by Ross Welford
Best of all, I can make happen exactly what I want to make happen. I am in charge of the whole dream world. Whatever I want to do, I can do. It’s like being prime minister, president AND king all rolled into one!
So far, there’s pretty much nothing that I haven’t been able to do. It’s just like that thing that Mrs Farroukh said on the first day of term:
Dream your greatest dreams, children, and you can make them come true!
Only, instead of it being a thing that teachers say, it is real.
Really real. Over the course of the next few nights, Seb and I discover what works and what doesn’t.
For example, Seb can share my dream, but I can’t share his. I don’t know why this is: it just is. If Seb comes along into my dream and doesn’t want to share it, that’s okay. He just wanders off into his own dream.
We find that reading books about stuff, or watching TV the evening before, can help create the dream we want. Seb always wants to dream about Kobi the Cave Boy, because it’s his favourite book.
One night, Mam was watching the news on TV when I was going to bed and I watched some of it with her. My dream that night took place in a war somewhere, and even though I tried changing stuff it wasn’t fun so I woke myself up. I soon fell asleep again.
Most importantly – it doesn’t always work. The power to change stuff, to control stuff, seems to wear off the more it is used. Then we end up in just a normal dream.
So it’s not like unexpected dream-stuff doesn’t happen: it does, all the time.
Got a minute? Let me tell you some of our dreams.
Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, I present to you …
Malcolm and Sebastian Bell’s Top
Shared Waking Dreams
This will take about a minute – I have discovered that’s about anyone’s limit on listening to other people’s dreams.
1. Kobi the Cave Boy
I’ve told you about this. It’s the one we do most, and the one that works the best, though I’m getting a bit bored with it. We live in a cave, and go hunting, but all the animals run away and we can’t catch anything so we have to steal meat from another tribe, with adventures along the way. The dream landscape is usually a cross between the pictures in the book and Tynemouth beach. Seb reckons he is friends with Kobi and his family. I suggested that we bring a car into the Stone Age dream (I’ve done that before, and I can drive really well), but Seb said no, it wouldn’t be ‘real’, and because it was his idea I kind of let him have his way, which is nice of me. He doesn’t seem to mind the fish-shaped airship that is often there. We both think it’s quite cool.
2. The Battle of the Santa Ana
The Santa Ana was a ship in the Spanish Armada, a navy that England fought against hundreds of years ago, and Seb and I were both sailors during a massive gun battle where the cannonballs were huge Christmas puddings. It was quite hard to control. The more people and things (like ships) there are in a dream, the more opportunities there are for strange dream-stuff to happen, which has to be controlled. For example, the main English ship that we were fighting was being captained by Fit Billy, but my crew started playing keepie-uppies with our Christmas-pudding cannonballs, so I had to change that or we’d have nothing to fight with.
3. Scoring the winning goal at the Champions League Final
Okay, so there’s me and Seb (sometimes – he’s usually in goal) and assorted opponents: famous people, kids at school …
That’s a minute.
See what I mean? I could go on for ages, but I won’t. I could tell you about the time I shrank to the size of a garden gnome; or when Seb and I could breathe and talk underwater; or when we were both climbing a snowy mountain dressed in beach clothes and Seb had an enormous hat …
But you see nobody’s all that interested, because everybody’s had crazy dreams.
The fact that I can choose what happens in our dreams, change them and repeat them as I like isn’t interesting to anyone because no one believes me. No one, that is, except Susan Tenzin.
I have had a couple more goes at explaining it all to Mam, but she just thinks I’m either:
a) joking
b) being brilliantly imaginative and creative and that I ‘should write some of these adventures down, Malky: you could be a famous author!’, or, more recently …
c) lying. ‘And you’re encouraging Seb as well, Malky. Tone it down, eh? People’ll think you’re nuts.’
So it’s all been more or less my and Seb’s secret-that’s-not-a secret … although I wasn’t counting on Susan Tenzin’s granny getting involved.
We’re a couple of weeks into the new term now, and, if Susan Tenzin passes me on the way to school in her rattly old car, she always stops and offers me a lift. It’s virtually impossible to say no, even though the journey is terrifying. It involves a lot of her grandmother swerving, braking sharply and saying a word that sounds like ‘kyakpaa’ – probably ‘you idiot’ or something.
Other kids such as Mason, Callum and Kez Becker have noticed that Susan and I sometimes talk to each other and Mason once made a snide crack about me joining the school orchestra. That’s why I always ask Mola to stop the car at the bottom of the road so I can get out and walk the last bit to school instead of me and Susan getting out at the school gates together as if we were best friends. I don’t think she minds. She always smiles, anyway.
Anyway, this morning I hear the car chugging towards me from behind, and there’s no escape. It coughs to a halt at almost the same spot they first picked me up, and Mola leans over to shout out of the passenger window.
‘Hey! Hey! Dream-boy! Get in!’
Dream-boy? What the …?
Mola waves a finger at me as I approach the car. ‘No, no! You get in the front seat! Special treatment for a special boy!’
Honestly, she’s grinning so hard that her eyes have disappeared into the creases of her face. From the back seat, Susan gives me an apologetic look. ‘I told her about your waking dreams, Malcolm. She’s quite excited.’
‘Excited? Yes! You’re very special! Here, I got something for you.’ She reaches over to open the glove compartment, causing the car to swerve violently and narrowly miss a cyclist. I’m not sure how to react to all this. On the one hand, everyone likes being told they are very special. On the other hand, I don’t like Susan going around telling just anyone.
‘Mola! Be careful!’ says Susan. ‘Sorry, Malcolm!’
Mola gives me a Tupperware box. ‘Go on! Eat it!’ she says. I pop open the lid, and the smell is familiar but I can’t place it. Inside are pieces of a pale, solid-looking cake with nuts.
‘Thank you,’ I say, a bit perplexed.
Susan leans over from the back seat and says. ‘It’s butter cake. We call it tu. It’s a Tibetan thing. You’re very honoured.’
The smell is a bit like the rancid yak’s butter (which I eventually threw out after some of it melted on to an old school sweatshirt) only … not as rancid, I suppose. I take a small bite, but Mola’s not impressed.
‘No! Take a big bite! Biiiig bite!’ She cackles and beeps the car horn for no reason that I can tell. So I do. It’s delicious. Sharp, buttery, milky.
‘That’s lush, that is!’ I say, and Mola beams with pleasure.
‘You see, people who waking-dream without effort are very rare. Very rare! I would say they have a special gift! They are blessed. Outta my way – kyakpaa! Me, I manage it only sometimes. It is a great pleasure to meet a waking dreamer and see him eating my tu. Now, Dream-boy, you tell me what you dreamed of last night and I tell you mine!’
So, a bit reluctantly, I tell her about the Stone Age dream that I had, and how I had gone hunting with Kobi the Cave Boy. I miss out the bit about Seb actually sharing my dream because it still sounds too weird, but Mola hoots with delight and urges me to eat more cake.
I eat another piece, and I’m pretty full by the time we pull up near the school. I have my fingers on the door handle to get out when she says, ‘Wait
! I have not told you mine yet!’ and I sit back. Mola turns off the engine, folds her hands in her lap and closes her eyes for a moment.
‘I dreamed of nothing,’ she says at last.
This puzzles me. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Bad luck.’
She turns to smile at me. ‘No. It is good.’ Then she closes her eyes again and that kind of closes the conversation as well. It’s embarrassing, but it only lasts a second or two.
‘You be careful, Dream-boy,’ she says when she opens her eyes again. She leans across from the driver’s seat and quickly taps me on the forehead with her wrinkled forefinger and giggles at my alarmed face. Then her expression changes again instantly in that way she has and she stares furiously into my eyes. ‘Inside your head is bigger than outside, Dream-boy. It is easy to get lost in there.’
Out of the car at last, and feeling a bit startled, I say to Susan, ‘What was all that about the inside of my head? And who wants to dream of nothing?’
She hooks a lock of her dark hair behind her ear as she looks upwards and thinks for a moment. ‘It is a Buddhist thing. Shun-yata, it’s called. It is one of the goals of meditation. It’s not so much “nothing” as “everything”. That is … I think.’
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Sounds boring. I think I’d sooner be on a mammoth hunt.’
Susan nods in reply, managing to look as if she is both agreeing and disagreeing.
It’s a thing she has. It’s less annoying than you might think.
Over those mornings, and between the moments of terror at Mola’s driving, I learn a lot about Susan, mainly because she never really shuts up. She has been in international schools in Singapore and Dubai. She talks to me about music (she’s in the school orchestra, natch – the thing in the case is a piccolo); about the prime minister (her mum has met him); about stuff going on in countries that I’ve never even heard of.
To be honest, I’m getting a bit sick of it and I’m starting to think she does it just to make me feel stupid. (I once responded by telling her I’d binge-watched four episodes of Celebtastic back to back, and had she seen the one where Jamie Bates the TV reporter got pushed into the pool, and she just gave me this blank smile and said, ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ I honestly don’t think she’d even heard of Celebtastic. She probably doesn’t even have a TV.)
Mola doesn’t mention her empty dreams again and I’m sort of relieved. I was a bit embarrassed last time. It felt a bit like saying to someone that you enjoy reading comics and them saying they prefer to read Shakespeare. Or like Susan never watching Celebtastic, I suppose. She tells me her mum works at the university and I say that Mam used to work there as well.
‘Oh really? Which department?’ she says.
‘Catering. Not any more, though. What about yours?’
‘Politics. She is a senior lecturer.’
Clever then. It figures.
‘What about your dad?’
‘Oh, he is fine,’ Susan replies, which seems like a strange answer to my question and I turn my head to her. She immediately looks out of the car window and says something that sounds rehearsed. ‘My daddy is still in China, but we hope that, all being well, he will soon be able to join us here in the United Kingdom.’
The mood in the car has shifted in a way that I don’t really understand.
‘When did you last see him?’ I ask. ‘Is he working there?’
Susan’s still staring out of the window and she swallows hard. ‘No. He, erm …’
Suddenly the car swerves to the kerb and shudders to a halt. ‘Visa!’ barks Mola over her shoulder. ‘He needs a visa and that’s it. Now we are here. Get out.’
It’s like the car has been filled with a huge, spiky ball of awkward and I scramble out gratefully, followed by Susan, just as Kez Becker crosses the road in front of us. We’re sort of forced together going through the gate. Susan takes a deep breath through her nose.
‘Are you okay …?’ I begin.
‘Yes. Yes. See you later,’ says Susan, quickly. ‘And … and you too, Kezia.’
Kez was going to ignore us, but she can’t now. ‘Why me?’ she grunts.
‘COMMS taskforce! Mrs Farroukh’s announcing our duties.’
COMMS! I hadn’t exactly forgotten about it, but I was trying not to remember. Kez just rolls her eyes and lumbers off. Susan’s about to go in the same direction when she stops and turns back to me.
‘Three years,’ she says and I give her a puzzled look. ‘You asked. It is three years since I saw my daddy. My “dad”.’ Then she turns abruptly and marches off, leaving me wondering what the heck I said wrong.
It’s lunchtime. Mrs Farroukh’s at the front of the classroom, guarding the biscuits (‘Only two each, please, Malcolm!’). Kez isn’t there and I can’t say I’m surprised. She’ll have wriggled her way out of this somehow, probably with the help of her dad calling the school or something. Two students from the sixth-form college up the road do most of the talking, and hand out a list of ‘COMMS tasks’.
Anyway, long story short: Susan Tenzin and I are visiting some old geezer on Collingwood Terrace. I put my hand up.
‘Yes, Malcolm?’ says Mrs Farroukh.
‘How long do we have … that is … how long do we stay?’ I was going to say have to stay but it was halfway out of my mouth when I realised that might sound like I have the wrong attitude. It makes no difference: Mrs Farroukh’s on to me and she purses her lips.
‘I think, Malcolm, a rule of thumb will be long enough to have a leisurely cup of tea. Is that too onerous for you?’
I don’t know what ‘onerous’ means, but I shake my head and say, ‘No, miss,’ and she seems satisfied.
‘Good. Mr McKinley will be very pleased to see you. To see you both,’ she adds, aiming a sickening smile at Susan Tenzin.
I look down the list:
Mr Kenneth McKinley
12 Collingwood Terrace
It’s been staring me in the face since the sheets were handed round. How come I didn’t see it? But, when Mrs Farroukh actually says his name, I think I almost jump out of my seat.
Mr McKinley.
McKinley. That’s the name on the box I stole!
Someone is saying my name and I look up.
‘Malcolm! Do pay attention. He’ll be expecting you both tomorrow morning. Is that all clear?’
Am I imagining it? Is there a sly look in Mrs Farroukh’s eye?
I look again at the sheet. Collingwood Terrace. Mrs Farroukh has even printed off a little map and a Street View picture. The backs of the houses lead to the lane where I was with Kez Becker when I took the Dreaminators. A kind of sick feeling comes over me.
I am being sent to visit the very person I stole from.
That night, Seb is excited. We’ve been getting good at the Stone Age dream, and Seb wants to ride on the back of a ‘mammuf’, but I’m just not in the mood. I’m too worried about tomorrow.
Mam has been tidying and has taken the box the Dreaminators came in from under my bed and put in on the chair. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at it again: the big, colourful letters, and the picture of the man peering over the top of his glasses.
That night I hardly sleep. I definitely don’t dream. All I can think of as I lie there in the dark is the visit to Kenneth McKinley tomorrow morning.
Our house is tiny and the walls are thin and I can hear Mam on the phone downstairs. Fit Billy’s gone home. I know she’s talking to Dad. I usually try not to listen when they have their ‘discussions’, but then I hear her say the word ‘dreams’ and my ears kind of tune in, like a webpage loading on a slow connection.
‘Sinister? Spooky? We’re talking about dreams here, Tom, nothing more …
‘… For heaven’s sake, Tom, can you hear yourself? They’re mobiles, you know? No, not like that. Turning ones. Like you hang above a cot …
‘… Of course it’s rubbish, Tom. Harmless rubbish …’
There’s a longish pause, and I can tell she’s pacing round the living room, like s
he does when she’s angry. I hear the creak of the floorboard under the rug in the middle of the room.
‘… No, you listen to me, Tom. Whatever is causing it, they’re sleeping well, they’re going to bed on time without any argument, and they haven’t had a fight for ages, not even an argument. They’re laughing and joking as if they actually like each other, which is a first …
‘… No, Tom, you gave up the right to say how I bring them up three years ago …
‘… Yeah, well, tough luck, Tom. With them two, what I say goes, and I say … what? Billy next door? Don’t bring him into it …’
Three years ago, Mam said. That’s how long it is since Dad left. Susan said the same thing: it’s three years since she’s even seen her dad. At least I’ve seen mine. Not much, but still …
Eventually, I pull the pillow over my head to block out my thoughts and Mam and Dad’s bickering and I fall into a sweaty sleep.
‘The next forty-eight hours are critical,’ the doctor had told Dad, and that – or variations of it – are what Dad keeps repeating to me as we drive home from the hospital. Forty-eight hours, two days …
‘I know, Dad,’ I say, as gently as I can.
I haven’t seen my dad, apart from on FaceTime, for months. He’s ‘trying to get his life together,’ says Mam, who does her best not to be mean about him to me and Seb, but I know it upsets her as well.
He drove the hour from Middlesbrough, where he lives now, as soon as he heard that Seb was in hospital. His girlfriend Melanie isn’t with him, which I’m quite pleased about. I mean, she’s okay – I just prefer Dad without her. He’s got a beard now with grey bits in it, and new jeans and expensive glasses. (To be honest, they just look like ordinary glasses to me, but I heard Mam on the phone to Uncle Pete saying, ‘bloody designer glasses,’ so I guess they are.)
Mam has stayed with Seb in the hospital. The staff brought in a wheeled bed for her to sleep on tonight so she could be next to him.
Dad is changing the car’s gears with too much force, jamming the stick into place angrily. His mouth is clamped into a firm line like he’s trying his hardest not to cry. He used to cry a lot when he was living with us, but that’s when he was poorly. He’s a lot better now.