‘I live there,’ said Toby, his eyes almost exploding in surprise.
Manic snarled with the knife between his teeth. He pounced off the stool and landed on Toby’s chest. He took a handful of Toby’s shirt with one paw and held the knife at Toby’s throat with the other.
‘Where is he? What have you done with him? Who d’you work for?’ it shouted in its best growly voice.
‘Never seen him do that though,’ said Munch in a casual way. Toby, on the other hand, had a sudden urge to throw the ferret off his chest and jump from the train.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ said Manic slowly and menacingly. ‘Where’s the professor?’
‘Professor Laken?’
‘Don’t try and play the innocent with me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m looking for him too. I’m his nephew.’
‘A likely story,’ snarled Manic. ‘Prove it.’
‘Oh, uhm, he’s centuries old and, err, he’s met Queen Elizabeth the first and,’ Toby gulped very carefully, ‘I can fly like a falcon.’ Fortunately Arty was staring at the knife so hard he wouldn’t have heard Toby’s last claim.
The knife was immediately removed from Toby’s throat. ‘You’ll be Master Toby then. Pleased to meet you, sir,’ it squeaked unapologetically. ‘I’m the professor’s ears on the street, his nose in the gutter. I’m his spy. You and I need to have words, on the QT like, if you know what I mean?’ It tapped its nose. It then jumped back onto the stool.
‘Is he for real?’ said a stunned Arty.
Munch shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I’m glad that’s all cleared up, then.’ Munch held an expectant paw out to Asbo.
‘Thanks, Manic!’ grumbled Asbo unsympathetically, ‘you just lost me my favourite rabbit’s foot. That’s brought me a lot of good luck that has.’ Asbo handed his grimy looking rabbit’s foot to Munch who received it with a winner’s smile.
A small ferret ran across the engine plate. ‘Hey, Ernie, tell the lads to close the book on Manic, will ya. I’ve found the answer care of Mr Toby here. In fact, call a meeting for six o’clock and I’ll let everyone know who won the sweepstake,’ shouted Munch exuberantly.
Toby looked at Manic. This little ferret knew the professor, which made it very valuable. Toby suddenly felt very close to Manic. His head was spinning again – the professor, Charlie, the general, London, home. And for some reason the refrigerator in the kitchen. The light switch of ideas flicked on and Toby suddenly had a brainwave.
‘Can you smell like a bloodhound too?’ asked Toby.
‘Of course, sir, I trained with the best – six-month internship at Battersea Dog’s Home. I’ve got the best snout in the business,’ responded Manic smartly.
‘Will you help me look for the professor?’ asked Toby.
‘Until my dying breath, sir,’ said Manic, saluting carefully.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ barked a very groggy voice.
The train driver had miraculously appeared. He looked bleary eyed and worse for wear, with dark stains down his t-shirt, and was wobbling from side to side against the rhythm of the train. He was feebly trying to hold his trousers up, which were slowly sliding down his legs. He clumsily steadied himself against the door frame of the coal truck. Preacher stood at the driver’s feet and was signalling frantically to Munch. He was making signs with his little paws that neither Toby nor Arty could understand.
Munch had carefully hidden behind Toby. He was translating in his ear. ‘Preacher says that he was sick in the toilet and fell asleep.’ Toby looked at the trousers now down by the driver’s ankles and the stains down his t-shirt. Toby, Arty, and Munch simultaneously noticed the train driver’s fingers; they were all there, fully intact, no blood.
‘Two thumbs and eight fingers,’ said Arty out aloud.
‘And who are you?’ spluttered the driver, as he struggled to hold his heavy eyelids open.
Munch’s furry little eyebrows almost crossed in the middle with intense thought. ‘So what was Nosher eating then?’
‘And where’s my cat?’ growled the train driver.
‘Oh no,’ mumbled Munch.
21
The Hungry Hag
The rest of the train journey was blissfully peaceful. The driver soon lost the battle with his wilting eyelids and slid down the wall into a snoring heap, leaving Arty and Munch to drive the train whilst Toby and Manic swapped stories about the professor. Manic repeatedly reminded Toby he could tell him about his work for the professor but would feel obliged to kill him afterwards – it really got quite boring after the twentieth time. In the end the ‘word on the QT’ wasn’t that helpful. Toby hoped that Manic’s sniffing abilities were as good as it claimed.
Arty confided in Toby in an unguarded moment that driving a train had been a dream of his ever since he had travelled on the Talyllyn Railway with the Cub Scouts on their annual trip to Wales. Toby grinned at Arty’s moment of schoolboyish confession and joined Arty in a celebratory high five.
With Munch’s guidance the boys pulled on the levers, honked the hooter (far too many times for Munch’s liking) and slowed the train down as it coasted into London. The ‘steam’ hissed from the funnel and shot out from underneath the train as it did in all good steam trains – even artificial ones. The Flying Ferret arrived safe and sound at an unmarked underground station and all train staff members were accounted for much to the relief of Munch. The boys stood at the edge of the hard plate by the steps and said their goodbyes with seriously large grins. Munch, Asbo, and Preacher gave three cheers and waved their small furry paws. Nosher grunted a brief salutation before his eager eyes settled on the unconscious driver.
Toby watched Nosher edge forward across the floor of the coal truck. He shook his head disbelievingly and nudged Arty. It was time to go. They walked up the steps from the platform. A small furry head poked out of Toby’s rucksack. Manic squeaked a farewell to the ferrets with a salute. Toby and Arty joined the rest of the passengers as they trudged up a short number of steps, only to hear Munch cry out desperately in the distance, ‘Nosher, nooo. Not his fingers!’ Toby and Arty cringed at each other and walked on.
The excitement was at fever pitch for all the train’s passengers. The elves led the way followed by the trolls and the draconians. Arty reckoned the trolls were only second because it stopped the elves and draconians from fighting, although Toby really couldn’t work out why the trolls even cared. The rest of the passengers mingled. Hairy dwarves spoke with green goblins, and gnomes with their distinctive red pointy hats spoke with hobgoblins that always seemed to be overdressed for the occasion – quantity rather than quality. They seemed to be wearing five or six layers with at least three hats. There were other creatures too that neither Arty nor Toby recognised: skinny little things with arms that draped to the floor like a gorilla, and noses so large they covered the whole of their face with their eyes, bulging and blinking, pushed to the side. Their colour was an extraordinary electric blue. There was also a large muscular human-looking creature with one large eye in its forehead and a lion’s mane down its back, with a lion’s tail to match. It was the most ragtag collection of creatures Toby had ever seen. He felt conspicuous and slightly left out in his uninspiring human form. The feeling was compounded as some of the creatures pointed and whispered rudely at him. He felt like changing into a falcon to show them, only to hear Charlie’s voice in his head whinging about his flying secret.
Toby muttered under his breath, ‘Nah nargh, na nah nargh.’
‘What was that?’ asked Arty.
‘Nothing. Oh look! It’s an underground river,’ said Toby through a forced smile.
‘The Tyburn,’ said a young-looking hobgoblin. ‘I read about it in the library. We must be near the gate. Cool!’
‘Whoopee,’ said a grumpy dwarf sarcastically. The hobgoblin blushed and edged away to talk to someone else.
‘Right, you lot!’ cackled an elderly sounding woman’s grating voice. ‘This is where your tour s
tarts. You’ll get shown around the gateway first. If you festering figs are really lucky you might get the chance to meet the man who started it all – not that you deserve it. The afternoon is your own time and this is where you can go.’ She held up a map. ‘If it’s not on the list it’s out of bounds, non-negotiable. There are cafés, restaurants, museums, theatres . . . and places of employment.’
Everyone groaned. She stressed it so much she spat over the nearest creature, a troll. Amazingly she was so scary the troll apologised for wearing her spittle without her permission. He traipsed off to the back of the queue. ‘A condition of your visa is that you get a job, with a contract, for at least a year! Be back here by midnight!’ She spat again stressing the ‘t’ in midnight. This time someone thanked her as they wiped the thick, glutinous phlegm off their nose. She handed out a load of small plastic-coated folders. They were passed back through the crowd. Arty flipped his open straightaway and read the list. Everyone was doing the same. It seemed they were already selecting the places where they wanted to go.
‘Phantom of the Opera, awesome,’ said a ghoul.
‘London Dungeons, that’s for us,’ said a couple of scary-looking draconians.
‘Lion King – aren’t lions vicious, blood and guts and everything? Let’s go,’ said a bunch of Transylvanian gremlins.
‘Hmm,’ said a gruff voice. ‘There’s a place here called the Greasy Witch Café. I think I’ll visit.’
As soon as Toby heard ‘Greasy Witch Café’ he was flicking through his folder quicker than a hungry ferret up a trouser leg. He slid his finger down the list. ‘Brilliant! The Greasy Witch is in here.’
‘I saw it first,’ shouted the gruff voice.
‘Whatever!’ said Arty without checking to see who had spoken. An oversized warty, vomit-green-coloured goblin baring its considerable tombstone teeth pushed through the crowds towards Arty. Arty gulped.
‘Err, it’s okay, after you,’ said Arty, backing up until his heels hit the river’s edge.
‘You’re damn right,’ growled the goblin. Much to Arty and Toby’s relief it turned around and barged its way through the crowd. A few ‘Oww’s were heard plus a very brave but rapidly regretted ‘Look out!’ followed by another very loud and painful sounding slap and then another ‘Oww’.
The creatures steadily trotted along, guided by the woman’s gravelly and intimidating voice.
‘It’s a hag.’ The words were out of Arty’s mouth before he could slap his hand across his mouth. A few of the creatures sniggered. She was a squat, hunchbacked old lady covered in grubby pitch-black clothes. Not a patch of skin was shown apart from her face which was the most hideous face anybody could have possibly imagined, with hairy warts and eyes as black as her garments. She must have been an ancient hag because her nose had drooped lower than her chin. It has often been said that you can tell the age of a hag by slicing their nose in half and counting the rings like a tree trunk. This questionable activity was not on Arty’s or Toby’s bucket list.
‘Yes, that’s right my very juicy, edible-looking boy. Hmm, you could do with a little feeding up first. How about you come with me, I know a very nice kitchen nearby,’ she said, toying with Arty. She grinned as her one remaining tooth seemed to edge towards Arty’s plump arm. He snatched his arm back and whimpered.
‘Thanks, but I need to get to the gate. Uhm, it’s a visa condition,’ he added hurriedly.
Toby and Arty almost ran to catch up with the other creatures as they disappeared through another wooden door.
‘Phew! Bleedin’ mad, that one,’ said Arty, looking back. The hag waved at him provocatively.
Arty and Toby were the last through the large wooden double doors. The creatures were starting to mingle by a set of wide steps that had been roughly carved out of the chalk bedrock. It was light and cool in the chamber, which was more than big enough to comfortably house the thirty or so visitors from Tintagel village. The steps, however, disappeared into darkness. After the scary moments with the hag no one wanted to take the plunge and lead the group down the stairs. It was clearly the next place to go. The large wooden doors behind Toby and Arty were the only other way out. It occurred to the two boys that maybe the hag was nothing to do with the tour. Maybe her lair was down the steps with a fully equipped hags’ kitchen and cooking pots big enough to house a troll. Toby and Arty closed the door quickly.
‘It’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it?’ asked Arty hopefully.
It was definitely a clear and solid separation from the hag who was still grinning at Arty. She was rubbing her hands together and licking her lips. Arty looked at Toby. They shared a close-shave look. A bead of sweat rolled off Arty’s forehead.
22
Master of the Gate
A new soft, orange glow filtered up from the black hole at the bottom of the stairs. It was so silent amongst the visitors you could have heard a fairy flutter on her wings.
‘Owch,’ whimpered Toby quietly. He pulled out a used handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his bloody hand.
‘You okay, Toby?’
‘Nah, I’ve just caught my hand on the door thingy,’ whined Toby.
‘Steady on, mate, otherwise that hag might smell your blood and want to lick it – or worse.’
Toby cringed. ‘Did you have to?’
‘Well, at least your blood’s not green,’ said Arty, grinning.
‘Who’s got green blood?’ said Toby, pulling an expression of disbelief.
‘Trolls and goblins of course. I mean, I did have my suspicions about you but seeing red blood is reassuring.’ Arty laughed.
‘Thanks,’ grumbled Toby, whilst still cradling his hand.
‘No problem.’
Arty’s good humour at Toby’s minor misfortune was quickly shattered as the noise of a cold, hard, iron bolt being shoved harshly into its door housing came from directly behind the two boys.
‘Have you missed me, deary?’ teased the hag.
Arty nearly jumped out of his own skin, swinging his arms around Toby as he did so. He whimpered briefly and then dropped his arms rapidly.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said uncomfortably, with the desperate look of a garden weed which is just about to meet a grisly end. The hag ran her clawing fingernails down Arty’s arm as she slowly hobbled by, focusing her deep, dark, cesspit eyes straight at him.
Toby didn’t notice Arty’s sudden and impromptu display of affection. Instead, his eyes flickered back and forth across the hag’s hands in a did-I-miss-something moment. He hadn’t – but what he saw was a little confusing at first. Her fingers had changed – unrecognisably so. They weren’t the gnarled, warty, arthritic digits he had seen before, but elegantly groomed fingers. Even the nails were painted carefully with bright, pleasing colours.
‘Deirdre!’ said a soft yet authoritative voice.
‘Hello, Guy,’ she said in an almost sing-song way. The hag’s croaky, gravelly voice had gone. She didn’t sound like the same person at all. The hag smiled serenely as she slowly changed from a hunched-over, hideous bag of bones to something that could pass as nearly human. She still had a face full of hairy warts and a nose that drooped like mouldy melted chocolate but the skin had lost its sallow appearance – in the right light you could be forgiven for thinking she was verging on plain ugly rather than utterly revolting. By the time she had reached Guy she was a different person entirely. Deirdre still wore black clothes but instead of torn rags there was now an exquisite flowing gown of silk. And in the time it took to notice her new silk gown the hairy warts on her face had also gone and her nose looked so shapely it could have adorned the front cover of the eminently fashionable magazine Snoz Weekly. She looked incredibly human; she was incredibly beautiful. Arty stared with a gaping mouth.
‘Siren!’ blurted someone dreamily. The word ‘siren’ echoed fearfully throughout the crowd of gathered creatures. There was a sense of awe, a sense of disbelief and of an overriding feeling of intimidation and vulnerability. The
creatures sensibly kept their eyes to the ground. They knew of, or had at least heard of, the terrible power of a siren and how they could dominate and bend someone’s will.
‘What’s she doing here?’ whispered someone. ‘Shouldn’t she be out at sea or something?’ asked another. No one had the answers.
Manic poked its head out of the bag and whispered in Toby’s ear. ‘I could sneak up behind her and . . .’ He made a funny snorting noise whilst drawing his paw across his throat. Toby shook his head frantically. Manic disappeared back into the bag. Guy Fawkes spoke.
‘Ladies, gentlemen, mythical creatures of the known worlds, welcome back to Fawkes Gate, or how I prefer it to be called, the Westminster Gate. You may ask yourself why you have returned. I see some of you have worried looks on your faces. Do not fear, we are not proposing to push you back through. This is a history lesson – this is the start of your journey into the human world. Some of you may find it easy, some hard, but if you are prepared to grab the opportunities that will inevitably be presented to you then there is no reason why you cannot blend in harmoniously.’
Guy Fawkes was an imposing-looking ghost, tall and wispy with buckled shoes and peculiar long shorts that reached just below his knees. He wore a coat that flared just below the waist with many buttons on the front. His wrists were covered in fancy, frilly cuffs and there was a stiff collar that almost stopped his bearded chin from dropping down when he talked. He had the kind of expression that suggested he was busting to share something profound. The creatures warmed to him immediately. He also helped to take their minds off the siren, although temptation was never far away as every now and again a creature would cast a furtive glance towards her. Their infatuated, straying eyes would be met with the siren’s hypnotic ones that spiralled in the centre, rendering the creature helpless.
‘Deirdre!’ Guy Fawkes would chastise quietly. The siren would smile mischievously and look at the ceiling whilst the briefly zombified creature cast their eyes away as if they were trying to find the time they had just lost.
Toby Fisher and the Arc Light Page 14
