Ivan Brett - Casper Candlewacks in Attack of the Brainiacs!

“Ah…” Above Lamp’s head there was a hole in the ceiling, just the right size for a large red helium balloon, a boy and an anchor to fit through. “Ahh.”

“Look.” Lamp let go of the anchor and the balloon lifted him into the air.

Casper giggled. “Come back down here!”

Lamp disappeared through the hole in the ceiling. “Hang on,” he called. “I need another anchor.” There was some clunking, and a moment later down he floated with a second anchor on a string. “It’s for when the stairs are broken,” said Lamp, tethering his balloon to a handy knob he’d glued to the wall. “I get through a lot of anchors, though.”

“Can’t you reuse them?”

Lamp chuckled. “Don’t be silly.”

“Anyway, what did you say this thing was?” Casper turned back to the captive bagpipes.

“It’s my Omlit Gun,” smiled Lamp. “It makes lovely omlits and shoots them out here.” He waggled the head of the vacuum-cleaner neck in Casper’s direction.

Casper ducked, just in case. “Omelettes? I should’ve guessed.” He was used to Lamp’s eggy inventions by now. Two months ago Lamp had found Mavis and Bessie, the two egg-laying hens, sitting on his doorstep with a note saying they were his distant cousins. He took them in and gave them a coop, and in return the girls always made sure he had a surplus of eggs to invent stuff with.

The bagpipes let out a weary wheeze.

“So? Does it work?” asked Casper, slightly fearing the answer.

“Dunno,” shrugged Lamp. “Let’s give it a try. Ladies?”

Mavis and Bessie, Lamp’s two prize egg-laying hens and long-distant cousins on his mum’s side, popped their rubbery heads out of the coop and clucked sleepily. Mavis, the darker one, flipped over the Do Not Disturb sign with her beak. The other side said The Hens Are In. Please Knock.

Lamp lifted the lid of the hens’ coop to pick out two speckly brown eggs. “Watch this!” He did a little trot on the spot, galumphed over to the Omelette Gun and cracked both eggs into the yellow bowl.

The machine wobbled into motion, a nauseous groan from the belly of the bagpipes tightening into a tuneless wheeze. The strings grew taut, the bag puffed fuller and the eggs slipped down the mouthpiece and out of view. Then the pipes began to whistle a screeching, tuneless tune, a melody of such demonic ugliness that even when Casper blocked his ears, he could smell how bad it sounded.

Lamp did a highland jig around the garage.

The screech rose louder, the bag pumped fuller, the strings stretched and frayed to hold it still, and then when Casper was sure the thing was about to explode, there was a tremendous rattle as something shot down the vacuum-cleaner neck and spat across the garage, splurging against the far wall and sticking fast.

Casper dared to unblock his ears. “Wow.”

Lamp grinned. “Wait for it…”

CHOO!

With a final sneeze, the vacuum cleaner belched a cloud of herbs after the omelette, which filled the air like edible confetti.

Casper could do nothing else but clap. “Amazing!” he cheered. “Encore!”

Lamp bowed deeply. “I thank you,” he said. “Want one? There’s plenty more eggs.”

Before Casper could answer, Lamp was already back at the coop, rooting around in the straw. His face crumpled into a frown. “Strange…”

“What’s up?”

“I can’t find any more eggs. What with the two I’ve already got this morning that means today they’ve only laid…” Lamp pulled his arm from the coop and counted up on his fingers, “…six. I mean ten.”

“Two,” said Casper.

“Exactly. Three. That’s the lowest yet.”

Apart from the counting part, Lamp was absolutely right. Until a couple of weeks ago, Mavis and Bessie were prize egg-layers. They’d pump out eggs like faulty bubblegum machines, filling their coop right to the top and proudly sitting on the lid. But something had changed because each morning the boys would find fewer and fewer eggs, with no explanation why.

“I don’t like this,” said Casper suspiciously. “Maybe they’re ill or something.”

“Chicken pox?” said Lamp.

“Do chickens get chicken pox?”

“Er, yeah.” Lamp clicked his teeth. “Clue’s in the name, silly.”

Bessie pecked at a little vending machine. It gave a bloop and its dispenser scattered a handful of seeds on to the garage floor.

“Come on, Lamp, we’ve a bus to catch.”

“Ooh!” Lamp squealed. “We’re going to big boys’ school!”

The pit of Casper’s stomach wiggled. He wished he shared his friend’s enthusiasm, but in truth, he was terrified. Corne-on-the-Kobb wasn’t big enough to have its own senior school, so once the kids were old enough, they were shipped off to the sprawling city of High Kobb. You could see its grey towers from the top of the Corne-on-the-Kobb village hall, climbing high into the clouds and beyond, probably into space. Casper had never been to High Kobb, or any city, as a matter of fact. The villagers had told stories and Casper had listened, quivering: the never-ending traffic, murderers on every street corner and giant alligators that crawl out of the sewers and eat your firstborn. Cities struck fear into Casper’s heart. And now he had to go to school inside one!

If Casper survived the day, though, he’d have worse waiting for him back in Corne-on-the-Kobb. Tonight was the opening of his dad’s brand-new restaurant, an event two months and three kitchen fires in the making. Casper was to be head waiter and mopper of spills, his least favourite job since nappy-recycling.

“Oh, Casper, aren’t we gonna have so much fun?”

Casper was jolted back to reality as Lamp stuffed a handful of marbles and an iron into his oil-stained backpack.

“D’you think they have chairs there? Otherwise I’ll take this one with me.”

“They’ve already got chairs. I think. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“Race you to the bus!” Lamp galumphed out of the garage and veered left down the road.

“This way, Lamp.”

“Righty-ho!” He wheeled round and galumphed back into the garage.

Lamp Flannigan was Casper’s best friend. He wasn’t the fizziest bottle in the fridge in terms of brain power. Directions weren’t his strong point, and neither were counting, spelling, herding cattle, walking, breathing, not falling into puddles… Actually, this list is going to continue for an awfully long time. To save money and rainforests it’d be easier to flag up his one and only strong point. Lamp Flannigan was an absolute genius at inventing. He invented the things that nobody in their right mind would ever attempt. But that’s the point: Lamp didn’t have a right mind. He didn’t even have a left mind. He had a sort of slushy heap that mulched around in his skull and gurgled when you shook it. But whatever it was, it sure as beans made him good at inventing. He’d invented telepathic typewriters that type what you think and collapsible caravans that fit into your lunchbox. He’d made rubber paint for bouncy walls and disposable flags that you only wave once. Inventing wasn’t just Lamp’s hobby, it was his life.

Casper walked through the park with Lamp trotting behind him, stopping every so often to sniff a flower or re-Velcro his shoes.

At the entrance to the village square sat Casper’s dad’s brand-new restaurant, The Battered Cod. There were about two weeks’ worth of jobs to do before The Battered Cod was ready to open, which was fine, except that tonight was the opening night.