by Ross Welford
‘The worst thing is the not knowing,’ he says.
Not knowing is hard. Hard? It’s agony. I tried to explain everything about our dreams, about our adventures in the Stone Age, to Dr Nisha. It didn’t go well.
Dr Nisha had sat down next to me and put her pen and clipboard and iPad down as a sign that she was giving me all of her attention. She said to Mam and Dad, ‘I’d like a word with Malcolm alone, if I may?’ and they went to get something to eat.
We were in the beige room with the hard sofas and the Narnia mural, which I’d been staring at for ages and decided that I didn’t like.
‘So, Malcolm,’ she began, ‘you share a room with your brother, right?’
I nodded.
‘And you were the one that discovered that he would not wake?’
I nodded again.
‘Roughly what time was this?’
I had told her this before, but I repeated it. ‘About six o’clock. This morning.’
‘All right. And what were you doing immediately before this all happened?’ Her tone was soft and gentle. I looked at her eyes and they were large and trusting. Should I tell her? Should I bother?
I’s not like I hadn’t given this any thought. In fact, I had barely thought of anything else. What would I say? How about the truth?
The truth is the truth. The truth is what happened. Telling the truth might – might – help Seb. I don’t know what these doctors can do, do I? So I decided that I would tell her exactly what I was doing just before it all happened.
‘I was … I was trying to steal meat … And they were all waving their spears at us and –’ this sounds stupid, I know it – ‘at Kobi.’ I looked at Nisha and added, ‘I was dreaming.’
Her patient smile became a full one. ‘All right, Malky, I don’t mean …’
‘And Seb was there too. And he was captured by the big people, and …’
‘Yes, yes. It sounds like quite a dream.’
‘But we were in the same dream, do you understand?’ I waited to make sure I had her full attention, then I said, ‘And he’s still there. I think.’
Dr Nisha lowered her eyelids and looked at me sideways. ‘No, Malcolm. I’m not sure I do understand. But I hardly need to remind you that this is very important. I need you to be serious.’
I fought the urge to let my voice get higher and louder, in my agitated way. I took a deep breath.
‘I am being serious. Honestly. Seb and I can … we can share our dreams. That is, we … we experience the same dream at the same time. You see …’
‘Hang on – what?’ Dr Nisha had stopped leaning towards me and was sitting back, arms folded.
‘Our dreams. We agree beforehand: we read and watch stuff to make sure it’s right and then we fall asleep together under our Dreaminators and then …’
Mam and Dad came back in with baguettes from the shop downstairs. Mam’s eyes were red from crying and I stopped because I knew what Dad’s views are on the Dreaminator. Unfortunately, he heard the last of what I was saying.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, doctor. Is he on about that flamin’ dream thing again?’ He shook his head, angrily, like a dog dodging a wasp. ‘It’s a toy, for heaven’s sake. A child’s mobile that hangs above his bed and he reckons …’ He tailed off and turned to me, a pleading look on his tired face. ‘Malky, mate. Dr Nisha’s very busy and this is very serious. She’s got no time to listen to this.’
‘Dad!’ I protested, and this time my voice did actually go higher and louder. ‘I was there!’
‘Malky, if I hear one word …’
‘Mr Bell. Please.’ Dr Nisha stood up. ‘Malcolm has suffered quite an upset. This, this … “dreaminator” is not something I have ever heard of, and I certainly don’t think it’s possible for it to work as Malcolm describes. But …’
She paused. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. For all I know, she was doing that grown-up thing when your facial expression says something different to your words, by winking or something. I don’t know.
‘… why don’t you bring this device in for me to have a look at? I can examine it and determine whether or not it may have played a part in Sebastian’s condition. We are feeling our way in the dark a little here. Any help, any further information might be useful. And it might put Malcolm’s mind at rest. I think he feels as though this is somehow his fault.’
‘Because it is!’ I wailed.
It was like I had climbed to the top of a hill, then tumbled all the way back down again. For the first time ever, I had told someone the whole truth, and they hadn’t tried to shut me up. And then Mam and Dad came back in and … pushed me back down the hill.
It was also the first time in ages they’d actually agreed on something.
They’d agreed that I was talking nonsense. That’s a shame because right now I need people to believe me.
Before Dad drove me home, I went into Seb’s room along the wide corridor. He was fast asleep, connected by wires to a machine that was making no noise but had little flashing numbers on a panel with switches and stuff. Mam and Dad were outside in the corridor, talking to yet another doctor.
He looked okay, lying on his back, mouth half open. His green goalie top was folded on a shelf next to him. The nurse who was with him had closed the blinds, and it was cool and shady. When I got closer, I could see his eyelids twitching, and occasionally he parted his lips as if he was muttering something, but when I put my ear to his mouth I couldn’t hear anything. He was definitely dreaming.
‘Seb! Seb!’ I said, but the nurse gently told me, ‘Shush. The doctors think it might be better to let him sleep. If that’s what his body needs.’
‘He’s been asleep for hours,’ I said, but I didn’t try to wake him again. Instead, I sat on the chair and took his hand and told him quietly, ‘Wake up, Lil-Bro, wake up.’ Then I lowered my head to rest it on his hand and I stayed there for a few minutes and the nurse left the room.
It’s daft: I half expected – or perhaps hoped – that Seb would open one eye and say, ‘Hey – we fooled them!’ Of course, he didn’t. He just lay there, occasionally twitching part of his face, or the hand I was holding.
I looked down at his hand and saw something I had not noticed before. A slightly red patch around his wrist, like a rash. His other arm had it as well. Red, and a bit sore-looking.
The marks were in exactly the place where the huge man had tied the rough woven rope.
I let go of Seb’s hand and staggered back, knocking over the chair, which clattered to the floor and caused Dr Nisha to open the door.
‘Is everyth— Malcolm, what’s the matter?’
I pointed. ‘His … his wrists. Look!’
She took Seb’s left wrist in her hand and examined it. Then she switched on a bedside light. ‘Nurse! Bring me a magnifying light, please.’
She shook her head. ‘This could be something or nothing. Whatever it is, it does not appear to be severe, but we’ll certainly keep a close eye on it. Malcolm, you look like you want to say something.’
‘It … it’s where Seb was tied up. By the wrists. With rope.’
‘And when did this happen?’
‘In … in our …’
‘Don’t you dare say “in our dream”, Malky,’ said Dad behind her, and so I never finished my sentence.
Back home, I watch Dad snatch the Dreaminators from their hooks above our beds.
‘I’m taking these back to the hospital, although I’ve no idea why,’ he said, quietly. ‘You’re lucky I’m going back, anyway.’
He heads down, then he stops on the stairs for a moment, thinking. He turns and comes back up. He gives me a brave, mirthless smile and his voice is almost a whisper.
‘Malky, son. I know as well as anyone the dangers of messing with your mind, do you understand?’
I nod. He forces me to wait before he nods back, slowly.
‘I paid a hell of a price. It cost me your mam, your brother, you. I’m still paying it.’ He pause
d again and I thought there was more to come, but he was done. ‘I’m back in a couple of hours, Malky. Don’t go anywhere. Keep your phone on.’
I stay sitting on my bed, still unmade from this morning. Seb’s pillow is indented where his head was. Then I pick up the Dreaminator box.
Kenneth McKinley? I cast my mind back to the first time I met him. It was only three days ago, but feels like much, much longer – perhaps because so much happened in a single day.
It’s Saturday morning on the Tynemouth seafront. Above King Edward’s Bay, seagulls are straining at the wind and screeching at the rough grey-and-white waves. Sometimes there are surfers, but there are none today.
I slept badly. Today is the day when I have to visit the man whose face is on the front of the Dreaminator box, and whose shed I burgled.
Except I didn’t burgle it, or rob it, or anything, okay? I just trespassed and ended up with some items that I can’t give back now without admitting that it was me.
Mam’s had to sign some form for the school letting me visit this McKinley man and she thinks it’s great, like I’ve been ‘selected’ and it’s a great honour, and of course I can’t tell her the truth. She makes me brush my hair twice and Fit Billy, who has recently started to have breakfast with us, says it’s too neat and ruffles it up for me again, making Mam tut and laugh.
So anyway I’m late and Susan Tenzin is already waiting at the address on Collingwood Terrace that looks out over the mouth of the Tyne and, in the distance, the crumbling ruins of the old clifftop priory.
‘So. In and out, yeah?’ I say, trying not to pant from running.
Susan holds up a bag. ‘Good morning, Malcolm. Enough time for tea and butter cake, though.’ The hot night has become a cool autumn day, and she looks like she’s dressed to go somewhere posh. The skirt and knee-socks are there, with blinding-white trainers and a neat navy-blue jacket, buttoned up. Even though Mam’s made me put on my best jeans and a clean hoodie, I immediately feel inferior.
I have an old baseball cap on as well, because I’m worried in case someone in the house recognises me.
‘He’s expecting us,’ Susan says. ‘He has a carer who lives with him. Mrs Farroukh’s already been round too, to check him out.’
A carer? That’ll be the woman who chased me the day I stole the Dreaminators. I look up at the tall terraced house and the huge black door with peeling paint. Susan mounts the steps to the front door. I am at the bottom and still wary. ‘So, if old Farroukh’s already been round, why didn’t she just, you know, visit him herself?’
Susan replies over her shoulder. ‘She did, but Community Outreach is a valuable opportunity for Marden Middle School students to foster links with elderly people in the area,’ she says. She’s obviously memorised it. ‘You know what Mrs Farroukh’s like. Thinks we all live in a bubble of social media and should get out and meet people in our locality. I cannot actually say I disagree.’
I pull a face behind Susan’s back. She pushes the doorbell: a round button in the middle of an ornate stone carving on the side pillar. Behind the door, I can hear footsteps, and the door opens wide to reveal …
A large, middle-aged woman with big hooped earrings, and short-cropped Afro hair. I know from her outline that this is the woman who followed the dog out of the yard and down the lane.
Will she recognise me? My heart is thumping, and I don’t meet her eye, tipping the brim of my cap down low. I try to remind myself yet again that it was twilight when it all happened, and I had my back to her as I ran away, but still …
‘Hi!’ she says. It sounds like she’s smiling, but I’m trying not to look up. ‘You must be Susan? And …’
Her eyes flick to me. Susan says, ‘This is Malcolm. He’s part of the project as well.’
I still don’t lift up my face.
‘I’m Andrina. I’m Mr McKinley’s carer. Call me Andi.’ She’s still sounding pleased to see us. She beckons us into the high, wide hallway with a highly polished tile floor and a wide staircase. She stops at the first doorway and points to a bottle on a small table. ‘Hand-san, please. Mr McKinley’s ninety and he’s had a nasty cold recently.’
As we’re doing it, she takes out a device from her smock pocket and holds it up. Meanwhile, I’m looking around for the dog, and so far no sign.
‘Cap off, please, Malcolm. I need to take your temperature.’
Slowly and reluctantly, I remove the cap, but my face is still cast downwards. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Don’t be shy!’ She reaches out and gently holds my chin to make me face her and puts the thermometer to my forehead. As she does so, she looks closely at me.
Now if you’d asked me a few weeks ago if I thought that anyone could be psychic – you know, read minds and stuff – then I’d have said, ‘Obviously not.’ But since I began sharing dreams with Seb you could say I’m not so sure. And now, with this woman’s face centimetres from mine? I’m so convinced that I know what she is thinking that it is like she is talking to me.
I know it was you that night, you little tyke. I’d recognise that haystack of hair anywhere. And so you can make amends by visiting a dying old man and listening to his rambling stories.
She looks at the thermometer, then at me and shakes her head, tutting.
‘Oh lordy!’ she says, and pauses, looking grave. Then her smile comes back. ‘Only joking! You’re fine. Come on in. He’s looking forward to meeting you. Shoes off, please.’ She’s being jolly, but there’s something in the narrow-eyed look that she throws at me that puts me right on edge.
From behind the thick door I can hear classical music: the sort played by an orchestra, although it doesn’t sound very tuneful – not that I’m an expert. My heart is still thumping like crazy.
We pause, and she beckons us forward.
‘Come on in. You’re in luck: he’s having a good day today. Though I warn you …’ She pauses, and we wait expectantly. ‘Even on good days, he’s quite tired, and that can make him a bit short-tempered.’
Oh great. A tired, grumpy old man.
Who, it’ll turn out, will change my life.
And not necessarily in a good way.
The room is huge and over-warm, with a high ceiling and a big bay window looking on to public gardens and, beyond that, the priory and the River Tyne. Two of the walls are lined from ceiling to floor with crammed bookshelves, spilling over with papers and folders and books jammed in any old way; the others have wallpaper with a bright but faded symmetrical pattern. There’s a long sideboard and an equally long buttoned sofa in faded green.
Looking up, I see dozens of huge silk scarves in various colours and patterns hanging from the ceiling, and between them dangle pendants of all kinds: a bamboo wind chime, two large, round glass discs winking in the light, and a mass of blue butterflies linked together with thread that I can hardly see. The whole effect is a bit like being in a magical, multicoloured antique shop.
A high-backed armchair faces the window.
Despite the thick, warm air, through the soles of my socks the tiled floor feels cold. We hesitate in the open doorway. The music is much louder in here: classical music of violins and horns – the kind of stuff that Susan probably likes.
‘Well, come in if you’re comin’ in and closhe the door behin’ you! I cannit abide a draught!’
The voice is slurred and muffled and comes from the direction of the armchair. When I approach, I see a bunched-up tartan blanket with someone sitting under it, low down and slightly hunched over. Next to the chair is a large silver cylinder, upright on a trolley. A rubber tube comes from it to a plastic mask that is fitted to the old man’s face.
When Susan and I get near, he squirms in his chair to sit up straighter. It’s only then that I realise that he’s not under a blanket, but actually wearing a huge blue-and-green tartan cardigan. He removes the oxygen mask from his face and uses a skinny, shaky hand to smooth down his white hair, of which there is a lot. His thin face has more lines than anyone I’ve ever seen,
and he peers at us suspiciously through the purple spectacles perched on his large, veiny nose. It’s the face from the Dreaminator box, for sure, only much older and definitely not grinning.
‘Not too close!’ says Andi as we get nearer, but he waves his hand to dismiss her.
‘Och, ignore her! Come’s closhe as you like. Y’don’t have lyshe, do you?’
Lice? I feel myself reddening. Seb and I did have nits last term.
‘No, but …’
Susan interrupts. ‘No, Mr McKinley. We definitely don’t have lice.’
‘They’re fine, Kenneth. Really. Be nice.’ Andi is unrolling something from a long box.
‘Och, very well. You’d better set down on Andi’s paper. What thash for, I have no idea. You’re not thinking of shoiling yourshelves, are you?’
‘Just keeping you alive, Kenneth,’ says Andi with a smile, as she tears off a long sheet of soft, wide paper from her roll and places it on the seat of the sofa for us. We sit down cautiously. The old man responds with a gargling growl in his throat as if he thinks her efforts to keep him alive are a waste of everyone’s time.
As well as the music, I now detect another noise: a clacking sound that comes from the old man when he speaks.
‘You’ll wait, I hope, until we get to the end of thish movement? Mr Bruckner, I find, is not a composer that can be hurried.’ And there it is again: clack-clack.
His eyes are closed, but his hands are moving in time with the strange music, as if he is conducting an invisible band. Andi crosses the room to an old-style record player where a black vinyl disc is revolving and, when she pushes a button, the music stops abruptly.
The old man opens his eyes at the sudden silence. What happens next is an amazing transformation. It is almost as if Mr McKinley becomes younger before our eyes. He doesn’t, of course, but as he talks it is as if he is warming up. He slurs less, and straightens up, raising his wrinkled neck from out of his slumped shoulders, like a tortoise.