When We Got Lost in Dreamland

by Ross Welford

  ‘And, every time I tried to pull him down, he floated back up again!’

  Mam laughs, and I am about to say something when there’s the honk of a car horn from outside and everything is in a rush as Seb grabs his stuff and dashes outside to get in the car with the twins whose mum takes them to Seb’s school.

  ‘See ya later, alligator!’ he shouts, and waits for me to respond.

  ‘In a while … crocodile.’ I almost whisper it, I’m so deep in thought. ‘Mam?’ I say after the front door has slammed and Seb and the twins have gone. Mam doesn’t look round but gives a distracted, ‘Mmm?’ as she’s clearing up the breakfast things.

  What are you going to say, Malky? It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Perhaps just say it?

  ‘Me … and Seb … had the same dream last night.’

  ‘Have you got your clean gym stuff? Oh, did you? That’s nice!’

  ‘No, I mean – we had the same dream, and …’

  ‘I ironed it for you, by the way. I used to get that with your Uncle Pete sometimes.’

  I look at her with surprise. ‘You mean you were in the same dream at the same time?’

  Her turn to look at me now. She wipes her hands on a towel and her lip curls slightly. ‘Erm … no, Malky. I’ve no idea how that would work! No, I mean we’d dream about similar things, like …’

  I interrupt. ‘No, Mam, not similar as in nearly the same. I mean exactly the same. Seb was in my dream, and I was in his!’

  Mam’s eyes crinkle at the edges and a slow smile spreads across her tired-looking face. She shakes her head at me. ‘Malky Bell! If you could only turn that imagination of yours in the direction of your schoolwork this year, your teachers will be much happier, and I wouldn’t have these worry lines, would I?’

  She leans over me and kisses the top of my head. ‘And don’t forget – you’ve signed a Conduct Contract. Come on, scoot – or you’ll be late on the first day of term.’

  Oh yeah. The school ‘Conduct Contract’. I hadn’t forgotten. I’ve a horrible feeling that things are going to get difficult.

  Four weeks and many waking dreams later, I’m looking between my little brother – his mouth open, snoring quietly – and the bedroom door. I’ve been awake a few minutes, but nothing I have tried will wake Seb. The mark on his face where I slapped him to try to rouse him is getting redder. Mam’s voice comes again.

  ‘What’s the matter, boys?’

  ‘Nothing, Mam. Bad dream!’ I call back.

  I run through the dream we’ve just had in my head. The Gravy Lake, the huge man, the dogs …

  Then I ran away and left Seb unable to wake from his dream.

  My dream? My nightmare.

  I look up again at the Dreaminators, then reach up and turn them both off in case they’re still having some sort of effect. It’s already light outside and I pull open the curtains, willing the sunlight to wake Seb, but he lies there in the deepest sleep.

  ‘Come on, come on, Lil-Bro,’ I mutter, using the nickname I had for him from ages back, which I’d stopped calling him. Then I start shaking him again and Mam comes in.

  ‘What on earth’s going on, Malky?’

  I stand there, naked, in our little bedroom. Mam bends to pick my pyjamas up from the floor. She sniffs them and says, ‘They’re wet, Malky. What’s happened? Seb – what’s wrong?’

  Then she, too, tries to wake him.

  How do you explain to a near-hysterical parent that you’ve been sharing dreams with your little brother? That, for several weeks, Seb and I have been having the most incredible, realistic adventures thanks to a strange contraption that I stole/borrowed/found (the distinction is becoming less and less important)?

  Answer: you can’t, because I’ve tried. Trouble is, it’s all just too … incredible. Mam simply can’t believe it. Nobody could. Well, apart from Susan Tenzin and her grandmother, whose words now come swirling back into my whirlpool head.

  What had she said? Something like: ‘You treat this whole thing like a video game. Just press “replay” and everything will be fine, huh? Well, you play with fire, boy! Sooner or later – no more replay. And you will have some explaining to do.’

  Right now, though, Mam is shrieking, ‘Seb! Sebastian!’ and shaking him urgently.

  Then she suddenly becomes very calm and quiet. Seb is on his side. From time to time, he twitches, and his eyeballs are moving behind his eyelids. Honestly, if you didn’t know, you’d just think he was asleep – which of course he is, only …

  ‘All right, Malky – what happened? Why is Seb’s face red? There – look!’

  ‘I don’t know, Mam. We … we were dreaming …’

  Mam jabs a finger at the Dreaminator hanging above Seb’s pillow. ‘If you’re talking about these things, then don’t start that again, Malcolm. It’s really not the time.’ She turns back to my brother. She lifts up an eyelid with her thumb and his greenish eye stares out blankly. ‘Seb! Oh, please wake up! Go and get my phone from beside my bed, Malky. Go!’

  And so it is that, twenty minutes later, there are two paramedics in our bedroom, doing all of the paramedic stuff like you see on TV – pulse rate, blood pressure, asking Mam if Seb was taking any prescribed medicines, if there were any other medicines in the house that Seb could have swallowed. The redness on his cheek has gone down: they don’t ask about that. Fit Billy has come from next door and is making tea.

  And the word I keep hearing is ‘normal’.

  Like, ‘Blood pressure, one oh five over seventy, normal. Heart rate, eighty-five, normal. Breathing – normal.’

  Mam goes, ‘Stop saying it’s normal. He’s not waking up! That’s not normal!’

  And there’s me, just standing there in my dressing gown, feeling helpless, wondering what was happening in Seb’s head, in Seb’s dream.

  Except it was your dream, wasn’t it, Malky? How much can he control it?

  Is he still being held captive by the main man? He’ll be terrified. That is, if he’s still dreaming. Poor Seb.

  I start crying for him – and for me as well, because it’s all my fault.

  The next hour is a bit of a blur, to be honest.

  There’s me getting dressed because I have to go with Mam to the hospital with Seb. There’s Fit Billy carrying Seb downstairs and lying him down in the ambulance, Mam crying …

  There’s me and Mam in the paramedics’ car following the ambulance to the hospital.

  There’s Mam on the phone to Dad, shouting, ‘I don’t know, Tom, I just don’t know! Nobody knows …’

  There’s the people at the hospital – doctors? Nurses? I can’t really tell – who meet the ambulance and rush Seb inside, and then take me and Mam to a little side room …

  There’s Mam asking again and again if Seb is going to be all right, and people being gentle and saying things like, ‘We’re waiting for results,’ and, ‘We’re doing everything we can,’ but even I can tell that they’re not saying, ‘Yes, your son will be all right,’ because they can’t, can they?

  We sit in a beige-coloured room with a faded wall painting of characters from the Narnia books while Seb is taken for tests, and Mam calls Dad again, and Mormor and Uncle Pete, and her cousin Barbro in Sweden and tells the whole thing again and again.

  She’s crying a lot, and it all makes me cry once more, and then I start to think again about what might be happening to Seb and I feel sick.

  And then, maybe an hour or so later, a lady in a green hospital top with short sleeves comes into the small room, closing the door behind her.

  She gives us a nervous smile and introduces herself. ‘I’m Nisha. I’m the Emergency Trauma registrar, and I have …’

  Mam interrupts. ‘Is he awake yet? Can I see him?’ She is on her feet, practically shouting.

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Bell.’ We all sit, and it seems a bit calmer that way. Dr Nisha takes a deep breath and I really think she’s going to say he’s died or something. ‘At the moment, Sebastian is stable, and his condi
tion is not thought to be life-threatening.’

  Mam sighs a little and grabs my hand hard in hers. ‘So you know what’s wrong with him then?’

  Dr Nisha pauses, enough for me to know she means no. ‘We have had the toxicology results back, and there is nothing to suggest that Sebastian has been poisoned. So far as we can tell at this stage, all of his bodily functions are consistent with someone who is fast asleep. He is not fighting any obvious infection that we can see. There is no elevated blood pressure, or heart rate; his blood-oxygen levels are normal …’

  That word again. She goes on and on. EEG this and ultrasound that … I can’t remember it all. Then she seems to slow down, like a clockwork toy before it needs rewinding, and then stops. The room is quiet for what seems like ages. Eventually, Mam speaks up.

  ‘Have you seen anything like this before, doctor?’

  Dr Nisha glances down, as if embarrassed. She takes a breath and holds it a little before replying.

  ‘No. I have not personally come across a case like this. What we propose doing is keeping Sebastian in for observation, and as soon as possible he will be seen by a neurologist and a sleep specialist to determine the exact cause of his failure to wake up.’

  So the minutes tick by in the beige room, and they become another hour while we wait for people to arrive, and I have plenty of time to stare out of the window at an empty paved square and at the Narnia mural and try to work out what I know about the Dreaminators.

  It’s not much. All I know is that it’s not magic. It’s definitely not magic. How could it be? Magic doesn’t exist. What with the crystals and the pyramids and the batteries and everything else, it seems more like science. But it’s not like any science I’ve ever heard of.

  Is it possible for something to be … both magic and science? Like the two are somehow combined and the result is that Seb now can’t wake up?

  What’s worse is I was warned. I was warned by Susan Tenzin and her grandmother, and all of that started the very morning after my very first waking dream when I floated to the cave ceiling.

  The problem was – I didn’t listen.

  It’s the first day of Year Seven. No – this time it really is, although part of my head still feels as if I’m in the waking dream.

  It’s a longish walk to school, but we don’t have a car, anyway.

  I’m thinking: the big mammoth-dog peeing on the rugby goals … Fit Billy talking Chinese … Kobi the Cave Boy and his strange cartoon body … Me floating up to the ceiling … Cuthbert appearing under my desk …

  But most of all I’m thinking, Seb had the same dream as me. How can that even happen?

  There is something else as well, though.

  I guess now is the time to tell you that my ‘behaviour record’ at Marden Middle School is, shall we say, ‘inconsistent’. I think I told you that everyone’s convinced that the reason I’ve been in so much trouble is because of Dad’s breakdown, and Mam and Dad splitting up, but that was all ages ago so I don’t see the connection. Besides, half of the things I got into trouble for weren’t my fault. Once you get a reputation, though, it’s hard to shake off.

  ‘When trouble knows where you live, Malky,’ says Valerie the school counsellor, ‘it keeps knocking on your door.’ She’s right about that, at least.

  Anyway, I’ve promised everyone – especially Mam – that things will change this school year.

  So I’m scared that the woman who saw me in her backyard last night will report me to the school, or give them my description, anyway. Burglary? Theft? Animal cruelty? That last one’s the worst and it wasn’t even deliberate.

  I’m half-running-half-walking so as not to be late and all these things are going round in my head as I cross the road. I hear a car horn, a screech of brakes and a human scream that turns out to be mine.

  A dusty, rusty SUV has stopped about thirty centimetres from me. I look up and gasp. The car appears to have no driver. The electric window hums down and as I look closer I see that there is somebody driving, only they’re so small that their head barely appears over the steering wheel.

  A head pops out of the driver’s window: it’s the old lady from last night, who gave me the yak’s butter. I think she’s going to shout at me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just gives me the same intense stare and says, ‘Killed!’

  I have stopped in the road; there are no other cars around.

  ‘I … I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking.’

  She half closes her eyes and nods as if this explains everything. She wags a finger at me.

  ‘I nearly killed you. Bad boy!’

  I nod quickly. It occurs to me to get all smart with her. You know: ‘How could you even see me over the top of your steering wheel?’ and stuff like that, but there’s something about her that puts me off. I feel I’d come off worse, even though she’s tiny and old. So I say, ‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry.’

  Her gaze seems to bore into me. If this is a telling-off, it is the strangest, gentlest, yet most intense one I have ever had. I feel my knees trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I repeat, and then I hear from inside the car what sounds like Mo-La! and some more words I don’t understand.

  The woman’s expression changes, softens a bit. Her eyes, which were screwed up in a glare, relax. She gives a curt nod and a tight little smile, then pulls her head back in as the rear window goes down. The girl from last night with the night-black hair – Susan, was it? – sticks her head out.

  ‘Get in, Malcolm. We’ll give you a lift!’

  ‘Ah no … no … thanks. I’m happy to walk,’ I say. I’m embarrassed: I don’t know her, I’m scared of the old lady, and I’m still in a world of my own about the dream I had last night which is connected to the Dreaminator, and … well, everything.

  The old lady says, crossly, ‘Don’t be stupid! Get in! Hurry, hurry.’ She revs the engine, then her angry face changes again to a peaceful smile. It’s as though she has flicked some unseen switch and it is very strange to watch. I find myself obeying and I get into the back seat next to the girl.

  She looks even cleaner than last night, with her brand-new Marden Middle School uniform: grey skirt, the whitest socks I’ve ever seen, maroon jumper, all perfect. There’s a shiny black instrument case on the floor of the car. (It’s not violin-shaped, that’s all I know.)

  The old lady’s head is not much higher than the seat back. I can just see her grey-streaked hair.

  ‘How’s that wound you got, huh? Bleeding stopped?’ she shouts back at me over the coughing engine. Honestly, it’s like I’m being given a lift to school in a tractor.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, much better.’ It improved overnight, in fact. I was careful in the shower and I don’t think I smell of yak butter.

  ‘Yak butter, yeah? Dri is the best, no? You rubbed it in good?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. The packet is still in my bedroom, still smelly. ‘I rubbed it in very, erm … good.’

  Beside me, I hear Susan give a quiet snort, and when I glance over she has covered her mouth with her hand. Is she laughing at me?

  I hope not. I don’t even know this girl. Not yet, anyway.

  The basic back-to-school stuff is the same every year.

  To be honest, I’m still not really paying much attention to any of it because I’ve already decided I’m definitely in trouble. I’m simply waiting for the call to Mrs Farroukh’s office, where there will be (I’m guessing) Valerie the counsellor, plus the policeman who comes to talk to us about drugs and online safety and stuff, and the woman who chased me down the lane last night. They’ll bring Mam in, and Mam will tell Dad, and he’ll take back my phone because it was sort of given to me on condition I stay out of trouble …

  And my phone has a cracked screen caused by Kez Becker.

  The whole-school assembly’s outside in the big playground this year. I’m trying to pay attention, but every time Mrs Farroukh, who is up on the platform, scans the crowd, I imagine she’s already received a complaint about last nig
ht and is trying to identify a ‘medium-height boy, hair like a haystack’ and I hunch down, making myself invisible.

  Some hope.

  ‘Follow Your Dreams’ is the speech Mrs Farroukh’s giving.

  ‘Dream big, children of Marden Middle School!’ she says into the crackly school PA system. ‘And you too can be like these people who had world-changing dreams.’

  The big video screen behind her has pictures we can’t see very well because of the strong sunlight, but she reads out the names and what they’ve done.

  ‘Martin Luther King dreamed of an end to racism … Albert Einstein was inspired by his dreams to create the Theory of Relativity … Paul McCartney of the Beatles wrote “Let It Be” after he dreamed about his mother coming to comfort him in troubled times …’

  I’m trying to listen, but I have just seen Kez Becker at the end of the row of Year Eights.

  Do I mention my cracked phone? Is there any point at all? She’ll just deny it.

  Then Mrs Farroukh says, ‘Let us welcome a new student in Year Seven. Susan Tenzin, please stand up,’ and there she is in the middle of the row in front. She stands still, hands clasped in front of her, and turns her head, smiling serenely at the whole school, chin held high.

  Mason Todd nudges me. ‘Flippin’ teacher’s pet, I reckon: written all over her,’ he snorts. I say nothing. I’m not really concentrating. ‘What’s up with you?’ whispers Mason. ‘Are you even here? You look like you’re still on holiday.’

  Seb had the same dream as me.

  ‘What? No, I’m, erm … I’m fine. Yeah – teacher’s erm …’

  Mason gives me a funny look. When I first came to the school, I thought Mason and I would be best friends, but – according to Kez Becker – his mam thinks I’m ‘rough’.

  By lunchtime, I’m a total nervous wreck waiting to discover if I have been reported.

  I’m in the lunch queue and I try telling Mason about my dream. It’s not easy. That is, it’s hard to make it sound interesting. As far as Mason is concerned, all I am doing is telling him about this strange dream I had and – as everyone knows from about the age of six – no one’s that interested in your dreams.