Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  Not that. Not them.

  The driver of the car leapt out and ran up the stairs towards her.

  “Ruth,” he said.

  Who on earth was he? She’d never seen him before in her life. He smiled and despite her unease she noticed it was the kind of smile she liked.

  “I’m a little teapot,” he said.

  He stood on the step below her and patted his pockets as if looking for something – a gun? No. Not the type. A gun wouldn’t go with that smile. What then? He made writing motions with one hand. Ah yes, a pen. Ruth always carried a pen, but needless to say, in this one moment of crucial need she’d left it on the signing-in table in the sponsor’s reception area. Damn. She didn’t have a spare, and presumably he was also without one, because he gave up and started waving his hands in the universal sign language gesture for ‘no-no’. Although, he was clearly foreign, so Ruth realised it could have meant ‘yes-yes’ for all she knew. He pointed at the sci-fi blokes and that was the moment she looked properly into his face and noticed his expression of pure panic. Hmm. The hand waving was probably ‘no-no’ then.

  “I’m a little teapot,” he said and grabbed her wrist.

  No. Absolutely not. A step too far. She gave him what she hoped was a look of supreme disdain and yanked her arm forcefully from his grasp. She didn’t know what made her turn round again but the sci-fi men were much closer now and as she watched, one of them raised his gun. The world began to move at half speed, as slowly, deliberately he aimed it at her and fired. Not bullets, bolts of red light. A laser, for heaven’s sake! Where were these people from? The round hit the steps by her feet and the stone bubbled. Yikes. Ruth decided she wasn’t going to be there for the second shot. She turned her attention to the man with the hat. Could she knock him down? No.

  In front of her, the slightly – but only slightly – more appealing of two unattractive choices held out his hand, smiled and raised one eyebrow as if to say, ‘Shall we?’ God in heaven. Oh well, on the up side – a big plus point – he didn’t seem to have a gun. Anyway, he’d arrived in a Lotus and he’d broken a plate glass window with it. It would go yards, if he was lucky, before it fell to bits; she’d be able to escape at the next red light. She took his outstretched hand and ran down the stairs with him. Together they jumped into the car, neither of them stopping to open the door.

  “I don’t know who you are but you look safer than them. Of course, that’s not saying much.”

  “I’m a little teapot,” said the stranger, but with all the emphasis on the wrong syllable, as if he were saying something else.

  “There’s me thinking you were a man. You’d better have an excellent explanation for this later,” she warned him.

  He smiled at her.

  “I’m a little teapot,” he said again.

  She got that one; something along the lines of ‘don’t worry I have’ she reckoned, but rather more expansively put.

  He gunned the engine and, tyres giving off a plume of smoke, the Lotus squealed round in a doughnut. He pressed some kind of button on the dash and as it catapulted itself forward, it rose up, too, as if it was taking off. Oh brilliant. It was. She peered over the side, watching in alarm as wings morphed out of its sills and it flew straight back out of the hole it had made in the window coming in. So much for running away at the first red light. Now what? Ruth wondered if the big guys with the guns mightn’t have been a safer bet after all. She glanced over at her chauffeur and he smiled.

  He gestured to her seat belt. “I’m a little teapot,” he said. Yes, that seemed like a good idea. He turned left and headed along the river. Ruth was silent for a while. She needed time to think. She was wearing evening dress and shoes that were decorative rather than functional. All she had in her handbag was a mobile, a credit card and a little cash – oh yes, and a small package which the old man who lived down her street, Sir Robin Get, had given to Lucy to take to the concert and give to her. Apparently she would know what it was for but so far, Ruth didn’t. Then again, she hadn’t actually opened it and she daren’t now she was a couple of hundred feet up in an open-top car, in case it blew away. Sir Robin, the neighbour who had saved her from the scary big dudes with the guns, the only person she had told about them other than Lucy. Sir Robin, with his I-have-people-who-can-fix-this tone, and his invitation to tea to sort it all out. He had told her not to be afraid, that everything was going to be alright and she’d believed him. Now look. She was sitting in a flying car, being pretty much kidnapped by some bloke in a hat who she’d never met but who, from the way he was behaving, seemed to think they were old friends.

  She leaned over the side of the car and below the shiny wing she could see the lights of London. In the dusk, they were beautiful. The warm wind ruffled her hair and she began to feel less scared. She risked another glance at the driver. Ruth would have called him attractive rather than handsome, but he definitely had something that piqued her interest. He was taller than her but not quite tall enough, she’d have put him at about five foot nine, reasonably fit by the looks of it – well-proportioned, she supposed – broad-shouldered but not out-and-out sporty. He had a massive black eye. Someone had clearly thumped him on the nose, too. She was wary but she didn’t feel afraid of him the way she knew she should. Strange, if anything he seemed more afraid of her. Perhaps he was just afraid, full stop. He was looking around him for pursuers.

  “There might be a police helicopter if it’s not busy somewhere else,” she said. “Otherwise, I expect we’re set, we don’t have too many flying cars here in Britain.”

  “It’s not a little teapot,” he began. “Ruth,” he said excitedly, “I’m ... not a little it’s teapot ... wearing off ... I’m a ...”

  “Are you all there?”

  “Little ... nearly ... teapot ...”

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s not a little ... car ... teapot,” he said, “I’m a ... it’s a little ... snurd ... teapot.” His eyes rolled in exasperation.

  “Are you on drugs?”

  He turned in his seat, put one finger on his nose and pointed at her with the other hand, charades-style.

  “Yes!” he said, turning his attention back to the business of driving with a great deal of relief.

  “And you want me to know that?”

  “I’m a little ... not ... teapot ... self-administered.”

  “Somebody else drugged you?”

  “Mmm hmm.” A nod.

  They were flying over the City now and below them, Ruth could see a large office block with a helipad on top. She pointed downwards.

  “OK. I think it’s time you landed this thing so we can have a chat. You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  He managed to say, ‘mmm’ without any mention of teapots and landed the Lotus smoothly on the helipad. For a moment there was no sound except the ticking of the engine as it cooled and the muffled roar of the traffic rising up from the street below. Then he got out of the car and leapt over the bonnet, except she felt the car dip, and if it hadn’t been an inanimate object, she would have sworn that he’d failed to leap high enough and had only cleared the bonnet in one piece because the car had ducked. He opened her door with a flourish and she undid her seatbelt and climbed out.

  He put out his hand and without thinking properly about what she was doing, she took it and let him lead her over to the edge of the helipad. It was raised a few feet above the roof of the building and below it a couple of yards of concrete ran to the edge of the roof proper, where there was a safety fence. It was there to stop the unwary from falling off, Ruth supposed, but it wouldn’t be enough to stop somebody who really wanted to from throwing her off – this man, for example. That said, she was pretty sure his intentions were friendly and that she wasn’t in any danger. He seemed too pleased to see her for that, he could hardly stop smiling. He sat down with his legs dangling over the edge of the helipad and she followed suit making sure she kept a few feet of distance between them. He appeared utterly at ease with
her, which made her relax a little, despite stern warnings from the sensible part of her brain about the dangers of running off in space cars with strange men.

  He raised an eyebrow and waved a hand at the view in front of them.

  “I’m a ... nice city you ... little tea ... have here ... pot.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “nice Zorro hat. Your wheels aren’t bad either.”

  He chuckled and took a breath as if to speak but inclined his head in a sort of bow instead. Well, there are only so many ways you can tell somebody you are a little teapot, after all, and he’d probably run out of them. He took his hat off and ruffled his hair with one hand. It stood up. Naturally spiky. No sign of gel. Cool. No, not cool at all, get a grip Ruth. The two of them sat in silence for a moment while she tried to work out what to say and what was going to happen next. She felt disconnected from reality, as if her life was a film and she was sitting in the audience watching, a dangerous sensation because it was stopping her from taking it seriously. He cracked first.

  “I’m a little ... Arnold when is this ... teapot ... stuff going to ... I’m a little ... wear off ... teapot?” He stopped. “I’m a ... I should ... little teapot ... explain why I’m a ... here little teapot.” He grimaced and shook his head.

  “It would help,” said Ruth, “but I can see it’s going to be difficult.”

  He was exasperated and angry with himself too, by the looks of it.

  “OK, I have lots of questions, so why don’t I ask the ones which only require ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers?”

  A relieved sigh, “I’m a little ... alright.”

  “Good, and when I’ve asked my questions, you will be driving me home, won’t you?”

  “I’m a ... I will take you ... little teapot ... wherever you want to go.” Another smile. She looked into his eyes. They were dark blue, so dark they looked almost black, the way normally only brown-eyed people’s can. He maintained eye contact for just that little bit too long before blushing and looking down at his hands. Hmm. Ruth wasn’t super-confident about her looks, but in this case the signs were obvious. He fancied her. Oh well, it could be worse. He wasn’t a giant, and he hadn’t shot at her, and she had to hand it to him, as smiles went, his was pretty engaging. He had a kind face, too. Those blue, blue eyes had the type of crow’s feet round them which suggested he smiled a lot. Perhaps it was time to try and discover what he wanted?

  “You know, my life has become very weird of late,” she said. “Those guys, the no-no ones,” she waved her hands backwards and forwards the way he had done and he nodded, “they’ve been following me for months now.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “I don’t think you do, not unless you’ve been following me as well. Have you?” she asked him sternly.

  He cleared his throat and couldn’t meet her eyes any more. Result! She’d got him bang to rights.

  “You have, haven’t you? You’re another scary stalker! You’re just better at it than them!”

  “No. I was ... I’m a little ... Arnold’s Y-fronts!” Deep breath. “Sorry. I have to explain and this stupid ... teapot ... Truth Serum is making it difficult.”

  “I’m sorry. When you say, ‘Truth Serum’ that makes me think ‘Secret Police’.”

  “Then you’re a little ... right ... teapot.”

  “So. I’m guessing that means you’re in trouble where you’re from, does it?”

  He nodded. She eyed him quizzically.

  “With the police or someone else?”

  “The ... teapot ... police.”

  “And I suppose they’re not very nice because nice policemen don’t tend to use things called Truth Serum.”

  Another nod.

  “And I’d guess they gave you that black eye.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Are you a revolutionary?”

  “No, that would make me an idiot.”

  Oh, a whole sentence in one! Sarky, too. She was impressed. “OK then, are you some kind of criminal where you’re from?”

  He shrugged and spread his hands when he nodded this time.

  “Well, you’re obviously a really crap one. I’m not scared of you at all.”

  “I’m a ... little ... teapot ... getaway man,” he looked affronted. “I’m ... not ... a little ... meant to be ... teapot ... scary. I’m meant to be ... a little teapot ... scared. Otherwise I’m a little ... I won’t be any ... teapot ... good at running away ... I’m a little ... will I?”

  Ruth giggled, the teapot thing clearly got worse when she wound him up. She shouldn’t be sitting here talking to him like this but amazingly, trapped as she was on the top of a London skyscraper, with no way off and no hope of help, she felt utterly unafraid.

  “Is that how getaway men dress?” His outfit was intriguing; elastic-sided boots, dark blue canvas jeans, loose paisley silk shirt, tucked in at the waist and unbuttoned at the top. He was wearing a greeny-blue velvet jacket and over the top, a thick, dark cloak and the hat. How to sum that up? Mostly back-of-Revolver, a dash of front-of-Help, a modicum of pirate and a sprinkling of Zorro. An odd look, but one that was all his own and one Ruth liked.

  “No, I’m a little ... that’s how I dress.”

  “I see. It’s not a bad look and you’re correct, it’s not scary. So, are you telling me that, right now, you’re meant to be frightened?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “And are you?”

  A nod and a disarming smile.

  “I’m the one with no clue what’s going on, I thought that was supposed to make me the frightened one.”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you scared of me?”

  He laughed, put one hand out and wiggled it in a way that was clearly sign language for maybe.

  “I don’t think you are.”

  More smiling, he raised one eyebrow.

  “Quite obviously, no.” Another shrug. “But you are a getaway man?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “That’s a criminal.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Then why do I trust you?”

  He laughed.

  “You are evidently a little—” a deep breath, “a rubbish judge of character ... teapot.”

  “Not usually.” She gave him her best don’t-mess-with-me stare. There was that smile again. A small part of Ruth wanted to go out of its way to make him smile as much as possible. That was not good. Time for a reality check. He had swept her off her feet, literally—if not figuratively—and driven her through the best bits of London in the soft dusk light, in a flying car, with the top down. There was more than a bit of glamour appeal to this experience and Ruth suspected the fact that the Lotus was the car of her dreams might be clouding her judgement about the man inside it.

  “Right then. I know you are probably here illegally, that you have a way cool set of wheels which flies and that you have a very amusing speech impediment.” He chuckled and she was unaccountably pleased to have made him laugh. “Anything else you’d care to tell me?”

  He took another deep breath. “I’m ...”

  Ruth watched with interest as he waited for the urge to declare himself teapot-shaped to subside.

  “Not from around here,” he finally said.

  “Yes. I guessed that. OK, let’s start somewhere simple. What’s your name?”

  “I’m The Pan of Hamgee,” he inclined his head to imply a bow, “and I am at your service.”

  “I see.” Ruth frowned. The ‘I am at your service’ bit was quite charming, in an old-fashioned way, “What’s your first name?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You mean that’s it?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s not a name, it’s a title. What do people call you? ‘The’?”

  “No. Usually it’s ‘Oi you! Stop! Teapot! Thief!’” Another long pause, “‘Pan of Hamgee’ translates slightly differently, so I suppose in your language, you’d call me ‘The Hamgeean’.”

  He was looking shi
fty again. She knew it! He was lying.

  “That sounds like a wrestling hold and it still doesn’t give you a first name. I’m not an ‘oi you’ kind of girl. I can’t say ‘Hi, Hamgeean, how are you?’ It doesn’t go. I’m Ruth Cochrane—don’t you dare laugh at my surname or make one reference to Eddie—so when you want to get my attention calling me ‘Cochrane’ is plain weird. I’m fine with ‘Ruth’ and it follows that, barring cultural differences, there must be something I’d use to talk to you; which you are not fine with, presumably.” She waited but he wasn’t biting. She sighed. “OK, Mister Pan of Hamgee, we’ll have it your way, for now, and keep it formal but don’t think you’ve got away with not telling me. I know you’re lying and that means you do have a normal name. Let’s try something else. Why are you here?”

  “I’m a ... the big guys with the ... little ... Arnold in the skies! ... teapot ... guns are not your friends. I came here to find you before they did.”

  “Well done, and thank you. I don’t think the people who run the Festival Hall will be very keen on you, though. In fact, I expect you’ll be had up by the police as soon as they see your car. I should imagine somebody took your number plate.”

  He smiled, raised an eyebrow, put one finger up in a wait-a-moment gesture and stood up. She watched as he walked coolly over to the Lotus, leaned in and pressed a button on the dash. There was a gentle electronic whining sound in stereo from the front and back of the car and the number plates revolved. He strolled back and sat down again, closer to her this time, with the air of a man who knows he has done something fairly impressive.

  “You just revolved your number plate.”

  How annoying was that! She was trying to play it cool, trying very hard not to appear overawed, and to her irritation, it wasn’t working.

  “Are you sure you’re not a spy? You have a spy’s car.”