The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1)

by Elliott, A. D.

  “Hello Ken,” she said formally. “Billie?”

  “Nina,” the man replied. Owen didn’t have a clue as to what they were referring to. “And who do we have here?” the man enquired in a quiet voice that revealed similar traces of a Scottish accent to his sister.

  “This is Owen Johnson,” she announced. Ken’s eyebrows darted skywards briefly but he showed no other reaction. “I thought you should meet him. Owen, this is Ken, my older brother.”

  Owen tried to hide his surprise that this apparently younger man was actually older than his neighbour, whom he had always assumed to be in her late seventies. Unfortunately he lost his battle with audible incredulity and emitted a sceptical “older?” before he could regain his composure.

  “Oh, that’s very charming,” Mrs Argyle said. Owen hoped that she was only feigning offence. “Ken’s youthful appearance betrays the fact that he is a miserable old fart through and through.”

  There was still no marked response from Ken, who just stood still and gazed impassively at his guests.

  After a few moments of silence, Mrs Argyle emitted an annoyed grunt. “Well dear Brother, as usual you really know how to make your guests feel welcome. I suppose I‘ll be the one to rustle up some refreshments.” Mrs Argyle strode past him and through the door behind the desk, which Owen could now see led to a small galley. “Do you know they didn’t even have a trolley cart on the train?!” She weighted her disapproval of the negligence of the train operator to provide drinks, with a level of gravitas usually reserved for war crimes or mass murder. She busied herself in filling a kettle and lighting the gas stove, muttering under her breath and shaking her head as if trying to shake off a persistent wasp. In contrast, Ken was practically motionless, save for the movements of removing his glasses and chewing on one of its arms, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  The silence was very uncomfortable. “How long have you lived on a barge?” Owen asked, more to break the silence than out of an interest in the living arrangements of canal-folk.

  After a few moments Ken replied. “Oh, for many a year.” Still chewing on his glasses he continued: “So how did you end up in the company of my dear sister?”

  “I’ve known her for as long as I can remember. She’s always lived next door to me.”

  “Not always,” Ken corrected him.

  “Where did you grow up?” Owen asked, still trying to comprehend how Ken had aged so much more efficiently than his sister.

  “Quite a way from here,” Ken replied vaguely. Silence resumed as Owen tried to think of what else to say. Resigning himself to the situation, Owen down on the bench that lined the left hand side of the barge.

  He could now see that the inside of the vessel wasn’t black as he had initially thought, but a deep crimson colour, including the walls, furniture and carpet. The ceiling was the same glossy black that adorned the outside of the floating home, and the chests and cabinets were painted similarly.

  Ken’s stare was still fixed upon Owen, who averted his eyes and busied himself with some frantic thumb twiddling. He could hear Mrs Argyle opening and closing cupboards in the galley, offered a running commentary of the poor quality and quantity of food available.

  Ken walked over to a window on the opposite side of the barge, and reached behind the curtain to open the glass, letting in enough light so that Owen could see the rest of the barge more clearly. Past where he had walked he saw that the front of some of the cabinets were glass, in which stood what looked like shelf upon shelf of vinyl records stacked vertically.

  Next to the cupboards was an expensive looking music system from which the music was still playing, and against its side rested a stack of old cassette tapes. Further along the barge was a hammock, adorned with red and gold blankets. Ken sat down on one of the chests in a sideways position, with one arm hanging out of sight outside of the window. He grinned at Owen.

  Three things then happened almost simultaneously. Firstly, Owen heard water gushing from somewhere beyond the window behind where Ken was grinning back at him. It was so loud it reminded Owen of water being fired from a fireman’s hose. Then he felt a growing tingling sensation in his hands, identical to what he had experienced on several occasions earlier in the day. Lastly Mrs Argyle smashed some crockery in the kitchen and came storming into the living area of the barge.

  “Enough!” she shouted.

  “Hmmm?” Ken enquired, still grinning but now focusing his attention on his sister.

  “Stop that! It’s broad daylight outside!”

  “Oh there’s no one about,” Ken said dismissively, batting away his sister’s concerns with the hand that was inside the barge. “You should’ve told me how strong he’s grown up to be.” Owen wasn’t sure in what way Ken considered that he was strong, as he had always thought of himself as being a tad on the skinny side.

  “You don’t know the half of it, but now is not the time for showing off.” Mrs Argyle gestured toward the open window.

  Ken pulled his arm back through the window and both the sound of water and the tingling sensation in Owen’s hands vanished. “So why are you here then, dear Sis, if not to show off your new protégé?”

  “There’s been…” From the look on Mrs Argyle’s face she was considering her words very carefully. “There’s been an incident; like back in the old days.”

  “What kind of…incident?” The use of the word incident clearly had a lot more significance beyond the bizarre scuffle that Owen had witnessed this morning.

  “An attack, from one like us.” Mrs Argyle gestured with her arms to signify that 'us' included all three occupants of the barge.

  “You weren’t hurt I hope?” Ken seemed genuinely concerned for his sister’s well-being.

  “No, but he was strong, whoever he was. He followed us as far as the station.”

  “You led him here?!” Ken stood up, now looking both anxious and angry.

  “Relax. No, the station at Northampton. He didn’t follow us onto the train, and I doubt he knew where we disembarked. Although your little fountain display just then would no doubt tip him off.”

  “Fair point,” Ken said. Owen was unsure what the fountain related to, although it was probably the source of the sound of water earlier. “Radio silence from now on”.

  “That would be wise,” Mrs Argyle agreed.

  “How long do you need to stay? What’s the plan?” Ken seemed more animated now.

  “Overnight at least. We’ll need to get in touch with the others, find out if they can shed any light on our attacker.”

  “What form did the attack take?”

  “Let’s just say Owen had a frosty reception in his home.”

  Ken frowned and cocked his head. “Frosty? As in-?”

  Mrs Argyle quickly interrupted him, cutting him off mid-sentence. “As in it was cold.” Owen had the feeling that Mrs Argyle was trying to prevent her brother from revealing information that she didn’t want Owen to be privy to.

  “I see,” said Ken, glancing at Owen, “and the young man’s father?”

  “You know my dad?” Owen asked, searching his memory for any time that his father had mentioned a ‘Ken’ or someone who may have been related to their neighbour.

  “Oh yes, we go way back,” Ken said, again waving his hand dismissively, “but it’s been far too long since we last saw one another. We used to work together,” he added, pre-empting Owen’s next question.

  There was so much Owen didn’t know about his father’s life, his friends, his occupation, and who knows what else. Twenty four hours ago Owen would never have thought that his father would be a candidate for abduction, regardless as to how militant some of the protestors at the plant could be. “He was taken,” Owen blurted out.

  “By whom?” Ken questioned, looking at his sister.

  Mrs Argyle walked up to her brother and handed him the paper from the notepad, his father’s writing and drawing visible. Ken took it from her and stared at it, his frown deepening.


  “What do we need to do?” he asked purposefully, handing the paper back.

  “We? I didn’t think you ventured onto terra firma these days?” Mrs Argyle was smiling thinly at her brother, her tone slightly mocking.

  “Oh, I have to when the need arises. And there’s Myrtle to keep an eye on.”

  “Oh yes, she’s as welcoming as ever. We had a near run-in with her just before,” Mrs Argyle recalled.

  “We did?” Owen was confused, again, failing to remember a Myrtle that they may have encountered.

  “In the field,” Mrs Argyle explained.

  “We didn’t meet anyone in the field. Only the cow.”

  “That’s correct: Myrtle.” Mrs Argyle confirmed, matter-of-factly. “She’s Ken’s guardian angel.”

  “Been stuck with the mooing menace for most of my life. She’s like a relative I can’t get rid of,” Ken explained, looking pointedly at his sister.

  “Oh that’s very charming indeed,” Mrs Argyle responded. “Is there someone who can cow-sit for you?”

  “She’s too valuable to leave behind. Plus she’s good in a fight,” Ken argued.

  “Hang on,” Owen interrupted, “a cow is good in a fight?” Owen couldn’t imagine cattle joining the ranks of nature’s great combatants, although he supposed matadors may argue against this.

  “Myrtle’s one of the hardiest warriors you’re ever likely to encounter,” Ken said with an authority that indicated that the argument had come to a conclusion. Owen did not feel anything was clearer though. “We’ll leave first thing. I can borrow a trailer and I’ve got a car squirrelled away behind the boatshed. We’ll need provisions for tonight. Owen, would you mind wandering up to the village to get some bits and bobs for supper? Cee and I can arrange the particulars.” Ken rummaged in his pocket and produced a twenty pound note.

  Owen took the cash but remained seated. Ken and Mrs Argyle looked at Owen inquisitively.

  “Something on your mind?” Ken asked.

  “Something on my mind?” Owen repeated incredulously. Where to begin? “Well first of all, I’d like to know where my dad has been taken, and who by. Secondly, I’d like to know why I’m sitting on a canal barge with a brother and sister who look more like mother and son, even though they insist that the age difference is the reverse of what their appearance suggests. No offense,” Owen added to Mrs Argyle.

  “None taken,” she said. "Anything else?”

  “Well yes actually, there was something else.” Owen took a deep breath and stood up. “How the bloody hell can I climb through the air; how the bloody hell can you summon the wind god or whatever it is through your hands; and who the bloody hell was that man who turned my kitchen into a chest freezer?!!” By now Owen was shouting, something he rarely did but was finding very therapeutic.

  “Finished?” Mrs Argyle asked.

  Owen slumped back down. “Yes,” he said quietly, “for now.”

  “Well let’s start with your father, shall we?”

  Owen nodded in agreement.

  Mrs Argyle held up his father’s note, and pointed at the ‘p’ in a circle that he had drawn. “This symbol is the insignia of a secret sector of the military that was once known as ‘The Remarkables’.”

  “Why the ‘p’ then?” Owen asked. “Surely an ‘r’ would make more sense?”

  “Only to your generation,” Mrs Argyle replied with a shake of her head.

  “Not just his generation, to be fair sis,” Ken chimed in.

  “Nevertheless,” Mrs Argyle continued, “it isn’t a ‘p’; it’s the Greek letter ‘rho’.”

  “I still say an ‘r’ would have made more sense, what with us not being Greek and all,” Owen said, slightly offended by Mrs Argyle’s sweeping criticism of his age group.

  Mrs Argyle ignored him. “‘Rho’ also signifies a number of other things in the fields of maths and physics that were rather fitting for it being chosen,” Mrs Argyle almost smiled. “Plus I like the shape. But what it symbolised when it was first created, alas it does not anymore.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Ken.

  “Quite,” Mrs Argyle agreed. “Once it stood for freedom, and the fight against tyranny. Now it is used by those with similar ideology to those that had been fought against all those years ago.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Owen asked. “Who was being fought and by whom?”

  “Those being fought against were the Nazis and their allies,” Ken explained, “and amongst those who did the fighting are in front of you now.”

  “You fought in World War Two?” Owen asked, staring at the siblings and trying to work out how old they must have been to be a part of the war. “How’s that possible? You don’t look old enough.”

  Ken smiled. “My dear boy, you really must accept that appearances mean diddly-squat where you’re in the company of our kind.”

  “You have powers too?” Owen asked, and remembering the strange sound of water earlier, added: “You made that water appear outside?”

  Still smiling, Ken walked up to Owen and held his right hand in front of Owen’s face. He brought his thumb and forefinger together, the tips pointed at Owen, an almost unperceivable luminescence surrounding them. He then brought them slightly apart and from the space between them emerged a jet of cold water, which Ken directed at Owen’s face, who brought up his hands to deflect the cold spray.

  Laughing, Ken closed his fingers and the water ceased. “Yes, Owen; I made the water appear.”

  Mrs Argyle threw Owen a towel which he used to wipe his dripping wet face. Conversely, Owen noticed that Ken’s hands were completely dry. “Nice demo,” Owen said sardonically. Ken bowed in thanks. “How do you do it? And how do I do what I do?”

  “It’s fairly simple, but requires a bit of a back story,” Ken said, “and my storytelling skills are somewhat improved on a full stomach. So what say you go and get the grub in, and then we’ll have enough sustenance to talk into the wee hours and see if we can clear a few things up for you?

  “Plus it’ll give me the chance to sort out some transport for us and Myrtle tomorrow.”

  Owen made Ken promise that he wouldn’t hold back on any information, to which he agreed. He also suggested that Owen use the shower on board to wash the remainder of the blood from his hair.

  It took over five minutes for Owen to remove all of the clots that were matted in his hair, along with the thin film of dust that had ingrained itself in his hands. As the water sprinkled down on him from the shower head, he couldn’t help but wonder if the water supply was of Ken’s own making. As soon as this thought entered his head, he decided he’d been washing for long enough and stepped out to dry himself before getting dressed.

  The t-shirt he had put on whilst on the train was already dirty from their journey across the stream, so Ken provided him with a faded black t-shirt with what looked like a prism with beams of light going through it on the front. It fitted Owen well so he didn’t object to wearing it.

  After waving goodbye to Ken and Mrs Argyle and receiving directions to the shop, Owen stepped out of the barge and walked back the way they had come along the tow path.

  Passing the field they had failed to cross, he could see the cow, Myrtle, stood in the middle as before, staring at Owen. Curiosity compelled Owen to have a closer look at this bovine warrior and so he climbed over the fence and into the field.

  Myrtle fixed her gaze on Owen upon his approach, but made no effort to back away as he expected a cow would normally do. Owen continued his advance, until he was about three metres away and then stopped. Up until now Myrtle was standing at a slight angle to Owen, so that he could just about see her hind quarters. As soon as Owen stopped though, Myrtle moved her bulk so that she was directly facing him. Owen took another step toward the cow.

  Once again Owen felt the tingling sensation in his hands. He slowly moved another step closer. Myrtle clearly felt that this was a step too far, as she lowered his head and made a rumbling sound from her t
hroat, nothing like the “moo” that you expect to hear from her species.

  The rumbling became louder and then Myrtle threw her head upwards. Owen felt a sudden force against his body, and found himself being thrown several metres into the air away from the cow. His arms flailed around in the air, still tingling and out of his sight until his right hand grabbed hold of something and Owen’s descent was halted abruptly.

  Hanging, Owen examined what it was he had clung onto. For the second time today he found himself suspended in mid-air about a metre above the muddy field. This time he was just holding onto an invisible object rather than standing on it as well. Startled Owen released his hold and fell, landing safely on both feet, impressed that he had prevented Ken’s t-shirt from befalling the same fate as the last two tops he had been wearing and becoming soiled.

  Myrtle had resumed her impassive gaze on Owen, and emitted a loud “moo” in response to Owen’s glare, then turned away and walked over to a feeding trough.

  Owen heard a call from behind him. “Stop playing with the livestock and fetch my dinner,” Ken shouted at him from the other side of the fence. He gave Owen a dismissive wave and headed back towards his barge, laughing to himself.

  Owen took another glance at the cow and abandoned any hope that he had at understanding any of the events that were transpiring today.

  Flight

  Owen walked across the field and back onto the road that he and Mrs Argyle had followed from the station.

  He found the shop as Ken had directed and bought some sausages and eggs, along with a bottle of milk and a bag of apples. He also bought a small torch which he slipped into his bag as he didn’t fancy walking along a tow path should the night draw in quickly. He made his way back towards the barge, travelling the route that Mrs Argyle had taken after abandoning the way across Myrtle’s field.

  He arrived at the barge and stepped aboard, and was about to open the door when he heard the voices of the two siblings talking.