by Brian Hughes
A collection of witches and bogeymen made from crepe paper stared back disinterestedly.
“Einstein thought the shape of the universe was an inverse sphere,” he struggled on. “He was wrong! The universe is actually shaped like a ball. It’s Time that’s inverse. It goes round in a great big inside-out circle, meeting up with itself on the way back. We’re not only moving away from the Big Bang, we’re also moving towards it.”
A yawn broke through the boredom.
Sarah Mullins raised her hand to be excused.
“Of course, this doughnut isn’t exactly the right shape, but…”
The doughnut snapped and an octopus of jam landed in the inkwell.
“Thank you Conrad, that was very nice I’m sure…”
“When Time decreases, Density increases. Let me demonstrate with this tennis ball…”
“Michael Tomkins? How about showing us that World War Two tank you’ve brought in?”
Mickey Tomkins, well known bruiser, struggled to his feet. Giving speeches didn’t agree with him. As the muttered words left his mouth, Conrad’s own voice rose an octave.
“The interesting thing is, if you travelled sideways in Time you would eventually end up on the opposite side to where you began…”
“Conrad Brewster!” Mrs Morgan’s stare cut into the back of his head. “I’m sure that a child of eight knows better that the greatest scientists of our day, but the rest of us just aren’t interested in your immature theories. Now kindly sit down!”
“But Mrs Morgan!”
“Right this instant! Or you won’t be going to the Halloween Ball!”
The sound of buttocks hitting the seat was closely followed by a mutter that grew in strength.
“Einstein was blinking wrong! One day I’m going to prove it to you!”
“Conrad Brewster! That’s enough!”
Mrs Morgan rose from her armchair like some Lovecraftian demon. Her outstretched finger pointed sternly towards the cloakroom.
“If you can’t control yourself, you can leave the room!”
Conrad snuffled, scraped back his chair and made his way towards the door, muttering loudly enough for everyone to hear as he waddled, “It’s got to be better than Spotty Tomkins toy tank!”
Mickey Tomkins didn’t enjoy being put down in front of his classmates.
He had an image to maintain.
The sort of image that meant you’d be pleased to hand your dinner money over to him.
He especially didn’t like being called Spotty.
His eyes narrowed to scalpels as the classroom broke out into chortles.
“Just you wait, Brewster,” he said through his gritted teeth. “I’ll get you for this after school!”
Chapter Two: It’s About Time
Conrad’s temporal theories were more or less correct. For those not versed in such matters, however, there follows an explanation. Without this knowledge the rest of our tale won’t make much sense, so pay attention.
The Configuration of Time: Time isn’t doughnut shaped as Conrad suggested but is shaped more like a human brain. (Fortunately Conrad couldn’t get hold of such an item.) Synapses hold the historical events together. Just as our own brains develop self-awareness, with the exception of some book critics, Time also has a consciousness of sorts. That’s how it manages to play tricks on us.
Our Perception of Time: Temporal progression is governed by our cognition of it. (For further information see Schrodinger’s Cat.) We choose our individual routes through history, separated from each other by Time itself. For example, the argument you’re going to have with the milkman in the morning might have happened for him a thousand years ago. Time is looped.
The Structure of Time: (Editorial - ‘Subheading: The Genitalia of Critics’ was removed for reasons of slander.) Temporal Mass is not comprised from one dimension but from several. We can classify the other parts as ‘Time Plus’. Supposing a book critic travels back through history, hopefully never to be seen again. Although he might have journeyed a century backward he would still have aged by however long it took him to get there. That’s how ‘Time Plus’ works.
The Problem with Infinity: During infinity everything must happen an infinite number of times. It logically follows that at some point our universe never existed at all. And never will! Infinity is at odds with itself. The alternative theory put about by overpaid quantum mechanics is that Time has an end. This, of course, is nonsense. Time feeds back on itself and like any good Morbius band becomes infinite within a finite space.
The Big Bang: In the year forty-three million nine thousand eight hundred and forty-one, a Welsh alchemist accidentally created the Big Bang whilst attempting to generate gold from pigeon droppings. (Editor’s note - there’s no documented proof about this!) He both destroyed and created the Universe in the same instance, thus proving the hazards of pigeon guano. This information opens up some disturbing theological debates.
Book Critics: Some self-appointed cultural ambassadors CENSORED African Rug Mites CENSORED idiotic CENSORED vibrating cucumber CENSORED carrot cake! (Editor’s note - this part of our story was expurgated on the advice of our lawyers.)
Time to return to our adventure, before we forget what was happening.
Chapter Three: The Adventure Continues
October 31st, 7.30 p.m. Fog inched itself around the Albert Finney Memorial Hall. It poked its fingers between the bushes and through the open fire exit.
Hunched over the shrubbery Conrad Brewster clutched his stomach and heaved.
Conrad might have been brighter than a fusilier’s button mentally but his one great weakness in life was food. Around his shoes a mound of half-digested salmon now sparkled in the moonlight. The toggle from Sarah Mullins’ costume sat on top of it. The memory of it landing on his angel cake during the Hokey-Cokey swam back to haunt him.
The oblong of light from the fire exit increased in width.
Then a black shape filled it again.
“Brewster!”
A hand that resembled a bunch of bananas grabbed Conrad about the throat. Conrad was lifted off the ground.
“Call me ‘Spotty’ in front of the ’ole class, would y’?”
A noise, that was more of a twitter than an actual sentence, left Conrad’s throat.
Mickey Tomkins’ peaked cap filled his vision. (Tomkins’ costume was a Nazi uniform. Again, not the best costume for Halloween, but this was the first time he’d bothered wearing one at all. Generally he turned up dressed as a schoolboy.)
“You’re gonna get y’r ’ead kicked in now, Brewster!” A spectacle-buckling wave of breath escaped from his mouth. “So stick that in your stupid reading books and smoke it!”
October 31st, 8.42 p.m.
With a click the lamp came on and the pale blue furniture transformed into a bright yellow bedroom.
Conrad stumbled over the rug, a fork of blood following the contours of his lip.
His foam rubber bone caught the lamp, sending the bedroom into a spin.
He collapsed in the duvet, his eye resembling a beetroot.
With an angry grunt he kicked off his shoes. One landed noisily in the goldfish bowl.
Ah well, at least he’d survived! Somewhat battle-scarred perhaps, but he’d managed to escape from Spotty’s clutches. During the scuffle Tomkins had lost his footing. The unhealthy snap of his arm had given Conrad enough leeway to struggle through the hedge.
Conrad tried to force his crusty eyelids apart. It was like trying to prize a walnut in two without a knife.
Of course, he’d face the consequences tomorrow. Spotty would be waiting at the school gates to finish the job off. And Plaster of Paris wasn’t renowned for being gentle with children’s heads.
Conrad wondered whether he could suffer the stench of Germoline for the next eight hours.
Then he reached a decision.
He’d try out his Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster, June 23rd 1999) tonight.
It wasn’t gua
ranteed to work. After all he’d had to dissect his mother’s gramophone for most of the bits.
But, with a bit of luck, it might massage his perception of Time along a different route. (I told you it was important to follow the notes in the previous chapter.)
Conrad’s arm thrashed about the cabinet. His fingertips came into contact with the sort of machine that Heath Robinson might have designed.
As he dragged it towards him two Airfix space shuttles and his alarm clock plummeted into his chamber pot.
He hooked the headphones over his ears.
If this worked, by nine o’clock tomorrow morning Spotty Tomkins might have transformed into an understanding kid.
On the other hand, Conrad would also have entered the twilight zone with all thrusters blazing.
Perhaps he’d better write a note for his mother. Conrad’s parents were getting divorced and methods of communication were limited to Post-It notes on the fridge door.
There was a grunt, followed by the frantic scratching of a pen nib.
Dear Mum,
By the time yoo reed this I will hav vanished.
Theirs little point in my atemting to ecsplain where. But I want yoo too send this letter too Prof. Stefan Hawkins.
It will proof that my temp’ral Therese work.
Sined Conrad (Yoor luving sun)
(With regards to the appalling grammar, it’s important to remember that Conrad was only eight years old.)
He added a drawing to the margin of his letter; his unoccupied tongue routing for his nostril.
Climbing back into bed he pulled the duvet up to his chin and tugged the cord above the pillow.
A hum shook through the rafters bringing small streamers of dust down from the ceiling.
This is the world from Conrad’s perspective. An oval cut out of his bedroom as viewed through his single working eye.
The oval narrows into an ellipse.
And eventually blackness as the full weight of sleep descends upon him.
Chapter Four: A Further Brief Explanation for the Reader
This is how a Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster, June 23rd 1999) would work. The temporal lobes can be found just above the ears. Once removed from the skull they resemble soft-boiled slugs. When stimulated by electricity they profoundly alter a person’s perception of reality. (Editor: I saw a program about this on Channel Four.) Unknown to scientists such stimulation also affects our passage through time.
As we discovered in Chapter Two (if you were paying attention) our perception of temporal progression is intrinsic to our journey through it. (According to Schrodinger: ‘The act of observation affects that which is being observed.’)
The Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster, June 23rd 1999) would allow the observer to manipulate this perception, thus shuffling sideways through Time.
Excellent stuff, if such a machine were used on a couple-of-minute basis. (Investment in a Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster June 23rd 1999) would be cheaper than drugs.) Within a few minutes most people would return to normality.
It would not be not advisable, however, to go to sleep with the Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster, June 23rd 1999) switched on.
Eight hours is a long time to be shuffling about down quantum strands.
Chapter Five: Brave New World
November 1st, 8.14 a.m. At least that was the time the white-gloved hand covering Mickey Mouse’s testicles was pointing at.
BBRRRRIIIINGGGGGGGGG!
The alarm clock rattled around the cabinet. Conrad Brewster opened his good eye, switched the Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster, June 23rd 1999) off and sat up straight. His mental processes stumbled awkwardly from the depths of sleep to the sobering rattle of oak tree branches against his window.
Suddenly both eyes shot open.
Excitedly he looked around at his once familiar bedroom.
Everything seemed perfectly ordinary!
There were no colourful slugs scaling his bookshelves.
There was no Michael J. Fox charging round his bedpost on a jet-powered skateboard.
Nothing!
Just his badly glued models of spacecraft and colourful posters of human anatomy in exactly the same places they'd always been.
Conrad held the machine up and shook it .
“Bugger it!”
7.45 a.m. After a breakfast of cold cereal and cardboard toast, Conrad’s mother got him ready for school.
Conrad knew better than to talk to her on mornings such as these. She wrapped him up tightly in his duffle coat until it was difficult to breathe and then sent him packing.
8.45 a.m. In the classroom the emphysemic radiators wheezed.
They were huge pythonesque radiators with green scales of paint flaking from their twisted bodies.
In an odd way it was comforting to hear them gurgling. At least he knew now that his contraption hadn’t worked.
He looked around at his school friends.
There was something wrong after all! Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
That was it!
Everyone was wearing hedgehogs on their heads!
One by one thirty-odd pairs of eyes turned and stared at him. Several children bowed together in clandestine conversations. Chortles drifted up from embarrassed girls.
Conrad tried to bury his face in his textbook.
“Mrs Morgan!” Sarah Mullins’ voice eventually broke the dreadful silence. Every head turned to Mrs Morgan at once. “Conrad Brewster’s got a bald head, Miss!”
“Hmmm?”
Mrs Morgan was concentrating on the register. Absentmindedly she slid her spectacles along her nose and looked up.
“Conrad Brewster?”
All eyes now swivelled back.
Conrad was interlocking his fingers fiercely.
“What on Earth is the meaning of this? Have you no sense of decency?”
Before he could respond the teacher was upon him, dragging him violently from his desk.
“Children, for God’s sake, look away!”
Conrad’s knee caught the table, sending his geometry set crashing to the floor.
“I’ve never known such disgraceful behaviour! Go to the headmaster at once! And in the name of all that’s decent, put a hedgehog on!”
9.15 a.m. The Headmaster’s office resembled something from an Ealing comedy. The air was heavy with the smell of pipe tobacco.
“Stop fidgeting boy!” Mr Hawthorn brought his mug down, the coffee slopping across his PTA minutes. “And for God’s sake leave yourself alone! It’s disgusting! It’s not a toy under there, you know?”
His jowls wobbled as they always did when he lost his temper. After performing a short ballet with his eyebrows, Hawthorn drew in a breath.
His voice dropped to a gentler key, which was, ironically, far more frightening than the angry one.
“Now then, Conrad…”
Oh God thought Conrad! The last time he’d used his Christian name, he’d followed it up with the news that his grandmother was dead.
“I understand that you’re going through an unpleasant patch at home, but well, quite frankly we can’t have you turning up at school without your hedgehog on.”
“Why not, Sir?”
It was a perfectly acceptable question.
Just not the one Mr Hawthorn had been expecting.
“Why not? What do you mean ‘Why not’? Because it’s disgusting, that’s why not!” Hawthorn appeared to swell into his chair like a Yorkshire pudding. “You’re frightening the girls in your form for God’s sake! What do you think their mother’s are going to say about this?”
One trembling finger pointed at the animal now on Conrad’s head.
“We’ve had that hedgehog for fourteen years in our stock cupboard, Brewster! Fourteen years, on the off chance that an emergency might occur on the rugby field!” There was a faint scratching at Conrad’s crown and the hedgehog snuffled. “If it wasn’t for your meeting with Professor Hawkins this
afternoon I’d have you expelled!”
“Professor Hawkins?” Conrad’s mouth dropped open.
“Yes, Professor Hawkins? Is there something wrong with your ears?” The fountain pen snapped beneath Hawthorn’s fingers “Your mother’s told us all about it, Brewster. So if I were you I’d just go home. I want an essay about it on my desk tomorrow morning.”
Hawthorn waved his ward towards the ink-stained door.
“Your brother’s waiting for you behind the bike sheds!”
“My brother?”
“And for God’s sakes, Brewster, don’t take your hedgehog off in the professor’s company.”
Chapter Six: A Couple of Revelations
Conrad was an only child. He had been for as long as he could remember. It would have been impossible for his parents to hide a family member from him for eight years. All things considered the Temporal Lobe Modifier (Pat. Brewster, June 23rd 1999) had been a greater success than anticipated.
Wrapped up in his thick scarf and Russian hat, leaving only a letter box of face to confront the elements, Conrad turned the corner of the bike sheds and readjusted his satchel.
Seconds later he was staring up from the ground.
Mickey Tomkins was frowning down at him.
“Y’ all right, Four Eyes?” He snarled. “Dad’s too busy t’ pick us up, so we’re gonna have t’ walk home by ourselves.”
1.25 p.m. There was the squeal of wheels echoed down the entrance hall.
With his face screwed up Conrad struggled to lever Professor Hawkins’ wheelchair through the door. (Editor: We’ve been advised by our lawyers to point out that the Professor Hawkins in our story bears no connection with Stephen Hawking, whose world famous work we have the highest regard for.)
After several nasty knocks to the paraplegic’s shins the chair was eventually squeezed into the living room.