Mo Lottie and the Junkers
For my nephew, Alfie.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Opening the Box
The Start of the Story
Too Much Stuff
St Pippins Primary
The New Boy
A Warning
Lorelai and the Thief
Mr Gideon’s Delicious Ice Cream
Searching for Schrodinger
Lore-liar
Keeping an Eye on Jax
Ice Cream Panic
A New Invention
We Finally Learn a Few Things
Things Get Real
Making Plans on the Trampoline
Following Jax
Pretending with Jax
Time for Action
Into the Junkers’ Lair
Hector
Squirrel Attack
The Police
Flares
Things Get Dark
Drastic Action
Discovery Day
The Season Finale
Junked
Lottie’s Secret
Acknowledgements
Also by Jennifer Killick
Copyright
Opening the Box
This box belongs to Mo and Lottie
DO NOT OPEN,
EXCEPT IN AN EMERGENCY
(for example: if we have been imprisoned, abducted or violently murdered.)
INSTRUCTIONS
1 Open box
2 Locate USB stick and insert into relevant computer port (a.k.a. the memory-stick hole)
3 Open folder named ‘Junkers’ (password is JUNKERSSUCK!!! – all caps, no spaces. [Lottie’s idea])
4 Locate the AV clip ‘Mo and Lottie: Our Vlog’. Press play – further instructions will follow.
5 Do not look at anything else in the box until we say!
6 Really, though, don’t, or it won’t make sense.
7 Everything else is in your hands.
P.S. – thanks and good luck
x x x from Lottie and Mo x x x
File accessed…
Restricted folder…
Password required…
Enter password:
**************
Password accepted…
Select file…
File selected…
Loading…
{ERROR CODE 79}
Reloading…
Audio-visual player standing by…
Buffering…
System ready…
Press [PLAY] to activate…
Vlogger 1 (Female – approximate age 10 years – approximate height 130cm – light brown hair): Is it working now? *she approaches the recording device and her face fills the screen, showing a scattering of amber freckles across her nose and upper cheeks. The footage jumps as though the device is being shaken and several loud thumps reverberate through the speaker*
Vlogger 2 (Male – approximate age 10 years – approximate height 128cm – ginger hair): It won’t be for long if you keep hitting it like that.
Vlogger 1:
Well, one of us has to do something – we don’t have much time. Check it again.
Vlogger 2:
*huffs* It’s recording, OK? Let’s get on with it. Wait – what are you doing?
Vlogger 1:
I’m plaiting my hair, obviously. These people are seeing me for the first time – I want to get my look right. I’m thinking Katniss plait, with a few strands coming loose to show I’ve been running for my life.
Vlogger 2:
But they can see you doing it, Lottie! They know you’re just sitting on a chair in my bedroom. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what you look like. *sighs loudly*
Vlogger 1 (Lottie):
That’s an unhelpful comment, Mo, and I am going to ignore it. Now, pause the recording while I find a hairband.
*Mo sighs again, slides off his chair and stomps over to the camera. A streak of dirt can be seen down the left side of his nose. A click can be heard and the recording pauses*
*a second click. Mo mutters a word which sounds like it could be a swear, though it is too quiet to be sure*
Mo:
Can we get on…?
Lottie:
I’ll start, shall I? Good. First, I will state my name for the recording. I am Lottie Magnolia Button. And this is…
Mo:
Mo.
Lottie:
Do it properly, Mo! They’re not going to be able to identify your burnt remains if they only know you as Mo. Our lives could depend on this.
Mo:
Fine. Morris Albert Appleby.
Lottie:
Albert? Really? And I thought Morris was questionable.
Mo:
Are you serious? Your middle name is Magnolia. MAGNOLIA. What even is that?
Lottie:
It’s a flower: beautiful but tough. Everyone knows that. Honestly, who would have thought that you, Mo Appleby, are destined to be one of the saviours of man and womankind?
Mo:
Just get on with it, Lottie – we don’t know how much time we have before…
Lottie:
…They find us. You’re right. OK, this is a message – a terribly important message. If you are watching this message…
Mo:
They’re probably going to stop watching if you say ‘message’ one more time.
Lottie:
If you are watching this MESSAGE, then it means something has happened to us and the future of the world is in your hands.
Mo:
We can’t tell our parents because they won’t believe us.
Lottie:
And we can’t tell the police because we don’t know who we can trust.
Mo:
Anybody could be one of them. Anybody could be a Junker.
Lottie:
And if you’re watching this then it means they got us. We’re probably dead.
Mo:
We’re probably NOT dead. But we might have been junked, and that’s almost as bad.
Lottie:
And I am ever so important, dear viewer. The world needs me. And Mo.
Mo:
Especially Mo.
Lottie:
So please keep watching and you’ll understand everything. I’m going to explain – to tell you our story…
Mo:
No, I’m going to tell the story, Lottie. You’ll tell it wrong.
Lottie:
No way, Mo, you’ll tell it boringly.
Mo *sighs*:
If by boringly, you mean truthfully, then yes I will.
Lottie:
It’s my story as much as yours, Mo. I don’t see why you should get to tell it.
Mo:
Shall we just take it in turns, then?
Lottie:
OK – I’ll go first.
Mo:
No, I’ll go first – the story starts with me.
Lottie:
Only technically.
Mo:
Right. Only technically, rather than in your imagination.
Lottie:
So, anyway, courageous viewer: please hear our story and take action. You might be our only chance for survival. And hurry – maybe there’s still time. Maybe you can save us.
The Start of the Story
Mo
‘Hurry up, Mo – they’re here!’ Mum called to me from the empty hallway.
‘I’m doing a check,’ I said, standing in what used to be my bedroom at 79 Morello Road, but was now just a room waiting to belong to someone who wasn’t me.
‘Just one more, my love. I know it’s hard to say goodbye, but we really have to go. We’ve got a new adventure ahead of us.’
After ten perfect years of just me, Mum and our cat, Schrodinger, the time had come for us to become part of a new ‘family’. We were leaving our house – the one I’d lived in since I was born; the one I knew as well as I knew myself – and moving into a house across the street. Even worse, we were going to be living with Mum’s – I don’t want to say boyfriend, because, one: she’s too old to have a boyfriend; and two: it’s gross – we were going to be living with Mum’s Spencer, and his daughters, Lottie and Sadie. I could talk for hours about how this was the worst thing that had happened in my life, but Lottie will use it as an excuse to interrupt, so I’ll just say that I wasn’t happy about it.
But Mum was. And my mum is the kindest, coolest, most awesome mum in the world. She has a smile that fills her whole face and she always smells like pancakes and strawberries. My dad disappeared before I was born; before Mum even knew she was having me. He just walked out one day and never came back. That made her sad for a long time. Not sad the whole time, but there were moments. Like when I was having trouble with some kids at school and my teacher called her in. She said she wished my dad was there to help us. And when we went on holiday, I could see her looking around, hoping she might see him. But then she met Spencer, and those moments happened less often.
Before I said goodbye, I had to complete one last check – to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything important. I knelt on the floorboards and crawled slowly across the room, back and forth until I’d covered every centimetre. My carpet had been worn out and torn in one corner where Schrodinger had scratched at it, so Mum thought it was best to pull it up and throw it out. The room looked so different without it. There were gaps between the wooden planks and I was worried that I might have dropped something; that something tiny might get left behind. br />
And that’s when I found the loose one. In the cat-clawed corner, one of the boards wobbled when I knelt on it. Through the crack at the edge, I could see something shining in the darkness underneath – a dull, silver colour. I squidged my fingers under the board and pulled.
Lottie
Sadie and I were desperate to see our new room, but Dad wouldn’t let us go into the house until the others arrived. So we stood outside 124 Morello Road – a big white house, with lots of wide windows, that stood out amongst the narrow brown brick houses surrounding it. It was at the top of the hill and set back from the road, up some steep steps, so it was higher and bolder and looked more important than the other houses on the street. It gave me the impression that it was keeping a lookout over Morello Road. We waited by the door while the peculiar ginger boy, who was going to be our new brother, and the pretty ginger lady, who was going to be our new mother, had an intense discussion in the doorway of their old house, which happened to be opposite our new house.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it ended with the boy waiting until his mum had turned her back and then putting something shiny grey into his pocket.
‘Hello again, girls – lovely to see you, as always! Isn’t this exciting?’ Our new mother smiled at us while Dad put his arm around her and kissed her (on the lips), which I still hadn’t got used to. ‘You remember Mo,’ she said.
‘Hi, Mo,’ I said.
‘Hi,’ said Mo, looking at me as though he wished I was dead.
‘Sadie, say hello,’ Dad said, pulling on one of her little pigtails.
‘Mew,’ said Sadie, which is her way of saying hello.
‘Try to use your words, Sadie,’ said Dad. ‘Emma and Mo can’t understand you like Lottie and I can.’
‘It’s OK, we’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other,’ Emma gave Sadie a bag of chocolate buttons. ‘Say hello to Sadie, Mo.’
‘Hello to Sadie,’ Mo said, looking at Sadie as if he wished she was dead.
‘Let’s do it, shall we?’ Dad said, putting the key in the lock of our new front door.
‘Yay!’ Emma laughed and clapped her hands.
Sadie munched on her buttons.
Mo kicked his shoes against the steps.
‘Pineapple,’ I said, to fill the silence and because it seemed appropriate.
We walked into the house.
Too Much Stuff
Lottie
After spending a million hours unpacking, it became clear that we all had a lot of stuff and not enough places to put it. This was especially relevant in Mo’s case because he had mountains of full cardboard boxes that he mysteriously referred to as ‘his collection’.
‘We’re going to have to store some of it in the garage,’ Dad said. ‘Would that be OK with you, Mo? I know your collection is important to you.’
I didn’t like the way Dad was being all careful around Mo, but apparently he’s a hashtag ‘sensitive boy’ and we had to be hashtag ‘extra considerate’. If it had been mine or Sadie’s belongings that were overflowing out of the house, we would have just been told they were getting dumped in the garage, no arguments.
Mo looked panicky.
‘We just can’t fit everything in, Mo-Bear,’ Emma said, kneeling down and holding his hand. ‘It’ll be safe in the garage.’
‘We could all do with a bit of stream-lining,’ said Dad, ‘Especially with our non-essential items. How about we all get one box each that we can fill and keep in our rooms, and everything else goes into the garage?’
‘Well that sounds very fair, doesn’t it, Mo?’ Emma said, smiling at my dad like he was some kind of brilliant and wondrous genius. ‘I have lots of things I don’t really need in the house, so I’ll do it too.’
‘My box needs to be private,’ said Mo. ‘No-one’s allowed to go in it.’
‘We’ll all have a secret box – out of bounds to everyone else. How does that sound?’ Emma said, giving Mo a Curly Wurly.
‘Great,’ Dad said.
‘Mrow,’ Sadie said, which meant she agreed.
‘Huff,’ Mo said.
‘I promise never to look in anyone’s box,’ I said, crossing my fingers in my head, rather than behind my back, in case anyone saw.
Mo
How could this house be so much bigger, but feel so much smaller than our old home?
The thing about me is that I collect junk. No, wait – that’s not quite right: I collect items that other people might mistakenly call junk. Things that have been dropped or forgotten: the bits of paper that fall out of pockets; the random shoe from the middle of the road; the half-bald teddy lying next to the swings. It isn’t that I want the things for myself – I’m not weird or anything. It’s just that I can’t stand to see things left behind.
I know what the other kids say about me. They think because I don’t say anything back that I can’t hear them laughing when I stash a soggy mitten in my bag. I do hear them, but I don’t care. I can’t just leave it there, drowning in a puddle, when to somebody somewhere it could be the most important mitten in the world.
Nobody and nothing is junk. Every item has a story, and a home, and probably someone missing it.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve collected stuff and kept it all in labelled boxes that I stored in the house. But, apparently, now that I had sisters, I had to try harder to share. And that included my space.
I filled my box, leaving just enough space for the thing I found under the floorboard. As I put the lid on, Lottie walked into my room, without knocking, and sat on my bed. She sat on my bed.
Her hair was brown and curly and she’d worn it a different way every time I’d seen her. Like she actually spent her time thinking up a different hairstyle for each day of the week. That’s just mental. Her freckles and eyes were the colour of honey – full of sugar and sunshine. They were probably the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen. I didn’t like them one bit.
‘I don’t like you calling my mum “Emma”,’ I said. ‘It sounds weird.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘How about “Miss Appleby”?’
‘That’s absolutely ridiculous,’ Lottie said. ‘She isn’t my teacher. How about I call her “Mum”?’
It was the most horrible thing I’d ever heard. ‘“Emma” is fine.’
‘I’m glad we have that settled.’ She looked around my room, making a face. ‘But while we’re on the subject of names, you’ve been saying Sadie’s completely wrong and she’s finding it quite upsetting.’
‘How have I been saying it wrong?’
‘You pronounce it like “Say-dee”, not “Say-dee”.’
What the heck? ‘You just said it the exact same way twice!’
‘You obviously weren’t listening properly.’
‘Maybe you weren’t speaking properly,’ I said. I didn’t really know how to deal with someone so unhinged.
‘It must be all that…interesting hair blocking your ear-holes.’
‘What do you mean, “interesting hair”?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. You know you could wear it a different way?’
‘A different way?’ What was she on about?
‘Yes, something less Victorian street urchin and more, you know, nice. I could style it for you, if you like?’ She stood up and started coming towards me.
‘Hell, no.’
‘There’s no need for the inappropriate language, Mo. I was only trying to help.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Maybe you don’t, but your hair certainly does.’
‘Who even cares about hair? It doesn’t matter!’
Lottie gasped. ‘Take that back.’
‘Hair is stupid, hair is stupid, hair is stupid,’ I started chanting and marching around the room, waving my arms in the air.
Lottie
His hair was bright orange, which was fine. The problem was the way he wore it, like he’d never brushed it in his life. And he always had dirty fingers that he scratched his nose with, leaving black smudges on his face. He looked like he should be picking pockets or sweeping chimneys. It bothered me. And you know those dogs who have huge chocolatey-brown eyes, which always look sad? Well, Mo’s eyes were like that, but they were dark blue. Blue eyes are supposed to be twinkly, cheerful and always look like their owner has something up their sleeves. Sad blue eyes are not a thing. Unless your name is Mo Appleby, apparently. And the worst thing was that they were ever so endearing – they made me want to share my cookies with him. It was extremely irritating.