Troubled Shadows
THROUGHOUT THE summer months the village of Luss on the southwest bank of Loch Lomond is reluctantly surrendered to the hordes of tourists that buzz around like pesky mosquitoes, treating the quaint and ancient village like a theme park. They poke their abnormally large noses through private cottage windows and gawp with their gossip-greedy eyes at stumpy old Harry MacTavish whilst he sits by his lifeless fire smoking on his long elven pipe, or they pester poor old Ginger Tom while he nurses his diabetes with a pint of dwarf ale sitting at the bar in the cupboard sized pub called Liquid Regret. Then the long winter months with their wild winds and thick flurries of snow drive the invaders back to their warm city apartments to be lost in reality TV whilst ninety-five-year-old Mrs MacKintyre breathes a sigh of relief and jogs up the local mountain for a ‘wee bit of fresh air’ with her aging father sitting on her shoulders. And Mr Brearly, who is one hundred and forty-nine, competes in the fifty mile swim-sprint against Winnie, Loch Lomond’s very own kelpie who, it has to be said has an undeserved yet fearsome reputation for luring children into the dark depths of the loch where she allegedly devours them with a pinch of salt and a little seaweed garnish. You can read Winnie’s autobiography, Me and Nessie, bought for a fair price of twenty-six shells and two pebbles from the world-famous Fisherman’s Book Store. Just look it up on the Inter-sea-net.
Every year Luss’s human residents invite the local dignitaries from the elven, brownie and dwarf community to celebrate the winter solstice. It is a deliriously happy occasion with dancing, singing and enough drinking to drain the loch dry – mostly by dwarves, it has to be said. And it was during last year’s festival that a white-haired man from London called the Professor unexpectedly turned up and started talking to Albin McPherson, the elven chief. They laughed and joked giving the residents the impression they were old friends. And yet, not so long ago the professor returned, seemingly ignoring Albin’s invitation for a ‘wee dram’, and looking considerably older. It was as if he was carrying the world on his shoulders. And social niceties were far from the professor’s mind as he fidgeted like an expectant father of sextuplets waiting anxiously for the arrival of Robert his erstwhile and resourceful assistant who was to provide desperately needed intelligence about a highly deranged man known as the mad monk. And it appeared to have a great deal to do with an old adversary, a bitter and vengeful ghost called the General who had returned after a two-hundred-year absence.
A sharp knock on the heavy wooden front door nearly forced the professor’s heart to leap out of his mouth. He swallowed a fat lump of something unpleasant and reached for the thundering door as if it was being headbutted by a troll who had eaten the wrong kind of mushroom. The professor yanked at the latch and rapidly stepped aside as the door freely swung open and a dishevelled looking Robert fell through the gap with the dignity of a drunken dwarf.
‘Where have you been,’ growled the professor as he closed the door. Robert shook his head wearily, clawed himself upright, staggered over to the fireside and stared at the flames as if they gave him comfort before trembling like a man diseased. ‘Are the letters still arriving regularly?’ said the professor with a softer tone.
‘Almost daily,’ said Robert in an strained voice, ‘but I don’t get to see them anymore. He reads them, screams in pain when his tattoos go wild and then burns the letters – nothing but ashes. And he’s got visitors too. I can hear their whispers.’ Robert cringed and squeezed his hands over his ears that turned white with stress as if terrified by the memory until his shoulders slumped and the exhaustion robbed the strength from his muscles. ‘It sounds mad but I can feel a change in the room, like someone’s peering over my shoulder.’
‘Manic!’ said the professor.
A furry little ferret with an eye patch and a dagger dangling from its belt popped its head out from a carpet bag on the floor. ‘Yes, sir,’ it squeaked sharply, snapping to attention.
‘Check the room,’ commanded the professor.
The ferret shoved its fidgeting nose into the dark recesses with the speed of an attacking falcon. ‘Clear, sir,’ it said with a smart salute before diving inside the carpet bag without another squeak.
But the professor was not so easily convinced. He removed some bright blue powder from his pocket and threw it into the fire’s flickering flames. A soft explosion of light and smoke sent sparkles out into the room with thousands of mini white and blue stars that drifted in the air like feather-light snow on a breeze.
‘What’re they doing?’ said Robert fearfully, staggering backward against the wall with a thump.
The professor watched with deep concentration as his flock of sparkles changed with swooping curves like a gang of vultures searching for prey, dipping under furniture and soaring around lamps until they appeared to lose their strength and popped silently like fireworks until there was nothing left but a memory sparkling in the professor’s eyes. He nodded with nervous satisfaction.
‘Professor?’ said Robert in an agitated tone.
‘Shadow wraiths – the mad monk’s new companions. As cold as ice and as heartless as the witch king. And not here, thankfully,’ said the professor.
Robert shivered as his eyes seemed to lose a little life to a near-miss nightmare. He then groaned, staggered to the nearest armchair and slumped into it riddled with exhaustion. The professor closed his eyes to the flash of a haunting memory as the disease of regret slowly strangled his resolve like poisonous witch-weed.
‘How’s Toby?’ said Robert.
The words filtered through the dense, choking layer of self-pity and shook the professor as thoughts of his nephew reminded him of his mission. He placed his head in his hands and coughed unnecessarily loudly. ‘I found out something about him, something that—’ As the words stuck in his throat he turned toward the fire feeling the warmth ease his pain as he said, ‘Do you remember the explosion at Trafalgar Square, when Toby had first seen the general?’
Robert smiled weakly. It was as if he believed the false happiness would suddenly make everything go away. He then nodded slowly and said, ‘Nearly a year ago. I’ll never forget it!’
TOBY PULLED back the dusty old curtains in the old red-brick house in Richmond and wafted at the choking sediment with his free hand. And then laughed as the thought of spending an evening with his best friend Charlie filled his cheeks with joy. It was late August and the last of the summer’s bank holidays had passed and yet Toby’s smile stretched from ear to ear as he peered at a rare copy of a ghost calendar which listed two hundred and sixty-two regular bank holidays.
‘In one year?’ said Toby in dismay when Charlie had told him before reminding him that ghosts could have as many or as few days in a year as they wished; time really didn’t matter. In Toby’s mind that was a lot of days away from school. Ghosts or no ghosts, it was unfair.
‘Life must be really good fun for you lot,’ he grumbled.
‘Being dead is not always as lively as it may seem,’ said Charlie in a cautionary tone.
Officially and unofficially and for anyone who cared to listen it was the Huntsman’s Bank Holiday, a day to commemorate the capture and execution of the most feared hunter that had ever existed. An evil man known as the Witch Finder General had taken great pleasure, and a fortune in gold to capture and kill any suspected witch – many of whom were now good friends with Toby.
The young lad checked the time as he stood by the window and ran through the journey in his head counting each stage out with his fingers: Change at ten past; start flying at a quarter past; fifteen minute journey; arrive at eight thirty; change back; ready! Charlie had something important to say and the waiting was churning his stomach like a washing load on full spin. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans and huffed loudly with the impatience of a ravenous Viking denied a meaty joint as his nerves frazzled like a fat box of ignited firecrackers. Toby stepped out on to the third-floor window ledge and looked out across the rooftops. A familiar tingling built up in his toes, trickled up his legs and swept through his stomach with a queasiness that had once left Mr Biggins’s cat covered in half-digested carrots and mushy peas. He took a deep, soothing breath and felt the nausea ease as he slowly stretched out his arms as if preparing to leap off a diving board. And then Toby’s joyful laughter turned into a high pitched Cheereek, as his gangly thirteen-year-old body was smothered with layers of striking mottled orange and red-black feathers that unfolded like a venetian blind. He beat his powerful wings and soared into the air until he was far above the rooftops and heading toward London’s Big Ben. And as the famous tower’s clock face mocked him with the second hand clicking on twenty-five to eight he beat his wings frantically pushing his avian body along Whitehall. And then he gained height as he approached the imposing statue of Lord Nelson one-hundred-and-seventy feet above Trafalgar Square. And sitting by the cold chiselled shoes of the famous sailor were two ghostly legs that dangled with a lazy swing and topped by a silver body that waved at Toby with the casualness of a day-tripper sitting on Brighton beach. He squawked and dipped a wing drawing his feathered body into a graceful dive before landing in Lord Nelson’s stony shadow next to Charlie. A warm glow washed over his body returning him to his human form.
‘You’re late!’ said the ghost gruffly, barely hiding her smile.
‘I got here as quick as I could.’
‘Anybody would think you hadn’t seen it before,’ said Charlie as her smile blossomed like a spring flower pushing through the last of the winter snow.
‘Nothing beats night flying over London,’ Toby said excitedly.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Charlie with a hint of jealousy.
‘Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough to carry you?’ said Toby nudging Charlie softly with his elbow.
‘So, how’s school?’ she said as if immediately forgetting any thought of free flight.
‘It’s boring and rubbish. And the teachers don’t like me. And I don’t have any friends,’ he said, mumbling in embarrassment. ‘Why can’t I tell anyone about my flying? I bet they’d think it was really cool.’
‘Because!’ she said, emphasising the point, ‘it’ll draw the wrong kind of attention. People can do some extraordinary things, but not one human, or creature for that matter, can do anything like your flying. It’s like, well, can you imagine someone of your age being prime minister?’
‘Don’t be silly – kids have more sense.’
Charlie chuckled. ‘Well, okay, bad example. Could you imagine any of the other kids at your school talking to me without peeing their pants? They would probably make a banshee die in shame.’
‘I would like to see Nasty Nick do that,’ mumbled Toby.
‘That can be arranged. I could appear in the toilets . . . hmm, on second thoughts, anyway,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously as if to rid herself of an unpleasant image. ‘You have a gift that could get you into more trouble than I think you realise – at least in this world.’ She paused, perhaps waiting for the point to sink in. As Toby felt his face slide into an expression of resignation Charlie continued. ‘Hold tight, Toby, things are about to change . . . just for you.’
Toby perked up. ‘Is the professor planning something?’
Charlie shook her head. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’
‘Oh, go on, tell me more,’ said Toby, bright eyed with excitement and hope.
‘I’ve said too much as it is. Besides, I should be concentrating on the meeting,’ said Charlie.
And with that she turned and faced the Admiralty Arch with a look so serious Toby knew instantly he had lost his friend to her job as lights inside the grand stone building burned bright and humans and ghosts appeared to berate each other across a large oak table.
‘You and me were supposed to be hanging out tonight,’ he snapped moodily.
Charlie shook her head. ‘The Ghost Council are getting jittery. They had a meeting last week and old grumpy Grenville was all doom and gloom . . . something about a shift of power.’
‘We get shifts of government power all the time. “And it makes no bleedin’ difference to train fares at all”,’ he said, mocking the professor’s tone.
‘This is different. I’ve never seen ghosts so worried,’ said Charlie appearing to struggle with what she knew.
‘But you’re dead!’ said Toby bluntly. ‘What have you got to be worried about?’
‘Death provides no protection, Toby,’ she said with silver tears that trickled down her cheeks. ‘It’ll affect everybody. Not just us ghosts but you too, and anything and everything that lives. It’s deadly serious.’ Charlie wiped her grey cheeks. ‘I’m going to tell you something that you must promise never repeat to anyone alive. In fact, don’t tell anyone dead, either. You promise?’ Toby nodded frantically feeling the excitement of an unfolding secret soon to be revealed. ‘Have you heard of the Merlin Prophecy?’ said Charlie.
‘That old wife’s tale,’ he said as the tension gushed out of his legs and cascaded down toward Trafalgar Square.
‘Don’t tell me you find Merlin hard to believe – the same boy who can turn into a bird and fly,’ said Charlie sounding exasperated.
‘Well, if you put it like that, I suppose.’
‘Suppose nothing,’ she said, pointing at Admiralty Arch. ‘I don’t know all the details exactly but they’re all in there, your people and mine.’
‘Ghosts and normal people?’ said Toby.
‘We’re normal too. Just a different normal. Anyway, I’m on duty,’ she said, tapping the ghostly identity card on her chest.
‘Special Grey Operative,’ said Toby squinting at the identity card. ‘You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?’
Charlie dipped her head in sorrow. ‘And we’re having some difficulty in convincing them. The last time we called one of these meetings was way back when this fella was around.’ Charlie cocked her thumb at Lord Nelson, and then said, ‘The entire Westminster division of the specials are on high alert.’
Toby followed Charlie’s ghostly finger as it swept round the tops of the buildings that faced Admiralty Arch. And then he shook his head in wonder at the grey figures that appeared to be in extreme states of lounging like lizards in the sun. ‘Are they playing cards?’
‘We don’t need to rely on vision, Toby – ghosts feel changes. For instance, I sense anger and frustration, mostly from the Ghost Council. I think this is going to be a long—’
Charlie shot to the edge of the plinth thrusting her hands over the side and stared at the meeting room with the glaring intensity of a tracking beam, and then threw herself into the grey void. Half flying and half falling she hit the ground with her legs rotating like a Olympic sprinter and crossed the street with the speed of a silver bullet as grey streaks snaked across the buildings and whisked along the sides of the walls until they converged with such mass it seemed the delegates had been smothered by a grey storm. And as Charlie appeared alongside her colleagues a white staccato flash consumed the famous square with blinding light. Toby slammed himself flat onto the stone and gripped Nelson’s feet, anchoring himself to the plinth with a terrified cry as his eyes glazed white. The bright veil pulsed three times and then fizzled like a spent flashbulb leaving bright spots that danced like crazed fairies in front of his eyes. With one shaking hand he rubbed his face vigorously and then repeatedly blinked until the sparkles seemed to crumble to an orange fuzz before the outlines of buildings sharpened with clarity. His ears cracked and then screeched like nails being dragged down a blackboard followed by an excruciating blend of whistles, blaring sirens, terrified screams and furious shouting.
With fear for Charlie’s safety he scanned the building’s black windows and then shook his head with disbelief as the flashing lights from the emergency vehicles blinked like harmless Christmas tree decorations off the perfectly intact windows that fronted the meeting room. But his ragged confusion was interrupted by muffled grunts that stroked his ears like underwater music. He tracked the noise and reached for the two grey legs that desperately wriggled out of Lord Nelson’s stony stomach and tugged hard. Charlie slithered away from the stone with a sickening slurp and flopped onto the plinth. She stared at Toby with eyes so wide the young lad swore he could see her brains through the dark pupils.
‘Oh my! Oh dear!’ she said shaking her head with shock and bewilderment before brushing Toby’s hands aside and jumped off the ledge. Toby dived after her and glided on his falcon wings before landing on a broad stone balcony in front of the big windows as the lights returned with shocking brightness. The delegates were furious with each other as they threw insults, writing pads and emptied the fruit bowl with unchecked fury not that the ghosts seemed to mind as the missiles past through them harmlessly. The ghost security team mingled amongst the living and the dead sniffing at clothes and hovering as if looking for clues or new danger. And then Toby’s eyes settled on a portly ghost with shiny medals hanging off its chest as if immune to the chaos, as if it was invisible to every being present, including the ghosts as they drifted past him with the kind of blindness often witnessed around street beggars. The young lad shivered, wrapping his wings closer around his feathered body as the portly creature stood its ground untouched by the dread and panic that saturated ghosts and government people alike. And it seemed that the ghost’s interest remained entirely with the falcon that stood by the window with its cold, grey-blue eyes pinning Toby to the stone with laser control until Charlie’s face broke the mesmeric hold as she walked straight through the creature without a hint of awareness. Toby shuddered and his lungs heaved as if deprived of oxygen. He thrashed his wings, releasing the fearful tension in his muscles and closed his eyes. And when he opened them the portly ghost was clawing its way across the table with its body trailing like a sail until it reached the end of the large furniture. And with one final heave it jettisoned itself across the small gap, pierced the window that separated it and Toby, and reached out with clawing fingers. Toby squawked and beat his wings frantically racing for the sky. Big Ben passed in a blur as he charged across the Thames and headed south towards Richmond.
Home could not arrive soon enough.
‘Argh!’ Toby cried as he clumsily rolled out of bed and cradled his throbbing arm before gingerly walking down the stairs, wincing with every jarring movement.
‘Hello, sleepy. Cup of tea?’ said the professor as if a leafy brew was the cure for all known diseases.
The old man stood at the entrance to his laboratory wearing a green velvet jacket and red moleskin trousers that fitted his tall and gangly frame like a droopy windsock on a windless day. He had huge bushy eyebrows that resembled a large butterfly stuck to his forehead, long roguish hair that reached below his shoulders and a musketeer-type beard that was the colour of purple. Toby had been told it was permanent from an experiment that had backfired although the young lad had his doubts having seen a pot of hair colour in the bathroom. Whenever the professor smiled his teeth glinted bright yellow and when he spoke his cheeks wobbled like freshly made jelly.
‘What is it?’ he said with the gruffness of someone used to having one-way conversations with bacteria in a petri dish. Toby repeated the story about the invisible ghost through stuttering breaths as the pain bit hard like a million red ants sinking their pincers into his skin. ‘Robert! Get some of that special lime green ointment. It heals in a jiffy. Stings a bit though.’
Robert glided back into the room in a stiff butler waltz, skilfully balancing a tray on his fingertips until he slid it onto the side table. Toby gulped so hard his Adam’s apple was in danger of getting stuck behind his tongue as a large syringe fitted with a needle bigger than his arm rocked teasingly back and forth on the shiny silver tray.
‘Robert’s small joke,’ said the professor tutting as he picked up the syringe and beckoned Toby to open his mouth. Four drops of lime green fluid squeezed out of the needle’s end and dripped onto his tongue. ‘That should do it . . . so long as you swallow, Toby. Breathing would be good, too.’
As the warmth of the fluid trickled down his throat the sharp jabbing pain in his arm eased like a soothing yoghurt following a spicy curry. He stretched his arm out with growing confidence, and said, ‘Wow!’
‘And now to more pressing matters. This ghost with the medals . . .’ The professor quizzed Toby with the intensity of an interrogator prizing every last speck of detail from the young lad with growing anguish until he had turned almost as grey as the portly ghost despite the fact he was very much alive.
‘It’s not good is it?’ said Toby feeling the anguish bite.
The professor looked deeply worried as lines indented across his forehead like furrows ploughed in a field. ‘I want to show you something.’ The old man turned for the stairs and beckoned Toby to follow until they arrived in a darkened attic. A small, dense click was rapidly fol