by Oliver Skye
Glancing at his watch, the man was just about to pick the shoes up when he hesitated. And a good thing he didn’t touch them right then. For Desmond Blaken, in desperation, would’ve rushed at him, knocking him to the ground. He would’ve then kicked off his own shoes, wrestled the computer shoes away from the stranger, slipped them on and run for it.
Right then Desmond thought he saw a bobby a little distance away, half-obscured by the fog. A few heart-stopping moments later – one eye on the bobby – Desmond watched the oddly-dressed man resolutely removing his own silver-buckled black shoes and slip on the alligator-skin ones.
Desmond was having difficulty seeing what was going on because of the curious onlookers. Tourists had appeared taking snapshots, thinking the bowler-hatted man’s actions a pantomime act.
Watching the Englishman’s outlandish antics after putting on the professor’s shoes – including his tap-dancing and a series of staccato robotic movements to loud music – Desmond thought he was seeing things. Observing the man abruptly hurry off, he followed him out of Hyde Park towards Mayfair. Once there, and to Desmond’s surprise, the man politely allowed him to step in ahead of him into a crowded, swanky café.
Soon, seated not too far away, Desmond furtively observed the Englishman, still wearing his bowler, devouring coffee and croissants at an alarming rate.
In a state of total dejection Desmond considered how the shoes, under such frustrating circumstances, had again eluded him. Yet there was still hope. After all, the strange man was sitting only a few tables away ... with the professor’s computer shoes on!
While feverishly contemplating what action to take, Desmond became aware of a faint humming sound, gradually becoming a deafening whine. Then amidst the confusing presence of Wolfgang Hohlbein, several police officers, two white-coated orderlies and an angular looking woman dressed in scarlet with a pudgy, pimply schoolboy in tow, as well as other perplexing goings-on, he witnessed the man begin spinning round while hovering in his chair. It wasn’t long before the man disintegrated in a shower of colourful fragments. A few pieces of virtual matter actually landed on Desmond’s table, only to evaporate before his eyes.
Desmond decided he was suffering from sleep-deprived hallucinations. Yet the hysterical reaction from the café’s patrons confirmed the truth of the incident. There was no doubt: the croissant-scoffing Englishman, together with the alligator-skin shoes he’d been wearing, was no longer there.
In a flash, Desmond remembered what Dolly had described seeing in the professor’s lab. This not only bewildered him, but also brought any hope of getting hold of his prize to a frustrating end. So amidst the rising uproar, Desmond buried his weary head in his arms and began to sob.
* * *
While the orderlies attended to Mildred, who lay unconscious on the café’s plush carpet, Jeremy stood fidgeting nearby. Holby, meanwhile, was wandering about, his eyes grotesquely staring from their sockets. His coffee shop had developed a weird atmosphere, especially since the pianist was now playing a Chopin funeral march.
It wasn’t long before the noise within the establishment rose to an excruciating level. Police reinforcements – as well as gangs of frenzied reporters and television network crews – all crowded inside, gesticulating and shouting at the same time.
Inspector Breeze was standing near Norman’s vacant chair, his face ashen. For the first time in his life, he felt completely confounded: he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed over Mildred Heese’s crimson shoulder.
‘What do you think this is all about, Chief?’ one of his colleagues asked shakily.
‘He’s given us the slip alright,’ the inspector answered glumly. ‘This is sensational. Perhaps Heese wasn’t nutty after all, but involved in something he didn’t understand himself. At least we have his nephew and ... er ... sister here to question. In the back of his mind Inspector Breeze was reluctantly preparing himself to interview Mildred Heese, a task he wasn’t at all looking forward to.
‘There isn’t anything we can do about the media,’ he continued, looking round at the comatose woman sprawled out on the carpet. ‘I’ll never understand how they get into the action so fast ... it’s infuriating. We can’t keep the story under wraps now, though it is a matter of national security.’
While everyone rushed about like headless chickens, Jeremy tried to slip outside. He didn’t feel like speaking to anyone just then ... especially journalists. He was just about to leave when a roving television crew accosted him. They aggressively fired questions while shoving an assortment of microphones under his nose.
‘Did you see what happened, boy?’
‘Was that man really your daddy?’
‘Did he blow up for real ... splattering all over the place?’
‘You must be a rich kid to afford coming to a place like this!’
‘When your daddy shows up again, ask him to perform the same stunt at the Ritz ... but only after tipping us off.’
‘Well, I suppose....’ Jeremy began, not sure how to respond. ‘Uh, actually, I was standing right in front of him when it happened. And he’s my uncle, not my dad. My aunt and I arrived here looking for him. He didn’t arrive at his shop this morning and—’
‘You mean you actually saw him go up in smoke?’ one man asked, squeezing in with a large shoulder camera. ‘Are you sure he didn’t just jump out the window?’
‘Well, he sort of ... like ... disappeared within myriads of electrical slivers,’ Jeremy said, a little out of breath. ‘After the droning stopped, I remember hearing a faint tinkling sound. But I’m not the only one who saw it ... my aunt—’
‘What is ... or rather, what was your uncle’s name?’ a frankensteinish-looking woman growled, elbowing her way forward.’
‘His name’s Norman ... Norman Heese. He and my aunt own a clothing shop ... Heese & Sons for Men, in Knightsbridge. My name is Jeremy Heese and I wish I knew what was going on. And neither am I rich, nor have I ever been to the Ritz ... though my aunt has on numerous occasions ... for afternoon tea—’
Jeremy was getting tired of telling the same story to what seemed like swarms of shouting news people; especially when one asked, ‘Does your uncle have anything to do with the golf ball found on Mars recently?’
Eventually a female police officer whisked him to a back room where Mildred lay recovering.
Meanwhile, dazed and confused, Desmond Blaken exited the coffee shop, realising his quest had failed. What irked him more than anything was that he hadn’t even touched the shoes – after being so maddeningly close to them.
There was only one thing to do now ... contact Griffin.
* * *
A few hours later, once the chaos had died down, Holby sat in his vacant coffee shop muttering to himself. Besides the police evacuating his establishment at short notice, it bothered him immensely that the man about whom all the fuss revolved hadn’t yet paid his bill.
Later, seeing his café on television news, Holby shook his large square head. Sadly, he watched his clientèle describing what had happened earlier.
‘He was swinging from the chandeliers ... it was mayhem,’ A thin, elegantly-dressed woman purred, obviously infatuated with the TV cameras. ‘I remember distinctly ... he was wearing the grooviest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen. It was as though they were shining in the moonlight ... figuratively speaking—’
‘At first I thought the yeti had walked in,’ a man wearing Al Capone-style clothes rasped. ‘He looked a lot like Baron Ramsbottom with a wig on ... but it wasn’t all clear, like. I mean, for a moment he looked like Harvey Hamilton appearing out of a smouldering mist ... you know, the joint had gone sort of pea soup-like. But that man’s clearly bonkers. And it’s all really ghastly somehow: his bowler hat revolving around on his head and all ... though really terrific, but horrifying all the same. Especially when he blew up like that at the end—’
It wasn’t long before international TV networks picked up the story, showing on-the-scene footage. Evening edition British
tabloids were full of the sensational news, which Holby himself was avidly reading:
MAYFAIR COFFEE SHOP SHOCK
MYSTERY MAN EXPLODES IN CAFÉ
The following day, the first photos of a congenial-looking Norman appeared as front-page news in most papers. And with the Health and Safety authorities’ permission, Holby reopened his café that same afternoon. His establishment was again soon stuffed with patrons all reading the latest headlines:
MEET THE NEW HOUDINI
DIVA FAINTS AS HEESE APPEARS ON-STAGE
SURFING NORMAN SEEN AT WATERLOO
Evidently, Norman’s circumstances had taken a startling turn since his sensational exit from Holby’s café the previous morning. One article read:
Covent Garden. Last night’s gala performance at the Royal Opera House, attended by foreign dignitaries and members of the royal family, came to an unexpected and pandemonial end. A man since identified as N. E. Heese from North London reportedly appeared on-stage, causing uproar halfway through the performance. Suffering from severe shock, an ambulance rushed the world-renowned soprano, Ella Bonsmara, to St. Mary’s hospital.
Detective Chief Inspector Breeze from Scotland Yard insists that Mr Heese inexplicably disappeared – ‘not through any entrances, exits, or windows’ – from a Mayfair café earlier the same morning. Although no one was hurt, he declined to speculate what could be behind the phenomenon.
A number of commuters at Waterloo International reported seeing Mr Heese shortly after the opera house incident. One witness described him as surfing through the air wearing brightly flashing shoes. Others claimed he ran amok among terrified commuters. The Metropolitan Police, as well as the Ministry of Defence, have since issued an alert, advising the public not to attempt to apprehend him, as Mr Heese is probably deranged – as well as dangerous.
Part Three: Virtual Surfboarding
Bats in the Belfry
EVER SINCE LEAVING Hyde Park, Percy McCrackenbatten had been heartily congratulating himself. ‘Considering all things,’ he enthused, ‘Ethereal Celestial Mass must be the most important discovery of the new millennium!’
These pleasant thoughts were swirling through his mind while walking up Exhibition Road. He then turned right towards the London Science Museum, planning to spend part of the afternoon there before taking a cab across the Thames to the Imperial War Museum. From there he would return to his hotel and get ready for a night at the opera. After that, straight to Waterloo International to board the overnight Edinburgh-Inverness train.
It was only a few hours later, while strolling around the spacious halls of the War Museum, that the professor realised he didn’t have his shoe case with him. It was while looking at pictures of the London Blitz that the awful truth struck him – like a thunderbolt.
‘My shoes ... oh, my shoes!’ he cried out, holding his head in his hands.
A few visitors hurried over, thinking the elderly man was having a fit. It soon became clear he was in a swoon, whereupon the museum director helped him to his office. On recovering slightly, the director’s assistant offered him a cup of tea to help calm him down. Numb with distress the professor racked his brains, trying to remember when he’d last had his case with him.
‘Oh, my fantastic shoes,’ he moaned, sipping his tea. ‘How could I be such a forgetful oaf?’
The genial director – realising he had to shout to be heard – helpfully pointed out to the elderly man that he, in fact, still had his shoes on.
‘You don’t understand,’ the professor retorted. ‘I’ve lost a very SPECIAL pair of shoes ... shoes whose loss could mean the end of the civilised world. That’s if they fall into the wrong hands ... just as they warned me they might. And if the terrible dreams I’ve had lately are premonitions—’
The professor shook his head despairingly. ‘If only I’d listened to Cal2 and worn them always, this wouldn’t have happened.’
The astounded director was now regarding his visitor with complete scepticism, not realising he had one of the most brilliant scientists in the world before him. ‘Perhaps I should ... er ... call a hospital,’ he said kindly.
The professor, muttering darkly, just shook his head.
Once he could think more clearly, Professor McCrackenbatten removed his tablet from a jacket pocket. ‘I’m able to contact my shoes and find out exactly where they are,’ he said with an extremely serious look. ‘You’ll see for yourself. It all has to do with entanglement. It’s a bit complicated to explain in layman terms. My incredible Twins, you see – in the form of cartoon faces – will appear on this screen and converse with me. But whatever you do, don’t tell a soul! What I’m telling you now is highly confidential.’
The director nodded obligingly, one eyebrow slightly raised. He’d since decided to humour the queer-looking American gentleman, while trying to get rid of him as soon as possible.
The professor quickly located the Twins’ file. Rapidly he typed: Cal2, where are you? Misplaced you both by mistake!
Nothing. Just the blank screen staring back at him.
The director observed the professor quizzically. ‘Perhaps they’re visiting Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf,’ he volunteered.
The professor didn’t hear the director and because of his lip movements, thought he was expressing his sympathy.
On the 22h07 train to Inverness to visit Plato ... contact me soon! Very worried! P.R.M was the next message the professor typed.
‘It seems for some reason they’re not available right now,’ he said glumly looking up at the director who, with his assistant, nodded back very politely.
Before calling a taxicab to take him back to his hotel, Professor McCrackenbatten thought it best to contact the police. The thought of the Twins falling into villainous hands almost drove him to distraction. In the meantime, he’d have to trust them to take care of themselves – and somehow find their way back to him.
The professor, however, had no idea of the events taking place right then. For at that precise moment his shoes were hibernating within virtual reality, in cyberspace, on Norman Heese’s feet. This explained Cal2’s silence, since theoretically they no longer existed. After attempting to replenish their energy, they would only reappear from cyberspace when showing up on-stage in front of the world-renowned diva, Ella Bonsmara, at the Royal Opera House. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon, while that incident would only take place in approximately seven hours’ time.
Soon before that baffling occurrence, the professor would leave Covent Garden for Waterloo International. He also wouldn’t know – because of leaving the opera early – that the oddly-dressed person, who’d amidst complete pandemonium disrupt that grand operatic performance, would be wearing his beloved shoes.
The museum director, by now, was at a total loss concerning his eccentric guest. When the professor requested a phone call, he readily acquiesced. He then planned to call for help on another extension. After leading the elderly man into an adjoining office, the director quickly locked the door. Glancing at his assistant with a you-know-what-I-know look, he tapped the side of his head. ‘Bats in the belfry!’ he murmured, ‘I’d better call the loony bin right away.’
Unaware of this, Professor McCrackenbatten dialled an emergency number, urgently explaining his loss to the operator. ‘Is this a hoax call, then?’ the operator asked. ‘Is that you, Roger? I thought I recognised your voice ... you can’t fool me. But you do put on a convincing accent ... you should take up acting—’
‘No, no! My name is Percival,’ the professor repeated, exasperated, ‘I’m from New York. I need to speak to a senior police officer. It’s extremely important ... the world could be in jeopardy— ’
Finally convinced, the operator put him through to New Scotland Yard.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Breeze,’ a reassuring voice said after a short delay, ‘how can I assist you, sir?’
* * *
The director of the Imperial War Museum was greatly surprised w
hen ten minutes later three police officers – with an important looking man in civilian clothes – demanded to know where the American professor, Percival McCrackenbatten was.
Moments before the police arrived, with lights flashing and sirens blaring, three orderlies armed with sedative syringes had stormed onto the premises. They’d rushed into the locked office, attempting to sedate the elderly American man. The professor, utterly confounded, had done his best to resist. ‘What in the humongous Sombrero Galaxy is going on here?’ he cried. ‘Somebody, help! I protest this outrage ... I’m not some kinda crazy person!’
Inspector Breeze and his officers were just in time to rescue him from the zealous orderlies. ‘Stop this instant!’ the detective cried, rushing into the office. ‘This gentleman happens to be an important visiting American scientist....’
Crowded around the professor in an office crammed with wartime artefacts, the inspector apologised profusely, introducing himself and the important-looking man with him. Professor McCrackenbatten, quite taken aback, didn’t have the foggiest what was going on.
‘But I’m innocent,’ he kept insisting, looking round alarmed. ‘All I want is official help to find the shoe case I left it behind in a park. Some villain is going to run off with it for sure. And if my shoes fall into the wrong hands—’
‘Please, not here, Professor ... national security and all that,’ the mysterious-looking civilian hissed. ‘But we must insist that you accompany us to Scotland Yard. We urgently need to ask you a few questions.’
When Inspector Breeze realised the elderly scientist was hard of hearing, he resorted to yelling. ‘Please, Professor,’ he thundered, ‘you’re not under arrest. You must come with us ... it is very important that we talk to you....’
