
Mason Wilson and the

Dead Bird Debacle

M.P. Jones

Copyright (C) 2017 by M.P. Jones

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Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1493755660

Second edition

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# Table of Contents

Copyright Page

PROLOGUE: WHO AM I?

CHAPTER 1: A PROJECT AND A PROBLEM

CHAPTER 2: THE RESEARCH BEGINS

CHAPTER 3: A DAY AT THE ZOO

CHAPTER 4: OPINIONS, OPINIONS

CHAPTER 5: THE COOLA COLA CONUNDRUM

CHAPTER 6: AFLOCALYPSE NOW

CHAPTER 7: THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH?

CHAPTER 8: NOT BEING A CATEGORY THREE-ER

CHAPTER 9: A STOWAWAY

CHAPTER 10: EXPLORING THE GROUNDS

CHAPTER 11: MEETING MR FINCH

CHAPTER 12: THE BODY SNATCHERS

CHAPTER 13: ON THE FACTORY TOUR

CHAPTER 14: THE THINGS YOU CAN DO WITH FEATHERS

CHAPTER 15: TAKING A RISK

CHAPTER 16: THE TRUTH COMES OUT

CHAPTER 17: MR FINCH GETS DEFENSIVE

CHAPTER 18: AN OFFER I COULDN'T REFUSE?

CHAPTER 19: O'REILLY'S DANGEROUS PLAN

CHAPTER 20: MASON, WHERE ARE YOU?

CHAPTER 21: NOW OR NEVER

CHAPTER 22: ANSWERED PRAYERS?

ASK THE AUTHOR

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR

MASON WILSON AND THE STONEHENGE SWINDLE: CHAPTER ONE PREVIEW

About the Author
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# PROLOGUE: WHO AM I?

Wherever I was, it smelled of pee. But where was I? And how did I get here? I slowly came to my senses. My eyes were wide open now - at least I was pretty sure they were. I still couldn't see a thing. All I could really hear was a low, humming sound. Was it an engine, maybe? I tried hard to see if I could hear anything else; but there was nothing. Wait though - was that music I could hear? I listened so hard that my brain hurt. It sounded like an orchestra playing.

I was feeling quite seasick; although I was pretty sure I wasn't on a boat. Was I in some sort of van though? Just then, the vehicle must have hit a pothole and I was thrown right into a corner. I banged my head on the wall and that wasn't a great help; I was already feeling a bit faint. It stunk so bad in there that it made me want to throw up. What I could smell was actually the biggest clue. I was almost certain that it was pee, but somehow I knew it didn't smell like the school toilets always do. What made it different? Was it from an animal? I was sure I knew it from somewhere. From ... from ... from ... from the garden at home, that was where! All at once, the memories came right back to me. I was, believe it or not, sharing the back of a white lorry with thirty cats (most of them obviously not toilet trained) plus a few hundred dead birds. Yes, you did just read that. The good news was that I hadn't been kidnapped, but the bad news was that I'd actually decided to get myself into this situation on purpose.

I'd no idea how long I'd been there but I had the brains to use the light on my watch to find the answer - almost three hours. The glow wasn't very strong but it still reflected in a dozen pairs of eyes that all seemed to be staring right at me. If that wasn't freaky enough, I was more freaked out that I hadn't got a clue where this lorry was going. And, to top it all off, I knew that nobody in the entire world knew exactly where I was either. As far as my Mum and Dad knew, I was safely tucked up in bed. Only Ollie knew that I had secretly left the house, but he didn't know the rest.

Pins and needles were now pricking at my feet. I'd been sitting down for ages, so I stretched to try and get my legs going again. I'd probably need them at the end of the trip. I started to think back over the last few hours. Why did I put myself into this predicament? Well, as Dad says, "desperate times call for desperate measures"; but the whole thing would never really have got started if it hadn't been for old Phipps.
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# CHAPTER 1: A PROJECT AND A PROBLEM

## 3.10 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

It was the last day of term before Easter and only a few minutes before the final bell. We could hardly keep still and we just wanted to get out of the door - but we all knew what was coming next.

"Class", said Mr Phipps, "the next class project is entitled 'Urban Myths'." That announcement was greeted with the usual groans and mutterings but that wasn't going to stop him!

"Can anyone tell me what an urban myth is?" We all kept quiet. I was pretty sure I knew, but there's no point in being a bit of a swot.

"An urban myth is something that people believe is true, but it's not. For example, just before Christmas, half the school got the idea that my grandfather was a sheriff in the Wild West. He actually used to be a policeman in the east end of London. Now you might say that's virtually the same thing and I'd probably agree with you - but that's beside the point. There was also a myth going around recently that President Obama was not actually born in the United States. If that was true, that would have meant that he couldn't be the President. He had a great deal of trouble trying to prove it wasn't true, or to use the special word for it - to debunk it. Anyway, the project is to find something that is said to be 'fact' and see if you can 'debunk' it as an urban myth - and you have to write at least 1,500 words. You have until the first day of school after the Easter holidays. Any questions?"

But it was far too close to the end of term to bother about asking questions. The bell was about to ring and trigger a bit of a stampede. But, for once, Mr Phipps had a trick up his sleeve.

"I don't suppose any of you would be interested in winning twenty ... thousand ... pounds, would you?"

Mr Phipps spoke those three magic words as if he was speaking in capital letters. Now we were interested - of course we were! You can buy a lot of cool stuff with twenty thousand quid. But how?

"The reason that I've given you this topic is that the Daily News is running a competition on urban myths, sponsored by Coola Cola. The first prize is twenty thousand pounds. Yes, I thought that might get your interest. You never know, it might give you an incentive not to leave things until the last minute as usual. If you're interested in entering the competition then just check out their website for all the rules."

The bell rang and the usual mad dash was slowed down by all the talking about this exciting development. But I was still sitting down, balancing dangerously on the back two legs of my chair as I often do. Mr Phipps was tidying up his stuff before he left and he saw that I was still hanging about.

"I don't recall giving you a detention, Wilson ... sorry I mean Mason", said the teacher, smiling. "Have you forgotten where you live?"

I made a face in protest. This was about the millionth time that somebody had mixed up my first name with my last name. Having an unusual first name is something I've had to put up with all my life but it still bugs me when people get it wrong - especially when it's someone who should know better, like my teacher!

"No, Sir. Of course not! I was just thinking about this project. It's loads more interesting than the last one you made us do; you know - the history of the plum pickers of Patagonia; and it would be cool to win that prize as well! Can you give me any tips, Sir?"

"Tips?" said Mr Phipps. His eyebrows shot up.

"Yes, Sir", I said, feeling my cheeks go a bit red. "Like what sort of thing will give me a chance of winning ... and getting good marks, of course? I'm not trying to cheat, Sir, honestly." The eyebrows went back down again.

"Well, as it happens I did set a project on this type of subject before. But it must be twenty years ago at least. Let me think. There was one called 'Is the Moon Made of Green Cheese?' That particular pupil was mad about anything to do with space. He wrote to NASA and they sent some moon dust for him to submit - that was different! And I suppose that is really the best advice I can give you, Mason - don't just settle for something easy, go for something different! Good luck - you'll probably need a lot of it to win that competition."

## 3.35 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

AS I WENT THROUGH THE main school gates, I bumped into my best friend, Ollie.

"Hi, Ollie. I thought you'd have been halfway home by now. What's kept you? Not another detention, I hope?" Ollie stuck out his tongue at me. His first-ever detention earlier in the week was something he was trying to forget.

"Nah, I had to see Mr Taylor about basketball practice over the holidays."

Mr Taylor is the world's shortest P.E. teacher. For some unknown reason, he still loves basketball - so we don't learn the offside rule in football or how to kick a drop goal in rugby at our school; we're experts on travelling violations and shooting "three-pointers" though, (which are things in basketball just in case you didn't know). Someone should really tell him that we live in the north-west of England not the north-west of Los Angeles. It gets worse though - his second sport is badminton, which is basically two people hitting a dead bird over a net. All the other schools give us a load of stick about the sports that we have to play - but at least we can get our own back in the winter when we play indoors instead of freezing to death outside and doing cross-country.

"Got any ideas for the project, Mase? I'm going to debunk the myth that Liverpool's going to win the League this year - the real truth is that Man U. is going to win it!"

"You're nuts, Ollie! Liverpool's already ten points clear and the season's only got a couple of months left. You don't have to be Miss Marple to work out you're totally biased. You can't be biased if you're going to be a proper investigator, you know. You have to keep an open mind."

"Huh. At least I've got an idea. That's further than you've got - and anyway, the faster I can get this project done, the faster I get to enjoy the holidays."

"But what about the twenty grand you could win? Aren't you bothered about that?"

"Nah - I reckon that's just a clever way of Phipps getting us to work our socks off on the project. There's bound to be a shedload of entries - I've got no chance so it's not worth wasting time to give it a go, is it?"

Typical Ollie that. He always finds the cloud in every silver lining. Somebody had to win, though, and why couldn't it be me? As soon as I got home I headed straight for the garage to find Dad. The garage is his little empire where he doesn't have to worry about taking his shoes off and keeping various bodily functions under control. I'm always welcome - but Mum's presence is not really encouraged, ever since she went and tidied up the garage without him knowing. She doesn't really need to be down there anyway unless there's an errand or a job around the house that needs doing; then she comes looking for a volunteer - or a "voluntold" as Dad likes to call it.

## 3.45 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

"HI DAD, I'M HOME!" I dusted off a rickety three-legged stool in the corner of the garage and wobbled on it, wrinkling my nose up at the oily smell which always takes a minute or two to get used to. Dad put down the engine part he'd been trying to fix.

"Mason! So they let you out then? I was hoping to get at least another hour of peace and quiet!"

"Give over! You didn't honestly think I was going to get a detention on the last day of term, did you? All the teachers wanted to get away from the place just as much as we did."

"Get away from you lot, you mean? I don't blame them. You couldn't pay me enough money to persuade me to do their job - they deserve every minute of their holidays if you ask me."

"Yeah, Dad - whatever! Dad - I know you're busy but would you mind if I asked you a quick question?"

"Fire away, but don't mind if I keep working on fixing this, will you ..."

"I have to do a project on urban myths for school. You don't know happen to know of any, do you?" Dad paused and scratched his head as he always does when his brain is being put into something like top gear.

"Hmmm ... well let me see now. Well, there was one that your mum talked about when she was expecting you. Drove me bonkers it did. She heard it was dangerous to keep a cat in the same room as a baby - something to do with the cat catching the baby's breath. All a bit ridiculous if you ask me. The cat actually disappeared before you were born, so we never got to see what would have happened. It probably knew it was under suspicion and decided to make a run for it while it could - couldn't blame it, could you?"

I tried to imagine a cat stealing a baby's breath and it made me feel a bit funny. What if the cat hadn't actually disappeared? Perhaps I wouldn't be standing there now. I took a few deep breaths, almost to prove I still could.

"Well thanks, Dad. If I win the twenty-grand prize, I promise I'll share it with you."

"Twenty grand? Has your teacher won the lottery or something?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? There's a competition being run by the Daily News and that's the first prize. That'd come in handy, wouldn't it?" But Dad didn't reply. He was looking off into the distance with a bit of an odd expression on his face. But then he turned to look at me and I could see his eyes had gone a bit cloudy.

"You could say that, Mason ... you could say that ..."

"Dad, what's wrong? There's something up, isn't there? What is it?"

Dad said nothing for a few seconds as he cleaned up his hands with a wet rag.

"Let's go inside and find your mum. There's something we've been meaning to tell you and I suppose we shouldn't put it off any longer."

I didn't need to be a genius to know that this wasn't going to be good. I felt a sharp pain in my chest as I started to think about what might be the matter. Was Dad in trouble? Was one of them really sick, like cancer or something?

## 4.00 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

I FOLLOWED DAD BACK to the house feeling like I was about to get some bad exam results. Mum was in the kitchen and she could see the looks on both our faces.

"What's the matter? You both look very serious."

"Michelle, I think it's time we told Mason what's going on, don't you?"

"Oh." There was a pause which seemed to last forever.

"It's only fair, love. There's probably going to have to be some changes soon and he needs to know why. We've talked about this, you know we have - it's for the best."

Dad put his hand gently on Mum's shoulder and I could see she wasn't far off crying. I couldn't stand this for much longer.

"Dad - tell me what's going on. Please! Is one of you sick or something?"

"No, Mason - nothing like that. Your mum and me are fit and healthy - although we're not as young as we used to be, eh love?"

Mum managed to force a watery smile at Dad's attempt to lighten things up a bit.

"No, it's money that's the problem. You remember when I did my back in last year and I couldn't work for a while? That set us back quite a lot, money-wise, and we had to take out a loan from the bank to help make ends meet. Now the economy is so bad, it looks like people are trying to avoid shelling out to get their car repaired. There's just not enough work about to pay the bills at the moment."

"So what does that mean? No summer holiday this year?"

"I'm afraid there won't be one this year, Mason. But it could get much worse than that. You see, that loan was taken out on our house. What that means is that the bank only lent us the money because we agreed that if we couldn't repay the loan then they would be able to make us sell the house to pay them back."

"So we could be thrown out of our house then? Where are we going to live?"

"I'm sure it won't come to that, son. Well, at least we hope not. Anyway, if it did, we could go and live at your granddad's for a while at least until we got ourselves sorted out. And then we could maybe look at renting a flat, hopefully somewhere close by so you could stay at the same school."

"I hadn't thought of that. I was thinking about how I'd miss living here and my room. I've never lived anywhere else."

"I know it's hard. Your mum and I have lived here ever since we got married. We don't want to leave any more than you do, Mase, but we might not have a choice."

"So ... how long have we got before we know what is going to happen?"

"It's hard to say. It really depends on how the business goes over the next couple of months. Your mum is going to try and get a part-time job somewhere, maybe at the supermarket. That will help, but to be honest it's not going to be enough to pay off all the debts we have - we need some serious amounts of cash to do that."

"Is there anything I can do to help, Dad? I could get a paper round or something - every little bit helps you always say."

"I'm glad to see some of my words of wisdom seem to have sunk in at last! You're right, it does all help - and thanks for the offer. Let's give it some thought first - we don't want any of this to get in the way of your school work, you know. But we need to stick together as a family and get through this, that's for sure."

"I think it might be time for a big family hug", said Mum, looking upset but determined all at the same time.

'Big family hugs' were usually something I would run a mile from but today I felt like I really needed one. I think we all did. As we hugged each other silently and tightly, a thought popped into my head.

"Hey! If I win that newspaper competition, that'll do the trick won't it?"

"Yes - it certainly would" laughed Dad. "But don't put too much pressure on yourself now. There's bound to be thousands of people, just like you, who think they can win it as well. Do your best by all means; but don't expect miracles to happen."

"But I thought we believe miracles happen, don't we?"

"Er ... well ... yes ... I suppose we do ... at least we believe they happened in biblical times."

"Can we not ask God to do a miracle for us, then - right now?"

"Go on, Mike. Put your faith where your mouth is for once."

With both of us bugging him, Dad knew the best thing he could do was just get on with it.

"Oh ... OK then. I suppose it can't hurt, can it? Close your eyes, you two. 'God ... you know all about the troubles we're having and we just wanted to ask you to help us, please. We love this house and we really don't want to leave it - please make something good happen so that we don't have to. But, whatever happens, help us still to trust you. Amen.' There - will that do?
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# CHAPTER 2: THE RESEARCH BEGINS

If I'd needed another reason to try my best on this project, this was it. Even though Dad wasn't very encouraging about my chances, I walked away from the kitchen knowing exactly what my next move was going to be. It was obvious that I was going to use the internet. That's where all the information in the world is, isn't it? Having to go all the way to the library and wade through piles of books that were written donkeys' years ago doesn't make any sense to me, especially when you have to tip-toe around and keep your mouth shut all the time - what fun is that? I bet Mum and Dad would still do it that way - but they're virtually prehistoric, aren't they?

Even the teachers know the internet is the way to go these days, even if they won't admit it. They've obviously worked out that trying to stop us using technology is dafter than old King Canute trying to stop the tide coming in. At least they're not holding back the waves of progress anymore, they've finally given us a surf board (well - a bunch of computers in the school library). We don't have a librarian any more - we just have a cleaner who comes in about once a month to get all the dust off the books. Dad calls it 'a sign of the times' but I've no idea what he's going on about.

## 4.20 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

I HEADED STRAIGHT TO Dad's office because that's where our family computer is; but the doorbell rang just as I got there. I knew Dad had gone back to the garage and Mum had popped next door for a quick chat (although do mums really ever have a quick chat?) - so it was up to me to do the honours. Fortunately, it was only Ollie; he'd decided to give doing more school work a bit of a break before he properly got stuck in.

"Ollie! Come in. I'm glad it's you. I almost didn't answer the door. I thought it might be those Jehovah's Witness people."

"Yeah, I got collared by them once when I opened the door by accident. Why do they always go around in pairs like they're from Noah's Ark?"

"You'd know why if you saw the way my granddad deals with them! Safety in numbers! They need to wear suits of armour when they meet folk like him, I reckon! Anyway, let's go to Dad's office. I was just getting started on the project and I'm doing some high-level strategic internet-based investigation."

"Wow. That sounds pretty impressive."

"Nah, it's probably just going to be cutting and pasting stuff from Wikipedia really - but you're welcome to come and watch an expert at work anyway."

I searched for "urban myth cat breath" and found quite a bit about it on one website:

"It is said the smell of milk on the child's breath draws the cat in for the kill, but anyone who has been around cats knows they usually prefer water to milk. Another theory relates to the jealousy the pet experiences when the baby appears. The "smother" belief dates to at least 1607. In 1791, a coroner in Plymouth reported that a child was killed by a cat sucking out its breath. In December 2000, a woman said she found her six-week-old son in his crib with the family cat lying on the baby's face."

"Well Ollie, what do you think about trying to debunk this theory?"

"Problem is though, Mase, how would you go about proving or disproving it?" That was a pretty good question and we both sat there for a minute, hoping for a flash of inspiration. It was me who came up with the first idea.

"OK, how about this? We go and find a baby, with the permission of the parents of course. We put it in a room with some cats ... we could watch for a bit to see if anything bad happened ... and we'd step in before things got too serious."

"Hmm ... I can think of a few problems with that idea. First off, where do we find a young baby, like a one-year-old? I definitely don't know one and you'd have to know their parents pretty well to get permission to do an experiment like that on them. I could see that conversation going pretty badly! And even if they said OK, where are we going to get the cats from - the Cats Protection League? They'd think we were crazy borrowing a dozen cats for an hour. It's not going to be that easy, is it?"

"OK clever clogs. You come up with a better suggestion then."

"Oooh, the pressure! Alright then - what about this? You could do a survey of people around town; ask them if they knew about the myth and whether they believed it." I tried to make the noise that the computer used to make on Family Fortunes when a contestant gives a wrong answer. It ended up sounding more like a Dalek from Dr Who.

"I can see two problems with that one, Ollie. Number one - it's really, really, really dull. I can't just submit a boring old survey as my project. Phipps would fall asleep by the end of it and I'd never win the competition in a million years. Number two - the chances of finding someone right where we live who really knows anything about this subject has got to be really, really, really tiny. So it's a big fat 'no' from me!"

"Now if we could do an interview with cats, then that would be a scoop!"

## 5.00 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

THAT COMMENT FROM OLLIE told me we had totally run out of ideas on this one, so we did loads more searching and managed to find three more 'facts' that we might be able to investigate:

1. Pumpernickel bread got its name because a Frenchman claimed it tasted so bad that it was only fit for his horse, Nicol ("pain pour Nicol", get it?).

2. Fortune Cookies were not actually invented in China, even though you sometimes get them with Chinese food.

3. Chewing gum takes seven years to pass through the human digestive system.

All of them might be what we were looking for but we didn't have a clue how we would start to investigate any of them.

"That chewing gum one might need you to do an interesting experiment, Mase."

"You bet. But I don't have seven weeks to spare, do I? Never mind seven years. I could just imagine the look on Mr Phipps' face when I handed in the project though, couldn't you?"

"Yeah, it would be a classic. Phipps does have a pretty good sense of humour, for a teacher, but it probably wouldn't be a good idea to push our luck, would it? Plus the newspaper might have to censor it before it got printed - assuming you won of course."

We hadn't really made much progress and it was soon time for Ollie to leave before he was late for his tea. High-level strategic research is fun, but even I have to admit that it's no match for egg and chips.

## 9.00 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 1

AS I LAY AWAKE IN BED later that night, I kept going over what Mum and Dad had told me. I really hadn't seen that one coming. It was weird to think we might have to move house soon, or even move in with Granddad. I would miss my room. I would miss everything about here really, all the things I'd grown up with; silly things like the way the water heater makes a funny noise at night and the little attic space which is a perfect place to hide when unwanted visitors turn up.

I suppose the car would have to go as well. How would we get anywhere without it? The bus would have to do, or even the train. It was hard seeing my parents so upset too. Mum had definitely been crying and Dad looked pretty grim as well. How long had they been worrying about it all? They'd hidden it from me pretty well.

And what could I do to help? Dad was right - there was no point in even dreaming about winning the competition - at least until I came up with something super-spectacular to write about - and so far I hadn't found it; but we were off to the zoo the next day to celebrate the start of the holidays. Maybe something spectacular was going to happen there.
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# CHAPTER 3: A DAY AT THE ZOO

I love going to the zoo - even though it smells disgusting, it usually chucks it down when we visit and we go home like tired, drowned rats. Almost always, some of the enclosures or displays are closed for some reason - "The Parrot Is Ill Today" or "Our Polar Bears Have Gone on Holiday to San Diego Zoo". But what really gets me excited is the chance that I might actually see something worth seeing. The way I look at it, ninety nine percent of the time, each animal does absolutely nothing out of the ordinary - they just sit there or stand there or hide in a hole or behind a tree. It makes you wonder why you bothered coming to see them in the first place. But, if you're in the right place at the right time, then something really worth seeing will happen. My favourite time has to be when a toddler's cuddly toy accidentally fell into the gorilla enclosure. A huge, male gorilla picked up the toy and gently cradled it in its arms, which got a great reaction from the people who were watching. But then the gorilla totally ruined it all and bit the toy's head off. Well, I thought it was funny...

## 9.00 A.M. SATURDAY, APRIL 2

"MIND IF I DRIVE, LOVE?" said Dad.

"Mind?" replied Mum, "well it would be a sight better than having to put up with you moaning about my driving as usual, wouldn't it?"

Dad and I grinned at each other - Mum's driving ability, or lack of it, is a bit of a sore spot that Dad likes to press on every now and again. But Mum hadn't finished just yet.

"Far be it from me to stop Lancashire's answer to Jeremy Clarkson getting behind the wheel. You never know, I might learn something - like how to get lost ..."

Now it was Mum's turn to do the grinning. Even Dad had to admit that he wasn't the best navigator in the world, but his excuse was that he got travel sick whenever he looked at maps. I hate dawdling along at five miles an hour, but I'm dead certain that all the shenanigans would never have got started if the traffic hadn't been so bad. As we crawled along, I saw something on the kerb. It was only when we got level with it that I saw it was a bird. I'm not an expert on birds but even I know a sparrow when I see one. Not just a bird though - there was no doubt that it was a dead bird. I couldn't remember ever seeing a dead bird before, except for a very flat pigeon on the motorway that had come off second best to a lorry. But it just had that dead look. It didn't look injured at all. You might even have thought that it was asleep, if you didn't know that birds don't usually go to sleep by the side of busy main roads.

Where had the bird been going to? Why had it died? Was it sick or was it just old? Then I thought of a much bigger question. There are millions and millions of birds flying around. There must be stacks of birds dying every single day - what happens to them all? Looking at all the litter blowing around the place, they can't be being cleaned up by the local council, that's definite!

"Look at that little dead bird, Dad, on the kerb there. See? Why don't you ever see dead birds lying around like that, Dad?"

"Where? Oh, right, now I see it. Poor little fella. It's a good question but I've no idea what the answer is. You're probably going to the right place to find out though - why don't you ask the keeper at the aviary in the zoo?"

"Good thinking, Batman. It's worth a try, isn't it?"

Thankfully, the traffic started to clear up just after that and we arrived at the car-park.

## 10.30 A.M. SATURDAY, APRIL 2

I DIDN'T WANT TO MAKE a beeline for the penguins as usual. Normally, I only ended up at the bird section accidentally on the way to seeing something a bit more exciting - but it was the main attraction now. It wasn't easy to get to speak to the bird-keeper though. By the time we'd queued up to get in and finally worked out the way to the aviary at the other side of the zoo, we'd just missed the first feeding session. It was a few hours till the next one. Still, it gave us a bit of time to see some other stuff and eat the world's most expensive, and least tasty, burger at the Zoo cafe. Dad said his tasted more like a camel-burger, not that he's ever eaten one (as far as I know).

## 1.30 P.M. SATURDAY, APRIL 2

THERE WAS NO WAY I was going to miss the feeding session this time and I was ready at the aviary ages before I needed to be. I got a good spot because the feeding of the lions, tigers, penguins or even the seals is always more popular. Let's face it - most birds in the zoo aren't scary, they don't do tricks and they don't look very cute; so they're really up against it. I think even Cliff Machs, that celebrity marketing bloke, would struggle to make them look good.

The bird-keeper went through all the basic jobs as they have to do twice every day on just about every day of the year. I suppose being a zoo-keeper is like a lot of other jobs; it might sound quite glamorous and exciting but, when it boils right down to it, you just end up dealing with other people's mess day in and day out; and if you have to look after the elephants, there is always a heck of a lot of it. After telling us a few "interesting" facts and begging people to sponsor one of the birds (Dad said he must be working on commission), he asked if there were any questions. I was ready to swing into action and put both my hands up and waved them as hard as I could. The keeper would have had to have been virtually blind to miss me - I bet I looked like an angry, mini air traffic controller. He pointed towards me and said, "Yes, you there, what's your name?" And here was the part that I hated, and although it happened regularly I still hadn't gotten used to it.

"Mason."

"No, son, I meant your first name."

"That IS my first name, thank you very much", I said through slightly gritted teeth.

Mum says we've all got our crosses to bear. That's ironic as she and Dad gave me mine. But it could have been even worse, believe it or not. Yep -right up until the very last minute I was going to be called Mnason, with a silent 'n', after a very obscure character from the Bible. It didn't mean anything special to Mum and Dad; they just liked the name when they read it one day. But when the registrar was told the name to put on the birth certificate, the look on his face basically said 'are you off your heads?' and that quickly made them do a re-think. Mum and Dad came to a quick compromise and ended up with the name of Mason - still unusual but at least it wasn't totally bizarre or tricky to spell. I guess I can live with that. There is always someone who is worse off than you, unless you are really, really unlucky. For example, just think of my pen pal from India who has to put up with the wonderful name of "Metric Calibration." I'm not kidding! Anyway, I carried on.

"What happens to birds when they die? You hardly ever see dead birds, do you?" The keeper smiled to himself.

"If I had a pound for every time someone asked that question, I would be a rich man, young fellow! To be perfectly honest with you, I don't think anyone really knows - so I will turn it around and ask you what do you think?"

I felt like saying "How should I know? You're supposed to be the expert here!" But I've been brought up to be more polite than that. So I just shrugged my shoulders. I was very disappointed that my question hadn't really been answered. I started to walk away but the question session hadn't finished after all, because a boy had another question.

"What about these birds, the ones that you look after I mean? What happens to them when they die?"

I stopped walking and swung around to see if the answer was going to give me any more information. The zoo-keeper's face turned a rather curious grey colour and a shadow seemed to cross his face just for a second - it was so quick that I wondered whether I had imagined it or not. The keeper cleverly managed to dodge answering the question again.

"Now young man - you can't go asking questions like that in earshot of the birds. They will get really upset, you know!"

And with that brush-off, the keeper made excuses about having lots more to do that afternoon and that he really must be getting on with it. Everyone was shooed away as fast as possible. It was all very odd. What was the point of asking for questions if you didn't even try to answer any of them properly?

I didn't really pay full attention for the rest of the visit because I was puzzling over this bird thing. Even the antics of one monkey, who seemed to think it was great fun to eat a banana, puke it back into his hand and then eat it all over again, didn't make me laugh like it normally would have. All I really wanted to do was get back home and get on the internet to see if anyone had a solution to this mystery; and so that day was probably the first time ever that I didn't moan and groan at all when my parents told me it was time to leave the zoo. They must have thought I was ill or something.

## 6.00 P.M. SATURDAY, APRIL 2

THE TRAFFIC QUEUE TO get home was only a bit better than it was on the way in. I wondered if the bird would still be there. I couldn't quite remember exactly on what part of the journey I'd seen it. But then I recognized the petrol station that we had stopped at to fill up, which was just after I had seen the bird. I stretched to look out of the window to try and catch a glimpse of it. And there it was - still there and still, obviously, dead. Phew!

"Dad - pull over! I want to take a picture please."

"Of what?"

"That dead bird that I saw on the way here. It's still there. Please ... please!"

"You have GOT to be kidding me. Seriously?"

"Yes, Dad. Seriously ..."

Dad sighed and tut-tutted to himself. I could tell he felt that the traffic was slow enough without wasting time taking pictures of dead birds. He thought for a second and probably decided it would be less painful doing what I had asked than having to put up with me moaning and complaining the rest of the way home. Good decision.

Dad pulled over just in front of the bird. I undid my seatbelt, popped out of the car, took a quick look at the bird and tried to get the best angle for the photo. I ignored it when Dad called out "Say Cheese!" and got a good shot.

"Thanks a lot, Dad."

"Don't thank me. Thank the guy who got stuck behind us while we waited. He must have wondered what on earth you were doing. So what on earth were you doing?"

"Not quite sure really. I just thought that if I didn't get the picture now, I wouldn't get another chance to do it and it might be something I can use later in the project."

"Your urban myth project, you mean? Let me guess, you want to answer that question about why you never see dead birds?"

"Got it in one. Well done, Dad. This is definitely what I've been waiting for. As soon as we get home, the first thing I'm going to do is get on the internet and see what theories people have about it."

"Good idea. Well, if the traffic keeps at this speed, you might have just over an hour left before you have to start getting ready for bed. That should be plenty of time to find what you're looking for."

## 7.30 P.M. SATURDAY, APRIL 2

DAD'S PREDICTION WAS accurate and I didn't waste a second when we arrived, bursting through the door and showing off my impressive technique of taking my coat and shoes off at virtually the same time. Mum has been trying to teach me the next level of hanging my coat up and putting my shoes by the door, but for some reason I haven't quite mastered that art yet. It definitely wasn't the time to practice. There was something far more important to be done - what was I going to learn about dead birds?
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# CHAPTER 4: OPINIONS, OPINIONS

I was amazed to find that someone had asked the exact same question as me on one of those question and answer websites. Fourteen people had posted replies. Great! One of them had to have the answer. I scrolled down hoping to find it - but no such luck. Most people were just looking for the answer and hadn't got any decent ideas themselves. It was what Mr Phipps calls "the sharing of ignorance". A few people did have some suggestions though. A 'P. Jones' suggested that the dead birds are abducted by aliens - he had to be joking, right? Oh, OK - his more serious suggestion was that they are eaten by foxes, badgers and other birds. That's possible. But are there really many birds that eat other birds? There are birds of prey, like falcons - but aren't they pretty rare?

'Roodie' from Berkshire was positive that sea birds simply flew out to sea to die, but he admitted that this didn't apply to birds like starlings or sparrows. I could buy that idea because some birds migrate and travel huge distances over water every year anyway. Old or sick birds might not make it. Definitely one for the shortlist that. Some people rejoicing in the name 'Friday Night Ladies' seemed convinced that the birds knew they were going to die and went off to find somewhere quiet and private to die. Like where - a vet's in the Swiss Alps? That wasn't a bad suggestion, but how could you prove it? The 'Red Baron' claimed a colony of ants or beetles could soon make short work of a small bird. I wasn't convinced. What about all the urban areas where there would be hardly any beetles? And what about bigger birds like ducks and seagulls - those were never seen dead either?

'MaineMoody' stated that "birds have wings and it is easier for them to fly directly to heaven than it is for us." Does she really believe that heaven can be reached by wing power? Doesn't everyone know that there are actually three heavens - the sky where birds and planes fly, outer space beyond our atmosphere and the place where God lives, which must be even beyond that. What do they teach people these days? 'Esteban - the Smartest Pumpkin on the Net' (I laughed out loud at that name) said that no dead birds could be found "because I pick them up and eat them." This was starting to get ridiculous. I didn't have the patience for these nut-cases and they were getting in the way of some serious research.

'Ellie' said that "since lots of birds are well camouflaged, even if they die naturally they are hard to spot because plumage looks like the ground". I didn't think that idea held any water at all. What about urban areas again - what bird has feathers that look like a paving slab?

I kept looking for other websites and eventually I came across an entire newspaper article. It was from the Daily Corkman in Cork (which is in the Republic of Ireland, if you didn't know):

"Where do birds go to die? This question has been posed by Cornelius Lucey, the Bishop of Cork. However, it is only this week that we can reveal this theory to you for the first time. The Bishop distinguishes between death from natural causes, death by predator, or death through a car accident and he challenges anyone to produce evidence of a bird that has died from natural causes. Bishop Lucey is a bee-keeper who has a passionate and in-depth knowledge of the life-patterns of bees. The Bishop explains that when bees die, they rise up into the 'upper air' and they are literally destroyed through a natural disintegration process. The bishop has concluded that as birds have an inner sensory device which tells them when to migrate, so, like the bees, the device also tells them when it is time to die. Our question to the scientific world is whether there is any basis to the Bishop Lucey theory and if he may be responsible for discovering an as yet un-discovered scientific principle. Do birds really fly over the rainbow to die?"

It was weird to find out that someone else had thought so much about my question - but was he even real? Wikipedia came to the rescue and confirmed that he was - a real, live Bishop. It felt really cool having something in common with a slightly famous person. But, as I looked more closely, I saw that the article was written a few years ago and he might not be alive anymore. If he was, he must be really, really old by now. I couldn't find the theory online anywhere else and I hoped the article wasn't just made up. Had scientists tested the theory yet or not? My gut reaction was that they wouldn't have bothered to spend any time on such an odd test - but then again some university brainiacs once spent six months researching why toast always seems to fall buttered side down when you drop it. I suppose that just goes to show that some people will research anything if you pay them enough to do it. I knew I'd never be able to prove whether the theory was true, and the Bishop hadn't provided any evidence. It sounded like a pretty wacky theory to me and what my dad said at breakfast the next morning didn't change my mind.

## 8.30 A.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

"SO HOW ARE YOU GETTING on with your project then? Cracked it yet?"

"Not quite Dad, but I did come across an interesting theory about birds being sucked up into the atmosphere and disintegrating, like bees do apparently."

"Sounds like something a schoolboy would come up with - you could probably do better than that yourself."

"As a matter of fact, I'll have you know that the theory comes from a very important person, the Bishop of Cork, no less."

"Ah well, that probably explains it then."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I heard a lot about him from my mum and dad when I was growing up in Belfast. He used to teach a whole list of stuff which you'll not find anywhere in the Bible - as far as I know."

"Like what?"

"Well, for starters, there's something called 'purgatory', supposedly a place where you go to before you are allowed into heaven where they purify you of your sins; then there's 'transubstantiation' which is what he says happens to the bread and wine that we eat and drink at Communion - that it actually becomes the body and blood of Jesus - yes, literally; and then there's the belief that his boss, never, ever gets anything wrong - it's what is called being infallible. And don't get me started about the Immaculate Conception of Mary! I don't believe any of that is right, Mason. To me, the Pope is just an ordinary bloke who happens to wear a fancy hat - but he's no different inside than you or me."

"So? What are you trying to say? What's all that got to do with dead birds?"

"Here's how I look at it, Mason. If he believes in and teaches all these things, which I think are completely made up, why should I believe anything else that he says - including his little theory? Can what he says really be trusted?"

"Hmm ... I suppose you could be right, Dad. On the other hand, you used to let me believe that Father Christmas was real until I was six! So are you saying I shouldn't believe anything else you say either now?"

Dad looked a bit embarrassed.

"Well, it was fun seeing you enjoying believing it was real. It was just a bit of fun though, nothing like the important stuff we've just been talking about."

"But Dad - I told Ollie a couple of days ago that you have to keep an open mind and so should we. Even if the Bishop could have wonky ideas in some areas, at least according to you, it doesn't have to mean all of what he comes up with is wrong, does it?"

"Well, waste your time investigating his theory if you really must, but I wouldn't touch it with a hundred-foot pole if I were you."

Dad and I didn't know that Mum had been listening in to our conversation and she wanted to put her two pence in now.

"Now, now, Michael. Didn't we agree to try and bring Mason up ecumenically? I know that's a hard word for you, being half-Irish, sorry half Northern Irish, and all but at least let Mason make up his own mind, eh love?"

Dad opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it and shut it again, like a goldfish. I didn't want to get stuck in the middle of a big debate about ecu-wotsit so I escaped as quickly as I could.

Even though Dad was being his usual "encouraging" self, I just got the feeling that a big breakthrough was around the corner; but I didn't know what it would be - yet. I did know one thing though. I would definitely have to tell Ollie about my idea. He was bound to be a lot more positive about things.

## 10.30 A.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

SUNDAY MORNING ALWAYS means church for both of us. Ollie and his parents arrived at the same time we did. He seemed to guess that I wanted to tell him something but, as usual, we had all arrived at the last possible minute and there was no time to waste if we were going to get to our seats before the kids and adult services started. It was hard having Ollie about two feet away and not be able to share the news with him - we tell each other almost everything. Ollie only moved up north a few years ago and ended up in my class. Having a posh southern accent made it a bit hard for him to make friends at first. But I didn't care two hoots about the funny way he spoke, and we've been best friends ever since - even if he is a Man. Utd. supporter. What makes it doubly bad is that he used to be an Arsenal fan when he lived down there, but he changed so he would fit in better up here.

I hope that you've been taught that supporting a football team is like buying a dog - "it's for life, not just for Christmas" as they say - and if being a traitor wasn't bad enough, he wasted his big chance to become an honorary "Scouser" and ended up being a wretched "Manc" instead. What a disaster. Anyway, we had less than two minutes to chat on the way back to rejoining our parents after the service, so I jumped straight into it.

"Hey, Ollie! You'll never guess what my project is going to be about."

"Well, in that case - I'll save us some time and give up straightaway. Go on - tell me then." I quickly went over what had happened in the last couple of days.

"Wow, that's pretty cool, Mase. I'm really jealous. It makes my idea seem a bit lame now, but it will have to do ... unless ... you ... er ... wouldn't mind sharing your project with me, would you?"

"I don't think that would be allowed, would it? And I really want all that prize money to myself. It would be great if you could still help me out though, you know, bounce ideas off each other, stuff like that?"

I suppose I sounded a bit greedy, but I didn't want Ollie to know about our money problems. Dad always said that other people didn't need to know about private things like that. It didn't matter anyway, as Ollie didn't need to give the idea too much thought. He bowed low. "Happy to be of service, my Lord Mason!"

"Don't get all medieval on me, Ollie," I laughed, remembering the history class on feudalism that we'd both had to suffer through in the last week of school. "I need you to have your twenty-first century head on to tell me what the answer to the question might be."

"Haven't got a clue, Mase", said Ollie. "I know this isn't the dramatic conclusion you're looking for ... but maybe they do just go somewhere quiet to die. Maybe you'll have to make something up that's a bit more exciting - OK, OK! I know we're not supposed to lie. I wasn't really being serious, you know ..."

## 11.45 A.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

BEFORE WE COULD SCARPER out into the car park and home for our usual Sunday lunch, Pastor Arnold blocked the exit and tried to get a conversation going with me. I don't normally mind talking to him but he'd picked a bad time. It was almost lunch-time, my stomach was starting to grumble and I had my project to get on with. I think he was starting to get the message after four one-word answers in a row, but then Mum had other ideas.

"Mason, why don't you tell the Pastor about your school project, you know, the one about the dead birds ...?"

Oh great. Now I was going to have to repeat what I had just told Ollie. I really didn't want to be bothered but, as it happened, the Pastor was able to add his own special angle to the whole subject.

"What happens to birds when they die, eh? Great question, my lad. Now, did you know that the Bible has something to say about dead birds?"

That got me interested! "No, Pastor, I had no idea. What does it say?"

"Matthew chapter ten and verse twenty-nine says (and it's Jesus speaking), 'Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.' Birds only fall to the ground when they are dead, don't they? Who says that the Bible has no relevance to everyday life, eh?" To reinforce the point, Pastor Arnold gave me such a slap on the back that I was set off towards the main exit. Here was my golden chance to escape; I just let my body continue on its journey and, over my shoulder, called out "Thanks Pastor! See you next week."

As I travelled home in the car, I didn't take long to decide that the Bible verse that the Pastor had given me was a bit of a red herring. Was he really saying that it was God's will that all these birds should fall to the ground? There was no way I was going to put that in my school project. The rest of the day didn't get me any further in my hunt for an answer. I would have loved to go back to the zoo to question the bird-keeper again but I couldn't justify paying to get in again just to do that, not with all the money problems we'd got.

The only thing I could think of was to try and contact the Bishop and ask him about his theory; that was if he was still alive of course. The good old internet came in handy again and I managed to track him down to an old people's home in Blarney. He was still living and breathing, just. He might have kissed the Blarney Stone once, which is supposed to give you the gift of the gab, but I was told that he wasn't in a fit state to communicate with anyone now. His Care Manager didn't seem to be much better - or maybe she just couldn't understand my broad northern accent. I thought about trying a fake Irish accent to see if that would do the trick. But I didn't trust myself to do it right and it might just make things worse. I gave up. It was all very frustrating; but what I didn't realize was that there were exciting times right around the corner or, as it turned out, just behind our house.
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# CHAPTER 5: THE COOLA COLA CONUNDRUM

## 1.15 P.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

I decided to have one last look on the internet to see what else I could find. This time, I found a question that came at it from a slightly different angle: "What does it mean when you see a dead bird?" That caught my attention. The only response came from a witch, of all people: 'when I come across a dead bird it means something major will happen in my life; some kind of change that I may or may not know about already, something unexpected even, something new that I will soon experience or somebody new I'll meet.' That spooked me a bit - what was this change going to be? Was it going to be good or bad? Was I about to meet someone new? This was all 'mumbo-jumbo' to me, as Dad calls it. So I kept on searching and found a question from 'Simply Sibyl': "Why are there no dead penguins on the ice in Antarctica?" He or she also provided an answer:

'The penguin is a very ritualistic bird. It is very committed to its family and will mate for life as well as maintaining a form of compassionate contact with its offspring. If a penguin is found dead on the ice surface, other members of the family and social circle dig holes in the ice, using their wings and beaks, until the hole is deep enough for the dead bird to be rolled into and buried.'

I was so gripped by this touching ritual that, up to now, I'd been totally unaware of - I thought this was great material for the project; at least I did until I read the final paragraph:

'Then they kick him in the ice hole. The male penguins then gather in a circle around the fresh grave and sing: "Freeze A Jolly Good Fellow.'"

I burst out laughing. It was so funny that I didn't mind being conned. Perhaps I could include it in the project anyway - Mr Phipps might appreciate a bit of humour after reading thirty very dull projects in a row. I didn't know what to do next. I only had one and a half weeks left now and I was stuck. Should I look for another myth to investigate? This wasn't just about a school project now; there was a lot more than that at stake. I needed inspiration or a huge piece of luck, or both.

## 2.35 P.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

I WENT TO THE FRIDGE to get a drink and found that Mum, for once, had splashed out and bought a bottle of Coola Cola. That might not sound like a big deal to you, but normally I have to make do with Koala Cola. It's a brand which sounds very similar but, to a bit of a cola connoisseur like me, it's nowhere near as good as the real thing. The only good thing about it is that it's usually almost half the price of Coola Cola, which is why we always end up with it. Money's been tight in our house for as long as I can remember, but not nearly as much as it seems to be now. My parents made a decision a long time ago that Mum would stay at home and bring me up while Dad continued to work as a mechanic out of our garage at home. I shouldn't really complain as it means that he's always around to play soccer with me, when lots of other kids have dads who travel a lot, like Ollie. But the downside is that he's never been sure how much money was going to be coming in; and when he got injured he had no money coming in at all.

I think Dad has the words 'look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves' tattooed (obviously in a very small font) on the inside of his eyelids. He's an absolute genius at making money go as far as it possibly can. He almost seems to make a game of it - it's probably his way of dealing with the fact that he can't provide his family with the little luxuries that he'd really love to. It can get a bit embarrassing at times though, like the time he hung the teabags out to dry outside on the line so that they could be re-used again. Mum soon put a stop to that by buying loose leaf tea for a while! As he keeps telling us though, every little bit helps and part of my contribution to the team effort has been to put up with sub-standard cola or, as Peter Kay puts it, 'crap pop'.

I was going to make the most of this rare treat. Deciding not to risk being caught swigging it straight from the bottle, I poured some out into a large glass and downed almost all of it in one go. I waited about ten seconds for the bubbles to build up inside me and then I produced a pleasingly loud burp. Fantastic. What wasn't so fantastic was that Mum walked into the kitchen from the back garden and caught me right in the act. That was bad luck.

"Mason Edward Wilson! Where are your manners? I haven't brought you up to make such a rude noise in public - you know better than that." Why do mums only use your full name when you're in trouble? I'm sure they didn't pick the name Edward for it only to be used at times like that - if they did, it would have made a lot more sense if they had given me a middle name like 'Naughty Boy', wouldn't it?

"At least I wasn't swigging from the bottle, Mum!" I was very thankful that I hadn't been caught doing that. "Besides, I wasn't technically in public when I started burping - it's not my fault you walked in at the wrong moment, is it? What's that old saying? Something like ... 'if a boy burps in a kitchen when no-one is there, does he still make a sound'?"

"Now don't you be so cheeky! I'll give you the benefit of the doubt this time - but just you watch out or I'll have your guts for garters ..."

I know better than anybody that Mum's bark is worse than her bite. When she uses that phrase, I can tell that she's not really too fussed about something even if it looks like she is going off the deep end. If you ask me, mums just feel that they have to complain about some things - it just goes with the territory. Burping is one of them. But even mums burp, don't they? As I thought about the possible hypocrisy of it all, Mum had a question.

"So how's your project going then? I hope you're not going to leave it until the last minute and rope us in to help you out?"

"Come on, Mum. When have I ever done that ... erm ... apart from last time? If you really want to know - I'm struggling a bit. I've got a good idea about that dead bird but I just don't know where to go with it next. I came to get a drink and maybe get some inspiration from somewhere. This Coola Cola is sooooooo good - but it hasn't helped me with the project."

"I thought you might like a treat, Mason. It was on half-price at the supermarket. Save some for your Dad though, won't you? It's a pity it's so expensive. He likes it almost as much as you do."

"I wonder why it is so expensive, Mum. It must be ninety-eight percent water like all the other brands."

"Well, you're paying for the brand name and all that flashy marketing and fancy packaging. But maybe it's that secret ingredient that makes it so expensive. I wonder what it could be? I'd be a very rich woman if I knew the answer to that."

Ah, the famous secret ingredient of Coola Cola. It's been kept faithfully by a handful of people since Coola Cola was invented way back in the 1880's. It is said that only the top bloke in the whole of the company knows it. There have been lots of guesses and speculation about it and Koala Cola once offered a million pounds to the person who found it out - but it's still a big mystery up to now.

It was unfortunate that Mum timed her last comment just as I decided to polish off what was left of my drink. I don't know whether it was an air bubble or whether the cola just went down the wrong way as I reacted to what she said. I choked and half of the cola came straight back out of my mouth and onto the floor. The other half fizzed up and came out through my nose and ended up down the front of my T-shirt. That was a really peculiar feeling and I don't plan on experiencing that again if I can help it. Mum was just about to tell me off for spilling stuff on her precious floor when she realized I was in a spot of bother. Watching me coughing and spluttering, I don't think she knew whether to try to do one of those Heimlich manoeuvre-thingies we got taught in the first aid class last year, bang me hard on the back or just watch and wait to see if I could sort myself out. Fortunately, the decision to wait proved to be the right one because, within a few seconds, I had just about recovered. My face was still as red as a Liverpool shirt though.

"Mason ... are you OK? What on earth were you thinking?" asked Mum, as though I had tried to choke myself deliberately. Don't mums say daft things sometimes? Things like, 'don't come running to me when you break both your legs doing that!' I was wheezing like Granddad, an old miner with lungs full of that asbestos stuff.

"I'm ... OK ... honest. How did you ... like my party trick? Waste of a ... good bit of cola though! I don't know what happened. When you started wondering about the secret ingredient, I started thinking that this could be another urban myth to investigate - someone must have come up with an idea of what the ingredient could be. I could try to prove it or debunk it. It's brilliant! Sorry about the mess though, Mum. I'll clean it up right now."

I was that excited that it didn't take me long to clean up. I had two myths to attack now and I was hoping that one of them was going to leave that NASA moon dust in the ... well, in the dust, as well as the other competition entries. I found myself back at the computer for more research.

## 2.45 P.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

THE FIRST WEBSITE I came across didn't seem to be talking exactly about the secret ingredient, but it did talk about some rather disgusting allegations about what was in Coola Cola:

'Coola Cola contains a fish product designed to stabilize the cola, yielding the "foam head" we are so familiar with. Coola Cola's alleged secret ingredient is the cochineal beetle dye. This is commonly known as carmine and is made from the husks of dead cochineal beetles. They live on cacti and they're harvested, killed, dried out, pulverized and then poured into the vat of whatever's brewing. Carmine is used as a red dye in many food products, juices and lipsticks.'

This rumour really grossed me out. Would I be able to drink Coola Cola again without thinking of crushed beetles and fish parts? I shuddered. They never mentioned that in the commercials and I don't blame them. To be honest, I didn't want to investigate that one in case it turned out to be true. The second website I clicked on gave a very specific answer:

'After over 100 years of total secrecy, the recipe for Coola Cola has been revealed in a book that claims to have found it on a piece of paper titled "X" in a company archive. Here is the method in full - take: Coriander Oil (a trace), Orange Blossom Oil (a trace), Orange Oil (0.94g) Lemon Oil (1.79g), Nutmeg Oil (0.14g), Cinnamon Oil (0.41g), mix them in alcohol (9.97g) and water (5.50g). Shake well and let stand for 24 hours. The mixture will separate. At the top will be a clear yellow liquid. This is the cola's secret flavouring.'

This was more like it - but how could I test it to see if the rumour was true? One last site contained an interesting twist on the whole thing. It claimed that there wasn't really any secret ingredient at all. It was all an extremely clever marketing ploy to make Coola Cola appear to be different from its competitors. In a way, I'd rather it contain crushed insects. Being the possible victim of a giant con like that left a nasty taste in my mouth which was even worse than Koala Cola! I was outraged. I ended up deciding that the only way to debunk this rumour was to try and brew the beverage using the recipe I'd found. For that I would need Mum's permission and help.

OK - it's confession time. I have to be under strict supervision any time I attempt to cook anything these days - and I mean anything; even making toast. I have to admit that it's not such a bad idea based on my recent track record, which includes accidentally boiling an egg for three and a half hours instead of three and a half minutes. The water boiled dry and things just went downhill very rapidly from there. I've never been able to live it down or to explain how it all actually happened. Dad says I'm to cooking what Jamie Oliver is to nuclear physics. I don't think that's meant to be a compliment. But it turned out that Mum had nothing to fear just yet. What was about to happen next was so mind-blowingly incredible that I had something else to keep me busy apart from putting my awful cooking skills to the test.

.
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# CHAPTER 6: AFLOCALYPSE NOW

I'd spent hours on the internet in the last couple of days, but please don't get the idea that my life normally revolves around a fifteen-inch screen. No, the TV in the lounge is much bigger than that. Now before you totally write me off as a couch potato, I'd like to point out that I always watch TV on the floor. Seriously though, I'm sports mad - football, cricket and rugby mainly. I'm no David Beckham or Kevin Pietersen though; unless you mean that I play cricket like Becks and rugby like "KP". But I do like to stretch out on the rug in front of the TV.

## 6.00 P.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

I NEEDED A BREAK TO "chillax". After a few minutes of watching the usual depressing news items, I was just about to change the channel when a news story came on that had me literally glued to the TV. Well OK, I didn't literally mean literally - that would be very sticky. The screen showed a large flock of birds in the sky with the text 'AFLOCALYPSE NOW?' What on Earth is an 'aflocalypse'? I was pretty sure that wasn't a real word.

'Wildlife experts are trying to determine what caused more than three thousand blackbirds to die and fall from the sky over the town of Beebe in Arkansas at 11.30 a.m. this morning. The birds fell over a one-mile area, and ornithologist Mary Kelly said the birds showed physical trauma. She speculated that the flock could have been hit by lightning or high-altitude hail or just shocked by fireworks. The dead birds have been sent for testing.'

Dad came in just as the report finished and he said later that I'd had the same, boggled look on my face as Mum had when she'd watched the shocking events of 9/11 happen. This was nothing like as serious, of course, but it was still really unexpected.

"Mason, what's up? You've gone as white as a sheet!"

I bet I had and you couldn't blame me. My whole project was about rarely seeing even one dead bird and now there were thousands of them all at the same time. Was the project a waste of space now? Or now should I be trying to find a solution to the opposite type of puzzle? My head started to hurt.

But I was determined to try and get to the bottom of this. What really puzzled me was why only one type of bird seemed to be affected and in such a small area. There had to be a theory on the internet about it that I could check out. But my luck had run out this time. Dad has to file his own tax return online each year for work and, as usual, he'd left it to the last minute to get it done. Well, the last minute had now arrived. It was going to be well past my bed-time before he was finished.

## 9.00 P.M. SUNDAY, APRIL 3

MY IMAGINATION WENT into top gear when I went to bed. Seeing those birds fall from the sky must have been like one of those plagues of Egypt in the Bible. They must have thought their eyes were playing tricks on them. I pictured someone being hit on the head by them as they fell - that would be pretty funny to watch actually; and what a brilliant excuse for not turning up for work the next day.

## 8.30 A.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

I WAS DESPERATE TO get on the internet ASAP, but there was no way that Mum was going to let me do that without having a decent breakfast first. So I was forced to 'get on the outside', as Dad likes to say, of a bowl of cereal in double-quick time. The newspaper had just arrived so I thought I may as well have a read through it at the same time and see if there was anything about these gigantic bird deaths. I found the news on page fifteen under the headline 'WAS THIS FOWL PLAY?' I was sure that my granddad could do much better puns than that - Mum always says he should get a job writing jokes for Christmas crackers. That reminded me to pop around to Granddad's later that morning as I hadn't seen him since school had finished. Reading more of the article, it turned out that there was more exciting news - this type of event had apparently happened in quite a few other places very recently and there was a list of them:

1) At least two hundred seagulls were found dead in Perth, Australia this week;

2) Over a hundred dead birds fell in a garden in Somerset like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's horror classic "The Birds";

3) Thousands of crows, pigeons, wattles and honeyeaters fell out of the sky in Esperance, Western Australia;

4) Dozens of grackles, sparrows and pigeons dropped dead on two streets in Austin, Texas;

5) More than ten thousand bramble finches died mysteriously in eastern China's Jiangsu province, dropping like rain from the sky.

I'd never heard of a grackle, a wattle or a honeyeater before but I guessed that they all had to be types of birds. For it to happen just the once was a bit unusual - maybe you could put it down to some kind of a freak accident. But could five or six "accidents" in a week just be a coincidence? What did it mean? I didn't have the appetite to finish the rest of my breakfast now and I decided to visit my granddad instead. Grandma passed away last year so he's always pleased to have visitors, especially me. I'm the only grandson he's got, actually I'm the only grandchild he's got. It was still early so I knew he'd be in - probably having toast and marmalade with his strongly-brewed tea in a nice china cup, like pretty much every morning for the last fifty years.

## 8.50 A.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

I KNOW IT WAS RIDICULOUS but, when I was walking down the street to his house, I couldn't help looking up to the sky as if I half expected a flock of birds to suddenly fall on top of me. It was like when someone starts to talk about nits and within a few seconds you're scratching away as if you're completely infested with them. My breakfast prediction was spot-on and I was offered some tea and toast - which I accepted out of politeness because I still didn't feel very hungry.

"So, Granddad, did you hear about these birds falling from the sky?"

"Too right, I did. Saw it on the news last night. Bit queer, don't you think?"

"Yeah, it's really weird. It freaked me out to be honest". Granddad didn't know that phrase so I had to translate it for him.

"Well, I certainly got 'freaked out' when I heard some bloke on the radio saying it was a sign of the end of the world. Absolute twaddle if you ask me. It's just a freak of nature, that's all. We think we're so clever and advanced that there isn't anything we can't answer or explain. You want to know what I think, young lad? Maybe God is telling us that we aren't so clever after all - and that there are things we just don't have a clue about and we never will. Humility - that's what we need more of, Mason, good, old-fashioned humility."

I smiled to myself. Granddad never loses an opportunity to make a point, but more often than not he's spot on. This time though, I really hoped he was wrong. I couldn't afford there to be no answer to this question. I needed an answer, and a really interesting one as well. My mind wandered to wondering whether he knew how serious our money problems were. Probably not. Mum and Dad wouldn't want him to worry at his age. Anyway, there was no way he could help us out - he only had his small work pension from the National Coal Board and the pension from the government to live on. It's only just enough for him, never mind the three of us as well. There was no point ruining his day, so I carried on the conversation.

"So you don't think there was any fowl play then, Granddad?"

I didn't really need to emphasize the word when I spoke, because we always play this little game.

"No, I am not that 'gull-ible', not by a long chalk", replied Granddad with a twinkle in his eye.

"You were pretty 'swift' with that response, Granddad", I fired back, giggling to myself.

"Stop 'robin' my puns will you, I was going to use that one", was Granddad's quick reply.

"Oh, 'beak' quiet will you!" I responded.

"Now that one was simply 'horr-wren-dous!'", blasted back Granddad, and I had to admit that he'd just hit a winning forehand in this little game of verbal tennis.

"Thanks for popping 'round for breakfast, Mason. Helps keep my old brain sharp it does. Good luck with your project by the way ..."

Mum must have told him about that - she was a one-woman viral marketing machine, she was!

## 10.10 A.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

ANOTHER GO ON THE INTERNET was on the cards when I got home. I wanted to see if I could find anything to do with this theory about the end of the world, but I found something else that was almost as interesting first:

'It's a fact that the Earth's magnetic field reverses its poles every 500,000 years and apparently the next reversal is due. Scientists don't know how fast it happens or the consequences, but apparently animals like birds and fish use the field to navigate, so maybe this could be one possible consequence of the reversing poles.'

I wished the theory had fully explained why this magnetic field reversal thing would cause the deaths. It might mess about a bit with the birds' internal navigation systems but that shouldn't be life-threatening, should it? Unlike Bono in my mum's favourite song, I eventually found what I was looking for - well, kind of. I was shocked to find that people claimed that it was the Bible which said that these dead birds were a sign of judgment by God. That was news to me - I'd never heard anything in Sunday School about birds being connected to global judgment. All I could remember was Elijah being fed by the ravens and Noah sending a dove out of the ark to find some land after the flood - that all sounded fairly harmless stuff.

My stomach felt like it had a bucket of water sloshing around in it and my throat felt dry. The way I looked at it was quite simple. If the Bible really did say that dead birds predict the end of the world then it must be true, because God doesn't lie, does he? There is only one person I know who can answer pretty much any Bible question. I dialed his number, desperately hoping that he was available. A familiar voice answered the phone after a few rings. It sounded out of breath but I could still tell it was him.

"Hello ... Pastor Arnold ... speaking ..."

"Hello Pastor, it's Mason Wilson here, from church. How are you? You sound a bit out of breath. You haven't been running, have you?"

"Oh, hello Mason, what a ... pleasant ... surprise. Yes, I have just ... finished my morning exercise on the treadmill. Just ... getting my breath back. Just give me a ... minute and I will be able to ... talk a bit ... better."

Pastor Arnold was one of the last people that I could imagine being on a treadmill but I decided not to mention that. I just waited until the puffing and wheezing stopped long enough to have a proper conversation.

"Pastor, I just wanted to talk to you about something important that's come up. Do you mind if I pop over for a quick chat this morning?"

"Well yes and no actually. Yes, I'm more than happy to have a chat with you this morning, but it's probably better if I come over to your place. The wife's away this week and with all the child protection rules these days it's probably best if I come to you, assuming one of your parents will be in. If that's all right, see you in about half an hour? Is everything OK?"

"Everything's fine, Pastor. I just need to pick your brains, that's all. Nothing to worry about. See you soon then."

## 10.20 A.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

I WAS GLAD I WAS GOING to get my question answered so quickly, but when Mum heard that the Pastor was coming over in about half an hour she nearly hit the roof.

"Mason, why didn't you ask me first if it was OK for him to come over? The house is like a bomb-site! He can't possibly see it like this."

"Why not, Mum? He's a normal human being like the rest of us. He'll survive. I don't know what you are worrying about anyway. The place isn't looking too bad ..."

"Not too bad?" squeaked Mum, "I don't want our Pastor thinking we live in a hovel! Quick - get the vacuum cleaner out and I will give the living room a quick going over with the duster ..."

Mum obviously didn't realize that the Pastor had come to talk to me about the end of the world. A few crumbs around the place and a bit of dust on the mantelpiece wasn't going to matter very much if the Earth was about to be burnt to a crisp! Besides, I'm not keen on vacuuming because there are lots of obstacles in our little house and it's a bit of a pain to hoover around them - Dad manages to stuff his antiques into every nook and cranny. The Pastor's wife says our front room looks like a gift shop, which isn't very polite, but it is pretty funny. But there wasn't any point in arguing when I saw her "no arguments face"; even Dad usually works out when it's safer just to do as he's told. So I just rolled my eyes and got on with it. The doorbell rang just as I was finishing, which sent Mum into a final, frenzied thirty seconds of cleaning, which I don't think made any difference at all.

"Hello, Pastor. Thanks for coming so quickly. Please do come in." I was careful to ensure that I was excruciatingly polite because I knew Mum would be listening to every word that I said to make sure that I didn't let the side down. The Pastor looked immaculate as usual. He took off his shoes in the hallway (as he knows just how house-proud Mum is) and walked through to where Mum had just finished Operation Clean-up. We'd done quite a fine job and I reckoned that he would never guess the mad panic that had just gone on. But then I looked at Mum. She looked like she'd run a half-marathon in a force nine gale and then been dragged through a hedge backwards. It did ruin the impression of peace and quiet that she'd been trying to create, but Pastor was far too diplomatic to mention anything.

"Can I get you something to drink Pastor? A cup of tea perhaps?" She was trying to appear cool and relaxed but she looked like she'd spent far too long on the treadmill herself.

"That would be very kind, Michelle. Just a spot of milk and half a sugar please, if you don't mind. I'm trying to cut back on the sweet stuff."

Pastor Arnold settled himself on the couch in anticipation of what was coming next. I could tell he hadn't a clue what this was all about. Did he think I was in some kind of trouble or that I could be interested in being baptized? Well, he was about to find out.
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# CHAPTER 7: THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH?

"So, Mason ... you seemed ... well ... pretty intense on the phone just now, so I thought I would come over as soon as I could. Go ahead, spill the beans. I'm all ears!" This was a bit of an unfortunate thing to say, because the Pastor does have large, sticky-out ears. I almost put my foot in it big time by saying "You can say that again!" but stopped just in time.

"Well, Pastor, you remember my dead bird project? I don't know if you've seen them, but there have been reports of flocks of dead birds falling from the sky around the world. Some people believe the Bible says it means the world is about to end. Is that true, Pastor - does the Bible really say that?"

"What an interesting question. I must confess it's the last thing I expected to be talking to you about when I spoke to you earlier. Yes, I'd seen something in the paper about it, this morning. The Bible does talk about dead birds falling from the sky. In one case, rather than being about the end of the world it was actually a good news story."

"Good news? What do you mean? How on Earth could it ever be good news?"

"I'm sure you know the story very well. It's an Old Testament story from the book of Exodus. The people of Israel were on a very long journey and almost every day God sent small birds, called quail, for them to eat so that they didn't starve. A couple of million people would need a lot of quail. The Bible doesn't say how they arrived but we know for sure that they didn't arrive in supermarket delivery vans. I reckon that the only sensible conclusion is that they came from the sky - wouldn't you agree?" I couldn't think of any other explanation than appearing like magic, like the shopkeeper from that old Mr Benn cartoon.

"Can you possibly imagine what it must have been like for millions and millions of live quail to be dropping from the sky each and every day? It would have been complete chaos. Quail-catching might sound like a fun game to play, but it would really have been a nightmare, especially with no guns or traps to use."

I imagined it would have been hot work catching and killing them in the desert and just think of all the waste they'd produce before they were caught. The health and safety inspectors would have had a field day.

"So, Mason, I believe (although obviously I can't prove it) that God sent quail that were already dead, like those birds in Arkansas, to make it easy for the Israelites to collect. It was the invention of the first ready-meal."

"Ready-meal? Were the quail coated in Colonel Saunters secret recipe mixture then and served up with fries and Coola Cola?"

"Not quite, but perhaps God wanted to make sure they didn't get flabby. Imagine eating take-away chicken every day for forty years. You'd weigh a ton by the end of it and goodness knows what your arteries would look like. As always, God just had their best interests at heart ...! Right Mason, I know I haven't dealt with your question properly yet, so here goes. The Bible does talk about the end of the world and a couple of verses about it in the Old Testament seem to involve birds. They are both in parts of the Bible that most people don't visit very often. The first one is in the book of Zephaniah, chapter one. It's not a verse I've really focused on too much before so I'll have to read it to you rather than quote it from memory:

'''I will sweep away everything from the face of the Earth," declares the LORD. "I will sweep away both man and beast; I will sweep away the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea-- and the idols that cause the wicked to stumble. When I destroy all mankind on the face of the Earth."'

The next one is in the book of Hosea, chapter four:

'Hear the word of the LORD, you Israelites ... there is no faithfulness, no love, no acknowledgment of God in the land. There is only cursing,lying and murder, stealing and adultery ... because of this the land dries up, and all who live in it waste away; the beasts of the field, the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea are swept away.'

"Now these are the only two Bible verses that I can think of that talk about some sort of catastrophe affecting birds. The Hosea one seems to be talking about a past, historical event related to some specific judgment because of how the Israelites were behaving at the time. So I wouldn't worry about that one. The Zephaniah one isn't as easily dismissed though - it seems to be talking about the destruction of all mankind - and as we are still here talking about it, it can't have happened yet, can it?

"But I think I can guess what your next question is going to be. When is this going to happen? It seems to me that the obliteration of the birds is going to be part of the end of mankind and not just a sign that it's coming soon. Added to that, this verse is talking about the eradication of all birds. Even though thousands and thousands have birds have recently died, that's still a drop in the bucket compared to the billions and billions of birds that probably still exist in the world, isn't it? I think that when the end of the world happens, there isn't going to be any question that it might or might not be happening - it's going to be staring people right in the face." I was quite relieved to hear all of this but I still had another question.

"But the end of the world is going to happen though eventually, even though it might not be now?"

I thought that I knew the answer but I just wanted to make sure. The Pastor took a big gulp of the tea that Mum had just brought him, along with a plate of Marks and Spencer's biscuits. All the good work on the treadmill was going to go to waste if he wasn't careful.

"Oh yes, Mason. The Bible seems to be very clear about that. Even common sense tells you that we can't just keep going on like this - the population of the world is growing so fast that we're eventually going to either run out of room or run out of resources, or both! But there's a much more important reason than that.

"God says that this world is under his judgment because of all the bad things that people do and one day he's going to build a new heaven and a new earth where bad things don't happen anymore. Basically, the old Earth's going to get vaporized. You can read all about that in one of the letters that one of Jesus' disciples, Peter, wrote in the New Testament.

"Now there's no need to look so concerned, Mason! God tells us the escape plan in what is probably the most famous verse in the whole Bible - John chapter three and verse sixteen."

I know that verse by heart, as it means a lot to me. There are lots of Bible verses that seem quite hard to understand, but that one is very simple.

"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life."

"That's the one, Mason. Good for you for knowing it by heart. Well, that everlasting life that it mentions will be spent on this new earth that God will build one day. Mason - people often think about heaven as some invisible place that you go to where there are angels playing harps on clouds, but the Bible teaches that heaven is really all about being where God is, and that one day that's going to be on a new, perfect earth where God and his followers will live forever."

"But how will I avoid being caught up in this terrible stuff when it happens, even though I do believe?"

"There are a lot of different views on that even amongst Christians. I think the basic plot of that famous Left Behind series is a pretty good account of what the Bible books of Daniel and Revelation seem to say - with a lot of extra plot thrown in to sell all those books of course! I've got the entire series of them at home - feel free to have a read when you've done your project."

"I'd love to! Thanks! My mum said I was too young to read them when they first came out but now I'm twelve, I'm sure she will be OK about it now. So ... you're saying I've got nothing to worry about then?"

"Absolutely not. These strange incidents don't, as far as I know, have anything to do with the end of the world, but God knows more about that than I do. He definitely knows when the end of the world is going to happen - but he has it all under control and he'll make sure that the people who do what He says in verses like John 3:16 will have nothing to worry about.

"Now, I am afraid I must be off - old Mr Johnson has to go and get his catheter replaced and I've offered to take him to the hospital. Ah ... the glamorous life of a pastor, eh?"

Hearing what the pastor had to say was a huge relief - no, not about Mr Johnson, about the end of the world. Who'd have thought that this project would have ended up involving big questions like that?

## 1.30 P.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

LATER THAT AFTERNOON I'd arranged to meet Ollie at our school as he wanted a bit of basketball practice on the court in the playground. It's a good job he didn't want to play rugby as there's hardly a blade of grass to be found. Our school must have been designed by someone who loved concrete and had really bad hay fever. But none of us go to school for its architectural beauty, so I suppose it doesn't really matter that much. I wanted to know how far he had got with his project but he got the same question in as soon as I arrived.

"Hey! I was going to ask you that! Well, I feel like I've hardly started in a way. I've got two projects on the go now and I'm not getting anywhere with either of them. I can't add two half-finished projects together and make a whole one, can I?"

"Hang on - two projects? What's the other one? You've never mentioned another one ..."

"Well, it's not really got going yet and I've only just come up with it. I want to try and find out what the secret ingredient of Coola Cola is."

"That's a great idea. And while you are at it, perhaps you can find out what happened to the Holy Grail and the Lost Ark of the Covenant and, for good measure, why don't you try and discover the remains of Noah's Ark? You've got well over a week left of the holidays - there's plenty of time to do all that."

"Something tells me you might just be pulling my leg there, Ollie. Don't be so daft - I'd need at least a month to finish all of those off! No, I see what you're saying. Maybe I'm being a bit ambitious and biting off more than I can chew. But I have to get something completed."

I still didn't want to tell Ollie exactly why this project was so important to me now. I hated keeping such a big secret from him but, as well as it being a private family thing, I didn't want him to feel embarrassed or feel sorry for me. It would all have to come out into the open anyway if the worst came to the worst.

"Why don't you speak to Mr Phipps and see what he says? I'm sure he'd be happy to help."

"That's not such a bad idea, Ollie. But how am I going to get in touch with him? He's on holiday like the rest of us."

"Isn't he still doing those 'English as a Second Language' classes in the holidays here at school? You might just catch him if you're quick."

"You're right! Old Phipps is a glutton for punishment, isn't he? You'd think he'd be glad of two weeks away from teaching, but he can't keep away from the place!"

Our town has lots of immigrants these days from places like Poland and Romania. They come to work in factories in the big towns and cities or on the farms in the country. They seem happy to take the jobs that people here turn up their noses at. There's even enough of them now around here to have their own store in the town-centre, which sells things like perogies (yum) and sauerkraut (yuck).

The class was being held in one of the Portakabins. I waited outside until the students began to leave, all talking very quickly in what sounded like gobbledygook to me. I wondered if they were learning the Queen's English - if they wanted to fit in quickly here they'd be better off learning some good old Lancashire slang as well.

Mr Phipps was surprised to see me and I was just as surprised to see him in jeans and a Liverpool football shirt. I've only ever seen him in a suit and tie up to now, but I suppose he's got as much right to be a Liverpool fan as anyone else. Actually, he's got pretty good taste for a teacher.

"Hello, Mason - whatever are you doing here? I know you don't always get top marks in English but I think you're a bit beyond these classes, don't you?"

"Ha-ha Sir. Very funny. I'm actually looking for a bit more advice on the project. I've come to a bit of an impasse (I hoped Mr Phipps was impressed by my use of vocabulary; but if he was he didn't show it). I hope you don't mind?"

"No, I don't mind at all. I'm actually quite impressed that you've even made a start. Usually most of the class completely forgets about the project or just keeps putting it off until the day before it's due to be handed in. Then they badger their mum or dad to give them a hand to cobble something together at the very last minute and only get to bed at about three in the morning. I can spot those projects a mile away, even apart from the pupils that can barely keep their eyes open the next day. But you don't seem to be falling into that trap."

"No, Sir. I've learnt my lesson from last time and I really, really want to win that competition. But how do I pull it all together when I don't have any conclusions? More and more questions keep coming up and I seem to be getting further and further from the end."

"Mason, all I can say to you is this. Try not to focus on the destination too much, but enjoy the journey. Do that and the rest will take care of itself." My puzzled face must have told Mr Phipps that he might as well have been talking Polish. "OK. Let's put it another way then - I'm not overly interested in your conclusions by themselves - it's how you get there that really counts. Remember - there might not be any right and wrong answers here. I'm afraid I can't read the minds of the competition judges so I don't know exactly what they might be looking for. You'll just have to try your best and see what happens. Now, I have to be off I am afraid. It looks like a couple more people want to speak to me and I really must leave soon to watch Coronation Street. Do widzenia!"

"Sorry, Sir, I didn't quite get that last bit?"

"Do widzenia! It's Polish for goodbye."

I still wasn't exactly sure what he was on about but I would definitely try and 'focus on the journey' and see what happened. There was certainly a journey that was about to happen very soon - but it wasn't the type that either of us had expected.
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# CHAPTER 8: NOT BEING A CATEGORY THREE-ER

## 9.55 P.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

It was just starting to get dark as I put my pyjamas on after supper. Something caught my eye as I looked out of my bedroom window. I caught a flash of what had to be cat's eyes, reflecting some random light coming from next door's garden. There's nothing particularly unusual about seeing a cat in our garden. We have a wooden bird feeder which attracts a lot of birds, which then attract the cats. No, what was unusual was the collar around its neck. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the lights flashing like a mini Blackpool illumination.

I raced downstairs, grabbed my coat from the cupboard and went straight to the back door in the kitchen to try and get a closer look. My parents were enjoying a glass of wine as they enjoyed (Mum) and endured (Dad) watching the Eurovision song contest in the living room; they had no idea what I was doing. I arrived in the garden just in time to see the cat disappear over the fence with a bird in its mouth. Through the gaps in the back gate, I watched it go straight to a large, white lorry parked nearby. Why would a cat go to a lorry like that? It seemed like it had been trained to do it. Not for the last time that night, I made a snap decision. I would climb over the fence and try to find out what was going on. I couldn't just open the gate and go through it because I remembered that the hinges were very rusty and the huge creaking sound would definitely give the game away.

But a sensible thought came into my head first - I think it was the only one I would have that night. Shouldn't I let someone know what I was about to do - just in case? Just in case of what? Who could I tell? Not Mum or Dad, not in a million years! They would stop the whole thing instantly - well, Mum definitely would. Dad might offer to come to escape the evening's 'entertainment' but there was no way he'd be quiet enough for an undercover mission like this. Who else? Ollie? He would probably be in bed by now and his parents wouldn't let him out at this time of night. Pastor Arnold? He wouldn't be at home as it was Youth Club night at church. Mr Phipps? No phone number. Granddad? He could keep a secret if he was asked to but I'd have to practically yell down the phone for him to hear me and that was never going to work.

I had to decide fast, so I tried Ollie anyway. If Ollie's parents answered, or if there was no answer, I would just hang up and leave a message for Mum and Dad on the kitchen table - which, if everything went to plan, I could remove when I got back in a few minutes and hopefully before they saw it. The beeps on the other end of the line started and my pulse speeded up as I waited for an answer. Eventually, it came.

"Hello, Oliver speaking ...", spoke a familiar voice.

"Ollie, it's me ... Mason", I hissed as quietly as possible. "I'm glad you answered the phone. I thought you might be in bed."

"I was just going upstairs when you rang. Why are you whispering? Where are you?"

"I'm at home. Listen. I don't want my parents to hear me so I'm talking as quietly as I can. I'll have to be quick. Ollie, I've just seen a cat in our back garden."

"So? There are cats in your garden every day, aren't there?"

"Yes, but this one had a very strange flashing collar on it and it had a dead bird in its mouth. It went to a lorry parked down the road as well. I've never seen anything like it."

"OK - but I still don't get it. Why all this cloak and dagger stuff?"

"Don't you understand? This must be something to do with my project - why you never see dead birds. Look, I'm going to follow the cat and find out what's happening."

"OK, OK - now I get it. But why are you wasting time telling me, instead of getting out there?"

"Because, you idiot, I need someone to know what I'm doing just in case."

"Just in case what? Is it going to be dangerous?"

"How should I know? Just being super-careful, that's all. There's probably nothing to worry about. But give me a ring first thing tomorrow and you can check I'm OK. I'll tell you all about it then. OK?"

"OK - will do. Wish I could come and help you out but there's no way I could sneak out of here without being caught ... good luck, Mase!"

## 10.05 P.M. MONDAY, APRIL 4

THE PHONE CALL HAD taken a bit longer than I'd expected and I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I saw the lorry was still there. Climbing over the back gate isn't normally much of a challenge - but then I'm not normally trying to do it in the dark and not when I need to avoid disturbing my parents or the lorry driver, whoever he or she was. There was a bit of a tricky moment, as I straddled the top of the gate, when the bottom of my trouser leg snagged on a rusty old nail and I had to try and jiggle myself to free it without ripping my pants; but I managed it eventually. The drop to the ground was the next challenge - I knew there was a small patch of grass below me to the left that would help to reduce the sound when I fell. As I held my breath, I let myself slide off the top of the gate and landed just on the grass landing pad. The gate made a jangling noise as it wobbled on its hinges and I froze as soon as I hit the ground to see if it caused a reaction. All my senses were on super-high alert but either no-one had heard the noise or they were not bothered about it; not even Rothery, the neighbour's dog, who is usually pretty yap-happy.

I looked down the street and studied the lorry again. It was almost completely dark now and that would provide some good cover, especially as the street lights were about as bright as one of those pathetic solar lamps you can get for the garden. I was glad now that the council hadn't got around to fixing them, despite years of complaining by the local Neighbourhood Watch Scheme. I edged down the street towards the lorry and kept to the side of the pavement, in the shadows as much as I could. I was glad that the parked cars hid me every few yards. As I got nearer to the lorry, I began to wonder if I was crazy to be doing this. I'm not usually the one who takes risks, which is why some of my friends think I'm a bit of a goody-goody. I suppose I am really. And yet here I was, creeping about on my own in the dark, not having a clue what was going to happen next.

Without any warning, there was a heart-stopping moment. As I got closer and closer there came a loud crack - it gave me a huge fright and I had to force myself not to yell and start running down the street. What on earth was that? Somehow, I knew by some kind of instinct that it was me who'd caused the sound - although my brain had not yet caught up and worked out what the sound was. And then it came to me. I had stood on a snail that had been out and about trying to get the moisture it needed. Well the snail was now a slug. I smiled to myself, thinking that it was no more than the snail deserved for frightening me like that. I'm not normally such a cruel person - honestly. I think I was only speaking to myself like that to help me forget that I was out on the dark street at night and all on my own. I was close enough to the lorry now to see that the driver was in his cab, and he was reading a newspaper. It looked like the Daily Moon, or maybe it was the Evening News; they both have that red banner on the top of the front page. The cab light was on and I could see that the man was probably sixty-something and wearing a flat cap. The man looked at his watch, pulled himself from the cab and lumbered around to the back of the vehicle. I could tell he was tall and really overweight but he seemed to look normal enough. I inched a few feet further so that I could get a good view of the back of the lorry for the first time.

I noticed that the man carried some kind of gadget-type thing. When he pressed a button on it, the back door of the lorry opened, without making a sound, to reveal a large tub, probably about six feet tall. It looked like it had a wooden staircase attached to it for some reason. What was it? Some kind of dunk tank? Once the door was fully open, the driver pressed another button. This time nothing happened. The driver seemed to expect this and, sure enough, after a couple of minutes I saw what turned out to be the first remarkable sight of the night. Cats gradually began to appear in all directions and each of them had a bird in their mouths. It was a bit like the cat version of the Red Arrows Air Force team, but not quite as dramatic as that. In quite an orderly formation, each cat came up to the van, jumped up into the back, up the stairs and dropped their bird into the container. Each cat then disappeared off again. What made it really spine-tingling was the fact that it was all done in complete silence - the cats made no noise at all as they padded along and the driver stood nearby more interested in biting his fingernails than watching.

There must have been about thirty of these cats - each with the same flashing collar that I'd seen from my bedroom. There was definitely something significant about that. It wasn't just some kind of decoration by whoever owned them. When all the cats had disappeared off again, the driver took out a cigarette, lit it and paced up down until he had smoked it, carelessly throwing it onto the floor when he had finished it. I hate it when people litter, so that really annoyed me; but there was nothing I could do about it without giving the game away. He got back into his cab and returned to reading his newspaper. I assumed that the cats were off to collect more birds and the whole process would be repeated. I was right - within half an hour, the process was repeated three times until the container was full. The driver pressed a third button on his device and the cats jumped into the back of the lorry and stayed there. They were certainly well trained.

The driver got back into the lorry and started the engine. He must be going to deliver the cargo somewhere - but where he was going, and what he was going to do with these birds, was still a complete mystery. I had an idea and I felt in my pocket for a pencil. Eventually I found it, along with an old, creased bus ticket. I jotted down the number of the registration plate of the lorry and popped it back into my pocket. I thought it might come in useful later if I wanted to try and track down who owned the vehicle or where it came from. The driver seemed to be having some problems with the engine and he just couldn't get it started. It was making a dreadful noise and someone was going to come and see what was going on if it went on much longer. I heard a click as he popped open the bonnet from inside and went to investigate. I heard him say a very rude word as he touched a hot part of the engine. Here was my chance, if I wanted to take it. The back door to the lorry hadn't been closed yet and the driver was busy round the front. The question was whether I wanted to gamble and take another risk.

As I was weighing it all up, I realized that what I was witnessing might have - no, it must have - something to do with my project, the dead birds part of it. I wasn't sure exactly how but there was only going to be one way to find out. I knew I would really regret it if I turned around and went back home now. Some wise advice I got from Granddad last year popped into my head. 'Whatever you do Mason, don't be a category three-er.' I suppose that needs a bit of an explanation. Well, we'd been at last year's annual church fancy dress party. As I was tucking into my jelly and ice-cream, he whispered in my ear, "Mason, I've got an important lesson for you - come over here". He pointed out a small boy in a pirate costume. The costume was really well done and had lots of accessories like a patch over his eye, a hat and a beard that Captain Jack would have been very proud of. He looked very convincing, at least as convincing as a ten-year-old pirate can look.

"That boy, Mason, is definitely a category one-er - someone who put a lot of effort in and did his very best. Now, look at this girl over here." The girl was dressed absolutely normally as though she hadn't known it was supposed to be fancy dress.

"That girl is a category two-er - someone who didn't put any effort in at all because they decided it wasn't for them. Now look over here ..." Another boy seemed to be wearing a costume, if you could call it that, but I wasn't sure quite who he was intending to be. It was like he'd only decided to dress up at the last minute and just cobbled it together. He'd ended up looking a bit daft.

"He is obviously a category three-er. Stuck half-way between doing a great job or no job at all, and that's the worst of all worlds, Mason. You'll see this pattern all the way through your life, lad. Some people give it their all, some people never even try, and some people end up being half-hearted. It's OK to be in that second group sometimes - you can't excel at everything, so you need to pick and choose carefully. But, whatever, you do, never, ever end up as a category three-er - OK?"

I knew that to turn around now and go home would make me a category three-er. If I'd wanted to stay in category two I should have had my supper and gone to bed. A category three-er didn't deserve to win a national competition, it was bound to be a category one-er who was going to land the top prize. And I wanted to win. I wanted to win more than anything else in the world. And so that was the simple reason why I took the biggest risk of my life so far. I crossed the street to the lorry and, with a deep breath and a quick, silent prayer, pulled myself up into the blackness inside.
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# CHAPTER 9: A STOWAWAY

The first thing that hit me was the smell - there was a horrible mixture of cat (and I was afraid that it was really cat pee) and what I guessed was the smell of dead birds. It all hit me right in the face and it nearly knocked me over. Quickly, I pulled my jumper up over my face and breathed in the smell of washing powder as much as I could - that seemed to help a bit. The only light was from the yellowy-white weak street lights and the red lights from the back of the lorry. The freaky kind of glow that they made didn't help to calm my nerves very much. Of course, the other thing I had to cope with was all the cats that were roaming around. As I think I might have mentioned, even though my initials are, would you believe it, M.E.W., I'm not all that keen on cats - and that's putting it mildly. The thought of having to deal with thirty cats in a very small space? Well, I didn't want to think about it, thank you very much. Should I try to make friends with them or just ignore them? The cats seemed to be quite happy to ignore me, so I decided that it would be better to let 'sleeping cats lie', to mangle a metaphor.

I felt my way carefully around the wall of the lorry until I came to the back corner. Feeling around on the floor to make sure that I wasn't about to sit on something gross or on something sharp, my hands touched on some rough material which, on further investigation, turned out to be some empty sacks. They would provide a bit of a cushion to my rear-end at least. I wasn't expecting the lorry to give me a very smooth ride and I'd got no idea exactly how long the journey might end up being. As I sat there waiting for the journey to start, I had a couple of minutes to chew over what I'd just seen. There were lots of questions. Are these cats trained? But by who, and what was the point of it all? Is there some kind of criminal activity going on or is it all totally harmless? Am I just trying to make something out of nothing? More important than all these questions, I felt a wave of panic go through me as I wondered whether I was ever going to see my parents again.

That was the question that I didn't even want to try and answer, so I rocked to and fro slowly and listened for sounds of activity outside instead. There was a slam of the bonnet and, shortly after that, the sound of a door opening. The lorry swayed slightly as the driver clambered up again. The jangling of keys was soon drowned out by the roar of the engine. It sounded a lot healthier now. The door banged and the lorry swayed again as the driver got out. I realized in alarm that he was probably going to come round to the back to check everything was alright before he set off on his return journey. I shrank back into the corner and pulled some of the musty-smelling sacks over me as quickly and as quietly as I could. Fortunately, it was still very dark inside and I was also quite well hidden by the large container. I still hardly dared to breathe though. If I got caught, it wasn't going to be fun.

Thankfully, the final check didn't involve anything more than checking the cats were all safely inside. The driver didn't seem to have a torch, so there was almost zero chance of me being spotted. The driver pressed his gadget and the door of the lorry closed, entombing me for a while with my new "friends". Isn't that a great word - "entombing"? I'd never had it happen to me before and I didn't like it one little bit. It was completely dark now and the only light I had was the one on my watch, which I was very glad to have, even if I had to keep my finger pressed on it for it to work for more than about two seconds. I began to worry about whether I'd be able to breathe in there. I'd heard about illegal immigrants who stow away in lorries coming through the Channel Tunnel from France. Some of them suffocate because they pack too many people into that small space for too long. I felt better when I realised that at least there had to be enough air for the cats - they must have done this lots of times before and come out the other end in one piece. I didn't think I was big enough to make much of a difference to the amount of air that was needed.

There's not that much to tell about the ride itself. Every now and again there would be a big bump when we had just gone over a pothole. The suspension wasn't great. The cats didn't seem bothered at all, and they must have been pretty experienced travelers by now. The longer the journey went on though, the foggier my head became. I think the noise and rhythm of the vehicle and the smell of diesel fuel wafting over me made me start to get sleepy. It was well after my usual bedtime by now of course.

## 12.50 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I TRIED MY HARDEST to stay awake but, the next thing I knew, I was waking up again with my brain all scrambled. Once I was able to work out where I was and why I was there, I knew it would be very dangerous if I were to fall asleep again and be discovered by the driver at the other end. I half-stood up to give my legs some exercise - I told myself that I might have to make a run for it when we arrived and being crippled by pins and needles wasn't going to help much. My hand brushed against the side of the wall and I felt a rough, rusty patch. That gave me an idea.

The more I pushed the more that part of the wall gave way until I'd actually made a small hole right through to the other side - I could tell because of the air that was now forced through the opening and the quiet whistling noise it made. It was so good to feel a bit of fresh air. I felt like a man on a desert island who has suddenly discovered a fridge with a bottle of ice-cold water in it. But I wanted more. I made the hole as big as possible with my fingers; about a square inch was all I could manage. I didn't want to cut myself on a sharp, rusty bit. At least the hole was big enough to see through now and maybe I would see a road sign or something to give me a clue where we were heading.

It took a while for me to adjust my eye to peering through the hole and especially to the headlights of the other vehicles that drove past us. But, when we came to a roundabout, the driver had to slow down a lot to make sure he got round the tight curve without tipping us all over. As the lorry went around, I saw the signpost on the exit that we were heading for - it said Lancaster, five miles. Lancaster is about an hour in the car from where I live. I've been there to visit my dad's brother and his family a few times. But this was no family trip and I realized that I was now quite far away from home and definitely too far away to walk it back home if push came to shove.

It was then I had to admit to myself that the huge flaw in my plan was that there was no plan; I'd made a decision on the spur of the moment and now I had to live with the consequences. I did the arithmetic and worked out that the lorry must have stopped for some reason on the way as it had been about three hours since I had climbed into the vehicle. It was now just a couple of minutes before one o'clock in the morning.

I hoped that the journey wouldn't last much longer as I was going even further and further away from home; plus I have to admit that I really, really needed to use the toilet. Call me shy, but I wasn't really looking for an audience of thirty cats and two hundred dead birds for that kind of thing. Luckily, the lorry had now slowed down to a crawl and then came to a complete stop. I heard a beep which I guessed must be the remote control opening the gates of wherever we were. The rattling of iron could soon be heard and, after a short pause, the lorry moved off again and stopped a few yards later. Another beep, another clang, and then the engine was turned off. The door opened slowly and the cats, right on cue, made their way to the end of the lorry and jumped out, each landing softly on the floor beneath. Was now the time to make a run for it? Was there enough time? Or should I wait inside the lorry and risk being found? There seemed to be no place to hide, except amongst the sacks. Suddenly I thought about the container of dead birds. Should I hide in there? Could I even bring myself to hide in there? It had to be considered although it made me feel sick to even think about it.

I knew I didn't have much time so I got up and looked over the side of the container. The lights from outside the lorry gave a fairly decent light but all I could make out were the dark shapes of the birds.

I noticed, with a lot of relief, that the container was almost full and there was no way I could possibly hide in there, at least not without having to toss a lot of dead birds out to make some room. That would be a very quick way to draw attention to myself which was the exact opposite of what I wanted. Chucking dead birds around also wasn't on my list of favourite things to do. Presumably, someone would be coming to collect the birds soon; so the best thing to do was to make a run for it. The logic was simple and it went like this - if I was discovered in the lorry then I was cornered, there was no escape route. But if I was seen jumping out, then at least I was out in the open and I could try and run and hide. I knew that the only snag to that strategy was I wasn't really sure where I was stepping into.

"On the count of three", I said to myself, not really knowing why I was counting, "ONE, TWO, THREE". When I reached the last number, like a kamikaze fighter pilot, I ran the few steps to the end of the lorry and leapt as strongly as I could, hoping for a firm and safe landing. "Hey! You! Stop right there!" That was what I'd expected to hear when I landed, or maybe the sound of an alarm being triggered. But there wasn't a sound. I landed almost, but not quite, painlessly on the ground - but neither happened. My legs felt a bit numb after hitting the concrete, but I only had about one and a half seconds to try and take in my new surroundings and then decide what my next move was going to be.
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# CHAPTER 10: EXPLORING THE GROUNDS

In that split second, my eyes flicked around and focused on some shrubbery close to a wall. I dashed over to it, my eyes darting from side to side to spot any danger. It felt like it was a mile away but it probably only took me five seconds to get there - like five seconds of running through syrup though. I took a few deep breaths. That smell was still there but I wasn't sure if it was just my clothes that I could smell it from. I was in a large yard which was lit by tall lamp posts. Only about two thirds of the lamps were actually working. There were a few lorries, like the one I had stowed away in, parked in neat rows.

The concrete floor I'd jumped down onto needed repairing and there were a lot of weeds growing in the big cracks. The yard was surrounded by a tall, brick wall which had some vicious looking spikes all the way along it, rusty barbed wire and broken glass on the very top. Wasn't that kind of security against the law these days? It looked like the only way in or out of the place was through the huge iron gates that the lorry had used - and they were now tightly shut. Whoever ran this place didn't want people to get in easily. I half-wondered if there were guard dogs that could be on the loose and were going to come and rip me to shreds - but then I remembered that having them about might not be too popular with the VIP's (Very Important Pets). I didn't get any warm, fuzzy feelings as I looked around. To the left of where I was standing was a large, wooden building with a lot of small, covered entrances at the bottom. I guessed that they must be cat kennels. To the right was an even bigger brick building with some newer-looking additions that didn't seem to match the rest of the place at all. The slate roof had quite a few tiles missing and there were more weeds growing out of the gutters. It was all quite industrial-looking and very similar to a lot of old, run-down factories near where I live. As Ollie's dad likes to joke, "it's rough up North!" Dad's response is usually, "Aye, it is. But at least we don't talk like we've got a mouthful of marbles." That's the north-south divide right there ...

There were some lights on in this bigger building and I could hear the whirring and clattering sound of machinery and, every so often, the sound of people talking and laughing. Laughter sounded a bit out of place. They must be on the night shift, but what were they making here? I took another look around the yard to see if anyone was about. But it was just me and the lorries. I decided to use the shrubbery to pee before deciding my next move. Mum would have been horrified if she'd been there and she's probably horrified that I've even mentioned it now. But when you've got to go, you've got to go! And anyway, what's the point of telling a story if you're going to airbrush the real bits out of it? I'm not Enid Blyton, you know. With that very important job out of the way, I could concentrate on the next big decision - what next? Explore the yard? The cat kennels? The main building?

## 1.10 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I DECIDED TO HAVE A look at the cat kennels first. I practiced my arithmetic to calculate how many cats might be inside, if it was a kennel. I'd counted about thirty cats entering the lorry I was in and there were at least thirty lorries here. So ... assuming that none were still out on the road, and if you included kittens that were too young, and cats that might be sick and not able to go out on a mission...wow! There must be almost one thousand cats in there! Did I really want to go in? Thirty cats in the lorry had been enough of a challenge; a thousand was definitely pushing it. I decided that I preferred the risk of bumping into someone rather than having to deal with so many cats; so I made my way over to the main building instead. I had the bright idea of walking around the outside of it first, before trying to enter it, just so that I could figure out how many exits there were and the general lay-out - it might prove crucial if I was forced to make a run for it. I felt like James Bond now, except for the tuxedo and the beautiful woman.

It was dark, of course, and I lost the lights from the lorry yard as I went round the corner of the building. It took a couple of minutes for my eyes adjust again. I wasn't sure what I might stand on, step in or even fall into. For all I knew, there could be huge man-traps lurking, ready to chop my leg off. OK - I have a weird imagination sometimes, but you put yourself in my shoes for a minute. It was pretty scary out there. I could now see the outside wall on the left and the building on the right, with a gap of maybe ten feet between the two. I cringed as my feet hit gravel and made a loud, scrunching noise - but fortunately the machinery drowned the sound out easily. I still tried to tread carefully, though, until I came to a window that was at about my height. I ducked underneath the window and inched my head up until I could just about see in without risking being seen myself. There wasn't much to see though. There was a dark corridor and a set of double doors a few feet down. That must be where the machinery was. There was no-one about and I decided to move on.

I was now over half-way around the left side of the building and coming to another window. It was frosted so I carried on. As I reached the corner, I noticed some rickety-looking buildings over on the left. I could smell disinfectant - must have been some outside toilets, built in the days before they had bathrooms inside. After that, there was a different smell; the smell of rotten food. It was the waste disposal area and there was no way I was going to trawl through it in the dark, looking for clues. I came round to the last side of the building, which was lit up. Thankfully, this side had no gravel but there was a mixture of concrete, grass and shrubbery. As I edged along, and passed more frosted windows, I froze as I realized that there were two men standing outside what must be the main entrance. They were enjoying a quick smoke.

## 1.30 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

LUCKILY, THEY WERE busy talking and they'd no idea that I was only twenty feet away, my back pressed hard against the cold, brick wall, my heart pounding into my ribs. I hoped that the sound of my breathing wasn't as loud to them as it seemed to be to me. I also hoped that they would finish smoking in a minute and get back to work. They didn't seem to be in any hurry though.

"Nice night tonight, eh Bill? Hardly a cloud in the sky. Pity there's so many lights in the yard, or else you'd see a ton of stars tonight, I'd bet ..."

"Well, there's two less lights working tonight than last week, and four less than the week before. At the rate we're going they'll all be gone out by the end of the year."

"He can't expect us to walk around in the dark. We'll have the union on him again, you mark my words. It's a health and safety violation, no doubt about it. Why doesn't Finch get them fixed?"

"You know the answer to that as well as I do, Jim! Old skinflint, ain't he? Won't spend a penny unless he absolutely has to, even though he's rolling in it."

"Rolling in it? Do you reckon? You wouldn't know it from looking at him though, would you? He's had that old suit as long as I've known him."

"Well, the old saying is true enough if you ask me 'where there's muck there's brass ...'" Bill dropped his voice to not much more than a whisper.

"Between you and me, Jim, I was walking past his office last week and I saw him counting a huge wad of twenty-pound notes. Must have been a few hundred of them. And he had a cloth bag on the table, which I bet was stuffed full of them as well. Yeah, he's loaded all right!" Jim whistled under his breath.

"And to think he pays us little more than the minimum wage as well. It's not right Bill, it's not right."

"Well, Jim, I suppose it's our own fault, ain't it? The teachers told us to study hard and we'd get good jobs in the end. But we didn't listen, did we? You know the old saying 'you reap what you sow'. Come on, we've still got a hundred pieces to finish before the end of the shift."

And with that pretty depressing comment, the pair stubbed out what remained of their cigarettes on the wall, tossed the stubs onto the floor and went back inside. I had even more questions now. Is this man, Finch, the owner of the factory? What's the factory producing that is making him so much money? Where do the cats and birds fit in? It was obvious that my questions weren't going to be answered by standing outside and I was starting to get a bit chilly. I crept up to the big, industrial door and saw through the window that I was about to enter into a corridor. It seemed to be empty so I pushed open the door, just as far as I needed to, and slipped inside. The corridor was pretty plain - white walls with no marks or decoration and a floor with a worn, flowery pattern.

I could now go either left or right. All I could see to my left was a door down on the right and then the corridor turned right further down, presumably back to the first entrance I'd come across. To my right was a set of open double doors and after that seemed to be a couple of doors on either side of the corridor. Perhaps that was where the offices where? I knew that I was bound to run into Jim or Bill, or some of the other workers, if I tried to get to where the machines where. That only left me with one option. It was the night shift, so people wouldn't be working in the offices, if that's what they were. That was what I was banking on now anyway. I turned right. The flowery floor was soon replaced by brown carpet, which was just as faded. Some dusty, old pictures hung a bit cock-eyed on the walls, which added to the run-down look of the whole place. They must hardly get any visitors as they didn't seem to be trying too hard to make a good impression. There can't have been any house-proud mums there recently, that's for sure.

As I crept along, I was surprised to find one of the doors half open and there was a light on inside. I couldn't risk going past the door without checking carefully to see what or who was in the room and I didn't want to go back the way that I'd come. So I very carefully crept up to the door to see if anyone was inside. There was. I froze. I could see a man, fortunately facing away from me, sitting at a desk. As I got braver and stuck almost my entire head around the door, I could see that the man was busy writing and typing every now and again into a calculator. He was muttering to himself under his breath but I couldn't catch what he was saying. Suddenly, the man stopped his work, lifted his head up and, to my horror, started to speak. "So you've finally made it to my office, have you? Good! I've been waiting for you for quite a while."
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# CHAPTER 11: MEETING MR FINCH

## 1.45 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I know it wasn't very likely, but I hoped for a second that the man wasn't talking to me and I could just ignore him and walk away. But as the man paused, waiting for a response and turning his head half-way to the door, I knew the game was up. This was awkward. But how on earth did he know I was there? Did he have eyes in the back of his head? And how could he have been waiting for me for quite a while? This was really bizarre. My brain was doing cartwheels trying to make sense of it and figure out what I should do next. There were only two options as far as I could see - run for my life or stay and confront him. Running sounded good, but where to? The only exit seemed to be the main gates and they were locked - they would just hunt me down and find me eventually. No, the only sensible option was to show myself and either bluff my way out of it somehow or own up to who I was and why I was there. The odd thing was that the man's voice hadn't seemed to be angry or threatening - if anything it had sounded a little bit amused.

Not for the first time that night, I took a deep breath and walked into the room. My throat was dry and I had no idea what I was going to say. There wasn't much point in trying to hide that I was basically a trespasser who was where they shouldn't be, and now wasn't going to be the time for chit-chat about the weather. As I shuffled in very reluctantly, the man swivelled around his chair and I got a proper look at him for the first time. I think I must have had birds on the brain by that point because he reminded of one. He had a beaky nose and small but bright eyes. His grey hair looked quite greasy and it was slicked back; it was starting to go white at the sides. He was pretty bony and had long arms, with long, thin fingers. He was dressed very oddly. In fact, he looked like he was in fancy dress or a member of one of those historical re-enactment societies. His collar had those fancy wing-things, he wore a spotted bow-tie and a grey striped waistcoat with lots of little pockets; and was he wearing a watch on a chain? Didn't he realize that this was the twenty-first century we were living in? He didn't seem to be very angry that I'd kind of broken into his factory. But I wasn't going to let my guard down that easily. It might all be some kind of trap. There was another awkward couple of seconds as I tried to think of some type of introduction.

"Er ... hello!" was all I could come up with.

The man stood up and stretched out his hand. "Theobald Finch! And who might you be, young man?"

"My name's Mason, sir. Mason Wilson." I couldn't remember the last time I had called someone (who wasn't my teacher) 'sir'. It had just come out, but it wouldn't do any harm to show a bit of respect and, anyway, it seemed to match the old-fashioned clothes that Finch was wearing. So this was the owner of the factory then - he hadn't been what I had been expecting, although I suppose I don't really know what that was.

"Mason, I think I have a right to know why you are here, given that I don't recall sending you an invitation? Please don't tell me you have come to read the gas meter, because I simply shan't believe you!" Was that an attempt at a little joke? I'd expected to be on the way to a police van by now - or at least to be given a good talking-to.

"No, sir, I haven't come to read the meter. I'm actually here by accident ..."

"By accident? You weren't sleepwalking, were you? You should have been in bed long ago I expect. How old are you - thirteen?"

"I've just turned twelve, sir. I was getting ready for bed when I saw what I think might be one of your cats in my garden. It had a strange collar on it and it made me curious, so I followed it and it came to one of your lorries. I hid inside and it brought me here."

"Ah. You came across one of my beautiful cats, did you? Well, well, this is most unexpected. We don't get many visitors around here and certainly not children like you. It's a long time since we have had a boy of your age around this place - in fact, not since I was your age, probably." Finch seemed to search in his memory banks for things that he hadn't thought about for a while; but then he came back to the present.

"So tell me then, Mason ... why should the sight of a cat cause you to jump into the back of a lorry and head off to who knows where? Are you in the habit of doing things like that? It all sounds a bit far-fetched to me!" I didn't think he had any room to talk about things being far-fetched with him owning hundreds of cats, not to mention having barrels of dead birds being shipped to his factory. But I didn't see there was anything I could do except to tell Mr Finch pretty much the whole story - except for the part about Coola Cola and the competition. That didn't seem to matter now - all he needed to know was that I wasn't there to steal anything and that I didn't mean any harm. Mr Finch leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He took it all in with great interest and quickly stood up when I'd finished; I wondered if I was about to be manhandled off somewhere.

"Remarkable! Remarkable story, young man, and I'm inclined to believe that you're telling me the truth. A boy like you couldn't make all that up, surely. I must say, I admire your courage, lad. Very brave of you. Very foolish as well, of course! All this to complete a school project, eh? It's a far cry from when I was a lad - there were none of these projects then, I can tell you. No, nothing half as interesting as that.  Anyway, you're here now and I suppose you're looking for some answers to that question, eh? Why don't you see dead birds very often? Well, I think I can help you with that one - I can't see any harm in that. But, first of all, what about your parents - do they know where you are? They'll be worried, I expect."

I hesitated. Finch was right of course. But was it really wise to tell him that my parents didn't know where I was? He seemed to be just a harmless, eccentric old man but I'd only known him for less than five minutes. For all I knew, he could be a dangerous villain.

"No, sir. My parents don't know where I am. But they won't miss me until they wake up in the morning. And I'm hoping to be home long before then. Besides, my best friend knows what I'm up to and he'll raise the alarm if I'm not home by eight o'clock tomorrow morning." I think it was a wise move not to mention the minor detail that Ollie wouldn't have a clue where to start looking for me. "And talking of raising an alarm, I've got a question for you. How on earth did you know I was even here? You gave me such a shock when you started talking to me."

"Ha, that was tremendous fun; at least it was for me! But I suppose anyone who did what you've done should expect to get a bit of a fright sooner or later, eh? Come around here and I will show you." I did as I was told and looked down to where Mr Finch was pointing.

"See these monitors? I use them to keep an eye on the building when I am working, just to make sure everything is OK and the workers aren't slacking off. It's cheaper than employing security guards. I didn't see you get out of the lorry but I spotted you walking away from the wall down to the cat kennels. I lost sight of you after that but I suspected you'd come round again to the front - and of course you did. I could tell you were only a young lad or else I would have got a couple of my men out to deal with you."

That sounded ominous. I looked at the screens. They seemed a bit out of place here - everything else seemed a bit ramshackle but these screens were state-of-the-art and must have been worth a fortune. It seemed an odd thing to spend money on really, especially after what I'd just overheard outside about him being tight with money. But I didn't trust Mr Finch well enough yet to ask him about it.

"Take a seat and we'll get started. Hang on a minute - you must be thirsty after your journey; and I'm a bit parched as well come to think of it. Do you like tea? Let's get Bill to put the kettle on whilst we talk."

Mr Finch turned to his control console, pressed a couple of buttons and spoke into a microphone that I hadn't noticed before. "Bill, would you be so kind as to put the kettle on and bring me up two cups of tea? Thank you."

I bet Bill would have been confused by that request. Why would Mr Finch need two cups of tea? Well, all would be revealed shortly. I took off my coat and sat down opposite Finch, who cracked his knuckles and settled back into his chair again to start his story-telling. Was I about to hear the answer to the puzzle?
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# CHAPTER 12: THE BODY SNATCHERS

"If you want to go right back in history, I guess it all started with my ancestors' interest in human anatomy. I say 'interest', but really it was purely a money-making exercise for them. You've probably learned at school that medical knowledge was increasing very rapidly a couple of hundred years ago. But what was stopping even faster development was the fact that the doctors did not have enough specimens to work with. All the fancy models and dummies that exist today just weren't around back in those days. What was needed was a good, steady supply of dead human bodies that could be experimented on. Yes, I know, it's a bit grotesque, isn't it? But that was life back in those days. That's where my great-great-great-grandparents came in - they were body snatchers by trade. Have you heard anything about that profession? Well, it was quite simple. They would track all the burials in the neighbourhood based on announcements in the newspaper and that same night they would go into the graveyard and dig the body out of the ground. Then they would sell it to one of the doctors on the black market.

"It was all very gruesome stuff of course but it was very lucrative at the same time. Sometimes there was a bidding war as doctors tried to get hold of the most interesting cases for their research. As you can imagine, it all created a terrible stink in the society of the day." Finch laughed at his own joke, which reminded me a little bit of my granddad. "It was Burke and O'Hare's fault that things got really ugly - they were the most famous body snatchers of them all. They really put body snatching on the map, but the truth is that they were no better than amateurs really and they just got a bit over-confident in the end. It got to the point that they were starting to steal corpses in broad daylight - imagine that! And so it wasn't long before a law was passed that made body snatching a criminal offence, which was punishable by hanging.

Of course, making it such a risky business just pushed up the prices of the corpses and made body snatchers even richer than they were before! My family was very successful at what they did. But eventually, their luck had to run out and one night they were disturbed by the local constabulary while they were right in the middle of a dig. I can't imagine that it's easy to escape from the law when you are three feet down in a muddy trench. Poor old James Finch was captured, put on trial, found guilty and hanged all within a couple of weeks. It was in all the newspapers and it brought great shame on the entire family. But, fortunately, his wife Mary had managed to escape in all the confusion and the darkness.

"The business had to stop instantly though - there were just too many problems. For one thing, there was no way that Mary could dig a grave and carry the body away all by herself. Plus she couldn't trust anyone else to set up a new partnership with her. In those days, professional business was usually conducted man-to-man. Most doctors didn't like to deal with a woman for those types of things - it just wasn't done. But Mary had to find a way to survive and feed her children, and it was then that she turned to another kind of anatomy - animal anatomy this time." Before Mr Finch could go on, Bill arrived with the tea as requested and, obviously well trained, he brought a plate of biscuits as well.

"Ah, good man, Bill! Nice and strong - just how I like it. Bill, let me introduce you to young Mason here. Mason is interviewing me for a school project. Mason - Bill is our head cushion-stuffer but I'll tell you all about that later."

Cushion-stuffer? Was that a clue to what was going on here? That didn't sound like a mafia-type operation at all. Bill nodded to me but he didn't say anything. He was trying to look as though it was perfectly normal for a twelve-year-old boy to be in the factory well after midnight. But I caught him looking at Mr. Finch in a way that seemed to say 'are you sure it's a good idea him being here?'

"Right! Where were we? Oh yes. Well, as I said, she turned to animal anatomy - but not supplying dead animals to vets as you might think. Oh no. What she started doing was making use of the animal corpses in all different sorts of things. Now, there was nothing new about that in a way - for thousands of years people have found all kinds of ingenious ways to use virtually every piece of a carcass of a cow or a sheep, or animals like that. Take a cow for example - most of it is used for meat, the hide is used for leather and the fat was once used to make candles. Horse bones have been made into glue of course for a long time - they make a terrible stink, even worse than the smell here, if you can believe that. And with poultry and game birds, almost all the bits that aren't eaten directly are made into soup. Virtually nothing gets wasted - so recycling isn't such a new idea you know.

"Mary couldn't get hold of these animal carcasses at a reasonable price simply because everyone already had a use for them. But one day, she realized that no-one was giving two hoots (pardon the pun) about ordinary common or garden bird carcasses - people thought they were far too small and insignificant to worry about. Even back then, people had gone off the idea of eating small birds like sparrows."

"So that old nursery rhyme 'four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie' never really happened?"

"Well, centuries and centuries ago, people really did eat birds like that and more besides. I wouldn't be surprised if someone didn't really make a blackbird pie. I bet you didn't know, did you, that one of Henry the Eighth's favourite meals was roast swan, and another popular delicacy at the time was lark's tongue! But, for some reason they just went out of fashion." I was really glad about that.

"Anyway, back to my story. Like any good entrepreneur would, Mary spotted a gap in the market. Of course, it wasn't as easy as it sounds. She had two big problems - first, how to source the raw materials and, second, what to use them for when she got them.

"I can see you're getting tired with all this talking, so let's go for a walk down to the cat kennels and get some fresh air. I can explain how she solved the first part of the problem down there."

## 2.20 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

MR FINCH BROUGHT A powerful torch with him to make up for the poor lighting in the yard. It didn't take us long to get to where the cats were and Mr Finch paused before opening the door.

"At first, Mary really struggled to get enough birds. She obviously couldn't spend all her time wandering around the countryside and in woods and parks looking for them. But when one of her cats brought home five mice one night, she began to wonder whether she could train her cats to bring her birds instead. Somehow she managed it and soon she was able to acquire a lot more cats and train them up as well.

"I can tell you from experience that the training is a very long and time-consuming process. The technique was handed down through the generations to me but, a few years ago, I decided to let technology do the work instead. Come inside and I'll show you."

Finch unlocked the door and beckoned me inside. I was relieved to see that the cats were all safely behind wire fences. The inside was split into lots of compartments with around a dozen cats in each. The torchlight lit up the room and was reflected in the cat's eyes again, much more brightly than they did in the back of the lorry. There was a very strong cat smell which reminded me of my journey here. Finch went over to a large cupboard and pulled out a collar and what I guessed was a remote control unit.

"This is a wonderful gadget. I can't take all the credit for it though. It was a joint project with the bio-engineering department of the local University, which I funded entirely. This collar, when you attach it to the cat and switch it on ... like so ... it sends signals to the cat's brain so that it effectively controls what they do - it makes them collect the birds and bring them back to where the control pad is. I don't fully understand how it works but it certainly does."

"I know. I saw it myself and it's one of the strangest things I have ever seen. But isn't it damaging to the cats though?"

"That's a fair question; but there's no need to worry. I'm a big cat lover and the last thing I would want to do is to hurt them. Before I started using them, I made very sure that the University did lots of tests to prove that there were no long-term effects for the cats. As soon as the gadget is switched off they just instantly become ordinary cats again."

"Wow! This could be a big seller, you know. Cats are famous for doing their own thing, aren't they? I bet some cat owners would pay a lot of money to have a gadget that gets them to do what they want. Owners of badly-behaved dogs would buy one too - and what about controlling badly-behaved kids as well? Parents and teachers would be queuing up to buy them. You could make a fortune, Mr Finch!"

"Well, you could be right about the dogs at least but they'd have to be rich pet owners, because these things don't come cheap, I can tell you that! But it is well worth the investment for what we do here. A cat can bring in thirty birds on a good night. We have around 1,000 cats here at any one time so that can be as many as 30,000 birds a night. If you are good at arithmetic, you'll be able to work out that we collect just over one million birds a year and that's just from this site. We have other sites around the country that basically do the same thing, seven days a week and fifty-two weeks a year."

"So that's why we hardly ever see dead birds in this country then, Mr Finch. Your cats are hoovering them all up."

"Well, I suppose that's definitely a big part of it. But we can't possibly collect them all, much as I would like to. And of course there are all the other countries where the same phenomenon seems to happen. We can't be held responsible for events outside this country. I think some of your internet sources are quite correct - the birds must go off somewhere quiet to die and often my cats can't find them. We only have a couple of days at most to collect them because the carcasses decompose so quickly - it's a bit of a race against time."

"Are the cats the only way you collect the birds?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"When I was at the zoo, a boy asked the keeper at the aviary what happened to those birds when they died. He didn't really answer the question and he looked really uncomfortable. I thought it was odd at the time. Is he connected to this in any way?"

"No, he must be up to something quite different. You never know, he might be selling off the dead birds to collectors who would stuff and mount them - there is a huge market for that kind of thing now that it is illegal to buy and sell exotic animals. Nothing to do with me - all the birds in all the zoos in the world wouldn't add up to much in the grand scheme of things. My cats could catch that amount in a few weeks - and to me a sparrow is just as useful as a lesser-spotted woodpecker."

"I suppose so - just thought I'd ask. So tell me about what you do with all these birds once you have got them. I just can't work that part out."

"Tell me - what's your favourite subject at school?"

"Erm ... it's hard to choose between biology and chemistry but I definitely want to be a scientist of some sort when I'm older. Why?"

"Because I don't want to bore you to death with what I'm about to show you, that's why. It's mostly connected with biology and chemistry though so it should be right up your alley. Why don't we walk around the factory and I'll tell you all about it?"

"Anything to get me away from these cats. I know this isn't the best place to admit this - but I've never liked cats much."

"Don't worry, Mason. I promise that I won't hold it against you - but the cats just might ...!"
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# CHAPTER 13: ON THE FACTORY TOUR

## 2.45 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

We walked the short distance to the side entrance and went inside. We soon came to the door that I'd seen from the window earlier. Mr Finch paused outside the door.

"It can get quite noisy in there when the plucking machine is operating. Here - you'll need to wear these when it's on; health and safety regulations you know." Mr Finch handed me a huge, bright yellow pair of noise-reducing earphones. "I am afraid I can't do anything about the smell in there though, but there are no regulations about that! Remember to breathe through your mouth - it just takes a bit of practice and then you'll be fine."

The headphones were really, really heavy. When I put them on, I felt like a deep-sea diver tottering about with one of those big helmets on. I'm glad no-one from school could see me looking like that.

Mr Finch put his headphones on, pushed open the door and waved at me to come inside. The room was quite big and seemed to be split into four main areas which were separated by large, white screens. Even with my protective headgear, it was very noisy at first. But Bill quickly pressed the off button when he saw who had just entered and Mr Finch gave me a thumbs-up sign to let me know that it was now safe to take the headphones off.

"Welcome to our humble operation. There is no charge for the special guided tour, although all tips are welcome." Mr Finch seemed pleased to be able to show off his little empire for once. "Our first exhibit is our famous feather-plucking machine. In the old days it was all done by hand, but bare hands can only pluck so fast. This wonderful machine can pluck five hundred birds an hour when it is at top speed and that adds up to a lot of feathers."

"How many feathers does a bird have, exactly?"

"It depends on which bird you're talking about. Most songbirds, for example, have between two to four thousand feathers. You might be interested to know, by the way, that thirty to forty percent of them are located on their head and neck. Do you have any idea why?"

"Erm ... to protect the head in case the bird flies into a window or something?"

"Good guess. It is to protect the brain, but it's for protection against extremes of temperature. The basic rule is that the colder the climate is, the more feathers it needs. For example, a Tundra Swan living in Siberia has about twenty-five thousand of them."

I tried to calculate how many feathers could be plucked by this machine in an hour but I ended up just deciding it was a lot. I was curious to see the machine working so I put the headphones on again and gave a thumbs-up signal to Bill as if to say 'I'm ready!' The machine was restarted and Bill wheeled over a huge vat of birds and emptied the contents into a big hole in the side. The machine noise got even louder as it set to work plucking the birds and, after a few seconds, feathers started to spit out into three large containers. I noticed that the feathers in each container were different sizes.

"Why are the feathers sorted into different sizes?" I asked when the machine finally stopped.

"Simply because they all have different uses. They are not just different sizes - they are different types of feathers altogether. The type most people think of is this one - it's called a contour feather." He held up a feather which was a small version of what people used to make quills out of for writing. "The bit that looks like a stem is called a 'shaft'. You see these bits that look a little like branches coming out from the shaft? They are called 'barbs'. Each barb has lots of tiny hooked branches on it which work like Velcro to help the barbs stay together. It really is incredibly well-designed. All the barbs locked together form what is called the 'vane'." Finch picked up a different feather.

"This feather is known as a 'semi plume'. They have shafts just like contour feathers, but their vanes are much fluffier. The last type is the 'down' feather, and here is one of those. It's like the semi plumes, except that their fluffy barbs all arise from one point on the 'foot' of the feather. Can you see that? There's no shaft like the other types so it's the softest feather of them all. These three types of feather all have different masses so the machine knows which container to direct them to - it's all clever stuff."

"So what is each type of feather used for then?" Mr. Finch walked a few feet to a smaller machine that had a big hole at one end which was full of the down feathers. At the other end was what seemed like a large hosepipe.

"We use the softer down feathers to make pillows and the harder semi plumes to make cushions. Bill, come and show us how this all works." Bill came and took a piece of fabric from a large pile by the machine. He found the hole in its side and attached it to the hosepipe. When he switched the machine on, it started to pump out the feathers into the cushion until it was full. A zip had already been sewn in - that was now shut and fixed so that it couldn't open again - there really wasn't anything much to it.

"Now Mason, let Bill be a sobering example to you. If you don't work hard at school, you'll end up like Bill, stuffing cushions for a living. Thirty years he's been doing this, eh Bill? Goodness knows how many cushions you've stuffed over the years."

"Doesn't bear thinking about, does it?" said Bill, wincing at the thought. "I think it's about time I retired!"

"Don't people mind that they're using cushions made of dead bird's feathers? It would kind of give me the creeps, I think."

"They haven't got a clue for one thing, young man. But why is this any different from any other pillow or cushion? Aren't all feathers taken from dead birds one way or the other? Or do you think there are lots of birds wandering around in the farmyard or swimming on the duck pond stark naked?"

"OK, fair enough, I suppose. You'd make a good politician, you know. What about the other feathers? What do they get used in?"

"The contour feathers are much too big and hard to put in cushions. So this is where we get really innovative. There are a number of applications that you might find surprising. Most of them are far too technical and complicated to be completed in this factory, so we simply send the feathers to the experts for them to do the work. I've got the Press Release for one of them in my pocket, as it happens. Let me read some of it to you."

Mr Finch searched his pockets until he found the piece of paper and then reached down into his waistcoat and pulled out something on a long chain. I thought it looked a bit like a magnifying glass but, when he put to his eye and sort of winked so that it stayed there, I realised it was something I'd only seen in old black and white pictures - a monocle. He must be the only person in the world who still uses one and I am not surprised - it looked very uncomfortable and it kept falling out every ten seconds. Mr Finch was now ready to read and he cleared his throat as if to make it clear that this was something quite important.

"'Biolabs Inc. is proud to announce that they have successfully produced bio-pesticides from feathers. Studies indicate that the mosquitocidal spores produced from the feathers are as effective as the usual Nutrient Yeast Extract Salt Medium and highly economical.'

"I won't bore you with the rest of it. But we currently supply Biolabs with the feathers that they use in their testing - it's still small-scale stuff at the moment though but in the next couple of years it could really take off."

"Wow, that's incredible! I suppose in the old days when Mary started up her business, those kind of uses hadn't been thought of, had they?"

"Good heavens - no! We've come a long way since those days. You're quite right Mason, new uses are being invented all the time. Back at the beginning though, it was all about much more mundane business like pillows, cushions and ink quills - they didn't have disposable pens in those days, of course!

"Talking about new uses, what is really exciting is that feathers might dramatically change transport as we know it in the next ten or twenty years. Believe it or not, but scientists are working with feathers to run cars."

"What do you mean? You can use feathers for fuel instead of petrol?"

"Goodness gracious! No, to help run cars using hydrogen instead of petrol. Hydrogen occurs naturally in the atmosphere in great quantities, you know, so it's basically free, plus it's eco-friendly as well. It doesn't do any harm to the environment like producing and using petrol does.

"The only snag is that hydrogen is extremely hard to store and transport. The hydrogen vehicles so far have either had to keep it as liquid or convert it to pressurized gas in dirty great big tanks. But pressurized gas takes up forty times as much space as petrol does, plus you need to make sure you keep it at extremely low temperatures. Right now, a full tank of hydrogen would only get you about a mile, which isn't much use at all really, is it?

"The boffins have been trying to figure out how to store more hydrogen so the cars can go further. All the solutions they have come up with so far have been very expensive, but they've found that, if they super heat feathers, the surface area of the fibres strengthens and increases so it can hold vast amounts of hydrogen. Using feathers like that would only add about a hundred pounds to the price of a car, but the next best solutions would cost around twenty thousand pounds! Using feathers can still only get you about a hundred miles or so at the moment - which is a big improvement but still not nearly enough to persuade people to change to hydrogen power - yet. But it's just a matter of time before they really crack it."

"Cushions, pillows, pesticides, making cars go - I have to keep pinching myself to prove I am still awake!" Mr Finch gave me a big, beaming smile. He just seemed happy to meet someone who was interested in all this crazy stuff.

"Oh, you haven't seen the half of it yet! Why don't we move on and I'll show you the next machine?"
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# CHAPTER 14: THE THINGS YOU CAN DO WITH FEATHERS

## 3.15 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

"That would be great, Mr Finch. I was just wondering though, with all these different uses for feathers, why are these scientists coming to you for their feather supply? Can't they just use the feathers from birds that we eat - like chickens and geese? The Matthew Bernards factory down south must kill millions of birds every year to make their chicken nuggets and turkey twizzlers. What happens to all those feathers?"

"Ah, an excellent question, my boy. The answer is that virtually all of the world's mass-produced poultry has been genetically modified over the last few years. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes - I studied it in Biology class last month - it's when the plant or animal is changed somehow. Isn't it something to do with their DNA?"

"Correct. They change what is called the 'genetic code' - the essence of what the bird is - for a number of different reasons. In this case, they do it to make the birds immune to certain viruses and to make the birds grow heavier and quicker than they would normally. The heavier they grow and the quicker they grow the more money can be made out of them. That's what it is all about."

"Are they allowed to do that? Isn't there a law against that sort of thing?"

"Not at the moment. Sometimes it takes a while for the law to catch up with new developments in technology. If they were doing this stuff to humans, though, then I am sure that people would be up in arms about it a lot more. Take yourself as an example - if the scientists did to you what they do to the chickens, you would have been six feet tall and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds by the time you were ten - how would you fancy that?"

"Well, I suppose our school would have a great basketball team, wouldn't they? But it doesn't sound healthy to me. It's not natural."

"No, it most certainly is not. And the problem is that the modification has accidentally altered the DNA of the feathers so that their structure just doesn't meet the technical specifications that the scientists need for all this hi-tech stuff. The birds are geared to grow faster and heavier, not stronger and healthier like God intended. I doubt they would survive very long if they had to live in the wild - the feathers wouldn't keep them warm enough and they might not be strong enough for them to be able to get off the ground. Not that the big poultry processors care about that of course - they just want to make as much money as possible. The funny thing is that they don't seem to think that there is any money at all in feathers and, worse than that, it costs them a lot of money to dispose of them because they decompose very slowly and take up a lot of landfill space. Ironically, if they hadn't ruined the feathers, they would have people queuing up trying to buy them. They might have even ended up making more money from the feathers than they do from the meat!"

"It serves them right for trying to play God and mess up how He designed the birds to be in the first place. It's almost enough to make me go veggie ..."

"I couldn't agree more, Mason. Scientific advances are generally good but you need to know where to draw the line. But looking on the bright side, their loss is my gain. It gives me control of the market which I wouldn't have had otherwise, so I'm quite thankful for that. It's probably just a matter of time though before they figure out how to re-modify these birds and make the feathers usable again - then I will be in trouble. Thankfully, I do have other revenue streams to fall back on."

"Oh really? What are they, then?" Finch's face turned into a frown and he looked away.

"Oh ... nothing you would be interested in I'm sure. And besides, I haven't shown you the other machinery yet. Come with me - time is getting on."

## 3.35 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

MR FINCH USHERED ME over to the next part of the factory. Was he trying to avoid telling me something? I didn't have time to think about that. This part of the floor had five separate machines in it and I was a bit surprised to see two middle-aged women operating them. They looked like a couple of school dinner ladies. Mr Finch waved at them to come over to introduce themselves to me.

"Mason, please meet June and Joan. June is married to Bill, who you met earlier and Joan is married to Ted, who also works here. We like to keep things in the family! June, I'm giving young Mason here a tour of the factory so that he can complete a school project. Would you mind telling him what all these machines do? There are a couple of things I need to go and check on. Mason, I promise you that neither of them bite - unless they are provoked, that is."

"He thinks he's so funny, don't he?" cackled June. "Well, he is!" laughed Joan. "Funny 'peculiar' that is, rather than funny 'ha-ha'. Welcome to our part of the factory, young sir. Can you guess what Joan and I make here?" After an attempt at a dramatic pause, June pulled a black sheet off a large wooden pallet to reveal the mystery product.

"Plant pots? Seriously? You can make plant pots out of feathers?"

"You certainly can. It's quite a process to do it, which is why we need all five of these machines." We walked over to machine number one, which looked a bit like a washer and dryer except a super-turbo version. "The first machine simply cleans the feathers in detergent and then dries them out. The feathers then move to the next machine which is basically a guillotine chopper. It splits out the spine part of the feather from the rest of it - like this, for example. Next, the third machine shreds the spines into tiny pieces and then hammers them to turn them into powder. 'Here is a batch we made earlier' as they used to say on Blue Peter! The fourth machine turns the powder into pellets - and here are some of those. They look a bit like rabbit droppings, don't they? The final machine uses an injection molder to create the pots. Here, take one and have a look at it." I took one and turned it round in my hands to get a good feel of it.

"Wow! It's very light, isn't it? It hardly weighs anything at all. Apart from that it looks and feels just like the regular plastic ones you'd find at any garden centre - you'd never guess in a million years that it was made out of feathers."

"You're right. It is much lighter than the plastics which are made from oil. So it's much lighter to transport for sale, which in turn makes it cheaper and more profitable to sell. It looks just the same as plastic and it's also a lot stronger. That combination makes it perfect to use in the inside of vehicles; things like car dashboards for example - but we don't have the machinery to make those here.But, best of all, these pots are biodegradable. That means they disintegrate naturally over time without any harm to the environment. Actually, they are really green because they slowly release nitrogen into the soil and that helps to make it more fertile."

"So you get a better product plus you're helping the environment at the same time. That must give you a good feeling?" I asked.

"It's what they call a 'win-win situation' I suppose. I'd feel like I was even more of a winner though if I had some shares in Mr Finch's company - he's a very wealthy man you know."

"Yes, it seems like wealth can come from the most unexpected places, can't it?" They couldn't reply to that because Mr Finch suddenly re-appeared just then.

"Well, Mason, how do you like our plant pots - ingenious, eh?" I nodded vigorously. "You've seen two parts of the factory now, and it's time for the third - come this way!"

## 3.45 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I FOLLOWED MR FINCH behind a large room divider to two huge vats. They were so big that I couldn't even see into them. Finch saw me looking at the ladder attached to each one and gave a thumbs-up signal to tell me I was OK to climb up. I carefully climbed up one of the ladders and what I saw took my breath away - for two reasons.

The smell that came from the vat was enough to make we want to throw up. The vat appeared to be cooking dead bird soup. The mixture was grey-brown, thick and lumpy, and was bubbling slightly. It looked like a large dinosaur with bowel problems had just visited to fill up the vat. I could hardly bring myself to look at it and I came down the ladder twice as fast as I'd gone up it.

"Don't tell me you're making dead bird soup, Mr Finch. I've heard of bird's nest soup but that's taking things a bit too far."

"No, of course not. It's not soup. But would you believe that some of it is intended to be edible?" I must have looked like I was going to be sick, because he quickly explained further.

"Not eaten by humans of course but eaten by animals. The other vat on the left is making feather meal which is eaten all the time by farm animals like pigs, sheep and cows."

"You're kidding. Animals eat feathers? Doesn't it tickle their throats?"

"Yes, they really do eat feathers - but it's not just feathers. We chop them up finely and mix in molasses and fat to make it more digestible for them. Animals with only one stomach, like horses, can take up to 5-10% of their diet in feather meal. But animals with more than one, like cows, can eat more of it because they're able to digest it better.

"Once we've boiled the mixture in this vat, we transfer it into a high-pressure cooker, just like the one your mum uses to cook vegetables for her Sunday roast - but much bigger and a lot more powerful. The pressure breaks down the fibres in the feathers perfectly. Then we dry it out and hammer it, until it's a nice powder. Here, look in this bucket."

"Hey, it looks a bit like coffee and I bet it tastes even worse than coffee does."

"Well, I must say I have never once received negative feedback from the end customer so it mustn't be so bad, not that I have ever tried it myself! The vat you looked into is slightly different. It is making feather meal fertilizer - which not only uses feathers but the rest of the bird that we can't find a use for in anything else. This type of fertilizer has a lot of nitrogen in it like those plant pots you saw. Other fertilizers give a quick boost to the plants but after that they don't have much of an effect. But this stuff releases the nutrients slowly and steadily so that the plants can get the good stuff out of the soil whenever they need it."

"Sounds like another winner. But I have another question. Doesn't all this muck and the stench bother you at all - I mean this is all pretty disgusting, right? I nearly threw up into the vat when I was at the top of the ladder."

"I'm glad you didn't - that would have been a clear health and safety violation right there, not to mention a terrible waste of animal feed as well. The smell? It doesn't bother me at all actually. Everyone gets used to it after a while. And as for the rest of it, I was diagnosed as a child as having compulsive obsessive disorder ..."

"Don't you mean obsessive compulsive disorder?"

"The correct medical term is actually compulsive obsessive disorder and that's what doctors called it when the condition was first diagnosed. But then they realized that it sounded a bit odd having to tell someone that they had a very serious case of COD, so they simply changed the order of it."

"Well you learn something new every day. I suppose it's a bit like the Northern Ireland Police Service which they always seem to call 'PSNI'."

"It's exactly the same reason. Well, it's common for people with COD to constantly keep washing their hands and making sure they are spotlessly clean. My parents knew that this was going to be a huge problem in their line of work. So they took me all the way to a specialist in London to have a course of treatment to make sure that I wasn't compulsively obsessive any more. It cost a great deal of money because very few people had even heard about the condition way back then, never mind had a cure for it. I can't really recall what the treatment was now, which is probably just as well because I don't think it was very pleasant at all. I've probably sub-consciously blacked it out of my memory. But I can certainly tell you that it was perfectly successful; so successful in fact that from that time on, I seem to have had no aversion to muck, dirt or filth of any description. It's obviously very useful in the work that I do, but it also means I don't tend to wash very often because the smell and the feeling of being dirty doesn't bother me at all. To tell you the truth I only wash every now and again for my health's sake or if I happen to be meeting someone important. You're lucky because I happened to have a bath last month, so I probably don't smell too bad at the moment."

I didn't really know what to say without saying something rude so I said nothing and there was a bit of an awkward silence for a few seconds until Mr Finch spoke again.

"Well ... I suppose that concludes our little nocturnal tour, young man. I hope you enjoyed the experience! Any last questions for me while you have the chance?"

"Actually, I do have one more. It seems like the birds and feathers can be used in lots of different things - is there anything else they can be used for or perhaps could be used for in the future?"

It seemed like an innocent question to me, but Mr Finch was unable to answer right away as he had with the other questions. Finch looked quickly at a corner of the factory that he had not shown me up to now, and cleared his throat as if to buy himself some time to come up with an answer. Why had my question completely thrown him? Was there something he wasn't telling me?
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# CHAPTER 15: TAKING A RISK

"Er ... different things, you say? Different ... things?" Mr Finch sounded like he'd never heard those words used together before. "Well yes ... there are different things that could ... potentially ... be made, I suppose ... only using the feathers of course. Let me think ... let me think ... I really need some coffee at this time in the morning. OK ... yes - well there are two interesting things in the pipeline. What's your jumper made of, if you don't mind me asking?" I was curious why Mr Finch had found the question so uncomfortable to answer and where he was now going with this.

"I've got no idea. Only Mum cares what it's made of so she doesn't accidentally shrink it. But take a look at the label if you like". I swivelled around so that Mr Finch could take a good look at it.

"Ah yes ... as I suspected - sixty percent wool and forty percent acrylic. That's fairly standard these days. In a few years' time though, you could easily be wearing a feather jumper, you know."

"A feather jumper? Seriously?"

"Absolutely. Remember those barbs and barbules that make up the fluffy parts of the feather? They have a similar feel on the skin as wool does. And the honeycomb structure that's inside them has tiny air pockets which make them more lightweight and more hard-wearing than wool is. That also gives them better heat insulation at the same time. I am afraid the poor old sheep are no match for the birds on this one. You heard it here first. And there are other things on the way as well. Scientists are also trying to spin the feather fibres so thin that they can be made into sheets similar to cellophane. They're even talking about making biodegradable sweet wrappers and holders for those beer six-packs - just think how much litter that will reduce on our streets. It's going to be a big feather in our caps, this one."

I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. A big clue was that I almost missed the terrible pun that Finch had just made. It was a lot to get your head around at the best of times and especially when it was a long way past your bedtime.

## 4.05 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

AS I LOOKED AT MY WATCH, I realized it was now a lot closer to getting up time than it was to my bedtime. I just had to get myself home before Mum and Dad discovered I was missing. I was counting on them thinking that I'd just gone to bed and forgotten to say goodnight; but if I didn't get home before they woke up t hen the game was definitely going to be up. I remembered that I was an hour's drive from home with absolutely no idea how on Earth I was going to get back there. Mr Finch seemed to be able to read my mind.

"I suppose you are wondering how you are going to get home now? Well, I suggest the best way to go back is the same way you came - in one of my lorries. I think one of the drivers is going to be going out in just a few minutes. I'm sure he wouldn't mind giving you a lift. Whereabouts do you live?"

"Atherleigh, just past Howe Bridge."

"Excellent! we have a pick-up scheduled not too far from there tonight. We will have you home in two shakes of a lamb's tail. I'll just let the driver know he will have a guest tonight."

That sounded like an excellent idea to me. If we left pretty sharpish, I would be home just before the time when my parents would normally get up. I didn't have any money on me, so I couldn't see that I had any other option. As I made my way to the main entrance of the factory with Mr Finch, I tried to piece together all that had happened. Something didn't make sense to me - but what was it? Was everything that I had seen really profitable enough to make Mr Finch a very rich man, as two people had now told me? If this was all about a bit of harmless recycling, why was there such tight security around the edge of the factory? Why does Mr Finch need to use security cameras? And, the most puzzling of all, why did my last question send him into a bit of a tizzy? What was he hiding? Mr Finch stopped at the door and put out his hand to me to shake mine.

"It's been a pleasure meeting such a bright young man, I must say. I have thoroughly enjoyed your unexpected visit and I hope you have as well. But I must also say I don't recommend you try hiding away in strange lorries in future - you just never know what you might be getting yourself into."

"Yes. You're right, Mr Finch. It was a spur of the moment thing, and I'm not normally like that. I was just so curious about the cats and the birds - that's all. But you've helped me crack the mystery I was trying to solve and I think I can complete my project now; so it has all turned out alright in the end."

"I suppose it has, assuming you manage to get home in one piece. Ah, here he is. Now, let me introduce you to your next chauffeur, Mason. This is Frederick. Frederick - this is Mason. He would like a lift home with you please. You'll pass by Atherleigh tonight, won't you? It won't be much of a diversion for you, now will it?"

"About ten minutes at most, Mr Finch. Not a problem at all. It will be nice to have some company for a change - the cats don't talk much." Frederick winked at me. He seemed a nice enough bloke, but he didn't really look old enough to be driving such a big lorry.

As Frederick and I walked out to the lorry, Frederick took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. "This'll keep me going," he grinned as he opened the door of the cab so I could clamber in. The cab already had a strong smell of smoke and when Frederick got into the cab as well, the air quickly became like thick fog. Within a few seconds, I could hardly breathe and started to cough. My asthma was starting to play up.

"Sorry! I'll put the window down for you, mate."

"Perhaps it would be better if I went in the back of the lorry? I'm really tired so I'll probably find it easier to sleep a bit anyway. I live on Hilton Street just by the Red Lion pub. Just bang on the back of the cab when you get there and you'll wake me up. Is that OK?"

"Yeah ... that's fine by me, mate. You just bang on the side of the lorry when you're in and settled, and I'll get us on our way."

I almost rolled out of the cab onto the ground, glad to escape the smog and clear my head. As I disappeared from Frederick's view around the back of the lorry, I waited until the back door opened and a few seconds later I banged the agreed signal hard on the metal. Frederick closed the door with his control and set off for the gates.

There was apparently hardly any traffic on the roads; just lorry drivers like Frederick and the unlucky people who were returning from a night shift or had a really early start to their work day. As I found out later, it turned out that Frederick made excellent progress and reached Atherleigh in double quick time. He hadn't heard a sound from the back at all.

"Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, mate!" he shouted back to me. "You're home!" He didn't get a response. "He must have really nodded off", Frederick had grumbled to himself. "I'll have to go and rouse him. I'll give such a yell, I'll scare him out of his wits." He chuckled to himself as he thought up his little gag.

He arrived at the back of the van just as the door had slid fully open. He was just about to shout at the top of his voice when he got a big shock. The joke was on him, because I was nowhere to be seen - not under the sacks, not hiding in the empty bird vat, not even hiding under the lorry - gone. Frederick almost rubbed his eyes to check they weren't playing tricks on him.

"What the devil has happened to him?" he gasped. He was sure he had seen me get in the lorry - was this some kind of David Blaine-type stunt?

It wasn't. It was something much simpler than that as he was to find out later when Mr Finch brought him up to speed. At the very last second, I'd decided I couldn't bear to leave without getting some answers to my questions, or at least without trying. It was the old category three rule again. I know - it was crazy to give up the only way of getting home in time before my parents discovered I was missing. But I hoped that I'd be able to get in touch with them somehow. One of the offices was bound to have a phone I could use when no-one was about. Anyway, if I found out something that would win me the competition, then everything would be forgiven and forgotten - right?

## 4.20 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I WATCHED FREDERICK disappear out of the exit and heard the iron gates clang shut and I wondered if I had done the right thing. It was pointless worrying about it now though - I'd made the decision. I'd make better use of my brain deciding what to do next. The answer was to go back to Finch's office and hope that he wasn't there so that I could rummage around to see what I could find. I kept to the side of the corridor, my hand brushing against the wall. Then, my fingers felt a slight change in the surface. I stopped. As I looked carefully at the wall and felt some more, I could tell that there was a door there, with no handles. It was painted just like the wall. It was no wonder I'd missed it last time. But how could a door open without any handle? Was it controlled by something electronic?

I ran my fingers up and down the surface of the door again to see if I could feel anything unusual - but there was nothing. I tapped on the door out of frustration. The tapping didn't sound like the tapping on wood, it was duller than that. I tried other parts of the door but the sound there was normal. I pressed harder. The door was softer here than the rest of it - it must be where some secret switch was. I always knew that watching James Bond films was going to come in handy one day. As I pressed, I heard a click and the door opened - no more than a crack but enough to get my fingernails in to open it further. It was a good job that I'd recently managed to beat my fingernail-biting habit. What had I stumbled on?

It seemed to be just a storage room which was almost empty - except for a few hundred small white bags in it. I hesitated. Should I take a closer look? The way the door opened out into the corridor made it obvious to anyone who walked along it from either end. But I didn't want to close the door behind me because I didn't know if I would be able to open it again from the inside. I'd never be able to get out. Call it a hunch or call it plain luck but I decided to take a chance and spend just half a minute more in there. I entered the storage room properly. It had no windows and I could only see anything because of the bit of light that was coming from the corridor. I picked up one of the bags and swivelled round to catch as much light as I could. There was some small text on the bag that I wanted to read. All that I could make out was "PB&C". What did that stand for? I squeezed the bag hard to see if that would help me work it out. The closest thing I could think of was a bag of flour. It was very fine stuff like powder. Was that what the "P" stood for - powder?

Then "B&C" - what could that stand for? It must have something to do with the birds, mustn't it? That was what this factory was all about. But what? I stuck my head out of the room to check no-one was approaching. "B&C, B&C, B&C ..." I quickly repeated the letters over and over to try and spark some inspiration. "What starts with B or C that's connected to a bird?" I asked myself. I'm usually pretty good at crosswords but this one was stumping me. I tried to picture the dead bird that I'd seen lying on the road last week. That was it ... beaks ... and ... and ... beaks and claws - of course! Now I came to think of it, Mr Finch hadn't mentioned what the beaks and claws were used for. He'd talked a lot about feathers and he hadn't shown me one part of the factory - was that the part where the beaks and claws were ground into powder? But why did it need to be kept a secret? What were the beaks and claws used for?

It was too risky to stay in there any longer. I put the bag back where I'd found it, left the room and pressed the door shut. It became virtually invisible again. I remembered Mr Finch's TV monitors and hoped that he wasn't watching me right there and then. Maybe Finch had gone to bed; he had to sleep sometime, didn't he? Was there a bed to sleep on in this building anyway? It would be odd for someone to live in a place like this, although anything was possible based on what I had seen of Mr Finch. He obviously lived for his job. Maybe it was all that he had?

## 4.30 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I HAD TO SNAP MYSELF out of thinking about that, even though it was interesting. I was very close to Finch's office now. The light was still on and I remembered what had happened last time. There was no point in creeping around now though - if Finch was there, he would be expecting me again. I felt I had nothing to lose. I boldly went to the door and looked inside. Finch's chair was empty - good. I knew I didn't have long. I went straight to Finch's desk which was piled high with papers. It would be easier and quieter to rummage through there instead of opening doors and cupboards. There were all kinds of bills, letters and bits of paper but nothing particularly interesting. But then I found an invoice from 'Finch & Co.' which was for a very large sum of money; enough to fill up quite a few of those money bags. I quickly looked down the invoice to see which product was worth such a large amount. I was thrilled to see the product name was "PB&C". Automatically, my eyes flicked back up to the top of the invoice to see who the customer was. In bold, underlined capital letters were the words "STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL". Beneath that wasn't the name of a business, but the name of a person - "G. O'Reilly".

The name sounded familiar for some reason. "G. O'Reilly. O'Reilly. O'Reilly ..." I tried my repeating trick again. I knew that name from somewhere - was it from TV? A TV presenter? No, that wasn't it. A TV advert, maybe? Suddenly, the penny dropped and I couldn't help dropping into Mr Finch's chair. G. O'Reilly or, to give him his full title, Sir George Albert O'Reilly, C.B.E., was none other than the top guy, the Chief Executive Officer, of Coola Cola Inc.
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# CHAPTER 16: THE TRUTH COMES OUT

What would the maker of the nations' most popular beverage be doing with powdered beaks and claws? Forgive me for being a bit dim. I'm sure you have worked it all out a lot quicker than I did, but give me a break. I'd been up all night. It eventually dawned on me that this could be the secret ingredient that people had been trying to find out about for over a century. Wow! I felt a rush of excitement which quickly turned to feeling quite sick when I realized that I, and at least forty million other people, had been drinking something with powdered bird parts in it - outrageous! Why would this be the secret ingredient in Coola Cola though? Would it make it taste better? I found that really hard to believe. And how did Coola Cola end up containing claws and beaks in the first place? It's not as though it's on every mum's spice rack, is it? As I remembered my internet research, I realized that one of the pages I had visited might be closer to the truth than I'd imagined. It wasn't fish parts and crushed beetles that you needed to worry about after all, but something just as gross, if not even grosser.

## 4.45 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

IT WAS JUST THEN THAT Mr Finch returned to his office. He hadn't gone to bed after all; he'd only gone to switch the lights off in the factory as the night shift had ended and it was finally time for him to grab a few hours of sleep. He found me sitting in his chair, clutching the invoice. I must still have been a bit dazed because I didn't react to him reappearing with the panic that it probably deserved. If I had had my wits about me, I might have tried to make a run for it.

"Mason, what are you doing here? I thought Frederick took you home?"

"So did he. I ... er ... I decided to bail out at the last second and come back to the factory to ... er ... do a bit more exploring. I had some unanswered questions, you see."

"Oh, did you now?" replied Finch, obviously eyeing what I had in my hand. "That's odd. I thought I had answered all of your questions before you left."

"Not quite. There were a few things that I was afraid to ask about, but I think I have the answers to all of them now. There's something you haven't told me about your factory, isn't there, Mr Finch?"

I don't know who it was, but I'm sure someone famous once said that knowledge is power. At that moment, I did feel in control of the situation, although I really had no right to be. Mr Finch stiffened and looked at me worriedly.

"You're producing the secret ingredient for Coola Cola aren't you, Mr Finch? And the ingredient is powdered beaks and claws. That's why you never showed me a part of the factory and why you have so much security around the place. And of course that's also why you have so much money, as I heard two of your employees say. It all fits together. I'm right aren't I, Mr Finch?"

I paused after getting all of that off my chest and waited for Mr Finch to respond. He stood quietly for just a few seconds as he mulled over what to say next. Would he deny it and make up some fantastic excuse, or would he come clean and admit the whole thing?

"That has to be the most unlikely accusation that I have ever heard in my entire life. But ... Mason ... I ... er ... I see you have seen an invoice so I suspect I cannot pull the wool over your eyes any longer. Yes, you're absolutely right - Coola Cola is our most important customer and has been for over one hundred years." Finch sighed loudly and he suddenly looked tired and older.

"I should never have taken you around the factory. There was always a risk that something like this would happen. Bill tried to persuade me to get you to leave. But it was so refreshing to have a visitor who was so interested in what I was doing that I couldn't help myself ... and now ... I suppose ... things can never be the same again, can they?"

I didn't know quite what that meant but it sounded a bit worrying. I wanted to distract him from that so I fired one of my new questions at him. I was hoping that a bit of flattery would do the trick.

"I'm still eager for you to teach me more - this is the most incredible and exciting thing I have ever heard of. Tell me about this secret ingredient then, please. What does it do to the cola? Does it make it taste better?"

"Oh no, it has nothing at all to do with that. The taste is down to all the other ingredients. Apart from the taste, what would you say is different about Coola Cola compared to all the other brands?"

"Easy. When you open the can or bottle and pour it into a glass, you get a really foamy head on it, a bit like a pint of beer."

"Quite correct - and that is all thanks to the beaks and claws. You remember the feather plant pots you saw earlier and how I said that they were environmentally friendly? That was because they slowly release nitrogen into the soil. Beaks and claws have super-high nitrogen content. Introducing nitrogen into the cola helps to pull dissolved carbon dioxide from the liquid, which is what makes the fizz - it's just the bubbles escaping. This is essentially how the famous 'cola and mints' trick works - you must have seen that surely?"

"Of course I have ... it's all over Youtube. Someone tries it at school almost every week but I never understood how it actually works ..."

"The mints have tiny bubbles trapped in their surfaces. When they are added to the liquid the small bubbles act to seed the formation of larger bubbles using the gas from the drink. Of course, adding the beaks and claws has the same effect but it is much less dramatic. It's enough to provide a great creamy head to the drink though."

"But how did they discover that these claws and beaks have these properties in the first place? That's what I can't understand."

"Well, how does anyone ever discover anything? I mean, how was toast invented, for example? Centuries and centuries ago, did some unfortunate man mean to warm his bread on the fire and left it too long so that it burnt a bit, and suddenly found that it actually tasted pretty good? And then, maybe years later, some clumsy oaf accidentally spilt some butter on the hot toast, saw it melt and that it smelled good. He found it tasted fantastic and the rest is history. What would we do for breakfast without hot, buttered toast nowadays?

"The same goes for all kinds of things - sometimes it comes about from brilliant genius, but other times it's trial and error or even a complete accident. As far as I know, how anyone ever discovered that powdered bird beaks and claws gives cola a creamy head has been lost in the mists of time - but we know it still works today."

Despite the secret being uncovered, Mr Finch seemed more than happy to talk to me on the subject. I realized how lonely he must have been all these years, cooped up in this factory. How long had he kept this amazing secret? He must have been bursting to tell someone - anyone in fact. I hoped I would be able to find out more about him, but I still had more questions about the beaks and the claws. I wanted answers while I could get them.

"But is this the only way for cola to get a foamy head on it? Surely, something must have been developed in the last hundred years that would mean you didn't need to keep using bird parts?"

"You're right, it has. You mentioned beer just now. A few years ago, scientists perfected what is called a 'widget', a little device that sits in the can and foams up the beer when it is poured, just as if you were drawing the beer from a keg. It's actually much more effective than my method and probably easier for some people to swallow, if you'll pardon the pun."

"You can say that again. So why does Coola Cola still carry on with this old-fashioned approach? You'd think such a modern company would want to use the latest technology. I'll bet they can afford it."

"Oh, they would love to. I know that for a fact. Money isn't the issue, but they do have one big problem that is stopping them. Any time they change the ingredients, they have to register the change with the Department of Food Standards and publically disclose what is being removed or being added. The minute that they do that, everyone will know what they have been drinking for so long and it would be a certain public relations disaster. They just can't take the risk of that happening."

"Wow! So they are stuck with this ingredient - maybe forever? Don't you think it's a bit ironic? You've been showing me all the ways that bird parts can be used in the cool scientific stuff, but here it's actually holding progress back. Just imagine if people did find out the truth though. I bet the makers of Koala Cola would pay a lot of information to know that. Hey! There's a thought - have you ever considered selling the secret to them? I bet they'd pay you millions for it."

"I've no doubt you are absolutely correct, Mason. But come with me and I will show you something that will answer that question for you very quickly."
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# CHAPTER 17: MR FINCH GETS DEFENSIVE

## 5.15 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

Mr Finch walked out of his office turned left and walked down the corridor to the next door. The door wasn't like the other doors in the factory - it was made of sheet metal. There was no handle on the outside and not even a keyhole. I wondered how we were going to get in. Then I noticed a small square screen on the wall by the side of the door. Mr Finch pressed his thumb against it for no more than two seconds. The machine gave a beeping sound and the screen turned from red to green. Silently, the door slid open by itself.

"Is that a fingerprint reading machine? Isn't that just a bit flashy? What's wrong with using a key like everybody else?"

"You'll understand in a minute - come on in."

The room that we entered looked like a bedsit. There was a bed, a bookshelf, a comfy chair, a small table, an old TV and not much else. Off this room were a tiny bathroom and an even tinier kitchen area. Mr Finch waved his arm around vaguely, looking a bit embarrassed.

"My humble abode. Not much to look at I know, but I'm so busy with my work that I don't spend much time here. I only need four or five hours sleep a night. It doesn't make sense for me to live somewhere else and have to travel here every day; plus it means I can keep an eye on things 365 days a year."

"Don't you ever take a holiday?"

"I tried that about twenty-five years ago. I only lasted a day. Couldn't stand it. I spent all my time thinking about the factory and worrying in case something went wrong. I had to come back. I never tried it again."

I thought it was a bit sad that Finch had spent his whole life here - what kind of a life was that? It was a bit like being in a prison. As I looked around the room, I wondered why he'd brought me here. But then he went over to the far wall and started to pull back a curtain, which I thought would have a window behind it. But it didn't - it hid another metal door with the same way of entering as the first door. In a few seconds the door slid open and I was able to take a look inside.

It was a very small room, no bigger than a large cupboard really, but it certainly didn't have any clothes in it. It was packed from floor to ceiling with bags; not bags of powdered bird this time but bags of money - this was like a bank vault.

"There must be hundreds and thousands of pounds here, Mr Finch."

"Oh, I am sure there is quite a few million pounds in here, Mason. To be honest I am not entirely sure how much there is. I've never had much of a head for figures and the way I look at it, if you have ten million pounds, or eleven, or even fifteen million, does it really make any difference? I've far more money than I could ever need, so what's the point of wasting time trying to keep track of it all?"

I thought about how my parents had to scrimp and save all the time and still couldn't make ends meet and here was a man who had more wealth than we could ever imagine - and he was just sitting on it. I didn't know how that made me feel - angry, sad, confused? Maybe all three at the same time ...

I wondered if it would be a good idea to try and distract Mr Finch and somehow manage to grab a few twenty-pound notes and stuff them in my pocket. Finch wouldn't even know they were gone and it would pay for our groceries for the next few weeks at least.

But I knew that Mum would want to know where the money had come from and she would go off the deep-end if she found out the truth. Apart from that, I knew it was a serious thing to steal anything from anybody and I couldn't expect God to help us if I was going to do something like that. Still, it was one of those times when I wished we didn't have to obey what God said - it would make things a lot easier sometimes.

"Can I ask you why you keep all this cash like this?"

"You certainly can. As you can imagine, Coola Cola Inc. wants to keep things completely hush-hush and so they insist on paying for everything in cash to hide the trail. Even their auditors probably won't know they're buying this stuff. Plus I have a deep mistrust of the entire banking industry. I think they're a bunch of cowboys and not to be trusted for a second. They would pay me just a couple of percent interest on the deposits and then lend the money out to someone at quintuple the rates - it's daylight robbery. I would rather store it here where I can keep my eye on it."

"Mr Finch, I hope you don't mind me saying but there is something that doesn't add up. You seem to be a decent bloke - which is why you don't like the banks making huge profits out of people. But you're the person responsible for putting this disgusting stuff into people's drinks without them knowing - and making lots of money into the bargain. Isn't that just a tiny bit hypocritical?"

I really don't know why I was being so bold; it was really quite a risky thing to say in the circumstances. Finch looked more hurt than angry at my accusation.

"Hypocritical? I think that's a bit harsh. I suppose I've never given it much thought before. Most uncomfortable. I'm not sure how to defend myself - but I'll try. As far as the money goes, that's never been the motivation for me. You can see that from the fact that I don't even know how much I have got.

"So what is it about then? I suppose I'm just carrying on the family business - it's all I've ever known. Sometimes, I do wonder what the point of it all is. But, in recent years, things have gotten much more exciting with all the new uses for feathers being developed. There's not much money in that side of things, at the moment at least, but maybe one day there will be - not that I really need it of course.

"But I think the more serious accusation you make is about misleading people. Well, that was never my idea. People have been misled, if you really must call it that, for well over a hundred years. Believe it or not but that was a long time before I was born. I suppose it's my destiny that it's fallen to me to carry it all on, along with the last ten or so CEO's at Coola Cola Inc. of course. Neither of us really know how to stop - I suppose it's a bit of a curse really.

"The way I try to look at it is that what people don't know won't hurt them. That's not to imply that there's anything dangerous or harmful about what is being done - it is all perfectly safe and we have all the tests to prove it. The last thing we want is a lawsuit on our hands.

"But what I mean is that there are lots of unpalatable things that go in products that people eat every day - take sausages for example. They contain all kinds of offal - eyeballs, bones, fat, stuff that hasn't even got a name it is so disgusting - yet millions of them are eaten every day, without anyone batting an eyelid. Most people know that they aren't made of the finest cuts of meat - but if you actually saw the content before it got mashed up, you'd probably never eat a sausage again. Have I convinced you yet?"

"Keep going - but you've a long way to go before you'll convince me, I'm afraid."

"The other way to look at it is that other cultures use ground animal parts regularly. It only seems to be in the West that people get all squeamish and have a problem with it. In parts of Asia, the ground powder of exotic animals can go for huge sums of money. They believe that there is great medicinal benefit in them.

"Take tigers, for example. Did you know that almost every part of a tiger, from their whiskers to their eyes, claws, pelts, flesh and bones is used in traditional medicines? Their bones, for example, are ground into a powder that is used to manufacture something called 'Tiger Bone Wine', which is supposed to heal all kinds of ailments like rheumatism and even diseases like typhoid and malaria.

"And then there are bears which are highly prized for their gall bladders and paws, the poor creatures. The gall bladders are ground into powder and the bile from it is extracted to help with things like digestive problems, inflammation and blood purification. I believe one gall bladder even sold in South Korea a number of years ago for around $45,000.

"And don't forget it applies to birds as well. In Africa, parts of vultures are prescribed for headaches and some people think eating the brain gives them clairvoyant powers and increased intelligence! I've heard it said that bird beaks and claws are good for you as well, but that is maybe another urban myth you can investigate some time. So, you see, is what Coola Cola Inc. doing really all that bad or even that unusual?"

"Well I'm not sure you are telling me the truth about all those animal parts; although you must have a pretty good imagination if you're making all that stuff up on the spot."

"If you don't believe me, check it out on the internet. You seem to be a bit of an expert at that kind of research so it shouldn't be a problem for you. I'm speaking the truth of course. Don't forget my family and I have had many years to research this kind of thing and I consider myself to be something of an expert now, if that doesn't sound too vain."

Mr Finch looked annoyed that I doubted what he was saying. Whether it was true or not was all a bit irrelevant anyway, because none of the arguments he'd tried to put forward cut any ice with me, even if he wasn't just making excuses.

"You haven't persuaded me, I'm afraid. I don't know how you can have lived with this for so long. Maybe you've just been in this bubble of a factory for so long that you've lost touch with reality and what's acceptable out in the real world. I think the only decent thing you can do is stop giving this stuff to Coola Cola Inc. and they're just going to have to come clean and apologize for what's been going on."

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that, even if I wanted to. The current CEO of Coola Cola is well-known to be a ruthless operator who has to have this ingredient to continue manufacturing the product. I'm sure he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He wouldn't think twice about evicting me from the factory (or worse) and taking the whole operation on himself if he had to."

I was starting to get the feeling that Mr Finch was tiring of the whole business with Coola Cola Inc. but he obviously had no idea how to make things different. It was then that Finch made a stunning statement which I hadn't seen coming at all.

"OK then, Mason. As I haven't persuaded you yet, I have a little business proposition for you. How would you like to take over and run this factory? It's all yours if you want it."
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# CHAPTER 18: AN OFFER I COULDN'T REFUSE?

## 5.55 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I could hardly believe my ears. Did he really just offer me the entire factory? It had been a pretty weird and wonderful sequence of events that had got us to this point, but this one ranked pretty high up on the list.

"I don't mean to be rude - but are you off your rocker? Why would you ever think of saying something like that? Especially when you know what I think of what you're doing with Coola Cola."

Mr Finch shrugged. "Oh, I think you might come around to the idea by the time you've made your first million. Money generally has that effect on people - it starts to blur the lines more than you might think at first. You could come and live in the factory with me and learn the ropes for a few years - and at the age of eighteen you would inherit the entire operation, lock stock and barrel. No strings attached - scout's honour."

"Inherit? You mean to keep? But you only met me a couple of hours ago - isn't that just a bit reckless of you?"

"Mason, I have no family left to speak of - at least no-one I keep in any kind of touch with. I never married and I have no children to leave all of this to. Frankly, I am getting a bit past it to be running the show here. I don't know how long I can keep going. But I can't be the one to see generations of work in this factory just disappear; I'd feel like I was letting my ancestors down very badly.

"Who is going to run the factory when I am incapable of it? And, for that matter, who is going to look after me? I've seen enough of you to know you're a bright lad and you seem willing to learn. In fact I think I was a lot like you when I was your age. Look, if it would help sway your decision, your Mum and Dad could come and live and work at the factory as well. They'd have jobs for life."

I could see by the look in his eyes that Finch was deadly serious. I thought about the proposal for a minute and all the money that would come with it if I accepted it. My family would never have any money worries again and I knew what a weight that would be off Mum and Dad's shoulders. We wouldn't have to sell the house. Dad could buy his own garage if he wanted to and even employ people to work for him so he could have more time off. He would love to do that. And Mum wouldn't have to shop at the budget supermarket anymore and she'd be able to get her hair done at the posh salon every month. She would enjoy doing that. And, being selfish for just a minute, I'd love to have the money to buy that new bike that I've been saving up for - for what seems like years.

I also had to face it that my chances of ever winning the competition had also just totally gone up in smoke. It wasn't like Coola Cola were going to give first prize to the person who blew their big secret. That was a big blow - I didn't have a plan B to keep us off the streets.

I had to seriously ask myself - was it right for me to turn down this kind of opportunity just because of my own hang-ups? What's the old saying - 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'? And I remembered as well that we'd asked God to help us out so we didn't have to sell the house - what if this was his amazing way of sorting everything out for us? After all, Granddad's favourite hymn is 'God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform'. This would be about as mysterious as you could get, wouldn't it? But how do you know when God is behind something or whether you're just imagining it?

As serious as the situation was, I still couldn't get it out of my head that this was all turning out like a twisted version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory; you know, like the bit in the film where Charlie hands in the precious everlasting gobstopper and he's told about the big surprise that he's won the grand prize of inheriting the Chocolate Factory. There might be swans here like in the film, but these ones aren't laying golden eggs.

Then I started to think about what kind of life I'd be letting myself in for and all the moral issues that there were to deal with. Then there was the loneliness and isolation, even with my parents working here. Who would want to live in a place like this - and who would ever want to come and visit me? I'd hardly ever see Ollie. And legally I would still have to go to a school nearby until I was sixteen at least. It would be hard to make new friends all over again. I had always expected to go to University as well - that would have to go right out of the window. Plus, thinking about it more - I was really not convinced that God would ever use something that was bad to make something good come out of it, now would he? That was what settled it in the end - my mind was made up.

"Well, thank you Mr Finch for your very kind offer, and I must say I am very flattered to think that you reckon I have the ability to run this factory one day, especially after knowing me for such a short period of time."

I knew I was waffling but I didn't know the best way to turn him down and I was worried about what his reaction was going to be.

"After giving it a lot of thought, I reluctantly have to turn you down. I have to admit that the money would be really handy at home right now. But I've got my whole life ahead of me and it's not really what I imagined I would be doing when I grew up. And I just can't get around the fact that I think what you're doing here is totally wrong. I'm really sorry if that isn't the answer you wanted but I have stick to what I believe is right."

Finch gave a big sigh and rubbed the side of his head very hard with his knuckles as if it would help him figure out what to say next.

"I'm disappointed Mason, but I can't say that I'm too surprised. I can understand where you are coming from. After all, it is a lot for a young man like you to take on, plus I accept that this has all come on you very suddenly."

He seemed to be taking it pretty well, I thought. But then Finch dropped another bombshell.

"Having said that, this turn of events does present ... how should I put this ... a bit of a predicament."

"What do you mean?" I had a sneaking feeling that I wasn't going to like the answer.

"Well, you have to see things from my perspective. Naturally, I cannot simply let you leave the factory as though nothing has happened and we simply both go back to our previous lives. Unfortunately, the risk that you would immediately go and tell the world about the secret is just too great. I wouldn't blame you in one sense for spilling the beans, and you could sell your story to the highest bidder for a substantial amount of money. I have no doubt about that. After your refusal to come on board, I am afraid that you leave me with no other option. Under no circumstances can you be allowed to leave this factory now."

Up to this point, I hadn't felt in much danger even though I was in a strange place with a strange man and in a spot where no-one else knew where I was. Even when I had rumbled Finch, I still felt mostly in control of things and I was concentrating more on convincing him to stop what he was doing than on what might happen to me. But now I was stunned by what Finch had said and, all of a sudden, I realized the trouble I was in. Survival instincts kicked in - and I mean that literally.

## 6.10 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I KICKED FINCH IN THE shin and dashed off as fast I could. I don't think that I really hurt him, at least I hope I didn't, but it was at least enough to distract him for a second and it allowed me to get away. Once I got into open space in the corridor I was much too quick for him and I quickly scooted around the corner and all the way around to the far entrance into the large space where the machines were. I was out of breath but I made my way inside and looked frantically around to find a good hiding place. I didn't want to hide in a machine - I was scared that it might turn itself on accidentally and do something horrific to me. There was no way I was going to hide in the steaming vat of bird soup either.

Fortunately, I remembered a good hiding spot - the large container of down feathers that I had seen at the first machine. I clambered inside, trying to make sure I didn't give the game away by spilling the feathers out onto the floor - if I did that I may as well have put a big neon sign over me, flashing 'I'm here, stupid!'

I tried to breathe as normally as possible so that I didn't give the game away if Finch entered - as he was bound to, sooner or later. The bigger problem though was trying to stop the feathers tickling my nose and making me sneeze - if that happened, it would be game over as well.

My mind raced as I sat there, wondering what was going to happen next. What did Finch have in mind exactly, when he said that I wouldn't be able to leave the factory? Finch must have known as well as I did that I couldn't be left to wander about the corridors of the building. So was I going to be locked up in a dungeon somewhere, or worse, was Finch going to do something even more serious like putting me in a machine and grinding me to a pulp? Who knew? I could be sitting on the shelf in the garden centre in less than 48 hours!

I didn't know what to think and I realized again that I knew very little about Finch and just what he might be prepared to do if he absolutely had to.

## 7.15 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

FINCH DID COME TO LOOK for me of course, but it looked as though he thought I would dash outside and try to escape or hide in one of the trucks in the car park. It seemed to take forever for him to give up and come back inside. By that time, I was getting really stiff and uncomfortable, but I didn't dare to stand up and stretch in case he walked in at that very minute.

Finch knew that if I was inside then the obvious place to hide was amongst all the machinery. All the lights had been turned off except for the low emergency lighting. Finch said as loudly as he could that he had changed his mind and would now let me go if I promised to keep my mouth shut. Maybe he realized that effectively kidnapping a child was maybe, just maybe, not the right way to be going about things.

Peeking out from inside the machine, I could see he looked so miserable that I was almost ready to believe him. I was just about to reveal myself when a huge gong sounded. It was probably a good job that it did, as there was a big risk that Finch was just trying to trick me into surrendering. Even if he was genuine, I wasn't sure I could honestly promise to keep quiet anyway. That was a lot to ask.

Finch muttered something that sounded like 'that wretched man is here again' to himself and disappeared off out of the room and presumably to the main entrance. Who was he talking about? After waiting a couple of minutes to make sure he really had gone, I quickly pulled myself out of the feathers and brushed off the ones that seemed determined to stick to me. I really didn't want to leave a feathery trail behind me in the factory.

## 7.25 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I SLOWLY MADE MY WAY to the corridor again, trying to keep to the shadows as usual and listening carefully for the sound of footsteps approaching. I intended to slip outside and try to find some way out of the factory grounds. Stowing away in a lorry seemed the best option although it wasn't the most original idea. I didn't think I'd have any chance of being able to get over those walls, not with those nasty traps on the top.

But, as I came near to the exit, I could hear voices from down the corridor and I guessed they were coming from Finch's office. I recognized Finch's voice immediately but there was another man whose voice I didn't know. It wasn't Bill. It must be the "wretched" visitor. He seemed to be shouting a lot.

I hid under a small table that wasn't far from the office and I listened in. I really should have concentrated on trying to escape, but I was puzzled. Who would come to the factory at this time in the morning? And why was he so wound up?

"Thirty kilos next week? Is that all you can manage? You know as well as I do that won't keep us going for more than a couple of days of production. I told you last time we met that I need ten times that amount each and every week. And that's just the start of it - our cola is more popular than ever and it's flying off the shelves. We're looking to expand overseas now as well. It's just nowhere near good enough."

As soon as he said the word 'cola', I knew at once who this must be, the only person it could be. This was George O'Reilly, one of the most powerful men in the country. No wonder Finch's voice trembled a bit as he tried to defend himself.

"I'm sorry Mr O'Reilly, really I am, but we are doing our best and producing as much as we can. We are at capacity with the machines we have and we have to build them from scratch if we want to expand because they are unique to what we're doing here. That will take some time. But, as you know, the bigger problem is that there are only so many dead birds to go around."

"I've got no time for excuses, Finch. I've got a business to keep running." In disgust, he pulled his laptop out of his bag and switched it on.

"I've seen this state of affairs coming for a while, Finch - demand for Coola Cola is far outstripping the supply of your blasted ingredient. I've been working on a detailed master plan to get the volume of powdered beaks that we need. Here, take a look at this."

O'Reilly passed his laptop across the desk for Finch to look at the documents on the screen. He flipped through them for a couple of minutes and gasped a few times out of sheer astonishment. Not just his hands but his whole body seemed to start to shake. He started to look very pale, even paler than normal. What was he holding that was so devastating?
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# CHAPTER 19: O'REILLY'S DANGEROUS PLAN

O'Reilly smirked as he saw Finch's reaction. "What's the matter, Finch? Has the cat got your tongue?"

"Not at all. I don't pretend to understand everything here, Mr O'Reilly. But it looks like your strategy is to dramatically increase supply by culling the birds before they die of natural causes?"

"Exactly - I call it giving Mother Nature a helping hand; just accelerating things a little bit, that's all. I don't have the time to wait for birds to get old and die - I need their beaks and claws right now!"

"But the numbers you're talking about are massive. You do realize, don't you, that at the rate you are projecting, certain of the rarer birds would probably start to become extinct in less than a few years and eventually the entire bird species of this country could be completely wiped out. Have you any idea what that would mean?"

"I can do the arithmetic as well as you can, Finch. And you're quite right - this isn't supposed to be about sustainable farming and all that nonsense. This is all about me exploiting resources while I can. In less than five years' time, I'll have retired and I won't have to worry about it then, will I? I'll be an exceedingly rich man and I can always go and live elsewhere where there are still birds if I want to."

"So it's a case of 'I'm alright Jack' is it? But what about the massive impact that there will be on the natural world? Don't you care about that?"

"I must say that I didn't have you down as a tree-hugger, Finch. I'm touched by your concern for all the bunny-rabbits. But isn't everything up for grabs in this day and age? You know - survival of the fittest and all that?"

I cringed when I heard that and I also started to get very angry. Pastor had explained to us about some of the dangers of the theory of evolution. Apart from suggesting that God isn't even required for life to exist, it could be used to give people like O'Reilly a good excuse for doing all kinds of terrible things to the natural world, like chopping down the rainforests in Brazil. I've always been taught that God created man to care for, guard and protect the Earth, not to do whatever he wants with it. As far as I can see, if evolution means everything came about just by chance you could probably justify doing almost anything if you tried hard enough.

"I am sure Mr. Darwin never intended his theory to be used in that manner. Anyway, can I ask when you plan to put this diabolical plan into action?" asked Finch.

"As soon as possible. There's no time to waste. I've already had some testing done in a number of places around the world and there are just a few little kinks that need to be ironed out. But it should be no more than a few weeks until it will all be working perfectly. It's going to take quite a bit longer to get all the logistics in place though; things like collection of all the birds and getting them shipped to your factory, in the short term at least. Naturally I will have to build some new factories around the country to deal with the extra capacity that will be needed as well."

"What I don't understand though is how you've managed to do testing without people finding out about it?"

"If you'd been watching the news or reading the newspapers, you would be well aware of certain events happening recently."

I had to stop a gasp of astonishment as I guessed exactly what he meant. The final pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place now.

"The beauty of it all is that I've been doing the testing under everyone's noses and no-one has had a clue what is really going on. Birds have been falling from the sky in China, Britain, America and Australia and it's been hilarious watching people trying to guess what has been causing it all. None of them have even got close to finding the real cause."

"Which is ...?"

"An 'ionospheric research instrument' - IRU for short."

"What on earth is that?"

"It's a high-powered, high-frequency radio transmitter. It was originally developed by a little-known government organization called the High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program, or HAARP as it is better known. They use it as a research tool to help improve the effectiveness and reliability of different navigational devices like underwater radar and the GPS equipment that you get in cars these days. But I've discovered that it has other uses as well.

"I've bribed some of the top scientists in HAARP to work secretly for me on the side. Normally they're only licensed to transmit between 2.7MHz and 10 MHz on the frequency, but I'm paying them handsomely to break the rules and really ramp it up. The instrument temporarily energizes a limited area of the ionosphere, which is the upper part of the Earth's atmosphere. What we've found is that when you hit a certain ultra-high frequency, it completely interferes with the in-built navigational abilities of all birds. They become so disoriented that they just plummet straight to the ground from such a great height that the impact kills them instantly. All you need to do is to be able to track the big flocks and fire away. It really couldn't be any easier - it's like shooting fish in a barrel."

"All fiendishly clever stuff. Does the board of Coola Cola Inc. know that you are planning any of this, by any chance?"

"Of course not, you idiot! They don't even know about your secret ingredient in the first place, do they? Anyway, those fools would be far too conservative to do anything innovative like this. They're always worried about bad publicity and silly little things like ethics and corporate responsibility. But then they also set my salary with huge bonuses for achieving their ambitious targets. So what do they expect me to do? Of course I'm going to do whatever it takes to get those bonuses - and I'm not going to apologise for that! No, this is all my idea and it is absolutely top secret. That's why this is the one and only copy of my plans - it's all on that USB stick there. I have taken every possible precaution to cover all my communications with the pilot testers around the world. For obvious reasons, I simply can't risk this being exposed; the stakes are exceptionally high. It's me who is taking all the risks so it's me who's going to reap all the rewards. Well - I'll make you rich as well of course, even richer than I bet you are now. All you have to do is co-operate. But breathe a word of this to anyone and I promise that you will be very, very sorry ..."

"I don't appreciate being threatened. I am afraid there might be something you have over-looked in your master plan, Mr O'Reilly." O'Reilly sneered as if the chance that he might possibly have missed something in this brilliant strategy was zero.

"Oh, really?"

At this point I was really, really tempted to yell out 'No! O'Reilly' but managed to keep a lid on my weird sense of humour for once. This was most definitely not the time for it.

"Yes. You see, the unfortunate thing is that I'm starting to have serious second thoughts about supplying you with the powder in the first place. I've had cause to think recently and I'm not sure anymore that it's really an ethical thing to do. On top of that, killing perfectly healthy birds, and on the scale that you are planning, is totally reprehensible to me. I am sorry but I want absolutely nothing to do with it."

It was a very brave thing for old Finch to stand up to O'Reilly like that - as well as being very surprising based on the conversation that we'd just had. It looked as though what I'd said to him had made some impact on him after all. I felt very proud of him but I was also worried about what the consequences were going to be. O'Reilly was not amused; in fact he was absolutely stonking mad.

"You stupid old hypocrite! You mean to tell me that you and your thoroughly disreputable family have supplied Coola Cola Inc. for over a century with your wretched powder, and taken millions and millions of pounds of the company's money, and now you calmly turn around and tell me you don't think it's a very good idea? How dare you! You know very well that I have no other option at the moment but to continue buying this stuff from you whether I like it or not."

## 7.35 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

O'REILLY GOT UP FROM the table, grabbed Finch by his waistcoat and started to shake him hard. It was just then that I grabbed my opportunity. Afterwards, Dad said it was probably the bravest thing I had ever done and Mum said it was probably the stupidest. They're probably both right. I'd been listening carefully to what O'Reilly had been saying and I'd heard Finch's dire prediction. Something had to be done to stop this madman and it had to be done right now before O'Reilly left the building to go and complete his preparations. I thought of how empty and quiet the country would be with hardly any birds or even no birds at all, and the terrible impact there would be. Who would eat all the insects with the birds gone? We'd be overrun with them! And just imagine waking up in the morning and not hearing all the birds singing their little hearts out. Something inside me snapped. It was probably the restraints of common sense. It was time for action and the only person who could act was me.
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# CHAPTER 20: MASON, WHERE ARE YOU?

Now I know you must be very keen to find out what happened next at the factory, but you're also probably wondering what was going on at home by now. So let me report back what I found out went on while I was busy at the factory.

## 7.00 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

IT TURNED OUT THAT me being missing wouldn't have been discovered quite as quickly if Dad had been able to find the remote control that morning. He wanted to watch the news while he had his breakfast and before he started his day's work. It wasn't down the side of the couch. It wasn't under the couch. It wasn't on the TV, and not on the floor. It seemed to have vanished off the face of the Earth. It bugged him enough to make him go upstairs and wake me up to see if I knew where it was, even though I hadn't been watching the Song Contest with them the night before. He got a surprise when he opened the door to my bedroom and found I wasn't there. He knew I wasn't in the bathroom, as he had passed the open door on the way to my room. He called downstairs to Mum in the kitchen.

"Is Mason down there with you?"

"No, he's still in bed."

"Err ... No, he isn't!"

Mum came to the bottom of the stairs so she could have a conversation without having to shout at the top of her voice.

"Bathroom, then?"

"No."

"Our bedroom?"

"Nope."

"Spare bedroom?"

"Let me check ... no. You're sure he's not down there? In my office?"

"Can't be ... I would have seen him on the way from the kitchen."

"Maybe he went to your dad's for breakfast?"

"I suppose he might, but you would think he'd have told one of us before he went. I'll go give him a call to check."

Mum disappeared back to the kitchen to make the call and came back a minute later. Dad could see that she looked worried.

"Dad says he hasn't seen him today. He asked whether his bed looked slept in though."

"What's he saying? That he's run away or something? That's ridiculous."

"I agree, but please check anyway." Dad did as he was told and came back to report the news.

"It's impossible to tell. You know what his room is like. He never makes his bed and it looks as messy as it always does."

"So what do we do? Phone the police? Maybe he's been kidnapped."

"Don't be crazy! I'm sure there's a rational explanation. He could have gone for a walk, or perhaps he's playing a trick on us. Maybe he's gone over to Ollie's?"

"I'll phone him right now." Mum went to get the phone so that Dad could hear the conversation.

"Hello - is that Oliver? It's Mrs. Wilson here, Mason's mum. Sorry to ring you so early in the morning but I was just wondering if Mason was there with you?

"No, you haven't seen him today? That's rather worrying as we can't seem to find him. What's that? You'll be over in ten minutes? What do you mean you have something you need to discuss? Oliver? Oliver!"

But 'Oliver' was not answering as he had put the phone down and was on the way to get his bike to ride across town to my house. Of course he thought he knew what might have happened, but it wasn't something he wanted to talk about on the phone. It was better done face-to-face.

## 7.15 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

IT MUST HAVE FELT LIKE two hours for poor Mum and Dad, not ten minutes. But eventually the doorbell rang and a red-faced and panting Ollie stood outside with his bike.

"Oliver, come in at once. What is going on here?" Mum was trying to remain calm but her voice wobbled a bit as she spoke. Ollie was so worked up that his words all came out in a rush.

"Mrs Wilson, I don't know where Mason is but he phoned me last night about nine o'clock and he said he was going to go outside and follow a cat that he saw in your back garden, a cat with a strange flashing collar on it, because he thought it had something to do with that project he has been doing, you know, trying to find out where dead birds go. He phoned me to tell me so that if anything happened to go wrong, I would know what was going on. Except - I don't really know what's going on. I don't know why he didn't come back last night. I think he thought he would only be gone for a few minutes."

"Oliver! How could you let him go out like that on his own? Didn't you try and stop him?"

"I wish I had now, Mrs Wilson, but you know what he's like, he wouldn't have listened. I couldn't get to sleep last night because I was worrying about him. I kept thinking I should phone you to let you know what was going on but I didn't want to get him into any trouble. I am very, very sorry."

"Being sorry won't help us find Mason, will it? Oh, what are we going to do, Mike? Now do we phone the police?"

"Not just yet, love. Let's try and keep calm and think things through for a minute. It's no good going to the police without all the facts. We know at least that he wasn't taken from here by force - but what we don't know is why he hasn't come back yet. Ollie and I will look outside and see if we can see anything that might give us a clue. You stay here in case Mason tries to get hold of us. He's a sensible lad. Try not to worry, love."

Mum reluctantly agreed to stay behind, but there was to be no phone call, nor was there anything obvious in the garden that gave any clue that I'd been there recently. But Dad turned out to be more of a detective than I would have guessed.

"No signs of him here. But the gate is still locked so he must have gone over it. He would have had to jump off the top and landed on that bit of grass there - see? Let's take a closer look. There you are - you can see the imprint of his trainers on this muddy bit. So we're on the right track. But what did he do next - did he turn left or right? Let's try left." Unfortunately, that was completely the wrong direction and so they didn't find anything helpful at all that way.

"OK, let's try the other way ... hang on ... what's this on the ground? It's squashed. Looks like pieces of shell - it must be a snail. But look - the shell has mud on it, and it looks the same colour as we saw by the gate. Perhaps Mason stepped on the snail when he walked this way."

"He might have," said Ollie skeptically, "but it could have been anyone that did that."

"But how many people would have walked down here in the last twelve hours or so? There are hardly any houses here. The slug part of the snail hasn't completely dried up so it can't have been there that long, can it?" You know by now that Dad was absolutely right. But a big slice of luck was still going to be needed to complete the puzzle.

"Let's keep looking anyway", said Ollie. "We might find something else."

The two of them searched every inch of the pavement and road and it took them quite a while. They had almost given up when Ollie gave a cry.

"Look, a bus ticket ... and it has some writing on it ... I think it might be Mason's."

"Let me have a look. It's pretty scribbly, but it looks like it might be Mason's. The number of the bus on the ticket is 582 - that's the one you take to school isn't it, Ollie?"

"That's one of them, yes. What does the writing say?"

"I haven't got my reading glasses on, but I think it is JKH656X. Looks like some kind of code, doesn't it?"

"Isn't it a license plate number - one of the really old ones that you don't see very often?"

"Of course! Why didn't I think of that? My first car was an X reg., a belting white Ford Capri. But I don't understand why he would write that down."

"I think I might know. I remember Mason mentioning something about there being a lorry parked out here, but I can't remember how it was connected to the cat. Maybe he found out something was going on but he was discovered and taken hostage in the lorry? But, before he was taken away, he managed to drop this clue for someone to find." Ollie hadn't quite got it right as I hadn't been kidnapped and I hadn't dropped the bus ticket deliberately - but he was definitely on the right lines. Very impressive stuff ...

"I hope you're wrong, Ollie ... but we have to work out how to rule it out. Are you any good at finding things on the internet? Do you think that if we put that registration number into a search engine, we could find out who the lorry belongs to?"

"I bet we can. Let's go and try right now."

The two of them headed straight back to Dad's office to see what they could find. On the way back, Dad came up with something to try.

"If the DVLA has a website, I bet they would have all the details we need."

"DVLA? What's that?"

"The Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency - it's a government department."

"Oh, right. Well, if it's anywhere it should be on there."

Ollie soon found that they did have a site and there was a section called "License Plate Finder" which looked promising. Clicking through to this page they found exactly what they were looking for. All you needed to do was type in a registration number and the website would tell you what the vehicle was and who owned it.

Within a few seconds they had the vital details. The vehicle was a 1981 Ford and the owner was a Theobald Finch, of Finch & Co., Swinley Lane, Beescroft, near Lancaster.

"Now what do we do, Mr Wilson? Do we phone the police so that they can send the crack squad in to go and rescue him?"

"No, Ollie - at least not yet. We still don't know if we're on the right lines here. No, I think the best thing to do is to go and find this place and see what we can find out for ourselves. If that comes to nothing, then I'm afraid we will have to notify the police. Mason's mum is a bit of a wreck as you can see, and I don't blame her. I'm pretty worried myself to be honest, but I'm trying to keep calm so that she doesn't completely lose it. There's only so long we can wait before we have to raise the alarm - and we don't have long. But before we set off, there is someone I really must phone." Ollie saw that Dad's hands were shaking a little bit as he punched in the numbers on the phone handset.

"Hello ... is that you Pastor? It's Mike Wilson here. Sorry to bother you at this time in the morning, but I need your help. To get straight to the point, we have no idea where Mason is. We don't know how long he's been missing. I don't have time to go into more details right now. We're going to set out now to look for him, but I thought it would be a good idea to ask you to pray that he'll be brought back to us safely very soon. Yes ... we're beside ourselves with worry, of course, but we're trying to keep positive, trusting in God and all that. We'll give you an update in a couple of hours. Phone me if you hear anything. You've got my mobile number, haven't you? Yes ... that's it ... OK ... thanks Pastor. Speak to you soon."

## 7.30 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

AND SO THE THREE OF them set off for Finch & Co. There was none of the usual banter about driving ability and map-reading skills - things were much too serious for that. They didn't need a map anyway as they had driven lots of times to Lancaster and had a pretty good idea where they were heading to. It only took about an hour to drive up the motorway and get into the right part of the city.

## 8.30 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

THEY MANAGED TO FIND Finch's factory almost straightaway, even with Dad navigating. In a way, their timing was spot-on because, as they approached the factory gates, they saw that there was quite a commotion and a number of cars and people around the entrance. As they got closer, they noticed that many of them had cameras with massive lenses and it even looked like some TV cameras were there.

"Oh, my goodness!" squawked Mum. "What is going on here? Is this anything to do with Mason? Oh, Mike ... I hope he's alright."

"Let's park here and we'll find out what's going on. At least it doesn't look like there are any police cars here to investigate any sort of crime."

As the three of them got out of the car and started heading over to the main gates, a roar of excitement came from the crowd and flashbulbs started going off. What was happening now?
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# CHAPTER 21: NOW OR NEVER

Realizing it was now or never, I dashed from my hiding spot into Finch's office just as Finch was being attacked by O'Reilly. I had a plan, well half a plan at least, and I hoped I'd be able to make up the rest as I went along. I had the advantage of the element of surprise. I made a grab for the memory stick, yanked it out of the laptop port and ran out of the office before O'Reilly could really work out what was going on. Finch cottoned on to what I was trying to do and bought me a couple of valuable extra seconds by grabbing tightly to O'Reilly's jacket as if they were doing some kind of weird tribal dance - but he wasn't strong enough to hold onto him for very long.

I ran down the hallway, which suddenly seemed very long now, and then around the corner on my way into the main part of the factory. I knew that I held the only copy of the plans in my hand. All I wanted to do was somehow destroy the memory stick so that the horrible scheme could never, ever be implemented. The next problem after that was going to be escaping from O'Reilly somehow. With O'Reilly hot on my heels, and shouting and screaming at me to stop and hand the gadget over, I had to think quickly. The first idea was to use one of the machines that helped make the plant pots - I could hammer it as flat as a pancake in a few seconds. The trouble was that I wasn't sure how to turn the machines on and I knew every second was going to be critical; plus I didn't want to risk chopping my hand off by accident.

As I entered where the machines were and ran among them, I spotted another potential method. If I could throw the memory stick into the bird soup, I was pretty sure it was heavy enough to sink beneath the surface and the moisture would probably fry the electronics inside. I just had enough time to pick one of the two steaming vats, clamber up the ladder and hurl the stick as hard as I could into the disgusting slop. I could see it starting to sink like it was in quicksand, but I had to get down the ladder and scarper pretty quickly as O'Reilly was only just behind me. He knew exactly what I'd done and gave out a huge roar - a mixture of anger and despair. He could probably see his annual bonus disappearing before his eyes. I was glad that he was more interested in trying to get the memory stick back then he was in going after me. I watched as he climbed up the ladder as fast as he could, babbling to himself. He hesitated at the top for a split second and then, to my surprise, leaped off the side and jumped right into the revolting muck.

I don't know what he was playing at but there was no chance of him being able to find it in all that mess. In fact, O'Reilly could barely move an inch and he soon realized that the more he moved, the lower he sank and the last thing he wanted to happen was to be submerged entirely below the filth - that would be a horrible way to go. He was well and truly stuck and we both knew it. I would have loved to tell him what I really thought of him, but my first priority was to make sure that no-one ever had to drink beak and claw infested cola ever again. I was so caught up in things that I didn't even think about what time it was and whether my parents had discovered I was missing yet.

## 7.45 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

I HEADED BACK TO THE office to ask Finch if I could use his phone. I found him slumped in a chair and he looked completely overwhelmed by what had just happened.

"Mr Finch! Are you OK? You look terrible."

"I'm OK, Mason - thank you. I'm just a bit ... stunned by what ... just transpired. He's often angry ... but I've never seen him in that state before. But where is he? He obviously didn't catch you, which I really am very glad about."

"Don't worry about him - he's not going to be causing us any more trouble. I threw his memory stick into the meal vat and he jumped in after it - he's completely stuck. I'll show you right now, if you think you're up to it." Mr Finch perked up immediately and started to laugh loudly with a mixture of pleasure and relief.

"That's excellent news. Well done, lad. But before I take a look Mason, I really have to apologize for my part in all of this. I assure you I had absolutely no idea of what O'Reilly was planning to do until just this minute. The strain of running the business all these years must have made him go completely mad. But I have to take my fair share of the blame in all this. I've been helping him get away with it for far too long and things have gone much too far. It's over Mason. I basically told O'Reilly that I am no longer comfortable supplying him with his precious powder. The madness has to stop."

"I overheard you telling him that - it was very brave of you. I'm really glad that you've come to that conclusion yourself, Mr Finch; because if I get my way, the whole world is going to know very shortly what's been going on here and exactly what O'Reilly's future plans were. That's the quickest and best way to put a stop to it once and for all. If you'll let me use the phone I am going to get things going straightaway."

Finch nodded his agreement. He was still so shell-shocked that I think he would have agreed to me walking out with a million pounds from the vault if I'd suggested it. I used directory enquiries to get in touch with the Daily Moon, the biggest-selling newspaper in the country.

"Hello, is that the Daily Moon? Can you put me through to your top journalist at once, please? I have a story they will be very interested in. Yes ... I can hold ... hello? Yes, my name is Mason Wilson. Let me just put you on speakerphone ... now ... I have a great photo-opportunity and story that I think you will be very, very interested in. I happen to have the CEO of Coola Cola right here swimming in a vat of sludge. The voice at the end of the line had trouble taking in what I was saying.

"I'm sorry I thought you I heard you say that you had the CEO of Coola Cola swimming in a vat of sludge - but clearly that can't be right - what did you say again?"

"You heard me correctly the first time. Sir George O'Reilly C.B.E is right here, and swimming up to his neck in liquidized bird carcasses. You will never guess why he is doing that - but I assure you that this will be the biggest news story there has been in this country for years."

"Is this some kind of wind-up, son? It's well past April Fool's Day you know. Do you think I was born yesterday?"

"I promise you that I'm deadly serious. But I can always phone the Daily Gossip and see if they are interested in breaking this story, if you'd like." There was a pause of a couple of seconds and I knew that the journalist wouldn't be able to resist the chance of getting a top scoop.

"No, don't do that! We'll send someone out immediately from whichever of our office is nearer. Can you give me your address? Lancaster? That's handy - our Northern regional office happens to be based there. I can get someone to you in less than fifteen minutes."

## 8.10 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

HE WAS RIGHT. WITH the help of Mr Finch, I retold the details of the whole escapade to a gob-smacked journalist who realized very quickly that this was going to be the scoop of his life. Everything was eagerly typed into the journalist's laptop and then we went to take a picture of O'Reilly 'swimming' in the vat. He was taken completely by surprise and the photographer got a couple of great pictures before he realized what was happening and covered his face up with his filthy hands. I won't repeat some of the language that O'Reilly started to use but let's say it wasn't what you'd expect from a Commander of the British Empire.

Almost immediately the news article and photograph were emailed to Daily Moon HQ and within less than thirty minutes the journalist confirmed that the news story had broken on www.dailymoon.com. It turned out that two minutes later, 'Coola Cola birds' was the top trending item on Twitter and, as I was soon to find out, all of that caused a great crowd of people to arrive at the gates to see if anything was about to happen. The secret ingredient and the dastardly plan were both exposed and there was definitely no going back now. Bill popped his head around the door, looking most apologetic for interrupting.

"Very sorry to disturb you Mr Finch, but I thought you should know that there's about a hundred people outside the gates and I think the TV cameras are here as well. What do you want me to do? Tell 'em to clear off?"

"Good heavens! News travels fast these days, doesn't it? No, don't do that - they'll probably ignore you anyway until they get what they came for. Mason - what do you think about going outside and doing a little press conference? I am afraid I don't think it would be sensible for me to join you out there - I might be seen as one of the bad guys - I don't want to be torn to shreds. But you should enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, lad. You've earned it, after all."

"I'd love to, Mr Finch! The more publicity the story gets, the better, I reckon. Don't worry I will do my best to keep you out of it and paint O'Reilly as the real villain here. How do I look? I want to look my best on national TV, you know ..."

"You look a bit pale after being up all night, I suppose, but you're not looking too bad. And if you could keep my name out of this, I would be eternally grateful to you. You should probably take Bill with you though, just in case things get a bit out of hand."

"Not a bad idea, thanks. OK, I suppose I should get this done - wish me luck!"

## 8.30 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

EXCITED, BUT WITH A bit of a sick feeling in my stomach, I walked the short distance to the big doors at the factory entrance. I could see the waiting crowd through the windows and I took a deep breath as I pushed open the doors as confidently as I could. Just a split second later I'd probably already been photographed three hundred times and the flash of the cameras was like fireworks going off on Bonfire Night. I was still quite some distance from the gates and the crowd of people was still a bit of a blur. But as I got closer, I could hear lots of people shouting my name, eager for me to go to them for a close-up photo and an interview. Amongst all of the noise, I recognized a high-pitched scream and a much lower shout, both saying my name; of course it was Mum and Dad.

I looked through the crowd quickly and found them in a few seconds. I hadn't been expecting them at all and it was both a nice surprise and a nasty shock at the same time. Nice because they were here to witness my moment of triumph but not so nice as they were obviously here because they'd discovered I was missing. I didn't have time to work out how they'd managed to track me down here. I couldn't really see from their faces exactly how much trouble I might be in. I waved to them to let them know I'd seen them. Ignoring the rest of the crowd for now, I turned to Bill and asked him if he could let them in without letting the mob in as well. He grinned and nodded.

"Watch this", he said, and cleared his throat. "Ladies and Gentlemen, could I have your attention please? I've been asked by Master Wilson here if I can open the gates to let his parents in. Master Wilson is prepared to say a few words after he has spoken with them. I must advise you to stand well clear of the gates as I am about to electrify them with 240 volts of electricity. If you so much as touch

them, you will be instantly fried to a frazzle. Thank you for your co-operation in this matter."

I was pretty sure he was bluffing - but it did the trick anyway. The assembled ranks shuffled back leaving Mum and Dad and one smaller person I hadn't seen originally - it was Ollie, of course, looking very excited to be there. He gave me a thumbs-up sign for encouragement. The gates opened. The three of them walked in and the gates quickly clanged behind them. I was soon wrapped up in a cross between a bear hug and a rugby scrum and I heard Dad reminding Mum: "don't have his guts for garters just yet; remember we're probably on TV!" I hoped he was joking about the first part but not about the second. The sooner I could apologise to them the better.

"Mum, Dad, Ollie - it's great to see you. I'm so sorry about putting you through all of this. I never intended it all to happen the way it did. But I'm completely fine and I've got a lot to tell you."

"We've heard some of the story from one of the journalists here - but we'll talk about all that later. For now, your Mum and I are just so relieved that you're safe and well. Don't ever put us through this again, will you?"

"I promise I won't Dad. I don't fancy doing anything like this ever again, that's for sure." Bill came up at that point.

"Mason, the journalists are really pressing for you to say a few words for them. Would you mind?"

"That's what I came out to do I suppose. OK, let's do it."

As I turned towards the waiting crowd, Bill opened up the gates and the flashing of cameras started again. I was about to start speaking when I noticed a strangely familiar face in the front row of the crowd. He was making a sign under his chin that seemed to say "cut". I was sure I had seen him before but from where? Then it hit me - it was Cliff Machs, the public relations guru who always seems to be on TV. What was he doing here? Cliff saw that I'd spotted him and he made an urgent signal that he wanted me to come and talk to him right away. I went over to him and he pulled me in very close and put his mouth close to my ear so that no-one else could tell what he was saying. He stank of aftershave and cigarette smoke. What did he want to say to me? 
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# CHAPTER 22: ANSWERED PRAYERS?

Cliff spoke quickly to me in a very low voice and I had to really concentrate to take in what he was saying.

"Hello, Mason. Pleased to meet you. I'm Cliff Machs. Here is my business card. Perhaps you've heard of me? I heard about your story so I came here as fast as I could to see if I could be of service to you - you know, deal with all the PR side of things for you. You're going to be in a lot of demand over the next few days and I can help you through it. I can also make sure you get quite a bit of money out of all of this. How does that sound?" I didn't have very long at all to make a decision, but I definitely liked the sound of making some money. Cliff could see that I was hesitating.

"Look, we don't have much time. For now, let's just agree to work informally. I'll announce to these people that you've taken me on as your media advisor and that you won't be giving any interviews today, but we will be scheduling a press conference very shortly, maybe tomorrow. That will give us some time to figure things out and we can agree everything with your Mum and Dad. Deal?"

Cliff stretched out his hand and I shook it. We had a deal, or at least the start of one. Cliff ushered me to stand before the crowd and immediately took control. He's obviously had a lot of practice at this kind of thing and he was very, very slick.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you very much for your patience. However, I would like to inform you that my client, Mr Wilson, will not be giving a press conference today after all. Now, now ... I can understand your disappointment but, as I am sure you can appreciate, this has been an exceptionally stressful time for him and his family and they need some time to regroup. I appreciate that you have many questions that you would like to be answered and we will be announcing a time and place in order for that to happen in the very near future. Please check my web-site later tonight for further details. Thank you for your co-operation and good day to you!"

With a bit of a flourish, he ushered me around, away from the crowd and back towards my parents and Ollie. We ignored the shouts from the journalists asking for a photo opportunity or an answer to a question and we all kept on walking until we got back into the factory. It was such a relief to get away from all the attention and I leaned against the wall of the corridor to try and get my breath back and enjoy the peace and quiet. Things were happening very quickly - too quickly for my liking. I was quite happy for Cliff took control of the situation again.

"Mr and Mrs Wilson, I assume? Cliff Machs - very pleased to meet you. I hope you don't mind me interfering in your business. I can assure you that I only have your best interests at heart and I am confident that we can work together to achieve a mutually beneficial outcome from everything that has happened here this fine morning."

Mum and Dad both looked a bit stunned. They had even more to try and get their head around than I did and speaking with a famous person like Cliff wasn't what they had expected to be doing when they got up this morning. They seemed to have difficulty finding anything to say, so Cliff just kept going on. He seemed to like to talk.

"Here is what I suggest. There is bound to be a crowd of people outside your house right now waiting for you to arrive. Yes, that's a scary thought, isn't it? You're a celebrity now, Mason! You'd better get used to that, young man. Now there is no need to worry about a thing. I am going to go ahead and deal with them all. You just take your time and, when you're ready, you can make the trip home. I'll leave two cars here so that they can safely escort you there without any mishaps. Yes, I always plan ahead in these types of situations - it's all under control, I assure you. I am the very best in the business. I deal with this kind of thing every day of the week - this is all perfectly routine. We can talk later tonight about what your objectives are over the next few days, how much you want to exploit this fantastic opportunity and what are some of the ways you can do it. But remember - we have to strike whilst the iron is hot though. You're a hot topic right now, but in no more than a week there is bound to be another news story and another new celebrity to interview. That's just the way it goes in this business."

We all nodded in agreement, not quite knowing what to say. It seemed best to go along with what he was saying. We were all miles out of our depth and it didn't seem a bad idea at that point to trust the 'expert'.

Cliff went off to make all the arrangements and left us to ourselves. We all looked at each other. I still wasn't sure how much trouble I was really in. Mum and Dad didn't seem to be too angry, but I was sure there were going to be some blunt words spoken at some point when all the dust had settled. I knew I'd done wrong, I just hoped the punishment wasn't going to be too severe - like being grounded for life or something. Mr Finch appeared at that point, which I was pleased about because it helped to delay talking about that for at least another few minutes. He looked like I felt, a bit overwhelmed. I knew that what had happened in these last few hours would completely alter his life now, even more than they might change mine - but I wasn't sure exactly how.

"Mr Finch! These are my parents. Mum and Dad, this is Mr Finch, the owner of the factory. He very kindly gave me a tour of the place and looked after me very well." I was kind enough not to mention the worrying threat he had made at one point.

"Very pleased to meet you - you have a remarkable young man, there. He will go far, mark my words. You should be very proud of him, you know."

"I don't know whether to hug him or throttle him, to be quite honest," said Dad. "When I've got time to think, I'll figure out what to do with him". That might have sounded ominous - but he patted me on the back as he said it so that made me feel better.

"Yes, it's been quite a night, hasn't it? I was just watching you all out there on my TV screen; not from one of my security cameras, I mean live on national TV. It was a bit surreal seeing the factory from that perspective. But there's been lots of other stuff happening as well, you know. You've caused quite a stir, young man.  Shares in Coola Cola Inc. fell dramatically when the stock exchange opened just a few minutes ago. Investors are obviously petrified that all the bad publicity and the news about the ingredient are really going to hurt sales. I don't blame them to be honest.

"And the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food has just announced a full-scale investigation into all the allegations that have been made to see if there have been any breaches of food regulations. And then the Board of Coola Cola has also just issued a press release saying that O'Reilly has been suspended with immediate effect with a full disciplinary hearing to follow in due course. They have also promised to fully co-operate with the government investigation. They claim, probably correctly, that they had no idea about what the secret ingredient was and that they certainly had no idea about O'Reilly's plans. They've also offered a full refund to anyone who wants to return cans or bottles and they've stopped shipping the stuff until further notice. Just imagine how many thousands of pounds that is going to cost them every single hour! Incredible!"

The update from Finch made me start to realise the impact of what I'd just done - stock market crashes, government enquiries and shelves emptied of Coola Cola! But there was more to come and it was actually Bill who came and broke the news. "Mr Finch, Sir, you'll never guess what's just happened. Another press conference has just been held about all this hoo-hah - and by no less than the personal private secretary of ... guess who ... the Queen herself."

"The Queen? You mean ... the Queen? What has she got to do with this?"

"Two things, or so it looks like. Firstly, Coola Cola Inc. is the official royal supplier of soft drink beverages - that's why they have the royal seal on all their products. It was granted by Queen Victoria in eighteen-ninety-summat. Second, George O'Reilly was knighted by the Queen a few years ago. Well, somehow, she's got to hear of what's happened here. She's suspending the official status of Coola Cola Inc. and taking away O'Reilly's knighthood until she knows the outcome of all the investigations."

"Wow, she's done that in less time than it takes to sing the national anthem," said Ollie. "Who fancies breaking the news to O'Reilly? It's not been a very good day for him, has it?"

"Of course - I'd totally forgotten about O'Reilly for a minute, Ollie. Mr Finch, is he still in the vat?"

"Yes, Mason - he certainly is. Stewing in his own juices and the juices of five thousand birds along with it! I'm not quite sure what to do with him now. I think I'll get Bill to organize pulling him out and escorting him off the premises, once the crowd has gone from outside. His day certainly hasn't turned out like he expected! But don't shed any tears for him - he's still a very rich man and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he was going to emigrate to Switzerland, or somewhere like that, to escape all the bad press and all the media attention that is going to be coming his way."

"And what about you, Mr Finch? What are you going to do now?"

"That's a very good question, Mason. I've been trying to think about that a bit as well. I think now is the time to retire as a matter of fact. I am going to look into selling the factory and maybe buy myself a fancy apartment in Fleetwood with the proceeds. I'm sure there will be plenty of potential buyers who want to knock the factory down and build houses on the land. It's time to bring down the curtain on this enterprise - I see that now. It will take a bit of getting used to but it's the right thing to do, Mason.

"I'll need to do something about the cats, though. I can't take them all with me. I was wondering if they could be useful to a company providing poison free solutions for pest control. It wouldn't be too difficult to make the adjustments to the collars to get them to fetch mice instead of birds. But, most importantly of all - I've decided to donate most of my wealth to charities which help the environment and protect endangered species - it's really my way of saying sorry for my part in all of this. It's the least I can do."

"Wow! You've been thinking hard about this, Mr Finch. It all sounds good to me, especially donating your wealth. You may as well put it to good use."

"And what about you, Mason? What are you going to do now? I suppose you still have a school project to complete, don't you?"

"Yes, I'd forgotten about that for a minute. Well, what a story I have for it now! What I haven't told you up to now is that I was also entering a competition as part of the project, sponsored by Coola Cola at the same time, would you believe? I don't have a chance of winning that competition now - I can't imagine I'll be too popular at their HQ at the minute! I'll just have to settle for getting top marks from Mr Phipps instead."

"Are you going to have time to finish your project though, Mase? Cliff Machs might be keeping you busy for the next little while."

"It's not going to be easy to fit it in, Ollie. I might have to ask for an extension to the deadline. I don't think Mr Phipps would mind after everything that has happened."

"So you've signed up with Machs, then? I thought I recognized him at the Press Conference. You be careful of people like him, Mason. No matter what they say, they're all about one thing and one thing only - and that is making themselves lots of money."

"I hear you, Mr Finch and thanks for the advice. The thing is, though, my family is a bit short of cash right now, quite a lot short to be honest about it. So doing a deal with him seems the best way of helping us out with that. We'll try and be as careful as we can and we won't let him push us around."

"Good heavens! Why didn't you mention you had some money problems before? Give me a moment and I will be right back."

## 9.00 A.M. TUESDAY, APRIL 5

WE ALL LOOKED AT EACH other, wondering where he was going and why. He came back two minutes later carrying one of those white sacks. I knew it could only contain one of two things and I was pretty sure it wasn't beaks and claws.

"Here you are. Please accept this as a token of my esteem."

I took the bag from him. From the weight and how it felt, I knew what was inside it. I handed it quickly over to my dad who, of course, hadn't seen what I had seen in Finch's flat. He looked puzzled at first and then, when he opened the bag, he looked completely astonished instead!

"What on earth? There's bundles of twenty-quid notes in here! Must be ... I don't know ... fifty grand in total!"

"Quite possibly. Will that help you out at all?" asked Mr Finch with a little grin.

"Help? We'd be virtually debt free. I just can't believe it!"

There are times when it might be a good idea to just keep your mouth shut. This might have been one of those times, but of course I wasn't going to let that stop me saying what I was thinking.

"Mr Finch, this is really, really generous of you. And we are really, really grateful, really we are. But I think there's a bit of a problem with us accepting it. This isn't really any different from you offering me this factory. How can I accept the money when I know that it came from something I strongly disagree with?"

Dad swallowed hard and tried to look as though he wasn't upset that he might have to hand back all that cash to Mr Finch. He wasn't very good at it, and I suppose I can understand that. But Mr Finch was very quick-thinking.

"Easy. You've seen all the things that the factory produced - cushions, fertilizer, plant pots and all the rest of it. All those products have made me quite a bit of money as well over the years, not to mention all the scientific research we've done. Let's just agree that the money I gave you came from those, shall we say, 'legitimate enterprises' and you won't be put in a difficult position then, will you?"

Everyone looked at me very closely to see what my reaction was going to be. I stood absolutely still for about a minute, with my eyes closed so that I could think straight. Eventually, I opened my eyes, look upwards and just said "Thank you God", which everyone took to mean that I was OK with his suggestion. Ollie started dancing around in celebration and started twirling Mum around like she was at a disco. It was time for another big family hug with Ollie and Mr Finch being dragged into it this time. It was probably the first hug Mr Finch had had since he was my age, which was probably why he didn't seem to quite get the hang of it at first. It definitely helps if you bend a bit; it was a bit like hugging a big stick of Blackpool rock (not that I've ever done that of course).

"Mason, we'd better get home and deal with all the crowds - we don't want them to start a riot if they get fed up of waiting for you. You can fill us in on everything that has happened on the way home."

"Yes, you're right, Dad. And we have to deal with Cliff Machs somehow, and let him know we won't need his services after all, thanks to Mr Finch. How are we going to do that?"

"I know the answer to that one. I'm just going to tell him that your mum and I have decided to ground you for a month with immediate effect. You won't be much use to him then, will you?"

"Aw, Dad! Grounded for a whole month?"

"Don't think of it as being grounded, son. You're just having your 'wings clipped' for a while, that's all."

Clipping my wings? That's one you'd be proud of, eh Granddad?
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# ASK THE AUTHOR

## HOW DID THIS BOOK COME TO BE WRITTEN?

I'd like to be able to tell you that the idea for this book came to me whilst reclining on a beach sipping a cocktail in Barbados, but sadly that wouldn't be entirely truthful. Barbados was indeed involved but I was actually on the plane back from there when inspiration struck. Even more prosaic than that, the only thing I had to hand to jot down the basic outline on was a sick bag. It is, I suppose, just about one level up from writing on sheets of toilet paper, but nevertheless it was hardly an auspicious start.

I've no idea how the outline for this book came into my head back in 2006 but I know I've had immense difficulty in putting it out of my mind until it got to the point where, in April 2011, I finally committed to complete what I had started. I think the turning point was when I stumbled across a book by Trenton Lee Stewart entitled "The Mysterious Benedict Society". As soon as I saw the cover and perused the contents, it struck a chord - this was the very type of book I had in mind to write and now I could see it could become a reality, in some form or other. Around the point I was close to finishing the book, I came across the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series which, due to a passing resemblance (in my opinion at least), gave me the confidence to go ahead and publish.

## HOW MUCH OF THE STORY IS FACT AND HOW MUCH IS FICTION?

BEFORE I WROTE THIS book, I never imagined that so much research would be needed to write it. You might think that a children's book could easily be written off the top of your head, but I think you would be wrong (unless you're some kind of genius!).

Like Mason, I have tried to make the best use of the most powerful resource at my disposal - the internet. There have been five main areas of research:

1) finding urban myths to discuss prior to Mason finding the one that he ends up exploring;

2) finding real answers that people have given to the question "why don't you ever see dead birds?";

3) exploring what the Bible has to say about birds, dead birds and an end of the world judgement;

4) finding uses for feathers;

5) looking for potential methods of killing birds en masse.

There is actually a surprising amount of "fact" underpinning the story. If you do a Google search, you may actually find some of the same theories that Mason uncovers in the book! Of course, the Bible references are real as are pretty much all the weird and wonderful uses for feathers that Mason finds in the factory - yes, even making plant pots and powering cars using feathers! And, believe it or not the "High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program" that O'Reilly talks about really does exist and there are lots of theories about what the program is designed to achieve - now I have added another one to the list!
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# MORE FROM THE AUTHOR

Mason Wilson has hardly recovered from his exploits in The Dead Bird Debacle when he finds himself with another mystery to solve and an even more urgent need to succeed! Do he and his sidekick Ollie really have a hope of cracking one of the world's greatest puzzles - how Stonehenge was built and what it was used for? And, as if things weren't going to be tricky enough, why is someone determined to try and stop them, no matter what? Is it simply revenge or does someone have something to hide?

The Stonehenge Swindle is the second book in The Adventures of Mason Wilson - a quirky yet strangely educational series for Middle Graders (and their families!).

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# MASON WILSON AND THE STONEHENGE SWINDLE: CHAPTER ONE PREVIEW

"Mason! Wake up; we're almost home, lad! There'll be crowds of people at our house, don't forget. You'd better look lively and pull yourself together." That was Dad's voice of course. All that stuff had just been a weird dream - thank goodness for that! But what was he going on about? Crowds of people at our house? What for?

"Yeah, you don't want to look all bog-eyed on national TV, do you?" That was Ollie. That comment, along with a "helpful" dig in the ribs, soon woke me up good and proper. National TV? Of course, I was a celebrity now; well - kind of famous at least. What I'd been just been dreaming of was an even wackier version of what had actually happened, if that's possible.

So, I thought to myself, the TV cameras really might be waiting for us at home then. It's funny - some people do whatever they can just to get on TV and be famous for a few minutes, but it's weird when it actually happens, especially when you hadn't planned it. As the car got nearer and nearer to our street, I wasn't really looking forward to arriving home. I've seen it when politicians get mobbed outside their houses and it all turns into a giant rugby scrum. I really hoped Cliff Machs, the PR guru, would keep his promise to be there when we arrived - and that he'd have a few bouncers with him to help us out.

Thinking about Cliff reminded me that we needed to have a difficult conversation with him at some point and I wasn't looking forward to that either. I didn't have time to think about that too much then, though, because we were just a couple of hundred yards away from our house. There was a crowd there, quite a decent-sized one - and it was spilling out onto the road because the pavement was no narrow. I bet the neighbours weren't going to very impressed by it all - Mum was going to have to get baking her legendary apple pie to take around to everybody as a peace offering.

Even before Dad started to slowly pull up onto our driveway, it seemed to go quite dark as the windows were filled with people - and then, all of a sudden, it went very, very bright. They seemed quite determined to blind us all by setting off their camera flashes about six inches away from our faces. Thanks for that. I'm not quite sure how Dad managed to park the car without killing any plants or running anybody over - but he did. Mind you, if some feet did get flattened then it was their owners fault. It was then that I realized it wouldn't have been a bad idea to have made sure the car doors were locked before we stopped moving. But before I could move an inch, I could see the car doors being yanked open, all almost at the same time. Here we go, I thought, this is going to be fun. But I needn't have worried. Cliff did have his bruisers all lined up to provide a bit of an escape tunnel for the ten yards from our car to the front door.

"Everybody out - NOW!" shouted a huge bloke, right down my ear. We did as we were told and scurried around the sides of the car and made a dash for safety; Not that we were in any danger, really, as I'm supposed to be the hero in it all - but it was certainly a relief to get away from the noise, the flashes going off and the constant repeating of my name. I just had time to take a quick glance at some of the people in the crowd. Yes, there were camera-men there and some other people in suits - but I also spotted people from round about, like Jim from the corner shop, who'd obviously come to see a bit of local excitement. If they'd come for an autograph to sell on ebay, or maybe get a souvenir photo with me to post on Twitter, then they were going to be going home empty-handed. In less than ten seconds, we had arrived, got out of the car and managed to make it inside. Cliff had obviously done this a few times before!

Just like at Finch's factory, it was as quiet as a funeral once we got out of earshot of the crowd. Actually, we were moving about as slowly as a funeral procession as we shuffled along our narrow hallway until we could eventually spread out into the living room. I plopped down onto the couch with a big sigh. Being asleep for half an hour in the car really didn't make up for missing a whole night's sleep. Actually, it had probably made things worse. My head was hurting and my stomach was reminding me that I had missed supper the night before and that it was well past breakfast time now. Cliff wasn't bothered about that - his breakfast was two cigarettes and a cigar, which he smoked one after the other in ten minutes flat. Mum didn't quite know how to tell him that he was guilty of a major breach of her house rules, usually punishable by death by firing squad - but that was just as well, as the last thing we wanted to do was get on his wrong side before we told him the bad news. How on earth do you try and tell the greatest public relations guru the world has ever seen that you no longer need his services? Well - they do say flattery gets you everywhere, so I thought I had better lay it on as thick as I could.

"Cliff! Thanks so much for helping out just now - you really are the best in the business. I will certainly recommend you to all my friends." Yeah, I know the chances of a bunch of twelve-year-olds needing his help are pretty slim - but it was the only thing I could think of saying.

"You're welcome, Mason. That crowd was nothing at all compared to some that I've had to deal with. But you'll get used to that - when my plans for you all come together, the police will have to cordon off the street just so you can get through your front door ..." Right there, Cliff had mentioned one of the main reasons why there was no way I could work with him, no matter how much money it might make me. What normal person wants to live like that - never able to do what you want, always having people bugging you, having to deal with all the nutcases that come out of the woodwork asking you for money? No thanks! I'd much rather have a quieter life where I'm watching the news headlines, not appearing in them.

"Actually, that's something I wanted to talk to you about. You see ... we're very grateful for all that you've done for us ... and I know we've shaken hands on a deal and all that ... but ..."

"... but you're having second thoughts? You'd rather work with someone else than the great Cliff Machs? I know I'm not the cheapest, but I'm worth every single penny." Cliff didn't look a happy chappy. Dad decided to try and help me out.

"No, no, no. It's not that at all. You're the best in the business, Mr Machs, there's no doubt about that. We wouldn't dream of working with anybody else, would we Mason?" I shook my head in agreement. Cliff looked more puzzled than angry now.

"So ... you're going to go it alone, then? Is that it? You must be crazy! You'll never make it without me. In a week's time, no-one will remember the name of Mason Wilson; you'll be old news!"

"To tell you the truth, that's exactly how we would like it. We're an ordinary family, Mr Machs. We didn't plan for all this to happen. We're not looking to get rich and make Mason a celebrity - that's not what life is all about for us. The truth of the matter is that, after you left us at the factory, Mr Finch very generously gave us enough money to clear our debts and allows us to start again. We don't need to take the risk of affecting our family life or disrupting Mason's education just for the sake of money." Cliff grunted in disgust.

"Huh. If he worked with me, he wouldn't need an education. And you could have all the family life you wanted ... on luxury cruises and holidays in the Caribbean!" I don't know how long the conversation would have gone on, and what would have happened, if Cliff's phone hadn't gone off just then. The ringtone was, of course, "Money, Money, Money".

"Hello - Cliff Machs, PR extraordinaire speaking. How can I help you? Yes ... yes ... of course ... I understand. I can be there in about an hour - is that OK? Yes ... I know where to find you. OK, see you then." Cliff got up quickly and started to put his coat on as fast as he could.

"I have to leave. That was someone who IS interested in my services. I can't afford to waste any more time here. Time is money. Good-day to you." And with that little outburst, Cliff strode out of the house and shoved his way through the people who were still outside hoping for something to happen and disappeared off in the car that was waiting for him. That created quite a buzz outside and probably a bit of confusion as to what was going on. How were we going to get rid of these people now? We couldn't become prisoners in our own home. Should we make some kind of statement or hope that they all just get bored and drift off?

I looked out of the window. The crowd was starting to move away - a lot of people were on their phones or texting and others were waving their hands around and talking excitedly. It looked like another news story had just broken - maybe that was what Cliff had gone to deal with? The good news was that I seemed to be old news - already. That didn't take long, did it? Was there a piece of me that felt disappointed? Nope, not really. At the end of the day, none of that crowd was really interested in me - all they were really interested in was what to fill their TV program or newspaper with. And I had to admit that I wasn't really that interesting!

As I polished off a big plate of bacon and eggs for brunch, I started to think of what to do before the end of the school holidays - I was grounded of course, but then I had to get the project completed anyway, so that wouldn't matter too much - for the rest of the week anyway. I hoped that by the time I'd finished it, mum and dad would either take pity on me or get fed up at me being under their feet every evening and let me off the last half of the grounding. None of us had any idea that the next school holidays were going to bring just as much excitement and an even bigger crowd of people outside the door!

# About the Author

M.P. Jones is... well, it's probably best to leave it at that. Enlarging on his decision to move in 2002 from wet Lancashire, England to hot (and cold) Toronto, Canada would simply elicit knowing nods of approval from some and disgusted headshakes from others, depending on which side of the Atlantic they hailed from. Disclosing His career (or should that be careering?) from medieval history graduate to Chartered Accountant to editor and writer would only serve to illustrate that here is a man who lives life on the very edge. And to cite writing influences as diverse as Roald Dahl, Trenton Lee Stewart, David Eddings and Anthony Buckeridge could not be viewed as anything but pretentious and expose him to innumerable unfavourable comparisons to each. So, at the risk of repetition, M.P Jones is. And he sincerely hopes you're not too unhappy about it.
