Read Online My Brother is a Superhero by David Solomons - Free Book Online
Authors: David Solomons
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lunch break. Now, follow me.”
She pressed her back against the wall and we copied her, edging our way inch by inch towards the door marked Airlock, keeping out of sight of the guard gobbling down his lunch. As we crept closer there was a loud rumble from Serge. He held a hand to his stomach and made an apologetic face.
“Pardon,” he whispered. “It is the thought of that delicious sausage roll. It is making me hungry.” His stomach gave a growl. “I cannot go on.”
“Of course you can,” I said. “We’re not leaving you behind.”
“You must. You have to.” He rumbled again. “Leave me. You two must complete the mission. Do it for me. Do it for Fra—I mean Grand Britain.”
“Are you sure?”
“ Oui . I will be all right.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I think I saw a Supasnax vending machine back there.”
We shook hands. Serge does that a lot – it’s a French thing – and then he kissed Lara on both cheeks. That’s another French thing. He straightened, raised one hand in a stiff salute and then melted away in search of a Twix. And probably a Mars bar too, if I knew Serge.
The self-destruct sequence reached fifteen.
We were almost at the door. It didn’t have a regularhandle; instead there was a keypad. “Oh no, it needs a code to open it,” I whispered, pretending to be disappointed, but secretly relieved. “What a pity,” I groaned, hoping I wasn’t overdoing it. “So near and yet so—What are you doing?”
Lara hunched over the electronic lock and began to prod at the keypad. She sounded the numbers as she hit the relevant keys. “Five … Two … One … Nine.”
With a rapid series of clicks, the door swung open.
My mouth opened and closed like a surprised goldfish. “But … but how did you know?”
“It’s the address of the shop. 5219 High Street.” She shrugged. “Kind of obvious, don’t you think?”
Before I could reply, a muffled voice pierced the darkness. “Who’s there?” The watchman stepped out of the shadows, his sausage roll raised threateningly. He hadn’t seen us yet, but a few more steps and he’d be on us.
“Three seconds to self-destruct,” said the computer voice.
If I’m honest, I’ve never been all that great in a tight situation.
“Two seconds to self-destruct.”
“Cool under pressure” is definitely not my middle name. I mean, it would be a pretty unusual middle namefor anyone, but … that’s not the point.
“One second to self-destruct.”
Lara shoved me through the open door.
12
BORKEDYBORK
Lara’s intelligence was correct – it was not a staff toilet. We stood inside Crystal Comics’ control room. Before you get the idea that we had stumbled on some hitech lair buzzing with operators peering at banks of surveillance cameras, talking into headsets saying things like “Intruders on level forty-seven – release the Mechahounds!” you should know that a toilet would have been more impressive than the sight that greeted us.
It was a dusty, windowless room no bigger than a broom cupboard. Tucked against one wall were a sagging desk and a swivel chair whose best swivelling days were behind it. Flickering light came from a bulky monitorthat squatted on the desk next to an ancient computer tower and a tea-stained keyboard covered in crumbs. The monitor displayed pictures fed to it from cameras located about the store, cycling through them every few seconds. Briefly the image settled on the vending machines on the ground floor and I glimpsed Serge contemplating his confectionery options like a cat curled around a fishbowl.
Lara swept up a crumb from the keyboard and scrutinised it with big, dark eyes. “This is pastry from a sausage roll,” she concluded with a raised eyebrow. “Judging from the crumb pattern I estimate that the watchman will finish his lunch in less than six bites before returning to his post. A bite every thirty seconds gives us three minutes. Four with mustard.” Lara looked at me
She pressed her back against the wall and we copied her, edging our way inch by inch towards the door marked Airlock, keeping out of sight of the guard gobbling down his lunch. As we crept closer there was a loud rumble from Serge. He held a hand to his stomach and made an apologetic face.
“Pardon,” he whispered. “It is the thought of that delicious sausage roll. It is making me hungry.” His stomach gave a growl. “I cannot go on.”
“Of course you can,” I said. “We’re not leaving you behind.”
“You must. You have to.” He rumbled again. “Leave me. You two must complete the mission. Do it for me. Do it for Fra—I mean Grand Britain.”
“Are you sure?”
“ Oui . I will be all right.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I think I saw a Supasnax vending machine back there.”
We shook hands. Serge does that a lot – it’s a French thing – and then he kissed Lara on both cheeks. That’s another French thing. He straightened, raised one hand in a stiff salute and then melted away in search of a Twix. And probably a Mars bar too, if I knew Serge.
The self-destruct sequence reached fifteen.
We were almost at the door. It didn’t have a regularhandle; instead there was a keypad. “Oh no, it needs a code to open it,” I whispered, pretending to be disappointed, but secretly relieved. “What a pity,” I groaned, hoping I wasn’t overdoing it. “So near and yet so—What are you doing?”
Lara hunched over the electronic lock and began to prod at the keypad. She sounded the numbers as she hit the relevant keys. “Five … Two … One … Nine.”
With a rapid series of clicks, the door swung open.
My mouth opened and closed like a surprised goldfish. “But … but how did you know?”
“It’s the address of the shop. 5219 High Street.” She shrugged. “Kind of obvious, don’t you think?”
Before I could reply, a muffled voice pierced the darkness. “Who’s there?” The watchman stepped out of the shadows, his sausage roll raised threateningly. He hadn’t seen us yet, but a few more steps and he’d be on us.
“Three seconds to self-destruct,” said the computer voice.
If I’m honest, I’ve never been all that great in a tight situation.
“Two seconds to self-destruct.”
“Cool under pressure” is definitely not my middle name. I mean, it would be a pretty unusual middle namefor anyone, but … that’s not the point.
“One second to self-destruct.”
Lara shoved me through the open door.
12
BORKEDYBORK
Lara’s intelligence was correct – it was not a staff toilet. We stood inside Crystal Comics’ control room. Before you get the idea that we had stumbled on some hitech lair buzzing with operators peering at banks of surveillance cameras, talking into headsets saying things like “Intruders on level forty-seven – release the Mechahounds!” you should know that a toilet would have been more impressive than the sight that greeted us.
It was a dusty, windowless room no bigger than a broom cupboard. Tucked against one wall were a sagging desk and a swivel chair whose best swivelling days were behind it. Flickering light came from a bulky monitorthat squatted on the desk next to an ancient computer tower and a tea-stained keyboard covered in crumbs. The monitor displayed pictures fed to it from cameras located about the store, cycling through them every few seconds. Briefly the image settled on the vending machines on the ground floor and I glimpsed Serge contemplating his confectionery options like a cat curled around a fishbowl.
Lara swept up a crumb from the keyboard and scrutinised it with big, dark eyes. “This is pastry from a sausage roll,” she concluded with a raised eyebrow. “Judging from the crumb pattern I estimate that the watchman will finish his lunch in less than six bites before returning to his post. A bite every thirty seconds gives us three minutes. Four with mustard.” Lara looked at me
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