by Shea, Alan
I walk around the park on my own, trying to think. The day smells new, clean. Mist clings, sleep in the eyes of the morning. On the trees, buds peep. The world is turning its coat inside out. Seasons are changing around me, but I feel like I did when I was walking through the ruins after the bonfire, looking for something that wasn’t there: like I’m in a bubble where anything can happen. It’s exactly the same feeling. Something going on that you don’t understand. But someone does. And I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do.
14
Truth and lies
I’m determined. I’m confused. I’m angry. I catch him up in the street. Reggie’s walking fast, his head down. Forehead creased in a frown. Flash sniffs the gutters, runs to keep up, wags his tail when he sees me. The sun flicks shadows in and out of doorways.
I’m a steamroller. Reggie’s the tarmac. I grab his shoulder. ‘Right, come on then, let’s have it. What’s goin’ on?’
He stops; looks for a second as if he doesn’t know me.
‘I’m not asking you, Reggie, I’m telling you. I want to know. Things are turning upside down around me and I think you know what’s doing it. For a start . . .’ I shove the lolly stick at him, ‘. . . what d’you know about this?’
He takes the stick. Turns it over in his hand and looks hard at me.
‘The n-number’s gone. I thought it would be.’
I grab his shoulder again. He stops. Turns. Screws up his eyes, the way he does.
‘So? Come on. What’s going on here? The fireworks, the tidal wave, the lolly stick – what’s happening?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s not easy to explain . . .’ He stops; looks around like he’s searching for inspiration.
‘You know when you w-want something so bad you feel like you can taste it? Even see it?’ He looks at me. Waits for a second. ‘Well, I can.’
‘Reggie, what you on about? You can what?’
‘S-see it.’
‘See what, you idiot?’
‘See whatever it is I want to see. I m-mean, really see it. Like it’s real. But the really incredible thing is . . .’ He stops again, hesitates, ‘. . . I can let other people see what I’m seeing. I’ve got the p-power to show people what’s in my mind. I don’t know where it comes from b-but . . .’
That’s it. He’s lost his marbles.
‘Reggie, you feeling all right? That is such a load of . . .’
He gives me one of his looks. Screws up his eyes.
‘I call it mind-touching because when I do it it’s like I’m reaching out and touching other people’s minds. Don’t suppose it’s got a n-name really.’
‘Reggie, I couldn’t care less what you call it. I’d call it a load of old rubbish. The only thing that’s touched around here is you. Right, the joke’s over. If you’re not going to tell me what’s really going on . . .’
He looks hard at me. ‘It’s n-no joke.’
‘Come on, you’re not serious, are you?’
I can see he is.
‘I’m just trying to help. You wanted to know what’s been happening, and I’m t-telling you.’
‘All right, then. Just let’s say that for a minute I believe you – which I don’t – are you really trying to tell me that the fireworks, the chocolates, the lolly, all that stuff happened because you’re making what you imagine real? Like making a dream come true? You’re trying to tell me that we didn’t have fireworks? We didn’t go into Mr Giovanni’s shop to get those chocolates? None of it was real? We just saw what you were thinking? This “mind-touching” thing?’
I don’t wait for the answer. There isn’t one. Not one that’s going to make sense. ‘OK, what about the chocolates? I took the box home. Me and my mum ate them. They were delicious.’
‘No, you only thought you d-did. That’s how real mind-touching is. If you go and take a l-look in Mr Giovanni’s shop window, you’ll find—’
‘I know what I’ll find, Reggie, I’ve already been there.’
‘W-well, then?’
‘Well then, nothing. What about the fireworks?’
‘The same. They never happened, not for real. That’s why there were n-no cases left.’
‘And you did all these things, right? You made fireworks appear in the sky and a number appear on a lolly stick?’
He suddenly looks at me, surprised, as if I’ve missed the point. ‘No, not m-me, Alice.’
Now I’m getting cross. ‘But you said you did it.’
‘No, I said I c-could do it. But it’s not me who’s been doing it. Don’t you realize?’ He stops. Looks hard at me. ‘It’s not me. It’s you.’
That really is it. I’ve had it now. The anger is boiling. A thermometer in my mouth would read ‘danger of explosion; remove from mouth’.
‘You’re cracked, Reggie. You’re cracked! I didn’t do anything. Don’t you think I’d know if I could go around doing things like that?’
‘That’s how mind-touching starts. You do it without even knowing it. You just think you’re thinking really hard about things. People do that all the time, but with us something else happens and suddenly you’re showing people what’s in your mind, what you want them to see, and they think it’s real. That’s what happened to Denis that day by the canal; he saw what you were thinking. That’s why he ran away. And then with the chewing gum: it was you doing it. You made the Spicers think they were caught up in gum because that’s what you wanted to happen.’
I cut across him. ‘All right. What about the tidal wave? D’you really think I was trying to drown myself on that lake?’
His expression changes. He looks worried.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about that. There must be someone else around, apart from us, who can d-do it too and whoever it is is obviously trying to f-frighten us.’
If my mum were here, she’d say, ‘He’s taken leave of his senses.’ He’s certainly taken leave of something.
‘I see. ’Course. And who is this mysterious person? Anybody I know? Let me guess . . . it was Norman. No, Denis Spicer. No, don’t tell me, I’ve got it . . . Mrs Gilbey! On her way to collect her pension, she thought she’d have a bit of fun mind-touching and scaring us to death at the same time. This is mad, and so are you! Things like this only happen in books, and it’s called magic, and it’s not real.’
‘Alice, this has got nothing to do with m-magic.’
‘So what has it got to do with? That makes any sense, that is.’
‘It’s to do with being able to do something special and ...’
‘Don’t start all that barmy stuff again.’
‘It’s not b-barmy. I know how you’re feeling. I used to think I was the only one who could do it. It scared me so I didn’t tell anyone. But when we came here I could feel there was someone close by who could do it too. First time I saw you, I knew it was you. But then I realized it wasn’t just you. I was getting these b-bad feelings too. I think it must be someone who’s close to you, knows you well. Knows where you go, what you do.’
‘Yeah, my bloody shadow. Look, if you’re gonna keep this up I’m going home.’
‘I know how it s-sounds, but it’s all true.’
I start to walk away. ‘Yeah, right. Tell it to the fairies. You know, the ones at the bottom of your garden; the garden with the gnome in it who pulls rabbits out of a hat.’
I hear him calling my name. Don’t turn round. I keep going. Head down. The way I always walk when I’ve got something on my mind. Can’t stand to be inside. Shut up. I just walk, nowhere, anywhere. The wind blows through my mind, shakes up my thoughts like leaves on trees. Scatters them. I try to pick them up. But I can’t. I walk and walk. Can’t get anything straight. The wind blows.
15
Shakespeare, scientists and Geronimo
I come here when I need to talk to someone who’s going to listen. If anyone can help, Mrs Gilbey can. She used to look after me when I was a little girl and my mum was working. She lives in one of the
posh houses around the corner. They’re not joined to lots of other houses in a block like ours. Hers is big, with high ceilings, and lovely windows in the front that let in as much light as you could ever want. Inside there are lots of doors that must lead to lots of rooms. I knock. Hear her in the hallway.
‘Hello, Alice. What a nice surprise. Come in. I’m just making some tea.’
She always seems pleased to see me, makes me feel special. She leads me into a room that sparkles like a new pin, pink roses on the wallpaper – beats our green mould.
Nothing ever seems to change here. There’s a tall, shiny coal scuttle, full of real coal, not the tarry block wood that we use in our fire. And there’s so much furniture: a settee and an armchair with lacy things on the backs, a chest of drawers so shiny you can see your face in it, with patterns carved in the wood. It smells of polish. On top of the chest is a clutter of photographs: men with moustaches, white-shirted, in baggy trousers. And smiling women, sleek as film stars, dressed like princesses, arm in arm with the men – linked for ever.
I turn to look at Mrs Gilbey, carefully, the way Sherlock Holmes would. Only my magnifying glass is imaginary. She’s a small, neat bundle of blue and white. The white is her blouse and her hair – except her hair’s more silver than white. The blue is her skirt. And she has a blue brooch with a white swan painted on it. Blue is her favourite colour. Even her eyes are blue.
‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’
She goes out. I hear a tap running. Cupboard doors open and close. She comes back in with a tray, balances a teapot the shape of a thatched cottage, two thin white cups and saucers with pink swirly patterns, and a plate of cakes.
‘We’ll just let the tea draw for a minute.’
I imagine a teapot drawing a picture.
‘So, how are you?’
‘All right, Emma . . .’ I call her Emma when we’re on our own. If my mum knew she’d tell me off.
‘There’s a “but” waiting to get out there, if I’m not much mistaken.’
‘It’s Reggie.’
She pours the tea – a golden stream. Offers me the plate of cakes. My mum has always told me that if I ever eat in anyone else’s house I shouldn’t take the biggest piece and I should always leave a bit on my plate. Funny, here I am with all this going on and I think of that.
‘Go on, then.’
I take a deep breath and tell her the whole story.
She doesn’t say a word. Just keeps looking at me. Listens to every word.
When I’ve finished, she sits back. She thinks for a while, then gets up and goes to the window. I expected her to be really surprised. She’s not.
‘Oh, dear.’
‘It is all rubbish, Emma, isn’t it?’
She takes a long time to answer. ‘Well . . . you’ve got to remember, dear, that Reggie hasn’t had things easy. He doesn’t have a mum or dad. He seems to have moved around a lot, and he’s often had to change schools. Let’s face it, he is bound to have . . .’ She stops. Still looking out of the window as if she’ll find the words there, she continues, ‘. . . problems.’
She stops again. I don’t say anything. Something’s telling me I need to listen carefully.
‘Reggie is a lonely young man, Alice. He hasn’t a friend in the world apart from you – and thank goodness he’s got you, that’s all I can say – but he’s still got the same needs we all have. Reggie wants to be loved, to have people think that he’s special. It sounds to me as if what he’s been doing is more about trying to get himself noticed than it is about magic or making impossible things happen. I’d say it’s about impressing you. Your friendship is the most important thing in the world to him. If he can persuade you that this mind-touching business is real then he’ll be special in your eyes and he’ll do anything to be that.’
‘But he said that I could do it too. That I was doing it without even knowing it.’
‘Well, he would say that, love, wouldn’t he? If you’re doing it too then you’re both in it together. Blood brothers. Comrades in arms. You know something the rest of us don’t. You can both do something we can’t – it ties the two of you together. And the reason you don’t know you’re doing it is simple: you’re not.’
‘And what about this other person who can do it, the one who’s trying warn us off, to scare us?’
‘Same thing. If someone is trying to scare you both it makes the bond between you two even stronger. You’re the goodies, they’re the baddies. As we used to say in my young day, it’s you two against the world.’
She comes back to the chair. Picks up her tea. Stays standing.
My brain is telling me she’s right. But my words sound as if I want Reggie to be telling the truth. I don’t know why that is.
‘But all those things I told you about. I was there. I saw them happen.’
She looks at me almost sharply.
‘Did you, Alice?’
It’s more of a challenge than a question. Then her voice softens. ‘Did you really?’
She looks at me.
‘You’re an imaginative girl. You write stories, create other worlds. You put people in them and make them do and say whatever it is you want them to do and say. I bet you even believe your characters are real sometimes, don’t you? People with minds like yours can sometimes see things that aren’t there. There’s nothing wrong in that, dear. You just have a very active imagination. It’s a gift, but like all gifts you’ve got to learn how to use it properly. You’ve got to learn to tell fact from fiction, reality from fantasy. It’s about growing up, my love. Sooner or later we all have to do that.’
‘But what about the fireworks? You saw ’em yourself.’
‘Of course I did.’
‘But we didn’t have any! The Spicers nicked ’em.’
‘Stole, Alice.’
‘Sorry. The Spicers stole ’em.’
‘So you want to know where Reggie got them from? Well, he could have found them. A lot of people have fireworks. Maybe someone just dropped them. Maybe not. He could have been saving secretly. Maybe he even took them from the shop.’
‘You mean he ni— stole them?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘All right. So why weren’t there any used cases? I looked everywhere. There wasn’t a single one.’
‘Perhaps one of your friends collects dead firework cases – people do the strangest things – and if I remember rightly, didn’t it snow the day after bonfire night? It was beautiful. I love snow, it puts the world to sleep under a blanket. But blankets also cover things up, don’t they? I should think that most of the firework cases were covered by the snow.’
I think back. She’s right. It did snow that morning. And the snow got heavier as I was going back to our bomb site to look for the cases.
‘But what about the tidal wave? And the boat? It just started to row itself. Honest, Emma.’
‘A summer storm would be my guess. They often come from nowhere and go the same way. When there’s thunder and lightning it can be terrifying. Perhaps there was a strong wind and it just blew the boat along.’
‘But the boat was rocking. We nearly sank!’
‘Now, this is only an idea – I could be wrong – but is it possible that Reggie was deliberately rocking the boat?’ She pauses, giving me time to think. ‘Maybe he just saw the storm coming behind you in the sky – sometimes they do bring very high winds – and he started rocking the boat. It got dark. The water got choppy. You got scared. Then the storm blew over and he stopped rocking. There one minute, gone the next. He just made it seem more frightening than it was. He knows full well what you’re like. How you can get a bit carried away at times.’
‘You mean he deliberately scared the life out of me just so that I’d think someone was trying to get us?’
‘You mustn’t think badly of him. Not you of all people. You must remember he’s doing these things for you: to impress you. So you’ll be his friend.’
‘But I don’t want to be impres
sed. All right, what about that day by the canal? Reggie said that Denis ran away because he could see what I was thinking, see something horrible about to happen to him.’
‘Maybe . . . or maybe Denis just saw someone he knew up on the bridge: his dad probably. I do know those boys live in fear of their dad. Denis knew he shouldn’t have been out of school, and got scared in case he was in trouble.’
‘And the bubble gum machine?’
‘It could be that the pavement under the machine was just uneven. There’s a lot of traffic using that road these days; lorries on their way to the docks. Maybe a lorry went by and the vibrations tipped the gum machine over. Then that good old imagination of yours took over. There are so many ifs, perhapses and maybes, my love, and they’re all more likely explanations than the mind-touching one Reggie’s trying to get you to believe.’
She sips her tea. I do the same. Mine has gone cold.
‘Friends should stand by each other, but they should also know about each other, otherwise you don’t know what it is that you’re standing by.’ She smiles. ‘Oh dear, does that sound confusing?’
‘I know what you mean.’
She pauses.
‘Reggie’s not a bad boy; in many ways he’s a good person. But even good people can use other people for their own ends. Even good people have problems.’
I feel as if I’ve been run over by a trolleybus. My brain is flattened. But something inside me carries on. Like I have to defend Reggie. Like I want him to be telling the truth.
‘And the lolly stick? The lucky number? You think that’s just a trick?’
My eyes dare her to answer. It takes her a long time.
‘I don’t know, love. Maybe he somehow found out what the number was and he already had a stick hidden somewhere with the number written on it. Perhaps he knows how to make invisible ink?’
I interrupt. ‘But why?’
‘It’s like I said, Alice. He knows how imaginative you are – he’s playing on it.
‘But the chocolates! We went back and got them. It was just like I told you.’