“Yes, and that’s what Ken’s sorting out as well, so try not to worry.”
Owen settled back in his seat and watched as the outskirts of London passed by the train’s windows.
~ ρ ~
Having arrived at their destination, Owen and Mrs Argyle disembarked from the train and made their way to the exit. Coming out of the station they walked down the edge of the park which at that time of day was shared with people making their way to work, and joggers going round and round. Owen realised how hungry he was so they grabbed an unhealthy breakfast from a stall. Owen’s bacon sandwich received a particularly poor appraisal from the fitness fanatics as they sped by.
Owen had only ever been to London once before (on a school trip to the Natural History Museum) so he made the most of the opportunity to take in the sites around him, admiring Marble Arch and catching a glimpse of Buckingham Palace between the trees. Mrs Argyle was either familiar with these tourist trappings, or was too engrossed with her task in hand to look about her, as her gaze did not alter from the path ahead as she continued her steady pace.
To their left was a long terrace of grand town houses, all painted white. She turned down a narrow path which led to a small square between two particularly impressive properties and walked a short way before following a snaking road. They passed a large van as they walked up the road, the driver too preoccupied at shouting at a man in a black car that it was driving along side to take any notice of Owen or Mrs Argyle. Owen watched as the van stopped and then suddenly sped away followed swiftly by the car, the screech of tyres causing Mrs Argyle to emit a disapproving “tut”.
Striding to the end of the street they were now on, Mrs Argyle stopped at the bottom of the steps that led up to a slightly shabby house before them. In fairness to the property, in Owen’s street it would look like a palace, but in its present company it clearly was in need of a lick of paint.
Mrs Argyle took a deep breath and walked up the steps. She knocked on the door and waited for a few moments before knocking again. She then turned to Owen, a concerned expression on her face. She pushed the door which opening with a creek. “Stay close to me,” she said quietly, slowly entering the dimly lit hallway.
“Clive?” she called out softly.
No answer.
Owen followed in behind Mrs Argyle. The hall stretched upwards towards the roof of the three storey house, with a dark brown wooden staircase wrapped around its edges. The hallway floor was composed of black and white square tiles, positioned with their corners pointing towards the walls of the house. Down the hall to the left was a large closed door, in the same dark wood as the staircase. Further along at the end of the hall was a similar door which stood open, the light behind illuminating the kitchen that lay beyond.
Mrs Argyle proceeded cautiously towards the open kitchen, checking the closed door as she passed and finding it locked. Owen witnessed what he could only imagine to be the soldier in his elderly neighbour being resurrected, as she was stealthily keeping to the walls and continuously checking the door that they had entered though, the landings above and the kitchen that lay ahead.
Upon reaching the room, she slowly peered inside. Apparently satisfied that it was safe, she silently beckoned Owen to join her and once he was in the room placed her arms on his shoulders and gently pushed him against the wall behind the door. She bent down and examined a puddle of brown liquid on the floor a few paces in front of Owen, next to which he noticed a broken mug.
Removing her gloves she felt the wet patch and sniffed her finger. “Coffee, still hot.” She stood back up. “Where is that blasted man?”
Exiting the room, she held onto Owen by the wrist and led him back into the hallway which looked no different to how they had left it. Seeing the front door still open, Mrs Argyle let go of Owen and strode towards it, cursing to herself for leaving it open. As she closed it, there was a click behind the previously locked door to the side that now stood between Owen and Mrs Argyle. Mrs Argyle leant back on her left leg instantly, as if she was going to pounce on whoever lay behind it. The door opened and Owen moved to see who was there.
A tall young man with blonde hair stood in the doorway with a serious expression on his face. He was dressed in a pin striped suit and had the look of a government official about him. On his left lapel was a small metal badge, shaped like the letter ‘p’, surrounded by a circle.
“Hello Captain Argyle,” he began, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I am DCI-” Mrs Argyle reacted immediately to this movement, thrusting her arms in front of her and blasting the man back into the room from which he had emerged.
“RUN!” she bellowed. Owen sprinted to her side as she was opening the front door. On the steps stood two very agitated looking police officers. Slamming the door in their faces she grabbed Owen and dragged him up the stairs.
All of the doors on the first landing were open but Mrs Argyle ignored them, heading for the second and uppermost floor. There were three doors available and she chose the one furthest away. Owen could hear shouting and loud footsteps from the floor below.
Through the door they sprinted, Mrs Argyle evidently being aware of the layout of the house. The room was a large but sparse bedroom, with a single bed at one end and a small wardrobe with drawers beneath it at the other. There was also a closed door just beside the wardrobe, towards which Owen was being hauled. Mrs Argyle turned the round handle but the door was locked. Stepping back and showing remarkable agility, Mrs Argyle kicked the door open with one swift movement of her right leg.
Through the door they went into another room, which would have probably served as a dressing room in days gone by, but today was just an empty white room with a patio door.
Mrs Argyle opened the handle of the door outwards leading to a small terrace on the roof of the building. Between themselves and a three storey drop was a small metal railing.
Mrs Argyle turned to Owen, pointing at a house on the opposite side of the street, some thirty metres away. “We need to get to the roof of that building. On the other side is a metal stair down to the garden, then a hop over the wall and we should be able to hide amongst the tourists near St James’s Palace.”
“How are we going to get there?!” Owen asked.
“Well I’m going to fly over; you do whatever it is you do.” With that she positioned her hands so that they pointed down and she accelerated into the sky with amazing speed, moving in a graceful arc. Less than three seconds later, she landed on the roof of the opposite building. “Come on!” she called over.
Owen looked down at the street below him; his legs suddenly feeling quite weak. His previous experiences with his new found gift had been instinctive, with little thought or indeed knowledge about what he was about to do. Now, however, he had to consciously put faith in his abilities. The footsteps were audible again, and Owen guessed that they had reached the bedroom.
“You can do it Owen!” Mrs Argyle was now becoming very animated from the rooftop opposite, flapping her arms about in encouragement. Whereas the previous day she had resembled a wicket keeper in a cricket match, today she was doing her best impersonation of a cheerleader during the Superbowl.
“Okay,” Owen said to himself, “here goes nothing.” He turned and jogged to the furthest point on the terrace behind him. Then adopting the stance of a runner at a starting line, he sprinted forward.
He could feel the now familiar tingling sensation in his hands which made him more confident he wouldn’t soon resemble road kill on the street below. Just as he was about to use the metal railing to vault into the air, the man in the pin striped suit appeared at the open patio door and made a grab for Owen. Owen took a wide step to the left and caught his foot in the railing. He fell forward in a somersault, knocking his leg on the guttering of the roof below. He then slid down the tiles and with nothing to stop him he fell towards the pavement, Mrs Argyle’s shouts audible over the air whizzing past his ears as the ground loomed up to meet him.
11
/> Remarkable
Owen moved his arms to shield his eyes from his inevitable fate, but as he moved his arm upwards his right hand caught hold of something. Instinctively he tightened his grip and swung forward, reaching out with his left hand as well. This grabbed hold of something solid and rock-like, so Owen repeated the process until he was facing the wall of the house on the opposite side of the street.
Upwards he climbed; mimicking his ascent up the sports hall on the previous day, ignoring the more obvious hand holds that the design of the house would have offered an ordinary climber.
Reaching the top, a hand grabbed his wrist and hauled him onto the roof.
“Characteristically ungainly,” was Mrs Argyle’s assessment, although she did look relieved that she wasn’t peeling him off the pavement.
Looking back across the street, the man in the suit was flanked by the two police officers they had encountered earlier, his hands on his hips and what could have been a smile on his face (although Owen didn’t think that would have been his reaction if the roles were reversed).
“Come on,” Mrs Argyle encouraged, and led them across the roof and down the spiral, metal staircase at the back of the house. At the bottom they ran down the length of the garden towards a high wall at the far end. Mrs Argyle leapt in the air and vaulted over the wall, and Owen climbed over, utilising his powers now without hesitation.
On the other side they landed on a deserted pavement and hurried towards a crowd of people walking across the street at the end. They joined the procession of tourists and shoppers and headed in the direction that they were leading, Mrs Argyle commenting that she preferred the anonymity that the crowd offered them over deciding on an actual escape route.
“What was that all about back there?!” Owen cried out.
“Shhh!” Mrs Argyle admonished him, looking about to ensure no-one had shown any further interest in them. Satisfied their anonymity was intact, she continued: “Keep your voice down. What are you referring to exactly?”
“Us legging it from the police! Are you on the run or something?”
“Of course not! I’ve never so much as dropped litter.”
“You sneaked onto a train without a ticket,” Owen corrected her.
“Oh there’s that I suppose. But no, I somehow doubt that particular misdemeanour is on those officers’ radar.”
“So why did you knock that plain clothes one flying back then, when we were in the hallway of that house? He recognised you: he knew your name. And he called you Captain!” Owen added, remembering how she was addressed.
Mrs Argyle frowned and pulled Owen into a recess at the front of a building where a fire escape exit emerged. “I didn’t know him; never clapped my eyes on him before. But I know who he works for.”
“The police?”
“No, not the police. Do you remember my brother and me telling you how we joined the military at the beginning of the war?” Owen nodded; it was only a few hours ago after all. “Well, towards the end of the war, when victory was looking more likely, certain…” Mrs Argyle thought for a moment, as if struggling to find the words to describe someone. “….individuals decided that the gifts that I and the others possessed could be used for purposes beyond fighting the enemy.
“Sometimes it would be laudable causes like providing water for drought stricken areas, something that Ken actually did in North Africa at one point. And before you ask, that’s a story for him to tell you, not me.
“But the various powers that others in our group possessed weren’t always as elemental as my brother’s and mine. We simply open small portals into other worlds and tap into our respected elements of choice. Wind for me, water for Ken. Others could actually travel into other worlds, just like you do.”
“Like me?” Owen asked, confused.
“When you reach out and hold onto whatever it is that you grasp, the object lies in another world. You may not see your hands disappear, but for brief microseconds at a time you alternate between this world and another.”
Mrs Argyle studied Owen’s face and asked whether he was following.
“I think so.”
“Good. So after the war, we were encouraged to fight for new causes. Some of us didn’t agree with the new ambitions that our masters were embracing, so we left. Others stayed.”
“They just let you go?”
Mrs Argyle smiled. “They had little choice. Some of us they could keep under lock and key for ever, but that wouldn’t be of any use to them as they wanted us out in the field. We’re like caged animals when kept in captivity: we may look docile, but we would never hesitate in biting our keepers’ hands.” Mrs Argyle’s smile turned sinister briefly, before settling back to her usual demeanour. “And there were those amongst us who they could never keep imprisoned, however hard they tried.
“So the likes of Ken and I were free to live out our lives in relative anonymity, so long as we didn’t misbehave or try to offer our services to our former employer’s competitors. But we were reminded now and again that our contract with them would last for as long as we did.
“That note that your father drew in your house would seem to be one such reminder.” Mrs Argyle showed him the note again, the letter ‘p’ (or ‘rho’ as she had corrected him earlier) in a circle being the most prominent part.
“That was on the man’s badge!” Owen exclaimed.
“Indeed it was,” Mrs Argyle said, returning the note to her pocket, “another reminder no doubt. And as I wasn’t in the mood to have my memory jogged, I felt it appropriate to let him know my stance on the issue.”
Owen made a mental note to not irritate his neighbour, lest he receive a similar punishment. “So how many of you decided to leave your platoon?”
“Platoon?” Mrs Argyle asked quizzically. “We never referred to ourselves as that, or company, or brigade or such.”
“What were you called then?”
“I told you before. ‘The Remarkables’.”
“The Remarkables? That’s what Ken described me as. Why?”
“The Remarkables,” Mrs Argyle explained, “were named after what the good Colonel offered as his assessment of each of our powers when he saw them in action:
“Remarkable.”
12
Sinnerman
The Remarkables.
To Owen it seemed both old-fashioned and too understated to be a fitting description of his, Ken’s and Mrs Argyle’s powers. But he had to admit, the name did have an air of mystery about it, which no doubt would have been valuable in war time.
Mrs Argyle by now had continued their journey across London, heading down the busy Oxford Street shopping area.
“Whose house was that back there? Clive’s?” Owen asked, remembering to keep his voice low this time.
“That’s right, Clive,” Mrs Argyle answered, sidestepping past a group of lost looking tourists.
“Was he in The Remarkables too?”
“Yes, he was discovered just before we were. Caught trying to rob a bank, the scallywag.”
“What did he do, blow the doors off?” Owen asked, imaging how Mrs Argyle could easily blast her way into a vault.
“Oh nothing that dramatic. Clive walked in, helped himself to the contents of the vault, and then walked out again. It was sheer bad luck that he was spotted by someone from the War Office.”
“How did he walk in? Was the door left open?”
“Oh no. Clive’s a sneaky one: he can walk into a building undetected by the human eye; through doors, walls and whatever other obstacles that have been constructed to keep unwanted people out.”
“How does he do that?” Owen asked, slightly jealous of this ability.
“He can walk in other worlds. So he strolled into the bank in our world, figured out the distance to the vault, continued that far in another land, and then returned here in the vault. And vice versa.”
“So what are the worlds like he goes to?” Owen asked, even more in awe at what he saw to be an upgrad
ed version of his own abilities, and being able to actually see the myriad versions of Earth, rather than just grope bits of them.
“He would never say. But he doesn’t like going there, that’s for sure, and only ever for short distances.” Mrs Argyle stopped and pulled Owen into a shop doorway. She peered out from behind the doorway. “Blast. They’re here already.”
Owen bent down slightly and looked out from behind Mrs Argyle, his head below hers. He could see a group of police officers about one hundred metres down the street. They had formed a semi-circle around someone or something, each with their backs towards Owen and Mrs Argyle.
“Well they don’t seem to know we’re here,” Mrs Argyle assessed, “so let’s risk getting a bit closer.”
She casually walked out from their reconnaissance position, and crossed the street between the steady flow of black taxis and red buses. When they were ten metres away from the gathered police on the opposite side of the street, she stopped and beckoned Owen to join her beside a street map that she was pretending to study.
“They’ve got a photo of Clive,” Mrs Argyle observed. Owen looked across and saw that in the centre of the dozen or so officers stood the man in the pin striped suit. In his hands was a magazine sized photo of a man in his late twenties who resembled a matinee idol from the 1940s (Owen had briefly joined the film club at school due to Katie also being a member, but had to quit due to it clashing with swimming practice).
Owen sensed Mrs Argyle’s attention had focused elsewhere, and looking up he followed her line of sight and saw a familiar figure in a wide brimmed hat further down the street: Trilby.
He was about forty metres away on the same side of the road which he was just starting to cross.
“There’s Clive!” Mrs Argyle observed, and grasping Owen’s wrist led him down the street. Owen scanned both sides of the road and saw a man adopting a similar hiding position to their own earlier, favouring the entrance to Oxford Circus underground station as his refuge. Owen immediately recognised the man from the picture that the police were brandishing, and he was concentrating upon the police, in front of him. Apparently unbeknownst to him, Trilby was now about ten metres behind Clive, with the station entrance between them.
The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) Page 10
