Wuthering Frights E-Book

Tony Lewis

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

What happened to Grendle The Shopkeeper?

Narrowly missing a splat of ectoplasm - or Bernard, as he was more commonly known - Ronnie entered the shop to the clanging of the little silver bell.

His brow furrowed as he absently scratched his cheek. Grendle the shopkeeper always came out after the tolling of the first bell. Always.

Later on, the local press interviews the Skullenian residents after an incident at the fountain: a happy young couple has discovered a cadaver while taking a moonlit stroll through the cemetery.

What links the strange events? Is anything else going to happen? Can I write any more of this nonsense without giving the game away?

Someone's going to have find out what's going on, and in Skullenia that can only mean one thing: Ollie and the boys have another puzzle to solve.

Leseprobe

Wuthering Frights

Skullenia Book 3

Tony Lewis

Copyright (C) 2017 Tony Lewis

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Mum and Dad who let me read horror stories when I was seven

Wuthering Frights

Flug was tired. Extremely tired. In fact, he was so tired that the three or four viable brain cells that he had left in his spacious dome had gathered straw and provisions, gone into hibernation, and wouldn't be likely to return to active duty much before the next millennium. Or any other gargantuan time span you'd cared to mention for that matter. Flug functioned on a time scale that made geological epochs seem a bit hasty you see, and the fact that he'd been standing on the office roof with his arms in the air for about five hours now, meant that he'd pretty much had enough when all things were considered (not that he considered many things of course. If asked to chew and walk at the same time he'd probably have a stroke and then have to pick the food off the bottom of his shoes whilst wondering why he had gravel in his mouth).

“Stitches,” he said, managing to instil a pleading tone into his deep, bass voice. “Can me stop now?”

The zombie looked down from the chair that he was standing on and pulled a face. Not his actual face of course because that would have come off in his hand. So would his hand.

“Just give it a little while longer, big fellah. I nearly had it then.”

The zombie reached up and carefully adjusted the coat hanger that he'd attached to the bolt in Flug's forehead. This, in turn, was connected via a length of wire to a small black and white television that was sat on the floor next to Flug's feet. At that precise moment, the ancient visual device was displaying nothing except a violent snowstorm, although there were probably adverts still being shown for really useful things like food (who'd have thought we needed that?), expensive cars that only a footballer could afford (and drive if he could figure out how to get in it), and Christmas stuff (well, it is July you know).

“Just hold still now,” said the zombie. “We're nearly there.”

About a week ago Stitches had found the old TV dumped in a bin at the rear of Mrs Strudels café, and he'd come up with the brilliant idea that if Flug was capable of picking up radio waves then logically he should be able to pick up a television signal as well. Unfortunately, Stitches' grasp of electronics, visual equipment, and how to utilise them and their various applications effectively, was the equivalent of a Roman Catholic priests understanding of the basic concepts of religion. In other words, he didn't have a bloody clue. Consequently, poor old Flug had spent most of the last six days standing on the roof come rain or shine (mostly rain) like a vast meat aerial. He'd also suffered the soul crushing indignity of having various bits of metalwork stuck to his face in a vain attempt to boost his reception capabilities. Forks, spoons, screwdrivers, hammers, and any other item of kitchen or garage paraphernalia that you'd care to mention had ended up stuck to him at some point over the last week or so. The anvil had been particularly hard work, especially when it had fallen off Flug's head, rolled onto Stitches' foot and left three of his toes looking like four-day old porridge.

Despite his best efforts though it was never going to work, because what Stitches had failed to realise was the fact that Skullenia was in something of a sound and vision wave black hole. For some unknown reason signals of any description had trouble getting in or out of the village no matter how hard you, or your equipment tried. It was bad enough trying to send a text message from one side of the square to the other let alone the next village over. In fact, it would have been quicker to use a carrier bat. Even quicker if you used a live one. You might as well be trying to get a signal from the outer reaches of the solar system to be honest. Or on T Mobile, the chances were about the same.

“Stitches me tired. Me want sweeties now.”

Just as he was about to plead with Flug for five more minutes, a crackle and a loud whoosh from above distracted the zombie, throwing his delicate coat hanger array awry.

“Stitches,” called Mrs. Ladle as she swooped and arced like a demented swallow. “What on earth are you trying to do to that poor boy?”

“Isn't it obvious?” replied the zombie.

“To a mental patient perhaps,” she said, deftly landing on the roof and dismounting. “But not to any sane person.”

“Well that leaves…”

“Easy now, sunshine,” said the witch. “Don't you go taking advantage of my good nature there's a good chap.” She made a show of checking her pockets. “I know I've got one somewhere, and it wouldn't take kindly to having someone taking the mick out of it. Come to think of it I seem to remember it's on my mantle-piece next to my grandfather's eyes and my mother's sense of decorum.”

She helped Flug divest himself of several bits of metal and handed him a packet of sweets.

“Oooh, Fruity Flanges. My faverits. Fanks, Mrs. L.”

He lumbered off cramming as many as he could get into his mouth as was inhumanly possible, which was a lot.

“Now, before you start moaning and groaning like a grumpy zombie,” said the witch to a disgruntled looking zombie who was just about to start moaning and groaning like a grumpy zombie, “just take a moment or two to think about what you've been doing to that unfortunate lad. You've taken terrible advantage of him as you well know.”

“Yeah, but that's the brilliance of it,” said Stitches. “He hasn't got a clue about anything so if he doesn't understand what's going on how can I be accused of taking advantage of him? He only knows the sky's above him because it's a slightly different colour to the ground and has fewer buildings in it. Besides, it's a bit of compensation for having to look after him all the time.”

Mrs. Ladle took a drag of the cigarette that had appeared in her hand as if by magic, which was ironic because that's exactly what had occurred. She tapped a leather booted foot on the roof and stared at the zombie with nary a blink.

Stitches could tell instantly that she was angry. He was quick on the uptake like that, plus he was more than used to it. There weren't many beings he'd met that he hadn't annoyed at some point or another, and for those that he hadn't, it was only a matter of time before he did.

He looked at the witch and gave her a smile. It didn't work. Even the stream of smoke that she exhaled looked annoyed, and when she spoke it was in a tone of voice that required nay, demanded obedience, oozed command, and left the perceptive listener under no illusion as to what might happen if the speaker was disobeyed. Stitches though, disregarded the danger signals and carried on regardless.

“But surely his innocence and lack of understanding are the very reasons that you shouldn't be doing those things to him in the first place. It's got to stop. Right now. Understand.”

“Spose,” said the zombie.

“Excuse me,” said the witch.

“Okay. Okay. I understand,” said Stitches, a little more warily than a moment ago. He couldn't be sure but he could have sworn that Mrs. Ladle's exhaled cigarette smoke had formed a noose. It was hanging in the air not two feet from his face and looked very keen to wrap itself around something. Something neck shaped and under his head.

“Good. Right. I'm glad that we've reached an agreement. Now don't let me catch you being mean to Flug again or I'll turn you into something nasty.”

With that she grabbed her broom and flew off leaving Stitches in her nicotine shrouded wake.

* * *

Ronnie sat at the kitchen table and drained the last of the tea from the cracked mug that, despite it's off white and slightly grubby appearance was his absolute favourite. It had character, history, and made the tea taste just right. It no doubt had trillions of deadly bacteria and malignant pathogens capable of wiping out entire civilizations in it as well, but that was just by the by as it all added to the flavour. The fact that it had a picture of a cute and fluffy teddy bear on it was neither here nor there either. That's what he told people anyway.

He swallowed his drink with relish, enjoying the burning sensation as the searing liquid flowed down his throat. Ronnie was one of those people that liked his tea ridiculously hot. In fact, the hotter the better, to the point that if you were unlucky enough to spill any of it on yourself, you would be in real danger of having to take a trip to the nearest accident and emergency centre. Stitches, reckoned that Ronnie must have asbestos in his throat, but that had been after he'd gotten some on his left forearm, an incident that had stripped the flesh from the zombie's limb in an instant and left it looking like a bread stick that had fallen on hard times. Ronnie knew different though and that it was from years of dedicated smoking. He might very well have the lung capacity of an asthmatic coal miner, but at least he could get a steaming hot brew down without wincing.

After returning the cup to the table he fished around in a coat pocket and retrieved his leather tobacco pouch because there was no better time to enjoy a nice smoke than after a lovely cup of tea (as well as after waking up, going to the toilet, before breakfast, after breakfast, during the morning, before lunch, during lunch, after lunch, all throughout the afternoon…oh, you get the idea. The only time that Ronnie didn't smoke was when he was in bed, and that was only because he hadn't yet figured out how to keep a steady stream of nicotine flowing into his system while he was asleep).

He flipped the pouch open. “Bugger,” he said to himself (which was just as well because there was no one else in the room). Save for a few lonely wisps of brown dust languishing at the bottom, his pouch was devoid of anything suitable for rolling. Usually Ronnie kept a spare with him at all times so that he would never run out, but seeing as he was recovering from a weekend away with a couple of friends during which he'd made a spectacularly heroic effort at drinking and smoking himself to death, it was perfectly understandable that his mind was still a little hazy. He put the bereft pouch back into his pocket, rinsed his mug and made his way to the office. When he got there he met Stitches, who was standing outside. The door was closed.

“Is he in?” Ronnie asked.

“I'm not sure to be honest,” replied the zombie, giving the door a gentle knock that wouldn't have roused a very nervous insomniac.

“Well, why don't you just go on in?” said Ronnie. “It's not as if it's off limits”.

“I would but when the doors closed it usually means that he's just got up, and you know what he's like about his appearance first thing in the evening. He doesn't like to be seen in a mess does he, but because he hasn't got a reflection, he can't see what he doesn't want us to see, so he just assumes that what he can't see is bound to be something that he wouldn't want us to see, or that we would want to see.”

“I see,” said Ronnie, ever so slightly confused.

“I can hear you out there you know,” came Ollie's voice from the other side of the door. “And I know you're talking about me.”

Stitches inclined his head and spoke to Ronnie in a hushed whisper.

“When he says, 'I can hear you out there you know', that usually means that he doesn't mind us seeing…”

“WILL YOU GET IN HERE YOU DUSTY TW…”

Tired of the verbal badinage that was threatening to turn him into a mass murderer (well, two at any rate), Ronnie flung open the door and marched in, closely followed by Stitches. Ollie was sitting behind his desk and had a 'just got up from a nap and haven't had time to sort myself out properly, you try it when you have the sleeping pattern of a two-year-old' look about him.

“Nice kip?” asked Stitches.

“Yes thank you,” replied Ollie, staring in horror at the pint of blood that had been sitting on his desk when he came in. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit so early in the night? And please note that that was directed at Ronnie and not you.”

“Well that's just charming,” said Stitches, feigning offence quicker than a die hard, soap box, anti-racist who thinks it's disgusting that people of colour still have to ask for black coffee in this day and age. He glanced around the room, desperately trying to find something to talk about in order to lighten the mood. His gaze finally came to rest on the wall above the fireplace.

“How long has that been there?” he asked.

“Only a couple of days,” said Ollie, rising from his chair for a leg stretch.

“It's a mirror,” said Stitches.

“Indeed it is,” said Ollie. “And congratulations on your keen powers of observation. They never cease to amaze me. What do you think of it?”

“Well,” Stitches said, “on reflection…”

“Forget it,” snapped Ollie.

“What!”

“I asked you a simple question. All I wanted was a simple answer. Is that too much to ask for just once?”

“Alright, calm down, Mister got out of the coffin on the wrong side. I was only…hang on. What the hell do you need a mirror for?”

Ollie reached up and adjusted the mirror slightly. Very slightly. So slightly in fact that it was reminiscent of the type of thing that people do when they haven't got the first clue about paintings, portraits or art in general, and the only way that they can convey any artistic knowledge whatsoever is to stand in front of their latest acquisition, with a feigned knowing look on their face whilst they move it by infinitesimal fractions of an inch before spewing forth with drivel such as, 'Isn't it amazing, the eyes seem to follow you around the room', or, 'Of course the artists medium was light don't you know.' You know the sort of pretentious idiot I'm talking about don't you. Everyone has an acquaintance like it, pretending to be all erudite and interesting when they're about as engaging as a sponge. Ask them a real question about proper art like who their favourite impressionist is and just see what happens. 'Well, Jon Culshaw relies too heavily on costume but Robin Williams really nailed the voices and mannerisms.' There is a technical term for them. It starts with knob and ends with head. That's the impression they give anyway.

“Ethan suggested it,” explained Ollie. “He reckoned it would give the office the illusion of space.”

“You could have used the inside of Flug's head for that,” said Stitches, checking his own appearance.

“Funny you should mention him,” said Ollie as he returned to his chair. “He walked past it the other day and thought there was an intruder in the place. Obviously, I then had to explain to him what the difference between an intruder and a reflection was and that we didn't actually have one. Then I told him what a reflection was and finally explained to him what a mirror is. He didn't get it of course and then decided that because I don't have a reflection an intruder must have gotten in and stolen it.”

“That sounds about right. I'm surprised he didn't attack it actually, that's what he normally does,” said Stitches.

Flug did have a tendency to either attack, or flee in terror from things that he didn't understand, and they were legion. It was a long and varied list that's far too extensive to write down here. It's far far simpler, and much much quicker, to note down the things that he does understand.

List of things that Flug understands

1.

And that was as far as it went. Still, we live in hope.

Ollie relaxed into his chair and suddenly remembered that Ronnie had come into the office as well.

“Sorry, mate,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Ronnie walked over to the desk and plonked himself heavily down onto the edge. He yawned expansively.

“Dearie me. I didn't notice it before,” said the half vampire with a friendly smile before Ronnie could get a word out, “but you don't half look rough. Another few interesting days away with the lads I take it?”

“You could say that,” answered Ronnie, trying to stifle another epic yawn.

“So, where did you get to this time?” asked Stitches from his usual place in the ancient, cracked, and desiccated leather chair opposite the desk, a chair that he was rapidly coming to resemble. “Because from the looks of you I think we should have an undertaker on standby.”

“Tell me about it. I'm wasted,” said Ronnie. He shook his head. “I've really got to stop doing this to myself you know. I'm getting too old and it's taking me longer and longer to recover each time.” Ollie and Stitches nodded their heads. They'd heard it all before.

Despite his well-intentioned words he didn't mean any of it and sounded as convincing as an alcoholic swearing off the demon drink just as he's opening up a new bottle (not that the actual demon drink would do him any harm. They liked a tall glass of water with a twist of lime or a refreshing pomegranate juice because all that talking in rasping, creepy growls after they've possessed a twelve-year-old girl plays hell with the vocal cords over the years. I should know. My daughter's twelve and she's an absolute monster).

“Still,” said Stitches, adjusting his right cheek which had dropped slightly, “look on the bright side. At least when the time comes we won't have to get you embalmed. I reckon you've got enough alcohol in your system to preserve you for centuries. Years from now your perfectly uncorrupted corpse will be on display as an unsolved wonder of nature. You'll be famous.”

“Flammable more like,” said Ollie. “Anyway, what's up me ole mucker?”

“Mucker?” said Ronnie, with a confused expression.

“Yes. I thought I'd try out a few new terms of endearment for my nearest and dearest,” explained Ollie. “I think it'll make me appear more approachable and friendly. You know, not so scary and vampiry.”

Stitches raised an eyebrow as a deafening silence descended.

“Ollie, I implore you. Don't. It doesn't work and it's kind of weird if I'm honest. It'd be like Mrs. Ladle being polite or Flug saying something vaguely sensible.”

“Fair enough,” said Ollie. “What about dude? Or maybe bro?”

“Have you banged your head?” said Stitches.

Ollie didn't say any more about it.

“Right, well, now that's cleared up,” said Ronnie, glad to be off the subject, “the reason I came in is because I thought we could kill two bats with one stone. I've run out of tobacco and I can't be arsed going to the shop so I was thinking that as we're trying to encourage Flug to take on a little bit more responsibility round here maybe he could pop down there and buy it for me. What do you think?”

“I suppose it might be worth a go,” said Ollie, after considering the idea for a few moments. “It's a big step but, to be fair to him he has been making good progress lately.”

“And by that he means that the big dope is now able to get to his bed from the door of his bedroom without getting lost and using toilet paper instead of any items of clothing that he happens to find lying around the place,” said Stitches with a snort of derision.

Ollie looked at the zombie, his head tilted to one side.

“Now you know that was an accident,” said Ollie. “And when I explained it to him he got it.”

“Yeah I know but that was my favourite shirt,” replied Stitches, indignantly. “I've never seen such a mess. Poor old Ethan felt queasy for days and he eats things that'd make a troll sick. It looked like an explosion in a peanut butter factory.”

“Well, thanks for that lovely imagery,” said Ronnie, who had gone ever so slightly green.

“And not the smooth kind either.”

“Alright alright,” said Ollie. “Calm down. It won't happen again.”

Ronnie sighed and thought that maybe his regular getaways weren't such a bad idea after all. If it kept him out of the way of dealing with a five-hundred-pound toddler who wasn't quite potty trained then so much the better.

“Flug,” called Ollie. “Can you come in here for a moment please?”

“Yeah, Ollie. Me comin'.”

Flug duly wandered into the office like a confused tower block (as was his wont whether he wanted it or not), but this time his arrival wasn't accompanied by the usual THUD as his head connected with the top of the door frame. The problem was that Flug had a major issue remembering the fact that the doorway was six feet six and that he was over eight feet, so rather than see his insurance premiums go through the roof (Flug had done that as well after he'd indulged in a bout of unsupervised standing up), Ollie had asked Ethan to chisel out an extra twenty-four inches above the frame to give the reanimate some clearance. And it had worked a treat, meaning that Ollie's office had remained intact and plaster free ever since. Obviously that couldn't be said for all of the other doorways and rooms in the building but hey, you can't have everything. Still, progress was progress and as the old saying went, it's all about taking those baby steps (even if the baby in question is roughly the size of a bison with a pituitary problem, and has the IQ of a tree stump).

“Hi, big guy,” said Ronnie to the patchwork behemoth.

“Hi, Ronnie. Me missed you lots and lots.”

“I missed you too, mate. Right, Flug. How do you fancy doing me a favour?”

“And lots and lots.”

“I get it, mate.”

“And lots and lots.”

“Flug.”

“Yeah, Ronnie.”

“Try and focus now. I need you to do me a favour.”

“Kay. Me can do dat. Wot is it?”

“I want you go to the shop and get me some tobacco. Is that something you'd like to do?” asked Ronnie, slowly extracting some money from his trouser pocket.

“Yeah, me like to do it. Which one?” asked Flug proudly, pleased beyond measure to be given the chance to perform such an important task.

“Get me a packet of Smouldering Fluff. Not that other stuff he sells, what is it now, Burning Hell or something?”

“Kay. Which shop?” said Flug.

“Come on now, mate think about it,” said Ronnie. “It's the same one that we get your sweets from remember?”

Realisation slowly dawned in Flug's mind. It didn't show on his face though. That could take upwards of a fortnight.

“Oh yeah,” said Flug as a thin sliver of confectionery inspired drool leaked onto his chin. “Can me get some Corpse Crunchies please, Ronnie?” he added excitedly.

“Of course you can. Now, can you remember what I want?”

“Uh, yeah. Burning Fluff,” Flug announced.

“Not quite,” said Stitches. “That's what you get if you spend too much time with the Stella triplets.”

Ollie shot the zombie the sort of look that the parents of a five-year-old employ when they see said little cherub remove its finger from its nose and attempt to divest it of the glistening, sticky globule it's excavated onto the carpet.

“No,” continued Ronnie, patiently. “I want Smouldering Fluff. I do not want Burning Hell. Got it?”

“Kay. Wot difference?” asked Flug.

“Well, not that it really matters, but Burning Hell is pipe tobacco. It's far too rough for making roll ups,” explained Ronnie.

“Kay.” Flug paused for a moment then, looking thoughtful as if he wanted to say something else. It was either that or he needed to go to the toilet again. Or worse, already been. Thankfully it was the former. “Um, me no get, Ronnie.”

“Think of it like this,” said Ollie, seeing that Ronnie was changing colour rather quickly. “It's like cheese. You can have it grated into big pieces or small pieces. Ronnie wants it in small pieces you see.”

Outside of any and all sweets, Flug's second favourite food was cheese, so Ollie thought that if he put the tobacco conundrum into the context of something that he was familiar with then Flug would be more likely to understand.

“Ah, me get it now,” said Flug, slapping his head in a way that would have stunned an elk.

“Finally,” commented Stitches.

Ronnie put the money into Flug's outstretched hand. “And get yourself some sweets with the change.”

“Fanks.”

“You're welcome.”

“Ronnie.”

“Yes, Flug?”

“Won't da cheese get stuck in your pipe?”

“That's it, I give up,” said Ronnie, snatching back the money amidst howls of laughter from Ollie and Stitches. “I'll go myself. Anybody want anything?”

“No thanks,” said Stitches, slowly recovering to the point that it was now safe to take his hands away from his rib cage. “I had a couple of slices of tobacco on toast earlier.”

Ronnie swore colourfully and walked out.

* * *

Ten minutes later Ollie was alone in his office once more. Ronnie had gone out to the shop, Flug was doing whatever it was that Flug did in his spare time, and Stitches had left, muttering something about some part of his body that needed ironing.

“What to do?” he said to himself. “I know. Check emails.”

He logged onto the Darknet and accessed his account. As usual it was mostly rubbish apart from one that looked quite interesting. It was a link to an information site called Wickedpedia and it had been sent to him by Dr. Jekyll.

'I thought this looked good,' he'd typed. 'It's the place to go if you want to find out anything about anything'.

Being reasonably new to the world of the information super highway (or, with Skullenia's connectivity being what it was, the information off road, dirt track riddled with boulders, stiles, overflowing fords and the occasional cow blocking the way), Ollie and the rest of the residents of Skullenia hadn't quite got to grips with the fact that most of what you read on the intertubes should be taken with a pinch of salt large enough to disable an elephants kidneys, and a very healthy dose of scepticism. Still, as with most things there was a learning curve involved and they'd get to grips with routing out the fact from the fiction soon enough (which would be good because as you, dear reader, and I know from bitter experience it's because most of the information held within a computers flashing innards is usually updated by bored eleven year olds who have nothing better to do after the batteries in their hand-held consoles have run out. God forbid they do something radical like go outside and play. This was the precise reason that a lot of people actually believe that Stephen Hawking celebrated his fortieth birthday on the summit of The Eiger after a particularly challenging ascent of the North Face. This is, of course, utterly ridiculous and anyone believing such patent nonsense would be very silly indeed. The eminent Professor couldn't possibly have achieved this incredible feat because the escalator was closed for repairs. You see, it's all in the details).

Ollie typed in some random subjects just to see how accurate it was. To be fair it wasn't too bad. There was quite a detailed history of Skullenia that contained several references to his Dad, and a nice piece about the Fibulan Museum. Eventually he tired of surfing though; one because he couldn't find anything else of interest, and two, his computer began to throw some very dodgy sites his way that made his eyes itch. That being the case he shut the computer down and went off to the kitchen. Twenty minutes, two cups of Earl Grey, and some Marmite on toast later (who says half vampires aren't afraid to try something different) Ollie decided to pop down to the lab to pay Professor Crumble a visit. What with one thing and another he hadn't seen the old boy for a week, so he thought it best that he check in on him to make sure that he hadn't caused a rift in the space time continuum, caused a massive seismic event, or lost his glasses again. If he was honest with himself though, he rather enjoyed seeing what the mad old duffer had come up with every time he visited.

As he opened the lab door he was greeted by the usual pungent aroma that was a cross between burnt chocolate, and a chemical toilet that had been used a fortnight ago and had no active chemicals of any description in it.

“Hi ho, Prof,” Ollie greeted him. “How's it going? Sorry I haven't been down for a while but I've been a bit busy.”

The ageing scientist looked up from a mould laden Petri dish and studied Ollie through lenses so thick that in direct sunlight they could easily have started a forest fire a couple of miles away. If there was a forest a couple of miles away of course. Which there was. It wasn't on fire though.

“Ah, young Ollie, lovely to see you. But surely you were here just the other day?” said Crumble.

“That was about a week ago,” said Ollie.

“Really! Well, galloping pancakes. That just goes to prove that time certainly does fly when you're having fun I suppose. Conversely if you're not having fun when you're flying then time won't fly at all. Or, if you're timing a flight then you could very well be having fun. Or maybe, if you're in a plane and having fun at the same time, time stops altogether…”

“Professor.”

“Yes, dear boy.”

“I came down for a visit, not a lecture on chronology and aeronautics.”

“Of course you didn't. Sorry. I do tend to blather on don't I? Would you care to see what I've been working on?”

“That's why I'm here.”

Crumble turned to the shelf behind him and grabbed something. Something was as accurate a description as Ollie could come up with anyway. If not that then it could have been anything. The scientist then placed it onto the bench between them and spun it round a hundred and eighty degrees. It was only then that the odd shaped object became recognisable, mostly because of the buttons it had for eyes, and a carrot for a nose.

“A snowman?” asked Ollie, sincerely hoping that he wasn't about to receive a gift-wrapped dwarf.

“Indeed it is. Or a representation of one anyway. This little chap is made of polystyrene. Draw near and observe.”

Crumble took hold of the model's head and lifted it, so that the entire thing split about half way down the torso, like a Russian doll. He put that onto the bench and reached into the base from which he pulled a second object. This one was round and about the size of a honeydew melon, and appeared to be covered in poppy plastic, the type that keeps kids entertained for hours at the supermarket whilst their parents get a double hernia pushing overflowing trolleys around.

Poppy plastic is the one reason that children never get lost in large shops by the way. You can guarantee that if your little one goes missing you'll find him (or her. Don't want to be accused of being sexist) by the bananas with some poppy plastic in each hand and a piece under each foot doing an excellent impression of a bowl of Rice Crispies (please note that the author strongly advises that potential child kidnappers disregard the last paragraph about supermarkets, bananas, poppy plastic, and the fact that lots of children are to be found in this location. And by child kidnappers I mean adults that kidnap children, not kidnappers who are children, because that would be weird).

“Inside this chamber,” explained Crumble, “is a high explosive that I've encased in poppy plastic for safety. This all then sits inside the model. The top then goes back on thusly,” he put the top back on, “and hey presto, it's ready for deployment.”

“Mmmm. And what's this particular wonder called?” asked Ollie, taking a couple of hamstring stretching steps backwards.

“A Bomb in a Bubble Snowman.”

Ollie was too dumbfounded to formulate any kind of response, well a rational one at any rate. Perhaps the most terrifying aspect of all this though was what if Crumble ever decided that he'd had enough of living in his lab and wanted to subject the rest of humanity to his strange, wacky and quite frankly extremely dangerous way of thinking. It would make a stay in Baghdad seem like a restful retreat at a monastery with the monks of The Order Of Being Pretty Quiet Really, We Don't Get Up To A Lot And We Don't Go Out Much.

“So how do you envisage this contraption being used then?” Ollie asked, not really sure that he wanted to know, but morbidly curious nonetheless.

“Oh, I don't know,” said the Prof, though Ollie suspected he knew damn well what he'd like to do with it but didn't want to let on in case people thought he was mad. Madder anyway. “I suppose it could be utilised to scare children in the winter time when they're being naughty. You could tell them that their snowman committed suicide because they didn't look after him properly. You never know it might instil a sense of responsibility into the little tykes. Actually, it would also be rather handy if the polar bears or the penguins ever decided to rise up and take over the world, which you know is going to happen sooner or later. Imagine armies of these little beauties hidden around the frozen wasteland just in case. They'd never suspect a thing.” There was nary a hint of a smile on his face. Professor Crumble was deadly serious.

“Interesting,” said Ollie. “Dark certainly, disturbing in the extreme of course, and definitely worthy of an intense psychiatric review, but interesting nonetheless.”

“Indeed. Those polar bears aren't to be trusted you know.”

In an effort to distract the Professor from formulating any plans for world domination by way of eliminating only the animals at the top and bottom, Ollie pointed at the Petri dish that Crumble had been staring at when he had first come in, which now seemed like a month ago. It still looked like spores flourishing in the bottom.

“What's that?” he asked.

Crumble picked it up and gave it a shake. It turned out to be a fine white powder that had the consistency of baking soda.

“This is one of my best I think,” said Crumble, proudly. “An idea that could change the entire world as we know it. It's powdered water.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“Absolutely not,” said Crumble, clearly thinking that Ollie was astounded (wow that's amazing!) by the idea and not astounded (you what!) by the idea. “Imagine how beneficial this wonderful invention would be in an area that suffers from perennial drought. All you would have to do is ship in tonnes of my formulation and add water. No one anywhere ever need go thirsty again.”

There was absolutely no point whatsoever in trying to explain to Crumble what errant nonsense he had just come out with, no matter how well intentioned. All Ollie could do was what he normally did after a visit to the subterranean nuthouse. He smiled politely, wished him good day and left him to his majestically mad ramblings. And locked him in of course. The world wasn't ready for Professor Rufus Barber Crumble.

* * *