The Fathom Flies Again Page 5

  Whipstaff clearly caught Marty’s train of thought, and poked Oaf urgently with an oar, whilst goading the tiny giant to propel them faster to their destination.

  Oaf swatted at his shipmate, protesting as he did so. “Stop it, this is as much wind as I can manage!”

  Marty rolled his eyes, expecting the sniggering and wholly inappropriate response that predictably arrived. “C’mon Oaf, I saw what you had for breakfast.” Whipstaff chuckled, nearly losing his footing as Timbers fell into him in a fit of spontaneous laughter. The threat of very real peril, and possibly impending doom was still no match for a good fart gag, it seemed.

  Blocking out the merriment, Marty squinted into the smothering darkness, for once thankful for the lurid, gaudy lights of Stellar Island as the vast theme park fell into view below them. The sooner they could get there, the sooner they could embark upon a daring rescue, which would no doubt deliver untold boyfriend brownie points, should Kate indeed be in some sort of peril. “Where did you park the Fathom?” he called to Timbers, who wiped whatever passed for tears amongst toy pirates from his good eye. Still gasping from the chuckle fit, the little captain rejoined his comrade at the ship’s bough, pointing off towards a brightly lit, and bizarrely furnished field before them. “Over yonder, in that big puddle.”

  Marty immediately caught sight of the mighty vessel, sitting in totally conspicuous splendor in the water hazard of the park’s admittedly impressive miniature golf course.

  “It’s a golf course, isn’t it?” Whipstaff had joined them at the ship’s bow, and his eyes widened as they descended towards the Fathom.

  Marty nodded, smiling at the sight before him. “It is indeed. To the power of wow.”

  Very few people could reasonably describe anything golf related using the word ‘wow,’ and yet Stellar Island’s crazy eighteen-holer was a feat of putting genius. All manner of things rotated, swayed, spun, and twirled amongst the various, space themed greens. The whole course looked as though it had been designed by Albert Einstein on a sugar high.

  Marty shot a glance over towards Timbers, who was in a similar state of enthrallment. “I can see why you landed the Fathom here.” He could read the glint in his friend’s good eye only too well.

  “I know, right?” Timbers chattered gleefully. “If there’s time, I really want a crack at this little beauty.”

  “Something tells me that we won’t have time,” Marty warned, still thinking about the explosion they had passed moments earlier, and more eager than ever to set sail to Kate’s place.

  Timbers huffed, turning from the cornucopia of fun before him. “Oaf, stow the clubs. We’ve got work to do.” Oaf flinched at hearing his name, peering around for the clubs he was apparently meant to have brought.

  They were descending rapidly but gracefully upon the Fathom when the latest explosion rang out, much closer than the last. The crew hung on instinctively as their journey came to a skittering halt on the deck of the mighty galleon. Timbers hopped onto the deck as Whipstaff and Oaf secured the lifeboat. “I’d give that an eight for the landing.” Whipstaff imparted to his lumbering crewmate.

  “Out of what?” Oaf replied.

  Whipstaff paused, leaned over the side of the lifeboat and turned back to Oaf. He delivered a non-qualifying shrug before hopping overboard after his captain. Marty found himself doing the same thing as Oaf sought further clarification, hoisting himself onto the deck of the familiar vessel and striding off after his miniature allies. It was exactly as he remembered it, resplendent, and in no way diminished by its arrival in the real world. Marty bristled with gleeful pride as he surveyed what was, in essence, a mighty, majestic product of his own imagination.

  The Fathom stood silently in the shallow waters, and Marty craned his head upwards as he chased after Timbers and Whipstaff. High up in the rigging, Zephyr sat motionless in the moonlight as a glittering statue with only a faint wisp of steam escaping from his steely beak. The Bobs were nowhere to be seen, although the sounds of hammering, sawing, and general beavering rang out steadily from within the bowels of the Fathom.

  Catching up with Timbers at the quarterdeck, Marty surveyed the eerily quiet golf course that surrounded them. Not a creature was stirring, not even a clown. “Where are they?” Marty wheezed, rationing his words as he fought to catch his breath.

  Timbers whipped out his trust brass telescope from a pocket in his frock coat. “Probably still down in the town somewhere,” he mused, scanning the horizon thoughtfully. “It’s Friday night, and they love a good spot of carnage.” It was probably not the best attempt at reassurance, and the little captain glanced up sheepishly from his scope. “What I mean to say is, we’re probably safe for now.”

  Marty sighed, feeling no more enlightened than he had when he had toppled out of bed a short while ago. “What exactly is going on?” he mustered. “How are you here, and how are they here?”

  Timbers looked up from his telescope. “I told you. The SHINY.” When presented with something shiny, pirates are about as helpful and specific as magpies. It’s pretty, and they want it, and that’s as far as it goes. Marty rubbed his face impatiently. “Yes, you said. What about the…shiny?”

  Whipstaff trotted down the steps from the quarterdeck. “We’ve not seen anything like it before. We flew into it, and here we are. Maybe it’s a gateway or something.”

  His captain chimed in. “Yeah, that would explain how they got through as well. It’s like a door between here and there. Only there’s more than one, and apparently clowns like shiny things too.”

  Marty held up a steadying hand. “Well we still haven’t seen any clowns.” He was trying to convince himself as much as offer a note of rationality. “That thing under my bed wasn’t a clown. Maybe Peepers’ bunch isn’t here after all.”

  The very name caused ripples of repulsion to jar everyone on the deck. Peepers had disappeared, shoeless, over the side of the Fathom, with a cannonball to the face, but as every seasoned nightmare sufferer knows, there is never a shortage of clowns in one’s own subconscious.

  “Well whoever it is, they seem to prefer their Friday nights explosion-flavored,” Timbers said, a little too enthusiastically than perhaps intended. Marty couldn’t fault the tiny buccaneer, since it was for the most part how he himself liked to start his weekends. Such incendiary musings weren’t going to get them anywhere however, and he turned his attention sharply to the deck of the Fathom. “Where are the Bobs?” he ventured, the tinkering below deck having subsided upon their arrival.

  As if in response to the rollcall, one of the Bobs popped his head out from a small hatchway beneath the central mast. “Hello Marty,” the Bob twin sang cheerfully. “Nice plane of existence you’ve got here.” Immediately, the head vanished below deck, and the hammering continued. Marty leaned closer in an attempt to get a better look into the darkness within the hatch, but whatever the Bobs were messing with down there remained an inky black mystery.

  “Nice?” Timber interjected, casting a dubious glance around him. “It’s like Disneyland during a power cut.” Realizing that Marty was stood next to him, he spluttered an apologetic caveat. “I’m sure it’s very nice in the daytime.” Marty turned his attention back to the hatch, and the little captain shot a hasty glance at Whipstaff, imparting a distasteful shake of the head.

  The miniature first mate chuckled, jabbing at Oaf who was busily paying no attention to the conversation, and fiddling with a button on his waistcoat. “Hoist the anchor, big lad.” Whipstaff continued. “We need to be shoving off.”

  Oaf’s single train car of thought returned grudgingly to everything non-button related, and he loped off to where a large iron chain spilled out over the side of the deck.

  Marty had given up trying to discern the Bobs’ actions, and joined Timbers in peering out across the mighty Stellar Island mini golf course. “Timbers, where are we headed? You’re not suggesting that we head into town, cannons blazing, are you?”

  The little captain beamed en
thusiastically. “Yeah! Well, no. If there’s time. We’re off to find the shiny.” He rubbed his little cloth hands, seeking a similarly hearty response from Marty, which was not forthcoming.

  “Look, we need a plan.” Marty sighed. “First thing’s first. We need to find Kate.”

  Timbers stifled an urge to go and find some rampantly ablaze thing and toast marshmallows on it, and nodded sharply. “Right you are, matey.” Spinning on his heels, the little captain barked out orders to his crew, who were still halfway through his last round of commands. “Bobs! To your stations, and give Zeph a nudge, will you?”

  Also Bob retrieved a long, wooden poking device from beside the main sail and sighed forlornly. Clearly the task of giant robot parrot poking was somewhere akin to latrine scrubbing, although the latter was probably less likely to get him hideously lacerated.

  Timbers clapped his hands together as Oaf hauled a giant anchor onto the deck behind him. “So, where are we headed?”

  Marty glanced at his watch. It was late, and Kate did have to be at work in the morning, so it didn’t take much Sherlockian chin rubbing to deduce that her place might be a fairly safe bet. “She doesn’t live far from me, so we’ll have to head back into town,” he began, instantly aware that Timbers was paying absolutely no attention to him whatsoever. The miniature corsair stared up into the rigging, where Also Bob was engaged in a decidedly one sided tug of war bout with Zephyr. Clearly it didn’t matter who, or what you were, being rudely awakened by a sharp poke in the ribs doesn’t go down all that well. “Come on Also Bob, look lively! We aren’t going to find Marty’s fine lady sitting in this duck pond, are we?” he bellowed as the grappling twin fought to regain possession of his proddy thing.

  “Actually…” Whipstaff chimed in from the edge of the deck. He pointed out past the caddy hut to where two figures were rapidly approaching. Marty followed the cloth finger, his smile almost leaping off his face as he recognized that long blonde hair, with Kate hiding beneath it. He couldn’t make out the figure scuttling along next to her, who seemed to be no bigger than his pirate compadres, but lost amid a blurry, red glow. Did pirates come in neon? He wondered, realizing how absurd such a thought would have been to him a few months ago. Now, he wouldn’t bat an eyelid if he discovered that they came in cereal boxes with a free turnip.

  Timbers had joined Marty and Whipstaff at the edge of the deck, and ushered for Oaf to lower a rope ladder over the side. “There! Problem number one solved,” he chuckled. “This plan malarky is dead easy! What’s next on the list of things requiring zero effort?”

  Marty’s jaw stiffened, his eyes still firmly fixed on the advancing Kate and her mystery (but seemingly flabouyant) new friend. “Next, we need to go and see who’s been painting the town kaboom,” he muttered, hoping that the hint of reluctance in his voice had been subtle enough to go unnoticed.

  Again, Whipstaff’s pointing finger was called into action, although shakier and far more ominously than before. A dozen or so new figures emerged from behind the giant rocket ship, which stood proudly over the seventh hole. They were still too far away to see clearly, and yet Marty had seen that stilted, jittering lope before. As bright red noses and ragged, orange hair fell into view, it became clear what was causing Kate and the big red firefly to be steadfastly legging it towards them. Marty glanced down at Timbers, who’s good eye would surely have popped out in terror, had it not been a button. In one whirling motion, the little captain darted for the main sail, hurling frantic commands at his navigators in their crows nests. “Bobs, stop messing about with the bird and get us skyward. We’ve got incoming!”

  One Bob peered from his lofty turret worriedly, waving frantically down towards the deck. As Timbers prepared to re-state his order, with added swearing for extra effect, Also Bob planted himself firmly back on deck, causing the planks to shudder and creak. He held in his hand the pokey stick, clearly having won his battle with Zephyr, but not with gravity. The dazed twin shook his head and blinked muddily, no doubt hearing bells or birds or banjos in his be-clattered head.

  This was no time to be taking a concussion break, and Timbers hoisted his shipmate to his shaky feet before the poor little guy could remember which Bob he was.

  “Clowns! Bird! UP!” Timbers shrieked, clearly under the impression that the situation would not need any further clarification. Whether Also Bob understood what was being barked at him or not, he had one foot on the first rung of the main sail as the Fathom took on two boarders. Marty blew out a thankful sigh as Kate scrambled to her feet, hoisting up something small and glowing behind her.

  “Hi Kate, no time for pleasantries, hold onto something, we’re about to…” Timbers paused, mid-sentence, regarding the luminous creature beside her which pulsed between red and yellow. “Why do you have a badger with you?”

  Kate straightened, flashing a smile of relief at Marty. “He’s not a badger, he’s a…” she began in reply to Timbers, stopping short as the captain waved away the impromptu biology lesson. “Fair enough, he could be a little fluffy mermaid for all I care right now, let’s get the hell out of here.” The thing that wasn’t a badger, or probably a fluffy mermaid, flushed momentarily with a dazzling pink hue, before all eyes returned to the incoming circus goons.

  They were whoopingly, gibberingly close to the ship now, and as Also Bob heaved himself back into his crow’s nest, they collided heavily with the hull, breaking against it like a shrieking, grease-painted tidal wave.

  “Dammit!” Timbers’ wailing was almost inaudible as Zephyr finally received the order to take off. “The plan. They’re messing with the plan!”

  Chapter Nine

  The police department phone cackled sharply to life on a desk laden with papers and cold coffee. This would no doubt have caused the lone figure in the office to recoil in surprise, had the damn thing not been doing the same thing for most of the evening. The solitary policeman snatched up the handset testily, and offered a jaded ear to the ranting babble which sprang from it. It seemed that the town had chosen tonight, his turn on the graveyard shift, to turn seven shades of bonkers, and it was about as fun as being the designated driver at an end-of-the-world blowout bash.

  Detective Michael O’Riley dropped wearily into his chair, noting down the latest slice of bedlam that was being served by the frantic caller. He was a patient man, a fastidious man, but ultimately just one-man. Hell, he wasn’t even a detective, just another blue hatted flatfoot in what had been, until tonight, a reassuringly sleepy town. He liked the term ‘detective’ though. It carried with it the sort of gravitas and sunglass wielding cool that he had so wanted his job to entail. Had this been one of his beloved cop shows, he would be receiving this news on the police radio in his Lamborghini, as he unsheathed his heavy caliber sidearm and gruffly whispered something immensely slick and quotable to his partner. He grimaced as this glamorous image faded, and his pen ran out of ink, mid-sentence.

  He slammed the phone down and leaned back in his chair, casting his eyes over the paperwork-pocalypse of his desk. Attention to detail was all well and good, but this was way too much detail for one night, forming a mountain of misdemeanors before him.

  He spied his name plate amongst the pile of scrawled felonies, and his brow furrowed. It seemed that his fellow officers had decided it would be amusing to post-it out Michael O’Riley in favor of the new moniker, ‘Crikey O’Blimey’. This made no sense to Michael, since he was neither Irish, nor overly dramatic, and he reached to dispose of the offending jape, simultaneously sending torrents of crime reports cascading to the ground. This was intolerable. Not just the joke, but the whole situation. He was not a man without humor. He tried to be liked and accepted by his fellow officers. No, that wasn’t completely true, he mused. In fact, he couldn’t give a beer monkey’s ass about any of them, but here he was, holding down the fort on his own as the town danced the wacky waltz around him. He was a team player, and he cared what happened on his watch. By Crikey O’Blimey, he did give a damn.
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  O’Riley winced at the realization that his apparent new nickname had already taken root in his mind.

  Snatching his keys from the outrageously detailed mayhem on his desk, he made for the door. He was the only one here, and by rights, he shouldn’t leave his post, but there were people out there who clearly needed to be protected and served, and what was he doing here? Basically, documenting a riot. The answering machine could quite adequately do that, quickly, efficiently, and with the same amount of usefulness as he was currently providing. As O’Riley punched the blinking red button of the answering machine, another call came squawking into the office.

  “Hi! Thank you for calling the police hotline, how may I take your order?” The machine cheerfully enquired. O’Riley shook his head He had no idea who recorded these messages, but since the soup of the day seemed to be carnage noodle, it didn’t seem too far out of place.

  The door heaved outwards, delivering justice and a small, portly police officer into the night. O’Riley wasted no time leaping into a patrol car and gunning it into the High Street. He had dutifully noted down the technicolor chaos of the evening thus far, so it surely couldn’t be long before he happened upon some of this wholesale naughtiness first hand. The thing about wholesale naughtiness, after all, is that it tends not to hide its gleeful, mischievous light under a bushel.

  Scarcely ten yards down the High Street, O’Riley’s squad car bore him to a screeching halt, as said shenanigans tumbled out from the darkness, cavorted cheekily before him, and scampered disgracefully off into the night.