Molly Moon & the Morphing Mystery

A third of a mile away, Petula, Magglorian, and Stanley arrived at Buckingham Palace.

“Cor, can smell the corgis from ’ere,” said Magglorian, his nose puckering. Petula raised her head to the rain and wrinkled her forehead at the sky. She hated lightning.

“Oh, dear, we’re too late, she’s not here,” she said, disappointed. Her face turned like the dial of a compass toward Westminster Abbey. “That way!”

“Righty-o,” said Stanley cheerfully.

“Let’s push on,” said Magglorian. “It is getting really wet. Over there is near the Houses of Parliament, where the politicians live. That’s near my home, too.” And so the dogs set off through the sheets of rain.

Black glared up at the blackening sky. Behind them, a teacher arrived and began comforting the tourist.

“A lot is at stake. We must prioritize.” Black nodded over to the Chinese woman. “She’s in safe hands now.” Urging Molly and Micky, who were still schoolboys, to move on quickly, he helped them navigate their way out of the courtyard.

They followed Theobald Black around the school’s tree-lined square. The rain was pelting down. In the distance, they could still hear police sirens.

“I expect you two will be wanting to meego back to your own bodies,” said Black, pulling up the neckline of his coat to conceal his face as much as he could. “I can teach you.”

“Wow, that would be brilliant,” Molly gasped.

“That would be incredible,” agreed Micky, adding, “It’s amazing how wrong we got you. We had you down as a really bad man.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you about a person,” Black said gruffly. “You know the old saying—never judge a book by its cover.”

Molly looked up at him. He was unattractive, it couldn’t be denied. His thick, grayish skin was ugly and pitted, but now that Black was looking directly at her, Molly saw that there was a kind twinkle in his eye.

“I’m sorry we thought you were bad,” Molly apologized. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“Hunroe and her friends seemed good,” explained Micky. “They painted you as a dishonest, two-bit slime-ball to fit their story. How much do you know about Miss Hunroe?”

“A lot. I know her very, very well. I went to school with her. She was as nasty then as she is now. Miss Popular, she was, with every teacher thinking she was an angel. She liked to have sycophantic followers….”

“Syco what?” said Molly.

“Sycophantic,” Micky intervened. “It’s when a person blindly follows another person, doing whatever they want like an obedient dog. That’s called being sycophantic.”

Theobald Black nodded. “Hunroe liked her followers exactly like that. They’d all look up to her and behaved as though they hoped some of her Hunroeness might rub off on them. I suppose she was always glamorous. They all wanted to be her and would do whatever she wanted.”

“Sounds like the gang she has now.”

“I’m sure. Miss Hunroe wouldn’t be able to exist without her obedient followers. She had a particularly evil thuggy helper at school called Bartholomew. She used him to do her dirty work, to bully people, to get what she wanted. She hasn’t changed.” They walked under the old arch at the entrance of the school. “And now she’s gotten what she wanted—the book. And she’s gone.”

“But I haven’t!” came a smug response behind them. Black and the schoolboys spun around.

AH2 stood behind them, looking proud as a cockerel. Smiling, he thrust his hand forward. In it was a red box.

“Who on earth is this person?” Black asked Molly.

“He’s an alien hunter,” Molly replied matter-of-factly. “Somehow that gadget of his can always tell where I am, whoever I am. He wants to be my contact on Earth.”

All of a sudden Molly got some inspiration. She was feeling a little guilty about keeping Max from his lessons, since he’d get into trouble for missing them, and she supposed it might be interesting to find out more about AH2. So, quick as a somersault, she morphed into him. As she left Max’s body, she thanked him, and she introduced herself to AH2 before pushing his character down below her.

“I’m Molly now,” Molly as AH2 said to Black and Micky. “And Micky, maybe you should be him.” She pointed to a Rasta man who was walking toward Parliament Square carrying a placard that read WAKE UP: CLIMATE CHANGE IS HERE. Above, a flash of lightning lit up the dark gray sky.

“It certainly is,” Black muttered, adding mysteriously, “and quicker than any of you might suspect.”

“Where to, guv?” asked the cab driver. They were now out on the busy street.

“Blissamore Hotel, please,” Black replied. Above them, another flash of lightning splintered across the sky. Heavier raindrops began to fall. “Good lord, it really has started,” Black said to himself.

They all piled into the cab, dripping from the rain. Molly as AH2, and Micky as the Rasta, whose name was Leonard.

“Wow! Everyt’ing is cool in ’ere!” Micky said, with a Jamaican lilt to his voice, as he settled back into his seat. “This guy listens to a lot of music. It’s flying around his brain like ribbons.” The cab set off.