The Crims #3 Read online

  “Right,” said Al, loading a pineapple into the catapult. “Time to test it.” He swiveled the catapult around until it was facing Josephine, who was snoring loudly from the lounger on the other side of the pool.

  “You wouldn’t,” said Imogen.

  “I would,” said Al.

  Imogen was impressed—her father seemed to have gotten a lot braver in the last few months. A lot more authoritative. Perhaps he had learned a thing or two from the Kruks while they were holding him hostage. Perhaps he and the rest of the family had more to offer Imogen than she’d given them credit for. . . .

  Al paused to polish his glasses. Then he pulled back the catapult, and the pineapple flew through the air toward Josephine, like a spiky, decomposing bird.

  BOING! The pineapple bounced off Josephine’s forehead. SPLAT! The pineapple rebounded and hit Uncle Clyde smack in the face.

  “Hooray!” cheered the Crims. Apart from Josephine and Uncle Clyde, who had jerked awake and were now staring around them, terrified.

  “The Gull!” cried Josephine, rubbing her head.

  “He got us!” said Uncle Clyde, picking pineapple spikes out of his hair. “Wait . . . why are you lot all laughing?”

  “GUYS!” Freddie shouted across at them from the catapult. “I can see you’re having lots of fun down there, and I’m happy for you and everything, but you have less than twenty minutes to save my life. The odds of you managing to save me are now under twelve percent. . . .”

  “Good point,” said Al. And he swiveled the catapult around and aimed it at the Gull. “Nick and Nate,” he muttered, “get ready to climb Freddie’s catapult and untie him, when I give you the all clear. And Imogen—pass me a pineapple. . . .”

  “NINETEEN MINUTETH, THIRTHY-THIX THECONDTH!” shrieked the Gull.

  “Wait!” begged Freddie. “Please don’t kill me! There’s so much I haven’t done! I’m so close to finding a cure for death and developing the perfect blueberry muffin recipe. . . . If you let me go, I’ll write a one-man show about how terrifying and impressive you are, and dedicate it to you—”

  “I hate one-man thowth!” cried the Gull.

  “I don’t blame him,” Delia whispered to Imogen as Al fired the catapult. “Do you remember Freddie’s last one-man show? About his toenails?”

  “No,” said Imogen. “I’ve had a lot of therapy to block it out. . . .”

  Al fired the catapult—and missed. “Ha!” laughed the Gull. “Ymou cman’t cmath me! Amd ymou monly hathme eightmeen minuteth to thmave Frmeddie’th mlife!”

  “Again!” yelled Big Nana—and this time, when Al fired a pineapple, it knocked the Gull off-balance.

  “Keep them coming!” said Al. He fired another pineapple at the Gull—and missed.

  “Quick!” shouted Imogen. “Another one!”

  There was one pineapple left. Al took a deep breath, and fired—and this time the pineapple hit the Gull’s right wing, punching a hole in the feathers.

  “YMOU’LTH MNETHER TAKE ME MALITHE!” screeched the Gull, flapping his wings—but only the left wing worked, and it wasn’t strong enough on its own to keep him in the air, and he was spiraling down through the sky, toward the ocean. . . .

  “Dead’s fine, too,” said Delia as the Gull plunged headfirst into the water.

  “Quick! Get me down from here!” called Freddie. The timer was still counting down . . . Just seventeen minutes until he was fired at the canine-shaped island.

  “Nick and Nate are on the way!” called Imogen.

  Nick had jumped onto Nate’s shoulders, and he was already climbing up the outside of the catapult. He reached out a hand and pulled Nate up behind him. (They were the best climbers in the family; they had kidnapped a mountaineer when they were eight and forced him to teach them to abseil, boulder, and sing all the words to The Sound of Music.) But when they reached the top of the catapult and tried to free Freddie from the harness, they couldn’t get him out.

  “Just disable the timer!” said Freddie.

  Nick grabbed the timer on the side of the catapult and smashed it on a rock, but it kept counting down, as if it was wearing a party hat getting ready to celebrate New Year. “There’s a keypad on the timer,” said Nick. “There must be a code to turn it off. . . .”

  Freddie started to cry. “It’s no good,” he said. “In less than fifteen minutes, I’m going to be stuck on that tooth like a nasty bit of spinach you can’t get rid of. It serves me right for being so intelligent and good at poker.” He looked down at his family. “Can you forgive me for being so talented?”

  “We’re not giving up yet,” said Imogen. “We still have a few minutes till the timer goes off. We’ll just have to get the Gull to tell us the code to disable the timer and the catapult.”

  “But the Gull is dead!” wailed Freddie.

  Al looked up from his telescope, which was trained at the patch of ocean where the Gull had fallen. “He’s not,” he said. He passed the telescope to Imogen. She looked through it, and sure enough, the Gull had pulled himself onto the rocky shore, and he was lying there, twitching and flapping his good wing.

  “I have an idea!” said Imogen.

  “Ooh,” said Uncle Clyde. “Have you figured out a way to make bread toast itself?”

  “No.”

  “Is it a way for us to become really good at golf, so we get lots of money in sponsorship, without actually having to practice, because it’s really boring?”

  “Please stop guessing,” said Imogen. She put down the telescope and looked around at her family. “We need to turn the Gull’s own fears against him,” she said. “What does he think is the most terrifying creature on the planet?”

  Big Nana clapped her on the back. “Imogen. You are brilliant! Like a very stolen diamond! Come on everyone. We’re going to get the Gull!”

  “Quickly as you can,” said Freddie. “Twelve minutes left . . .”

  Imogen ran into the sports equipment store and came out carrying a scuba suit. “Here,” she said, tossing it to Henry. “Put this on and go and get yourself some snacks from the poolside bar.”

  “But, Imogen, darling,” said Josephine. “You know Henry always gets food all over himself when he eats. . . .”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Imogen. “Now. Who wants to come and get the Gull?”

  “Me!” said Aunt Bets, brandishing her hatpin.

  “Okay,” said Imogen. “But remember we need him alive.”

  “Then I’m not interested,” said Aunt Bets.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Delia.

  “Me too,” said Sam. “I have a few more seabird puns I’d like to try out on him.”

  By the time Imogen, Sam, and Delia reached the Gull, he had passed out and was lying sprawled across the pebbles like a failed paper airplane, with a huge pineapple-shaped bruise on his face.

  Imogen looked back at the timer on Freddie’s catapult. Less than ten minutes left . . .

  “Quick,” said Imogen. “Let’s get this stupid costume off him!”

  Sam and Delia pulled the Gull costume off Unfortunate Pete. He was wearing nothing underneath but a pair of Kitty Penguin boxer shorts.

  “Look! You have the same taste in music!” Imogen said, nudging Delia.

  “Eww,” said Delia, screwing up her face. “She is so last year.”

  Imogen looked around for Henry. “Where is he?” she said. “There are less than nine minutes left on the timer!”

  “Here!” shouted Henry, running up the beach. As Imogen had hoped, the scuba suit was now covered in fries and ice cream and candy, a hot dog bun, hamburger relish . . .

  “Perfect,” said Imogen. “Now take that off and dress the Gull in it.”

  Henry looked horrified. “Take it off?” he said. “But I’ve just got underwear underneath!”

  “It can’t be as embarrassing as his,” said Delia, pointing to the Kitty Penguin boxer shorts.

  But Henry’s underwear turned out to be just as embarrassing a
s the Gull’s. Because when he peeled off the scuba suit, he too was wearing Kitty Penguin boxer shorts underneath. “Kitty Penguin is my guilty pleasure,” he mumbled. “Just like Delia’s is helping old people cross the road.”

  “Hey,” hissed Delia. “You promised you’d never tell anyone that!”

  “I really want to make fun of you both right now,” said Imogen, “but I don’t have time.” She grabbed Unfortunate Pete under the armpits. “You guys take his legs,” she said. “Let’s carry him to that rocky area near the shallow water. . . .”

  They dragged Unfortunate Pete over to a rock pool and dropped him in the water. Then backed away to see what would happen.

  Which, unfortunately, was nothing.

  “Five minutes till I die!” cried Freddie. “Four minutes fifty-nine seconds . . . fifty-eight . . . What have I done to deserve this?!”

  “Lots of things,” said Imogen. But she crossed her fingers and muttered, “Please let this work . . .”

  “Great plan, Imogen,” Delia said. “What were you expecting to happen?”

  A second later, a seagull started to circle overhead. And then another. And then another . . .

  ARRRRRKKKK! ARRRRRKKK! they cried . . .

  “Yesssss,” hissed Imogen, as one by one, the seagulls flew down and landed on Unfortunate Pete’s scuba suit, and started to peck. . . .

  Imogen shook Unfortunate Pete awake. As soon as he saw the birds, he screamed. “Get them oth me!” he shrieked.

  “No problem,” said Imogen, standing over Unfortunate Pete with her arms crossed, as the gulls fought over a hot dog bun. “If you tell us how to turn off the timer, we’ll help you out.”

  She looked at the timer. She had less than two minutes to save her cousin’s life. This had to work. . . .

  “Do you think I’m that gull-ible?” said Unfortunate Pete.

  “You can give the puns a rest now,” said Sam.

  “If I die, you’ll be gull-pable!”

  “Seriously, we don’t actually like Freddie that much,” said Delia. “We can always just walk away . . . and leave you to be eaten . . . by the most terrifying creatures on Earth. . . .”

  “Okay!” cried Unfortunate Pete. “Thith ith the code to turn the timer oth: DON’T GAMBLE WITH THE GULL.”

  Nick climbed back up to the top of the catapult and started typing the code into the timer. “You couldn’t have come up with something shorter?” he asked.

  “TEN SECONDS” flashed the timer.

  It took Nick five seconds to work out where the key to type in the apostrophe was . . .

  But he found it just in time.

  And just as the timer flashed “ONE SECOND,” it went dead, and the harness on the catapult clicked open. Freddie stood up and gave Nick a hug. “You saved me!” he said.

  “Actually, we all did!” Imogen shouted up at them from the shore.

  “Yeah!” called Uncle Clyde from his lounger on the pool deck.

  “Except you,” Imogen called across to him.

  Imogen and Delia tied Unfortunate Pete up and marched him back onto the cruise ship. “Well,” she said as she opened the door to the cabaret theater and pushed him inside. “That was certainly all resolved very neatly.”

  But she had spoken too soon. Because the next minute, a huge flame symbol flashed into the sky. And the minute after that, a fireball came hurtling toward the cruise ship out of nowhere. As it landed on the deck, and picked itself up, and dusted itself off, and adjusted its perfect ponytail, Imogen realized it wasn’t a fireball after all. It was . . .

  “Ava!” Imogen cried.

  But there was something different about Ava. Actually, there was a lot different about her. Her ponytail, though still perfect, was also on fire, and she had actual flames licking up and down the sides of her red jumpsuit, which Imogen could only assume was made of some sort of flame-retardant fabric. Ava threw back her head—Uncle Knuckles, who was standing behind her, had to jump out of the way to avoid getting burned—and laughed the evilest laugh Imogen had ever heard. And with every “Ha!” smoke and flames spurted out of her mouth, as if she were a very intelligent, very unpleasant dragon.

  “As you can see,” said Ava, “I have reinvented myself. I am the ultimate solo supervillain. My name isn’t Ava anymore. I answer to . . . the Flame.”

  Imogen could see the terror she felt reflected in her family’s eyes. All except Henry’s. Because he was staring at Ava with undisguised adoration.

  “Now I understand what Kitty Penguin meant when she sang ‘I love you more than I love playing computer games in my pajamas,’” he breathed. “I think I’m in love!”

  18

  BEFORE HENRY COULD declare his love to the Flame, and before the Flame could fireball everyone to death, a speedboat pulled up next to the cruise ship, splashing everyone and temporarily putting out the flames on Ava’s legs. On board was a TV crew, filming them. Imogen read the logo on the side of the cameras: “EZTV.”

  “Wait,” said Imogen, turning to Josephine. “The reality show crew is back? Why?”

  But Josephine was reapplying her lipstick and pretending not to hear.

  Belinda Smell waved at the Crims from the speedboat. “Hello!” she called. “Just carry on with what you were doing. Pretend we’re not here.”

  “Couldn’t you just go away?” said Imogen. “That way we wouldn’t have to pretend.”

  “Sorry,” said Belinda. “Could you say that again? I’ve trained myself to hear only positive, uplifting things.”

  The rest of the EZTV crew started unloading their kit from the speedboat—cameras, monitors, director’s chairs, clapper boards, and doughnuts.

  “Er, excuse me?” said Ava. “Who are these badly dressed people? And why aren’t they paying me more attention?”

  Belinda Smell handed Ava a business card. “Belinda Smell. Executive producer, EZTV,” she said. Ava breathed on the card, and it burst into flames.

  “I’m so confused,” Imogen said. “Why are you still interested in us? The whole reality TV show was orchestrated by the Gull! And he got what he wanted—he lured us to his lair. So what are you doing here? And how did you know where to find us?”

  “I left them a voicemail, telling them that we were living it up in the Caribbean and having some very juicy, TV-worthy moments!” said Josephine. “Which we still would be, if we hadn’t used up most of the pineapples fighting the Gull.”

  Belinda Smell nodded. “And our most recent show, Pigs Might Fly, didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. Because pigs really don’t like flying at all. So, we needed something to fill the airtime.”

  Imogen looked at Ava. The flames on her costume were bigger than ever—they seemed to feed on her anger. Imogen couldn’t help being impressed. She couldn’t help being terrified, either, but she was pretending not to be by casually standing with her hand on one hip and whistling the jingle from a famous ice cream commercial.

  Ava turned around. “Who’s whistling?” she said. “And why do I suddenly want a Klondike bar?”

  “That was me. Sorry,” said Imogen.

  “You will be,” said Ava. “Because things are about to get . . . smokin’.”

  Ava turned a triple pirouette—Imogen felt a stab of envy, as she’d only ever managed a double in ballet class—and used her flamethrower to force the Crims and Unfortunate Pete into a group in the middle of the deck. She pulled what looked worryingly like a length of candlewick out of the pack on her back and tied it around the Crims. And then she tucked a few sprigs of lavender into the candlewick, which was even more worrying.

  “Are you turning us into a . . . candle?” asked Imogen.

  Ava nodded. “I left all my travel candles at home,” she said. “And it’s really hard to relax after a long day without the soothing fragrance you get when you burn your former enemies alive.”

  “I love you!” shouted Henry. “Set fire to me first!”

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, weirdo,” said Ava. “Because fir
st, it’s time for . . . an evil monologue.”

  Ava pulled out an oversized match and struck it on the sole of her foot to light it. She started pacing on the deck in front of the Crims and Unfortunate Pete. “Your problem,” she said, pointing at Pete, “is that you’re terrible at staying on brand.”

  “Acthually, right now, my problem ith that you’re about to burn me alive—” said Unfortunate Pete.

  “Shut it, Bird Boy!” shouted Ava. “You were dressed up as a seagull, but all your punishments seemed to involve teeth, and then you had that ridiculous clam sidekick—”

  “He wath meant to be a muthel, actually.”

  “But that’s exactly my point! He’s forgettable! There’s no brand recognition!” She pointed her flaming torch at him. “Give me one word that the citizens of the world should think of when they think of you,” she said.

  “In charge,” said Unfortunate Pete.

  “That’s two words,” said Ava.

  “Okay,” said Pete. “Thafe. Becauthe I’ll alwayth be there to rethcue them when they’re in danger.”

  “Ha! ‘Safe!’” Ava laughed. “That’s a good one! You should go into stand-up comedy!”

  “Do you think?” asked Unfortunate Pete. “Becauthe that’th another word I’d like people to connect with me—‘entertaining.’ And ‘environmentally friendly,’ becauthe combatting polluthon ith very important to me. And ‘oral hygiene,’ becauthe if I’d bruthed my teeth more often, they might not have fallen out when Freddie made me punth mythelf—”

  “See?” said Ava. “You’re just proving my point! You don’t know what you stand for! No wonder you have such a terrible catchphrase. Whereas the Flame is the ideal supervillain. I work alone, so no one can let me down or use up all the toilet paper and not replace it.” She shot Imogen a look. “And I have a clear brand. It’s all about fire. Speaking of which,” she said, and she used her flamethrower to start shooting fireballs at the Crims. “YOU get a fireball and YOU get a fireball and YOU get a fireball,” she cried like a psychopathic daytime talk-show host.