Molly Moon, Micky Minus, & the Mind Machine Read online

  Georgia Byng

  Molly

  Moon,

  Micky Minus,

  & the

  Mind Machine

  For Sky—our sweet baby

  Table of Contents

  It’s mind-boggling madness for Molly!

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Also by Georgia Byng

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  It’s mind-boggling madness for Molly!

  Through the time-hover mist, Molly and Rocky poked their heads over the cabinet and watched as the world reeled forward. People walked swiftly in and out of the nursery, their movements quick and jiggly as though they were in a film that had been fast-forwarded. Nurses and mothers flashed into the room and out again, pushing cots on wheels, holding babies. Molly saw her twin brother’s cot wheeled out and whizzed back in with her own. It was like rush hour. A nurse zoomed around the room, dabbing at the babies, adjusting their blankets, and changing diapers. And then, just after a flash of lightning, a doctor with his hair gelled into a stiff quiff entered. He studied the babies in the cots as though they were interesting specimens and stopped to look at Molly’s brother and then the baby next to him. He tugged at the blankets of both of the babies to look at the bands around their wrists. And finally, with the movement of a heron catching a fish, he plucked the baby boy from his cot and, astonishingly, vanished into thin air.

  It was a brilliant, bright, hot morning. The sun was white in a cornflower-blue sky. And on a mountaintop, two children sat in a walled garden, on see-through reclining chairs. The eleven-year-old had a big green umbrella over him, obstructing the sun and blocking him from the six-year-old Chinese girl beside him. All she could see of the boy were his thin, white trousers and his turquoise suede slippers that soaked up the searing heat.

  The small girl was wearing a silver dress with shiny shoes to match, and her hair was whipped up into the shape and texture of a pinecone. She wore rouge on her cheeks and solid gold bangles around her wrists. Her mouth was small and pinched, while her almond-shaped brown eyes were sharp and bright.

  Sitting quietly at a table on the lawn in front of them were two men dressed in red, pom-pom-covered circus outfits. The table was laid with two lidded, clear plastic boxes that were full of wriggling orange centipedes.

  “Your turn,” the little girl insisted, sipping from a pink cocktail glass.

  “All right. I ask your pawn this,” the hidden boy replied. “Why were the experiments to make flies the size of dogs stopped?”

  There was a pause as the pom-pomed man in front of the girl thought. Then he answered in a flat voice, “Because they concentrated on making vegetables grow bigger instead.”

  “WRONG!” shouted the tiny girl, hurling the contents of her glass so that it drenched him. “You are an IDIOT! You had ten hours on the machine yesterday! You should have picked that up! It serves you RIGHT! You’re going to have to eat one!”

  Obediently the man lifted the lid off his box of centipedes and picked one up, pinching it between his finger and thumb so that it didn’t wriggle away. Then, without even a murmur of objection, he placed it at the back of his tongue and shut his mouth quickly. As he munched, the little centipede tried to escape. Briefly seeing the light enter the man’s mouth, it saw a slim opportunity to dive for freedom. But the man felt it on his lip and, prodding it back into his mouth again, ruined its chances of ever getting away. Grimacing, he mashed it up with his teeth and swallowed.

  “Yes, they are nasty, aren’t they?” the little girl taunted. “Nasty and bitter! Well, you shouldn’t have let me down. I’m four points behind now because of you!”

  “Why don’t we stop?” the boy under the umbrella said. “I think your player is feeling sick. That’s his fourth centipede.”

  “Serves him right!” the little girl said vindictively. “And anyway, Micky, don’t be so silly—it’s only a game.”

  One

  It was a cold February evening and storm clouds were gathering. Drawn like gray curtains over the moon, they made the night sky even darker. And high up, forty thousand feet above the fields of the countryside, violent gale-force winds began to circle and play. Billions of raindrops plumped the blackening clouds, preparing to fall.

  Far below, trees were tousled by the thickening wind that whistled through their branches. And in a grand country house called Briersville Park, lights twinkled at an upstairs window.

  Molly Moon was sitting with her best friend, Rocky, on a Persian carpet in the TV room. Comfortable and leaning against red beanbags, they ignored the wind that was battering the windowpanes. Gusts sent down the chimney disturbed the flames of the wood burning in the hearth, but they didn’t mind at all, for they were feeling cozy and warm. In their laps were brown Chinese-takeaway boxes with the remains of a meal of rice and wontons, and in front of them was the television, switched on.

  “Ballroom dancing,” Rocky said, tapping the TV controls and burping, “a history program, or gardening, or … or him?” As he spoke the screen changed channels, ending up with a suited man hosting a magic show.

  “After the break,” the magician was saying, “I will blow your minds, by reading your minds and someone from the audience here will be my … hmmm … victim!” The studio audience laughed. The showman winked at the camera. “So, see you later.” And at once the commercials started.

  “Looks good to me,” Molly said. She stretched down to the black pug who lay quivering by her leg and scrunched its velvety ears. “Fancy some dumplings, Petula? Come on, don’t be scared of the storm. We’re all snug and safe in here.” As Molly finished, a particularly aggressive gust banged at the window. Petula dived under Molly’s legs. After a second or two the rattling subsided, and Petula looked up. On the television a very sleek pedigree Labrador dressed in a black dinner jacket and bow tie was eating his supper. Petula didn’t understand about advertising. She didn’t understand that this dog on the screen was there to persuade any dog owners watching to buy Champ to feed their pets. It looked like the Labrador was simply showing off and she thought that was funny.

  Feeling better, Petula put her head in her paws and glanced fondly at her two human friends. Rocky, with his black skin and beautiful eyes, was definitely the most pedigreed-looking of the two. Molly was more of a mongrel creature. She was skinny with scraggly brown hair and closely set green eyes and a potato-shaped nose. The two of them had always been that way, right from when they lived in the orphanage together when they were little. Whatever Molly wore, she never looked well-groomed. To someone who didn’t know her, Petula pondered, Molly really did look a most unremarkable person, which shows how deceiving looks can be. For the truth was, Molly Moon was the complete opposite.

  Over the last year or so, Petula had witnessed massive changes in Molly. Only a short while ago, Molly, she knew, had thought of herself as useless. She had
n’t been full of confidence like, for instance, a dog that could fetch the newspaper. But then Molly had found a book on hypnotism. Petula raised her hairy eyebrows as she thought of that amazing book. It had helped Molly reinvent herself. Molly had been like a caterpillar that turned into a butterfly. Not a beautiful butterfly, but she had certainly grown wings. For now she was a brilliant hypnotist, a time stopper, and a time traveler. And Petula had had first-paw experience of Molly doing all these things. She sighed and scratched at a tickle in her ear as she thought of what they had been through together. It had certainly been unusual.

  Petula herself had once hypnotized some mice; and another time, using a time crystal, she had actually made time stand still. But that had been a fluke. Even Rocky could hypnotize using his voice, Petula knew. But he wasn’t a genius at hypnotism like Molly. Petula stood up and dipped her nose into the cardboard box to nibble at a dumpling, and three mooing cows flew across the TV screen.

  Rocky was now singing along to the commercial jingle.

  “Choc-o-late!” he sang, with the xylophone music and the woman’s voice on the television accompanying him.

  Choc-o-late!

  Every day is a chocolate date!

  Molly reached her hand into the Yong takeaway bag. As she’d hoped, there were two small parcels in there, wrapped in crisp red paper. FORTUNE COOKIE read the black inked letters across the front of them.

  “Here,” Molly said, tossing one into Rocky’s lap, and opening her own. Inside the packet was a brown sugary biscuit. Molly bit into it and, as she did, examined the fortune written on a strip of white paper that had fallen onto the floor.

  “What does it say?” Rocky asked.

  “It says,” Molly replied, “‘The leaf that clings to the branch will block new buds.’”

  “Hmmm. Mine says, ‘Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.’”

  “Who writes these things?” Molly wondered as she munched.

  “Well, that is the question,” said Rocky in a strange eerie voice, pretending to be mysterious. “Who, indeed, writes our fortunes in the book of time?”

  Molly laughed. Then a commercial on the television shattered her calm. A baby in a diaper was crawling through a jungle. He was dressed in a camouflage commando outfit. He crawled on determinedly, unaware that he’d narrowly escaped the jaws of a tiger. Intent on his baby mission, he crawled through the undergrowth, past an angry hippopotamus, under a venomous snake, and over a tarantula. Finally the baby arrived in the land of babies—a safe place, where the other babies were glad to see him. There, a deep voice boomed: “Use Podgeums diapers! Put your baby first—give him the support he needs!”

  Rocky found it really funny. “I love that commercial,” he chuckled.

  But Molly felt sick. The gurgling baby commando had reminded her of another baby. The one she’d been born with—her own twin brother whom she had never met. She’d only found out about him two weeks ago. As the baby on the screen clapped his hands together, a feeling of peculiar longing rose up in Molly. Finding out that she had a brother had been like discovering a secret door in a house that led to a different country. She half wished that the door wasn’t there, frightened to have to pluck up the courage to step through it, while the other part of her longed to fling it open and discover this place so near and yet so unknown.

  Was her twin brother alive? If so, where was he? And what was he like? What was his name? He had been stolen from their mother just as Molly had been when she was a baby. But who had taken him? Had he been put in a cardboard box on a doorstep of an orphanage like Hardwick House as Molly had been? Had the box been a Moon’s Marshmallow box? Or had he grown up with a family? And wherever he was, did he know that Lucy Logan and Primo Cell were his real parents? Did he know that Lucy and Primo had been hypnotized for eleven years by Cornelius Logan, Lucy’s own brother? Perhaps he even knew that Molly had freed them both with her hypnotism. Did he know about Molly?

  As these questions jangled loudly through Molly’s head, she caught them and, one by one, tried to put them into a box in her mind where she couldn’t hear them shouting anymore.

  She turned her thoughts back to the TV and hoped that the show would distract her.

  Then there were steps in the passage outside and the door opened.

  “What are you watching?” asked Primo as he and Lucy sat on the sofa. Their long-haired hippie friend, Forest, who had come in too, sat down on the floor cross-legged.

  “It’s a magic show,” said Molly. “I expect this is the last commercial.”

  “Big storm brewing outside, isn’t there?” Lucy said, glancing at the window.

  “Seems to me it’s already brewed,” Forest replied as the wind buffeted the windowpane again.

  Then Rocky turned up the volume and all conversation stopped. Applause pattered out from the television.

  “Welcome back!” laughed the showman on the screen. A large clear plastic cube that had been wheeled onto the stage now stood beside him. It was filled with tiny colored balls that whizzed about inside it. “The time has come for me to find an assistant,” he declared. “Look at these balls! Each has a number of an audience seat on it! Spotlights, please!” At once a bright beam shone out over the audience, dancing across rows of excited people. The showman clapped his hands and one of the balls shot out of a see-through pipe into a metal tray.

  “M twenty-two!” The spotlight flittered across the seats, coming swiftly to rest on a plump woman with pigtails. She opened her eyes wide with alarm when she saw that she had been chosen. “What are you waiting for?” the showman cried. “Come on down!”

  Uncertainly, the lady lifted her tubby body out of her chair, smoothed her red polka-dot dress and, her face twitching with a nervous smile, picked her way down the central studio steps to the stage. The showman welcomed her and shook her hand.

  “Hello, hello. Don’t be anxious. What’s your name?”

  “Irene Brody,” the woman replied, starting to giggle.

  “Well, Irene, are you ready to relax and help me read your mind?”

  “I—I … suppose so.” Irene tittered. “I’ve never been chosen from an audience before. It makes me feel a bit giddy.”

  “Well, don’t you faint on us. Just sit yourself down on this chair.” A black velvet chair was pushed toward her and she settled into it. The lights dimmed. “Now relax, Irene.”

  “Sounds like he’s about to hypnotize her,” said Lucy, narrowing her blue eyes.

  “Irene, assure the audience that we have never met before!” the showman demanded.

  “That’s true,” said Irene.

  “Whom did you come here with today?”

  “With my husband.”

  The spotlight searched the audience for Irene’s empty seat and found her blushing husband.

  “Mr. Brody, I presume,” said the magician. The embarrassed man nodded. “Audience,” said the showman, “just like everyone here, Irene Brody and her husband are strangers to me. Just like you, they bought their tickets and turned up. Irene’s number has been picked at random.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Now I am going to read her mind. Irene will write down something she is going to think about, and I will read her thoughts. When the time is right, I will tell you all. Silence, please.”

  A lady in a blue-feathered gown passed Irene a pen and a pad of paper. Irene, with her tongue darting tensely from the side of her mouth, began to scribble something down.

  Another gust of wind blew through the chimney. The picture on the TV flickered. Rocky threw a sock at it.

  “This is rigged,” he said. “Irene’s an actress.”

  “I think you’re right there,” said Forest.

  “Hmmm,” agreed Molly. “But what if that show guy knows how to stop time? Think about it—he could just stop time, go over, and read her piece of paper, then go back to where he was standing and start time again. That would look like he’d just read her thoughts.”

  Rocky p
ressed pause on the TV controls to illustrate Molly’s point.

  “Yeah, like this,” he agreed. The screen froze with the performer smiling and Irene holding her piece of paper in the air. “Except that you have to imagine that the magician guy is just nipping over now to read little old Irene’s bit of paper. What a cheat!”

  “Do you think he’s a time stopper?” Primo asked.

  “If he’s a hypnotist who can stop time, he could be a time traveler too. But do you think a time traveler would waste his time being a showman? Hmm? I don’t. I think time travelers have far more important things to do.” Rocky released the pause button and the show continued. But before everyone could hear Irene’s thoughts, the lights went out and the TV died.

  “Power cut,” Rocky said matter-of-factly.

  Outside, the wind, howling now as it rushed around the parapets of the building, beat against the window again.

  “I love power cuts,” said Lucy, her face flickering orange in the glow from the fire. “It feels more exciting without electricity.”

  Primo stood up and lit an old-fashioned lamp on the desk. Molly got up too. “I’ve got a candle in my room,” she said. And with Petula following her, she went to get it.

  The passage outside the sitting room was dark. Its green carpet seemed black, and in the heavy gloom the tickings from the multitude of clocks that hung on the wall sounded like strange clicking insects. Molly hurried through the shadows. She didn’t feel comfortable being reminded of time passing like this. As she walked, a wave of guilt swamped her.

  For two weeks she had been relaxing at Briersville Park, having fun. She’d watched twelve films, read two books, made a home movie with Rocky and their new friend Ojas, and she’d learned to ride a horse. She’d mucked about with her friends in the pool, she’d scrambled on bikes with them in the fields of Briersville Park, and she’d even done an oil painting of Amrit, their pet elephant. She’d eaten scores of ketchup sandwiches—her favorite thing to eat—and drunk glasses and glasses of orange-squash concentrate—her favorite drink. She’d thrown hundreds of sticks for Petula and spent hours listening to music.