Einstein's Underpants--And How They Saved the World (8 page)

Big Mac nodded to two more of the
goons. They put their boots on Alexander's shoulders, holding him still. Then Murdo loomed over him. Alexander had a perfect view, right up the nose. He watched the green mucus begin its leisurely descent, almost like lava from a lazy volcano. He thrashed and writhed, but there was no escape. He could see Melvyn next to him. A fat kid was sitting on his chest, slapping his face with a sort of gleeful regularity, like the ticking of a clock.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

But Alexander didn't have any sympathy left over for Melvyn. The slow green snotfall was halfway to his face now, the strand unbroken. Murdo's art was to make it stretch all the way until it touched your cheek or lip – delicately, like a butterfly's wing – then suck it back up a couple of centimetres, then let it fall again, caressing you with his dextrous, attenuated snot-finger. And so on until the filament broke, and Murdo's phlegm coiled like a slug on your face.

Keep your mouth shut
, Alexander told himself. Everything would be OK as long as he kept his mouth shut.

But there were four of them giving him their full attention, and what he did wasn't up to him, but them.

‘Open wide,' said Big Mac, using his fat sausage fingers to force open Alexander's jaws. ‘Dinner time.'

And then it happened.

The ‘it' was quite hard to put into words, but imagine a kind of explosion made up of bits of human body: hands, heads, arms, feet, legs, ears, mouths, teeth, along with splintered chairs and tables.

The four kids variously kneeling on and standing over Alexander were blown away. Big Mac was left sprawling, looking up at—

CHAPTER 20

THE FIRST BATTLE: PHASE 2

‘
SUPERSTRONG
!'

It was Jamie, his arms bent in that strongman pose again. He'd come careering into them at top speed, and there was really quite a lot of Jamie.

And there was something else.

Big Mac and his mates were ever so slightly afraid of Jamie because he was different; because of his
Jamieness
.

The trouble was, there were five of them and only one of him.

‘You're gonna be sorry,' said Big Mac, beginning to get up. He waved his hand towards Jamie. ‘Boys, what are you waiting for?'

The goons looked at each other, and
then at Big Mac. They weren't bright kids, and it took them a while to weigh up what was more dangerous – attacking Jamie, or disobeying Mac. And then suddenly it wasn't just Jamie standing there. Titch appeared in the doorway, his face looking even angrier than usual. The cards were in one hand and his wand in the other.

‘Pick a card,' he said, ‘any card.'

One of the thugs looked down, and couldn't stop himself from putting out his fingers to take a card. With a vicious fizz, Titch brought the wand snapping down on the kid's knuckles. Then, before he could get over the shock, Titch kicked him hard on the shin, leaving him hopping up and down on one leg.

Another of the thugs moved to help him, pulling back his fist to deliver a crunching punch. But before the blow fell, the lank hair and pale skin of Ed, the Human Hurricane, loomed up, right in his face, unleashing at the same time one of the most impressive,
formidable, high-octane, full-throttle, hell-for-leather, resounding, resonant and noxious belches of all time – or at least since the last T. rex let fly after scoffing the last Apatosaurus. It sounded like the bellow of an enraged buffalo, brought to bay by a pack of ravenous hyenas.

It was a whale of a burp.

It was biblical.

It was epic.

BOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPAAA AAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The thug staggered back as if kicked by a mule. Perhaps he thought the worst was over, and that would have been natural, because usually a burp like that is going to empty the tank, leaving the belcher as spent as a burst balloon. But, amazingly, The Hurricane had just got started. He followed it up with four short, sharp blasts, like the cawing of a monstrous crow:

GRAAAAAAAK!

GRAAAAAAAK!

GRAAAAAAAK!

GRAAAAAAAK!

Each one hit the thug like a slap in the face, whipping his flopping head from side to side.

He was out of the action. His eyes rolled up in his head, and what followed was, strictly speaking, unnecessary. It showed a streak of both showmanship and ruthlessness that you might not have expected from The Hurricane. He leaped into the air, performing a perfect half-turn as he did so, and delivered the
coup de grâce
. It was barely more than a gentle breeze, a harmless
phut
, but it put the thug down on his back, just as, after Jackie Chan has pounded a towering enemy, a tiny push from a small child will finally push them over. It was the fart that broke the camel's back.

Another of the goons moved – too late, perhaps, to help his comrade, but not too late to repay The Hurricane with a punch
on the ear. But he never reached him.

He never reached him because something very annoying got in his way. Not only annoying, but armed and dangerous.

Really Annoying Girl was carrying her school bag.

Most school bags will contain a selection of books, a writing pad, some pens and pencils, perhaps a PE kit. Really Annoying Girl's bag contained none of those things. What it contained was eighty-seven individual grooming products. There were four hairbrushes, thirty-one lipsticks, eighteen mascaras, twelve small pots of blusher, three cans of hairspray, ten lip-glosses in assorted flavours, three tubes of hair gel, five of those things that open up like a clamshell, with a mirror in the lid and a little pad and some powder, and, finally, a large glass jar of gloopy stuff to help remove any of the above which might have been applied to a human face.

All this weighed about as much as a
cannonball, and carrying it around had given Really Annoying Girl an immensely strong and muscle-bound right arm, so that in her gym clothes she looked a bit like one of those funny little crabs you see on the telly with one huge claw and one puny one.

The bag itself was crusted with sharp-edged glass beads and glittering sequins, and its long handles meant that, when wielded by an arm as strong as Really Annoying Girl's, it was lethal.

And right now it fell in a high arc down upon the top of the goon's head.

‘Ow!' he yelped, a look of astonishment on his face.

‘I knew you was gonna say that!' said Really Annoying Girl exultantly.

The bag swung again – upwards, this time, catching the kid right between the legs.

‘Nnnnngthh!' he groaned.

‘I absolutely knew you was gonna say that.'

He hobbled away, his hands cupped protectively around his nether regions, as if he were carrying a couple of over-ripe tomatoes.

By this stage Melvyn and Alexander had picked themselves up. Really Annoying Girl, Superstrong Jamie, Titch and the Human Hurricane stood with them, shoulder to shoulder.

Alexander felt something he'd never felt before. He felt like he was part of something bigger than himself.

Bigger and stronger.

But Big Mac was not yet defeated. Being a serious bully requires dedication and a certain amount of self-belief as well as a lot of beef. And Big Mac was a very serious bully. He fixed Alexander and the others with a hard stare, and began to walk slowly towards them.

The goons had begun to gather behind their leader, and they also moved forward menacingly, even if some of them were
limping or cradling various parts of their bodies like bruised fruit.

‘I suppose you think you've done something brave, eh?' Big Mac said, smiling the sort of smile you'd see on an evil emperor, about to order his enemies to be lowered into a pit of scorpions and snakes. ‘I know you dweebs reckon that if you stick together you can stand up to me. But, guess what? You're wrong, very wrong. You can't. Ever been bowling? Ever seen the pins try to stand up to the bowling ball? By the way, in case you don't get it,
you're
the pins and
I'm
the ball.'

Alexander knew that it was his job to step forward now and say something clever. He was supposed to be the genius. A brilliant witticism, a devastatingly cutting remark, that's what he needed. The trouble was, he was only the genius when he wore Einstein's underpants, and Einstein's underpants were in his bag. And his bag was in his locker. And the locker was far, far away. He tried to
recapture some of that slight intellectual fizz he'd felt when he wore the pants the first time. Could it be that some of the brilliance had rubbed off on him, been mysteriously absorbed, a bit like radioactivity?

Perhaps, he thought, if he just went for it, his subconscious would take control, and the brilliance would activate itself inside his brain.

He stepped forward to meet Big Mac.

The smile on Big Mac's face grew wider for a moment. Alexander felt as though two hands were wringing out his internal organs like a dishcloth. He prayed that the clever thoughts would arrive in time to save him from getting the kind of beating you'd use on a couple of eggs to make an omelette.

And then something in Big Mac's face changed. The smile wavered, came briefly back, then faltered again. An unaccustomed uncertainty entered his eyes. Could Big Mac, Alexander wondered, sense that he was up against the greatest mind of his
generation? That he was about to be outwitted by a brain saturated with radioactive genius?

The goons behind Big Mac also looked as if they'd seen something they'd rather not have seen, like an earwig in their chips.

Then Alexander heard it. A high-pitched keening sound, gradually getting louder. In seconds it had become a deafening wail.

Alexander turned, and saw.

CHAPTER 21

THE FIRST BATTLE: FINAL PHASE

IT WAS TORTOISE
Boy, flinging himself through the open doorway.

His face was contorted, so he looked as if he were wearing one of the savage war masks of the Polynesian cannibals. But his face was not the truly scary thing about him.

It was Cedric.

Yes, once again Tortoise Boy was charging with Cedric raised high above his head in the classic tortoise attack position. But this time, rather than looking faintly embarrassed about the whole business, Cedric was angry. No, he was beyond angry. Cedric was enraged. He was like one of those armoured horses from the time of knights –
trained for battle, charging as one with the rider, teeth and hooves carving a swathe through all in their way. Or, as his master had predicted, like a war elephant, goaded and jabbed beyond endurance, and now transformed into an unstoppable killing machine.

It looked for a moment as if Big Mac and his boys would try to withstand the onslaught. They drew together like Roman legionaries in the formation known, ironically, as ‘the Tortoise'. But they lacked the shields, the discipline and the courage. Before Tortoise Boy and Cedric reached them, they broke, they fled. They ran out of room 111 like chickens fleeing before a fox.

Tortoise Boy pursued them down the corridor for a few metres, still yelling that uncanny, high-pitched war cry. Then he drew back his arm. He was going to hurl Cedric at Big Mac, aiming for his skull, which would in all probability crack open like an egg. And Cedric, in his state of
berserker battle-fury, possessed as he was by the ancient Norse war gods, seemed willing – indeed, yearned – to be thrown, and he flapped his scaly little legs like a baby bird practising flight.

Alexander stopped him (the ‘him' being Tortoise Boy rather than Cedric). He caught his wrist. Tortoise Boy spun round, ready to fight even his own side if they got in his way.

‘Leave it,' said Alexander soothingly. ‘They're gone. We've won.'

Tortoise Boy's face relaxed. Cedric may have looked a little disappointed, his dreams of flight for now postponed. But deep down he must also have known that the job was done, and that there are times when the best strategy is to allow your enemy to leave the field.

Now the group gathered together in a circle, facing inwards.

Alexander the Genius;

Melvyn Unluckeon;

Esther Buttle, the Really Annoying Girl;

Jamie Superstrong;

Ed the Human Hurricane;

Magic Titch.

And now, joining them again, Felicity Secretarion who, Alexander realized, must have gone to round up the others to help him and Melvyn in their time of need.

Each face glowed with pride, and no one spoke for a while.

‘That was mighty cool,' said Melvyn eventually.

‘That was only the first battle,' said Alexander. ‘Our real work begins now.'

And at that moment the bell rang for the end of the lunch break and the beginning of afternoon lessons.

CHAPTER 22

REBELLION?

MEANWHILE
,
ON THE
Borgia flagship, Admiral Thlugg wafted a command into one of the smellocaster tubes:
Nutmeg, pork sausage, camomile, wet dog, wet dog, wet dog, Cornish pasty, badger poo.

Or: ‘Attention to the brig. Bring the prisoner to me now. With a little sweet-and-sour sauce on the side. And a carafe of pancreas wine.'

A few minutes later a somewhat bedraggled-looking Borgia was brought before Admiral Thlugg. He was a quaking mess, shaling and wambling and emitting meaningless wafts of gas from his venting tubes. The marks of torture were evident on his soft body: vivid blue stripes and deep crimson gouges.

‘So, tell me, my dear Jlatt,' sighed Thlugg, ‘did you really think that you could get away with it? A conspiracy, here, aboard my own flagship? Really, my old friend, I thought better of your intelligence, if not your loyalty.'

‘Admiral, I . . . I . . . there was no intention . . . I did not mean—'

‘SILENCE!'

The stench released by Thlugg's fury and Jlatt's fear was powerful enough to suffocate a horse, if one had been present. (Thlugg had never eaten horse, and would probably have welcomed the opportunity.)