Mindscape

by M. M. Vaughan

Hanging inside were only two green files. The first was labeled MEDUSA THE CAT and the other simply CHARLES.

  Chris picked up the files and ran his finger over the top of them. There were, he estimated, about ten pages of swirling colors. Chris was surprised: He would have expected somebody to have more than ten memories of somebody she was in love with. He opened it, and the pages flew up into a line. He walked up to the last one, dated the previous night, and touched it. The memory, Chris saw, was of Ms. Lamb in what he assumed was her own living room, but as far as Chris could tell, nobody was there with her. Chris looked around, fascinated, at the dark purple walls and the black sofa covered in clumps of fine gray hair that Chris assumed belonged to a cat called Medusa, and tried to commit everything to his own mind so he could tell the others. He was just taking in the collection of sappy love films on her shelf when he heard the phone ring. Ah, thought Chris, the memory is of a phone conversation. He saw Ms. Lamb’s hand reach out and pick up the phone.

  “Yes,” said Ms. Lamb, the familiar angry voice sending a chill down Chris’s spine.

  “Hello, Gertrude. It’s Charles,” said a dark voice, it’s booming low tone filling the room.

  “You’re late. You were supposed to call me at seven. It’s five past seven now.”

  There was a bit of a pause and some muffled noise coming from the other end.

  “Is somebody with you?” snapped Ms. Lamb.

  “Um . . . no, of course not . . . , my darling.”

  Immediately, Chris felt the air around him warm slightly.

  “Oh, Chucklebunny,” said Ms. Lamb, suddenly talking in a sickly little girl’s voice that made Chris’s skin crawl. “I forgive you, sweetie. Just don’t do that again. It makes Gertrude sad.”

  Again, another pause.

  “Okay. Er, do you want to go on a date on Friday?”

  “Does Zeus like a glass of nectar?” said Ms. Lamb, sitting up with excitement.

  “I don’t know, does he?”

  “Yes!” said Ms. Lamb. “That’s a yes, of course, Chucky. Where are you taking me—a romantic dinner?”

  “No. We’re going to a concert.”

  Ms. Lamb leaned back as an old hairy cat jumped up on her lap. “Wonderful! Classical, opera?”

  “No. They’re called . . . the Death Screamers.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said the Death Screamers. They’re playing at the Hell Club in Camden.”

  “The Death Screamers? I’ve never heard of them. What kind of music do they play?”

  “Heavy metal. Are you coming or not?”

  “Oh . . . it’s not really my kind of music, but . . . well . . . yes! Of course, my honey bear.”

  “Fine. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “Wonderful. And, Chucksie?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s going to be your lucky night. I’ve already decided that you may kiss me, and if you’re really good, you can give me a foot massage.”

  Silence.

  Finally, the man spoke. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “Eight o’clock. I’ll be ready and waiting, Chucklebunny.”

  “It’s Charles . . . and I need your address.”

  “Of course, how silly of me. It’s three Albany Street, Notting Hill. Apartment eighteen.”

  “See you then . . . , dear,” said the man.

  “Bye . . . oh, I can’t hang up. You hang up.”

  The phone went dead.

  Chris closed the memory, shuddering at the thought of anybody having to touch Ms. Lamb’s feet. He walked over to the other end of the line to find Ms. Lamb’s first memory of Charles and was surprised to see that it only dated back to Friday evening, less than a week earlier. Intrigued, Chris opened the memory, and a setting he knew very well filled the room. Chris watched as Ms. Lamb walked away from the elevator and toward the front door of Myers Holt. She turned around, and there, for a strange moment, he saw himself looking sullen, Miss Sonata and the others beside him. Chris recognized it instantly as the moment they had met Ms. Lamb upon returning to Myers Holt after Ron had chased the wrong boy outside the British Museum.

  “Have a lovely weekend,” said Miss Sonata.

  “Yes, and you,” said Ms. Lamb, opening the door and stepping out into the rain. She clomped down the steps and had started to walk to the right when, suddenly, a man slammed into her.

  “You stupid, clumsy oaf!” shouted Ms. Lamb.

  “I’m so sorry,” said a deep voice. Chris immediately identified it as being the voice on the other end of the phone to Ms. Lamb. This is the beginning of the romance, thought Chris, enjoying the thought of how much the others were going to love hearing about this.

  The man took Ms. Lamb’s hand, and before she had a chance to snatch it away, he raised it gently to his lips, his head bowed, and gave her hand a small kiss.

  Chris grimaced.

  “Oh . . . my,” said Ms. Lamb, “how . . . unexpected.” Chris could feel, from the sudden warmth in the room, that Ms. Lamb was blushing.

  “Please forgive me—let me take you for a coffee to apologize.”

  Ms. Lamb looked up, her hand still in his, and then the two of them locked eyes.

  Chris watched as the man’s face came into view, and he froze. As Ms. Lamb lost herself in the man’s hazel eyes, Chris could only stare in shock. His heart suddenly pounding furiously, Chris wondered if he was mistaken, but the more he stared, the more certain he was: This was the man that Chris had seen on Friday evening with the pale boy in the street.

  And now, not long after he had seen that, there was the man bumping into Ms. Lamb. Chris was absolutely certain: This was no coincidence. He dropped the folder to the ground and ran out the door.

  • • •

  “What did you see?” asked Daisy, excited.

  Chris, still shaken, said nothing. His mind was racing, and he took a breath to try to calm himself.

  “Chris? What occurred?” asked Sebastian.

  Chris could tell, by the sound of his voice, that Sebastian was concerned about him. The others too probably. He wanted to share with them what had happened, but a thought stopped him: Just because he believed something did not mean that his friends would. They hadn’t believed him when he said he’d seen the boy talking to the man in the first place—they were almost certainly not going to believe that he had seen that same man again in, of all places, Ms. Lamb’s mind. Even knowing that it was true, it was still hard to believe.

  “Argh, I can’t stand it!” said Rex finally, interrupting the silence. “Tell us what you saw. Is she really in love?”

  Chris nodded. “Yes.”

  Lexi shook her head, exasperated. “And?”

  Chris knew they were starting to get annoyed with him. Could he tell them? he wondered. He wanted to. He had so many questions that they could have helped him with: Why did Charles meet with the boy? Were they plotting something? Was Ms. Lamb now involved in that plot? And, most important, did they also think that the plot might be about taking revenge for the killing of the boy’s brother?

  “Chris!”

  But he couldn’t risk it. What if they thought he was going crazy again and told one of the teachers? He didn’t want to go through the worry of whether he was about to be expelled once more. And he didn’t want to fall out with his friends again either. He had enough information to find out the answers for himself. So, finally, just at the point that Rex looked to be getting ready to punch him, Chris began to talk. He told them about everything—the somber stone buildings of her mind, her shedding pet cat Medusa, and the interior of her living room. He repeated, word for word, the telephone conversation between Ms. Lamb and her Chucklebunny and watched them recoil in horror, just as he had, when he mentioned the promise of a kiss and a foot massage. Then, finally, he told them about how they met, recounting every detail except for one: the moment he had recognized Charles as the same man who had been talking to Dulcia Genever’s son. When he finished, they all laughed, clapped, a
nd cheered, and Chris, glad that they were happy, excused himself and went back to his bedroom.

  • • •

  That night, Chris was sitting in an armchair in the Map Room, still trying to make sense of what he had seen, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

  “Chris?”

  Chris turned his head and saw Daisy looking down at him. “Hi,” he said.

  “You okay?”

  Chris nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You sure? Don’t you want to join us for the pool tournament?”

  Chris shook his head. “I’ll give it a miss, thanks.”

  Daisy looked at him for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and walked off.

  Chris was about to get back to thinking about the plan he was formulating when he heard Daisy’s voice from behind him calling out to the others.

  “I’m not going to play this one,” she said.

  “Makes no difference to me. You would have lost anyway,” said Rex.

  Daisy ignored Rex. “Chris,” she said, loud enough that everybody could hear.

  Chris leaned his head round the side of his armchair. “Yes?”

  “Will you help me in the library? I can’t find a book I need for my ancient Greek revision.”

  “I’ll help you,” called Philip, “I memorized the whole library catalogue the other day.”

  “Oh, um, it’s okay thanks,” said Daisy, “Chris isn’t playing in the tournament, so he can help me. Can’t you, Chris?”

  Chris sighed and stood up.

  • • •

  “I don’t really feel like talking, Daisy,” said Chris as Daisy guided the library platform down to the bottom level.

  “Just five minutes,” she said as she opened the platform gate and walked over to the large sofa by the unlit fire. “Okay?”

  Chris watched as she took off her shoes and then curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked underneath her. He rolled his eyes and walked over, sitting down at the other end. “Look, Daisy, really . . .”

  “What’s the matter?”

  The question surprised Chris. “Nothing. I just didn’t feel like playing pool, that’s all.”

  “It’s not that, Chris. I know you, and you haven’t been fine since you left Ms. Lamb’s mind.”

  Chris had always considered himself a decent liar—he’d had to become one to dodge questions about his situation at home, always fearful that somebody would find out and take him away from his mother. But, for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Daisy.

  “You won’t tell anyone?” he asked.

  Daisy shook her head.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise, Chris. I won’t tell anybody if you don’t want me to.”

  Chris took a deep breath.

  “Ms. Lamb’s boyfriend Charles is the same man I saw with the boy outside the museum last Friday.”

  Daisy stared at Chris, her eyes widening as she processed what he was telling her.

  “Are you sure?” she asked finally.

  “One hundred percent. There’s no doubt about it. Charles was talking to that boy, and then, less than a half hour later, he was asking Ms. Lamb out on a date. I know that nobody believes me, but I’m telling you, Daisy, it was definitely him. I know what—”

  “I believe you,” interrupted Daisy.

  “Why? Nobody else does.”

  “Because I know you wouldn’t lie to me. If you said you saw him, I believe you.”

  “Oh,” said Chris, blushing.

  “So, what happened?”

  Chris told her about Ms. Lamb and Charles’s first meeting outside Myers Holt and the moment he had recognized the man’s face.

  “But, I don’t understand. Why?”

  Chris took a deep breath. “I think the boy wants to get revenge for the death of his brother. And I think he wants to take that revenge on me. Who better to help him than Ms. Lamb? She’d jump at the chance to get rid of me.”

  “You think she’d do that?”

  “Definitely—don’t you?”

  Daisy thought about this for a moment before finally nodding her head slowly. “Yes. I think she would.”

  Chris breathed a huge sigh of relief. He could have kissed her for believing in him. Then he blushed for even thinking it.

  “So what happens next?” asked Daisy, not appearing to notice Chris’s red face.

  “I’m going to follow her on her date,” he said.

  “You can’t go out of school—last time you did that, you got caught, or have you forgotten? Why don’t you wait until she comes back to school on Monday? You can access her mind then.”

  Chris had already considered this. “I don’t want to wait until then. It might be too late.” He wondered if that sounded a bit overdramatic. Fortunately, Daisy seemed to be taking him seriously.

  “I don’t know, Chris. It’s such a risk. You could get caught. Worse, you could get hurt.” She reached out and touched him on the arm. “I don’t want that to happen.”

  “I have to do this, Daisy.”

  “But why, Chris? Why can’t you just tell somebody?”

  “You know they won’t believe me. It’s not just that. I . . . well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to meet the boy. This man is my only chance of finding him.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” asked Daisy.

  “I need to tell him I’m sorry for what I did,” said Chris, feeling himself begin to get upset. “I want him to know that I didn’t mean to kill his brother.”

  Daisy put her head in her hands. For a moment, neither of them spoke, until, finally, Daisy looked up.

  “You’re going to do this no matter what, aren’t you?”

  Chris nodded.

  Daisy considered this for a moment, and Chris held his breath, hoping his trust in her wouldn’t backfire on him. Finally, she spoke.

  “I won’t tell anybody, but you’ve got to let me help you. I don’t want you to get caught, and if something goes wrong and you don’t come back, I’ll be able to get help.”

  Chris hadn’t expected this. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want you to get into any trouble. How will you help me?”

  “I can activate the elevator for you. That way, it will be my thumbprint on record, but I’ll make sure I stay with everybody for the evening so nobody will suspect anything. I’ll tell them you’ve gone to bed not feeling well. Then, at some point—you can choose when—I’ll wait for you upstairs to take the elevator back. If you don’t turn up exactly at that time, then I tell the teachers everything.”

  Chris wanted to hug her. “Thank you—you’re amazing.”

  Daisy blushed before quickly changing the subject. “So . . . want a game of chess?”

  • CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •

  Chris and Daisy spent much of the next two days huddled together in deep discussion as they finalized their plan to get Chris out unnoticed and back to school safely afterward. They had mapped out Chris’s route to the concert by bus and worked out all the timing—including the time that Chris had to return by: eleven o’clock, after which Daisy would raise the alarm. Although Chris considered Philip to be his best friend, and he still was, Daisy was different. Having grown up without a sister or any friends that were girls (or boys, for that matter, but anyway . . .), Chris was surprised how easy he found it to talk to Daisy; he could share his thoughts and concerns with her, things that he couldn’t have discussed with anybody else.

  On Friday evening at ten minutes past seven, as everybody else chatted loudly over dinner, Daisy gave Chris a small nod. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes as hard as he could. Daisy stood up suddenly.

  “Chris, are you okay? You don’t look well.”

  Chris looked up weakly. “I’m . . . uh”—cough—“okay,” he said, wishing that he were a better actor.

  “Are you sure? Your eyes are really red,” said Philip.

  “I’ll go and get Maura,” said Lexi, standing up
.

  “No!” said Daisy and Chris, in unison.

  “Really”—cough—“I’m fine,” said Chris as he made his way over to the door. “It’s just a cold or something. I’m going”—cough—“to just go to sleep early. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “Maura has prepared her homemade apple pie,” said Sebastian. “Do you not wish to partake?”

  Chris shook his head.

  “Wow,” said Rex. “You must be really ill. Keep away from me, Germ Boy.”

  Chris raised his hand as pathetically as he could manage and waved good night to everybody, then turned and walked out of the door, coughing.

  “I’ll just go and see if he’s okay,” he heard Daisy say, as he walked quickly down the corridor.

  “Did you know kissing was invented to spread germs?” shouted Rex.

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Daisy, running out of the door to catch up with Chris.

  • • •

  Daisy stood at the bottom of the ladder to Chris’s bed and handed him the spare blankets they had taken from the linen cupboard earlier that day. Chris stuffed them under the duvet until both he and Daisy agreed that it looked like there was a person under it. Satisfied, Chris jumped down and started to make his way to the door when Daisy stopped him.

  “Don’t forget this,” she said, pulling out a small pink purse. “There’s four pounds eighty in there. It’s all I had.”

  Chris put it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said as they both peered out into the hallway to check that it was empty. Seeing that it was, they jumped out at the same time, and as quietly as they could manage they ran down toward the entrance foyer and sat down on the long seat by the elevator doors.

  “Can you see it?” asked Daisy.

  Chris turned his head to face the wall, let his mind go blank, and immediately was able to look directly into the office of Ron and John’s quarters.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, without looking away.

  Chris heard Daisy stand up next to him as he watched Ron and John through the wall next to him, sitting back in their armchairs as they watched a film on the small television set.

  Knock. Knock.

  Chris watched as John picked up the remote and pressed pause. Ron pulled his sunglasses down from the top of his head and jumped up to answer the door.