The Curiosity Machine (6 page)

Gerald frowned. This was going to require perseverance. ‘So, what are you reading?' he asked.

Ruby extended her index finger, signalling for Gerald to shush while she finished a paragraph. Then she held up the front cover for him to see.

‘
The Voyage of the Beagle
,' Gerald read. ‘The Charles Darwin book?'

‘That's right,' Ruby said, running a fingertip over the embossed leather cover. ‘It's all about his trip around the world in the 1830s. It's very interesting.'

Gerald pressed his lips together. He had the deep suspicion that Ruby was going out of her way to annoy him, but he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she was succeeding. She knew that Charles Darwin's voyage on the
Beagle
was somehow at the heart
of Sir Mason Green's latest obsession: the perpetual motion machine.

‘Why are you really reading it?' he asked flatly.

Ruby swung onto her knees and grabbed Gerald's arm. ‘I was thinking about what Felicity said—about the perpetual motion machine. Don't you want to find it, Gerald? We know that Jeremy Davey was on the
Beagle
, and from the date on his note he must have been near the Galapagos Islands when he tossed the bottle and the machine into the sea. You could ask Captain Cooper to make a detour on the way to the Panama Canal and we could check it out. We're so close, Gerald. Aren't you curious to find out the end of the story?'

Gerald pushed Ruby's hand away and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I'll tell you the same thing I told Felicity: I have zero interest in going near anything that Mason Green wants. It doesn't matter if it's a perpetual motion machine, a curiosity machine, or a machine that polishes your toenails and takes out the garbage. I'm not interested.'

‘But Gerald,' Ruby said, ‘if we find the perpetual motion machine, then maybe we can exchange it for Professor McElderry and all those other people that Green kidnapped from the British Museum. We could free them all.'

Gerald narrowed his eyes. Raising the issue of Professor McElderry was a low blow. ‘You might remember the last time we saw the professor he made it
clear that he didn't want to be rescued,' he said.

‘But what about all the other—'

Gerald cut her off. ‘Inspector Parrott told us to leave the detective work to the Metropolitan Police. We gave him all the information we had, so if he wants to dig up half the Galapagos Islands that's up to him. It's my birthday. I want to have some fun without worrying about Mason Green, stupid machines or having to look over my shoulder every ten seconds for some hired goon with a ninja sword about to slice me in two.'

A soft rustle behind him sent Gerald jumping into the air. ‘Whazzit?' he yelped. He spun around and threw his hands up in self-defence. Then his towel fell around his ankles. He stood there in his board shorts looking at Ella, who had arrived bearing a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits that smelled like they were fresh out of the oven.

‘I'm sorry,' Ella said. ‘I brought a fresh pot and another cup. I didn't mean to startle you.'

Ruby cleared a space on the table. ‘Thank you, Ella,' she said. ‘Don't worry about Gerald. He's highly strung.'

The waitress placed the tray on the table and Gerald mumbled a quick thanks as she left. Ruby poured tea into one of the cups. ‘She's a twin,' Ruby said. ‘The waitress, I mean.'

‘You can tell?' Gerald said, amazed. ‘Is that because you're a twin and it's one of those mystical powers that twins have?'

‘No,' Ruby said, blowing steam from her cup. ‘She told me. It's the mystical power of human conversation. You know, where people talk about interesting things and don't freak out for no reason whatsoever.'

Gerald waited for Ruby to pour some tea for him. She didn't. ‘You're talking about me now, aren't you?' he said.

Ruby nodded, and took a sip.

Gerald dropped into an armchair and groaned, ‘Why do girls have to talk in riddles?'

Ruby leaned forward in her seat. ‘And why do boys not talk at all? Why can't you just come out and admit what it is that's got you so grumpy?'

‘Me grumpy?' Gerald scoffed out the words. ‘Says the person cooped up inside, reading a book about some long-dead scientist, instead of enjoying this voyage.'

‘We're all on a voyage of discovery, Gerald Wilkins,' Ruby said. ‘Maybe you need to think about why your particular voyage keeps hitting the rocks.'

‘Thank you, Madam Zelda, teller of really crappy fortunes,' Gerald said. He did not like the direction things were heading.

Then Ruby hit him with it. ‘You obviously haven't forgiven me for turning you down,' she said.

Gerald's eyelids peeled back. If this was a voyage of discovery, he had just entered uncharted waters. ‘Um…' he fumbled.

‘Not that it wasn't a very sweet offer,' Ruby said,
‘and I'm really touched that you think I'm interesting enough to move our friendship to another level. But now that you've brought it up, I think we need to talk it through.'

Gerald swallowed as a pit opened up in his stomach. ‘I don't think I did bring it up,' he said.

‘Oh, you most certainly did, Gerald. And here's the problem. If I were to say yes to you becoming my boyfriend you would most probably want to kiss me, because that sort of comes with the territory. Now, I have to ask myself if that's what I want as well. Obviously there's a closeness between us. I'd be a fool to deny it after everything we've been through over the last year. And you do have a boyish charm about you, you know, being a boy and all. And your eyes are quite dreamy. I ask myself: would I enjoy kissing you? And my honest answer is probably, yes. Yes. I would enjoy it very much. But then I'd have to ask myself: would I ever look at you quite the same way again? And I'm not sure I could. Our friendship would be forever different, and I value too much what we've got now to risk losing it. And then there's the money question. Will people think I'm just chasing after you because of your fortune? Don't you remember all those nasty magazine articles about me? They were really hurtful. If I was to become your girlfriend it would place me in a really difficult position. Don't you understand, Gerald? Don't you see?'

Gerald stared at Ruby in silent panic. All he had
done was ask what book she was reading. How was he supposed to respond to all that? As it turned out, he didn't have to. Ruby was quite capable of responding for him.

‘Then I look at it from your perspective,' she continued, barely breaking stride, ‘and how difficult it must be for you. Who can you trust? Who are your real friends, and who is just pursuing you with dollar signs in their eyes? I haven't forgotten those sacks of love letters and the screaming crowds outside the Old Bailey. All those beautiful girls wanting to get their hands on you, wanting to get their claws into your cash. But you've never been the one to flaunt your fortune. That's what I love about you, Gerald: your genuine common decency. You're an honest and good human being. A generous, brave, innocent soul. Any girl would be delighted to call herself your girlfriend. And I know I am so lucky to be able to count myself as a very special friend.' Ruby leaned forward and kissed Gerald on the cheek.

Gerald didn't move. He blinked. Twice. ‘Um,' he said, ‘so, do you still want to see a movie tonight?'

‘Sure,' Ruby said. She opened her book and looked down at the page. ‘Sounds fun.'

‘Okay then.' He stared at the carpet under his feet. ‘I'll see you later.'

Ruby flashed him a smile. ‘Sure. See you.'

Gerald scooped up his towel and turned to leave. Ruby lowered her book. ‘See, Gerald?' she said. ‘It's
good to talk these things through.'

Gerald nodded and wandered back towards the pool deck, his brain whirring. Had Ruby just agreed to be his girlfriend? Or the exact opposite? He had no clue. But Gerald would happily do battle with every sword-wielding ninja on Sir Mason Green's payroll rather than go through that experience again.

Chapter 5

Gerald fluffed the goose feather pillows, moulding a cloud of comfort behind his head. He rolled onto his back and fished the television remote from the bedclothes, taking care not to upend the steaming basket of potato wedges at his side. There were countless benefits to being a boy billionaire, but Gerald could think of few better than fresh-cooked midnight snacks delivered to your bedside.

It had been a hectic day. The
Archer
was powering into the night through calm seas that caressed the ship into a gentle roll, as if being rocked in a cradle. After a soak in a fragrant bath and a dinner of fresh-caught mahi mahi and chips, topped off by a mountain of mango sorbet and a scoop of avocado ice cream on a dare from
Sam (which was a mistake), Gerald should have been battling to keep his eyes open. But he was wide awake.

Usually on the night before his birthday, Gerald would wish himself to sleep. The sooner he was snoring, the sooner he would wake to find the foot of his bed piled with presents. But this was his first birthday since inheriting his great aunt's colossal fortune. Somehow the buzz had gone out of his pre-present anticipation. Where was the thrill in guessing what you would get when you already had everything?

Gerald stuffed a potato wedge into his mouth and flicked on the television. The screen shimmered to life. He shifted back into his nest of pillows and sighed. He was sure the party his mother had arranged for him would be fun, and any time spent with Sam, Ruby and Felicity was always an adventure, but somehow something was missing.

Gerald pressed the channel button. The news in Spanish. Apparently something of incredible interest had happened in the parliament in Madrid. Apparently.

Click.
A Japanese game show. A contestant was having a bucket of writhing snakes poured over his head. Ho-hum.

Click.
Three men riding unicycles on a stage while throwing chainsaws and kittens at each other. Gerald could only assume it was
Uzbekistan's Got Talent
. Yawn.

Gerald knew he had nothing to complain about—he reached across and poured himself a glass of cola from
the ice bucket that Ella had put by his bed, and scoffed down another potato wedge coated with sweet chilli sauce and sour cream. With untold wealth, had the fun actually gone out of his life? He shoved in another potato wedge and belched. How could that be?

Click.
A documentary about drilling for oil in Kazakhstan.
Boring
.

Click.
An infomercial about tinted contact lenses.
Eye-glazing
.

Click.
Horse racing in Hong Kong.
Lame
.

Click.
A German celebrity had posted a photograph of his bottom on the internet.
Gross
.

Click.
A travel show at a tropical resort, with a beachside swimming pool at night surrounded by palm trees sprinkled with fairy lights. A gentle breeze disturbed the fronds as the show's presenter settled into a wicker chair and stared into the camera. Gerald had his thumb on the channel button, but paused. The presenter looked oddly familiar. A man, aged in his sixties with a head of well-tended silver hair. A glowing tan. A steely glint in his eyes. Gerald stared at the screen with drop-jawed disbelief.

Sir Mason Green?

Hosting a travel show?

If Gerald was going through some form of psychological crisis seeing his arch nemesis fronting a television program, it was nothing compared with his brain explosion when Sir Mason Green stared hard into the camera
and spoke to him.

‘Good evening, Gerald. I trust you're having a fine start to your birthday extravaganza?'

Gerald jolted upright in the bed, sending the basket of potato wedges across the floor. He didn't spare them a second's thought as his eyes remained welded to the screen. Had the man actually just spoken directly to—

‘Gerald, there's no need to look so surprised. You must have expected I was going to interrupt your dream holiday sooner or later.' He raised his glass. ‘Many happy returns, by the way.'

‘How are you doing this?' Gerald finally managed to blurt out. ‘How can you be on my TV?' Then, in a moment of stark realisation, ‘Can you see me?'

On the screen Green's thin lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. ‘I'm a bit late to the party with the technology, Gerald. I have people who do that'—he wafted his hands in the air—‘stuff for me. I just sit and talk and the digital dust scatters about the stratosphere. But, in short, yes, I can see you. That is the point of video conferencing, I believe.'

Gerald glanced left and right. A crazed killer had hacked into his television. ‘What do you want?' he asked, pulling the bedclothes around his waist.

‘To wish you a happy birthday, of course,' Green said, his face a picture of feigned sincerity. ‘Fourteen, is it? I remember my fourteenth birthday as if it was yesterday.'

‘You must have a very good memory,' Gerald said,
tightening his grip on the television remote. ‘Tear the wings off some butterflies to celebrate, did you?'

Green's eyes dimmed to a humourless grey. ‘Do not be tiresome, young fellow. I thought you would have learned by now that my patience stretches only so far.'

Gerald pressed his lips together as he struggled to hold back what he really wanted to say. Then another realisation struck him. ‘You're alive!'

Sir Mason picked up his cocktail glass, slid a slice of orange along the rim, and sipped. ‘Your skills of observation astound me,' he said.

‘But if you're alive that means you survived the drains under the Billionaire's Club. Does that mean that—'

Green finished Gerald's question for him. ‘That Professor McElderry is also alive?' He placed his glass on the table by his elbow and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘I'm afraid I have some difficult news,' he said.