Conrad Burrows and the Moroccan Mystery

Conrad Burrows was twelve years old and lived with his parents in a perfectly ordinary house in Littleover, on the outskirts of Derby.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about Conrad.

He was of average height, possessed a mop of fair hair that refused to remain in any sensible arrangement, and wore a school uniform that appeared to have been purchased in anticipation of a considerable growth spurt.

He attended the local comprehensive school, where his academic achievements were satisfactory, his behaviour generally acceptable, and his enthusiasm for mathematics dependent largely upon the proximity of lunchtime.

He had several friends, played football whenever the opportunity arose, and had never been involved in anything more serious than an unfortunate incident when 7 of his classmate simultaneously got their heads stuck in the school railings.

Conrad was, in almost every respect, a perfectly normal boy.

His parents, however, were another matter entirely.

The Burrows family

Alan Burrows was forty-six years old, five feet eight inches tall, and possessed the cheerful disposition of a man who had never found much reason to be miserable.

In his younger days, Alan had been considered rather handsome. Time had since made certain adjustments, particularly around his waistline, where a modest beer belly had begun to establish itself, and upon his head, where his hair was gradually withdrawing from several previously occupied territories.

Nevertheless, Alan remained an agreeable-looking fellow with a ready smile and an infectious enthusiasm for almost everything.

He worked as sales manager at a highly successful retail establishment in Derby town centre called Hats & Hoovers.

The shop proudly advertised itself as possessing the largest selection of suction cleaning equipment and headwear in the area.

It was an extraordinary business.

On most mornings, customers could be found queuing outside, eager to examine the latest developments in vacuum technology or purchase a particularly attractive hat.

Some came for the hats.

Others came for the hoovers.

A surprising number left with both.

Alan was largely responsible for this remarkable commercial success.

He possessed an almost supernatural ability to move effortlessly between the two product ranges.

A customer entering the shop in search of a replacement vacuum cleaner might find themselves leaving with a powerful upright suction appliance, a spare set of filters and a handsome trilby.

Similarly, a gentleman seeking a modest woollen cap could easily be persuaded that his purchase would be greatly enhanced by the addition of a cordless carpet cleaner.

Alan regarded these transactions as entirely logical.

"A clean house and a well-dressed head," he would frequently announce, "are the foundations of a civilised society."

His employer agreed wholeheartedly.

The resulting sales bonuses had provided the Burrows family with a comfortable income, a pleasant home and an unusually large collection of promotional vacuum-cleaner calendars.

But despite his considerable commercial talents, Alan's true passion lay elsewhere.

He played the trombone.

And he played it magnificently.

His most treasured possession was a gleaming brass Vincent Bach trombone, purchased thirty years earlier during a visit to Brighton.

Alan had practised almost every day since.

He could perform classical compositions, popular songs, military marches and a surprisingly convincing interpretation of the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

On particularly enthusiastic evenings, he could be heard several streets away.

The neighbours had long since accepted this.

Some had even moved.

Jane Burrows and the onions

Jane Burrows was forty-three, petite, attractive and considerably better organised than her husband.

She possessed bright, intelligent eyes, immaculate hair and a wardrobe that suggested she had never once purchased an item of clothing without first considering whether it complemented her shoes.

Jane worked in the accounts department of Massive Hats International Ltd, a distinguished hat manufacturer whose reputation had once extended far beyond the boundaries of Derbyshire.

The company had achieved worldwide recognition during the Suez Crisis of 1956, although the precise nature of its contribution to those events remained a matter of some uncertainty.

Older employees occasionally spoke of an enormous government order, a missing shipment and a particularly unfortunate misunderstanding involving the Egyptian customs authorities.

The company preferred not to discuss it.

These days, Massive Hats International concentrated primarily on the Derbyshire market, together with a modest but surprisingly enthusiastic customer base in Ashburton.

Jane enjoyed her work.

She was particularly fond of the occasional opportunity to model new hat designs, and her knowledge of accounting procedures was second to none.

But, like Alan, she possessed a talent that extended far beyond her professional responsibilities.

Jane could juggle.

Not merely three tennis balls or a couple of oranges.

Jane could keep five onions airborne simultaneously.

And she could do so with astonishing precision.

Red onions, white onions, brown onions — the variety was immaterial.

Given sufficient room and a reliable supply of vegetables, Jane could maintain a continuous airborne arrangement for several minutes without dropping a single onion.

Her performances were legendary in certain parts of Derbyshire.

Once, during a particularly ambitious demonstration at a village fête, she had managed six onions for nearly eleven seconds.

The event was still spoken of in hushed tones.

The birth of Trombuggling

Alan and Jane had first met at a garden centre.

Alan had been examining a selection of ornamental shrubs when Jane approached him to ask whether he knew where the onion sets were kept.

He did not.

However, he offered to help her look.

They spent the next forty minutes searching among bedding plants, compost and decorative stone frogs.

By the time they located the onions, Alan had invited Jane for coffee.

Three weeks later, they were inseparable.

It was during one of their early evenings together that they discovered the remarkable compatibility of their respective talents.

Alan had been practising his trombone in the sitting room when Jane, who was preparing dinner, began absent-mindedly juggling five onions in time with the music.

Alan stopped playing.

Jane stopped juggling.

They stared at one another.

Then Alan raised his trombone.

Jane picked up the onions.

And something extraordinary happened.

The music and the juggling combined in perfect harmony.

Every flourish of the trombone was accompanied by a graceful movement of vegetables.

Every dramatic crescendo sent the onions soaring higher.

It was beautiful.

It was intense.

It was, they decided, entertainment.

Within a fortnight they had established a performing partnership.

They called themselves Trombuggling.

Their first engagement was at the birthday party of a retired plumber in Mickleover.

The audience was astonished.

Nobody had ever witnessed anything quite like it.

Alan performed a stirring rendition of The Floral Dance while Jane maintained five onions in continuous motion above her head.

The retired plumber wept openly.

Bookings followed.

Pubs.

Weddings.

Birthday celebrations.

Children's parties.

Agricultural shows.

A particularly memorable funeral, although the family subsequently requested that the final trombone solo be omitted from the recording.

Trombuggling became a sensation.

At the height of their success, Alan and Jane were invited to perform at the opening ceremony of Meadowhall Shopping Centre on 4 September 1990.

Alan played a magnificent selection of popular melodies while Jane juggled onions beneath the newly installed dome.

The audience applauded enthusiastically.

A security guard fainted.

Their fame continued to grow.

They performed across the country, appearing at increasingly prestigious venues and occasionally being paid.

Their crowning achievement came on 39 March 1996, when they appeared on the celebrated television programme Pebble Mill at One.

It was to be the programme's final broadcast.

The reasons for this have never been satisfactorily explained.

Alan performed a breathtaking trombone medley while Jane executed a complex series of onion manoeuvres.

The studio audience rose to its feet.

One onion rolled beneath a camera.

The programme was never broadcast again.

For several years, Trombuggling continued to flourish.

Then Jane became pregnant with Conrad.

The couple decided that parenthood required a somewhat less demanding schedule.

Their performances became less frequent, although they never entirely abandoned their beloved act.

And in more recent years, Trombuggling had acquired a third member.

His name was Terry Stout.

Terry Stout

Terry was an extraordinary-looking man.

He stood six feet five inches tall, was exceptionally thin, and possessed feet so large that he occasionally had difficulty turning around in narrow corridors.

Originally from Birmingham, Terry had relocated to Derby following an unfortunate incident involving his neighbour's Talbot Horizon.

The car had caught fire.

Terry maintained that the incident was accidental.

His neighbour disagreed.

The matter was eventually settled without further discussion, although Terry was advised that returning to Birmingham would be unwise.

He found employment in the stockroom at Hats & Hoovers, where his considerable height proved useful when retrieving items from the upper shelves.

He and Alan quickly became firm friends.

For seven years they worked together, discussing vacuum cleaners, hats, football and childhood memories of Findus Crispy Pancakes.

Then, one evening, Alan discovered Terry's remarkable talent.

Terry could impersonate Snoop Dogg.

Not vocally.

Unfortunately, Terry possessed a very strong Birmingham accent and a minor speech impediment, which made any attempt at reproducing the American rapper's distinctive voice largely unsuccessful.

But his movements were astonishing.

He could glide, sway, gesture and dance with such extraordinary precision that observers occasionally forgot they were watching a six-foot-five warehouse employee from Birmingham.

Alan was immediately impressed.

He invited Terry to join Trombuggling.

Terry accepted.

The revised act was spectacular.

Alan played the trombone.

Jane juggled her onions.

And Terry danced silently in the background, performing a bewildering series of Snoop Dogg-inspired movements.

The combination was electrifying.

At a wedding reception in Nottingham, the bride's father described the performance as "the most confusing thing I've ever enjoyed".

Trombuggling had entered a glorious new era.

Conrad, meanwhile, remained entirely unimpressed.

He had grown up surrounded by trombones, onions and Terry.

To him, it was simply what his parents did.

An ordinary Tuesday

On one particular Tuesday morning, Conrad Burrows awoke feeling slightly peculiar.

Not ill.

Not uncomfortable.

Just peculiar.

There was a faint sensation somewhere inside him.

A gentle warmth.

Almost a buzzing.

As though a very small electrical current were passing through his body.

He lay in bed for several moments, considering the sensation.

Then he decided it probably wasn't important.

He climbed out of bed.

His feet sank into the familiar carpet.

He crossed the room, pushed open the bathroom door and began his usual morning routine.

Teeth.

Face.

Hair.

The hair proved particularly troublesome.

After several unsuccessful attempts to flatten it, Conrad abandoned the exercise and returned to his bedroom.

He pulled on his school uniform.

The trousers were slightly too long.

The jumper was considerably too large.

His tie hung at an angle that suggested a disagreement with the laws of geometry.

At seven forty-five, he went downstairs.

Jane was in the kitchen.

"Morning, darling."

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah."

"Crumpets?"

"Yeah."

Jane placed two freshly toasted crumpets on a plate.

Conrad spread them generously with butter.

"Don't forget your packed lunch," she said.

"Won't."

"And you've got football after school?"

"Maybe."

"And remember to bring your PE kit home."

"Yeah."

Jane examined him.

"Are you all right, darling?"

Conrad considered mentioning the strange buzzing sensation.

It was still there.

A faint warmth beneath his skin.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Good."

She kissed him on the forehead.

"Off you go, then."

Conrad collected his schoolbag and packed lunch.

"Bye, Mum."

"Bye, darling."

He stepped outside.

The morning air was cool and damp.

He walked towards the bus stop, where he usually met his friend Nathan.

As he walked, the peculiar buzzing continued.

It wasn't unpleasant.

In fact, it was rather interesting.

He wondered briefly whether he might be developing superpowers.

Then he remembered that he had a geography test.

The possibility of superpowers became considerably less interesting.

The school day

The morning passed without incident.

In mathematics, Conrad completed a series of equations with moderate success.

In English, he wrote a paragraph about a character in a novel he had not entirely finished reading.

During geography, he correctly identified the capital of Portugal but became confused when asked to explain the economic significance of the River Rhine.

The buzzing continued.

By morning break, it had become slightly stronger.

Conrad sat on a low wall with Nathan and two other boys.

They discussed football.

Nathan had acquired a new pair of trainers.

One of the other boys claimed his uncle had once met Gary Lineker in a petrol station.

Nobody believed him.

Conrad rubbed his arms.

"What's up?" Nathan asked.

"Nothing."

"You look weird."

"Cheers."

"Seriously."

"I feel a bit funny."

"Funny how?"

"Sort of electric."

Nathan considered this.

"Have you been electrocuted?"

"No."

"Could be that, then."

The conversation returned to football.

By lunchtime, the sensation had spread to Conrad's legs.

It felt as though thousands of tiny bubbles were moving beneath his skin.

He ate his sandwiches.

Cheese and pickle.

An apple.

A packet of crisps.

The buzzing remained.

During afternoon science, Conrad found himself staring at a diagram of an electrical circuit.

He wondered whether the sensation might be connected to something they were studying.

He considered asking the teacher.

Then decided against it.

The teacher was explaining resistance.

Conrad felt that he had enough of that already.

At three twenty-five, the final bell rang.

Conrad collected his belongings and caught the bus home.

By the time he reached Littleover, the strange warmth had become quite noticeable.

He could feel it in his fingers.

His toes.

Even the tips of his ears.

Nevertheless, he remained unconcerned.

He had homework to finish.

An evening at home

Jane was preparing tea when Conrad arrived.

"Hello, darling. Good day?"

"Yeah."

"Anything interesting happen?"

"Not really."

"Good."

Conrad went upstairs and completed his homework.

At half past five, Alan returned from Hats & Hoovers.

He was in excellent spirits.

"Evening, everybody!"

He hung up his coat.

"Sold three vacuum cleaners and a Panama hat to the same woman today!"

Jane smiled.

"That's nice, dear."

"She only came in for a dusting brush!"

Alan laughed heartily.

Then he went upstairs to change.

At six thirty, the family sat down to tea.

Jane had prepared chicken, potatoes and vegetables.

There were no onions.

She had been practising earlier and several were temporarily unavailable for culinary purposes.

"How was school, Conrad?" Alan asked.

"All right."

"Learn anything?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent."

Alan helped himself to another potato.

"Anything unusual happen?"

Conrad thought for a moment.

"I've felt a bit electric today."

Jane looked up.

"Electric?"

"Yeah. Sort of buzzing."

"Are you feeling poorly?"

"No."

"Any pain?"

"No."

Alan considered the matter.

"Static electricity, perhaps."

"Maybe."

"Probably your jumper."

Conrad looked down at his jumper.

It was made of wool.

This seemed plausible.

Jane nodded.

"Well, let us know if it gets any worse."

"Okay."

The conversation moved on.

Alan described an exceptionally successful demonstration of a cordless vacuum cleaner.

Jane mentioned a discrepancy in the accounts at Massive Hats International involving forty-seven missing bowlers.

Conrad explained that Nathan's uncle probably hadn't met Gary Lineker.

After tea, the family decided to play Risk.

Alan preferred to concentrate his armies in Europe.

Jane adopted a cautious strategy involving Australia.

Conrad, who had been studying the board carefully, launched a determined campaign across northern Asia.

At eight forty-seven, following a series of remarkably fortunate dice throws, he captured Kamchatka.

It was a magnificent victory.

Conrad raised both arms.

"YES!"

Alan looked disappointed.

Jane congratulated him.

For several minutes, Conrad forgot entirely about the buzzing.

Then it returned.

Stronger than before.

A warm, tingling sensation moved through his legs.

He looked down.

For the briefest moment, he thought he saw a tiny spark flicker near his left foot.

He blinked.

It was gone.

At nine o'clock, Jane announced that it was bedtime.

Conrad protested mildly.

He was informed that the decision was final.

He collected his schoolbag and went upstairs.

Alan kissed him on the forehead.

"Night, son."

"Night, Dad."

Jane kissed him too.

"Sleep well, darling."

"Night, Mum."

Conrad climbed the stairs.

As he crossed the landing, tiny sparks fizzled around his feet.

They were very small.

Almost invisible.

He paused.

Looked down.

Then shrugged.

He entered his bedroom, changed into his pyjamas, cleaned his teeth and climbed into bed.

The buzzing had become a warm, gentle hum.

It seemed to surround him.

He closed his eyes.

Within moments, he was asleep.

Trombuggling

Downstairs, Alan was feeling musical.

He opened the cupboard beneath the stairs and removed his beloved Vincent Bach trombone.

Jane collected five onions from a basket in the kitchen.

"Fancy a little practice?" Alan asked.

"Why not?"

Alan polished the mouthpiece.

Jane rolled her shoulders.

Then Alan raised the trombone to his lips.

A magnificent note filled the sitting room.

Jane tossed the first onion into the air.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Within seconds, all five were moving in perfect rhythm.

Alan launched into a dramatic rendition of The Blue Danube.

The onions rose and fell.

The trombone gleamed beneath the ceiling light.

Jane smiled.

Alan played louder.

The music drifted through the house.

Up the staircase.

Along the landing.

Past Conrad's bedroom door.

Inside, Conrad slept peacefully.

A faint blue spark flickered beneath his duvet.

Then another.

And another.

Alan continued playing.

Jane continued juggling.

The night wore on.

Wednesday

Conrad awoke feeling perfectly normal.

The buzzing had disappeared.

There was no warmth.

No tingling.

No strange electrical sensation anywhere in his body.

He stretched.

Yawned.

And sat up.

Sunlight was streaming through the curtains.

He glanced at his clock.

Seven twenty-three.

He had overslept slightly.

Conrad threw back the duvet.

Climbed out of bed.

And raced across the cold tiled floor.

He reached the window.

Grasped the curtains.

And pulled them open.

He was in Morocco.

THE END.