Porter slows to a halt outside the CCTV Room. He tries the handle.
“Still locked?” I’m torn between relief and disappointment.
“Don’t worry. I made a deal with the IT bloke while he was ‘keeping an eye’ on me earlier.”
“Short Trousers Jangly Keys Guy?”
“I call him Dave.” Porter knocks on the CCTV room door.
The door creaks open and an arm shoots out, pulling us into a small, dimly lit room that looks just how I’ve always imagined the New Scotland Yard CCTV room must look. A heavy desk runs the entire length of one wall. Above it are rows of box-shaped shelves. Each gap contains a laptop, creating a wall of monitors. I count quickly – ten along, two up: twenty in all. A mirror on the opposite wall gives the impression the screens go on forever.
“Oi! What’s she doing here?” Jangly Keys Dave hisses when he spots me. “Flaming Nora. As if one of you wasn’t bad enough.”
“Relax,” Porter says while I wonder if Flaming Nora is a famous mathematician.
Jangly Keys Dave doesn’t relax. “You’ve got five minutes.” He snatches Porter’s laptop and flounces out the door.
“Ignore Dave,” Porter says. “He’s a bit touchy but he’s agreed to open locked doors if I let him use my laptop.”
“Huh? The place is full of laptops.”
“Yes, but mine has internet connection.”
I gape at Porter.
Porter grins. “It’s also the only computer in this building that’s not being monitored.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Because Dave’s in charge of monitoring it.”
Porter’s grin fades and he reaches for two of the CCTV room laptops laptops and turns their screens towards me.
“Is this why you were interested in the footage?”
Archimedes! Images of home flicker in front of me.
CLUE 31
It was LOSERS who installed spy cameras to monitor my family.
I gaze at the laptop screens in disbelief. Each screen is split into four smaller windows. One laptop shows images from inside my house, the other shows images from outside. Holly is standing in the top-left square of the indoors laptop. As I watch her gaze out through our living-room window, I get a sharp pain in my stomach. Must be the herrings.
Holly’s spiky hand movements suggest she’s arguing with someone outside. I check the other laptop and see Smokin’ Joe and the Toilet Trolls swaggering up the garden path. I turn up the volume. I shouldn’t have bothered; all I hear are nasty jokes about Mum’s weight.
“Who are those idiots?” Porter asks.
I give him a brief history of my life with Smokin’ Joe. He brightens up when I mention the Toilet Trolls until I explain they hang out in traditional toilets rather than portable ones. When I get to the part about being dumped in the wheelie bin, Porter grabs the microphone beside the laptop and presses the on switch.
His voice thunders through the speakers, distorted and robotic.
“Smokin’ Joe Slater,” Porter booms. “This is your God speaking.”
Smokin’ Joe looks up at the sky, clutching his chest.
“Leave the Hawkins family alone,” God/Porter orders. “Or I shall be forced to smite you.”
Smokin’ Joe mutters something to the Toilet Trolls, who shrug and screw up their faces.
I put my hand over the microphone. “I don’t think they understand ‘smite’.”
Porter frowns. “Hello! God again. Just to be clear, I’m saying if you continue to bully the Hawkins family I will strike you down with a massive bolt of godly lightning.” Porter pauses and adds, “Like Thor. From The Avengers.”
That works. The Toilet Trolls grab each other for support and Smokin’ Joe cowers behind the hedge.
I grab the mic. “And then I’ll give you a wedgie.”
Although the microphone alters my voice, it’s still higher pitched than Porter’s. Fortunately, no one seems to notice.
Porter mouths, “Not very godlike.”
But I’m on a roll. “And if you don’t get away from my house, I’ll remind everyone about the time you wet your pants in Year Three.”
The Toilet Trolls snigger. Smokin’ Joe punches the nearest one and storms off down the street.
Porter mouths, “My house?”
Oops.
“When I say my house, I obviously mean in the sense that all houses are my house. Because I am God. Of everything. Especially houses.”
The Toilet Trolls are too busy pushing and shoving each other to notice the slip-up. But in the top corner of the indoors laptop, Holly’s jaw drops open and she stumbles backwards, hitting the sofa. The force of her momentum carries her over the back of the couch and on to Mum’s stomach, which bounces her back on to her feet.
Porter slides off his chair, spluttering with laughter.
“Know-All?” Holly straightens her top, trying to act like nothing happened. “Is that you?”
Outside in the corridor, footsteps are thudding towards the CCTV room. Our five minutes are up. I grab the mic.
“Yes. Quick, Holly! I need to talk to you—”
The door bangs open behind me.
“Run, Holly. Go to the comput—”