The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) (6 page)

He had one last look in the mirror and tried to tease his
hair into a respectable style. Abandoning this as a fruitless task, he exited the toilet and made his way back to Mrs Argyle, who was engaged in a heated conversation with the ticket inspector.

“Ah!  Here he is!”
Mrs Argyle pointed towards Owen. “I was just explaining that you had both of our tickets.” Mrs Argyle was nodding emphatically.

“Oh, err, yes.”
Owen frowned at his neighbour who continued to nod and grin, looking slightly demented. He put his bag on the table on the opposite side of the aisle, and reached in it for his ticket.

“
Here’s mine.” He offered it to the man, casting Mrs Argyle a questioning glance.

“That’s fine
,” the inspector said after he had scribbled something on it and handed it back. “And your grandmother’s ticket?” He indicated toward Mrs Argyle.

“Oh
.” Owen pretended to search in his bag for the non-existent ticket, hoping for inspiration or Mrs Argyle to intervene. “Yes, it’s in here somewhere. Grannie? Do you remember where you put it?” he asked Mrs Argyle, fighting back a grin.

“
I gave it to you to put in the bag! You haven’t lost it I hope?” Mrs Argyle admonished dramatically. “He’s so careless!”

Owen
stared back at her. “I thought you took it out,” he replied, deciding that she could get herself out of this increasingly uncomfortable situation.

“You need a ticket to ride the train, madam” the inspector advised.

“I understand how the transport system works, thank you young man!” Then with a snap of her fingers to over-emphasise a thought she had seemingly just had, she added: “I remember now. Your machine ate it.”  She folded her arms and glared back at the man, challenging him to argue further.

“Oh that’s very unlikely
, and in that rare situation you wouldn’t be allowed through them.”

“
You’re quite right, what a clever man you are,” she said, in the most insincere manner Owen had ever heard anyone use. “No I remember, now. One of your
helpful
colleagues let me through, said it wouldn’t be a problem as the
nice and understanding
staff on the train would never question the word of a senior citizen.” Mrs Argyle was smiling, but her hands were closed in fists.

“Which man
was this? That’s totally against procedure.” The inspector was apparently immune to Mrs Argyle’s attempts at flattery.

“
Why don’t you call the station? Man in a uniform, didn’t catch his name,” Mrs Argyle said through gritted teeth, her smile persisting despite the muscles and sinews in her neck twitching.

“You wait here, I’ll be back.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Mrs Argyle called after him. “Pillock,” she muttered when he was out of earshot and returned to staring out the window.

“What are we going to do?” Owen
said, panicking.

“Some opportunity will present itself, it usually does
,” Mrs Argyle replied calmly, dismissing his concerns with a wave of her hand.

Owen doubted this but lacking an alternative strategy
he slumped into the seat opposite. They pulled into another station for a moment.

“Next stop is ours
,” declared Mrs Argyle.

“Who are we going to see?” a
sked Owen.

“
Ken,” Mrs Argyle answered simply, her normally feint Scottish accent briefly becoming much broader. But by the next sentence it was back to how it usually sounded. “I hope he’s home, I didn’t get chance to call.”

Owen wondered what relationship this man Ken had with
the lady who had lived next door for so long, realising that he knew very little about her aside from her address. “What did you do for a living? Were you a nurse?” Owen was thinking of his wound, which was throbbing again.

“A
nurse? What makes you ask…?” Mrs Argyle looked up at Owen’s wound, answering her own question. “Oh no, I just picked up a few first aid skills in the war.”

“It must have been very frightening
,” Owen commented, thinking back to work he had done for his history class about being a child during the Second World War (which he presumed Mrs Argyle was referring to), as he doubted she could have been very old at the time.

She shrugged.
“We had a job to do and we did it.” She resumed staring out of the window.

Owen wanted to ask what
war-time job she would have performed as a child but was interrupted by the return of the ticket inspector.

“I phoned the station and they know nothing of you.”

Mrs Argyle sighed. “That’s odd. Well I have no more money.” He didn’t look impressed. “I’m a pensioner,” she added as explanation.

“That may well be, but you can’t travel without a ticket
!” The train started to slow as it pulled into Tring station.

“Fine
,” Mrs Argyle sighed as she stood up, “we’ll be on our way then.”

“You need to pay!”

Mrs Argyle ignored him, striding purposefully toward the doors. He moved to stop her but hesitated. Clearly sensing that he was onto a losing battle he huffed on down the train toward the next carriage. Mrs Argyle beamed to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The train came to a stop and the doors slid open.

“Okey dokey!
Onwards!” Mrs Argyle was sounding more and more like she was a commanding officer in the military. “Not sure how long a walk it is. Are you feeling up for a hike?”

Owen nodded and they made
their way out of the station. There was a brief altercation at the barriers with the station staff over the absence of Mrs Argyle’s ticket, but again her resolve won out and they allowed her to pass. They left the station and walked down the road that ran alongside its entrance. A few minutes of intense power walking later, they crossed a bridge over a canal and turned down a narrow road.

“
Beggars’ Lane
; how very apt,” Mrs Argyle read out the road sign in front of them, smiling to herself enigmatically. By now Owen had given up questioning what she was talking about and concentrated on trying to keep up. They continued to the end of the road.

“
I hope they’re not your best shoes,” she said as they crossed the road and climbed over a fence into a field. Well Owen climbed; Mrs Argyle simply leant one arm on the top and flipped her legs over, landing effortlessly on both feet before continuing. Owen just shook his head in wonder at the age-defying agility that she possessed and followed in her wake.

Mrs Argyle strode across the field
but then stopped suddenly in the middle, staring ahead. Owen caught up to see what she was looking at. Stood about twenty metres ahead was a young looking cow, looking back at them over its shoulder with questioning eyes. Owen’s knowledge of farm animals stemmed from a single book he had read when he was younger, but he recognised the cow as belonging to the Highland cattle breed due to its long wavy red coat and two large horns. Whilst there was nothing remarkable about the way the cow was behaving, Owen had the feeling that behind its eyes lay an intelligence that he had never before attributed to a farmyard animal (although he was at a loss as to why he thought this).

Mrs
Argyle was returning the cow’s stare, as if waiting for a response of some kind. Whilst standing and watching this strange interspecies staring competition, Owen realised that his hands were tingling again, just as they had been earlier in the day; both when he was climbing the building, and when he was confronted by the man in the trilby.

He held up his hands to examine them
, and went to make a fist. He felt something firm and chalky in his hands. Whatever it was that he had managed to grasp was as invisible to his eyes as all of the previous objects he had similarly interacted with. Again, he noticed the feint glow and odd distortion to the space around his hand, and when he let go, there appeared to be a white powdery residue on his palms, suggesting that it was indeed a lump of chalk or similar that he was handling. He felt the fine powder between his fingers and tentatively brought it towards his nose, but it was odourless. Finally he ran his fingers through the space in which he had held onto the object, but they passed through the air unhindered.

Owen turned around to
examine the space around him, and noticed that both Mrs Argyle and the cow were watching him intently.

“Hands feel funny?” she asked, and
patted him on the back and smiled.

“I felt something,” Owen said and pointed at the spot that he had made contact with the elusive rock, “
it was there, I could feel it. But now it’s gone.” Owen continued to look around him, peering up to the sky to see whether it had continued its gravity defying ways by rocketing upwards (it had not).

Mrs Argyle followed his line of
vision, shielding her eyes from the sun, which had decided to peak out from behind the clouds. “I doubt the heavens will be able to answer your questions, Owen,” she said wistfully, “but, as they say: I know a man who can.

“
Come along; let’s go the long way around, she looks like she’s in a mood.” Mrs Argyle gestured with her thumb at the apparently moody cow, and turned and walked to the left, towards where the canal and towpath ran.

Owen followed obediently, noticing the cow was following their progress
but remained stood still. It didn’t look particularly grumpy, but he knew very little about the behaviour of animals so once again he trusted in his neighbour’s wisdom.

They walked through some trees and
across a narrow stream, which Owen managed to slip over in, dirtying his second top of the day. Mrs Argyle helped him upright and led him on so that they emerged on the canal towpath.

There were several barges moored, but no
ne of their occupants were in sight. Mrs Argyle carried on walking until she reached the last one. Unlike the other vessels which were festooned with decorative artwork, this one was completely black and very, very shiny, so that the glossy sides clearly mirrored their reflection. This included the windows, behind which black curtains were drawn. The only markings on it were the barge’s name, written untidily in red paint in such a way that it looked like it was dripping wet. ‘Beggars’ Banquet’, it read.

Mrs Argyle climbed onto the bough. “Ken!”
she called out. She knocked loudly on the front door. “Open up you grumpy old sod, you’ve got visitors.”

The door swung open to reveal a dark cabin from which little light escaped. Mrs Argyle climbed through the doorway, and after pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Owen followed her down the length of the barge. Along one side of the vessel was a long padded bench, whilst opposite were a series of chests and low cabinets. Music was playing softly from an unseen source; Owen didn’t recognise who it was by, but it sounded like jazz.

At the far end he could see a lamp illuminating
a desk, with a door behind it. Sitting at the desk was a slim man in glasses, who appeared to be in his early fifties, with neatly trimmed grey hair and a beard to match.

He
stood up slowly on Mrs Argyle’s approach, revealing that he was wearing blue jeans and a very old but hardy looking green jumper, which sported several leather patches here and there to no doubt cover time-worn holes.

“Hello Ken
,” she said formally. “Billie?”

“Nina,” the man replied. Owen didn’t have a clue as to what they were referring to. “
And who do we have here?” the man enquired in a quiet voice that revealed similar traces of a Scottish accent to his sister.

“This is Owen
Johnson,” she announced.  Ken’s eyebrows darted skywards briefly but he showed no other reaction. “I thought you should meet him. Owen, this is Ken, my older brother.”

Owen tried to hide his surprise that this apparently younger man was actually older than his neighbour, whom he
had always assumed to be in her late seventies. Unfortunately he lost his battle with audible incredulity and emitted a sceptical “older?” before he could regain his composure.

“Oh
, that’s very charming,” Mrs Argyle said. Owen hoped that she was only feigning offence. “Ken’s youthful appearance betrays the fact that he is a miserable old fart through and through.”

There was still no
marked response from Ken, who just stood still and gazed impassively at his guests.

After a few moments of silence, Mrs A
rgyle emitted an annoyed grunt. “Well dear Brother, as usual you really know how to make your guests feel welcome. I suppose I‘ll be the one to rustle up some refreshments.” Mrs Argyle strode past him and through the door behind the desk, which Owen could now see led to a small galley. “Do you know they didn’t even have a trolley cart on the train?!” She weighted her disapproval of the negligence of the train operator to provide drinks, with a level of gravitas usually reserved for war crimes or mass murder. She busied herself in filling a kettle and lighting the gas stove, muttering under her breath and shaking her head as if trying to shake off a persistent wasp. In contrast, Ken was practically motionless, save for the movements of removing his glasses and chewing on one of its arms, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The
silence was very uncomfortable. “How long have you lived on a barge?” Owen asked, more to break the silence than out of an interest in the living arrangements of canal-folk.

A
fter a few moments Ken replied. “Oh, for many a year.” Still chewing on his glasses he continued: “So how did you end up in the company of my dear sister?”

“
I’ve known her for as long as I can remember. She’s always lived next door to me.”

“Not always,”
Ken corrected him.

“Where did you grow up?” Owen asked, still trying to comprehend how Ken had
aged so much more efficiently than his sister.

“Quite
a way from here,” Ken replied vaguely. Silence resumed as Owen tried to think of what else to say. Resigning himself to the situation, Owen down on the bench that lined the left hand side of the barge.

He could now see that the inside of the
vessel wasn’t black as he had initially thought, but a deep crimson colour, including the walls, furniture and carpet. The ceiling was the same glossy black that adorned the outside of the floating home, and the chests and cabinets were painted similarly.

Ken’s stare was still fixed upon Owen, who averted his eyes and busied himself with some fra
ntic thumb twiddling. He could hear Mrs Argyle opening and closing cupboards in the galley, offered a running commentary of the poor quality and quantity of food available.

Ken walked
over to a window on the opposite side of the barge, and reached behind the curtain to open the glass, letting in enough light so that Owen could see the rest of the barge more clearly. Past where he had walked he saw that the front of some of the cabinets were glass, in which stood what looked like shelf upon shelf of vinyl records stacked vertically.

Next to the cupboards was an expensive looking music system
from which the music was still playing, and against its side rested a stack of old cassette tapes. Further along the barge was a hammock, adorned with red and gold blankets. Ken sat down on one of the chests in a sideways position, with one arm hanging out of sight outside of the window. He grinned at Owen.

Three things
then happened almost simultaneously. Firstly, Owen heard water gushing from somewhere beyond the window behind where Ken was grinning back at him. It was so loud it reminded Owen of water being fired from a fireman’s hose. Then he felt a growing tingling sensation in his hands, identical to what he had experienced on several occasions earlier in the day. Lastly Mrs Argyle smashed some crockery in the kitchen and came storming into the living area of the barge.

“Enough!” she shouted.

“Hmmm?” Ken enquired, still grinning but now focusing his attention on his sister.

“Stop that!
It’s broad daylight outside!”

“Oh
there’s no one about,” Ken said dismissively, batting away his sister’s concerns with the hand that was inside the barge. “You should’ve told me how strong he’s grown up to be.” Owen wasn’t sure in what way Ken considered that he was strong, as he had always thought of himself as being a tad on the skinny side.

“You don’t know the half of it, but now is not the time for showing off
.” Mrs Argyle gestured toward the open window.

Ken pulled his arm back through the window and both the sound of water and the tingling sen
sation in Owen’s hands vanished. “So why are you here then, dear Sis, if not to show off your new protégé?”

“There’s been
…” From the look on Mrs Argyle’s face she was considering her words very carefully. “There’s been an incident; like back in the old days.”

“What kind of…incident?”
The use of the word incident clearly had a lot more significance beyond the bizarre scuffle that Owen had witnessed this morning.

“An attack, from one
like us.” Mrs Argyle gestured with her arms to signify that 'us' included all three occupants of the barge.

“You weren’t hurt I hope?”
Ken seemed genuinely concerned for his sister’s well-being.

“No, but he was strong, w
hoever he was. He followed us as far as the station.”

“You led him here?!”
Ken stood up, now looking both anxious and angry.

“
Relax. No, the station at Northampton. He didn’t follow us onto the train, and I doubt he knew where we disembarked. Although your little fountain display just then would no doubt tip him off.”

“Fair point
,” Ken said. Owen was unsure what the fountain related to, although it was probably the source of the sound of water earlier. “Radio silence from now on”.

“That would be wise
,” Mrs Argyle agreed.

“How long do you need t
o stay? What’s the plan?” Ken seemed more animated now.

“Overnight at least. We’ll need to get in touch with
the others, find out if they can shed any light on our attacker.”

“
What form did the attack take?”

“
Let’s just say Owen had a frosty reception in his home.”

Ke
n frowned and cocked his head. “Frosty? As in-?”

Mrs Argyle quickly interrupted him, cutting him off
mid-sentence. “As in it was cold.” Owen had the feeling that Mrs Argyle was trying to prevent her brother from revealing information that she didn’t want Owen to be privy to.

“I se
e,” said Ken, glancing at Owen, “and the young man’s father?”

“You know my dad?” Owen asked, searching his memory for any time that his father had mentioned a ‘Ken’ or someone who may have been related to their neighbour.

“Oh yes, we go way back,” Ken said, again waving his hand dismissively, “but it’s been far too long since we last saw one another. We used to work together,” he added, pre-empting Owen’s next question.

There was so much Owen didn’t know about his father’s life, his friends, his occupation, and who knows what else. Twenty four hours ago Owen would never have thought that his father would be a candidate for abduction, regardless as to how militant some of the protestors at the plant could be.
“He was taken,” Owen blurted out.

“
By whom?” Ken questioned, looking at his sister.

Mrs Argyle walked up to her brother and handed him the paper from the notepad, his father’
s writing and drawing visible. Ken took it from her and stared at it, his frown deepening.

“What do we need to do?” he asked
purposefully, handing the paper back.

“We?
I didn’t think you ventured onto terra firma these days?” Mrs Argyle was smiling thinly at her brother, her tone slightly mocking.

“Oh
, I have to when the need arises. And there’s Myrtle to keep an eye on.”

“Oh yes,
she’s as welcoming as ever. We had a near run-in with her just before,” Mrs Argyle recalled.

“We did?”
Owen was confused, again, failing to remember a Myrtle that they may have encountered.

“In the field,
” Mrs Argyle explained.

“We d
idn’t meet anyone in the field. Only the cow.”

“That’s cor
rect: Myrtle.” Mrs Argyle confirmed, matter-of-factly. “She’s Ken’s guardian angel.”

“Been stuck with the mooing menace for most of my life.
She’s like a relative I can’t get rid of,” Ken explained, looking pointedly at his sister.

“Oh that’s very charming indeed
,” Mrs Argyle responded. “Is there someone who can cow-sit for you?”

“Sh
e’s too valuable to leave behind. Plus she’s good in a fight,” Ken argued.

“Hang on,” Owen interrupted, “a
cow is good in a fight?” Owen couldn’t imagine cattle joining the ranks of nature’s great combatants, although he supposed matadors may argue against this.

“
Myrtle’s one of the hardiest warriors you’re ever likely to encounter,” Ken said with an authority that indicated that the argument had come to a conclusion. Owen did not feel anything was clearer though. “We’ll leave first thing. I can borrow a trailer and I’ve got a car squirrelled away behind the boatshed. We’ll need provisions for tonight. Owen, would you mind wandering up to the village to get some bits and bobs for supper? Cee and I can arrange the particulars.” Ken rummaged in his pocket and produced a twenty pound note.

Owen took
the cash but remained seated. Ken and Mrs Argyle looked at Owen inquisitively.

“Something on your mind?”
Ken asked.

“
Something on my mind?
” Owen repeated incredulously. Where to begin? “Well first of all, I’d like to know where my dad has been taken, and who by. Secondly, I’d like to know why I’m sitting on a canal barge with a brother and sister who look more like mother and son, even though they insist that the age difference is the reverse of what their appearance suggests. No offense,” Owen added to Mrs Argyle.

“None taken,” she said.
"Anything else?”

“Well yes actua
lly, there was something else.” Owen took a deep breath and stood up. “How the bloody hell can I climb through the air; how the bloody hell can you summon the wind god or whatever it is through your hands; and who the bloody hell was that man who turned my kitchen into a chest freezer?!!” By now Owen was shouting, something he rarely did but was finding very therapeutic.

“Fin
ished?” Mrs Argyle asked.

Owen slumped back down.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “for now.”

“Well let’s start with your father, shall we?”

Owen nodded in agreement.

Mrs Argyle held up his father’s note, and pointed at the
‘p’ in a circle that he had drawn. “This symbol is the insignia of a secret sector of the military that was once known as ‘The Remarkables’.”

“Why the ‘p’ then?”
Owen asked. “Surely an ‘r’ would make more sense?”

“Only to your generation,” Mrs Argyle replied with a shake of her head.

“Not just his generation, to be fair sis,” Ken chimed in.