A man sat with a bowl of spaghetti sliding down his face. A rather respectable looking woman desperately dabbed at her once immaculate, now beetroot salad stained white frock as another punter strongly berated a waiter for throwing three cups of steaming coffee, a mango smoothie and a cola over her husband who sat wide eyed, staring into the distance.
The restaurant and café customers were furious. The people simply could not understand what, why or how whatever it was had just happened. They were spoiling for a fight. When Toby glided through, they saw him as the perfect target to vent their anger. With a flash decision one man started to throw bread buns and blobs of ice cream at Toby, evidently thinking he was part of some alien invasion that had caused so much damage. His example was soon followed as the need for retribution gripped everyone.
Toby flipped, curved, and banked his way past handfuls of salad leaf, chocolate bonbons, a sausage and a fried egg, a half-finished bottle of baby’s milk plus dummy, a screeching whistle and a plethora of hand-sized objects and, incredibly, a cat with its eyes venomously wide open and teeth and claws feverishly glinting in the sun – fortunately it was a stuffed toy.
Toby cleared the last of the old covered market and headed for the rooftops, far away from the organic missiles. He laughed so much he forgot about the race. In fact, he spent so much time laughing that by the time he remembered he was supposed to be racing it was lost. He reached Seven Dials not three blocks away to find Charlie sitting on top of the Cambridge Theatre overlooking the small central roundabout. She looked very pleased with herself. Black Bess had her head in a bin. It looked as if she was trying to eat something. Toby joined Charlie and changed back into a boy on top of the theatre.
‘So did you like my little diversion then?’ gloated Charlie.
‘Whatever. I thought you said we had to stick with the roads?’
‘I did, but you didn’t so I felt I had a little leeway. What’s that?’ she said, laughing and pointing at the same time.
Toby reached up with his right hand and felt around his shoulder.
‘Urrgh,’ he cried as he examined the large splodge of wet cream laced with bits of scone. ‘That’s your fault. You really hacked them off with your whirlwind,’ he said, trying to be angry; it didn’t work. He just laughed instead.
Charlie hadn’t finished. She pointed to his other shoulder. Toby tutted as he lifted off a piece of spaghetti. It looked like an anaemic worm. The laughter soon died down as they remembered why they were there. Both Toby and Charlie recalled the night at Trafalgar Square; the night when all this upheaval had started. Suddenly the humour had gone and sadness arrived like a ghost-horse-driven whirlwind.
‘I promise I will come and see you, Toby, I promise,’ she said sincerely.
Toby nodded sadly as he stared at his knees.
‘So, where is it then?’ he said more bluntly than he had intended. He was falling into a dark mood again. He knew it wasn’t Charlie’s fault he was having to go, but she was the only adult around and since it was the adults’ fault he was in this mess (kind of) she got a small piece if his anger.
‘Over there.’ She pointed.
Underneath a flickering Union Jack was an electronic bill board. Adverts scrolled over every ten seconds. Toby turned to Charlie to check he had been looking in the right direction; he had. He dropped his shoulders in defeat. It really was happening. Toby was leaving London.
He vaguely watched the adverts roll through the large frame that was fixed to the pavement: fizzy drinks that were supposed to make you really happy – Toby wanted to throw the bottle at the silly child sitting on the back of a dopey-looking donkey; a yellow car with a man grinning stupidly out of the window, or at least Toby thought he looked stupid; men’s face cream – Toby didn’t like that one either; Tintagel Castle, which looked very gloomy – that depressed Toby even more; a poodle’s hair salon showing a very miserable-looking poodle with purple fluffy hair; and some weird looking fellow wearing a shiny suit with big white hair advertising a new airport terminal.
The adverts continued with each one, in Toby’s opinion, abysmally failing to attract his pocket money – not that he was going to get anymore anyway with the professor gone. Toby felt as gloomy as Tintagel Castle looked.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Toby changed into the bird and waited by Charlie. She slowly climbed down the side of the theatre and walked over to the electronic billboard. Black Bess still had her nose buried deep in the bin despite the fact that tourists were slinging empty lemonade cans through her head. They clearly couldn’t see her. Toby joined Charlie by the billboard. When no one was looking he changed back again.
‘You will come and see me?’ he asked desperately.
Charlie nodded, wiping away her tears. It seemed she couldn’t bring herself to talk for a second or two. Toby looked at the billboard.
‘What do I do?’
‘Just step into the picture.’ She sniffed.
Toby turned and grabbed hold of ghostly Charlie, giving her a big long hug. Someone threw a coin at Toby’s feet – they must have thought he was street miming. Toby turned around once again and watched the billboard: fizzy drinks rolled by, soon followed by the yellow car, the face cream, and then Cornwall’s Tintagel Castle arrived. Toby stepped up to the billboard and gave Charlie one final, hopeful look. Maybe she would change her mind.
Remarkably, she had.
‘No, stop, Toby,’ she shouted, reaching out to him. Toby eagerly stepped back down. His heart skipped a beat. Charlie continued. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not that one. You can’t get to Tintagel through there, you must use the airport slide,’ she said with a pained, guilty expression.
That was cruel.
Toby huffed angrily and turned to face the white-haired man, grabbed the frames of the billboard and heaved himself up.
Toby reluctantly shook the hand of the beaming white-haired man, who guided him towards a group of people and a second man standing in the far corner wearing tartan trousers. The white-haired man resumed his position in the advert, beaming back out towards Seven Dials. Toby turned around to see Black Bess sidle up alongside Charlie, resting its head on her shoulder. Charlie tried to wave but halfway through the movement she slapped her hand to her face and sobbed uncontrollably.
‘You must be Mr Toby,’ said a broad Scots voice. ‘I’m Mr McCall – welcome to our new Westminster terminus.’
Without a further word Mr McCall turned on his heel like a spinning top and marched straight into the mouth of a dimly lit tunnel.
‘Follow me,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
Toby looked back one final time. Charlie was walking away with Black Bess by her side. Toby really was leaving London.
10
The Tea-Stained Trolley-Boy
The tunnel echoed to a mixture of heavy footsteps and whispering voices as Toby blindly followed a group of people and Mr McCall. After a slightly unnerving but short walk the dingy tunnel opened up to a small, brightly lit space with just enough room to house the small plane that sat there.
‘Here we are. Isn’t she a beauty!’ said Mr McCall proudly.
He stood at the exit to the tunnel with his hands on his hips, admiring a small red and white biplane with a single, small engine at the front. A blacked-out window marked the cockpit. Toby thought the cockpit looked far too small. Perhaps there was enough room for two large rats but a human pilot, never!
‘Are we going in that?’ said a small boy.
‘Aye, unless you can fly with your own arms, of course. There’s enough room in there for a rugby match plus supporters,’ said Mr McCall, who seemed to be enjoying the boys’ shocked looks. ‘Come on, let’s be having you. On you go.’ Mr McCall moved aside and waited for the first boy to step forward. ‘Place your cases down there,’ he said, pointing to the single miniature back wheel, ‘and step up to this hole.’
The first boy did so confidently and disappeared into the black hole behind the pilot’s window in an i
nstant. Two pale-faced men did the same. Toby wasn’t so sure. He had a mind to tell Mr McCall that he was perfectly capable of flying himself, save for two reasons: he had promised Charlie he wouldn’t and he didn’t know where he was going.
Toby stared at the hole hoping it would widen to a normal size. It reminded him of the silver messenger and his motorbike. And he wouldn’t get into that hole either.
‘Uhm, sir,’ stuttered Toby, stalling for time in the hope a better option would come strolling along the black tunnel he had just exited, ‘where exactly are we?’ said Toby, looking upwards.
‘Don’t you recognise it, laddie? You’re inside the tower of Big Ben.’
‘We fly from here?’ challenged Toby nervously.
He couldn’t have felt more surprised and he was beginning to feel even less thrilled about the plane. The plane simply had nowhere to go. Its propeller and its tail were rammed hard up against the walls of the clock tower. Each wing looked no wider than Toby was tall. He hoped it was all just a rotten joke.
‘Where else?’ said Mr McCall. ‘We always fly from here. It’s not as good as the Wallace Monument, but it’ll do. Now come on and get aboard.’
Toby was still staring up the red-brick shaft of the tower as far as he could see past the four white clock faces and to the arched roof, with nothing but air in between. With some relief another question popped into Toby’s head.
‘Mr McCall, if this is Big Ben, where is the bell?’
‘What’s your name, laddie?’ Toby answered. ‘Well, Toby, you do like to ask questions, don’t you? Okay, the bell – well, that went ages ago. This is the digital age, laddie. It’s all computers, processors and loudspeakers now. I thought someone of your age would appreciate that. Any more questions? No? Good!’
Before Toby could think of another question Mr McCall disappeared into the small black hole. Seconds later his head reappeared.
‘Come on, then,’ he said impatiently.
Toby looked at the plane, bewildered. He was reconsidering riding the tank on the silver messenger’s bike but there was no way of contacting him. Even after watching the others disappear through the black hole and seeing Mr McCall’s head reappear fully intact and talking Toby still didn’t want to get inside. This plane looked like it couldn’t accommodate a witch, her broom and a black cat let alone a load of passengers. He wondered whether they had been squeezed into something the size of a baked bean tin and were now being shipped off to the supermarket for pet food. Feeling very nervous and half expecting to see something very horrible, Toby stepped forward. As he stuck his head into the hole he suddenly remembered when Mr Somebody-or-other stuck his head out of the chest of the silver messenger to shake his hand. Toby squeezed his eyes shut and crossed his fingers on both hands. It briefly felt like someone was trying to pull a piece of string through the middle of his body, toe to head. It was a yucky sensation. The darkness of the hole suddenly brightened and Toby was inside the plane. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
‘Wow!’ he said out loud.
Mr McCall smiled. And much to Toby’s relief he found he had not been squeezed into a baked bean tin but was comfortably standing to his full height and with loads of room to spare.
Toby walked down the plane’s central aisle. On both sides was a single row of large comfy armchairs that looked like they had been stolen from somebody’s grandma’s lounge. They were accompanied by big furry footstools. Most were already occupied: pale-faced men; human-looking boys and a monster? Yikes! For Toby, this was the first time he had seen anything other than a human or a ghost human. Toby continued to gawp at the monster, which, he was told, was in fact a very moody, real-live troll, lowland-forest variety, the non-human-eating type. Even with the remarkable features of this plane, where the inside was bigger than the outside, it would not have accommodated a mountain troll, and neither would you want to see one in there. It would make a short meal of the passengers: six human-looking boys; one fully grown, if not slightly overgrown human adult (Mr McCall); one village troll; two elves with appropriately pointy ears and ice-blue eyes; and a bogey-green-coloured goblin. So far this had been a very challenging day for Toby. And it wasn’t over yet.
Toby slumped down into the last remaining empty chair, which happened to be alongside the troll. He gulped and kept looking straight ahead. The troll looked far too hungry for Toby to feel like he could relax. It hadn’t sunk in that village trolls were actually vegetarians.
Toby needed something to take his mind off things. He spied a panel of buttons by his right hand and pressed the large green one. The chair moulded around Toby’s back and started to lightly massage his shoulders. ‘Argh,’ shouted Toby, sitting bolt upright. He slammed his fist down on the same button again. The chair stopped moving and Toby gingerly leant back, trying to ignore the troll’s growl.
Mr McCall poked his head past a cloth curtain and spoke to the pilot. Then he sat down in an extra-large armchair and put his feet up. The engine coughed and spluttered a handful of times and then burped loudly into life, spewing grey smoke past the cabin windows.
Seat belts on flashed a neon sign.
The plane shuddered as though it was resting on a large vibrating platform. The nose started to lift upward until the whole of the plane was balanced on its tail with the engine pointing directly at the roof of the tower. As the plane locked into position there was a loud crash and a tinkle from the back of the plane followed by a very loud ‘Oww.’ Toby looked over his shoulder and then wished he hadn’t as the drop to the tail of the plane was a very long way. Gravity forced his back deep into the seat as he nervously began to drum his fingers into the arm of the chair.
The neon sign changed: Hold on tight. Put your head between your knees and kiss your bum goodbye.
There were loud sniggers from the cockpit. Mr McCall growled loudly and the sniggering stopped immediately; there was a very rapid change to the neon sign. It was a countdown from ten. Everyone watched intently: nine, eight, seven. Toby started to breath more quickly: four, three. He wished the countdown would hurry up: two, one . . . silence . . . and then the sign went blank.
Everyone stopped breathing. Someone dropped a pin. The tinkling from the back of the plane stopped. A boy whimpered quietly.
Wham!
Toby was shoved back into his seat harshly as the plane catapulted skyward. The flash of red bricks rushing past the plane’s windows turned to white, then dark, and then bright sunlight as the plane cleared the roof of the Big Ben tower and flew into the sky over London. As quick as it had started it was all over. The plane levelled off straight into a large cloud.
‘Oh,’ whined some of the boys disappointedly. It would have been a great view. Toby, of course, had already seen it on many occasions. His breathing calmed and the drumming of his fingers eased as the plane flew effortlessly.
Toby began to relax a little more in his seat. He surveyed the buttons again, taking care not to press the large green one. He decided he would press the small blue button instead. There were no helpful descriptions, but Toby knew that the compelling need to press coloured buttons on a dashboard could often get you into a load of trouble.
‘Maybe the smaller buttons can’t hurt as much,’ he reasoned with himself, completely oblivious to the fact that he didn’t have to press any of the buttons at all.
Feeling a little nervous he reached for the blue button. His finger hovered over the top for a short while until his curiosity got the better of him. Toby plunged his finger down, pushing the little blue button all the way until it went no further. Releasing the button, he sat back in the comfy armchair and braced hard. With a clank and a grind a metallic arm slowly extended out of the top of the chair. In its white-gloved hand was a large black helmet with a box-like attachment on the front. The white hand raised the helmet above Toby and slammed it down clumsily on top of his head. It all went very dark. Two seconds later a bright screen flickered into life right in front of his eyes.
‘Good afternoon
,’ said a familiar white-haired man in his shiny suit, ‘and welcome to Boris Airways. I hope you are enjoying your trip from our brand new, exclusive Westminster terminus – no easyJet or Ryanair here, I can tell you. Refreshments will be served shortly by a lovely member of our highly trained staff and you won’t see Sir Richard in any of our adverts either. Have a nice flight.’ The man from Boris Airways curtsied and the screen went blank.
‘Refreshments,’ shouted a muffled voice from the back of the plane.
Toby started to take the black helmet off, but it was soon roughly snatched out of his hands and whisked back into the armchair along with the metallic arm and white-gloved hand. Toby’s stomach rumbled as loud as an empty dustbin that had just been kicked down the street. He suddenly felt ravenous.
‘Drinks, sandwiches, chocolate.’ A young lad emerged from the back of the plane pushing an eight-tiered trolley. He wore a white apron which had fresh tea stains across the front. On his shoulder sat one side of a lettuce sandwich. The other half was stuck to his forehead. He looked dazed and a little bruised under the eye. The trolley was strewn with broken crockery and the remains of the fresh coffee and tea swilled around the shelves, mixed in with bits of broken biscuit. Melted chocolate oozed down the side of the large teapot as steam gently wafted out of its top.
Toby Fisher and the Arc Light Page 7
