by Ross Welford
I don’t mention the Dreaminators, obviously, because of how I obtained them. That is definitely something I am keeping to myself, at the very least until I know I have got away with it.
Mason’s already looking over my shoulder for someone else to talk to when I say, ‘Listen, man. I was doing all of this stuff in my dream. I was in control. I knew I was in the dream!’ I haven’t even got to the bit about Seb yet.
He steps back, kind of dramatically, looking at me through half-closed eyes.
‘You what? You “controlled” a dream?’ he says, making air quotes with his fingers. ‘How does that work then?’
‘I … I don’t really know. It’s like I was asleep but awake at the same time?’
He repeats this back to me, and I feel so relieved that at last someone understands that I laugh. ‘Yes, man! Yes! That’s exactly what happened. I tell you …’
‘Crazy, you are! That’s just not possible. You were asleep, Malky, man. You can’t be awake and asleep at the same time.’
‘But it’s true, Mason! I was there. And my brother was too!’
‘You had a dream about your brother? Big deal!’
‘No! I mean my brother …’
I am about to tell him that Seb had the same dream as me at the same time. That Seb was sharing my dream. But, as the words form in my mouth, I realise that people have turned to listen, and that it’s going to make me sound even crazier.
‘… Yeah. You’re right,’ I say after a moment, and I fall silent.
‘Honestly, Bell. Summer holiday’s sent you soft in the head.’ He squeezes his way down the queue past a group of Year Fives. It seems as though he’s trying to get away from me, but he’s probably just hungry. Still, it looks like I’m going to be sitting on my own for lunch on the first day of term.
Seb had the same dream as me.
‘They are called “waking dreams”, Malky,’ says a voice behind me. ‘And I believe you.’
I turn and there is Susan Whatsername who has been standing close by all this time without me realising.
‘What?’ I say.
‘I heard what you said to that boy. I do not think you are lying.’
She has detached herself from her group to stand next to me. The girls she was with – school-orchestra types – eye her carefully and she lowers her voice till it’s really hard to hear her over the din of the school dining hall.
‘They’re called “waking dreams” or “lucid dreams”. It is more common than you might think.’ There it is again: this girl’s precise, adult way of talking. ‘My grandmother can do it. Hello again, by the way.’
I half expect her to put her hand out and say, ‘How do you do?’ but she doesn’t. She reaches across me for a slice of quiche and I get a whiff of her personal smell: laundry detergent and apples. Her straight black hair falls in a kind of curtain over the side of her face and she hooks it back over her ear. I can’t help noticing that her fingernails are exceptionally neat and clean.
I say nothing, but I follow her to a far table, wondering what people will think. Girls like her and boys like me don’t usually mix, not in our school, anyway. Either she hasn’t noticed or more likely she doesn’t know anyone else. She sits down and arranges her plate and glass and cutlery neatly in front of her and then looks at it all for a couple of seconds as if she’s going to say a little prayer, but she doesn’t. Instead, she fixes me with her piercing dark eyes and says, ‘If you can do that, Malcolm, it is a very special thing. Very special indeed.’
She talks as though every word she says is important and she expects you to listen.
‘Is it …?’ I realise I don’t really know the best way to ask this. ‘Is it a Chinese thing?’
She screws her eyes up. ‘A Chinese thing?’
‘It … it’s just, you know, you look … I thought … maybe your family, you know …’ Have I offended her? It’s difficult to tell. Susan relaxes her eyes and smiles.
‘No. Not Chinese, Malcolm. Tibetan. Although my mummy is Chinese, my daddy is from Tibet. And so is Mola, whom you met. That is a Tibetan word for grandmother.’
I nod wisely, as though I had even heard of Tibet, and at the same time I’m thinking mummy and daddy? Who says that? She’s going to have to lose that if she’s to survive in Marden Middle School.
‘Do you know Tibet?’ asks Susan, as though she’s making adult ‘small talk’. She takes a tiny bite of quiche.
‘What? Oh! Ah, Tibet? Aye, of course. It’s over, erm … near, you know, that place …’
Susan lets me fumble for words, deliberately I think. Then she says, ‘It is all right. Lots of people do not know it.’
I nod and frown like I’m taking all this in. ‘Pretty small, is it?’
‘About five times the size of the UK.’ She lets this sink in. ‘It lies between Nepal and China. You have probably heard of Mount Everest, the world’s highest mountain. Half of it is in Tibet.’
‘Half of it?’
‘Yes. The border between Nepal and Tibet runs across the summit of Everest, although we call it Chomolungma – the Mother Goddess of the World. Tibet is part of China now, but it did not use to be. My daddy thinks … oh, never mind.’
Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking. I want to know about the dreams.
‘As for the dreaming?’ she says, effortlessly steering the conversation back on topic. ‘I cannot say that it is particularly Tibetan or not.’ She chews another mouthful and looks upwards thoughtfully. ‘I should not think so. But my Mola studies a form of Tibetan Buddhism called “Bon”. She grew up years ago in a town called Shangshung. It is a long way away from the capital.’
‘And her dreams?’
Susan swallows, smiles, and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin. ‘It happens sometimes when she is meditating, or even when she is asleep. She just comes down every now and then and says that she was awake during her dream, and it was fun, or “enlightening”. “Dream yoga” she calls it. She says these dreams are better than the old video films she watches! What happened in yours?’
So I tell her, and her dark eyes shine with fascination – which, compared with the reaction I got from Mason Todd, is a big improvement. I’m careful not to mention the Dreaminator because I don’t want to answer questions about how I got it. Nor do I mention anything about Seb sharing my dream because that just sounds too mad. (I also miss out the bit about her being in it, because it sounds a bit creepy.)
For a few minutes, in the school dining hall, it’s as if all the noise has gone and there’s just me and this strange, earnest new girl. At the end, I say, ‘So you don’t think I’m crazy?’
She winks at me like a much older person would, making me feel suddenly very small. ‘You jump into my garden, bleeding; you narrowly escape death at the hands of my Mola’s car; and you confess to spontaneous waking dreams? All in less than a day? Perfectly normal, Malcolm Bell!’ Then she glides off, smiling her strange, superior smile to herself, and the noise of the dining hall returns.
‘Hang on!’ I call after her. I want to ask her if she’s ever had ‘waking dreams’ herself, but she can’t hear me. Besides, I can see Kez Becker pushing her way towards me, and my retreat is blocked by the waste trolley.
First day of term, and school is taking a turn for the worse.
‘When trouble knows where you live …’ Valerie the school counsellor had said. It has just come knocking in the unmistakable shape of Kez Becker.
‘Did you get anythin’, Bell?’ she says, shoving aside a Year Five and squeezing herself into the space next to me left by Susan. Behind her is Jonah Burdon and they are both smiling smugly. ‘Last night? I had to make a tactical retreat, you understand.’
I look at Kez, making my face as blank as possible, and give a half-hearted shrug.
‘No. I don’t understand.’
She doesn’t seem bothered. She turns to Jonah. ‘You should’ve seen his face! Scared as anything he was – of a tiny little dog!’ Jonah snorts.
I say,
‘How would you know what my face was like? You’d already run away. Oh sorry, I mean made a tactical retreat!’
Jonah Burdon laughs at that. ‘He’s right, Kez – he’s got you there! Nice one, Bell! Top banter. Har har!’ He holds up his hand and I high-five him without much enthusiasm.
Kez doesn’t like that at all. Her eyes narrow. ‘Are you callin’ me a liar?’
I just don’t understand, I think. How can someone be a friend one minute and so horrible the next? (This is probably why Kez Becker doesn’t have many friends. It’s got nothing to do with her dad’s job with dead bodies, and everything to do with being two-faced.)
‘What about this?’ I say, taking my phone out and showing her the screen. ‘You broke it! Look at this crack!’
Jonah Burdon sucks his teeth and tuts. ‘Ooh, brilliant counterattack there by the young Bell!’ he says, like he’s commentating on the football. It’s all just sport to him.
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Kez. ‘That was there before!’
‘No, it wasn’t!’ I can hear my voice getting louder and higher, and feel my face turning red. Jonah Burdon keeps up his commentary as people turn their heads. ‘It’s turning controversial! Becker denies the allegation! What next?’
‘Shut up, Jonah,’ says Kez without looking away from me. ‘It was definitely cracked. I saw it as soon as you lent it to me.’
‘I didn’t lend it to you and it wasn’t cracked!’ I’m shouting now, and as I wave the phone nearer to her face to prove my point, my arm catches the beaker of water on her tray, knocking it all over her plate and splashing her front. She leaps back out of her seat, bumping into little Poppy Hindmarch and making her drop her tray with a loud crash. This in turn makes everybody look round and cheer and, before I can think about it, Kez and I are tussling, treading in Poppy’s gravy. Everyone’s jeering and then …
The deputy head’s standing between us.
Seconds later, he’s marching us out of the dining hall to Mrs Farroukh’s office, accompanied by the laughter of the whole school. I see Susan out of the corner of my eye. She’s just standing at the edge of it all, her serene half-smile in place as if nothing is of any importance at all – or everything is completely important. You can’t tell. Her eyes follow us, and I’m a bit freaked out by it all.
Looks like I’m in trouble already.
Mrs Farroukh has a copy of my ‘Conduct Contract’ on the desk in front of her, signed by me at the end of last term after I had accidentally smashed the glass of the school trophy cabinet on prize day. Long story. Not my fault. (Well, not all my fault.) Anyway …
‘I’m very disappointed, Malcolm,’ Mrs Farroukh says. ‘I so wanted you to start off this term well. We need to channel your more impulsive energies, but it’s far too soon in the school year to start making negative assumptions …’
She’s been going on like this for a while now and I’m sort of tuning out, but hang on …
She doesn’t want to make negative assumptions. I think that means I’m going to get let off. I think that means she’s not going to punish me.
‘… I have had some rather disconcerting news, however, Malcolm.’
This does not sound good. I straighten up and prepare my innocent face.
She is looking out of her window at the rugby pitch, with her wide back to me. ‘I received a telephone call this morning from someone who lives in Tynemouth who believes one of our students here at Marden Middle may have been trespassing in her backyard, and in doing so caused an injury to a dog that has required veterinary treatment. Do you know what trespassing is, Malcolm?’
‘No, miss.’ I have composed my face to add ‘puzzled’ to ‘innocent’, while trying to keep ‘relieved’ at bay because I know that trespassing – whatever it might be – is probably not as bad as robbery or burglary or animal cruelty …
‘Trespassing, Malcolm, is being on or in someone’s property without their permission.’ She turns round and looks at me closely. I don’t move. I don’t think I even blink.
Blink, Malky, otherwise you look defiant and therefore guilty.
I blink a few times, and add a little smile for good measure.
‘Now, she gave me a description of the trespasser.’ Mrs Farroukh lets this sink in for a moment. Then for another moment, and I think she adds yet another moment just for extra effect before she says, ‘But …’
I have started to sweat. I feel a trickle under my arm. I blink again.
‘But, as she admitted, it was getting dark. She could not be certain that she would recognise him – or for that matter her – again. From the age of the trespasser, though, and what they were wearing, it would seem very likely that he – or she – was one of our students.’
She hasn’t taken her eyes off me. She leans against her desk and her bottom spreads along the edge.
‘I like to maintain good relations with the community, Malcolm. I suggested to the caller that perhaps this was quite innocent. Perhaps the intruder was simply collecting a stray football or some such. But injuring an animal, however unintentionally, is quite another matter. I don’t like the idea that our neighbours might think of our students as anything other than wonderful. Do you see?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Good.’ There’s a long pause. Then she lets out a sigh that makes her helmet of silver hair tremble slightly. ‘COMMS, Malcolm. Community Outreach Marden Middle School. We’ll draw a line under today’s incident with Kezia Becker and we’ll say no more about it, not even to your mum, all right?’
‘Yes, miss.’ I can’t believe I’m getting away with this.
‘But – and it’s a very big but …’
Now normally, to hear the large-bottomed Mrs Farroukh say the words ‘a very big but’ would have made me splutter with laughter. Right now, though, I’m too nervous to hear what’s coming to find anything funny. ‘But – you have to promise me that you’ll become part of COMMS. I have already spoken to Kezia and she will be joining us too. Do you agree, Malcolm? It’s a lovely group of hardworking, enthusiastic students and it’s a very worthwhile endeavour. I’ll email your mum. There’ll be a permission form for her to sign, but what you tell her is down to you, all right?’
I’m not sure I have ever heard a teacher describe anything less appealing, but what choice do I have? I nod as solemnly as I can.
She smiles warmly at me and claps her hands. ‘Excellent! We’ll be starting in a few weeks. I’ll team you up with Susan Tenzin. She’s the new girl: you may remember her from assembly and she has already volunteered. Is that all clear, Malcolm?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Susan Tenzin again. Susan Tenzin with her super-clean fingernails and apple-smelling hair and make-me-feel-stupid, peaceful smile. I’m beginning to dislike her. Right now, though, I can’t worry too much about that because …
Seb had the same dream as me.
And I need to talk to him about it.
On the days when Mam’s working, I’m supposed to be home when Seb gets in from school. So I’m waiting for him. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I’ve poured him a glass of milk and cut him up an apple when he walks through the front door.
‘Oh, hi, Malk …’
‘Last night,’ I say, as he eyes the snack suspiciously.
‘I know,’ he says and after taking a cautious sip (in case I’ve put salt in it again – it was just a joke) he downs the milk in one gulp. ‘It was awethome! I’ve told everyone in my class. They all think I’m lying. But I don’t care: it happened, didn’t it, Malky? We were in the same dream. Was that meant to happen? It wasn’t in the instructions. Was it?’ He lets go a massive burp, wipes his mouth on his sleeve and starts in on the apple.
I shake my head. It certainly wasn’t in the instructions, but it sure did happen. I watch him chomp his apple with his mouth open and, instead of getting irritated by him, I find myself envying the fact that he just doesn’t mind what his classmates think.
‘I think we need to test it again tonig
ht, don’t you?’ I say. ‘Just to be sure.’
‘Awethome!’ he repeats, and I pick a bit of chewed apple out of my hair.
That evening I use Mam’s laptop to look up ‘lucid dreaming’ – the phrase Susan had used that was also in the instructions. There are pages and pages of people describing how they do it and it usually involves lots of practice and preparation, like meditating, regular sleeping habits, room temperatures, ‘dream diaries’ and even special foods. I’m soon bored, so I look up ‘dreaminator’ to find it’s the name of some pop band, but there is no mention of a device to create lucid dreams whenever you want them.
And no mention of sharing dreams, either.
Finally, and nervously, I type in ‘dangers of lucid dreaming’ and everyone seems to agree that the only danger is from nightmares, which, when you’re lucid dreaming, you can wake from whenever you like.
That’s all right then. The instructions said, ‘perfect results may not be achieved first time,’ didn’t they? Obviously, that didn’t apply to me: Malky Bell, Super-Dreamer!
That night, Sebastian and I fall asleep under our Dreaminators.
And they work again.
And the next night.
And the next.
It is honestly hard for me to describe just how completely amazing it is to be awake during a dream. I’m going to give it a go, though, because unless you understand then everything that comes next will be pretty meaningless.
You know when you’re dreaming, and it all seems real? It’s only when you wake up, and you try to piece everything together, that you forget most of it so that it’s jumbled up and a bit nonsensical, and by the time you get downstairs you’ve usually forgotten it, anyway.
Well, the waking dreams that Seb and I have are not like that. We remember them perfectly: as if it really happened. I can remember the people and what they said; I can remember the sounds, the smells, the tastes.