Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (18 page)

He opened his red-rimmed eyes and looked around in all directions, then shook away what sleep remained in his head and leaped down on to the floor. Charlie was so relieved to see Danny alive and well and apparently suffering no ill-effects from last night that he couldn't restrain himself from rushing over to where he sat at the table rereading the contents of Aloysius's message. He sprang up on to the table and started licking one of his hands, his tail wagging at about a hundred miles an hour. Danny, without looking up, scratched Charlie's head, then said, ‘Good morning, Charlie, and yes thanks, I'm fine. Now down you hop and get your own breakfast. And be snappy about it. We've a busy day ahead of us.'

Charlie jumped down as bidden. He looked at Danny, then at the box of cornflakes sitting on the table. Danny was still engrossed in his study of the message. Charlie barked quietly, pointing his snout towards the cornflakes. Danny looked at him and smiled. ‘I see what you mean, Charlie, but I'm busy right now. Just fire away and become whatever you have to to help yourself. You don't need me to tell you
every
single time.'

Charlie wagged his tail in thanks. Although he
was
capable of transforming on his own, he preferred to let Danny special language decide what it should be. It was safer that way. Sometimes Charlie didn't make the best decisions off his own bat. Now, though, he could see that Danny had other things on his mind.

Charlie dashed under the table. Seconds later, a chimpanzee with four arms emerged from the other side of it. Charlie wasn't taking any chances. He'd been concentrating on
hands, hands, hands
, and had overdone the transformation somewhat. Not that it mattered one way or the other, as the many hands made light work. He shovelled down the entire box of cornflakes, using four spoons in rapid rotation. He didn't forget his manners, though. He sat on the floor with a soup bowl between his hairy legs, upending flakes into it until they were all gone. Then he washed the bowl and left it on the draining board to dry.

M
r. Pearson was in a state of euphoria. At precisely the same time as Danny was poring over Aloysius's message, he phoned the electronics plant where he worked and informed them he wouldn't be in today. When the telephonist who took his call said she hoped he'd be feeling all right again soon, Mr Pearson told her he'd never felt better in his life.

He just didn't feel like working today, he said, as he'd far better things to occupy his mind at the moment. The telephonist advised him sweetly to go straight back to bed, get his wife to make him a nice hot drink of Lemsip, and she was sure he'd be right as rain in the next few days. The telephonist was under the impression the poor man had a fever, and didn't realise what he was saying was due to being somewhat delirious at the moment. She'd often felt that way herself after catching a bad dose of the flu. The telephonist would have quickly changed her opinion if she knew the
real
reason for Mr. Pearson's euphoria.

*

When he'd come home last night after his sightseeing trip on Charlie's back, Mr. Pearson was beside himself with excitement. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was in disarray, and his heart was going bumpty-bumpty-bumb-bump-bump!, as though there was a tiny drummer inside his chest pounding away on tom-toms, while another midget musician was accompanying him, using Mr. Pearson's ribs as a xylophone.

It was exhilarating. Mr. Pearson had no idea that it was possible for anyone to feel in such a rarefied state of elation about anything. He felt like stripping off all his clothes, running out into the garden, turning on the sprinklers, and waking up the whole neighbourhood with a rendition of
Singing in the Rain.
But, of course, he didn't quite have the energy for anything like that yet.

For the moment, Mr. Pearson just sat there at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea and nibbling a Custard Cream. His new invention was lying beside the packet of biscuits, only begging to be allowed to justify the long hours he'd put into its creation. Mr. Pearson was surprised it didn't rise up of its own accord, pop into his hand and squeak at him not to be wasting time in discovering if it would pass the ultimate test. But Mr. Pearson knew that there was no rush. Besides, he'd have to allow his excitement to abate to something approaching normality first. The drummer and xylophone player inside him weren't too far away from concluding their concert.

Another leisurely nibbling of a second Custard Cream should suffice to see them taking a well-earned standing ovation from Mr. Pearson's other internal organs. And Mr. Pearson was perfectly right about that. After the clapping subsided, and he'd drained the last of his tea, a wondrous mixture of serenity and excitement combined to engulf him in the most extraordinarily beautiful fashion. He felt as though nothing was beyond him.

Upstairs, he eased the handle of the bedroom door open without making a sound. Mrs. Pearson lay like a hump-backed whale under the duvet, fast asleep, wheezing like a bellows, her body rising and subsiding with every inhalation and exhalation of her slumber. The room was in semi-darkness, the light from the streetlamp outside throwing the design of the net curtains across the carpet.

Mr. Pearson stood in the doorway and watched her bulky outline beneath the heaving duvet. He wasn't in any hurry. He'd been savouring this moment for most of his married life. This, he thought to himself, was how Newton and Marconi must have felt just before they were about to conduct the experiments which would change their lives forever.

Mr. Pearson aimed the business end of his invention at his wife. He was so confident of its abilities after last nights performance, he did so in a leisurely manner, pointing it in her direction in slow motion, as though he almost hoped she'd wake up and see what he was about to do.

He'd have loved to see the look on her face at the precise second he rendered her helpless. But he knew that even if he poked her with a stick, she'd just lie there wheezing her head off until morning. Mr. Pearson pressed a button and the invisible beam did the rest. Mrs. Pearson, duvet and all, rose up from where she lay and began heading for the ceiling.

After last night's trial and error session, Mr. Pearson now knew exactly what he was doing. Another deft manipulation of a button halted her progress. She commenced displaying astounding powers of levitation five feet over the bed. He eased her up another foot or so, then spun her around and around like a spinning top for a while, thinking to himself that she'd make a fortune in a circus if she could only do what she was now doing unaided.

Then Mr. Pearson brought her to a standstill. He sighed the biggest sigh of relief he'd ever sighed in his entire life. At last he'd achieved what he'd been so long striving for. He couldn't resist the pendulum button, but was careful to ensure the motion control was only on at quarter-speed.

After all, it wouldn't do to switch to full power. Not inside the house anyway. With Mrs. Pearson's bulk, she'd more than likely smash right through the walls like a human wrecking-ball if he made the same mistake as he had with Danny. As it was, things were fine. Mrs. Pearson was swinging ever so gently from side to side, as though suspended from invisible wire. If she hadn't already been asleep, Mr. Pearson might have been tempted to start crooning
Rock-a-bye baby,
or some other lullaby. Satisfied with his night's work, Mr. Pearson eased his wife back down to her former position, the duvet fluttering to rest over her exactly as it was prior to the experiment.

*

‘You know, Dermot,' Mrs. Pearson said shrilly at the breakfast table next morning. ‘I had the most peculiar dream last night.'

‘Really, dear,' Mr. Pearson replied innocently. ‘That's nice.' ‘What do you mean, nice! I haven't told you what it was yet!'

‘But I'm sure you're going to, dear,' Mr. Pearson said calmly, spreading marmalade on a slice of toast. ‘Otherwise you wouldn't have mentioned it, would you?'

‘Harrumph!' she growled, not quite sure what to make of that remark, also a bit surprised in the manner in which it had been relayed to her. ‘I sincerely hope for your sake you're not trying to make fun of me. Nice, indeed!' She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed it a few times. ‘If I didn't feel so dizzy, I'd give you a slap across the ear for being so cheeky.'

Mr. Pearson munched some toast, looking totally disinterested at the threat. Normally, he'd have one eye on the kitchen door, judging how quickly he could get to it if the need for rapid escape arose.

‘Dermot!' she growled. ‘Didn't you hear me? I said I'm feeling quite dizzy this morning.'

‘That's probably as a result of that gin you drink before you go to bed, dear,' he said affably, giving her a nice friendly smile. ‘You really should give it up, you know. If you don't do it of your own accord, I'm afraid I'm going to insist you never down another drop.'

Mrs. Pearson, never in her life having been stuck for words before, was dumbfounded. She wondered if she'd heard correctly, even though she was absolutely certain she had.

Dermot sat across from her looking totally at ease, as he smiled back at her angelically. There was something seriously the matter with his mind. There could be no other possible explanation. She'd heard of such cases in the past. Perfectly rational people suddenly losing their sanity within the blink of an eye.

Mrs. Pearson was certain it was something like that. She recalled reading of one unfortunate woman having to phone the emergency services to take her husband away to the local lunatic asylum. And it had happened at the breakfast table too. She'd just placed a boiled egg before him, when he abruptly demanded a second one to be balanced on top of the one he hadn't even taken the top off, threatening that if she didn't do it immediately, he'd burn the house down. Mrs. Pearson decided to try to get to the bottom of Mr. Pearson's lunacy once and for all.

‘Dermot,' she demanded as soon as she'd recovered her speech. ‘Are you feeling all right? Because if you are - -'.

‘I'm, feeling fine, dear, really I am. I've never felt better in my life. I'm feeling so well, I phoned work and told them I wouldn't be coming in today. That's how well I'm feeling.' Mr Pearson informed her, deliberately hammering home how well he felt, just in case there was any misunderstanding as to his state of well-being. ‘And please pour me another cup of tea, if you'd be so kind. And be quick about it! Come along, hup-hup-hup!'

Mrs Pearson was so shocked at being ordered what to do, she automatically arose from the table and did as she was told. As she was fetching the teapot, she took a note of where the matches were on the dresser shelf and, as soon as she'd refilled Mr. Pearson's cup, she made it her business to place them out of sight behind a row of plates.

She resumed her seat opposite Mr Pearson in silence, eyeing him surreptitiously from beneath her eyelashes as she pretended to sip some tea. This was dreadful altogether. There was no knowing what he might take it into his head to do next. He
looked
perfectly normal, thought considerably happier looking than she could ever recall seeing him before, but there was definitely something seriously wrong with his brain-box. There
had
to be.

Mrs. Pearson was considering what would be the best thing to do in the circumstances. Should she slap him a few times across the face to bring him to his senses? Grab him in a headlock and demand he apologise immediately for having the effrontery to speak to her in the manner he had?

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. How dare he! Telling
her
what to do! All that nonsense about her beloved gin! And
hup-hup-hup
! if you don't mind! If she hadn't been so surprised at being ordered to pour him more tea, she'd have emptied the milk jug over his head instead! And might still do it if he didn't quickly come to his senses.

Yet, for all Mrs. Pearson's mounting anger, she couldn't help but have this niggling feeling that maybe Mr. Pearson really had gone crazy. She decided she wouldn't pounce on him for at least another five minutes. Not until she'd investigated things more thoroughly. She'd pretend, no matter how difficult it was going to be, that her pipsqueak of a husband hadn't said any of the things he had.

‘Dermot,' she said, with what was for her a great deal of patience, deciding she'd start the conversation she'd commenced some time ago all over again, just to see if she'd imagined it all. ‘I had the most peculiar dream last night.'

‘Of course you had, dear,' Mr Pearson said in the most maddeningly condescending way. ‘You were floating over the bed and spinning around in circles, not to mention imitating the pendulum of a grandfather clock.' He gave her a wink the likes of which she wouldn't have believed unless she saw it with her own eyes. ‘It's about time you decided to take some exercise. After all, dear, you really could do with losing a good deal of weight.'

‘How – how – how - -', Mrs. Pearson commenced to say, but couldn't quite complete the question she wanted to ask, in her astonishment having hardly heard the allusion to how fat she was.

Mr. Pearson leaned towards her in a conspiratorial manner, tapping the side of his nose to convey he knew what she was trying to ask him, ‘It's all right, dear,' he said soothingly. ‘You don't have to mention another word about it.' Again he winked knowingly at her. ‘I've recently qualified as a professional mind-reader.'

‘Dermot!' she screeched at the top of her voice, deciding that enough was enough, and that she was finally going to put him in his place once and for all, whether or not he
had
flipped his lid. ‘Shut up!'

‘Tsk-tsk-tsk!' Mr. Pearson replied calmly. ‘You really should try and control that temper of yours. It's definitely getting worse.'

‘That's it!' Mrs. Pearson bellowed, totally losing it, leaping up from her chair to once and for all put manners on her mouse of a husband. ‘I'll show you what's what!'

She came rushing around the table. Well, more wobbling than rushing, heading for her prey just about as fast as she could manage it. Mr. Pearson stayed where he was, smiling at her benevolently. His invention was balanced on his knee. He lifted it above the level of the table, then pressed the freeze button. Nothing happened. Mrs Pearson continued to close in on him. Mr. Pearson's serenity evaporated and panic replaced it, surging through his bloodstream like wildfire. But his agility came to his rescue. Just as Mrs. Pearson reached out to haul him from the chair, he ducked beneath her hands, and went dashing out through the kitchen door, his legs all but buckling beneath him.

Something's wrong, something's wrong, something's wrong!
The words were fashing through his head as he fled.
What can it be? What can it be? What can it be?
As he was contemplating whether he should rush upstairs and lock himself in the bathroom, or head for the hall door and the safety of open space, it struck him.

He'd forgotten to insert the batteries after he'd removed them last night! He couldn't believe he'd been so careless after all his meticulous planning. Only he was so nimble on his feet and Mrs. Pearson so ponderous, heaven knows what might have happened to him. He could be halfway into the electric blender by now if she'd caught him.

‘Dermot!' Mrs. Pearson was puffing in his wake. ‘Co –me bac-k here th-is instant, you mis-er-ab-le li-tt-lle ex-cu-se for a man!'

Mr. Pearson tore up the stairs like a maniac. The batteries were lying on his bedside locker. The staircase was shaking as Mrs. Pearson trundled her way up after him, being slowed by the fact that she insisted on bellowing what she was going to do with him when she cornered him, something that was making her stop and gasp for breath every so often

Just as well, Mr. Pearson thought, as he slid the batteries into place with shaking hands. There were eight of them, and he only barely had the last one in when Mrs Pearson burst open the bedroom door almost in a state of collapse. Her face was like a ripe tomato, and even though she was snatching great draughts of air into her heaving lungs, she had a look on her face like a particularly pleased lioness who'd finally run down an elusive gazelle. She filled the entire width of the doorway, so there was no hope of the rebellious upstart escaping.