The high, iron gate clicked and swung silently open enough for us to push our bikes through. Then it shut and locked again behind us. That was a bit grim.

"We will meet you at the door."

"Thanks!"

We dumped our bikes and went up the drive then we followed a curving, concrete path to a small door. It was overhung with creepers and had a shiny brass handle. Before I could press the bell, the door opened and an old man with grey hair and tons of wrinkles met us.

"Good afternoon boys. I was the voice at the gate. I must stress that you are very privileged to come this far. Normally we do not allow anyone to come through this door. We, er, like our privacy." He smiled kindly at us as we followed him down the spacious hall.

We all noticed it. As soon as the door opened we knew there was something different about the house. It had a funny smell. Well not funny, as in humorous. It was a smell you'd never expect in an old house. Like oil, and plastic, and machinery. Like we were in a garage, with tires, and a lube bay and oily old engines everywhere. Only we couldn't see any tires, or plastic or oily machines because all the doors along the hall were shut.

We went through a few rooms, with the old man swaying along in front of us, until we came to a bedroom. Brain was lying there, looking really pathetic. His face was red, and he looked sort of puffy, but he had a big smile for us when we walked in.

"I never expected to see you here!" he said.

"We never expected to be here!" we said.

He almost laughed, except you could see it hurt him, so he smiled as hard as he could, then he sat up and put his hands together round the front of his knees.

"How do you feel?"

"Absolutely rotten!" he said.

"What's it like?"

"Being sick?" he said, "Not very nice. It's hard to explain."

We looked at him, (trying not to stare too hard in case he was offended), and really wondered what he felt like. He had little red spots on his face and arms, like he'd been sprayed with red paint. He blinked hard every