‘We’re going to London, we’re going to London . . .’ sang Arty badly.
Toby buried the dream in the back of his mind. He was returning to London and that was something to be happy about. Toby and Arty ran down the stairs straight past the heap that was Tosh and into the clear dawn light. They half walked, half ran across the stone cobbled courtyard. They could see steam billowing into the sky behind the last row of houses before the arch. As they rounded the last corner a blue super-fast-looking steam train with three gleaming coaches stood on a set of rail tracks. The rails disappeared into a black tunnel that had been bored out of the hard rock beneath the village wall.
The steam hooter bellowed several times in quick succession followed by a flurry of activity as passengers jostled to get on the train. The elves got the best seats. They moved so quickly and lightly nobody could get ahead of them. The two trolls were next. They bulldozed their way through the crowd. Many people complained, muttering into their hands hoping the trolls would not hear them. The draconians followed. People were so in awe they just got out of any seat the draconian wanted. It was as if they had some kind of mind control over anyone, except the elves and the trolls. The rest of the seats were occupied by other creatures: dwarves, goblins, and gremlins but never witches. They always flew Royal Brooming Air – a dual handle twelve-seater broomstick including enough room for four black cats and one large cauldron. A very impressive sight indeed. There was also the private, luxury jet-broomstick for witches with a more discerning taste. Magenta often flew this way.
The two boys couldn’t find a spare seat anywhere. The two trolls had taken six seats between them. Toby and Arty wondered whether their seat was now suffering under the backside of a troll. They decided they were better off standing all the way to London.
‘Tickets,’ squeaked the strange-looking conductor, who had a rubbery face. He walked (or more like wobbled) in the most peculiar of ways. His arms and legs looked completely uncoordinated as if he were a badly controlled puppet.
‘Ah, you’re the late bookings I was told about. This way,’ he said without another word, wobbling off past the boys towards the engine.
‘Here’re your seats!’ he said, pointing at two grubby deckchairs in a semi-dark room.
‘It’s the coal truck,’ protested Arty.
‘I think I would rather stand next to the trolls,’ muttered Toby, brushing off the seats and coughing violently in the process as black, sooty snot dribbled out of his nose. ‘Cabbage slime’s not much better.’
‘What?’ asked Arty.
Toby shook his head and laughed in resignation. The coal truck would have to do. The two boys settled in their dirty deckchairs whilst the conductor waited patiently.
‘Do you think he’s waiting for a tip?’ asked Arty.
They didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The conductor threw his hat and the rubbery face onto the floor.
‘Whoa!’ Arty gasped in shock.
Toby looked up from the chair. He half laughed, wiping his black, sooty nose on his sleeve. ‘Whatever next?’ he said, staring at the sight behind the mask and hat. He shook his head in amusement.
Instead of a normal human face with ears, nose, eyes, and a mouth, the two boys watched as three furry ferrets jumped down from where a face should be. Five ferrets crawled out of each arm. The coat was then thrown to the floor. A load more acrobatic ferrets disassembled themselves, squeaking as they went. What had once seemed to be a six-foot human-looking train conductor was now just empty space as the ferrets bounded along through the open door to the engine. The hooter blasted out three times. Seconds later the train shunted forward. They were on their way to London. The two boys looked at each other and laughed some more. Somehow the weirdness felt absolutely wonderful!
The train rhythmically swayed from side to side with a clickety-clack. They had been on their own in the darkened coal truck for the last hour. Maybe it was the lack of windows or the sooty atmosphere but the boys started to feel very fidgety. It was time to explore. They simultaneously got out of their chairs and walked to the door that opened up to the engine. They were not too surprised when they saw ferrets running around the engine foot-plate, the train’s control room, but suddenly became concerned when they didn’t see a supervising human or human-type-being driving the engine. The ferrets were alone.
‘Where is he then?’ shouted one of the ferrets standing on a tall stall by the engine’s gauges. Another ferret shrugged its shoulders. The first ferret slapped its own forehead with a sooty paw. It turned and faced the two boys.
‘Passengers are not allowed in the engine room. Who are you?’ demanded the squeaky ferret.
‘Uhm, where’s the train driver?’ asked a stunned Toby. The multi-ferreted conductor was one thing but a train driving, English speaking, and very demanding ferret was almost too much. The question had flown out of Toby’s mouth before he could even think.
‘Fair question, I suppose. We’ve just been asking ourselves that too,’ tutted the very fed-up-sounding ferret. ‘Can you drive?’ Both the boys shook their heads. ‘Pity, bleedin’ useless he is. Sure you don’t want to try? We’ll help.’ The boys had no confidence in their own ability to drive a train let alone be guided by ferrets. They shook their heads again.
‘So who is actually driving, then?’ asked Toby, feeling like he should be jumping off at the next station.
‘Well, normally we start the train and get it going and the driver joins us later. We need him to pull the levers sometimes. Otherwise we have to do it which means I have to pull a load of the lads off the treadmills, which means we run late. We can’t run late, we never run late,’ it said stubbornly.
‘So where is the driver?’
‘No idea. Probably on the sauce,’ said the ferret, tipping his head back and mimicking drinking out of a bottle. ‘He’s usually in the coal truck. We just pull him out at the last minute to slow us down for the stations. You didn’t see him there?’
Toby shook his head. It was dark in there.
‘Flippin’ ’eck, I ain’t got a scoobys what we’ll do now.’ The little ferret looked very worried.
‘Uhm, I don’t wish to ask an obvious question but why have you put up with him if he’s so useless? Maybe you’ll get a better driver next time,’ said Arty speaking in a tone that suggested it was normal to discuss the logistics of driving a train with a ferret.
‘You got to be joking! Two reasons,’ said the ferret, holding his paw up trying to show two claws. It didn’t work very well as he just didn’t have the digit dexterity, even for a talking ferret.
‘First: we can more or less do what we please and so long as the train gets there on time nobody asks any questions. Second: he’s the best we’ve had, believe it or not. The previous driver was a horrible man. Nosher ’ere,’ Toby and Arty looked at a very large ferret that resembled a small plump seal waddling across the engine plate, ‘kept on nibbling on his fingers when he was having a nap. He’s got a taste for fingers, you see. In fact, he’s got a taste for anything human really.’ The ferret caught the sudden look of alarm on Toby’s face. ‘Don’t worry,’ it said matter-of-factly, ‘you’ll be all right . . . if you stick close to me that is. It took fifty of us to drag him off the last driver. He was okay – he still had one arm left – although it was not so good for Nosher, he was sick as a pig for weeks after that. But be warned, it’s not Nosher you need to look out for, its Tomkins, the cat. He belongs to our driver. Nasty piece of work he is, too. Most of the lads can handle him fine, but some of the younger ones would be in deep do-dos if the cat cornered them. It don’t like humans, neither. Gave a passenger a very nasty infection from a deep scratch once. The driver even blamed it on us.’
The ferret seemed very keen for the boys to help and was playing it cool. It casually leant against the pressure gauge with its small elbow and waved at Toby and Arty to lean closer. It began whispering. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. Despite appearances this ain’t no real steam train. You
might have noticed there ain’t no coal in the coal truck. The company want to keep that quiet. Can you imagine what people would say if they realised they were travelling on a steam train that’s got no steam. It would be carnage – so we look after the useless driver, he keeps his job, and we keep our jobs. The train keeps running and everyone is happy. Simple really.’ It grinned.
‘But what about the steam from the chimney and the noise, you know, chuff, chuff . . . chuff?’ Arty’s voice faded away suddenly. He looked through the window self-consciously.
‘Yeah, mate, sure, chuff, chuff, and that,’ mocked the ferret, raising a furry eyebrow. Arty started to blush. ‘Digital recordings from the Bluebell Line and a smoke generator off eBay. Easy really,’ said the ferret. It looked as if it was gloating.
‘So how does the train move?’ queried Toby. Arty still seemed to be trying to find something interesting to look at out of the window.
‘Ah, that’s the clever bit, come and have a butchers.’ The ferret opened up a round cast-iron door where the coal used to go. ‘Go on, have a shufti,’ he said with overflowing pride.
Toby stuck his head through the door and peered inside. There were two very long treadmills that stood side by side. A large metal cogged wheel spun between the two of them with a constantly moving chain that fed through the floor. Toby lost count but he estimated there were at least a hundred ferrets running on each treadmill. Toby retracted his head from the hole and stared at the ferret on the engine plate. This ferret suddenly looked very familiar as the image of the small red biplane flashed through his head. The ferret was still leaning up against the pressure gauge looking very pleased. Toby was practically speechless.
‘Uhm, Arty. You’ve got to take a look at this,’ said Toby, stepping aside.
‘Wow. How fast?’ echoed Arty, as he peered inside.
‘Fifty-six, more or less,’ said the ferret smugly, ostentatiously examining the nails on his free paw.
‘That is amazing!’ Arty’s voice went from an echo to its normal sound halfway through as he too withdrew his head from the hole and stared at the ferret, open mouthed. ‘Maybe we should have a go at driving?’ asked Arty hopefully. Toby pulled a not-on-your-life face.
‘What’re your names, lads?’ asked the ferret boldly. ‘Munch is my name, and trains are my game. Nice to make your acquaintance.’ He held out his paw. ‘Just the thumb will do otherwise you’ll crush me paw.’ Toby and Arty offered a thumb each and Munch smacked his paw against them like a mini high five. ‘Right, we got a feed stop. You couldn’t pull that lever could you?’ Arty grinned and heaved away with delight.
The train pulled to a halt at a very short platformed station. There was a mad rustle as the ferrets shot out of the treadmill room and disappeared into the adjacent forest.
‘Five minutes only!’ hollered Munch.
20
A Mad Spy
The deep green fern in the adjacent forest rustled and waved from side to side as the ferrets raced around looking for delicious tidbits.
‘So where is the driver,’ asked Toby, not feeling entirely pleased with Arty who, he felt, had encouraged them by pulling a lever. ‘Am I the only one feeling concerned about the driver’s absence?’
‘We usually see him at least once by now. Asher!’ shouted Munch. A small ginger ferret immediately appeared from behind the engine plate. ‘What took you so long? Go find Nosher would ya!’
The furry little ferret disappeared into the coal truck. Thirty seconds later Asher returned. It didn’t say a word. It just waved at Munch to follow. Nosher was now sitting in the corner. He had a look of deep satisfaction on his face as he continued to nibble on something that looked distinctly human.
‘Oh Nosher, what have you done?’ cried Munch.
‘Has he eaten all of him?’ asked a stunned Arty.
‘Nah, not even Nosher could do that,’ sighed Munch in deep relief. ‘I reckon the driver’s done a runner. Probably in the middle of the forest now blubbering to the trees an’ cradling his fingerless hand. We’re screwed!’ Munch looked at Nosher, who in turn, looked back plumply, oblivious to the turmoil that was clearly plaguing Munch’s little mind.
‘There’s only one thing for it,’ sparked up Munch, ‘we have to hope that what’s left of the driver gets eaten by a very large qwanterowl – no trace and very vicious, them . . . they love human flesh. Only found in that forest too.’
Toby didn’t have a clue what a qwanterowl was but it didn’t sound like the kind of thing he wanted to see out on a nice walk in the woods. He decided never to visit that forest.
‘Right, it’s time we moved off. Otherwise we’ll blow the schedule to pieces. We’ve already got some serious explaining to do . . . why we lost a driver for one. Keep your fingers crossed Toby – it’ll all work out well in the end,’ said Munch in a surprisingly philosophical tone. ‘While you’re at it, keep your hands in your pocket, if you know what I mean.’ Munch tapped his black wet little nose with his paw as he nodded towards the coal truck corner. Nosher let out an almighty burp that would have challenged the train’s horn.
‘Right, there’s nothing else for it. You two will have to drive,’ added Munch. It was more of an instruction than a request.
‘Excellent,’ chimed in Arty.
‘What . . .? We can’t drive a train,’ protested Toby.
‘Give over, it’s every schoolboy’s dream. Besides, who d’you think drives the train when the driver’s comatose on sausage meat and ale? I’ll teach ya, dun-chu worry. All you got to do is pull the levers and leave the rest to us. You’ll be fine,’ he said reassuringly. Toby sighed. Arty grinned from ear to ear.
‘That reminds me of a story,’ continued the now very chatty Munch. ‘One time when the driver was out for the count, my mate, Asbo, left something smelly under his nose, if you know what I mean?’ Munch winked. Toby and Arty pulled faces of disgust. ‘Yeah, you’ve got it. I’ve never seen the driver move so quick, which was good really ’cause we were coming into Birmingham station at a cracking pace. If Asbo hadn’t acted so quickly we would have passed straight through and been halfway to Oxford.’ Munch rubbed his butt cheeks with a subconscious grimace. ‘The driver nearly lost his job over it and I got kicked from train to coal truck and back again all the way to Edinburgh. I couldn’t sit down for a week. Mind you,’ said Munch earnestly, ‘I got my own back. Well I got Asbo to do it for me, actually. He kept on peeing in the driver’s tea. Funny really, when Asbo got bored and stopped the driver started whinging about how poor the tea had suddenly got. We laughed quite a bit over that one.’ Munch looked wistful for a moment as if he missed the driver already. ‘So, as I said, all you need to do is pull the levers.’
Toby looked at Nosher as it smacked its lips together gnawing on some unrecognisable part of the driver’s anatomy. Arty kept on nudging him in the sides with an encouraging grin on his face. Glad for any reason to stay out of the coal truck and away from Nosher Toby sighed and reluctantly said, ‘Okay!’
‘Brill,’ shouted Arty.
‘Great,’ said Munch. ‘Okay, Arty, you stand there by that lever. Toby you have this lever. Great!’
Whilst Munch was discussing the finer points of lever pulling with Toby, Arty reached up to a cord over his head and gave it a great big yank. The trains artificial steam hooter blared out so loudly Nosher farted almost as loudly out of shock.
‘There’s always one,’ groaned Munch. Arty pulled it again. His grin would have run all the way around his head had he been able to open his mouth that wide. ‘All right, that’s enough. You’ve had your fun.’
Toby glared at Arty.
‘Jealous,’ mouthed Arty in a way that would have suited a five-year-old.
After pulling a couple of levers Toby started to relax. He was beginning to enjoy himself too. He looked over at Arty whose hand twitched around the train’s hooter cord. He had his head out of the window and his face looked very sooty.
Probably got a ferret throwing out bags
of soot at the front of the train, thought Toby. He laughed. The train hooted as Arty pulled the cord again. The boys were having a whale of a time. However, Munch seemed deep in thought.
‘Preacher.’ Munch turned to face Toby. ‘Did you know the ferret has a sense of smell more keen than a bloodhound? And the best smeller in the ferret business is Preacher. Oh . . . and here’s Manic too.’ Munch rolled his eyes in disdain.
Preacher waved at the boys with a cheery smile. Manic, who wore a patch over his left eye and had a small dagger hanging from his waist, ran around the engine plate peering around obstacles briefly before tiptoeing across to the next obstacle. He would inexpertly disappear for a second and repeat the exercise. It was as if he was trying to avoid detection, as if he was on a spying mission. He suddenly jumped up onto Arty’s shoulder, lifted its eye patch and peered at Arty’s eye before dropping the patch down rapidly and pulling a face of disgust. He then hopped down onto the stool next to Munch, saluted and said in a squeaky voice:
‘Area clear, sir,’ before dropping his arm sharply by his side and remaining standing to attention. His eye patch had now switched to his right eye.
Munch shrugged his shoulders. ‘We have no idea why he does that. We have asked but he whips out a small knife and—’
Manic whipped out a small knife, held it to Munch’s throat and snarled. ‘I could tell you that but then I would have to kill you.’ He finished by standing to attention again. The knife disappeared.
‘Preacher, go and see if you can sniff out the driver, will ya?’ said Munch, shaking his head.
Preacher scooted off. Its sniff was so powerful you could hear it scuttling through the coal truck. Preacher sneezed loudly just before he entered the first passenger carriage.
‘We found Manic on Monument Hill in Richmond. We don’t know anything about him. He don’t say much apart from—’
Toby Fisher and the Arc Light Page 13
