Fast-Tracked And Other Stories

The Old Man In The Shack

He looked every bit the typical Northern Irish kid as he skidded his eighteen-speed Raleigh to a stop. Toby Moggach was seven years old, four feet tall, a fit and trim three and three quarter stones, with a dollop of golden hair that was beginning to darken down from its childhood blond, unblemished skin that was lightening up now its summer tan was fading and blue eyes that, given time, would have many a lass swooning.

He dismounted with supple ease, and, taking his bike by the bullhorn bars, marched determinedly up the steep path leading to the shack. With his brow creased and his eyes fixed on the brown front door, young Toby Moggach took on the appearance of a man who'd travelled a great many miles to seal a career-defining deal and was in no mind to take no for an answer.

When he was still five paces from the shack, the front door clicked open, seemingly of its own accord.

'Come on in, Toby. No need to be shy!' a jovial voice called.

'Hello?' Toby replied timidly, feeling pretty sheepish that he'd entertained the idea of being able to come up here and assert control over the proceedings—his bike was the only bull he'd be taking by the horns today.

He peeked into the dimly lit shack and saw a man of average height, dressed in a dark navy robe with big baggy sleeves who was fiddling feverishly with a bunch of bright-coloured bubbling beakers.

Without turning, the man said, 'Toby! Tarry on the doorstep no more. Do come in, and don't worry about your bike muddying the place up—wheel it in with you and prop it up against the cabinet there.'

In his head, this had played out differently. Toby saw himself catching the old man off guard and being promptly shooed away with his request fulfilled if only he'd promise not to return and bother the old geezer again. These terms Toby would accept with pleasure (he wasn't here to make friends after all) and their business, he'd imagined, would be quickly conducted on the doorstep, with the old hermit eager to be left in peace to do whatever hermity things it was he liked to fill his time with—such as concocting neon potions, which, Toby was betting, had the power to do just about anything.

He hadn't once considered it would play out in the form of a social call, he wasn't equipped for something like that—he was only seven, for crying out loud! When he was left at his grandad's house he took toys and played by himself, he didn't go there to just hang out!

The old man was catching Toby off guard and yet... yet nothing was lost, he reassured himself. Besides, the old hermit sounded wholly unthreatening, so he stepped inside. 'Umm, were you expecting me?'

'Times are strange, Toby. I'm expecting everyone.' The old man fingered his wiry white beard and glanced out the small window as though half-expecting to see an orderly queue forming... or an angry mob on the approach. Toby thought he seemed relieved to spot neither. The old man motioned to the door with a barely perceptible flick of his pinky finger and it swung gently closed.

'Ah, but it's a fine bike, is it not?' the old man proclaimed warmly.

'My mum gave it to me for my birthday, in July.'

'Mum always knows best, and a fine son needs a fine bike, that's what I say. I can only imagine the freedom you have enjoyed these past months when riding out on it!'

'Yeah, I guess. She said it'd do me better as a birthday present instead of waiting until Christmas when it's dark and icy.' It was easy to open up to this old man—he wasn't like the other old cronies that nipped his cheeks and planted beetroot kisses smack on his lips, then went back to discussing death and diseases as if there was nothing better to do.

The old man produced a monocle from one of his oversized sleeves and popped it into his eye socket, presumably to appraise the Raleigh in higher definition. 'That's an astute mother you've got. I surmise that it's most definitely in my best interests to keep your splendid pushbike sheltered while you visit, because if it should rain, yours truly will have to bear the brunt of it, and mums are not to be trifled with!'