by Tony Lewis
He knocked on the lab door and went straight in, because there was no way that Crumble would have heard the knock, he did it out of sheer politeness.
“Ah, dear boy, welcome,” the Prof shouted.
Well, he assumed it was the Prof. The voice was coming from a plume of smoke that was taking up about a third of the room. “Come in, come in.”
Ollie did so with the usual sense of trepidation and dread that accompanied any visit to Crumble’s domain.
“Have you taken up smoking?” he asked.
“Oh no,” replied Crumble, appearing from the misty shroud like a contestant on Stars in their Eyes. Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be a borderline psychotic pensioner, who enjoys blowing things up more than a member of Al Qaeda kicked out for being too extreme. “Just an idea that I had.”
“Which would be?” asked Ollie, the spectre of worry ever present on the horizon.
“Well, it seems to me that when you make a cup of tea it takes ages for the flavour to seep from the leaves through the bag and into the water.”
“Right.”
“So I thought I would add a little explosive to the mixture and then make the tea. The heat from the water reacts with the explosive and sets it off, forcing the flavour from the leaves into the cup.”
“I see,” said Ollie, vowing never again to accept a drink from the Professor unless he was safely hidden behind a blast door and had on a suit of armour. “How’s it going?”
“I’m just having a few problems getting the proportions right. No point in boiling the kettle if you’re not going to have a hand to hold the cup, is there?”
“Well, quite. So, assuming you get it sorted out, what will you call them when Twinings come banging on your door?”
“TeaNT Bags.”
“Mmmm. I can see there being quite a market for that. Terrorists will love it. No more messing about with Semtex, timers and command wires. All they’ll need is a tea pot.”
“Indeed. Anyway, how can I help you, dear boy?”
Mad as a particularly insane milliner. “I’ve come to collect my bits, if you’d had time to conjure something up.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Crumble, walking over to his cupboard. He opened it up and took out three objects which he placed onto the table.
“There we are. Your solar reflecting, ultra violet repelling, protective headgear. Your sod infused, collapsible, nocturnal, encapsulation device and your desiccated, rehydratable, platelet based liquid nourishment.”
Ollie rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “And in English please,” he said, suddenly wishing that the word a day toilet paper that he’d gotten for Crumble’s birthday might not have been such a good idea.
“You hat, your bed and you blood,” said Crumble.
“Ah. Thank you very much.”
Crumble picked up one of the items at a time, and explained how it worked to a rapidly wearying Ollie.
“This first one will keep the harmful rays of the sun off you during the day. It’s a balaclava with a hidden inner lining in which I’ve placed ground up sunglasses. Works a treat.”
“How do you know?”
“I put a mouse in it and popped it in the microwave for a few minutes. He came out fine.”
“Done to a turn, no doubt.”
“Yes,” said Crumble, quickly and expertly sidestepping the issue of animal cruelty and why he now had a mouse running around the lab with a sun tan. “The second item is very simple indeed.”
By way of demonstration he picked it up and spread it across the table.
“It’s a foam mattress that I have infused with earth from your coffin, so no matter where you go, you will be sleeping on your home soil.”
“Liking that one,” said Ollie, pressing the mattress with a finger to test its springiness. “Memory foam. Nice touch.”
Crumble was smiling proudly. A presentation hadn’t gone this well since he had shown the local Neighbourhood Witch Group how to get more miles per twig out of their brooms. He had been the toast of the meeting, which was just as well because if it had gone wrong he would have been toasted at the meeting. They were a tough crowd.
“The third thing,” he continued, “is very clever. I’ve dehydrated twenty eight pints of blood down to a very fine powder and placed it in this tin. All you have to do is place a couple of tablespoons full into this shaker and add water.” Ollie studied the three inventions and he had to admit he was impressed.
“Well I must say, Crumble, well done. These are just the ticket. They’ll do admirably. Thanks a lot, Prof.”
“Oh, that’s alright, dear boy. And who knows, by the time you get back from your little jaunt, I’ll have perfected my latest creation.”
“And what would that be?” Ollie asked suspiciously.
“It’s yoghurt that has so much taste that it bursts out of the pot and literally assaults your taste buds.”
“I see. And what will this one be called, dare I ask?”
“Fromage Affray.”
“Black-eye-currant flavour perhaps?”
“Pardon me?”
“Never mind. Thanks again.”
“Toodles.”
* * *
Dr Jekyll didn’t know what to do with himself. He was in two minds as to his next course of action. Since the incident with farmers’ daughter, he had been keeping more of a low profile than a member of the Taliban at an SAS Christmas party. Anyway, it had all been a massive misunderstanding. The young lady in question had come to him in secret, telling him that her fiancé had left her with a huge amount of debt, a shedload of work to do at the farm and a growing bump under her dress that didn’t get there by accident or divine intervention. Jekyll’s enquiries had led him to the small village of Bile, about an hour away from Skullenia, where he had located the lady’s reclusive partner. On strict instructions from the client, he had only gathered evidence, which in this case involved taking photographs of the fellah that she had wanted to see for herself before pursuing any course of action. On his return and due to the need for discretion, he had met her at midnight in her fathers’ barn, where he had presented her with the documentary proof of her fiancés infidelity. On seeing the photos she had broken down, wailed like a banshee and attached herself to the surprised bounty hunter like an octopus to a divers mask. Unfortunately, she was so overzealous in her late night fumblings for comfort that she had toppled over, sending both of them into the packed apple and orange crates below. As they were descending, the cuckolded girl was singing, “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester,” because it was the song that the band, in the club where they had met, had been playing for their first dance. Then, in a spectacularly bad piece of timing, her father had come barging in, brandishing a pitchfork that would have easily skewered a Brontosaurus and yelling “get your hands off me Grannies.” Jekyll realised that there was no use trying to explain, because he looked as guilty as a man caught in a barn at midnight in a compromising position with an angry farmer’s daughter (The farmer was angry, not the daughter. She was more than happy, having gotten over the bad news about her beloved not two seconds after getting her leg over Jekyll). So that being the case he had bolted out the back door like an Olympic sprinter and headed off into the night.
He had run for about ten minutes, thinking that this was more than long enough for any man to be annoyed, no matter who had grabbed their fruit. Sadly, the farmer in question was a lunatic of epic proportions who had wasted no time in gathering several of his arable colleagues into a lynch mob. Jekyll had seen the blazing torches from a good distance away, so he had a reasonable head start, and figuring that the farmer hadn’t got that much of a good look at him because he had been tangled up in the daughter’s voluminous skirt, a day or so of keeping his head down would do the trick. And it was a far better option than having one of those deranged hicks taking his head off.
So this was where he found himself. Hiding in a quarry. He hadn’t seen the mob for a good few hours now, so he decid
ed it was about time to get the hell out of here. Twenty four hours hiding amidst a collection of old rocks was no fun at all. He could go to a Status Quo concert for that. Gingerly raising his head above the rim of the quarry, he rechecked his surroundings. All clear. Now, if he had his bearings right, he was about six miles north of home, which would put him on the outskirts of Fibula, which was a quiet little town that was usually as dead as daytime TV. Thankfully he still had the cover of darkness, so when he reached the tiny hamlet he was able to move through it reasonably quickly. As he reached the junction of Main Street and Digitalis Avenue and rounded the corner that would take him up to the museum, he collided with another figure walking quickly in the opposite direction.
“Ouch,” he said as his foot was caught under the other person’s.
The stranger let out a soft ‘ooof’ of his own which was followed by the rustle of paper as several sheets of it fell to the floor. Recovering his composure and his balance Jekyll said, “I’m so sorry; I can hardly see a thing in this light.”
“Oh, no need to apologise,” said the other, bending down to pick up the loose leaves from the pavement, “could have happened to anyone.”
Pages collected, he stood up. Jekyll could see hardly anything of the man, the light from the street light was so dim, but his eyes immediately attracted his attention. They seemed to gather in the meagre illumination and reflect it back tenfold, giving off a steely blue radiance that was at the same time captivating and vaguely frightening.
“Well, I’m sorry all the same.”
As the stranger juggled the pages, one of them flopped over the others into the light, allowing Jekyll to catch a glimpse of the jumbled letters on the page.
“That looks complicated,” he offered in a friendly fashion. “Wouldn’t fancy trying to sort that lot out. Are you from the museum?”
“Wish I could stop and chat,” said blue eyes, rearranging the pages so that none of the writing was visible, “have to go now. Sorry about your foot.”
With that he scurried off towards Main Street, every now and again pausing to make sure that the papers were secure and that no one was watching him.
“Strange little fellow,” Jekyll said to himself as he watched the figure recede into the distance before finally getting swallowed up by the cloying darkness. “He seemed a bit nervous.”
Jekyll was about to start the final leg of his journey home when his eye was caught by something on the cobbled street. It was lying in the exact spot that the stranger had been standing on. He bent down to see what it was. It glinted in the low light the closer he got, but it wasn’t until he picked it up and moved a few yards to his left so that he was under a street lamp, that he could see what it was. It was a small rectangular badge, the type that a school prefect might wear, except this one said ‘CARETAKER’.
* * *
Ollie and Stitches were helping Flug pack whilst Ethan and Ronnie paid one last visit to the museum to collect the translated pages from Starch and Vortex (helping Flug pack of course means that someone else did the work whilst Flug sat in the kitchen, staring at nothing and looking like a hypnotised bullock. They could have got him to help, but it would have taken three times as long and involved far more expletives).
Ollie had already packed all of his own stuff a while ago, after he had emailed Henry Jekyll about their mission. If there was any other information to be had about it, then Mandeep Singh would be able to provide it. He seemed able to collect anything about anything, no matter who or what the subject.
Stitches, provided that he had enough cotton and needles to deal with any dismemberment style emergencies, was pretty much good to go as is. He didn’t need to change his clothes very often, unless environmental conditions caused them to get dirty, and as far as supplies went it was, well, zero. As long as he got a drink of water to lubricate his innards every now and again he was fine.
Flug, on the other hand, was a different kettle of insanity altogether. It would have been less hassle getting ready to go away for a fortnight with twelve month old sextuplets. The number of changes of underwear was similar, though.
“I don’t want to be rude or anything,” Stitches said, glancing around Flug’s room whilst sitting on his vast bed, “but adult nappies?”
“Keep it down,” responded Ollie, looking behind him to make sure that Flug hadn’t heard what had been said. “You know he’s sensitive about it.”
“It’s not the only thing that’ll be sensitive after wandering around in one of those for a couple of days.”
“Can’t you just be a little more caring for a change? You know he’s not that good at going to the toilet.”
Stitches grimaced and rolled his eyes, always a mistake that required a tap to the side of his head.
“Well I know that,” he said. “My room is next to the bathroom, don’t forget. Most nights it sounds like an ocean liner’s being launched in there. Oh, and if you think for one minute that I’m changing him, then you are very much mistaken.”
“Don’t panic,” said Ollie, placing a cute but well-worn Blue Nosed Bat in the case. “I had a word with Crumble about it. These ones are self-contained, absorbent, self-cleaning units that can be taken off as easily as a pair of ordinary undies without leaving anything behind.”
“There’s an image to conjure with.”
“So, you don’t have to worry. Thanks to these, Flug will be able to sort himself out.”
The zombie didn’t look entirely convinced.
“And they’re biodegradable,” Ollie continued, folding up Flug’s favourite snuggie blankie, “so there’ll be no impact on the environment either.”
“If you say so. But don’t forget the last time he went he blocked up the toilet and flooded the bathroom. Poor old Hector needed two cups of tea and a lie down, and that was before he went in there to sort it out. Sounded like he was on safari.”
“I know, I know,” Ollie said, softly popping the lid onto Flug’s non drip cup and dropping it into the case. “But he is trying,” the wet wipes went in next, “but you’ve got to remember that he is a child in many ways.”
“You’re not kidding. It’s getting boring cutting up his food and picking the breadcrumbs off his fish fingers.”
“Still,” said Ollie, putting a night light into the case, “he is growing up all the time. It won’t be long before he can stay up till eight ‘o’ clock and go to bed in the dark. Anyway, are you going to help me or am I doing this all by myself?”
“Looks like you’ve pretty much finished,” said Stitches getting up from the bed, his hip cracking rather loudly, which caused him to wobble slightly.
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Ollie replied, fastening the zip on the case. “Right, let’s get this out front with the rest and wait for Ronnie and Ethan to get back. I’m quite excited, I must admit,” he continued, hefting the case onto the floor. “I reckon this is going to be a really interesting job, out and about hunting for treasure and all that”.
“Mmmm, sounds more like an extended ramble to me, but at least it’s better than doing nothing.”
“Which will make a nice change for you, won’t it?” observed Ollie sarcastically, slowly manoeuvring the case to the door.
“Cheeky sod. Here, give us the case. I’ll take it outside.”
“Thanks,” said Ollie gratefully. “And try not to rip an arm off whilst you’re carrying it. That thing’s heavy.”
* * *
In his haste to get away from the pursuing horde the night before, Dr Jekyll had lost his keys somewhere. He knocked on the door of the converted convenience store that was now his and his partner’s place of work, making sure that he stood in full view of the spy hole nestling in the wood.
“Yes, who is it please?” came an Indian voice from the other side of the door.
“It’s Henry.”
“Henry who, please?”
Here we go again, thought Jekyll.
“Henry Jekyll. Come on, Mandeep, open up. Who th
e hell else is it going to be?”
“One moment please.”
The door was unlocked painfully slowly, but finally opened.
“Identification please,” demanded the diminutive Indian gentleman, standing before him with an outstretched hand.
“What do you mean identification? For goodness sake, put your bloody glasses on, will you. It’s me, Henry, your business partner.”
Mandeep Singh fumbled in his jacket pocket and extracted his spectacles, and popped them onto his pudgy face.
“Ah, Mr. Jekyll, come in please.”
“At last. And how many times have I told you to call me Henry?” said Jekyll, stepping over the threshold.
“Yes, yes of course. Mr. Jekyll, of course.”
Jekyll walked along the hallway and into his shared office, which he crossed to get to his desk where he sat down. He switched on his computer and logged on.
“Is everything sorted out with the daughter, please?” asked Singh as he leafed through the contents of a filing cabinet.
“Not quite. Let’s just say there could be further developments,” replied Jekyll hesitantly.
“How so, please?”
“Put it this way. If anybody comes to the door and they’re carrying any farming implements, don’t let them in and tell them I’ve emigrated.”
“Very good.”