Blackout (5 page)

‘I hope he hurries up,' whispered Edna. ‘I need a wee.'

The second hand ticked into position. ‘Now!'

He'd enlisted Barry to help him start the machine. At eighty-one, Barry was one of the younger and fitter members of the Project
GoD team. He yanked the cord and the lawnmower-powered engine spluttered into life. The Past Master adjusted the choke and the machine roared. He smiled at his audience before pressing a big red button and the glitter ball started to glow. He'd calculated that it'd take thirty-six seconds to warm to the correct temperature.

‘Soon the intense heat will be magnified by the diamonds at the core and the beam of light will be sufficient to take down the Scottish satellite!'

But his yell was drowned out by the lawnmower engine. The Past Master stepped back as the machine hummed and spluttered. Exactly thirty-six seconds later a narrow beam of light shot into the sky. Precision was everything. The Past Master was confident that, somewhere in space, a satellite had exploded and Scotland had been plunged back in time. He stepped forward and pulled a lever, the machine clunked to a halt, magnifying the silence. His audience looked at him expectantly.

‘Is that it?' asked Frank. ‘I mean, how do we know if it worked?'

‘Trust me, old fellow,' grinned the Past
Master. ‘The satellite is down and Scotland is offline. It's been transported back in time. Back to when the world was friendlier and slower. Back to a time when you could leave your back door unlocked. Back to a time when you knew who your neighbours were …'

There was enthusiastic cheering from his audience. The Past Master clenched a knuckled fist and punched the air in a silent cheer.

‘Project GoD – the “Good old Days” – here we come!'

It was the Scottish children that noticed it first. ‘Mammy,' yelled Alastair, ‘I cannie get my Xbox connection to work.'

‘OMG, Facebook's down,' yelled fourteen-year-old Moira from her bedroom. ‘Nightmare!'

Dad huffed into the kitchen. ‘I can't access my work emails,' he complained.

‘Well, it's 8 p.m. You shouldn't be looking at work emails anyway,' said Mum, looking up from her laptop. ‘Oh bother, I was just watchin' a funny cat video on YouTube and it's frozen.'

Moira came clattering downstairs, shaking her mobile phone. ‘Rubbish phone has no signal,' she complained, as if it was her mother's fault.

The family assembled in the kitchen. ‘No
Internet,' moaned Dad. ‘What on earth are we going to do?'

Agent Q beckoned to Professor Cortex and whispered something in his ear. The scientist looked shocked. ‘Are you certain?'

‘Affirmative, sir,' he said, tapping his earpiece. ‘It happened a few moments ago. Direct from MI6.'

‘Good heavens above,' said the professor. He turned to the family and dabbed his brow with a spotty hankie. ‘Things are moving faster than I thought,' he said, his white face worrying the children.

‘What's up, doc?' asked Ollie. ‘You look like you've seen a ghost.'

‘You may be aware,' said the professor, tucking his hankie back up his sleeve, ‘that Wales went offline a few hours ago.'

Mum, Dad and Shakespeare nodded. Everyone else had been having too much fun to watch the news.

‘Well, it seems that Scotland has gone too. The whole country has been blacked out. MI6 has informed me that the satellite has been
blown out of orbit. I mean, one minute it was there and the next:
kaboom
,' he explained, reaching for his hankie again. ‘Enemy agents for sure. Sharp minds too. This is cutting-edge weaponry. It is very serious indeed.'

‘It will be if my Xbox goes offline,' said Ben sternly.

‘It's more serious than your Xbox, young Benjamin,' spluttered the professor, failing to hide his irritation. ‘It means that Wales and Scotland have been plunged back in time. Back to when computers hadn't been invented. Back to a time before your parents were born.'

‘Crikey, back to Victorian times?' gasped Ollie.

‘Not quite that far, Master Oliver,' said the professor, casting a weak smile towards Mrs Cook. ‘But certainly back to the 1950s or 60s. That'll never do.'

Ben peeked at his mobile phone, reassured that there was still a signal.

The professor looked ashen with worry. ‘And I have a horrible feeling that we might be next.'

The Past Master had allocated assignments. Hilda and Harold had been chosen for the most
difficult mission. It was also potentially the most rewarding with fifty diamonds on offer. If Hilda and Harold could pull this one off, the plan would be almost complete.

Bank robbers had certain stereotypical characteristics. They were sharp-minded, violent, ruthless, shouty, quick and always dressed in black. Hilda and Harold didn't really fit the bill, although Hilda was a bit shouty (largely because she was hard of hearing) and they were
dressed in black. They'd even gone so far as painting their mobility scooters black especially for this occasion.

Getting into the vault was supposed to be fairly straightforward. It was the getting out bit that was going to be difficult.

The Past Master had organized entry. Their story had been phoned through to the bank manager. She'd been told to expect an elderly couple who would be dressed in black because they'd come straight from a funeral. Their ID had been checked and the security guard had searched Hilda's basket. He'd questioned the need for gas masks, but Harold had explained about Hilda's condition. ‘It's an experience my wife had in the war,' he said. ‘The Blitz, sonny. Way before your time. If it wasn't for us, you'd be speaking German. Poor Hilda here, she was traumatized as a young girl –
wasn't you, love?
– and can't go anywhere without a gas mask.'

The security guard had raised an eyebrow and attempted to explain that they'd have to leave the basket at reception, so Hilda had done as they'd practised. The old lady started her rapid breathing exercise. ‘She's nearly ninety,' explained Harold. ‘Dodgy ticker,' he said,
tapping his chest. ‘Isn't that right, dear? You really don't want to get her worried.'

The security guard looked at the frail old lady and thought better of it. He knew they'd just come from a funeral and didn't want to push things too far. He'd seen movies and he knew bank robbers were young and shouty, not old and breathless. He beeped them through security and followed them, just above snail's pace, down the corridor to the vault where the safety-deposit boxes were kept. Their fake ID had secured them the key to box number 1. The security guard had always wondered what was kept in box number 1.

Harold fumbled with the key. He knew that if he took long enough the security guard would step in and help. And, sure enough, ‘Let me get that for you, sir,' he offered. The guard inserted the key, tapped in the number and the door beeped open. By the time he turned round, the old people had their masks on and Hilda had sprayed something in his face. He blinked a couple of times and then hit the floor with a thud.

‘I can't hardly see what I'm doing, Harold,' complained the old lady through her mask.

‘There's no rush, love,' reassured her partner in crime, his wheezy breathing magnified by the mask. ‘He'll be snoozing for a good while.'

Hilda took the diamonds from the safety-deposit box and, one by one, dropped fifty uncut diamonds into her plastic pillbox. She replaced the childproof plastic lid and popped it into her handbag. The elderly couple removed their gas masks and grinned at each other. They'd not had this much fun for seventy years.

Now for the difficult bit. Harold led Hilda by the elbow and they waddled down the corridor. They stood at the security door and waited. They knew the camera would be focused on them and that questions would be asked as to why the guard wasn't with them. The woman on reception did think it was unusual, but she knew their story. The old couple, dressed in black, had come straight from a funeral. She thought about her own grandparents, much younger than this frail couple …

It seemed like an age before the door buzzed and Harold pushed it open with his walking stick. They waved to the lady on reception and
inched their way into the cold evening air. Hilda's heart was racing. She was sure she'd need her pills when she got home. If she got home! She climbed aboard her mobility scooter, waiting patiently for her accomplice to board his getaway vehicle.

Inside the bank the vault door had been opened and the security guard discovered, sleeping like a baby. The alarm sounded and people started rushing around. Outside, Hilda's hearing aid picked up the sound of police sirens drifting through the streets. Her heart rate quickened to dangerous levels. Dozens of cars were descending on them in a high-speed chase. Hilda led the getaway, Harold in her slipstream. Maximum speed was 4 mph, but that was fast enough for the jet-black mobility scooters to melt into the darkness of the streets.

The family watched as Professor Cortex paced round the garden, his mobile stuck to his ear. He was wagging his finger at whoever was on the other end and kept shaking his head violently.

‘Agent P said it was the primed minister,' said Ollie. ‘Whoever it is, it sure looks serious.'

‘He's coming,' hissed Sophie as the white-coated scientist marched up the path towards the back door.

‘Righty-ho,' announced the professor, bursting through the door. ‘There's some serious stuff happening and the PM wants me to sort it out. I've made some arrangements and have got a fantastic opportunity for the family. Mrs Cook,' he said, his smile not entirely
convincing, ‘how do you fancy a luxury river cruise?' He waited for the information to sink in. ‘On the Thames. In London!'

Star and Spud's wags intensified.
Life on the river sounds good!

Mrs Cook looked a little flustered, her hand patting her chest in excitement. ‘Oooh, Professor, or should I say Maximus,' she swooned. ‘We've always wanted to go on a cruise. Haven't we, darling?' she said, fluttering her eyelashes at her husband.

‘Yes,
you
have,' he reminded her. ‘But cruises are just full of old people. I'm not sure it's really our thing.'

‘Oh, you're so out of date, Mr Cook,' scolded the professor. ‘And besides this wouldn't be just any old cruise. It'd be aboard the
TriTanic
, the most luxurious boat in the world.'

‘Cool,' cooed Ben. ‘I've read about it. It's brilliant, Dad. It's usually moored in Monte Carlo. And the prof's right. It's not for old people at all. The
Tri
's got a restaurant and even an amusement arcade.'

‘Amusement arcade!' Ollie pretended to faint, falling on to the sofa in excitement.

Spud had stopped listening at the ‘restaurant' bit, already planning his meals.
If it's all inclusive
, he thought,
I can have a full English, mid-morning muffins, then lunch and afternoon tea. Then there'd be a little bit of room for an evening meal and late-night supper too! Ooh, and I could sneak some cheese back to my room for a midnight snackeroony
.

Dad was floundering a bit. It seemed OK, but he wasn't convinced he was the cruising type. ‘Sounds expensive,' he said. ‘I doubt we could afford it, especially if it's the most luxurious river cruiser in the world.'

‘Oh, don't worry about that,' assured the professor. ‘It's all paid for. In fact, the tickets are already booked. We're going tomorrow. You two, the children, me …' he glanced at Lara and the pups before looking away nervously, ‘… and the, er … cat.'

Shakespeare had been listening intently, his flashing collar translating the conversation. He liked the idea of the family going on a river cruise. It'd give him a chance to have the place to himself. He was gently purring as he listened. Until the professor's final sentence …

Cat!
Shakespeare's claws dug into the sofa as he felt his world falling apart.

‘The cat!' yelped Spud. ‘You missed us out, Prof,' he woofed, jumping up at the white coat and tugging it with his teeth. ‘The cruise ship has a restaurant. I've already planned my meals!'

‘Down, Agent Spud,' hissed the professor, swatting at the puppy. ‘I know you want to come too. But, quite frankly, it's impossible to get you aboard.'

‘Why on earth are we taking the cat?' asked Mum, a note of suspicion rising in her voice.

Very good question
, thought Shakespeare, his claws digging deeper.
This cat doesn't do boats because boats are surrounded by water! My worst nightmare. This is non-negotiable
.

‘There isn't a catch, is there, Professor? This isn't one of your hare-brained schemes?' asked Mum.

‘Mrs Cook, Mrs Cook, Mrs Cook,' sighed the professor, struggling for words. ‘I mean Barbara,' he said, attempting a watery smile. ‘Hare-brained schemes indeed,' he chuckled, his brain whirring, but his mouth struggling to explain what was clearly a hare-brained scheme. ‘Let's all sit down and stay calm.'

‘I am sitting down. And I was calm,' snarled Mrs Cook. ‘And you've never called me Barbara.'

‘Well, Barbara it shall be from now on, Mrs Cook,' gabbled the professor, his scientific brain struggling to find an explanation that would fit the bill. ‘Let me explain.'

I think you better had
, thought Lara, casting
her eye at Shakespeare who looked absolutely terrified.
The Spy Pups seem keen as mustard, but Spy Cat much less so
.

The professor pressed a key on his laptop and it sprang into life. Everyone, dogs and cat included, crowded round. ‘This is top secret, OK?' he warned, a raised eyebrow emphasizing his point.

Mrs Cook's sunny disposition had clouded over. ‘It's not a holiday. It's an assignment.
A mission! You're putting us all at risk. Again!'

‘Barbara,' smiled the professor. ‘Babs …'

‘Mrs Cook,' rumbled Mum, her frown now thunderous. ‘Don't “Babs” me!'

‘I'll admit it is a mission,' he said, doing inverted commas in the air, ‘of sorts. But there is absolutely zero risk to you or the children. Unless,' he said, breaking into a false smile and a hollow chuckle, ‘you think saving the world
and having fun are dangerous.' The professor noticed that nobody else was smiling so he ploughed on. ‘It involves a
free
river cruise. Including, let me add, two nights aboard the world's most luxurious vessel. The only potential risk is to Agent CAT.' The professor looked round. ‘Speaking of which, where is my newest secret agent?'

Shakespeare had retreated to the window sill, listening intently, eyeing an escape route, but resisting the urge to run.

‘Here's my thinking,' explained the professor. ‘Two satellites have been shot down. Wales and Scotland are off the grid. I can't be sure of who or how at this stage, but I can hazard a pretty safe guess at evil baddies.'

Spud and Star sat tall, tails swishing and ears pricked at the mention of evil baddies.

‘And I've just done some calculations.' He produced a notepad from his coat pocket and everybody's eyes widened as he leafed through pages of diagrams and equations. ‘Thermodynamics. There's only one element that could be used to generate enough heat to fire a laser that far.'

All eyes remained wide with expectation.

‘Diamonds,' blurted the professor, clicking a button on his laptop that showed a picture of a diamond just in case anyone had forgotten what they looked like. ‘Superheated diamonds, that is. And whoever is behind the plot would need hundreds of them.'

The professor hit another laptop key and a picture of Gordon Blooming-Whittingstall appeared on the screen.

‘I doubt this is a coincidence,' he explained. ‘As we know, there has been a series of crimes – diamond robberies to be specific. All have taken place when rich people have congregated together. This chap is a famous restaurateur. He held a celebrity night when the great and the good enjoyed a meal at Numero Uno. Someone, well, this person to be precise,' noted the professor, clicking to a picture of washer-upper Reg, ‘spiked their drinks and made off with a million pounds' worth of sparklers.'

‘Crikey, he's a bit old,' remarked Ollie.

‘Exactly. We're beginning to identify an interesting pattern.'

Shakespeare was still on the window sill, ears pricked. His senses still told him to run.
Me, near water? He's not just a scientist. He's a mad scientist!
But his new-found sense of adventure meant he'd love to be part of an official mission. He decided to listen a little longer.
Let's hear the professor out
, he thought.
And see what my role is
.

Professor Cortex clicked again and a picture of a train appeared. ‘This, folks, is the Orient Express. The most famous and most expensive train in the world. And, last week, guess what? Drinks were spiked and someone made off with a massive hoard of diamonds. Please note,' he said gravely, peering over the top of his spectacles at the breathless family, ‘valuables like gold and cash, which could easily have been taken, weren't. Full wallets were left untouched. It's clear that these robbers are only after one thing.'

‘Diamonds,' piped up Ben, catching on quickly.

‘And you said “robbers”,' said Sophie. ‘Plural. As though you know there's more than one.'

‘Well, here's the thing, young lady,' explained
the professor. ‘CCTV pictures have captured several of the villains. And they're all, you know …'

‘No,' said Sophie. ‘We don't.'

‘Old people,' blurted the professor. ‘And I mean really old people. Not old like me. Old as in ancient.'

‘Wow,' gasped Ollie, as if being older than the professor was stretching his imagination.

The professor clicked again and his laptop beamed another picture, this time of an elderly couple dressed in black. ‘These two,' he said, ‘got away with ten million pounds' worth of diamonds from a high-security safety-deposit box. In a high-security bank!'

‘No way!' said Ollie, looking at the couple and sounding impressed. ‘Ancient! The oldest bank robbers in the world. How come they haven't been caught?'

‘That, Master Oliver, is a very good question. There is a massive reward for their capture. And I mean massive. It would fund my Spy Pet programme for an entire year. But I have a hunch that it's about more than diamond robberies. I think the diamond robberies and
the shooting down of satellites are somehow linked.'

Mrs Cook was looking confused. ‘I don't get it,' she said. ‘What's this got to do with us going on the
TriTanic
?'

‘Because, Mrs Cook,' said the professor, his eyes lighting up again, ‘there are lots of rich people aboard. With diamonds.'

‘So you think the thief will be on-board,' gasped Ben, punching the air in excitement. ‘And you're going to capture them and collect the reward.'

‘And save the world from going offline,' beamed Ollie.

‘Plus, all the robbers are octogenarians,' explained the professor. ‘So they're not dangerous.'

‘Octogenarians?' asked Ollie.

‘Very old people,' volunteered Sophie. ‘Like, in their eighties.'

‘And do they have eight arms?' asked Ollie, intrigued.

‘Pass me tomorrow's newspaper, Agent Q,' said Professor Cortex. ‘I've created this,' he said, wafting it in the air.

Shakespeare saw his picture on the front page and became very interested. He hopped down from the window sill and took up a better position.

The professor spread the paper on the table and the family gasped at the front-page headline:
Millennium Diamond Goes Cruising
, and there, centre stage, was a Photoshopped picture of Shakespeare with a massive diamond attached to his collar.