Miss Primrose walks fast. She’s not put off by the battles we pass, nor does she seem to be trying to catch older children to sacrifice.
‘When are we thoing to thrab her?’ asks Henry.
‘Now? Soon,’ I say, breaking into a jog.
We swing into the main square. The museum stands locked before us, while smoke pours out of the cafe next door.
Miss Primrose stops.
‘Now!’ I say, and we leap forward, grabbing her. One arm each.
‘Wha—?!’ she yelps, then, seeing Henry, drops to her knees.
‘Mith Primrothe,’ he says. ‘I –’
‘Shh,’ I say, pointing at my mouth.
As the last shred of tinfoil floats from the sun discs on his wrists, I realise I’d never planned on Miss Primrose meeting Henry close up.
I rush behind him. ‘OH SERVANT,’ I bellow. ‘YOU SEEK SOMETHING?’
‘Oh master of the sun, I seek the elixir.’
‘Elithier?’ says Henry.
‘The precious liquid by which I become close to you and Your Majesty.’
‘WHAT ELIXIR IS THIS?’ I ask.
‘I know not whence it comes,’ says Miss Primrose.
‘DOES IT COME FROM YONDER SHOP?’ I say.
‘Henry Waters?’ says Miss Primrose. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yeth,’ says Henry, tightening his grip on her arm.
I look round Henry, to Miss Primrose. Her eyes have changed. They look almost normal.
She stares at her arm, at the feathered wetsuit.
‘What’s the…?’
I rush round and grab her other arm.
‘Miss Primrose, I’m sorry about this,’ I say, pulling the length of rope out of my backpack.
‘Buth ith’s for your own gooth,’ says Henry.
And we tie her firmly to what’s left of the museum bus stop.
Henry and I stand outside the cafe. Inside, it’s almost completely dark, but we can see that the chocolate fondue dance is still going, although some people are now sparked out on the floor.
‘How arth thwe goin’ tho do this?’ he asks.
I look at him; he’s tatty, but he’s still dressed like a god – well, sort of. ‘Henry, I think you’re going to have to act. Be godly, think godly. Persuade them that you’re a god, and that way we should be able to get into the kitchen, which is, I think, the source of the problem.’
He pulls himself up, and I straighten his feathers and his tin helmet, and tuck the dead parrot back into his belt. ‘Ready?’ I ask.
He nods. We walk up the steps and stop in front of the chocolate fondue party. Mr Crump, the builder, stops thwacking the table with a hammer and stares. Two of the women freeze and a third drops to her knees. I look past them to the kitchen; I’m pretty sure that’s where we need to be.
Henry stands and looks godly, then kicks me. ‘OH MINIONS!’ I bellow. ‘I COME ONLY TO WATCH YOUR ANTICS. ALLOW ME TO ENTER THE INNER SANCTUM.’
Miraculously, the fondue dancers step aside, and Henry floats forward, exuding godliness, tiptoeing through the lake of chocolate pumping across the floor. I keep as close to him as I can. I don’t want them to realise I’m not a god.
Just as we’re about to get into the kitchen at last, something from outside makes me turn around.
‘Hey!’ It’s Ursula and Marcus, and some way behind, a limping Mr Dent, leaning on his pitchfork, his face red with fury.
I hesitate in the kitchen door. I can’t think how to get Ursula in but leave Mr Dent outside, but Henry turns around to address the fondue dancers. ‘THETHE TWO ARE MY FAITHFUL FOLLOTHWERS.’ He points at Ursula and Marcus. ‘BUTH HE,’ he points at Mr Dent, ‘THE HROWMAN, IS AN ENEMY.’
Well done Henry.
The dancers part to let Marcus and Ursula through, but surge forward, slippery with chocolate and armed with sponge and cream, to stop Mr Dent and his pitchfork.
‘IN!’ I shout, shoving Henry through the kitchen door and dragging Ursula and Marcus behind as squares of cake whistle through the air.
We rush to shut the door, squashing a piece of fruit sponge in the frame. Henry grabs a chair and wedges it under the door handle. ‘Phew!’ he says, peeling off his mask. ‘That was close.’
‘And?’ says Ursula, running the camera over the counter tops, filming every slice of cake and every pie.
‘It’s here, it’s got to be here,’ I say.
‘What are we looking for?’ asks Marcus.
‘Something that means that the coffee and probably the chocolate that the cafe sells is in some way contaminated.’
‘Like this?’ asks Marcus, clambering up onto the counter top and pointing at a large grille that sits over the coffee roasting machine.
‘What is it?’ asks Henry.
‘Dunno,’ says Marcus, holding his hand up to the grille. ‘But it’s letting in cold air from outside.’
I climb up next to him and between us, we pull the metal grille out of the slot on the wall. It isn’t just a grille but a whole air conditioning unit. It comes out easily and Marcus yanks the plug out of the wall.
‘I can’t see through, though,’ says Marcus. ‘It’s just too high, but I can see electric light on the other side.’
‘Henry,’ I say. ‘Could you?’
Ursula strips Henry of his parrot and his boas and we haul him up onto the counter top. Using a sack of flour for extra height, he thrusts his head through the hole in the wall.
‘Ha,’ he says, laughing.
‘What? Henry? Do get on with it,’ says Ursula.
The rest of us are more polite.
‘It’s the museum – the room with all the dust and the mummy: the museum restoration room.’ Henry stands on the counter top, his face dripping with sweat. ‘If that was an air conditioning unit, then it was sucking in the air on the museum side, and pumping it out on the cafe side. Not just the air, but all the little bits in the air.’
‘You mean all the ancient bits of bread and bones and weird unidentified things are ending up in the cafe food?’ says Ursula.
‘Yes,’ says Henry, beaming. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘You mean there’s no evil genius brainwashing our parents? Or a plot by aliens to take over the most boring town in Britain?’
Henry shakes his head. ‘No – just an air conditioning unit.’
‘Are you sure?’ says Marcus.
‘He’s absolutely sure,’ says Ursula. ‘Aren’t you, Henry?’