Molly Moon Stops the World (18 page)

“You wouldn’t dare,” she shouted, looking from Primo to the control box to the remote in his murderous hand.

Cell pulled back the sleeve of his cashmere suit and checked his gold watch. Then he took Molly’s diamond from his top pocket and handed it to Sinclair. As if with telepathic understanding, Sinclair put it back
around Molly’s neck. Cell tapped a few buttons in the remote control.

“Miss Magpie is programmed,” he announced. “In roughly two and a half minutes, she will fall again. When she does—well, you’ve seen my princess in action. I’m sure you can imagine the weight of her. Her beak is as sharp as a … what do we call those kitchen knives we sell, Sinclair?”

“Shlick Shlacks.”

“As sharp as a Shlick Shlack, and her tail is deadly. Both are exquisitely sharp and heavy, so you needn’t worry—whichever end you choose, it’ll be quick.”

“YOU’RE CRAZY!” screamed Molly. She was confused as to why Sinclair had hung her diamond around her neck, but unable to take her eyes off the killer bird. “You can’t chop us up with your magpie! What kind of lunatic are you?”

But then she noticed the drain grilles on the floor and a silver reel of hose attached to the wall. She turned desperately to Rocky. The look that he returned was as wild and frightened as her own.

Molly’s lower lip trembled.

“Please, Mr. Cell,” she said in a small, surrendering voice. “Please don’t do this to us. Just let us go and we won’t bother you anymore. Please. Please don’t make us sit here when the bird falls.”

Primo Cell ignored her.

“I correct myself; in
two
minutes, the magpie will move again. You, of course, Molly Moon, can freeze the world. Sinclair has given you back the crystal. So you actually have longer than the two minutes I’m allowing you, to decide on your exact fate. How long can you stop the world for? Personally, I find ten minutes is about my limit. It’s so exhausting, isn’t it? Thanks to you, I’m now tired before my lunch party, which is irritating. I prefer to be well rested whenever I work.” Cell loosened his silk tie.

“You know, Molly, it’s odd how you never realized that crystals are essential to stopping time. Didn’t you notice how cold it became when you used it? Didn’t you realize that crystal is not a conductor of heat? Don’t they teach you anything at school these days?” Cell unbuttoned his collar and pulled out a thin silver chain from under his shirt. On it was a huge, clear crystal that reflected and refracted the white light of the torture chamber, sparkling as if in sinister greeting.

“Show them yours,” he ordered Sinclair. Sinclair wore a strip of leather round his neck, on which was yet another large, shiny gem.

“Now,” said Cell, examining his cufflink, “I’d love to talk about all this, but I really must be getting back to my guests. Maybe another time … Ah, I forgot.”
Primo eyed the drains. “What a waste. Anyway, Molly, and, er—I never did catch your friend’s name—have a good eleven minutes. Bon voyage.”

As Cell lifted a hand in farewell, Molly summoned all her strength to turn her eyes up to full hypnotic power, and she raised them to Primo Cell’s. Her gaze flew through the air and hit him full in the face. The impact almost knocked him backward.

“My, my, Molly! I wasn’t expecting
that.”
Then he turned away, repeating, “What a waste.” He beckoned for his son and the general to follow him, and they started up the glass stairs. Molly heard him say, “Sinclair, this staircase is beautiful, but it’s a bore to climb. Remind me to install an elevator.”

M
olly and Rocky sat rigidly on the death bench, with the iron vises around their ankles and their bodies held firmly by the cruel steel straps. Rocky could feel his chest tightening. Molly reached forward to see if she could lean below the point where the magpie’s beak would sweep by.

“It’s useless. I can’t get out of the firing line.” She stared at the hideous instrument of death with terror in her eyes. “Rocky, I don’t want my backbone sliced off. B-but, but if we sit up, we’ll be mashed head on by the bird.”

“The beak will hit me,” said Rocky, his voice wheezing asthmatically. “I saw where it comes. It’ll skewer me … then the side of its wings will rip us. And when it returns, its tail will slice our heads clean off.”
Desperately he began to claw at the metal belt.

“Oh, Rocky! Oh, please, someone … help!” Molly yelled at the top of her voice, struggling uselessly. “This can’t be happening. He’s just trying to scare us. He’ll be back. I’m sure he will. He couldn’t want to … to …”

“Murder us?”

“Oh, I don’t believe it, Rocky!” gasped Molly. “He’s going to murder us.” Molly screamed louder than she had ever screamed in her life. “HELP! HELP! SOMEBODY! HELP US!”

Rocky took Molly’s hand.

“The two minutes are almost up.”

Molly stopped. Despite her panic, she noticed how still and calm he was. “No one can hear us, can they?”

Rocky shook his head. He had tears in his eyes. “Sorry, Molly.”

“But there must be something we can do,” pleaded Molly. “We must be able to break these things …” All her hypnotic powers felt useless. “This can’t be it.”

All of a sudden the magpie gave a deafening screech. Molly almost fainted with fear.

“You can stop the world now,” said Rocky. “And give us just a bit more time.”

“Yes,” Molly panted. “Of course, of course … yes.” Molly stared at the drain beside them and pulled her
mind into sharp focus. She had only a few seconds. From a part of her mind a small voice cried,
What’s the point, Molly? It’ll hit you eventually.
Molly ignored it. At lightning speed, she achieved the cold fusion feeling. And as it flooded her body, she heard the bird’s charging swoop. She saw it coming. With a massive effort, she sucked the cold sensation to its summit. In a split second, the bird was upon them, and yet it wasn’t quite there. Just in time, the world had stopped. Tremulously, Molly looked up. The magpie’s beak was only a few inches from Rocky’s neck. His eyes were tight shut. The spread of one wing was a few feet away from Molly’s chest. Molly put her hand on Rocky’s shoulder and, just as she had seen Primo Cell resuscitate the general, she sent the fusion feeling down her arm and into him. Rocky opened his eyes, instinctively straining away from the pickax beak.

“It’s frozen,” said Molly.

“How long for?” he wheezed. “It’s going to rip me open. And how come I’m moving?”

Molly held the frozen feeling inside her more determinedly than she had ever held on to anything in her life before. “As long as you’re touching me, you’re not frozen,” she told him. “And the magpie is still for as long as I hold it there.”

Molly could feel, somewhere in the house above them,
Sinclair and Primo Cell’s resistance to her freeze. She thought of Cell’s irritation at not being able to continue showing off to a guest at his lunch party. He’d have to leave a sentence unfinished, and remember exactly what he was saying when time started again.

When the world moved once again …
if
it did, Molly and Rocky would be dead. Molly stared at the blackand-white killing machine in front of her. Did the world have to start again? Of course it did.

Rocky touched the tip of the magpie’s beak.

“How many people has this magpie tortured before us?” The bird’s metal eyes stared blankly at them.

“What shall we do?” said Molly. “I mean, if these are … you know … our last moments alive.” She felt like crying.

“I suppose we should be enjoying it,” said Rocky. “If we’re going to die, we might as well. I mean, when it happens, Molly, it’ll happen so fast I don’t think we’ll feel it. We’ll die instantly. So we might as well try and be happy now.”

“What, you mean tell each other jokes?” Molly said, a hard lump in her throat sending a pain up the back of her neck. “Or should we be remembering, you know, good times?” She took several deep breaths. It was taking huge concentration to both talk and hold the world still.

“There’s no shoulds about it,” said Rocky. Then he said, “Cell didn’t even give us a last request—like in the movies.
And
this
is
Hollywood. Talk about mean.”

Molly looked at her friend. Rocky looked genuinely annoyed. He’d almost made her smile.

“What would you have asked for?”

“My guitar. Then I might have been able to use my voice and hypnotize him with a song. What about you?”

“A gun.”

Molly felt the stopped world, like a powerful jackin-the-box ready to spring, trying to force her to let it move again. She pushed it into submission. It made her feel cold—so cold. Molly groaned.

“All right?” asked Rocky.

“I’m getting a bit tired.”

“I’m glad you were delivered to the orphanage all those years ago,” Rocky suddenly said.

“Same here with you.” Molly knew this conversation was going to hurt worse than anything she’d ever felt before. “Rocky, all my life I’ve wanted to know who my parents are. Now I’m glad I don’t. I’m glad I’m an orphan, because if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t know you, Rocky. You’ve been the best friend anyone could ever have. And you’re the best singer—your songs are brilliant. The world would have loved them if … Rocky,
what do you think death is like?”

“I think it feels like sleep, but without the dreams. A deep sleep where you don’t think or feel anything.”

“Do you think we’ll ever wake up again?”

“I don’t think we will, no. I think we—our spirits called Molly and Rocky—will be in a big sleep forever and we won’t even know it. But maybe the energy that comes out of us when we die, the energy that has no feelings or thoughts—that will go into something else. Like a battery. The energy that was the power behind our lives will wait until something else plugs into it. What would you like your energy battery to be used for next, Molly?”

Molly thought for a second. “Petula’s puppies, if she ever has them.”

Rocky stroked Molly’s hand.

“You mustn’t be scared of dying, Molly.”

“But how do you know all this?”

“It’s just what I believe,” said Rocky. “It’s common sense. I never was a big one for religion. Religions have great music, that’s for sure, and cool buildings, but religions seem to make people fight each other too much. If you treat people and animals around you as well as you can, that’s enough religion. Don’t you think?”

“Do you think we’ve treated people and animals well enough?” asked Molly.

“We’re not perfect, but you’re lovely, Molly.”

“So are you…. But if everything dies and goes to a place like sleep, what is the point of life?”

“That’s like asking what’s the point of a beautiful sunrise, or a fantastic piece of music.”

“Okay, so what’s the point in those things?”

“Why does there have to be a point?” asked Rocky.

“Maybe there
is
a point behind it all,” said Molly. “Maybe we’re going to find out what that point is.”

Molly was shivering uncontrollably. She felt her strength slip as the world pushed her to let it move again. The pressure of all the trillions of people and animals and insects and plants and machines in the world that were trying to burst out, to continue, to move on. Molly imagined the stillness all over the world. People in the middle of a joke—laughing but with no noise coming out of their mouths. People fighting, their punching fists frozen in the air. There were always wars in the world. There must be bullets that had been arrested in midair, bombs that had just been detonated. The violent things were too horrible to think about. Molly thought of good things. A child taking her first steps. A person in a hospital emerging from a coma. Perhaps somewhere a person was about to write the number that would win the lottery. Babies were being born, people were winning races, inventors
and artists were, right now, having ideas. Scientists could, at this moment, be discovering something really important. And all these people wanted to continue moving. Molly gritted her teeth. With every passing minute, the pressure was becoming more difficult to bear. She knew she couldn’t talk anymore. Eight minutes had passed.

She stared with hatred at the metal bird in front of her, despising it, wishing it would just disappear. She felt sick and more and more lightheaded. Molly held the world still for another four minutes. Then another four.

She held on so tight that she thought she might shatter.

She was holding on to a cliff edge, dangling over a precipice, looking down into a chasm that was death. Rocky seemed to be clinging to her legs, and now only the tips of her fingers held on. Her nails grated over the surface of the rock, trying to find a grip but slipping, slipping.

“I can’t hold on,” she murmured. “I feel so, so,
so
cold.”

Then she shut her eyes and felt gravity pull her down into the chasm, as time swallowed her.

T
hat evening, Cell had dinner with all his resident stars. He always found their company amusing, and it did him good to remind himself how powerful he was.

They sat around his grand dining-room table, behind elaborate place settings of cut glass and solid-gold cutlery, and he listened to how their day had gone.

Gloria Heelheart was thrilled because Gino Pucci, the director of the film she’d been shooting all year, had just found a replacement for the dog role in it.

“You know, Primo, I told you how the
first
dawg had a heart attack? We didn’t know
how
we were going to find another one that would be as charrrrming. I couldn’t let one of my little Peekies take the role, as the other
nine would get jealous. And now, Gino has found a simply fabulous dawg to play the role. A pug! We’re going to reshoot all the dog scenes next week. So the movie should be ready by early November.”

Primo stuck his teaspoon into the raw sea urchin in front of him. He scooped up its salty center and put it into his mouth.

“That’s good.” He nodded.

Hercules Stone looked at his plate and frowned. “I can’t eat this,” he snarled. His personal butler appeared magically at his side. “I thought we told the chef how I like my burgers. The cheese goes on top of the meat, and the pickles go between the tomato and the lettuce, not on top of the lettuce. The mustard goes under the meat, not on top, and the mayo should be between the pickle and the tomato.”