The Crims #3 Read online

  “No!” said Delia. “Mavis doesn’t want to go back there. Do you, Mavis?”

  Mavis kicked Delia over.

  “See? That’s a no,” said Delia, getting back to her feet.

  “I don’t usually kick people when I agree with them,” Imogen pointed out.

  Delia scowled at Imogen. “Do you know what Mavis gets paid for giving rides at the beach? Nothing! And she’s still got all her student loans to pay!” She handed Imogen a PETA brochure, and even if Imogen had wanted to read it—which she definitely didn’t—she couldn’t, because Mavis snatched it out of her hand and chewed it into a pulp.

  Imogen turned to Big Nana. “Please, can we go home?” she said. “Before Mavis eats us, too?”

  Big Nana shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she said. “We’re getting back to our roots, spending time by the sea. Did you know that our ancestor Captain Glitterbeard was a famous pirate?”

  Uncle Clyde looked up from the ant trap he was designing—he had heard that ants were able to support more than five thousand times their body weight, so he was planning to train them to shoplift things for him—and asked, “How come you’ve never mentioned Captain Glitterbeard before? You know I’ve always wanted to be a pirate. I’d look smashing in an eye patch.”

  “I have mentioned him,” said Big Nana. “You were obviously just too busy coming up with pointless, impractical heists to listen. Everyone knows about Captain Glitterbeard. He stole a huge fortune and buried it on a tiny Caribbean island.”

  Aunt Bets looked up from the cushion cover she was embroidering with a picture of Uncle Knuckles’s big toe (the most aesthetically appealing part of Uncle Knuckles). “How come we haven’t ever tried to find the treasure before, then?” she asked.

  Big Nana sighed. “Well,” she said, “there are . . . complications.”

  “Yeah,” said Delia. “Like the fact that you made it up? How convenient that you’re telling us this when we can’t access Google.”

  Big Nana looked hurt (though that might have been because Mavis was biting her shoulder). “Have I ever lied to you?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Delia. “Except that one time, about that minor thing . . . What was it? Oh yeah—BEING DEAD.”

  Big Nana sighed again. “You don’t have to believe me,” she said. “I just thought you’d like to know.” And she disappeared behind her ancient magazine.

  Imogen looked at her grandmother. She was curious. Big Nana had a history of lying about important things like who she was and the fact that she hadn’t drowned during an underwater submarine heist. Was it possible that the Crims really did have a pirate ancestor who had buried his fortune on a far-off island and then forgotten to tell anyone where it was? Yes, she thought. That’s just the sort of stupid thing a Crim would do.

  Imogen needed some air—the smell of donkey was pretty overpowering—so she stepped over Isabella, who was reading a copy of War and Peace, and opened the door of the caravan. As soon as she was outside, she took a deep breath. The sea air was refreshing, though it was raining so heavily she felt as though she were taking a shower. She hugged herself against the cold and walked through the campsite to the center of Dullport. Maybe I’ll be able to get a signal here. . . . She walked through the streets, waving her phone around, and tried to Google “Captain Glitterbeard,” but it didn’t work.

  Imogen sat down on a bench outside one of Dullport’s many terrible fish and chip shops. There was a plaque on the back of the bench, dedicated to the memory of a woman named Maureen who had apparently lived in Dullport her entire life. She probably died of boredom, Imogen thought.

  “Hey! Imogen!”

  Imogen turned around. The Horrible Children were running down the street toward her, looking more horrible than usual in the rain.

  “We’ve got a great idea,” Sam said, when they had reached her.

  “I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” Imogen said.

  “An idea for a crime,” said Henry, kicking what he thought was an ice cream cone but turned out to be a pointy rock, and then howling in pain.

  “What kind of crime?” Imogen asked.

  The twins opened their mouths to answer, but Imogen stopped them.

  “Actually, never mind,” she said. “Whatever it is, it has to be better than staring at the rain, or listening to Mum talking about the rain, or spending any more time in the presence of that revolting donkey.”

  “Hey!” said Delia, pouting. “You can’t talk about Mavis like that. Donkeys are people, too!”

  “They’re really not,” said Imogen, standing up. “Right, then. Delia and I are in charge, seeing as we’re the only ones capable of pulling off a crime more complicated than stealing a three-year-old’s pick-n-mix. Where are we going?”

  “To the beach!” said Sam, leading the way.

  Dullport Beach was the sort of place you would never, ever choose to go, not even if someone offered you a choice between sitting there in a deck chair for half an hour or jumping headfirst into a vat of sewage. There was no sand. There weren’t even any pebbles. Instead, there were jagged gray rocks, possibly made of asbestos or the charred remains of people who had spontaneously combusted after watching one too many Punch and Judy puppet shows. Unsurprisingly—because Punch and Judy shows are terrible, and Dullport was full of terrible things—there was a Punch and Judy show taking place on the beach right at that moment.

  If you’ve never seen a Punch and Judy show, then you’re an extremely fortunate human being (assuming you’re not a goat that has learned to read. If you are, congratulations!). They’re the worst kind of shows there are. They always have the same “plot”: a puppet named Punch picks up a stick and hits everything he can see, including his wife, Judy; a crocodile; some sausages; a policeman; and the devil. Big Nana was a big Punch and Judy fan—she loved the violence, the criminals getting away with murder, and the disturbing puppets.

  Sam led Imogen and the Horrible Children to the red-and-white–striped Punch and Judy tent. “Sam, you steal the donation cup,” said Delia. “The rest of us will sit in the audience and provide backup if needed.”

  “Wait,” said Imogen, pulling Delia aside. “Theft isn’t really Sam’s strong point. He’s more of a fraud sort of guy.”

  “But how’s he ever going to learn to steal if we never let him try?” asked Delia.

  “Let’s just think the plan through a little more thoroughly before we begin,” said Imogen.

  Delia rolled her eyes. “You used to be way more spontaneous. You’re no fun anymore!”

  “I am fun!” said Imogen. “I just like to plan my fun!” And then she heard what she had just said and laughed. “Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll be spontaneous.”

  Imogen sat down in the audience, between an old woman who was staring off into the distance, smiling—perhaps because she thought she was somewhere else—and a weeping toddler, who obviously knew exactly where he was.

  While Punch was hitting the policeman with his massive stick, shouting, “That’s the way to do it!” for no apparent reason, Sam ran up to the tent and snatched the donation cup.

  Imogen put her head in her hands. Sam hadn’t even tried to be subtle about it. He should have caused some kind of distraction so the puppeteer wouldn’t notice or waited until the end of the show when the crowd was milling around—something, anything, other than just snatching the money in front of an actual audience. Have I taught Sam nothing? she thought. Where is the artistry? The cunning? The skill?

  Unsurprisingly, the puppeteer was quite angry. He let out a great roar of rage and started chasing Sam through the audience, wielding a gigantic, very deadly looking stick—a massive version of the one the Punch puppet was holding.

  Imogen groaned and watched as Sam ran through the crowd, tripping over the old woman and dropping the donation cup onto her head.

  “Such painful rain!” said the old woman as the coins fell over her.

  Imogen caught Delia’s eye and gave her a
n “I told you so” look. That was the last time she let Delia take the lead in anything. Except ballroom dancing lessons (Delia was very good at the fox-trot). Imogen stood up and raced after the puppeteer, who was still chasing Sam and now the other Horrible Children, down the beach.

  “That’s the way to do it!” shouted the puppeteer, swiping at Sam with his stick.

  The audience cheered.

  “What large puppets,” said the old lady, staring at Sam and the puppeteer.

  Sam was nearly at the campsite . . . but the puppeteer was close behind. And then, just as it looked as though Sam might get away, he slipped on an abandoned bag of chips and fell, sprawled, on the beach.

  “Got you now,” said the puppeteer, looming over Sam, raising his stick in the air.

  But the other Horrible Children surrounded him.

  “Let him go,” said Imogen.

  “Or what?” said the puppeteer, turning to look at her. “I have a stick. What have you got?”

  “We’ve got Isabella,” said Henry. “Isabella, get him!” And before the puppeteer knew what was happening, Isabella had grabbed his ankle and was gnawing at it as though it were a particularly delicious biscotti.

  “Owww!” cried the puppeteer, hobbling away, using his stick to support himself.

  Sam patted Isabella on the head proudly. “That’s the way to do it!” he said. Imogen closed her eyes and sighed. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could survive this “vacation.”

  3

  IMOGEN USHERED THE Horrible Children into the caravan and slammed the door.

  “You’re back!” Uncle Clyde said cheerfully as the Horrible Children squeezed onto the sofa, which was flatter and harder than it should have been, because Mavis had eaten all the stuffing.

  “Unfortunately,” grumbled Imogen.

  “Buck up, Imogen!” said Uncle Clyde. “I’ve managed to pick up a station on the TV!” He turned the television on and stood back with a huge smile. The screen flickered to life (black-and-white life, but still . . .). A newsreader appeared, shuffling his papers. “And this just in: There are reports of a bombing at Krukingham Palace— Wait, is that a typo?”

  But before the newsreader could say anything else, Josephine rushed over to the TV and changed the channel. “I can’t bear listening to the news when I’m on vacation,” she muttered, sitting back down on an armchair and spritzing herself with a perfume called Delusions.

  “Wait! Change the channel back!” said Imogen, leaning forward. Had she just imagined the newsreader saying something about Krukingham Palace being bombed? Or had he meant “Buckingham” Palace? Either way, that was a news story she wanted to hear. But then Imogen forgot all about changing the channel. Because a voice-over announced the premiere of a new comedy special, and then Uncle Knuckles appeared on the screen and immediately banged his head on a low doorframe. Canned laughter played as he rubbed his head and said, “ARCHITECTURE HAS ALWAYS HAD IT IN FOR ME!”

  As Imogen was reeling from the revelation that her uncle was apparently a slapstick comedy star, her mother appeared on the TV too, and posing in the doorway, winking at the camera. “Can you believe I have a daughter?” she said. “I know! I look so young! But it’s true! She always wears sensible cardigans, which add ten years, so people think we’re sisters.” She batted her eyelashes.

  Canned laughter played again. Real-life Josephine frowned. “Hey,” she said. “That wasn’t supposed to be a punch line.”

  Imogen stared at the television, openmouthed in horror, as one by one, the Crims appeared on the screen. This was the show Josephine had signed them up for, and it was neither the gritty crime drama Belinda Smell had said it would be, nor the glossy reality show Josephine had hoped for. The whole thing had been edited to make the Crims look like bumbling idiots, which, to be fair, couldn’t have been hard.

  The TV crew had managed to film the whole Mega Deals heist. Imogen watched through her fingers as Sam accidentally called his math teacher instead of the Mega Deals store. When Mr. Fry picked up, a wah-wah-waaaah sound effect played, and Sam dropped the phone and said in his deep voice: “Why do I have him on speed dial?”

  “That’s going to be your catchphrase!” Josephine said happily, rubbing Sam’s head.

  In the next scene, the twins collapsed on the floor of the store. The booming shop clerk turned to the camera and said, “Let’s see how quickly I can get them to crack!”

  Imogen had never felt so humiliated. Not when she’d been thrown out of Lilyworth. Not even when Uncle Clyde had entered her into the Blandington Zoo talent show dressed as a squirrel, to distract the zookeepers while he stole a raccoon. (Her performance of “Squirrels Just Want to Have Fun” had actually gone down pretty well.) How could she not have realized that the heist was a setup? Self-doubt flooded through her like water through a very leaky basement. She had lost her touch.

  But the TV show wasn’t over yet. The crew had picked up everything the Crims had said during the heist, and they kept every snarky thing that Imogen had said—things like “You idiots!” and “Is he even more incompetent now that his voice has broken?” and “Really, Isabella’s chosen this moment to stop being a miniature psychopath?”—to make it look as though she were insulting her family, or that she thought she was smarter than them. They played clips from her cousins’ one-on-one interviews, which didn’t make Imogen feel any better. They had been edited to make the Horrible Children seem like the Delightful Children, which they obviously weren’t or everyone would have called them that. Nick had said, “I look up to Imogen so much! Mainly because she’s taller than me,” and Delia had said, “I love spending time with my family. But I don’t like doing time with my family.” And Isabella had said, “I love clowns!” Which came a bit out of nowhere. The producers were trying to make Imogen look like the bad guy.

  Am I “the mean one”? Imogen wondered. What if I’m the villain of the family, instead of the heroine? She frowned. She didn’t mind looking like a villain to the rest of the world—that’s what criminals were, after all. But within her own family, she’d always thought she was the good one. And in the end, she just wanted the Crims to be their best. Was that villainy or just having standards?

  The other Crims didn’t seem to have a problem with the editing. They were all too busy laughing.

  “This is my new favorite show!” chuckled Uncle Clyde. “It’s even better than Deadly Car Chases Involving Cattle!”

  “Look how great my hair looks on camera!” said Delia.

  Only one person wasn’t smiling as she watched the television: Big Nana. She was standing by the door of the caravan, her arms crossed. She glared at Imogen with a face like thunder. And it looked as though there might be lightning on the way.

  And she’s not happy about what I had to say, Imogen thought.

  Imogen had to talk to her grandmother and try to make it all okay. She squeezed past Sam, who was trying to introduce Mavis to Doom the hedgehog (it’s fair to say that the two weren’t about to become lifelong friends), and walked over to Big Nana. “Outside?” she asked.

  Big Nana nodded stiffly and opened the door.

  It was freezing cold outside, but at least it didn’t smell of donkey. Imogen and Big Nana sat on the caravan step. Imogen had expected Big Nana to tell her off, but she didn’t say anything at all, which was much worse.

  “I swear I was edited to look bad!” said Imogen.

  Big Nana shook her head. “Never blame the edit,” she said. “You must have said those things, or they wouldn’t have the footage. And you know what I always say: ‘Never be honest on camera or on any other kind of recording device. Except on podcasts. You should always be honest on podcasts.’”

  “But did you see what a mess the others made of the heist? You can’t blame me for being frustrated.” She looked at Big Nana. “Can you?”

  “I don’t blame you,” Big Nana said sadly. “But remember: Nothing is more important than family. Apart from dinosaurs.”

  “
But that’s just the point!” said Imogen, standing up. She was feeling angry and guilty now, which is the worst combination of emotions. “I love this family! Almost as much as I love Tyrannosaurus rex! And I’m sick of us being a joke.” She sighed. “I just don’t feel like the others are even trying to get better at crime. I’m not being challenged anymore.”

  Big Nana patted the step next to her, and Imogen sat down again. Big Nana put an arm around her. “This happens to all the greats,” she said. “Robin Hood, the mafia, Ronald McDonald . . . They beat their enemies, and they start to get bored.” She smiled at Imogen. “We beat the Kruks. That’s a huge achievement! And it means we can live a peaceful life without being mauled by a tiger. I thought that’s what you wanted. You can go back to writing essays about the Tudors and knowing things about test tubes, just like you did at Lilyworth Ladies’ College.”

  “That is what I want,” said Imogen. But it sounded like a question. And Lilyworth—where she’d ruled over the school until just a few months before—felt like a million years ago.

  I’m a whole new person now, Imogen realized. Maybe I want different things. Maybe I want to be pushed outside my comfort zone.

  “Maybe you need to spend some time thinking about how lucky you are,” said Big Nana. “Here.” She reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “I’m not getting anywhere with this gratitude journal,” she said, passing it to Imogen. “You try it.” She stood up with an “Oof” and went back into the caravan, leaving Imogen outside on her own.

  Imogen opened the gratitude journal. Big Nana had only written one entry:

  Things to be grateful for:

  1. White bread

  2. Bees

  3. Chickens (they look like tiny dinosaurs)

  4. Submachine guns

  5. Potpourri

  6. My family

  But Imogen was finding it harder and harder to feel grateful for her family. And she definitely wasn’t grateful for potpourri. It looked like breakfast cereal and smelled like old people. So, what was she grateful for?