Eoin Colfer: The Fowl Twins

But Myles was more or less talking to himself at this point, because Beckett had wandered away, as he often did during his twin’s lectures, and was peering through the safe room’s panoramic periscope’s eyepiece.

‘That’s nice, Myles. But you’d better stop explaining things I don’t care about.’

‘And why is that?’ asked Myles, a little crossly.

‘Because,’ said Beckett. ‘Helicopter.’

‘I know, Beck,’ said Myles, softening. ‘Helicopter.’

It was true that Beckett didn’t seem to either know or care about very many things, but there were certain subjects he was most informed about – insects being one of those subjects. Trumpets was another. And, also, helicopters. Beckett loved helicopters. In times of stress, he sometimes mentioned favourite items, but there was little significance to his helicopter references unless he added the model number.

‘A helicopter,’ insisted Beckett, making room for his brother at the mechanical periscope. ‘Army model Agusta Westland AW139M.’

Time to pay attention , thought Myles.

He propped his spectacles on his forehead and studied the periscope view briefly for visual confirmation that there was, in fact, a helicopter cresting the mainland ridge. The chopper bore Irish Army markings and therefore would not need warrants to land on the island, if that were the army’s intention.

And I cannot and will not fire on an Irish Army helicopter , Myles thought, even though it seemed inevitable that the army was about to place the twins in some form of custody. For most people, this knowledge would be a source of great comfort, but, historically, incarceration did not end well for members of the Fowl family, and so Father had always advised Myles to take certain precautions should arrest or even protective custody seem inevitable.

‘Give yourself a way out, son,’ Artemis Senior had said. ‘You’re a twin, remember?’

Myles always took what his father said seriously, and so he regularly updated his Ways Out of Incarceration folder.

This calls for a classic , he thought, and said to his brother, ‘Beck, I need to tell you something.’

‘Is it story time?’ asked Beckett brightly.

‘Yes,’ said Myles. ‘That’s precisely it. Story time.’

‘Is it one of Artemis’s? The Arctic Incident or The Eternity Code ?’

Myles shook his head. ‘No, brother, this is a very important story, so you will need to concentrate. Can you achieve a high level of focus?’

Beckett was dubious, for Myles often declared things to be important when he himself regarded them as peripheral at best.

For example, some of the many things Myles considered important:

1 Science

2 Inventing

3 Literature

4 The world economy

And things Beckett considered hugely important, if not vital:

1 Gloop

2 Talking to animals

3 Peanut butter

4 Expelling wind, however necessary, before bed

Rarely did these lists overlap.

‘Is this important to me, or just big brainy Myles?’ Beckett asked with considerable suspicion. This was a most exciting day, and it would be just like Myles to ruin it with common sense.

‘Both of us, I promise.’

‘Wrist-bump promise?’ said Beckett.

‘Wrist-bump promise,’ said Myles, holding up the heel of his hand.

They bumped and Beckett, satisfied that a wrist-bump promise could never be broken, plonked himself down on the giant beanbag.

‘Before I tell you the story,’ said Myles, ‘we must become human transports for some very special passengers.’

‘What passengers?’ asked Beckett. ‘They must be teeny-tiny if we’re going to be the transports.’

‘They are teeny-tiny,’ said Myles, not entirely comfortable using such a subjective unit of measurement as teeny-tiny , but Beckett had to be kept calm . He opened the Plexiglas door on top of the insect hotel and scooped out a handful of tiny jumping creatures. ‘I would even go so far as to say teeny-weeny.’

‘I thought we weren’t supposed to touch these guys,’ said Beckett.

‘We’re not,’ said Myles, dividing the insects between them. ‘Except in an emergency. And this is most definitely an emergency.’

It took a mere two minutes for Myles to relate his story, which was, in fact, an escape plan, and an additional six minutes for him to repeat it three times so Beckett could absorb all the particulars.

Once Beckett had repeated the details back to him, Myles persuaded his twin to don some clothing, namely a white T-shirt printed with the word UH-OH!, a phrase often employed both by Beckett himself upon breaking something valuable, and also by people who knew Beckett when they saw him approach. Myles even had time to disable the villa’s more aggressive defences, which might decide to blow the helicopter out of the sky with some surface-to-air missiles, before the knock came on the door.

Here comes the cavalry , thought Myles.

In this rare instance, Myles Fowl was incorrect. The woman at the door would never be mistaken for an officer of the cavalry.

She was, in fact, a nun.

‘It’s a nun,’ said Beckett, checking the intercom camera.

Myles confirmed this with a glance at the screen. It was indeed a nun who appeared to have been winched down in a basket from the hovering helicopter.

If we do nothing, she might go away , thought Myles. After all, perhaps this person doesn’t even know we’re here .

Myles should have voiced this thought instead of thinking it, for, quick as a flash, Beckett pressed the TALK button and said, ‘Hi, mysterious nun. This is Beckett Fowl speaking, one of the Fowl Twins. My brother Myles is here too, and we’re home alone. We’ll be with you in a minute – we’re down in the safe room because of the sonic boom. I’m so glad the EMP didn’t kill your helicopter.’

Beckett’s statement contained basically every scrap of information that Myles had wanted to keep secret.

‘ Gracias ,’ said the unexpected nun. ‘I shall await your arrival.’

Beckett was hopping with excitement. ‘Myles, it’s a nun with a helicopter! You hardly ever see that. This is the start of our first real adventure. It has to be – I can feel it in my elbows.’

Beckett often felt things in his elbows, which he claimed were psychic. He sometimes pointed them at cookie jars to see if there were cookies inside, which Myles had never considered much of a challenge, as one of NANNI’s robot arms filled the kitchen containers as soon as their smart sensors informed the network they were empty.

‘Beck, with no disrespect to your extrasensory elbows,’ said Myles, ‘why don’t we stay calm and stick to the plan? If we can stay, we stay, but, if we go, remember the story.’

Beckett tapped his forehead. ‘It’s all in here, brother. Angry Hamster in the Dimension of Fire.’

‘No, Beck!’ snapped Myles. ‘Not that story.’

‘Ha!’ said Beckett. ‘You snapped at me. I win.’

Myles counted up to ninety-seven in prime numbers to calm himself. One of Beckett’s pleasures in life was teasing his brother until he snapped. It was unfair, really, as it was very difficult to tell the difference between a Beckett who genuinely didn’t know something and a Beckett who was pretending not to know something.

‘Ha-ha,’ said Myles, without a shred of humour. ‘You got me. You’re the big comedian, and I’m just Myles the dunce. But, in my defence, I am trying to keep us alive and out of an army cell.’

Beckett relented and hugged his brother. ‘Okay, Myles. I’ll lay off this time, because you have no sense of humour when you’re stressed. Let’s go upstairs and you can lecture this nun.’