Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  Toby and Arty grunted at each other without making eye contact.

  Mr Kapoor bent down and whispered so only they could hear. ‘I understand you managed to speak with the troll on your travels, Master Toby?’ Toby shook his head vigorously. ‘Well, it’s important that we make all of our guests welcome. She is here – yes, she is a she. Please remember that very important fact! She is here due to some unusual circumstances and I would ask you a favour . . . just say hello to her every now and then.’ That came as some relief to Toby. ‘Can you do that?’ Toby nodded, although the relief was rapidly followed by uncertainty. After all, the troll was not very chatty. Toby’s overriding memory of her was a very scary growl.

  ‘And, Master Arty, since you and Toby are going to be the best of friends then you can do that too,’ prompted Mr Kapoor.

  Although this sounded like a request, Toby was pretty sure Mr Kapoor had just given this Master Arty kid an instruction. And as for friends? Hmm, well, Toby wasn’t sure about that. It had been a very weird day.

  Arty smiled. ‘Okay.’

  ‘That’s very gracious of you, Master Arty. If you could give your new friend the tour I will see you two young gentlemen later.’ Mr Kapoor nodded and walked back to the castle at the end of the cobbled yard.

  Toby didn’t know what to think: funny planes, trolls, disappearing castles and now this boy called—

  ‘I’m Arty. You can be my friend if you like. I already know your name. Mr Kapoor said so, so no need to tell me. Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll be living. It’s a pretty cool place. Just over here,’ said Arty as he bounced away before Toby could say another word.

  13

  Waifs and Strays

  Toby launched into a quick stride chasing after Arty across the cobbled courtyard.

  ‘What is this place? Some kind of detention centre?’ he said, rather too harshly. It reflected his highly variable mood which at the moment was tilting towards petulant. He was missing Charlie and the professor again and he still couldn’t quite let go of the anger he felt towards them. He still didn’t understand what was going on – why he was here and not in London. Why the professor had pushed him away. Every time he thought of that he just, well, he didn’t want to think about it or his mood would likely sink to the point where he would simply flounder on the floor and refuse to move. So far as Toby was concerned he was stuck with some kid who wanted to lark around and who had no idea, whatsoever, what Toby had been through. Toby didn’t need fun, he needed his home. A detention centre would have suited his mood perfectly.

  ‘No, definitely not!’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Toby under his breath. ‘A school then?’ he said more loudly.

  ‘No chance – we do some learning but it’s not a school. There’s far too much laughter and fun for that. You don’t know anything about this place?’

  ‘No. I got sent here very suddenly,’ said Toby irritably.

  ‘Wow, well, that can happen, I guess.’

  Toby’s face dropped.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, you’ll love it here. It’s really cool. It’s like every fantasy book rolled into one and you haven’t seen half of it yet. This all looks quite normal but wait until tomorrow – then you’ll see. I can’t wait to see your face. I couldn’t stop staring when I first saw it all. You’ll have to have eyes in the back of your head, mind. I hope you’re quick footed too. You’ll need to be. I knew you were staying with me ’cause I saw your name on the arrivals list. You’re nothing like what I expected to find, though, nowhere near as weedy as your name suggests, although you could do with a bit more muscle,’ said Arty.

  He had spoken so much it looked like he hadn’t taken a breath. For a brief moment Toby thought he was turning blue. Then Arty took a deep breath with a look of surprise on his face.

  ‘I’m only thirteen,’ said Toby, angrily. I’m going to thump him in a minute, he thought.

  ‘I’m fifteen. I’ve been here for a year now. That’s a thought – why were you not here last year? You were supposed to be here, weren’t you?’

  ‘If I was meant to be here I would have been here,’ said Toby testily. Toby’s mood was gradually sinking lower and lower. He didn’t know who to be angrier with: the professor, Charlie, or this very annoying kid.

  ‘I suppose. Interesting though, isn’t it – you not being here and all, when you should have been?’

  Toby shrugged his shoulders as the anger swung to misery. The desire to thump Arty had already gone. He had never hit anyone in his life. And Arty was slightly bigger than him so he wasn’t that keen on the idea anyway.

  ‘Here we are. Pleasure HQ.’

  The two boys stood before a cream-coloured stone cottage with a wonky roof and a chimney stack that looked as if it could fall down in a light breeze.

  ‘It don’t look much but it’s all ours – but watch that chimney stack. It’s fallen down twice already. It’s a real bugger in a high wind.’

  ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘Well, you and me for a start, stupid! Come on,’ shouted Arty merrily over his shoulder.

  Arty opened the large wooden front door and boldly walked in. Toby stood on the doorstep staring into the black hole where the door had been just seconds before. Arty stuck his head out, holding his nose tightly.

  In a nasal voice he said, ‘Come on, Toby, come and meet the gang. Can you cook?’ he asked hopefully, grabbing Toby by the arm and yanking hard. With one foot in the door Toby was met by the foulest of smells imaginable as if someone was cooking grandpa’s socks mixed with some rotting cabbage.

  ‘This is our chef, Ant, short for Anton. He’s French but don’t hold that against him,’ mumbled Arty, laughing.

  ‘Bonjour Toby,’ shouted Anton without looking up from the cooking pot which hung over an open fire. Toby shyly raised a brief hand and waved to the back of Anton’s hat-covered head.

  ‘How did you know he’s got eyes in the back of his head?’ queried Arty in all seriousness. ‘I bet he’s cooking frogs’ legs again. I think we’re going to the chippy tonight . . . ain’t nuffin new. We did it yesterday as well: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. This is Tosh. He’s from Wales and he’s leaving next year.’ Something large stirred on the couch under a thick layer of clothes. It grunted a greeting and then promptly started to snore.

  ‘Snoring’s his best skill by far, but if he farts – run a mile,’ warned Arty.

  Toby looked around and gulped in quiet disgust. The room looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in months. ‘So who does the cleaning here?’ he said, pulling a revolted look.

  ‘Oh, that would be the cleaner, but he’s away at the moment, due back tomorrow morning.’

  Toby sighed with some relief. ‘How long has he been away?’

  ‘Two days.’

  Toby seriously doubted whether this cleaner was any good. Arty looked a little embarrassed.

  ‘Believe it or not he’s the best. It was spotless when he went. He’s going to go spare when he sees this mess.’

  ‘I hope he can cook,’ blurted Toby, holding his nose.

  ‘Shhh, you’ll hurt Anton’s feelings – but thankfully he can cook,’ whispered Arty.

  ‘I ’eard that,’ shouted Anton.

  ‘Whatever! Come on, Toby, I’ll show you your room. You’re in luck. You’re sharing with me.’

  Toby just managed to contain a groan.

  Arty and Toby’s room was a stark contrast to the main part of the house. It was a little small but impeccably clean and bright with large windows and two double beds at opposite sides of the room.

  ‘That’s yours,’ shouted Arty as he ran and jumped onto his own bed. He lay back with his hands behind his head. ‘This is the life. No school and you’ll get to meet Major Shenanigan soon. He’s so cool – looks after us properly by telling us proper facts like how to live, you know, survival skills and stuff. He’s brilliant’

  Toby sat on the edge of his bed. ‘So what makes you think I was supposed to be here la
st year?’ he said.

  ‘That was Mr Kapoor. I heard him tell Shenanigan,’ he said distractedly. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  Toby shook his head.

  ‘We used to live next door to each other in London.’

  Toby wasn’t any the wiser.

  ‘Camden Town on Herringbone Street, no?’

  Toby was still blanker than a very clean and chalk-free blackboard.

  ‘You had a dog called Scratch. I used to feed it my sandwiches. He used to nearly bite my hand off. I always thought you never fed him. My dad went spare when he found out about the sandwiches. I’d lost so much weight he took me to the doctor’s. When I told the doctor about the sandwiches he went spare too . . . right at my dad. “You can’t feed a child on sandwiches alone,” he shouted. That was the best day of my life, watching Dad squirm.’ Arty shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where did you go in the end?’

  ‘Richmond, to stay with my uncle.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty cool.’ Toby smiled briefly. There were many excellent memories of his time with the professor.

  ‘Something happened to your dad, didn’t it?’

  ‘He disappeared. Just didn’t come back from work one day. I was on holiday with my uncle at the time. When we got the news . . . well, there was no need to return to Camden. Someone went to my old house for my clothes and that was it.’

  ‘I remember. You had borrowed my favourite Chelsea shirt. I never got it back.’

  ‘I think I’ve still got it somewhere. I’ll dig it out for you,’ offered Toby guiltily.

  ‘I don’t think it will fit now. Do you miss your dad?’

  ‘Kind of. It was such a long time ago. My uncle’s my dad now really, and I miss him a lot.’ Toby stopped immediately. He had said too much. He just didn’t know Arty well enough to trust him with more secrets.

  ‘So where’s your uncle?’

  ‘Uhm, he’s on a long business trip, which is why I’m here, you know, to be looked after ’til he returns. That’s all,’ finished Toby desperately. He hoped it was enough to stop any more questions.

  ‘This ain’t no holiday camp for kids who’ve got busy parents, Toby,’ said Arty bluntly.

  Toby’s shoulders dropped again. He knew he had been rumbled – he was never very good at lying. Charlie had told him once, ‘If you need to lie, Toby, don’t. You aren’t any good at it. Just tell them you can’t say or something.’ He wished he had done that now. Instead he had Arty standing in front of him, knowing he had just lied. He didn’t look angry. He just looked as if he was waiting for the truth.

  ‘He disappeared, too,’ said Toby eventually.

  ‘Your uncle? That’s a bit clumsy.’ Arty laughed. And then he stopped. ‘You’re serious!’

  Toby nodded. His eyes were cast to the floor.

  ‘Gordon Bennett! I’m . . . I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, punching Toby in the arm in a boy-bravado-hopefully-comforting-don’t-go-gushy-on-me kind of way.

  Toby wasn’t sure whether he was saying sorry for laughing, for his uncle, or both. ‘What about you, why are you here?’ Toby said to deflect him. He had decided there were to be no more questions about his uncle.

  ‘Dad discovered I was half elven. It was a bit if a shock since he was the leader of some crazy political party weirdo thing. I think he was embarrassed. So I got sent here. I think it worked out well for the both of us really. We always used to fight,’ said Arty, as his smile slipped from his face.

  Toby shrugged. ‘We’re a right pair then.’

  ‘Pretty cool, eh? Good to meet you, Toby,’ said Arty, suddenly brightening up.

  ‘Hello,’ said Toby, forcing a smile.

  They shook hands in the manliest manner possible and then quickly released their hands and wiped them on their trousers as if they had accidently picked up a bogey.

  ‘It was my uncle who had arranged to send me here,’ said Toby, feeling a little angrier than he had expected to be.

  ‘Well, you can’t go wrong here. It’s a really cool place. You’ll learn loads.’

  ‘So it is a school then?’

  ‘No. School’s for wimps.’

  ‘And?’ said Toby, trying to prompt Arty for more information.

  ‘Uhm, dunno really. Anton said it was a centre for waifs and strays and then he laughed so I’m not too sure what to believe. But you do get people from all over the place here. Actually, come to think of it, there aren’t that many humans here at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Toby, trying to stem a yawn. The day’s events were beginning to catch him up. His eyes felt very heavy. The professor’s whereabouts would have to wait. He just wanted to go to sleep.

  ‘I think there are only you and me that are human, of sorts. Well, look, there’s Tosh. He’s a village troll – a proper one, mind. Not like that one from the plane. She just liked her burgers too much.’

  But Toby only partially heard. His eyes got so heavy they had closed along with his ears, his mind and everything. He lay down as the shock of the day swept through his body. He had a vague idea someone was talking in the background as a movie of rapid images flashed through his mind: the professor, the portly ghost, Charlie, and finally Arty breezed through like a mini thunder storm. He was talking about Anton and something to do with darts. The picture faded until Toby started to snuffle quietly in his sleep.

  Arty groaned. ‘Thanks, mate.’

  14

  The Verring Crown

  Toby woke up next morning to the snores of Arty and the stale waft of an empty fish and chip wrapper in the bin. Toby’s stomach rumbled. It was daylight outside. He put on yesterday’s clothes as he had not seen his suitcase yet and went downstairs. Tosh was still lying on the couch snoring (even louder than Arty) half buried in blankets; a green warty leg with toes bigger than Toby’s palm hung over the edge of the settee. Toby stopped in his tracks and stared. The warty leg was hideous. He gingerly picked up the corner of the blanket between finger and thumb to try and cover it. As he bent over he could feel bile force its way into his throat.

  ‘Morning, Toby,’ said Anton

  ‘Anton, what’s – argh!’ screamed Toby. ‘Argh – Ouch – stop it,’ shouted Toby. He grabbed hold of the thing closest for protection – a frying pan – and waved it around.

  Arty suddenly appeared at the bottom of the stairs in his Minions boxer shorts. He started to laugh.

  ‘What did I do?’ cried Anton, raising his hands in the air submissively. The skin around his bald grey scalp pulsated like large festering boils. Small needles kept shooting out of his head followed by streams of goo. Toby had been hit five times already. The rest of the needles were embedded in bits of furniture and the ceiling.

  ‘Anton, calm down. Go to the kitchen or something. Toby, it’s okay,’ said Arty, ‘Anton is harmless. He’s not old enough yet for the poison to work.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind!’ said Arty, chuckling. He wiped his eyes to clear the last of the sleep dust.

  ‘But, he . . . needles! Eye’s here!’ Toby patted the back of his head.

  ‘I told you that yesterday. You clearly didn’t listen. I—’

  ‘I thought you were joking. What is it?’

  ‘Anton? Ah nothing, he’s harmless really, honest,’ said Arty, clumsily holding three Scout fingers up. ‘Can you put the frying pan down now? You’re a bit scary with that in your hand and those needles sticking out your face.’

  ‘Scary? Are you mad? I just had the living daylights blown out of me. And then there’s that thing.’ Toby was verging on hysteria as he pointed at Tosh, who had just about managed to sit himself up on the settee although the effort looked as if it would send him straight back to sleep.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about Tosh, he’s pretty harmless too, so long as he doesn’t fart,’ repeated Arty. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to be around. Didn’t I tell you that as well? The frying pan, Toby, mate! And we’d better get those needles out. They go pussy, re
al bad,’ said Arty, pulling a face of disgust.

  ‘What an earth am I doing here?’ said Toby in disbelief. He slammed the frying pan down on the table. ‘They’re harmless, right, those two?’ Toby nodded in the direction of Tosh and Anton.

  ‘Perfectly! I’ve lived with them a year and I’m all right.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you were like before you came here,’ said Toby cynically. ‘Maybe you were nice then.’

  ‘Oooh, who got out the wrong side of the bed?’ squealed Arty in a high voice, as he curtsied weirdly. Whatever he was doing it managed to dissipate Toby’s anger to be immediately replaced by a half shocked laugh kind of thing.

  Toby let Arty pull the needles out.

  ‘Oww, you look like your enjoying that too much,’ said Toby. He had calmed down a lot, almost to the point of laughing again, but tried desperately to remain grumpy. He could still see Arty curtsying in his head.

  ‘Careful – if the wind changes your face will stick like that for ever,’ said Arty with a weirdly contorted face. ‘You really haven’t seen anything yet – this is an amazing place. I can see you and I are going to have some great fun,’ said Arty reassuringly.

  ‘You done this before?’ said Toby, referring to Arty’s first-aid skills.

  ‘Nah, my sister used to patch me up a lot when I was younger, you know, grazed knees from falling of bikes and out of trees, that kind of thing. I used to watch her a lot. But then she had plenty of practice with me. She was pretty cool, my sister.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She died a few years ago,’ said Arty, unemotionally.

  Toby didn’t want to ask any more questions about his sister. It didn’t seem right. He was beginning to like Arty although he wasn’t going to tell him that, at least not yet. He had never had a friend the same age before – or indeed human, or at least living human. Toby let go of the grumpiness and grinned.