Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  ‘Can I have a cup of tea,’ said a little boy.

  The trolley-boy shuffled around the second tier and grabbed hold of a broken cup; he didn’t seem to notice. He grabbed the coffee pot by its handle and poured into the broken cup. Nothing happened. He didn’t seem to notice. He handed the broken cup with zero coffee in it to the little boy and pushed the trolley further up the aisle. He didn’t hear the protests.

  ‘Drinks, sandwiches, chocolate,’ he continued.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said another boy, rubbing his belly and looking mildly disgusted at the mess on the trolley. ‘What sandwiches have you got?’

  ‘Lettuce,’ replied the trolley-boy vacantly.

  ‘Oh uhm, I think I’ll have one of those, please,’ said the boy nervously.

  The trolley-boy searched all the shelves without success. He scratched his head in confusion. The half-lettuce sandwich fell off and landed with a splat on the fifth, tea-drenched, trolley tier. Whilst surveying the half-sandwich soaking up the tea something caught his attention at the corner of his eye. Reaching up to his shoulder he removed the other half of the sandwich. He grinned as if he had just found a long-lost toy. Slapping the two halves together he squeezed them between his palms firmly for good measure and threw the result at the boy like a Frisbee.

  ‘You wan’ anything to drink?’ asked the trolley-boy. The boy with the beaten-up sandwich shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Drinks, sandwiches, chocolate,’ carried on the tea-stained trolley-boy. Nobody dared stop the trolley after that.

  Toby’s stomach kept on rumbling loudly. He looked at the trolley with great disappointment. All he could see was steaming, melted chocolate and fragments of a coffee pot and cups. There was nothing to eat.

  ‘Don’t you have anything else?’ asked Toby bravely.

  ‘Cakes, gobstoppers, Peruvian Moon Dust, éclairs and fried cat’s tail. It’s all there, take your pick,’ said the trolley-boy with an increasingly vacant look on his face, and a growing lump on the side of his head. Without another word the trolley-boy turned around and whistled a dull tune as he clumsily headed towards his little kitchenette at the rear of the plane looking as if he was away with the fairies.

  11

  Due West

  Toby’s stomach continued to rumble, which didn’t help his mood. His thoughts were back in London as he watched Charlie walk away with Black Bess by her side. Despite the sudden upheaval and the upset Toby still trusted Charlie and for the time being that was all he had; this flight he was reluctantly on would have to do.

  Wherever it was going the biplane flew beautifully. In fact, the engine was so quiet he couldn’t hear it. Toby wasn’t worried about the flight although the troll across the aisle was a different matter. It grumbled and growled rather a lot and Toby was uncertain whether this was aimed at him. He dared a look, half turning his head. He whipped his head back quickly and waited, trying not to move just in case the troll saw him. It growled but nothing else happened. He dared a second look, this time turning the whole of his head. The troll growled and snorted again but much to Toby’s relief it wasn’t at him. The troll was totally enthralled by a newspaper that hovered in front of him, held lightly aloft by two small, bright fairies at the top corners. Their wings flapped so hard they were almost invisible.

  Whatever next, Toby thought as his stomach rumbled with hunger again.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said a cheery little fairy. It hovered not two feet away from Toby’s nose. ‘Would you like to read the newspaper?’

  Toby hadn’t read a newspaper in his life, preferring Drizzle and Drips, a ghostly comic Charlie used to give him. ‘Don’t you have any comics?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘People often tell me this is nothing more than a comic, sir. However, it does have the latest news for next week.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘Yes, sir, regular one week in the future news, sometimes up to three weeks although it does become a little unreliable then, but don’t let that put you off. In a recent poll it was found this paper was ninety-three per cent accurate. The astrologer, Horis Scope, said so,’ she squeaked in a serious tone.

  Normally Toby would have turned his head away and pretended to vomit at the prospect of reading an adult newspaper, just like any decent, self-respecting thirteen-year-old would. But a fairy no taller than his big thumb offering him actual events for next week . . . events that apparently have already happened (slightly confusing), well, anyone would read it: school exam papers, England sports results, and the lottery numbers . . .

  ‘Okay,’ responded Toby curiously. ‘And can I have something to eat? I’m starving.’

  ‘Didn’t you like anything on the trolley, sir?’

  ‘Not really. Sausage and mash?’ he asked hopefully.

  The fairy flicked her wand and a full-size newspaper appeared, hovering in front of Toby at a slight angle. ‘If you want to turn the page just tap the bottom right-hand corner. The pictures are a little temperamental but if they are not moving just flick the centre of the picture. Don’t tap, flick. Press the purple button for your food order.’ And with that the fairy disappeared in a puff of sky blue smoke.

  Without a second thought Toby pressed the purple button. The mechanical arm clinked and clunked until a large steaming plate of sausage and mash sat on an equally large lap table in front of him. Before he had even bitten on his first mouthful Toby heard mechanical arms clunk and grind all around him as other passengers followed suit. Soon after enthusiastic slurps could be heard as everyone tucked into their full meals: the smells of roast dinners, sausage and mash, pizza, spotted dick pudding and custard, and chocolate gateaux filled the plane.

  Toby wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked at the headlines:

  World Exclusive: Troll-Gate

  The professional rugby coach, Ivan Wingelot, better known for his ability to talk rather than his rugby tactics, was sacked today after two judges died of boredom listening to his twenty-two hour and fifteen minute appeal against their decision to remove the much prized Rugger Cup from the London Bulldogs and award it to the remains of the opposing team, the Siamese Harlequins. Mr Wingelot was warned that he may be facing a criminal investigation after fielding an illegal player. The opposing coach, Offen Scribblelot, wrote a formal nine hundred and sixty-three thousand, two hundred and twenty-two-page complaint when three of his players were savagely eaten and five more had to be dug out of the pitch when the eighteen-foot tall mountain troll substitute known as Shirley entered the game in the second half. ‘She is big boned,’ said Mr Wingelot in his defence.

  Toby chuckled briefly until he realised that was the game he and Charlie were supposed to be going to see at Twickenham next week.

  ‘Great, so we win and then we lose.’ He huffed and tapped the paper in the corner a little too hard. The pages rolled over rapidly exposing the next pages briefly until about halfway through the paper where it settled with a large picture in the centre.

  The headline read: Cornish Pixies Fight for Independence.

  This time Toby gently flicked the picture. At first Toby thought he had not flicked hard enough until the side pocket to the chair started to open up; next came the arm with a set of headphones that were automatically placed on Toby’s head. The picture suddenly sparkled and came to multi-coloured life. The video-like picture showed a procession of small people with brass trumpets, blowing as hard as they could with little red faces and swollen cheeks. In the middle stood a taller man, protesting to the policeman standing in front of him. He was shouting very loudly as the trumpeters were making a terrible noise, which sounded just like a charge of bullophants:

  ‘I am King Jack of the Cornish pixies and this is an outrage. We have lived here for . . .’ but Toby couldn’t hear what he said as the surrounding people and the policeman, who all looked very human, rolled around on the floor in fits of laughter. ‘We’re a bit early for pantomime, aren’t we?’ screamed the laughing policeman, whilst holding his belly hard. �
�Must be Halloween,’ shouted another.

  The picture suddenly disappeared and a message scrolled across in ticker-tape fashion: If you would like to see more of the video content in the newspaper then please subscribe to Boris Publications Ltd where we will happily provide you with our complete back catalogue of newspaper articles and video. If yes, press 1, if no press 2. Have a nice flight. The paper folded up into a small paper boat and sailed off through the air towards the next passenger.

  Toby looked out of the window and watched as a seagull flew past. The seagull was flying in the same direction as the plane. Mr McCall must have seen it too. He stormed up to the front of the biplane and stuck his head past the curtain.

  ‘How many are working?’ he demanded.

  ‘About sixty,’ the pilot was heard to squeak.

  ‘It’s not enough, look,’ shouted Mr McCall angrily, pointing at the seagull. He sat down in a huff. A furry head looking suspiciously like an overgrown rat poked around the curtain and squeaked at him.

  ‘No, we cannot throw a child out of the door to lighten the load. Make them pedal harder,’ growled Mr McCall.

  ‘All hands on deck,’ squeaked the furry-headed pilot. Seconds later the biplane lurched forward like a jet. Toby was slammed back into his chair as the familiar sound of breaking crockery tinkled out from the back of the plane. The seagull was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Due west, mind,’ shouted Mr McCall. His jaw suddenly dropped open as the biplane whizzed by Big Ben. ‘Argh! Who’s navigating?’

  ‘Sam,’ came the squeaky reply.

  ‘I thought Sam was blind?’

  There was a sharp rustle of paper and the plane immediately turned one hundred and eighty degrees.

  ‘Och no! Due west, ya . . .ya, nincompoop, argh!’ cried out Mr McCall, slapping his forehead.

  12

  I'm Arty

  They had been flying for some considerable time when the little red-and-white biplane started to loop around in tight circles. Toby looked out of the window. Immediately below was a fat, green, rocky peninsula that jutted out to sea. Thick dilapidated walls ran dark solid lines across the grass, stretching out in a series of patterns: squares and oblongs; some were even circular.

  ‘Merlin,’ whispered Toby. He didn’t know why he had just said that name; it had just come out of his mouth as if the word was sitting on his tongue. As soon as he whispered the great wizard’s name he knew instantly where he was. This was a legendary castle once fought over by the mighty King Arthur: Tintagel Castle. Toby was awestruck. He wasn’t sure whether it was the mention of Merlin or recognising the ruined castle but he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He looked back inside the plane. Everyone was glued to the windows, everyone except Mr McCall. He was talking with the furry-faced pilot. They both seemed to be waiting for something.

  ‘Now!’ growled Mr McCall.

  The drone of the engine disappeared as the pilot switched it off. The biplane began to gently drift towards the ground. Toby stuck his face up against the small window and looked upwards. The biplane feathered slowly downwards supported by a large red and white parachute overhead. It was emblazoned with ‘Boris Airways’ in navy blue.

  ‘This can’t be my new home,’ said Toby in surprise.

  As exciting as it was for Toby to be next to a castle there was nothing that resembled a solid, complete building anywhere. And judging by the poor state of the ruins nothing could live on this pitiful-looking peninsula save a rat or a small bird. The first storm from the sea would blow any poor soul straight against the rocks. The biplane landed with a small bump on a causeway that led up to a large stone arch; the remains of the castle had disappeared behind it.

  ‘That’s it, lads. Welcome to Tintagel village, your new home. If you care to step outside the admissions clerk will be there to greet you.’

  Mr McCall disappeared through the door without another word. Everyone, including Toby, soon followed suit, even the troll stepped through the door with ease despite its enormous size.

  ‘Welcome to Tintagel village,’ repeated a jolly voice. ‘For most of you, this will be home until clearing.’ It was the admissions clerk, the same man who had stuck his head out of the silver messenger in London. He stepped aside, waving his arm towards the stone arch as if he was presenting something in a circus. His face beamed with pride. Toby had to admit it did seem worth the theatrics. For any child castles were a place for fantasy and imagination and this grey stone arch would have fuelled any young child’s mind, with its dragon teeth-like wall tops and large stone gargoyles with the most hideous faces Toby had ever seen. They were enough to scare an army of school children away. The arch was massive with impenetrable walls that spread out to the edge of the causeway. A portcullis, a large iron gate with spikes at the bottom, hung menacingly overhead from within the arch whilst two empty man-sized cages attached to metal arms swung lazily in a light sea breeze either side. They added a sobering eeriness to the barren causeway.

  The admissions clerk continued to point through the arch but there wasn’t a village to be seen anywhere. All Toby could see were the dilapidated walls of the castle. And as Toby had already realised the castle was quite incapable of housing anyone. But then something caught his attention. He rubbed his eyes, stepping to one side and then to another.

  As Toby stepped to the right the castle ruins disappeared beyond the arch. It wasn’t a bare, grass-covered, rocky outcrop that he saw but a village: a higgledy piggledy collection of stone cottages and houses that surrounded a cobbled courtyard. A stone castle stood at the end. It’s not big enough to be a true castle, thought Toby, but it looked like one, with small circular towers at the corners and a huge wooden door at the front. Toby moved left and Tintagel Castle reappeared at the loss of the village. It was like a trick three-D card that showed a goblin smiling at one angle and then growling with its fangs out at another angle. And it looked as if it was only Toby who could see the village. In fact everyone else’s attention had now turned to the stone gargoyles.

  ‘Gosh, they are very ugly,’ said a very posh-sounding boy.

  ‘I would take great care, young lad. Their feelings are easily hurt. And, contrary to popular belief, their hearing is excellent,’ said the admissions clerk. And true enough as soon as the clerk had finished talking a stony grating sound was heard from the high arch as one of the ugliest and largest gargoyles started to shuffle along the wall until he was standing right over the loose-tongued boy. The boy gulped very deeply and raced over to stand as close as possible to the admissions clerk.

  ‘This way, please,’ said the jolly admissions clerk.

  The clerk stopped when he reached the cobbled yard beyond the stone arch and watched as each new arrival gawped at the sudden appearance of the village. He waited patiently for the buzz to die down. At the top of the castle steps was a tall, dark-skinned, and elegant-looking man wearing a long maroon velvet jacket that dropped to his calves with buttons down the front to his waistline. He wore perfectly pressed black trousers with shoes so highly polished you could probably locate the smallest of your own pus-filled chin zits if you felt so inclined. He wore a magnificent matching coloured turban on his head with a single pheasant feather that stood proud at the front. He watched and waited patiently as the clerk provided instructions, pairing up each new arrival with a villager who would guide them in their first few days at Tintagel. This continued until all who were left were Toby and another boy of a similar age; a boy Toby had not seen on the plane.

  ‘I think that’s a turban,’ said the strange boy who stood behind Toby. ‘Go on, ask him. See if it’s a turban. Go on, say it,’ encouraged the young boy.

  To Toby’s surprise he heard himself shout out, ‘Is that a turban?’ and then gulped with embarrassment. The boy sniggered with his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Of sorts,’ replied the man at the top of the steps. ‘Have you not seen one before?’ he asked.

  ‘Uhm, well, not close up. I thought they were only found in Ind
ia?’ continued Toby trying to step aside so the other boy could be seen.

  ‘Good question,’ whispered the boy behind encouragingly.

  ‘Well, it’s a kind of Persian version of a turban,’ said the tall skinny man as he slowly made his way down the steps.

  ‘Does it itch under there?’ interrupted the boy still hiding behind Toby. He sniggered loudly.

  ‘Only when the lice are playing up,’ said the man with a straight face. He now stood directly in front of Toby although he seemed more interested in who was behind him.

  ‘Err, that’s gross,’ shouted the boy, verging on hysterics. Evidently he hadn’t noticed the dark-skinned man’s new, precariously close position. The boy bit his own lip trying to contain the laughter. Toby looked sheepish.

  The tall skinny man reached for his turban and removed it confidently, rubbing his bald head with his spare hand.

  ‘You’ve never taken that off before,’ said the boy with genuine surprise, stepping out from behind Toby only to realise he had blown his cover. He jumped back behind Toby quickly. It was all in vain.

  ‘Ah, I might have guessed! Good day to you, Master Arty!’ said the man without surprise, addressing the mischievous young boy. ‘Have you just arrived from London too or did you sneak into the group at the arch?’ Now it was the young boy’s turn to look sheepish as he stepped out from behind Toby for the final time. ‘Or is it possible you have arrived out of the kindness of your own heart to guide Master Toby to his new home? I understand that you will be staying together?’ The tall skinny man looked towards the admissions clerk, who nodded. ‘Good. A word, if you please, with you both.’

  ‘Not again,’ whined the young boy.

  ‘My name is Mr Amar Kapoor,’ he said. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Master Toby. Naturally my personal introduction to this young boy who stands beside you is not necessary.’ The young boy looked at his toes in embarrassment. ‘But let me have the honour of introducing you to your new guide and new friend. I present to you Master Arty.’