Tomorrow's Guardian

by Richard Denning

CHAPTER TWO – AULD LANG SYNE

  There was movement in the darkness on the far side of the embers and a moment later a torch light flashed in his face.

  “Over here: we’ve found him!” shouted a voice and then, half a dozen people came running up out of the gloom.

  One was a policeman. He peered at Tom, asked, “Are you hurt, son?”

  “Er ... no, I don’t think so,” Tom answered.

  “Where’ve you been, lad? You’ve given your family quite a worry,” the officer said, “missing for hours you’ve been. They tried ringing your mobile, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Look, Sarg,” another policeman said, “he came back for a hot dog.”

  They all laughed at this and Tom looked down to see that he was, indeed, still holding his hot dog. The strange thing was, it was still warm in his hand.

  He was about to ask to go home, when he felt another juddering motion; but this time it was as if he was being thrown backwards. Above him, the sky was suddenly shattered by a huge bang and a blinding flash of intense blue light.

  Tom cried out and dropped his hot dog in surprise. The firework display had started, around him there were now hundreds of excited, smiling faces, all turned upwards to take in the spectacle. About fifty paces in front of them, the bonfire was blazing whilst behind them all the pounding music from the fairground throbbed through the night air.

  The shock of the transition was too much for Tom. He felt a wave of dizziness and suddenly the ground came up to meet him and darkness took him as he passed out. He was not sure how long he was unconscious, but at last he felt that click in his head that made everything alright again and opened his eyes. Blinking, as he tried to focus on his surroundings, Tom was very hazy about what happened next. He was dimly aware of his parents leaning over him and heard them say something about epilepsy, then he was being taken home and put to bed, but beyond that he could not recall a thing.

  As he lay in bed, Tom heard his dad saying to his mum that children bounce back easily from shocks and horrors. His mum had replied that it may be so, but you never knew if a childhood trauma will later emerge to influence the man or woman they became. Tom found himself agreeing with his mum. To adults, kids might seem quiet and self–absorbed and although most were probably only thinking about the latest toy or game, a few were suffering inside just like he was now. Usually happy and contented, on that Guy Fawkes Night Tom became miserable for pretty much the first time in his life. He had known children who had it tough, of course: William – one of the Desperados – lived with his grandparents because his parents had both died in a car crash. Helen, a girl in his class, spent week nights at her mother’s and weekends at her father’s. The only time they spoke to each other was to arrange the times to hand her over, like she was nothing more than a parcel being collected. Tom always reckoned he was lucky to live with both his parents and that they got on. He had become increasingly aware that fewer and fewer of his classmates were as fortunate as he; they all had reasons for being sad and he really didn’t – until now.

  Now, one thought kept coming to him. He was going mad. Yes: it was as simple as that and soon other people would see it in him too. Then, the doctors would come for him and they would take him and lock him up in some mental hospital: he was sure of it. The kids who lived in his street all reckoned one of the housewives was mad. Mrs Brown from number 39, Pinewood Road told everyone that in a previous life she had been a nurse in the Crimean War. She said she had been Florence Nightingale and that she had flashbacks and dreams in which she was working in the hospital with the wounded soldiers. The kids called her a loon and they would now call him one too.

  In fact, his classmates were given some excuses to call him all sorts of names soon after bonfire night. He was fairly good at school, enjoyed science and history, but hated French. The morning that he first had trouble at school, his class was having a French lesson. They were learning how to conjugate the verb meaning ‘to be’. Mrs Spencer, the French teacher, who Tom thought looked a little like a pterodactyl as she perched on a stool at the front of the class, asked Tom to recite the verb.

  “Je suis,” he began, then, “tu es , il est, elle est, nous suis…”

  “Non! Non! The correct phrase is nous sommes,” shrieked the pterodactyl. Start again!” In the row behind, Kyle Rogers laughed and whispered the word “Thickie” under his breath. At that moment Tom felt the forward judder and tried to ignore it. He closed his eyes and concentrated on speaking French and so, gritting his teeth, he continued. “Je Suis, tu es, il est…” He stopped, because the class were all laughing at him. He opened his eyes and then blinked because he now found himself not in Mrs Spencer’s French classroom on the ground floor, but in Mr Morgan’s history class on the second. Mr Morgan was standing at the front of the class and looking a little like a firework that was about to explode. Tom thought he could almost see smoke coming out of the teacher’s ears.

  “I asked you to tell me the date of the Battle of Bosworth, boy; not babble on in a foreign language!” Mr Morgan erupted.

  “What’s wrong with you today, Oakley?” Kyle muttered at his back.

  “Oh, push off and get a life!” Tom hissed at him, but not softly enough; he saw Mr Morgan jump to his feet and come stomping towards him.

  “Maybe you should go to see the headmaster!” he yelled.

  Tom thought quickly, closed his eyes to try to remember the date and stammered out, “1485, Mr Morgan.”

  There was an ominous silence and then laughter again. Oh no, thought Tom, not again! What was happening to him? He opened his eyes to see that he was back in Mrs Spencer’s class and it was Mrs Spencer’s turn to launch herself of her perch and lean over him. Tom noticed that her finger nails were long and sharp and he was reminded of claws, which only made the pterodactyl image stronger. One talon–like finger now pointed at the door.

  “Stand outside until you can recover your senses!” she screeched. As he was evicted into the corridor, the last thing he saw was the smugly satisfied face of Kyle smirking at him, just before the door slammed shut.

  After lunch there was Mr Morgan’s history class. Tom tried hard to spot the moment that his mind would play its trick on him, but he failed and so had to live though the humiliation a second time, like he was stuck in a time warp. Struggling to fight back traitor tears, he ended up standing outside the second classroom that day and going home with two detentions to explain to his parents. As he dragged himself home with Andy keeping him company, some of their class mates cycled past them. Kyle hovered alongside for a while, before shouting out in a high pitched voice, “How do you say, ‘We are’ in French, Oakley? Is it ‘1485, Mr Morgan?’” before riding off with a couple of his mates, all of them howling with laughter. As they disappeared down the road, Tom caught Andy looking at him oddly, like he was not quite sure what to make of his best friend.

  The school experience had been bad enough, but next came Christmas. On Christmas day, his grandparents joined them and they were all sitting in their living room opening presents. All year Tom had been asking for the newest video game console. It was the ‘in’ gadget that winter and all the Desperados were hoping for one.

  Tom was sitting on a beanbag and had just opened a small present from his uncle, which turned out to contain Kestrel’s Flight, a book by his favourite author. This was the latest book in the series and as the previous one had left the story on a cliffhanger he was both pleased by the present and keen to start reading it. He had to put it down though, because his parents were passing him a large box, which he grabbed from them and opened enthusiastically, tearing off the gold–coloured paper in a few seconds. Inside, he was thrilled to see the console containing the game system and taped to the outside, two new games for it. He was about to open the box and take the machine over to the TV and plug it in, when the judder happened again.

  A heartbeat later he was still sitting on his beanbag holding his copy of Kestrel’s Flight. His parents were
handing him the console, still wrapped. That was it, he was fed up with all this and had just about had enough; he slammed the book down on his knees.

  “Not today, please!” he moaned in a tired voice.

  His mother looked at him, “Tom, what are you complaining about? I thought you wanted that book. You have been talking about it all month.”

  He was about to answer, when he felt the world spin around him. He felt confused and disorientated, dropped the book and put both hands over his head.

  “Tom, what’s up?” asked his mother, the concern showing in her voice.

  “Nothing, Mum, I just feel a little dizzy,” Tom answered. Then, he felt the click in his head and in an instant, the dizziness vanished and he felt fine again.

  “There, I’m ok now,” he told them.

  “Probably too much Christmas cake,” suggested his grandmother.

  They all continued opening their presents. “Here you go, Tom,” said his father, passing him the present in gold wrapping paper.

  He tried to act surprised as he opened it and found the console inside, but he noticed his mother kept looking at him. He waited in anxiety to see if he would feel the juddering again, sighing with relief when the moment passed with no incident.

  The final event to occur happened right at the end of the year: New Years Eve. Tom’s grandparents were over again and he and Emma, who was now eight years old, were allowed to stay up late that night. Just before midnight, like always, their parents would turn on the TV and listen to Big Ben chime in twelve o’clock and then, the New Year would begin.

  While they were waiting, Tom’s father gave him a little cider for the first time, although his mother ‘tutted’ at that. The family played charades and then Tom challenged his grandfather to tennis on his new arcade game. He had easily beaten the old man, but despite the rising score line against him, his grandfather kept saying, “Remember the score, I’ll catch up soon!”

  “Right, switch off the game, Tom, it’s almost midnight,” his father ordered after a while.

  When he had packed away the game and switched over the TV channel, the cameras were already pointing at Big Ben. The screen changed to pan across the excited crowd. A policeman was trying to look professional as two ladies with silly hats attempted to kiss him. Twenty Scotsmen were dancing in kilts in the road and Tom counted at least three gorilla suits. Then the TV showed the clock face again. The minute hand was almost at twelve. Suddenly, the bells began chiming.

  Ding dong ding dong, ding dong ding dong, they rang musically and rather cheerfully. Then there was a brief pause and in the living room everyone gathered in a circle and they all seemed to hold their breath.

  Then …

  Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong ... the great clock chimed as it summoned in the New Year. On the TV, everybody seemed to be kissing everybody else and the policeman had just vanished under a sea of ladies in silly hats, Scotsmen and gorillas!

  “Happy New Year, Thomas!” his grandfather said, with a hard slap to his back. At that moment, Tom felt again that weird backwards movement and the briefest sensation of dizziness. As he recovered, he realised that he was sitting side by side with his grandfather again and they were playing tennis on the video game; his grandfather had just scored a point.

  “Remember the score, I’ll catch up soon!” the old man chortled.

  Click – and that shift forward. He was now standing, arms crossed in front of him, holding his sister’s hand on one side and his gran’s on the other and they were all singing a song: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot…”

  Overwhelmed by the sudden shifts and changes, Tom felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Then, without warning, he passed out.

  For a while, he felt nothing apart from a sensation of floating in blackness then, with a rush, he woke up to find he was lying on the sofa with his mother sponging his forehead.

  “I told you he was too young for that cider. Maybe I should call the doctor,” his mother said in a worried voice.

  “He never touched the cider. I think he was just excited and tired. Look: he’s coming round. How are you, son?” his father asked. Tom blinked and suddenly everything was in focus and his head felt clear.

  “I’m ok, Dad. I don’t need a doctor. I just want to go to bed.” His mum nodded, but Tom noticed the glance his parents exchanged and it was one full of anxiety.

  As he changed into his pyjamas and then got into bed, he had to admit that he was worried too. What was happening to him? Was he going mad? Was he ill? He didn’t feel ill. He yawned and realised that what he felt was very tired: too tired to figure it out tonight. He would just have to think about it tomorrow. In fact, that was his New Year's resolution – to find out what was happening to him. He switched off his light and tried to get to sleep.

  As he grew drowsier, he felt himself sinking. The sensation was similar to the way he had felt more than once before, when he had re–lived the same experience twice over, as in Mr Morgan’s history class. Before he was finally asleep, his last thought was, ‘Can’t you leave me alone even when I am in bed?’ Then everything was dark and for a moment, nothing more.

  In the darkness, Tom was sure he could see something moving, but he could not make out what. After a moment, shapes began to appear: fuzzy at first and indistinct – rather like looking through an out of focus camera. But then the objects leapt into clear view with an abruptness that made him dizzy.

  He was standing in the middle of a campsite with white conical tents all around him. Overhead, a burning sun shone down and beneath his feet there was grass, bleached almost white in the heat. Tom stared around him, confused by what he saw. But then, after a moment, he realised that he was not Tom. It seemed to him that he was someone else: someone from another time, another place. Edward: yes, that was it, his name was Edward. And, as he remembered the name, he became Lieutenant Edward Dyson and he was fighting for his life amongst the chaos of the army’s camp at Isandlwana ...

  “No! This is not right: I was not there,” he shouted and suddenly, the images, sounds and feelings of Edward Dyson vanished and Tom woke in the darkness of his room. Breathing quickly, he tapped himself all over to make sure he was unhurt then he swung his feet off the bed and, finding his slippers, padded off to the bathroom. Turning on the light, he stared at himself in the mirror. The eyes looking back belonged to Tom, not Edward Dyson, whoever he was. It was just a dream: that was all. He remembered two weeks ago at school when Mr Morgan had been standing at the front of the class talking to them. What was it he had said? Yes, that was it; it was coming back to him:

  “...The Zulu war opened with a great defeat for Britain,” said Mr Morgan. “On January 22nd 1879, a Zulu army of twenty–four thousand warriors surprised and overwhelmed a British force of about fourteen hundred men at Isandlwana. Thirteen hundred and twenty–nine British and allied soldiers died, as well as at least one thousand Zulus. Many more were injured and some of them crawled off into the long grass to die later. Not one man of the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment survived. It shook the Victorian world. The Queen herself later asked who the Zulus were and why her soldiers were fighting them ...”

  It had been a good lesson, Tom recalled. Mr Morgan might be a stickler for discipline, but he made history come alive. He had brought in a British red coat and a Zulu assegai and shield to use as props. Tom and his mates had played a pretend battle at lunch time, in which Tom had been an English soldier attacked by the others. He must have been dreaming of that: just a dream, that’s all it was. And yet it seemed to Tom that he had dreamt this dream before. Ah yes – on his birthday – and that was before he had gone up to his new school; before he had even met Mr Morgan. So what was happening to him? Was he going mad after all?

  Suddenly, Tom thought about Mrs Brown, his neighbour, telling everyone in a first aid tent at the school summer fair that she remembered bandaging wounds after the battle of Alma in 1854 and that they were doing it all wrong. Was what he was experiencing similar
to what Mrs Brown had gone through? Tom hoped not, because Mrs Brown was now being treated at a local psychiatric hospital. Tom sighed, plodded back to his room and switched the light off.

  He had hardly settled back in his bed before he sat bolt upright again. Someone was moving about in his room. The light from the street lamp outside his bedroom window was now blocked by a tall, dark shape.

  “Dad? Is that you?” Tom asked sleepily.

  The figure moved closer but did not speak.

  Tom yawned. “What’s going on, Dad? What time is it?”

  “Time?” came a man’s deep voice, with an almost mocking tone.

  Before Tom had registered that it was not his dad, the man leant over him.

  “Time?” he repeated. “Why, Tom, it’s any time you want it to be!”