gone through a philosophical phase and kept asking questions exactly like that. Pete answered, “When there is no light I can’t cast a shadow, so I don’t have one. Right?” knowing in his guts that mere science wouldn’t satisfy the dwarf.
“What do they teach in Physics these days?” Percy shook his head in pity for his poor uneducated friend. “In complete darkness, your shadow just crawls into some handy corner until there is light again and it has something to do. That is, unless someone summons it to do something else … Of course, it could never do something its owner wouldn’t.”
Squeak peeked over the edge of Pete’s pocket. “I’ve never seen a shadow that could blow things up.”
“It depends on whose shadow it is,” explained the dwarf.
“So who did the summoning?” asked Pete.
“Someone powerful. Someone who wants something in this shop.”
“Greenback?”
Greenback, a very rich industrialist, was the mastermind behind Mr Humperdinck’s murder. He had also robbed a bank and planned the computer crime of the century. But Pete and his friends had foiled his plan.
Percy shook his head. “The blighter’s in prison, and we have our eyes on him. This must be a new sorcerer in the neighbourhood.”
The Snowman marched to and fro on the counter. “We need to find out who did this to my shop, and why. This can ruin my business!”
“Relax, old fellow,” said the dwarf. “We’ll apply every resource available to us to this problem. In the meantime, I’ll have an alarm system installed in the shop, and we’ll have someone on standby twenty-six hours a day.” He took out his cellphone and made a call. After a short conversation, he said, “Everything’s organised, old chap. We’ll have a brownie regiment here by thirteen o’clock tonight.”
The doorbell rang and Pete’s father came in. The Snowman disappeared behind the counter, and a few moments later Sticks made his appearance from behind a shelf.
“Pete, it’s almost eleven. You should be in bed,” said Peter Smith after greeting Percy and Sticks.
Pete pulled a face but followed his father out. They climbed the stairs to the third floor in silence.
“I was worried when I came home from the AA meeting and you weren’t at home,” Peter Smith said as they entered their dingy little one-roomed flat. “Next time I want you to tell me where you’re going and to be home by nine.”
It was as if Pete were locked in the bank’s vault again. Trapped. Smothered. “Nine o’clock! Dad, I’m not a baby any more.” He said it much too loud.
“Exactly! You are old enough to take responsibility. You have to get up early in the morning to go to school.”
Pete said nothing and glared at his father. Peter Smith looked prematurely old: tired green eyes, face lined like tanned leather from too much drinking, and streaks of grey in his dark hair. But it was evident that he had been quite handsome when he was younger.
“I worry about you, Pete!”
Something, maybe the tone of his father’s voice, irritated him. He almost said, Why? You never cared before!
The gargoyle outside their window glowed red in the neon light from the bar across the road. A police car drove by, siren wailing.
“I know I haven’t been much of a father, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t try to be a good one now,” Smith said at last, his shoulders sagging.
“Ten?”
“Nine.”
Pete sighed as he went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. It was going to be difficult to be back by nine on Friday evening. They would have to work fast.
“He looks quite handsome in black.” Freddy inspected Sticks’s limp frame after they had shaken him from the black plastic bag in which they had carried him. “Pity it’s not leathers, though. It would be more suitable for this dump. And a few piercings would be nice.”
“Now to get this contraption going.” Pete strapped the whatsit to his forehead. For a brief moment nothing seemed to happen, and then the vertigo hit him. Things went black. It was as if his eyeballs were sucked from his head and thrown on the ground.
His vision came back slowly. He saw himself standing among the garbage cans and dirt in the dark alley behind the Putrid Poulet with the green-lit, whirring whatsit on his head. He was seeing through Sticks’s eyes.
“Okay, it’s working!” shouted Squeak from his shoulder.
Freddy jumped with excitement. “Get up and go for it!”
Pete tried moving his hand. He saw himself moving his hand. Then he turned Sticks’s head and looked down. The automaton’s hand was also moving. He concentrated. Sticks slowly stood up from the cardboard box on which they’d seated him.
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” said Sticks in Pete’s voice and walked a few steps. Then the automaton lost its balance and fell in a tangle of broomsticks and black jeans.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said Freddy. “He’s lost an arm!”
Pete took the whatsit off. He reeled as his point of vision was flung back into his own head. Nausea rose in his chest. He sat down on a dustbin. When he felt better, he bent down and examined Sticks. The automaton had indeed lost an arm: The wing nut joint of the right elbow had come loose.
Pete fumbled in the sleeve of the jacket and fixed it. He took a deep breath. “Here goes!” he said as he strapped the contraption to his head again. The vertigo struck, but he was ready for it this time.
The Putrid Poulet was everything Freddy had said, and more. Dark, with flashing coloured lights illuminating hordes on the dance floor and at the bar. Laser beams cut through clouds of cigarette smoke. The music was deafening.
Pete could feel Sticks’s wooden frame vibrate with every beat of the bass. It gave him a headache.
He manoeuvred the automaton around the dance floor and through the sweating throng to the bar. Maybe the barman knew Rose. In the movies they always knew everybody. This particular barman had a huge copper ring in his tattooed nose.
Pete tried to attract his attention. “Excuse me …”
The next moment the nose-ringed barman thrust a paper cup into the automaton’s hand.
“I did not …” began Pete.
The man held out his right hand and showed four fingers with the left.
“Pay him!” Squeak shouted from inside Sticks’s cardboard chest.
Pete panicked. Nobody had thought about bringing money. Nobody had any money anyway. He looked around for an escape route. Then someone next to Sticks handed the barman some money. Pete turned Sticks’s head to his benefactor.
It was a woman. Black-and-white make-up with a shade of green around the eyes. There was a safety pin in her left cheek. She winked, leaned over to Sticks and shouted in his ear, “It’s on me, Elvis!”
Pete moved Sticks’s lips into a smile. He had no idea what to do, so he lifted the cup and emptied it into the wax mouth. A wet sensation spread across his chest. He looked down. The wax head had no throat, and all the liquid just ran over his chin and onto his jacket. He felt the woman sidling up to Sticks.
She smiled sweetly, wiggling her safety pin. “Like to dance?” she shouted.
Pete was at a loss. He would never find Rose. The club was too dark and crowded. He could bump right into her without seeing her. He steered Sticks after the safety pin lady into the mob on the dance floor.
Dancing was the one thing that was easy. No co-ordination required. Just concentrate on keeping the automaton upright, and shake your body. Piece of cake.