The Case of the Exploding Loo (15 page)

“That’s why we need a Faraday cage. It’ll block the electromagnetic waves.”

“English, please,” Porter grumbles. “I don’t speak geek.”

“A Faraday cage is a metal cage built to stop electromagnetic radiation travelling through it. Faraday cages are usually created to shield the things inside – keeping electronic
equipment safe from lightning strikes, for example – but we can make a back-to-front version, like a microwave oven, to stop the waves from the brain ray escaping. It’ll work as long as
the metal is thick enough and the holes are smaller than the wavelength of the radiation.”

“Which means . . . ?”

“The maths is a bit boring, but generally a gap of one twentieth of the wavelength will reduce the signal by two-thirds and a gap of one two-hundredth of the wavelength will reduce it by
ninety-nine per cent.”

Porter’s eyes glaze over.

“Meccano and silver foil should do it,” I finish quickly. “I need to speak to Meccano Morris. He’s always wanted to cover a building with Meccano. This is his
chance.”

Porter reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

My mouth falls open. “Isn’t that supposed to be confiscated?”

Porter waves the hairgrip and screwdriver in the air triumphantly. “I used my new trick! You said we needed a phone, so I took mine. Go on, call your friend.”

Meccano Morris is a bit dopey at first, probably because it’s three a.m., but he’s quick to grasp what I want and says he’ll get his brother to fill his van with Meccano and
drive over to Kazinsky Electronics.

“We’re running out of time,” I tell Porter. “We need to get the police involved. They could raid the store and find a brain ray.”

“You’ve got the phone. Call them. Don’t forget to mention Gemma. I know we’ve put our faith in the Great Leader, but how can you trust a man who refuses to show his
face.”

“You didn’t see him when you took Gemma up there earlier?” I ask.

“No. Never have,” Porter says. “Isn’t that weird? Why would someone want to stay hidden?”

“To avoid being identified as a kidnapper and a torturer?” Another possibility lingers on the outskirts of my brain, but I refuse to let it in.

I hit the phone keys faster.

Porter throws a bar of soap at me.

“What?” I protest. “Okay, that didn’t go exactly as planned, but the police might follow up.”

Porter throws more soap.

“Ugh. Stop it. I swallowed that bit. Look, I’ll write a note for Jangly Keys Dave to take to PC Eric. PC Eric will help us. I know he will.”

I find a pencil in my dressing-gown pocket and grab a sheet of toilet paper. But it’s hard to explain everything – harder still when the toilet paper keeps ripping.

KNOCK, KNOCK.

“Hawkins? I know you’re in there? Who are you talking to?”

Fibonacci!

I gaze at Porter in horror. “It’s your mother!”

I glance around the bathroom for a place to hide the phone, the flyers and Porter. Ms Grimm can’t know for certain who freed Gemma, but if she finds us plotting in the
girls’ bathroom, stolen phone in hand, it’s not going to look good.

Fermat!
There’s nowhere to hide. My eyes are drawn to the tiny toilet window. Porter groans when he sees the direction of my gaze. We checked out the bathroom windows earlier as
they’re the only ones that aren’t locked shut, but we decided no one could ever fit through them. Unfortunately, I can’t see any other option.

Porter props the window open, glancing miserably at his bandaged ankle.

I jam my loo roll letter into his back pocket, grab his good foot and launch him at the tiny gap.

“Go straight to the police,” I urge him. “Find PC Eric.”

Ms Grimm pumps the door handle. “Hawkins? I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Porter grabs the frame and pulls himself higher. He starts wriggling, yelping as his bum gets wedged in the frame. I push, he pulls. Both of us are sweating with the combination of fear and
effort.

Crash!

Ms Grimm keeps coming. She must have unbelievable shoulder muscles.

Smash!

She’s almost in.

“Open this door now!” she roars. “Or I will be forced to break it down.”

I press my back against Porter’s foot to give him something to push against. “Just . . . a . . . minute,” I grunt.

“Just nothing. Open up. What are you doing in there?”

“Er. Toilet things. Nearly done.” I give Porter a final shove.

“What’s that noise? I warned you – I’m coming in.”

The wooden door frame splinters under the power of Ms Grimm’s assault. We only have seconds and Porter’s feet are still sticking out the window. I push with all my strength.

Whoosh!

Whomp!

“Arrrggghhh.”

The clatter of the door masks the thump of Porter’s crash-landing, but his squeal of pain is unmistakable.

“Arrrggghhh,” I howl in an attempt to disguise the sound.

Ms Grimm stares at me.

I rub my stomach. “Must be the herrings.”

Ms Grimm pushes past me and searches the bathroom, frowning when it becomes obvious we’re alone. “Enough of this foolishness. Get back into bed.”

She taps her foot to hurry me along. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it sounds like she’s beating out the theme tune from
Jaws.

Everyone else in the dormitory is either asleep or pretending to be. I kick Porter’s laptop further under the bed and climb beneath the duvet. Ms Grimm stands over me and glares me to
sleep.

I feel like I only closed my eyes a second ago, but the clock reads 05:41. I’ve been out for over two hours.
Galileo!
How could I have fallen asleep when
there’s so much to do? I glance around the dormitory. When I’m satisfied Ms Grimm’s gone, I root around under the bed for Porter’s laptop and find another email. This
one’s not from [email protected]. It’s from [email protected]:

What does the second line mean? Why does LOSERS’ poetry always sound like it was written by Yoda from
Star Wars
?

I scroll down to look at the address where everyone is supposed to meet. I’m deafened by the sound of blood pumping through my body.

It’s my address!

Why are LOSERS sending their enemies to my house? And what does it mean when it says, “problems will be deleted”? Is Mum a problem? Holly? I have to warn them. But
how?

There’s only one thing for it. If Porter can squeeze through that bathroom window then so can I. I dart into my cubicle and pull on jeans and a thick jumper. Grabbing my purse, I empty the
contents on the bed. Five pounds and forty-two pence. That won’t get me far in a taxi.

“Are you and Porter helping Gemma?” a voice whispers in the darkness.

“We’re trying to,” I whisper back. “But I’ve run out of money.”

Remarkable Student Aisha slides out of bed. A minute later she’s pressing five ten-pound notes into my hand.

“That’s not what I meant,” I protest, trying to give it back. “I wasn’t asking for a handout.”

“Please,” Aisha squeezes my hand into a fist, trapping the money inside. “I’ve been a coward and I’m ashamed. Giving you my birthday money will help me as much as
it will help Gemma.”

I don’t know what to say. There’s no denying I could do with the cash.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“If there’s anything else I can do?”

“How good are you at pushing people through small spaces?”

The taxi driver lets me borrow his mobile to ring Porter. No one has ever sounded so happy to hear from me. I knew Porter was in his pyjamas with no coat when I shoved him out
the window, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he didn’t have any money either.

“A drunk homeless guy felt sorry for me and gave me his blanket. Which was nice,” Porter says. “But now I smell like an abandoned portaloo. An early-morning delivery driver
offered to give me a lift in the back of his van on condition I held on to his watermelons and stopped them rolling about. But the smell made him retch, so he dumped me at Asda on the outskirts of
Butt’s Hill. I don’t know how to get to the police station from here. I don’t know how to get
anywhere
from here.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

The cabbie agrees to pick Porter up but demands an extra five pounds to cover the cost of fumigating his seats. Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at my house.

Porter and I skulk in the back garden and throw stones at Holly’s window. I check my watch. 06:42. Holly’s going to love this.

After the third handful of stones, she appears at the window, all wide eyes and unruly ringlets. When she sees Porter, she vanishes for a minute and then reappears with a large glass of water,
which she pours over his head.

Porter shakes the water from his hair, his breath hanging in the early-morning air as he yells in frustration. “What’s next? Burning oil? We’ve come to rescue you, you
lunatic.”

“He’s with me,” I step out from under the tree and wave at Holly.

She grins. “Hey, Know-All. Are you coming up the usual way?” She opens the window wider.

“Can’t.” I point at Porter’s leg. “Window-related injury.”

“I’ll get the front door,” Holly offers. “I haven’t heard The Voice for a while so hopefully no one’s watching.”

I spare a sympathetic thought for poor Jangly Keys Dave at his fish station and cross my fingers that Ms Grimm is still asleep.

My stomach heaves as we enter the living room. The combination of Porter’s blanket and Mum’s leftover curry is overpowering. The room looks and smells like a pig sty – or like
a pig sty would look and smell if pigs dined on Indian takeaways. Mummy Pig is snoring beneath stuffed Santas and Curry in a Hurry containers, earphones in place.

Porter pretends not to notice and hops towards the small space between the sofa and the window. He beckons for us to follow. Smart thinking. No cameras there and the microphones will struggle to
pick up sound. I just hope it’s not too late. Mentally preparing myself for a deafening scream, I reach over the back of the sofa and carefully remove Mum’s earphones. She grunts, but
continues sleeping.
Thank Fibonacci
! I pass an earphone to Porter.