by Oliver Skye
Once inside Norman met with all the sights, smells and sounds of an ultramodern railway station. A monotone voice was just announcing the late-night trains to Lyons, Paris, Geneva and Edinburgh. He could just make out that the Edinburgh-Inverness train was due to leave from platform four at 22h07. On an impulse, he knew it was there his mind-boggling mystery tour would end ... if he made it in time!
Skidding to a halt, he glanced at his watch. Panic-stricken, he realised the train was leaving in ninety seconds’ time.
Momentarily he stood glued to the spot, oblivious of commuters staring at his colourfully-flashing footwear.
With the same urge that had propelled his feet into action in Hyde Park, Norman sprinted towards the departure platforms. Clutching the shoe case, his closed brolly hooked on one arm, he smartly dodged commuters, porters and luggage trolleys.
Without warning – as if on a soft cushion – Norman felt himself lifted above the platform, his legs pumping in midair. People watched amazed as he adopted a surfer’s stance, as if riding a giant wave on an invisible surfboard. Full speed ahead, he whizzed above ducking commuters’ heads. Later, children reported hearing squawking gulls and the sound of thunderous breakers.
Reaching the point where he had to turn left towards platform four, Norman was drawn down to earth again. Arriving at the platform, he now found himself running alongside a stationary, streamlined train. Desperately, he sidestepped people who were waving to passengers in cosily-lit compartments.
To the shrill sound of a whistle, the train started creeping along.
‘N-O-O-O-O-O!’ Norman yelled as the train’s speed lazily increased. Running faster, he craned his neck to see within the moving compartments, not sure what he was actually looking for. ‘Wait! S-T-O-O-O-O-P!’ he shouted, waving his brolly above his head, scattering onlookers out of the way, his eyes all of a sudden focusing on a compartment with two people inside it.
Professor McCrackenbatten at that moment happened to be working on his tablet, typing messages to the elusive Twins, hoping to trace their whereabouts.
The police officer accompanying him wasn’t expecting anything remarkable to happen. He was relaxing, thoroughly enjoying himself, never having travelled first class before.
Both men were astonished, therefore, when observing a distinguished-looking man in a bowler hat sprinting alongside their compartment. A tie with rockets on it trailed horizontally behind him. At the same time, a super-bright strobe effect emanated from his shoes, giving the impression they were moving in and out of sight. Norman’s jaunty face had a desperate look, because at this point he was running as fast as the train was moving, and as swiftly as his lanky legs would carry him, the shoes supplying most of the necessary energy.
‘Do you have anything to do with these shoes?’ he appealed frantically to the two men inside, while pointing down at his feet with his umbrella. Greatly shocked, the professor recognised his beloved Twins. ‘I’m Percival McCrackenbatten,’ he yelled jumping up, ‘those are MY shoes!’
Norman watched helplessly as the elderly man mouthed away silently behind the thick glass, the train accelerating away, leaving him ever further behind. Panting, he stopped running, realising he couldn’t keep up. He definitely wasn’t used to this kind of exertion. Sinking down at the end of the platform, he warily saw the train’s marker lights fade into the darkness.
Sitting cross-legged, Norman noticed the shoes transforming back to their default alligator-skin selves.
‘Whew!’ he panted. ‘I wonder what ... could possibly ... happen ... next?’
* * *
Professor McCrackenbatten had almost suffered a nervous breakdown. Seeing his shoes again, only to watch them slip away right before his eyes, was almost too much to bear. Only when sitting down again did he notice the message on his tablet’s screen:
We’re parallel to you, Dear Professor ... on Punctual Heese’s feet. Powerful atmospheric disturbances have almost depleted our energy. We, therefore, are not able to make the transition from the platform to your compartment. This is why we couldn’t get to you in the park (also owing to PH’s hunger pangs), and were late for the performance of Tristan and Isolde. We, consequently, strongly recommend that you don’t travel to Scotland, but meet us under the cute statue at Piccadilly Circus. We shall attempt, with PH’s feet, to meet you there ... soon. Love, Cal2.
Recovering from his surprise and conferring with the professor, the police lieutenant resorted to the only option available: rushing into the corridor, he pulled the emergency brake lever. The train immediately began screeching to a long, drawn-out halt. This resulted in the professor and the officer climbing down onto the railway line amidst protests from other passengers.
‘Shoes!’ the driver snorted at his co-driver. ‘That’s what the copper said. Can you believe it? Stopping an overnight express train because of a pair of bleeding SHOES!’
Looking back in disgust, they saw the strange spectacle of the police officer carrying the elderly scientist’s suitcase towards the brightly-lit station in the distance. On the way there, the officer called Inspector Breeze on his mobile, relating the recent events – and about what had happened earlier on platform four.
In response, the police immediately cordoned off and began searching the area.
* * *
The last thirteen and a half hours – or what he could recall of them – had been a mental roller-coaster ride for Norman. He tried his best – his mind in a fuzzy haze – to remember what had happened since trying on the hovering shoes in the park. Inexplicably, he now found himself sitting at the end of a cold, grimy station platform. Desperately he tried to fit the elderly tousle-haired man on the train – looking very much like someone who’d escaped from a planetarium – into everything.
‘He must be the owner of the shoes!’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘That’s what this is all about ... the shoes are using my feet to get back to their owner!’
An official-looking railway station person, sweeping the platform nearby, was watching Norman, shaking his head.
Norman didn’t even notice him.
At this point, it crossed Norman’s mind that it’d been easy putting the shoes on, never dreaming it wouldn’t be so simple taking them off again. ‘I’ll have to find a convenient place to remove them and get some rest,’ he whispered warily.
‘Don’t interfere with other people’s belongings,’ he heard his mother’s words echoing from the past, ‘you’ll only find yourself in trouble!’ In Norman’s dazed state, it occurred to him that she’d been entirely right.
Sighing he stood up, dusting himself off. Grabbing the shoe case and his brolly, he walked along the now vacant platform towards the main terminal. When the 24-hour station restaurant came into view, he decided it was the ideal place to remove the portentous shoes; as a precautionary measure, just to prevent any other bizarre goings-on.
Once inside, Norman found a corner table. Quietly he slipped the shoes off, placing them inside the velvety interior of their case and closed the clasp. Next, he placed the case under his seat, put his bowler on top and heaved a sigh of relief. Resting his weary head back he yearned for a hot bath, not noticing the television sets from various corners blaring reports about his various escapades.
When later seeing two police officers walking through the restaurant, it didn’t occur to Norman they were looking for him. Although an officer observed Norman seated there, he assumed it was someone feeling under the weather; perhaps from too much drink – especially as he was unshaven and didn’t have any shoes on. And if Norman hadn’t placed his bowler on the shoe case under the table, he would have been spotted and questioned right away.
Later, half asleep, Norman heard a child on the telly describing to a reporter what’d happened earlier at Waterloo station. ‘He was wearing flashing shoes ... like a Christmas tree. At first, I thought he was completely bananas, running round shouting at the top of his voice. Then he took off ... gliding over everyone’s heads. It was ... li
ke ... awesome. I wish my dad could do that!’
* * *
After sitting up all night in the almost empty restaurant – not having eaten anything because of the tension – trying to ignore the noisy TV, Norman decided to phone home. It hadn’t occurred to him to call earlier simply because of his state of mind. Now he was anxious to know if Mildred and Jeremy were all right. He also wanted to arrange a pair of NORMAL shoes he could get home in. He could easily have caught a taxi, but that would’ve meant putting on the alligator-skin shoes again. He definitely wasn’t prepared to do that ... no matter how comfortable they felt.
A few rings later, Norman heard Jeremy answer. After shouting ‘Uncle Norman!’ at the top of his voice, Jeremy appeared to drop the receiver. Numbed, Norman heard a loud scuffle, Jennifer screaming, Wally squawking, an unknown man’s voice hollering and someone howling in pain, all followed by a thunderous crash.
To the sound of more upheaval Norman heard Jeremy yell, ‘Let go of my ear, you monster!’
Mildred could be heard shrieking, while in the background wailing police-car sirens naturally blended in with her voice.
Norman anxiously kept listening, occasionally shouting ‘Hello! Hello!’ until, after another loud crash, the line went dead.
The tumult strongly impressed upon Norman that all was not well at Canterbury Lane!
Moments later, while redialling, his phone switched off. Glumly he realised the battery had gone flat.
For the first time, Norman noticed the nearest telly boisterously broadcasting the latest news headlines. Fleetingly, his numbed mind registered a familiar face. Trying not to attract attention to his unshod feet, he moved closer for a better view. By now quite a few people were eating breakfast, glued to the news.
To Norman’s astonishment, he recognised Jeremy calmly describing what’d happened the previous morning in Mayfair. Intermittently, talk show hosts were discussing his impromptu Royal Opera House and Waterloo appearances, including interviews with a visibly shaken Ella Bonsmara.
‘A dreadful apparition with scaly, glowing feet,’ she said tremulously, reclining on a hospital bed. ‘It had various antennae protruding from its scalp and beheld me with luminous, red eyes. When it asked how long to keep the muffins in to bake them, I collapsed. I don’t suppose I shall ever perform again—’
Trying to assimilate all this information, and horrified at recognising the woman who’d so grievously assaulted his ears, Norman desperately wanted to know what was going on at home. Staring at the television set, he felt torn between rushing to Canterbury Lane and heading back to Rotten Row. Leaving the shoes in their case where he’d first found them, he reasoned, would be the quickest way to get things back to normal. In his panicky state, Norman toyed with the idea of leaving the restaurant and the station ... in his odd socks! If I return to Hyde Park, I’ll be at liberty to go home ... the sooner the better. Who cares what anyone thinks of me!
Making up his mind, Norman got the attention of a waitress. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, she gave him a searching look. Smiling shyly she said, ‘Well I never! Can it be that you’re the Norman Heese? Yes, it is you! I recognise you from the papers and the way you dress. You’re the one with the atomic shoes ... who’s got the whole country in a tizzy. Oh, PLEASE give me your autograph—’
Norman was so taken aback, he took out his Parker and scribbled on a serviette. Without a word he then paid, leaving a generous tip. Grabbing the shoe case and his umbrella he put on his bowler and, much to everyone’s amusement, walked out of the restaurant without any shoes on.
Back at Rotten Row
WHEN JEREMY heard Sholto Gleave’s Jaguar roar to life, he wondered if he’d ever see his parents, uncle, aunt and schoolmates again. He could almost feel the darkness in the airless boot. It was crammed with hard greasy objects, poking his ribs and back. He felt he was slowly suffocating, yet was overjoyed at having heard his uncle’s voice, though not getting a chance to talk to him.
When the two intruders had stormed onto his uncle and aunt’s premises, Jeremy was too shocked to feel scared. But now that the man – whose face looked like patchy wet plaster interwoven with bits of grey plastic – was driving off with him, fear clutched at his throat. He realised, all of a sudden, that the circumstances surrounding his uncle’s disappearance had become very serious indeed.
Perhaps even deadly.
Just as Sholto Gleave tossed him into the Jaguar’s boot, Jeremy had heard his aunt’s shrill voice from the direction of the portico. Then the sound of a wailing squad car siren drowned her out. If he could’ve observed the scene, he would’ve seen his aunt run stiffly down the stairs, jump into her convertible without opening the car’s door, madly rev the V8 engine, and pull off in her usual neck-breaking style. Only now, a seething fury flashed from her steely-green eyes when seeing what was happening to her nephew.
* * *
As Inspector Breeze with the four armed officers turned into Canterbury Lane, he saw Sholto’s Jaguar speeding off down the narrow road. Immediately, the cherry-red convertible he’d seen in Mayfair appeared in hot pursuit. ‘Something’s up,’ he muttered, accelerating after Mildred’s snazzy coupé. ‘I just hope were not too late.’
The inspector guessed that the bogus detectives had already been up to some villainy, at the same time wondering why only one of them was visible in the saloon ahead. He quickly jammed on the brakes. ‘Kelly, Boils!’ he barked. ‘Stake out the Heese’s house and see if you can grab the other clown. If things get rough, call for backup. We’ll be back a.s.a.p. Artery, Wilson, stay with me!’
Special officers Kelly and Boils, all in black, with bulletproof vests on, jumped out cocking their silenced MP5s. Inspector Breeze jammed down the accelerator and raced after the two cars ahead.
* * *
While slamming the boot shut, Sholto Gleave spotted a slender woman with a weird hairdo rushing down the stairs. Quickly driving off, he observed her in his rear-view mirror speeding after him – in the red sports car he’d seen parked outside.
She’s no match for me ... I’ll soon shake her off—
Sholto couldn’t believe it when the convertible sped right up behind him. He could see the woman driver screaming at him from behind the steering wheel.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Sholto spluttered.
Meanwhile, Mildred was vigorously pushing the pedal to the metal, erratically swerving inches away from the Jag’s bumper. Sholto realised the red-headed woman was trying to overtake him in the narrow street. ‘She must be stark raving mad!’ he yelled, starting to panic. Next thing, a police Range Rover, sirens wailing and lights flashing, appeared right behind the woman’s car.
‘The fuzz! That’s torn it,’ Sholto seethed, changing down a gear and revving his car to the limit. ‘If I don’t pull a trick out of my sleeve now, I’m in for the high jump.’
Without considering his young captive, Sholto jerked the steering wheel to the left, lurching into a side street, the centrifugal force jamming Jeremy’s head against the boot’s side. With full throttle, the Jaguar slammed into a row of garbage cans, sending them and their contents flying.
Mildred didn’t mind a bit. Following Sholto’s example, she tore round the corner in spectacular fashion. Close behind her, the officers gasped in amazement.
Inspector Breeze took the corner more carefully, cautiously negotiating his way round the bins.
Once Sholto reached the bottom of the lane – ending in a T-junction with a neatly-painted cottage tucked behind it – he realised he was going too fast to turn. Panicking, he misjudged the distance while braking too late. Mildred, not far behind, had just enough time to stop, tyres squealing. The squad car also braked sharply, barely avoiding crashing into the back of her.
Sholto wasn’t so lucky: he only had time to duck. While harshly applying the brakes, the car began skidding, leaving four slewed black trails behind. The others watched amazed as his large car smashed through the T-junction, hurtling towards the homely cottag
e.
‘Isn’t it a pleasant day, dear?’ the elderly cottage owner commented to his wife as they sat drinking tea. ‘A far cry from the Blitz! Do you remember when that Jerry bomb—’
C-R-A-A-A-A-S-H!
The shock of the occupants was immense as Sholto’s black car burst in through their sitting room wall, coming to a crunching halt only feet from where they were sitting. The bonnet flew open, spurting boiling water and steam from the ruptured radiator.
Soon the police were handcuffing a dazed Sholto Gleave. Inspector Breeze helped Jeremy, shaken but unharmed, out of the cramped boot. The elderly couple, with expressions too difficult to describe, sat silently watching ... still holding their teacups.
‘This is preposterous!’ the cottage owner yelled, jumping up, his face bright red. ‘Kindly hold the delinquent for me while I fetch my shotgun ... I should very much like to shoot him!’
Once Inspector Breeze had calmed the irate homeowner down, the police, with Sholto Gleave, Mildred and Jeremy, arrived back at Canterbury Lane. There they found Desmond Blaken – together with Jennifer, Doreen and officers Kelly and Boils – sitting at the kitchen table with a vacant look. Once Desmond had regained consciousness and the housekeepers seen what a pathetic state he was in, they couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.
When Inspector Breeze attempted to question Desmond, it became clear he’d lost his memory. He couldn’t recall his name, where he was from ... or what he was doing in England! When finally led away, he waved to everyone with a lopsided grin and a tear in his eye; and for reasons no one could explain, kept mumbling on about cricket.
‘Well, he didn’t really do anything,’ Doreen commented to the police. ‘It was the other creep who looked really dangerous.’
