by Oliver Skye
‘Not enough sleep lately,’ Desmond muttered, hanging up. ‘I must be seein’ thangs.’
Instantly perking up Desmond began following the professor while dodging people with his bulky suitcase, trying not to lose sight of him waddling towards the international departure lounge. Further on the professor paused and looked around as if searching for something, then made his way to a row of airport seats. Sitting down, he placed his cases on either side of him on the shiny floor.
Desmond panted to a halt. Stiffly, he sat down as near to him as he dared, covertly examining the professor’s shoes. They appeared worn and scuffed. Desmond concluded that the computer shoes must be in the alligator-skin case. This relieved him a great deal, as it made his task a lot easier.
The professor, Desmond noticed, didn’t seem to be aware of anything going on around him. He was staring up at the roof, frowning as if contemplating complex scientific data. At times, he seemed to be mumbling to himself.
In a state of nervous tension, Desmond continued staring longingly at the shoe case. His mind raced, wondering how to get at it without causing a rumpus. With the professor in such a distracted state, Desmond wondered if he shouldn’t just walk up and snatch it.
I’ll just grab the case an’ make a dash for it ... perhaps he won’t even notice.
He however thought better of it, recalling the burly airport security men he’d seen lurking about – and the uproar in the crowded hall if he attempted it. At the same time, he was keenly aware of having to check-in his luggage ... with time swiftly running out.
The loud DING-DONG of the public address system jerked Desmond from his frantic musings. Glumly he heard a voice announcing Flight 219 to London, echoingly requesting passengers to make their way to the departure gates.
‘I can’t believe this is happenin’ to me,’ Desmond whined, feeling like screaming. Panic-stricken, he watched to see what the professor would do. In a flash, he realised the elderly scientist couldn’t hear the announcement: his puzzled expression was obvious, while straining an ear towards the tinny racket.
To Desmond’s surprise, the professor leaned over towards him with a questioning look. Seeing his opportunity, Desmond eagerly moved a few seats closer.
‘Tell me, young man,’ the professor asked sweetly, ‘did they announce Flight 319 to Madrid, or Flight 219 to London?’
‘Nnnnnn ... nnnnnn ... NO,’ Desmond stammered, almost chocking. ‘Flight 219 to London is cancelled ... y’know, engine trouble an’ all. It’ll only be leavin’ ... um ... tomorrow mornin’. But please, siree, allow me to assist ya to the Airport Hotel. It’s only a few minutes away ... away.’
‘Thanks a million!’ the professor exclaimed with a bright smile. ‘You see, I’m a little hard of hearing. But I’m sure glad they’re calling my flight after all.’
With that the professor picked up the suitcase and, forgetting all about his shoe case, walked off.
Sitting as still as a mummy Desmond almost stopped breathing, hardly believing his luck. One eye became riveted on the stationary shoe case while the other watched the professor walking away, causing a spasmodic focusing malfunction in his eyeballs. Panicking he jammed his thumbs against his closed eyelids, trying to squeeze his eyes back into focus. Succeeding, he glanced up to see how far away the professor was.
At the point where it would’ve been safe to grab the forgotten case and bolt, the professor turned round. Playfully smacking his forehead, he hurried back towards his seat. Obviously relieved he picked up the shoe case, turning towards Desmond.
‘Also forgetful, young man,’ he said with a smile. ‘Hard of hearing and very forgetful. If you only knew what was IN this case ... you’d never believe it!
‘Shucks, mister, you sure don’t look too well,’ he added with concern. ‘Can I call someone to assist you?’
Desmond’s face, by now, had turned slightly green. Swallowing hard, he shook his head. He also couldn’t help noticing a scowling airport security man standing nearby.
The professor shrugged sympathetically and clutching his two cases, disappeared into the crowd.
With the final announcement for Flight 219 blaring in his ears Desmond jumped up, grabbing his luggage. Frantically he pushed round startled people, heading towards the check-in counters. It occurred to him that the professor probably wouldn’t need to check-in. Most likely, he was taking his two small cases with him on the plane, which meant he was already boarding.
Panting, Desmond arrived at the check-in counters. There he noticed two boys together with their parents. Sniggering, they were changing the magnetic lettering at one counter which read NO CHECK-IN to NO CHICKEN. Desmond had the distinct impression they were making fun of him. They seemed to be watching him clandestinely, making telling gestures towards their heads and ears. This just added to Desmond’s gloom, while waiting for someone to attend to his luggage.
Desmond Blaken came very close to missing Flight 219 to London. He had a hard time convincing the airline staff – after they’d politely told him he was already too late – that his boarding the plane was a matter of life and death. He was in such a state, he began shouting and waving his arms about. When he realised his antics weren’t getting him anywhere, he pleaded with the check-in staff, almost bursting into tears. Eventually, after they had fined him $250, Desmond beamed and joked while they reluctantly agreed to check-in his luggage.
Ten minutes after departure time, Desmond finally boarded the plane. He had every reason to believe it was his lucky day when told by a pretty air hostess that had he arrived just one minute later, he would’ve found the aircraft’s doors shut.
Oblivious to other passengers’ dirty looks, Desmond gratefully took his window seat. Craning his neck, he tried to spot the professor while the huge double-decker aircraft taxied towards the runway. Unable to locate him he sat back, noticing his hands were shaking. Trying to relax, with a jolt in his already churning stomach, he felt the jetliner surge forward. Momentarily he had visions of the jet falling out of the sky just after take-off. He could already see the smouldering remains of the stricken aircraft ... and Dolly weeping at the news of his death.
Noticing Desmond tightly gripping his armrests, the passenger next to him turned towards him. ‘The definition of a pessimist,’ he said, smiling, ‘is someone who when seeing a beautiful bouquet of flowers, turns round to see where the coffin is––’
Desmond ignored the man and, shortly, with overwhelming thrust, the mechanical bird roared into the sky, leaving a toy-like landscape behind.
Later, gazing at a sea of white cloud far below, with bits of Atlantic Ocean peeping through, Desmond realised there’d be little chance of achieving his objective aboard the cramped aircraft. He tried to unwind – not able to stretch his legs properly – and started planning ahead. He decided that once in England, he’d stick as close to the professor as possible. Perhaps the nutty old man would misplace his case again. After all, Dolly had often told him how hopelessly scatterbrained he was.
* * *
Hours later, after landing at Heathrow Airport with a jolt, Desmond closely watched Professor McCrackenbatten’s every move with bleary eyes, painstakingly following him from the plane to the baggage terminal, then through passport control.
The first tantalising glimpse Desmond had of the computer shoes was when a customs official requested the professor to open his shoe case. With clenched teeth, from a little way back, Desmond watched him lift the shoes out and hold them up to the official’s gaze. Desmond saw the look of admiration on his face as he waved the professor on.
This only fuelled Desmond’s appetite more intensely. His eyes boring greedily into the back of the professor’s head, he had to exercise great self-control in order not to do anything irrational.
After a lengthy conveyor belt ride to the outer limits of the airport buildings Desmond skulked about until, a few seats behind the elderly scientist, they were speeding towards central London on a shiny airport bus. Later, emerging from
dense traffic, the bus lazily turned into Paddington station. From there, with Desmond’s taxicab just behind the professor’s cab, they pulled up at a cheery-looking – despite the overcast weather – hotel in Mayfair.
While dusk painted the low cloud a purplish pink, London’s city lights were just beginning their pallid, nocturnal pranks.
Eureka, Eureka!
DESMOND WASN’T at all able to relax in the extremely plush hotel – besides that he almost feinted when told how much a suite cost per night. He made a strange sight peering out from behind corners and gilt-edged pillars, drawing more attention to himself than if he’d behaved normally. A number of guests, as well as the management, wondered what he was up to.
The difficulty in Desmond’s mind was that the professor had spoken to him at John F Kennedy International Airport. The last thing he wanted was to arouse the elderly man’s suspicions. Not that seeing Desmond would’ve made any difference: the professor wouldn’t have recognised him anyway.
Later Desmond followed the scientist upstairs, spying on him from around the stairwell, hoping he’d leave the shoe case in his room when going to supper. He then planned to barge in on the leaving professor, grab the case and bolt. Yet after watching and waiting for hours, he never appeared at all. Desmond concluded he’d retired to get over his jet lag. Desmond was also badly affected by jet lag, making him more fidgety and on edge than usual. Later, a few suites away, he spent the night tossing and turning, his jittery state continuing to deprive him of much needed sleep.
Finally dozing off, Desmond dreamed about the well-dressed woman’s dog at JFK. It gaped at him wildly with its shiny bug eyes. Shortly, a bright-red steamroller chugged out of a glass cupboard, squashing the dog as flat as a pancake. Immediately the compressed fluffy hound folded into a paper airplane, gliding off with the breeze, leaving streams of sparkling lettering in its wake: BEWARE OF THE BISCUIT! the colourful gigantic-lettered words formed against an emerald sky.
Next, the now regurgitated doggy catapulted out of the letter ‘O’, bounding down a wide golden staircase. Marshmallow fountains encircled its eyes, squirting liquid candy into Desmond’s face. While desperately trying to wipe the sticky substance away, the dog’s owner pointed him out to a crowd of scowling airport security officers – whose collective faces reminded Desmond of his mother’s uncle’s twice removed cousin’s niece’s aunt, Pamela Wurfel.
‘There he is!’ she wailed. ‘There’s the brute who murdered my duffy-wuffy-poodly wah-wah! My darling little paddypanjuk-bazook! My sweet, tiny paloo-paloppy doppy bloooopaaaaahhh....’
Meanwhile, Desmond’s hands were firmly stuck to his face. Frantically trying to pull them away, his cheeks stretched like bubblegum, wrapping themselves tightly around his head. At least it was some relief from the woman’s incessant hollering.
After a frenzied struggle with his rubbery cheeks, Desmond watched the hound leap from its owner’s fuzzy coat sleeve. Soaring through the air in slow motion, it morphed into a snarling miniature walrus. Just before reaching Desmond’s face, the tusked blubbery mammal changed into the likeness of Yoris Krasnodepsky. He glared at Desmond, his squinting eyes swivelling round in all directions. A hairless midget gorilla – on a tricycle mounted with a machine-gun – was flying through the air behind Krasnodepsky’s glistening egghead. ‘Vee are vatching you, Mr Vlaken,’ the entities whispered savagely in unison.
* * *
The next morning – feeling like death warmed up – Desmond lurked about in the fog near the hotel entrance. Wearing his crumpled raincoat, he had to put up with the drizzle without an umbrella, Dolly having forgotten to pack it because of the rush.
Since his nocturnal visit to Hell’s Kitchen on Manhattan Island, Desmond had hardly slept. By now, he was fumbling through a dense mental haze. His eyes felt dry and gritty, while fierce red spots exploded behind them. It crossed his befuddled mind that he might be daydreaming and the next moment find himself back at Giddy’s Junkyard.
He was extremely relieved, therefore, when spotting Professor McCrackenbatten leaving the hotel wearing his computer shoes! Sharply alert once more he observed him – shoe case in hand and still wearing his coat, earmuffs and old felt hat – climbing into a London cab.
Not looking where he was going Desmond rushed across the road, narrowly avoiding a swerving car. Shaking his fist, he climbed into another waiting taxicab. Red-faced, he imperiously instructed the cabby to follow the black taxi ahead.
Weaving through the wet congested streets, the cabby looked back at Desmond. ‘Are yer some kind o’ secret agent then, Gaffer?’ he asked in thick Cockney.
‘Don’t ask stupid questions,’ Desmond snapped back in his East Coast drawl. ‘Stop!’ he yelled, seeing the professor’s cab pulling up to the entrance of a large park. He quickly paid the cabby who before driving off remarked, ‘’Ope you’ve got yer magnifyin’ glass with yer, Guv’nor—’
Ignoring the remark, Desmond looked at his watch. It was 08h40 local time, though to him it felt more like two o’clock in the morning. ‘Strange day for a stroll in the park,’ Desmond whispered trotting behind the professor, trying not to lose sight of him in the fog. He noticed the elderly man was cheerfully whistling to himself, despite the weather. Following a ten minutes’ stroll, after wiping a park bench, the professor sat down next to an old-fashioned lamppost, not far from what looked like a small lake.
Desmond realised there wasn’t much he could do because of the numerous pedestrians. He also noticed a bobby and a few tourists with cameras about. So he awkwardly took a seat nearby, waiting to see what would happen.
Next, the professor stuck a finger in the air as if to detect the direction of the breeze. A few people walking past gave him perplexed looks. Some shook their heads. The professor, however, was oblivious to the world around him. Once he’d wrapped his scarf more securely round his neck, he removed a tablet from his jacket and tapped the screen. If Desmond could’ve seen the screen, he would’ve read:
To achieve cosmic-ray retrogression – the measurement source of Ethereal Celestial Mass energy in our solar system and beyond – we must first achieve thermonuclear reactions in opposing measurement configurations. Thus, the attainment of atomic-clock-sequencing in another dimensional form is calculated. This computation is integral to our formula. It follows, therefore, that universal mass within the cosmos is compoundable by reverse centrifugal osmosis. By imploding the universal gravitational sequence, the first step in harnessing Ethereal Celestial Mass is achievable....
What Desmond didn’t realise, watching him huddled over his tablet, was that Professor McCrackenbatten had achieved a major scientific breakthrough. Strangely, this had occurred while the scientist sat at breakfast earlier that morning, wearing his alligator-skin shoes, chewing on a piece of mushroom.
Now he was ready to visit Plato Grammaticus.
Doctor Grammaticus lived as a bachelor in Findhorn, a small village on the Scottish coast. There the professor looked forward to sitting round a cosy fire with him, discussing their latest scientific achievements. Meanwhile, the elderly scientist was so taken up with his cosmic triumph, there was every possibility – once he’d swapped shoes – he’d leave the Twins behind ... again!
Desmond, staring bleary-eyed, was amazed when the professor cried, ‘Eureka! Eureka! I’ve solved the world’s energy problems forever ... global warming is a thing of the past! The name Percival Rutherford McCrackenbatten will go down in history—’
Cheerfully delivering his monologue while packing away the computer shoes and slipping on his normal ones, the professor jumped up, did a hearty jig away from the bench, and ambled off without his shoe case.
Hardly believing his luck, Desmond breathlessly watched the professor evaporate into the fog. Almost turning blue while gasping for air, he began congratulating himself. ‘Ha-ha! They’re mine!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, slapping his thigh. ‘Mine at last. I’m rich ... RICH!’
Grinning broadly, he propelle
d himself off the bench.
When about to grab the shoe case, he was dismayed to observe it was no longer there. He was certain it’d been there moments before. After all, he’d just seen it with his own eyes. There was no way anyone else could’ve snatched it, as the other bench was no more than ten feet away.
Looking again, Desmond rubbed his eyes.
The bench remained stubbornly vacant.
Thunderstruck he cried out as if in pain, drawing the attention of puzzled passers-by. Half-sitting, half-standing as if frozen in time – while remaining in that position for at least half a minute – he gaped until spots danced before his eyes. He was just about to move again when an oddly-dressed man wearing a bowler hat emerged from the fog, swinging an umbrella. Not too far off he paused, stopping in the middle of the path.
Trying his best to ignore the inopportune stranger, Desmond spotted the computer shoes, without their case, now inexplicably hovering above the professor’s bench. The Englishman, still standing there, was also staring, seemingly as gobsmacked as Desmond.
Just as it started to drizzle the man opened his umbrella and stepped up closer to the shoes.
Disregarding the sudden gust of wind Desmond sat down in a state of despair, wiping the cold drizzle from his balding pate. Confounded, he watched the man – who didn’t seem to have noticed him – struggle to rectify his brolly. Quickly looking round, he sat down next to the now stationary shoes. Unexpectedly, the shoe case reappeared next to the man, the light drizzle abruptly ceasing.
Desmond carefully watched the Englishman, with his white and black chequered umbrella still open, closely scrutinise the footwear next to him.
