Ivan Brett - Casper Candlewacks in Attack of the Brainiacs!

Ting-a-ling.

“Casp!” The balding head of Julius, Casper’s dad, popped out of the front door like a hairy egg, but without much hair. “Glad I found you. Can you help me with this oven? It’s still in bits, and Cuddles ate the manual.”

“Sorry, I can’t. The bus leaves any minute.”

“Bus? Where d’you think you’re going on a school day, young man?”

“School, Dad. St Simian’s, remember?”

“Oh yes.” Julius scratched his scalp. “Course I remember. Well, have fun. I’ll just do the oven myself, then.”

“Good luck,” Casper grimaced. He wouldn’t normally leave his dad alone with an oven, even though he was a chef. “Don’t… explode… or anything.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Hi, Mister Candlewacks,” piped up Lamp.

“Hi, Lamp.” Julius waved and disappeared back into his restaurant.

Ting-a-ling.

(One thing Julius had fixed was the thing that went ting-a-ling when you opened or closed the door. It’s a very important piece of equipment, particularly to deter robbers, who are generally terrified of bells.)

The village square was packed that morning with weeping mothers and trembling children standing by a huge train carriage lashed to a green tractor. It was the closest thing to a school bus Corne-on-the-Kobb could muster, but it didn’t half look grand there, grumbling away on the cobbles. In the centre of the square stood the massive gleaming stone statue of Mayor Rattsbulge, clutching his bejewelled sword in one hammy fist.

The real Mayor Rattsbulge stood in the shadow of his chiselled stone twin, twice as fat, not nearly as handsome, and clutching a sausage rather than a sword. The statue had been finished two weeks ago, and every day since, the mayor had stood proudly beside it, pointing it out to passers-by and loudly telling them how accurate it was.

Other villagers trotted across the cobbles on their morning errands, waving at each other and giving their mayor a wide berth. Betty Woons – a sprightly 107-year-old – whizzed in skittering circles across the square in her turbo-powered wheelchair, running over so many toes that she lost count and had to start again; village gardener Sandy Landscape leant against a wall, chatting to a hedge; bent-backed Mrs Trimble tugged at the nine leads attached to the collars of nine stubborn cats that licked their paws and meowed throatily; and four-foot-tall pub landlord Mitch McMassive puffed and wheezed as he tried once more to roll an enormous beer barrel towards The Horse and Horse, only for it to roll backwards and flatten him against the cobbles.

Casper and Lamp passed through the crowd, bumping into a grubby little man with a pinched face hidden under his grubby black beret.

“Hullo, Mr Renée!” Lamp said.

“’Allo, boys,” growled Renée in his thick French drawl. He grinned, his rubbery lips parting to reveal a few brown teeth. In the corner of his mouth hung a soggy, thin cigarette that wobbled as he talked. Renée’s gaze settled on Casper, and Caspar shivered.

“Hi,” Casper said briskly. He didn’t know why Renée made his skin crawl like that. He wasn’t a cruel man, just a little cold. Renée had come to Corne-on-the-Kobb from France a couple of months ago. Quite why he’d done that, nobody had bothered to ask. None of the other villagers paid the poor chap the slightest bit of attention because he was French. (The people of Corne-on-the-Kobb were scared of two things: foreigners and dinosaurs. Renée was at least one of those.)

“How’s your cheese shop getting along?” asked Casper politely.

“Ah, not bad, not bad,” nodded Renée. “I think it will be making quite ze splash.”

“Why?” Lamp scratched his hair. “Is it wet?”

Renée frowned and reached for the little English dictionary he’d taken to keeping in a pocket. “I, er, do not…”

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Casper, motioning for Renée to put his dictionary away. “He just means to say how excited we are about tasting all your cheese.”

“Heh,” said Renée, breaking into a gruff smile. “Yes. Ze cheese.” He winked at Lamp and turned to shuffle away.

Casper turned to Lamp and saw that he was grinning. “What was that wink?”

“Huh?”

“ALL ABOARD, TICKETS ’N’ RAILCARDS, MIND THE GAP!” shouted Sandy Landscape, clambering up the side of his tractor. “TRAIN NOW STANDIN’ ON PLATFORM ONE’S THE TEN PAST EIGHT TER HIGH KOBB.”

As children tottered up on to the train carriage and mothers wailed ever louder, Casper’s nerves flooded back in and stung him like a mouthful of seawater. What waited for him at the other end of this journey? Did High Kobb really have alligators? Would he even make it home to see the opening of The Battered Cod?

The ‘bus’ roared into life, pumping black fumes and a sleeping hedgehog out of the exhaust pipe and into the crowd. The tractor shunted forwards and the carriage jerked into motion behind, throwing the children back in their seats. The villagers cheered, tearful mothers waved their hankies and little children and dogs chased the carriage down the road, although it wasn’t going very fast so they just stood there and wondered what to do once they’d caught up with it.

At the back of the crowd, Renée shuffled away across the cobbles. He stopped at the door to a boarded-up shop with a small sign that said Le Cheese Shop. He open tonight. He fiddled with the key, pushed open the door and shuffled inside. But that’s not important because Renée’s obviously not anyone to worry about and he’s certainly not hatching any evil plans or anything. Don’t even know why I mentioned him, actually.

The country lanes trawled by slower than a lazy snail. Casper smudged his nose on the window of the train and sighed. Summer was over and school was ready to take its place, filling his days with boredom and sums.

Casper and Lamp sat at one of those four-seat tables opposite Milly and Milly Mollyband, the identical twins (who’d been given the same name to save time and name-badges). They’d obviously heard about the alligators too because they both trembled so hard that Lamp thought there was an earthquake going on.

Eventually, Lamp decided he liked earthquakes, so Casper had some more time to look out of the window. When he looked back, Lamp was scratching his oily black hair and then sniffing his finger. “Strawberry,” he said. “Must be Monday.”

Casper frowned. “What?”

“I invented a shampoo that knows what day it is. It changes flavour to match. Monday means strawberry.”

“Oh…” Casper frowned.

“And you know I smelt of eggs yesterday?”

“Was that the shampoo too?”

“Nope, I’d just been eating them. Got my last three here. Want one?” He pulled three boiled eggs from an inner pocket of his blazer.

Casper took an egg to keep Lamp happy and placed it carefully in his backpack.

Lamp licked his lips and saved his two for later.

“OY! WOSSAT?” A shriek tore from the back of the carriage.

“It’s Anemonie!” whispered Casper. “What does she want?”

“I want that! It’s mine!” A small, pointy-nosed girl with squinty eyes and dark hair stomped up the aisle, pointing straight at Lamp with her sharpened pink fingernails. Her sickly sweet perfume made Casper gag.

Lamp plunged his eggs into his pocket and pretended to be asleep.

“What were you holding? Give it.”

“Zzzzzz,” snored Lamp. Then he opened one eye and whispered, “Has she gone yet, Casper?”