by Karl Fish
So, woe betides anyone trying to change his mind.
Collingdale would march, quick smart, around the Museum with a small army of actuaries and registrars who noted every request, every order, and would wriggle back to him, wormlike, when an action had not taken place, naming and shaming the person responsible. In his right hand, he still carried a bamboo cane, an antiquity of previous and numerous encounters; ‘The Peacekeeper’, as he called it. No one had seen him break out the ‘peace’ but the imminent threat was enough to keep people on their toes. Every day, at 8 a.m. sharp, he rounded the likes of Asiatic Elephants, Spectacled Bears and Siberian Tigers, all staring anonymously at him through their glazed cases and labelled for dispatch to various corners of the country. When passing the long avian corridors of stuffed birds, such as the impressive hornbills or colourful toucans, he always felt a sense of nausea as he approached the Eastern Quarter.
In stark contrast to the military man, the curator and Senior Professor of Entomology, ‘Meticulous’ Meredith Malcolm was a man who liked to dress, whatever the weather, in pure white linens. No one really knew why, particularly in the dust and detritus that followed a bombing. He preferred a straw boater and was commonly seen in the company of a large butterfly net, despite living in such a densely populated city environment. It was more than polite to say that Professor Malcolm was a constant thorn in Collingdale’s side.
These two distinct opposites of men, with possibly the only similarity between them being the love of an eccentric moustache, were at loggerheads since the Eastern Quarter had succumbed to the Fuhrer’s most recent blitz. People had wagered that the ‘peace’ could be broken through Meticulous’ consistent requests and badgering of the Sergeant Major. He was possibly the only person who was not terrified of the man. It was not because of great bravery, Meredith was of a naturally timid character, but because he was somewhat detached from human interaction, didn’t understand the imposing body language or specific threats amongst men, as his sole interest was his beloved bugs. He could spot when a spider might corner the fly, but not if a man was raising a large bamboo cane in his direction. The war that raged outside, so obvious to everyone else and which engulfed them every day, was nothing more than a daily distraction for him, and for the past two weeks, since the bomb had struck, it had been an unbearable inconsideration to continuing his life’s work.
It was because he loved his ‘creatures’ so much, alive or dead, preferably alive, that he spent endless hours under the magnifying glass, creating great glass terrariums and trying as often as he could to breed and understand them. For most people these were nothing but a nuisance; irksome little beasts to be crushed beneath one’s boot. For Meticulous, they were the greatest wonders. There was an innumerable volume of species under various genus, and his life’s work would never end. Every day lost studying them was an unbearable stagnation of progress and thus his passionate confrontations with Collingdale continued on a daily basis.
At 8:05 a.m., as Collingdale’s rounds passed the many exhibition corridors – which now appeared decked with the familiar images of Kitchener and his pointy-fingered recruitment posters – stood the immaculately turned out ‘Meticulous’ Meredith Malcolm at the archway entrance of the Eastern Quarter. The antithesis of any hand-mounted tiger or large jungle cat, he stood there in purest white, net in hand, decked atop with his red-ribbon boater and eagerly examining his silver pocket watch. As the Sergeant Major rounded the glassed boxes of some of the world’s most superior beasts, his party of scribes noticed Meredith first and the ripple of humorous anxiety forced Collingdale to look ahead.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ the military man grumbled under his moustache.
‘Sergeant Major, Sergeant Major!’ Meticulous shouted out, waving his net hand aloft.
‘I can bloody well see you, Meredith. You’re dressed in summer linens amidst a backdrop of dirt, rubble and debris,’ slammed the stout man impatiently. ‘I have told you to come back in a fort–’
‘ –night?’ pounced Meticulous eagerly. Tapping the dial of his pocket watch, he continued, ‘Yes, a fortnight, sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘And according to your records, if your entourage care to check.’ He nodded to the host of scribes already eagerly thumbing their ledgers. ‘You will see that today is exactly two weeks hence our discussion and at 8 a.m., although according to my timepiece now 8:05 a.m., I can re-access the Eastern Quarter.’
There was a momentary silence from Meredith as Collingdale drew a large breath through his moustache.
‘I’m willing to forego the five-minute delay and, rest assured, will not inform your superior,’ Meticulous concluded.
The professor was oblivious to the Major’s increasing wheezes and was not intentionally goading the man, but with the final remark – a poor attempt of kinship – Meredith had certainly pressed a few buttons. The scribes were taken aback. Literally, they took a step back from the military man, much of them aghast at the foreboding. Collingdale was known to have a temper, known to have flushes of colour that ranged from a light fleshy pink to an anger-induced crimson. At this current moment, all they could see was a purple swelling from his neck upwards and the venting of a deep nasal steam as if a boiler was imminently going to explode.
‘You silly little man!’ he screamed in an almost inaudible screech.
‘Can’t you see how much work there is to be done?’ he bawled furiously, gesturing with the ‘peacekeeper’, and coming within a fraction of Meticulous as he did so. ‘One stupid movement, or ill-placed footstep and the whole bleeding lot could come crashing down on you,’ he began to explain, slightly calming, but crimson red nevertheless. ‘Today, I have to move a Bloody Blue Whale, Professor!’ he swore loudly, beating his bamboo cane against his outer thigh to every syllable. ‘It’s the largest sodding creature on the planet and, guess what? We’re not even in the water! So, unless your little beetles and butterflies can flitter by and help.’ He mimicked a ballerina as he spoke. ‘Then we are done here!’
Meticulous was looking directly at the increasingly angry Major Collingdale, but every emotion on his face was symbolising that he wasn’t listening to a single word.
‘So, can I enter the Eastern Quarter or not?’ he asked quietly.
‘AAAAGGHHHHH!’ the Major screamed. He had cracked. He picked up the peacemaker and began swiping it at an unfortunately placed ostrich that stood nearby, just feet away. He hit the bird with such force that the bamboo cane splintered. If it could have, the mighty bird would have buried its head in the concrete floor below, but as it stood there, stuffed, yet proud, an eerie standoff preceded between the military man and the scientist.
It was uncomfortable for the Major’s entourage, and no one was brave enough to offer up a solution, so the two men just stared at each other in an indefinite stalemate.
Clip, Clop, Clip, Clop came a distant sound. It was subtle but, nevertheless, it was enough to break the silence. Clip, Clop, Clip, Clop. It grew ever louder.
The peculiar clip clopping echoed through hallways and around the animal exhibits. The entourage, with the exception of Mr Meredith who was now intently focusing on the rear of Collingdale’s head, turned around to see what it was. It sounded like the patter and slow movement of hooves as if one of the taxidermist’s creatures had suddenly come to life. The Major, temporarily distracted from his current nemesis, squinted towards the direction of the clip clopping, focusing his gaze. Meticulous Malcolm, still focused on the bald man’s head, reached inside his inner breast pocket and slowly drew out a tortoiseshell hilt. With the slightest flick of a button, a six-inch blade sprung forward.
Major Collingdale, oblivious to the entomologist’s weapon drawn directly behind his head and atop of his spine, then lowered his voice.
‘Now, nobody move,’ he whispered.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Professor Malcolm whispered back.
Collingdale ignored him, far too focused on the intruding sound clip-clopping its way closer.
�
��This is most peculiar,’ the Major continued.
‘I should say so,’ agreed the Professor, still ignored by everyone else, but intently focusing his gaze and blade towards the Major’s spine.
‘What is that sound? Can you all hear it?’ Collingdale asked.
With the exception of Meredith, again, everyone nodded in unison. The Major slid his hand downwards, reaching for his sidearm. He popped the leather holster catch and drew it slowly to his midriff.
Just as he did so, and as all noise was amplified to within the nearest pin drop, the bug man thrust the knife forward towards the rear of the Major’s neck. The glint of the blade flashed enough to cause the Major’s reflexes to react. He broke focus from the alien noise making its way towards them, swivelled sharply, and using his un-cocked firearm he knocked Meredith’s blade arm away. He was just about to draw his arm back and fire when an additional frenzied movement from the end of his adversary’s knife made him glance over. There, impaled on the tip, frantically thrashing its eight legs and snapping pincers while its sting curled and uncurled itself, was a sand-coloured, luminously striped beast. The silence was replaced by screams of panic from the scribes as they backed themselves away from the venomous little monster. The Major withdrew his gun and stepped away from Professor Meredith.
‘What abomination of a creature is that?’ asked Collingdale, holding the gun barrel directly to it.
‘Fascinating!’ exclaimed Professor Meredith as he drew it closer for inspection. The creature thrashed with one last attempt to sting him before it curled up and died. ‘Leuirus quinquestriatus…’ he pronounced, holding it up like a proud lecturer to a class of unwilling students. ‘The Death-stalker scorpion!’
The aggressive arachnid, which had shifted their attention so quickly, had erased the very immediate concern of the clip-clopping creature that had consumed the Major and his cohort only moment’s prior. The acoustic archways and corridors of the Museum, which had amplified that sound, were now silent. A welcome sigh of relief from the Major broke the tension and everyone took a momentary pause while he holstered his gun and straightened himself. No one had spotted that just twenty feet away, the clip clopping had stopped for a reason.
There she stood, standing over six feet tall, a long golden mane draping below her shoulders, covered in the purest amber fur, and staring directly at the Sergeant Major with her piercing blue eyes.
As one scribe raised a finger directed over Collingdale’s shoulder, the Major slowly turned around to be confronted by the new presence.
‘Good grief!’ the Sergeant Major exclaimed.
Chapter 3
Taken
Agatha awoke, shrouded in darkness. Across her chest, a tight grip held her down horizontally, though the sinew and muscle of the assailant’s forearm had now been replaced by a broad, leather restraint. Across her midriff, a brass buckle rubbed and etched itself sorely into her stomach. Her head felt as if her brain was swelling to escape her skull, and as the slow rolling motion of her surroundings emphasised her giddiness, she felt she could vomit at any moment.
As her thoughts flooded back to her, Great Aunt Florrie was at the forefront of them. Was Florrie dead? If so, did that mean that she, Agatha, was orphaned again? Of course, you cannot be orphaned twice, and Aggie had never fully understood the circumstances of her parents’ deaths but, for as long as she had known, Florrie had looked after her and raised her as her own. Despite the huge age difference, she was a mother to her all the same, and she loved her dearly.
Was Florrie dead?
Aggie felt her emotions overcome her. Her eyes welled up and dispersed their tears down her cheeks, creating mascara lines out of the dirt that had accumulated onto her face. Anger, fear, sadness and hatred all mingled themselves into a desperate cocktail of unhappiness. Then her thoughts shifted again. What if Florrie had survived? Surely, she would be captive too, maybe even in a room next door? Until she was absolutely sure of it, she decided her great aunt was still alive and she would do her utmost to find her and rescue her.
Wherever the answers lay to these thoughts, the more immediate concern was why she was being held captive, and where she was being taken. Aggie, as sore and sickly as her head now felt, could not understand what purpose an everyday fourteen-year-old girl or her elderly aunt would have to them. If this was the Nazi invasion, why was she so special? Why hadn’t she been herded up and shot or taken to one of those atrocious POW camps she had seen on the Pathe newsreels? Where were they taking her?
As the to-ing and fro-ing, which she had originally thought was a symptom of her sickness, grew stronger, she sensed a whiff of smoke. Not the acrid, mouth-smothering stench she had recently experienced, but a lighter, passing cloud of coal puff. Although she lay there in the pitch of night, very occasionally, through a tiny crack in the wall, a dash of light splintered the darkness. She wasn’t being shipped anywhere, at least not a boat as she had suspected. She was captive and being transported, on a steam locomotive. Did that mean she was still in England?
As Aggie’s senses became more acute and familiarised themselves in their new surroundings, the occasional creek of boards from outside was out of kilter with the cabin’s motion. She was confident she was being guarded and someone was patrolling up and down the carriage.
As she lay there, trying to figure out how to free her restraints, an overwhelming nausea came over her. Her head began spinning and she struggled for breath as her insides contorted and cramped. She screamed out in uncontrollable pain and just managed to turn her head as she felt herself overcome from the inside and vomit projected itself across the carriage floor.
‘Aaaggghhhh!’ she cried out.
A prolonged, uncontrollable scream wrenched from within her, drawing the attention of the stranger outside. Several pairs of feet shuffled down the corridor. Muted whispers of multiple people came from outside until the slightest click of a key unlocked the door and the un-greased, high-pitched screech of an old door handle being forced downwards, led to it opening.
Aggie lay back into a false sleep, peering through the slit of an almost closed set of eyes. Though there was little more light, possibly a single paraffin burner that came from the corridor, Aggie could make out three blurred silhouettes. Firstly, a smaller stout figure, possibly a lady; then, a man in what appeared to be a fedora; and, at the back, a step or two behind, was a second gentleman in a gas mask. It was too dark to see obvious features but a combination of their muted voices and distorted shapes suggested that two men and a woman were her captors. She lay back still, her eyes barely ajar.
BANG! Outside a single gunshot rang out and echoed all around. It was deafening.
All of a sudden, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. A screech of breaks sent the bed she was shackled to, rolling across the carriage. The carriage door swung open enough to offer a view. Her sight was far better now and with each moment her eyes regained focus as her sickness subsided. She peered along the corridor at the unveiling commotion. Several figures, in long dark coats and accompanying hats, flung open the carriage doors to the outside world. They carried pistols by their sides, their features covered by gas masks. She listened, intently, their accents were English, not quite the King’s English, but definitely an assortment of English accents. Not German.
As the noise and immediate rumpus died down, she heard a voice shout out.
‘False alarm!’
Soon after, the men re-boarded. The last man took his time scouring into the darkness outside. He was timely and precise as he moved his head from left to right and then up and down. Once he was satisfied it was a false alarm, he slammed the door shut and pulled twice on the cable above it. He then twisted the brass knob of the paraffin burner down, dimming the light, and ensuring minimal exposure from within.
Slowly, the train began to amble away once more. Once the train had gained momentum Aggie, ensuring there was no one in the corridor beyond, twisted and manoeuvred herself until she was able to make out more of the
darkened passageway as occasional moonlight flickered through shrouded trees and woodlands outside. Wherever they were going, it wasn’t anywhere familiar to her. All her trips across London, above ground, and even the rare trip to the coast, never seemed to have so much covering of forest. Perhaps this was already another country, she hadn’t thought of that. Maybe, even, the great Black Forest of Bavaria? And the English accents, of sorts, could belong to double agents or spies.
As her thoughts began to race once more, the immediacy of the train pulling to a halt startled her. Two brilliant beams of light from outside blindingly lit up the inside of the train. Rain had begun to fall, and the reflective streams of drizzle now began peppering the outside windows.
Along the corridor, the shuffling of feet now moved towards her carriage. Three silhouettes opened the door wider to reveal her lying there. This time they entered and came closer.
‘She’s still out,’ came the first voice. Aggie had been right; this was a lady’s voice, for sure, though the accent was unfamiliar and foreign.
‘She’s fooling no one!’ slurred the second voice.
Aggie recognised it at once, the asthmatic wheeze, the controlled tone. It was the intruder from her house. Her eyes opened in fear and there, staring back at her from behind his gas mask, was the assailant. She could now set eyes on him and stared defiantly beyond the mask’s glass exterior. The patch that covered his left eye detracted from the piercing stare from his right. She sensed a broad smile come across his face.
‘This may sting a little, sorry!’ he exclaimed.