But the brainpower behind it had been put to very good use.

His team watched as the Past Master checked the drawing on the table in front of him. It showed a detailed diagram of a new type of weapon, something the team knew as the time machine. Eddie chose another diamond, a small one, and fixed it into place.

He looked up at his followers and their faces lit up in matching wrinkly grins. There was a saying: ‘you can't teach an old dog new tricks', and it annoyed him greatly. Project GoD was staffed entirely by ‘old dogs' and they were going to teach the world a new trick or two.

‘The Internet has changed the world,' he told them. ‘Destroyed it completely. Everything is so fast, but nobody seems happy.' The Past Master looked out of his office window, the top floor of the Shard, the highest workplace in Europe. London sprawled below, a frantic network of people on the go. His followers
followed his pointing finger. ‘Eight million fools, rushing around,' he said. ‘And that's only what the eye can see. Thousands more, travelling in underground trains, and hundreds up there.' He cast his crooked finger up towards the aeroplanes circling Heathrow, waiting for their turn to touch down.

The Past Master knew that Project GoD was aiming higher than the clouds. He looked up into the evening sky. ‘Soon the stars will be twinkling,' he said. ‘And that's where we'll be aiming, team. Project GoD, Phase Two. We're ready to go.'

It was dusk, the fading sun reflecting off Western Europe's tallest building. London buzzed below as the Past Master pressed a button and the north-facing roof of the Shard glided open.

The pensioners settled down to watch. ‘It doesn't look like a time machine,' suggested Donald, peering through his varifocals. ‘I was expecting something like the Tardis.'

The Past Master chuckled. ‘That's because nobody's ever invented a time machine,' he explained. ‘The Tardis isn't real, Donald. But this is.'

‘But wasn't
Doctor Who
better in the olden days?' interrupted Gladys. ‘When the Doctor was in black and white.'

‘Ooh yes,' agreed Una. ‘It's all
crash, bang, wallop
nowadays. I haven't got a clue what's going on. They've even changed the theme tune. And the old Doctor didn't used to have a sonic screwdriver …'

‘Well, this particular time machine doesn't work like the Tardis,' interrupted the Past Master. ‘I've used my intellectual genius to rethink what time machines should look like. So, ladies and gents, quiet, please.'

The old man stood by the contraption. At the bottom it had something that looked like a lawnmower engine. Various pipes and tubes fed upwards to a rotating ball.
Almost exactly like a glittery disco ball
, he marvelled,
except the glittery parts are diamonds
.

His fingers were too arthritic to cross so he made a wish in his head instead. He turned to his elderly audience. ‘Energy,' he began.

‘I remember that,' rasped Albert from the back.

‘The science is simple,' beamed the Past Master. ‘Diamonds are the toughest element
on the planet. Almost impossible to destroy. I've been experimenting with heating them to unbelievable temperatures. While most other materials just disintegrate, I've found that diamonds merely keep heating up and that this heat can be focused.' He patted the contraption. ‘And, once the energy is focused, it can be directed to a target and that target will go
boom
.'

His audience gasped and Margaret's backside let out a squeak of wind in excitement. ‘Whoops, excuse me,' she chuckled. ‘Mrs Windy Pops.'

‘We've taken out Wales,' continued the Past Master, his brand-new teeth shining too whitely for an eighty-year-old. ‘Now it's Scotland's turn to go back in time.' The assembled crowd of old people had fallen silent, their cups returned to their saucers, their tongues and Margaret's backside taking a well-earned rest. This was their moment.

The Past Master knew that timing was everything. Modern communication relied on hundreds of satellites that circled the earth. Eventually his sparkly glitter ball would take out the whole of the European Union, but he'd
have to wait for the satellites to be aligned. ‘I mean,' he chuntered, as he applied a last squirt of oil to the machine, ‘we shouldn't even have joined the European Union in the first place. They keep making us change things! And it's about time we changed them back.'

He knew that Satellite SD6577 beamed data to and from Scotland. He'd nicknamed it the ‘McSatellite'. He'd calculated the orbit and knew that it was nearly in range. Scotland was about to lose all satellite communication.
Without McSatellite, Scotland will have no Internet. No mobile phones. No Wi-Fi. No satnav. People will have to slow down. It will force people to talk to each other instead of so-called ‘social networking'
. ‘Facebook,' he tutted. ‘In my day, we didn't have virtual friends, we had real ones. We didn't Tweet, we chatted.' He checked his watch, waiting for the second hand to click to the upright position.