by Oliver Skye
In the presence of the increasingly confused director and a crowd of visitors, the American scientist was ushered into a police Range Rover, an officer politely holding the back door open. Moments later, the vehicle was accelerating back over the Thames via Lambeth Bridge.
* * *
Once seated in Inspector Breeze’s office, it became painfully obvious that no constructive questioning could take place. The inspector was already hoarse from five minutes’ incessant bellowing. The problem was overcome when two state-of-the-art hearing aids – each not much bigger than peas – arrived from Special Department upstairs. Once a police technician had inserted them, the effect was one of amazement on the elderly scientist’s part. ‘Giant spectrohelioscopes!’ he cried. ‘This is marvellous. If I’d known such things existed, I’d never have struggled through life half deaf.’
Once the professor had calmed down, Inspector Breeze politely questioned him about his computer-scientific developments. When hearing about the original X7-Qteechip and its subsequent evolution, the British authorities quickly realised they were in the presence of a most eminent scientist. The important looking civilian – the man from the Ministry, whom the others referred to as ‘commander’ – listened intently, but said little.
The professor couldn’t help noticing that although the commander’s face was in full view, it appeared permanently elusive. His eyes also seemed obscured, to the extent that it was impossible to tell what colour they were, let alone make contact with them.
The professor made it clear to the commander that he never expected his processors to become reasoning twin entities. He also explained that only Doctor Plato Grammaticus, his younger scientific colleague, had any knowledge of his stunning breakthrough; and that the only reason he was visiting Britain was to demonstrate his computer shoes to him.
The commander listened, fascinated. He cautioned the professor that although he was free to visit Doctor Grammaticus, he was no longer at liberty to discuss the high-profile situation with him. He explained that for the sake of national security, his shoes’ development must remain top-secret.
‘With computers of such power,’ the commander said, folding his arms, ‘which it appears are able to manipulate matter and defy the natural laws of time and space, no one can be trusted. Therefore, our government has already given your invention’s recovery the highest priority.’
‘You may be interested to know, Professor,’ Inspector Breeze chipped in, ‘that I had a first-hand encounter with your special shoes this morning ... which I’m still recovering from. In fact, on just a split second of CCTV footage, they appeared to be ... um ... hovering—’
‘Yes, that’s quite correct,’ the professor said enthusiastically. ‘It seems improbable, but that’s what they do ... sometimes.’
When learning that a London shopkeeper was wearing the Twins, the professor wasn’t sure what to make of it. Especially as the man’s whereabouts were still unknown. ‘Right now Calculi-Z-U-R-2 Ad Infinitum are making use of the shopkeeper’s feet to find their way back to me,’ he explained. ‘But it seems they’re experiencing an atmospheric disturbance ... which is why they haven’t pitched up yet—’
Everyone looked quite alarmed when the professor pointed out that the shoes could appear any moment ... together with their wearer!
The conclusion to Professor McCrackenbatten’s visit to Scotland Yard was that the British government invited him to remain in London. Some important people, the commander told him, very much wanted to meet him.
When the professor insisted, a little irritably, that he would like to visit Doctor Grammaticus, but would consider the government’s invitation on his return, the commander provided an officer for his personal protection. ‘This is necessary, Professor,’ he explained, ‘because we suspect that the police aren’t the only ones looking for your shoes. This means that you, as well as Mr Heese, may be in danger. However, we cannot detain you against your will....’
Before departing, the commander asked the professor to accept the special hearing aids as a gift from Her Majesty’s Government.
Anxious to make it to Covent Garden and the Royal Opera House on time, the professor’s bodyguard escorted him to his Mayfair hotel in a fast, unmarked police car. By now, the young special operations lieutenant was thoroughly enjoying himself, secretly finding the professor rather amusing. Especially when he launched into lengthy scientific conversations with himself while looking out the window, sometimes making peculiar movements with his hands and fingers.
High Above the City of London
UNKNOWN TO INSPECTOR Breeze and everyone else present at Café Wiener Mischung, it was a hyperspace vortex that was responsible for sucking Norman’s image out of sight – only giving the impression he was shattering into a trillion pieces.
From Norman’s perspective, after meekly greeting Mildred, the crowded room began stretching, shifting and bulging. Within an ever-increasing whirling, kaleidoscopic arrays of colour burst into his field of vision, the humming becoming so loud Norman thought his eardrums would burst.
Abruptly, the whining ceased.
In that quietened state, Norman found he was floating above the city of London. In some elastic way, time seemed to distort; for, looking down, he observed people, boats and vehicles frantically all whizzing about like toys. Daytime rapidly merged into night while London’s lights appeared as myriads of orange streaks rotating in a vast circular motion. Norman found that all he could do – with his closed umbrella hooked on one arm – was to hang on to the shoe case and hope for the best.
With time appearing to slow down again, the city’s lights twinkled serenely in the darkness below.
Observing the shoes, Norman noticed they were glowing deep purple. Soft music resonated from them, playing in time to his gently floating motion, like a feather blown about on the breeze, as if trying to put him to sleep. Lulled by the soothing sounds, he thought he could reach out and touch the moon and stars: they appeared so luminous and close, gliding above the curvature of the earth, stretching endlessly away from him.
With the music still calming his senses, Norman felt deep emotions welling up within: intense loneliness and sadness, followed by overflowing contentment. All snug, as if wrapped in a warm cocoon and looking down on the dark Thames snaking through the city below, he’d never felt so happy. Though having the definite impression he was floating he didn’t have any fear of falling, feeling safe and secure as if spacewalking. He later said he’d never wanted to come down to earth again.
Just as Norman wondered if he’d remain in that floating dream-like state forever, he became aware of an irresistible force jerking him sharply downwards. Beneath him, central London seemed to wobble. Seconds later, he found himself speeding towards a shrill wailing sound. The next instant, he was staring down the throat of a screaming woman. ‘MILDRED!’ he groaned, beginning to panic.
Trying to take stock of his jumbled senses Norman realised that it wasn’t his sister; but that instead he was standing on a stage, with strains of orchestral music wafting up from below. The orchestra’s bombastic sound seemed to be competing with the howling right before his nose. All at once, he understood: the gut-wrenching screeching was emanating from a soprano, working herself up to a deafening high C. He could clearly see the woman’s uvula vibrating in the back of her throat. What made the gloomy scene even more disturbing was that Norman didn’t like classical music ... especially opera!
If I ever get married, he thought, I’ll make sure my mother-in-law doesn’t go in for this sort of thing....
Once he grew accustomed to the stage lighting, Norman recognised droves of seated people staring back at him through the stygian darkness. Many were jammed into balconies, all with a collective look of horror. The reality of the situation sinking in, he noticed the stage was crowded with people all dressed in medieval costumes. Burning torches illuminated the set, while performers were lurking around enormous stage props. Norman’s impression was that the whole
scene was taking place subterraneously.
A bearded fellow with a sword was standing at Norman’s left elbow, his mouth hanging open at an impossible degree. While standing under the powerful spotlights, a fit of stage fright suddenly gripped Norman. Soon the diva’s wailing became a sustained shrieking, rapidly rising to an unbearable pitch. While in full cry, she rigidly regarded Norman with sheer terror.
Petrified, and his senses already dulled by the hideous cacophony, Norman clutched the shoe case and his brolly more tightly. All he could do was to stare at the wailing woman in amazement. The elaborately dressed singer only saw this as reason to scream even louder.
The horrific sensation fast becoming unbearable, it crossed Norman’s mind that she was intent on driving him deaf. To his tremendous relief, at the point of jamming his fingers in his ears, the buxom prima donna wilted and fainted at his feet. The orchestra within their murky pit, taking this as their cue, died like an old-fashioned record player when switched off with the disk still turning.
During the shocked silence, Norman looked at the bearded fellow still clutching his sword. He stood goggling at Norman, appearing to have developed open-mouthed lockjaw.
Instantly, pandemonium erupted all around.
After a panicky look here and there, Norman bolted backstage as fast as the alligator-skin shoes would carry him. Yelling at the top of his lungs, his hair on end, he ran past stage props, burning torches and shouting people, then down a half-lit corridor, until eventually exiting through an unlocked side door. Panting violently, he found himself in an alleyway. Cautiously looking out onto a busy thoroughfare, he saw bright advertisements flashing all around. Right away, even in the downpour, he recognised Long Acre in Covent Garden.
‘I must’ve just escaped ... from the ... Royal Opera House,’ he gasped, trying to catch his breath. Completely disorientated, he glanced at his watch. It was three past ten at night! What seemed like just a few minutes ago, he’d been devouring coffee and croissants in Mayfair ... in the morning!
Numbly, Norman forced the flood of confusing thoughts from his mind. Staring at the dense traffic a sense of urgency overwhelmed him, compelling him to take action. And the impression there wasn’t any time to lose urged itself upon him so strongly, he started shaking like a leaf. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he wondered aloud, momentarily looking up into the rain.
Jerkily Norman moved out of the alley into Bow Street, his raised umbrella knocking a man’s hat off. Simultaneously his right foot shot out, kicking another pedestrian on the shin. Involuntarily and with a loud cry he then performed a sudden backflip, deftly landing on his feet. Remarkably, his bowler remained on his head. While standing there trying to control his twitching limbs, amazed pedestrians gathered around, wondering how he’d managed such a feat. ‘Help, help!’ someone yelled. ‘This fellow’s clean off his rocker—’
With the professor’s shoes beginning to whine again Norman dashed out from among the onlookers, realising he had to get away fast. He could already see a few bobbies running towards the scene. Awkwardly sprinting down the street – with the crazy desire to perform more backflips – he was relieved to spot a number of taxicabs driving past in the rain. Shouting and waving his umbrella he frantically hailed one down, completely disregarding the fact that he didn’t at all like travelling in cars.
Once seated – after struggling to close his brolly through the open door and almost throwing it away in frustration – Norman requested the cabby to drive him to Waterloo station ... on the double. Through the rain-splattered back window, he could see two bobbies talking to people pointing at his speeding away taxicab.
* * *
Soon after leaving the now discombobulated coffee shop, Desmond found a red phone booth. Quickly he dialled the safe number Ulysses had given him.
‘Yes?’ an unenthusiastic voice answered.
‘This is Blaken,’ Desmond whispered. ‘I’ve gotta talk to Griffin.’
‘Blaken?’ the voice asked, surprised. ‘Oh, Blaken ... right. I’m very busy at the moment, I’m afraid. Give me your number! I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.’
Peculiar gargling noises and squeals could be heard in the background.
Startled, Desmond hung up and waited inside the booth, shooing away anyone who dared venture near it. Sometimes he pressed his face up against the misted-up glass and made threatening gestures – to make sure no one bothered him.
When an hour later the phone rang, Desmond grabbed the receiver. ‘This is Blaken ... Blaken!’ he shouted, shivering with cold. ‘Is that Griffin? Listen here ... whoever you are! Thangs have gotten outta hand. I can’t take it anymore. I just saw a man wearin’ a pair of goofy shoes go up in smoke. And now I want out ... out! Besides, I ain’t slept for days—’
‘All right, Blaken ... keep your hair on!’ the voice said, trying to sound soothing. ‘Where’s your hotel? I’ll shoot over ... but that’ll only be later tonight.’
Once Desmond had given his Mayfair address, he yelled, ‘Why only tonight?’
Griffin, without answering, hung up.
Later, Sholto Gleave, code-named Griffin, made his way from his warehouse on the Isle of Dogs across the Thames via Tower Bridge. Following a complicated route, he travelled north across Waterloo Bridge towards Mayfair. This was an elaborate ruse to see if anyone was following him. By a strange coincidence, without being aware of it, he happened to pass Norman Heese’s cab travelling in the opposite direction – towards Waterloo International.
* * *
Norman was still out of breath from his mad dash from the opera house, desperately trying to make sense of what had happened since nine o’clock that morning. Racing over Waterloo Bridge, he realised it all had to do with the shoes he was wearing.
‘What on earth happened to me at the coffee shop?’ he mumbled to himself. ‘And what kind of shoes are these? And where’s the entire day gone? It seems as if it was morning only a few moments ago!’
‘Begin’ yer pardon, Guv’nor?’ the cabby called out, looking back at Norman through the glass partition. ‘Did yer say somethink?’
‘Nothing ... nothing at all,’ Norman called back, realising the cabby could hear him via a built-in microphone. Reflecting, the cabby couldn’t help recalling the strange American Sherlock Holmes wannabe with the East Coast twang he’d driven from Mayfair to Hyde Park that morning.
Thinking it through, Norman realised he’d not only not arrived on time, but hadn’t made it to his shop at all. And what’d happened at the opera house seemed like something out of a living nightmare. Now, as if trapped in a weird time warp, he found himself whizzing through London’s night streets in a taxicab. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. ‘Ouch!’ he shouted, doing so harder than he’d intended.
‘Is everythink awright back there, Guv’nor?’ the cabby enquired again.
Norman was too preoccupied to hear him.
Just as he was wondering why he’d asked the cabby to drive him to Waterloo station, the alligator-skin shoes lit up the cab’s interior, rapidly pulsating with an otherworldly glow. Norman watched fascinated as the colours crossed the spectrum: from deep violet to indigo blue, light neon green and luminous lemony-yellow, winding up at dark crimson.
With furtive glances, the cabby watched Norman through his rear-view mirror. ‘Are yer SURE yer okay, Gaffer?’ he enquired loudly. ‘Ah don’t wan’ any trouble, yer know—’
‘All is perfectly in order, cabby,’ Norman called back, trying to sound reassuring, his tense face reflecting the shoes’ eerily-shifting lighting.
An Extraterrestrial Uncle?
MILDRED AND JEREMY hurriedly left Holby’s café through a back door. Mildred wasn’t in the mood to face a barrage of questions from Jennifer and Doreen back at Canterbury Lane. So they made a beeline for Chelsea where Mildred’s best friend, Eleanor Randerswig, owned a home. Much to Jeremy’s relief a police officer drove Mildred’s convertible, as she herself was in no condition to do so.
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Soon afterwards, after shakily explaining to Eleanor what’d happened in Mayfair, Mildred, with the aid of a fast-acting tranquilliser, conked out on a large sofa.
Jeremy was astounded – not to mention Eleanor – to see himself on the telly later that evening. There he was, in the thick of things, on headline-breaking news. One after the other, he watched belligerent news people firing questions at himself. Most networks used his interviews because the frantic gibbering of the adults was almost unintelligible. He was amazed he’d managed to stay so calm.
The frenzied reports of his uncle’s unscheduled appearance halfway through a Wagner performance astounded Jeremy, as he knew his uncle couldn’t stand opera. At least, it seemed, he hadn’t disappeared altogether ... after all.
After the news, various talk show hosts noisily speculated about the London shopkeeper’s disappearance: had it to do with an alien invasion? Or was he a foreign mole on a mission against Great Britain?
The show soon degenerated into hysteria, while spokespersons from various organisations argued with, interrupted and contradicted one another. Finally the Prime Minister himself made an appearance in the House of Commons, calling for calm. He gave assurances that Her Majesty’s Government was taking every measure to subdue any threat to the kingdom. The leader of the Opposition, amongst raucous jeering from the galleries, strongly refuted this, calling him a swindler of the people.
Eleanor later subjected Jeremy to hundreds of questions until eventually he was able to escape to a spare room, away from his snoring aunt.
