by Martyn Ford
‘What an annoying number,’ Dee said.
Tim created one more, then set it down on the mulched woodland floor. ‘Better?’
‘A bit.’
‘Right, now, what should we say?’ Tim asked.
The idea was to drop leaflets all over London. On the front of each would be something about Clarice. Something bad. Their thinking was: if enough rained down, people would get talking. It’d be on the news, in the papers. If it was a high-profile incident, then Clarice would have to go on TV to defend herself – in all likelihood she’d go on Black Feather News again (Tim wasn’t surprised to hear that even TV shows had some reference to her). After all, she was on the ropes from all the chaos they’d already caused. Getting into a television studio to ambush her, they’d concluded, seemed relatively doable.
But first they had to make some leaflets. Tim, wearing his reader hat, stared into the broken, battered and bruised imagination box. Now, without a lid, you could look down into the square opening and watch the item you were creating appear, as if from nowhere. This was something Dee did with fascination.
Sure enough a piece of glossy A5 paper materialised inside the cube. Frowning, Dee lifted it out and read aloud: ‘Clarice Crowfield punches puppies?’
Tim was standing with his arms proudly folded.
‘That is—’
‘Scandalous? Inspired?’ Tim said.
‘No … more like—’
‘You wanna change the wording? I like the alliteration though. Decks dogs? Kicks kittens? I just think puppies are sympathetic. Look at its little face.’
Tim had included a photo of the cutest puppy he could imagine, looking up from the leaflet with eyes like, well, like a puppy dog.
‘Is it believable though?’ Dee said. ‘I mean, why on earth would someone punch a puppy? They’re too low down, you’d have to crouch. It’s impractical. Plus, she has, like, five pet dogs herself – she loves them.’
‘Exactly. So she’ll definitely want to set the record straight. Maybe we should add, “For lols” at the bottom?’
‘Perhaps a stride too wide,’ Phil said. ‘It is already quite the defamatory accusation.’
And so they loaded up the drones, one by one, with well over a hundred flyers each.
‘Is that enough?’ Tim wondered.
‘A hundred times two hundred? That’s what?’ Dee closed her eyes for a second.
‘Millions,’ Tim said.
‘It’s loads,’ she agreed, waving her hand.
As they were preprogrammed, Tim stepped back to a single control switch he had created and flicked it on. There was a surprisingly loud, electronic buzz as every drone came alive and lifted into the air, kicking up a little dust. A startled rabbit, which had been milling about, bolted off into a nearby bush. Clever enough not to bump into each other, the army of drones all hovered gently and found their own space about a metre off the ground.
Tim felt powerful, like a conductor, as he raised an arm and flicked another button. Then, like paper lanterns set free, they drifted up and away effortlessly in an expanding crowd. One, two, three, four, then more, stuttered and fell heavily out of the sky, thudding to the ground. Tim shrugged and said, ‘Bound to be a few defects here and there.’
Within a minute the drones looked like a flock of birds above the treetops and then, a minute after that, they were so far away and so spread out they were invisible.
‘I’m excited,’ Tim said, smiling in the early sun. ‘Even if this plan fails, it’s still proper funny.’
*
It happened quicker than they expected. Checking their phones, Tim and Dee saw that by noon every single news website was reporting the outrageous (and hilarious) accusation that Clarice Crowfield – the Prime Minister of the Great British Empire – punches puppies. There was footage of hundreds of leaflets raining down over London, swinging and spinning from the sky like autumn leaves, Crowfield Tower still closed off in the backdrop. Some news sites were describing it as a prank, others as a serious public disturbance. There was even the word ‘terrorism’ knocking about. At any rate, it was working.
‘This is amazing,’ Dee said, reading the coverage.
Next Tim created a very special drone – one which he really concentrated on. This particular one had to be safe as it would have a pilot.
‘Hang on, does that mean it’s not a drone, if it’s manned?’ Dee wondered.
‘Technically it’s not manned, it’s monkeyed,’ Tim said. ‘Right, Phil. Are you ready?’
‘Aye aye, captain,’ Phil said, clambering into the small contraption.
It had wings and a cockpit – it looked a bit like a model of a futuristic fighter jet, capable of full flight and hovering.
‘Now it’s programmed by GPS to go straight to Black Feather Studios – it should just land on the roof. But, if you run into trouble, the manual controls are here, and here.’ Tim pointed at a small stick and button console.
He then opened a small hatch on the back and dropped in an orange teleportation sphere (about the size of a golf ball). The blue counterpart was safely tucked away in his pocket. Tim had to reassure Dee that teleportation technology was relatively safe and something he had experience in. However, although he paid special attention when making these items, there was a slight fear in his stomach that they might be faulty. The consequences of a malfunctioning teleportation ball didn’t bear thinking about. It’d probably result in some terrible disfigurement. Or, perhaps more unsettling, you’d disappear but never reappear. You’d simply be gone.
‘Make sure you leave the sphere somewhere with a bit of space too,’ Tim added. ‘No good us teleporting into a wall cavity and suffocating.’
‘Right you are.’
‘I’ve also made you a miniature phone, with my number saved on it,’ Tim said. The mobile was about half the size of a postage stamp. ‘Give us a text when you’re in.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘And Phil,’ Tim said, ‘be careful because I’ve built in a—’
‘Oh, fret not, Timothy,’ the monkey said, straightening his tiny leather pilot’s goggles. ‘I have everything under control. Lift off!’
Phil slammed a hand on to a button and, with a bang, disappeared straight up into the air, his scream fading quickly to silence. The flying contraption, however, was still in the same place on the ground – the monkey had, in fact, hit the eject switch.
Around thirty seconds later he came floating down in a small parachute. ‘You were saying?’ Phil asked casually, as he landed.
Having been clipped back into place and properly briefed, Phil took off successfully and zipped away into the afternoon sky.
*
Later, Tim packed the imagination box into his rucksack and prepared himself. It had been almost two hours since Phil left and they began discussing all the things that might have gone wrong. However, finally, Tim’s mobile buzzed in his pocket. He had a text message from the monkey which read:
Dearest Timothy and Dee,
I understand that this medium of communication suffers conventions, frankly approaching philistinism, which see users shortening words or even, would you believe, substituting them entirely with single letters. But there shall be no such erosion of proper English from me. No, sir. Furthermore, I note that these telecommunication corporations insist on moving us ever closer to a plausibly harrowing dystopia in which all words are replaced by illustrations of basic emotions. The ‘emoji’ is a curious notion and one that instils in me an impalpable malaise. While some of these are fun … Actually, they are great. I just had a look at them. Oh my, there’s one with a frog. Hahaha, froggy frog face. Lord, these are brilliant. A pinecone! There’s a whole page of cat ones.
‘Is that all a single text message?’ Dee asked, peering down at the phone.
‘Yeah, it’s about five pages long.’ Tim scrolled through, skipping much of the rambling.
… and so, there we have it. The common ostrich cannot fly, but it can swim. Perha
ps more fish than bird?
‘That’s the end of the message?’ Tim said. ‘God, he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s probably ended up—’
Another text buzzed into the phone. Tim opened it:
Oh, btw, have arrived @ TV studios, broke in through air-con unit and put teleportation ball thingy on a table in back room. See you soon, lots of love, Phil the Finger Monkey xx
‘Right, you ready?’ Tim put his arm around Dee and held the teleportation sphere in front of them.
‘You sure this will work?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to end up fifty feet in the air or something.’ Tim swallowed – he hadn’t even thought of that possibility. ‘I’m sure-ish,’ he said, breathing in some courage. ‘Sure enough to do this.’
He clicked the button and, with a short, harsh whistle-zip, they disappeared – some dried mud curled in the air where they’d been but, besides that, they were gone.
*
A rebirth – a startled gasping breath as they re-emerged at the other end. Tim patted himself down, making sure all his limbs had arrived. Dee too was checking herself over.
‘It worked,’ she whispered. Another seemingly impossible thing had just happened to her. To think, her life was completely normal a few days ago.
Setting down the orange teleportation sphere, Tim took in the surroundings. This was a large dressing room. A huge black feather logo was emblazoned on the wall. Near that were racks of costumes and a curtained-off area. It was silent, besides one sound – a strange, quiet singing. On the other side of the room was a large mirror, surrounded by golden glowing light bulbs. And in front of it was a finger monkey, walking up and down as though on a catwalk or something, all the while humming to himself.
‘La, la, la dee daaaah,’ he sang, with each strut. ‘A dah, dee-dah, dee-dah.’
Then he stopped, flung back his head as though he had long hair and looked at his own reflection, still yet to notice Tim and Dee.
Phil was turning and admiring himself from different angles, like a model. ‘Being invited to the Simian Oscars is honour enough,’ he said to himself. ‘But to win Best Monkey is a dream come true. I wish to thank everyone who has believed in me and sup—’
He stopped dead, spotting Tim and Dee in the mirror, standing behind him.
‘How long have you been there?’ he said.
‘Long enough,’ Dee replied.
‘Are you wearing make-up?’ Tim asked.
‘Am I wearing make-up?’ Phil chuckled a few times, then straightened his face. ‘Maybe.’
Dee approached an open wardrobe, and put on a bowler hat and a fluffy bright green scarf. She slid her hands into long leather gloves then looked through the clothes.
‘Some of this is great,’ she said. ‘Would it be wrong to steal— Hello, pirate costume.’
A pirate hat came spinning over her shoulder. Tim caught it. ‘No, stop,’ he said, but still put it on his head over his beanie. ‘This is a big building. We have to work out where Clarice will be.’
‘Oh, I sorted that out,’ Phil said. ‘I looked on the register when I broke in. Headline guest on the six o’clock news is none other than Clarice Crowfield.’
‘That’s good,’ Dee said, opening a large make-up box.
It amazed Tim how calm she was at a time like this. ‘Why aren’t you more concerned?’
‘Look.’ She turned to him, holding a small brush in a slack hand. ‘They’ve arrested Granddad – that’s a problem. Can I solve it at this precise moment in time? No. So what good would it do to get all anxious about it?’
‘You can’t just choose how you feel,’ Tim said with, a sigh. ‘That’s not how emotions work.’
‘Yeah but it is.’
‘Besides, we still need to sort out a plan for Clarice,’ Tim added. ‘She won’t just tell us where the imagination station is.’
‘Truth serum,’ Dee said, putting lipstick on in the mirror now. ‘Tranquiliser-type gun, shoot her in the neck, bam, done.’
‘I’m worried it’ll kill her,’ Tim said.
‘Timothy raises a sound point,’ Phil added. ‘The ethics of administering home-made drugs intravenously to unwilling recipients are colourful to say the least.’
‘Just really concentrate,’ Dee said. ‘Make sure the serum isn’t actually jam or bleach – give it some real thought.’
‘Fine,’ Tim said. ‘But that still doesn’t cover how we get close enough to her.’
‘Oh, do not worry about that,’ Phil added. ‘This is the VIP dressing room. I overheard two producers saying she would be coming in here – they cleaned it especially.’
Tim glared. ‘So, she’ll be here, what, soon?’
‘I would imagine so,’ Phil said. ‘It is gone half past five.’
‘OK,’ Tim said, his heart pumping, his breath picking up. He was trying not to think about how scared he was. ‘I’m scared,’ he heard himself say, which didn’t help. ‘Let’s find somewhere to—’
A sound. Someone was outside the room. The door handle was turning. Tim and Dee made panicked eye contact as it swung open and a man entered.
They hid inside the costume wardrobe – the door resting silently closed – just in time. It was dark in there and the old fabric smelled of lofts and dust. Through a small slit, Tim watched the man have a casual look around the room. He checked under the dressing mirror, then peered along the floor a bit. As he was wearing a black suit, a curly wire earpiece and black sunglasses, Tim guessed he was a bodyguard. The man stopped and noticed the closet, seemingly staring right into Tim’s eyes hidden inside. They pulled costumes in front of themselves and tensed against the back wall. Oblivious, the man opened the door and, after a terrible five-second pause, closed it again.
‘All clear,’ the man said into a radio in his sleeve as he perched on the edge of the table.
And then Tim’s heart fell silent and his lungs sat still as Clarice Crowfield stepped inside the dressing room.
Chapter 18
‘I just don’t understand,’ Clarice said, sitting on the chair in front of the mirror.
‘Nothing to understand, ma’am,’ the bodyguard replied. ‘It’s no more than some crazy folk with too much time on their hands.’
Safely hidden in the dusty costume closet, Tim could lean left and right to see more of the dressing room. The border of golden bulbs around the mirror in front of Clarice lit her well – she actually looked quite pretty, Tim thought. Which was weird. And her voice too, like last night at the charity dinner, sounded softer than he remembered.
‘It’s …’ Clarice said. ‘It’s just such an extraordinary thing to have to deny.’
‘We’ll find ’em,’ the man added.
‘I hope so.’ She sighed.
The plan had been to shoot Clarice with a dart containing truth serum. However, that scheme would now be difficult as the imagination box was on the other side of the room. Tim had had time to get it out of the rucksack, but he hadn’t had time to create anything, least of all a tranquiliser gun. Honestly, he was half relieved, because shooting the Prime Minister with a drugged dart was another thing he could imagine a judge reading out in court. It just sounds bad.
But, still, now they were close to her. Close enough to strike. To … to do something. And yet Tim couldn’t think what – his mind was in a frantic rush.
‘What are we going to do?’ Dee whispered.
Clarice was checking her long, straight black hair in the mirror and—
‘Oh no,’ Tim whispered back, spotting the bodyguard stepping towards the imagination box.
‘What the hell is this thing?’ the man said, crouching next to it.
‘Whatever it is,’ Clarice replied, fiddling with an earring, ‘it’s broken.’
‘Yeah, right,’ the man said. ‘Look at the state of it.’
‘Timothy,’ Phil whispered from Tim’s top pocket, ‘I have some extremely bad news.’
‘What?’
‘I … I think I am about
to sneeze.’
‘You must not sneeze,’ Dee whispered. ‘That must not happen.’
‘It is happening,’ the monkey said in a rising highpitched voice.
‘No.’ Tim put a hand over Phil’s face. Still, the tiny sneeze was loud enough for both Clarice and the bodyguard to stop and turn their attention to the large wardrobe.
‘It has happened,’ Phil whispered with a sniff. ‘How are things looking now?’
‘Very terrible,’ Tim said.
‘We know you’re in there,’ the bodyguard yelled. ‘Step out slowly.’
‘It sounds like they have found us,’ Phil whispered. ‘We are just going to have to stay in here forever.’
‘You can’t stay in there forever,’ the man added.
‘Damn.’
‘Tim, I hope you’ve got a good plan,’ Dee said. And then she pushed open the door and they both stepped out. Two guilty-looking children, both in various stages of fancy dress. Tim noticed then that Phil was no longer in his pocket.
The bodyguard had a gun, which was pointing at the floor. However, the second he recognised them, he lifted it. ‘Ma’am, get behind me,’ he said, standing large and bold.
‘Relax,’ Clarice said, gently placing her hand on the pistol and pushing it down. ‘They’re just children.’
All at once Tim had a thousand ideas. He was still wearing his reader hat and the imagination box was on the other side of the room, without a lid. There had to be a way out of this, he thought, considering the infinite number of things he could create. From long robotic arms equipped with restraints, to a cloud of sleeping gas – from a plague of locusts, to an elaborate tentacle life form that would emerge and snatch that gun from the bodyguard’s hand. He even considered things that wouldn’t help them even slightly, such as a sentient pineapple or an extremely aggressive swarm of death hornets. Murder bees. Psycho wasps.
