When We Got Lost in Dreamland

by Ross Welford

  She doesn’t even know they’re gone.

  Instead, she goes hmmp and says, ‘He likes you. I can tell. That is, as much as he likes anyone. I think you remind him of his son.’

  I’m a bit embarrassed so I just say, ‘Oh? The one who’s just phoned?’ and she gives a little sigh.

  ‘He’s a complicated man is Kenneth. He thinks deeply. Too deeply, if you ask me.’ Her eyes flick to the Dreaminator above the bed and then back to me. ‘And he’s known a lot of sadness. It can all make him very confused. But, if you wanted to come back, I think you’d make a lonely old man a bit happier in his final days.’

  ‘His … his final …?’

  She shrugs. ‘Who knows? Now go and wait by the front door.’

  Andi returns a moment later and hands me a plastic box of cake with a slow nod and a warm smile. Before the door closes, she says, ‘Will we see you again?’

  She doesn’t really say it like a question, and there’s only one answer required.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ says Susan, as we walk down the road, which might be the first time I’ve ever heard someone say that in real life. ‘Wasn’t that just … wonderful, Malky! I absolutely reek of smoke, but I don’t care!’

  ‘Aye, I s’pose,’ I mumble, but all I’m thinking of is the Dreaminator above Mr McKinley’s bed. ‘Why’d you wanna leave so soon, anyway?’ I’m still cross with her for that.

  ‘Oh, but I thought you looked a little bored at all that talk of unconscious minds and so on.’

  Bored? I was anything but bored! If my face was blank, it was because I was fascinated.

  I say nothing, but my silence isn’t going to last for long. Susan’s still babbling on, just like someone’s parent. We’ve gone past Prior’s Park and reached the road by the little bay when she says, ‘Do you want to go back another time? Mrs Farroukh would like it, I think.’

  Obviously, I do. I grunt in response. You know, a sort of, ‘Hmp, aye.’ The kind of reply that drives adults nuts, then I go back to swimming in the whirlpool of my head again.

  Old Mr McKinley’s Dreaminator …

  Andi saying ‘his final days …’

  ‘Are you all right, Malky? You are rather quiet.’

  ‘Aye, fine.’

  Should I tell her? I find myself wanting to talk to her – not just about my dreams, but also to ask her about her dad, tell her about mine …

  Should I let this strange adult-girl into my head?

  The problem is, she’s just too flippin’ annoying. Little Miss Perfect. Not my kind of friend at all. Too posh for me.

  And she’s talking again.

  ‘Do you have any plans for your Saturday night?’

  Where it comes from I don’t know, but I hear myself take a deep breath and reply, ‘Yeah, Seb and me are going to the Stone Age!’

  Susan knows nothing at all about me sharing my dreams with Sebastian. And yet there was something about our encounter with Kenneth McKinley, and my ‘confession’ to Andi, that has made me bolder.

  ‘Seb? Your brother?’ She frowns.

  Dammit. Think, Malky, think. Just tell her it’s some daft game we play.

  Then there’s another voice in my head, contradicting me.

  Why don’t you just tell her the truth, Malky? Everything might be fine, you know?

  And so we sit on a bench, looking at the little sailing-club dinghies skittering in the grey sea, and first I get her to promise that she won’t tell anyone at school. The way she looks at me when she promises is reassuring. Her small dark eyes widen behind her glasses and she nods earnestly, hooking her hair behind both ears as if she’s preparing for something important. I’m building up to telling her about the Dreaminators, I think because – for the first time – I realise that I’m not under suspicion.

  I can tell her, surely? She won’t snitch … surely? First I’ll tell her about Seb and me sharing our dreams. Only then, depending on her reaction, will I tell her about the Dreaminators, and the one I saw hanging in Mr McKinley’s bedroom.

  Good plan, Malky.

  Then I start. Susan goes quiet. For perhaps the only time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t offer an opinion or interrupt me, or sound clever or superior. She just lets me speak. When I tell her about Seb being in my dreams, she leans forward and tilts her head like it’s the most fascinating thing she has ever heard, and she doesn’t scoff and accuse me of making it all up.

  She giggles occasionally and it reminds me of the teacups tinkling on Andi’s tray. She likes the Santa Ana ship story. I exaggerate it a bit, and she laughs some more, putting her hand over her mouth. When I get to the bit with the Christmas puddings, her hand goes down, she grins widely and laughs out loud and I realise I have never seen her teeth before: she always smiles with her mouth closed.

  (Her teeth are small and white and even and no doubt very, very clean. In case you were wondering.)

  Then, after a few seconds, she stops laughing. She shifts round and puts both of her hands on my forearm – a sort of gesture of concern, I guess. I’ve seen adults do it. ‘But, Malky,’ she says, suddenly looking serious, ‘I don’t think this is altogether safe.’

  Altogether safe? Who speaks like that? I immediately start to regret my decision to share this stuff with Susan.

  ‘Safe?’ I repeat, suddenly feeling annoyed and yanking my arm from her grip. ‘Why wouldn’t it be safe? I mean … we’re not doing it for real.’

  This has put me off my stride, I can say that. I was building up to the Dreaminators, and suddenly she’s gone all superior. She clasps her hands in her lap. She closes her eyes for a moment, then says, quietly, ‘It’s a dream, Malky. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.’

  ‘Eh? Of course it does!’

  ‘How do you know that? My Mola even questions whether this is real.’ She waves her hand around, and taps the wooden fence with her fist, and looks out to sea. ‘Everything. It all could be a dream. An illusion. It is like Mr McKinley was saying. Exploring these things could be … dangerous, I suppose. They can mess with your head. Think about it. I mean really think about it, Malky.’

  The way she says really suggests that I don’t ever think about things properly, and I don’t like it.

  We sit in silence for a moment and when the church clock chimes up on Front Street she says, ‘Lunchtime, methinks!’

  I mean, really. Who says methinks?

  We walk without saying anything until we’re at the top of the beach path joining Front Street that runs through Tynemouth village. On the corner at the top of the path is a newish building, which is Becker & Sons, the funeral directors. It’s painted white and blue, with big display windows, and I think they try to make it look friendly and modern, but they have things like gravestones in the windows and those little statues of angels that go on top of graves, so I still get creeped out by it.

  Just as Susan and I get there, Kez Becker comes out of a side door. She lives with her mum and dad and older brothers in the flat above the shop. I keep my head down, but I’ve never been good at blending in.

  ‘Oi, oi, Blondie Bell!’ she says, like she’s trying out a new nickname. She swaggers towards us, hands deep in her pockets.

  I force a smile and murmur, ‘Oh no, here we go.’

  ‘Hello, Kezia. How are you?’ Susan says, sounding like an adult again.

  Kez looks right through her as if she isn’t there and then says to me, ‘I see you’re developing a better class of friends, Bell.’ She pronounces ‘class’ with a long ‘a’ – clahss – like Susan does. It’s a deliberate dig. I answer this with a shrug.

  Susan blinks with surprise at this unprovoked attack. Kez has spotted Susan’s discomfort like a lioness spots a nervous gazelle.

  ‘Y’know, Kez, I’m in a hurry so …’ I say, and start to move off. Kez steps casually in front of us, blocking our path, but making it look natural.

  ‘Oh, I say! Are you indeed! Are you going to a luncheon pah-teh!’

 
I don’t know why I do the next thing: a thing that changes everything. Well, actually I do: self-preservation.

  I laugh.

  I know, I know. You’re going to hate me, aren’t you? But you don’t know Kez Becker. It’s best staying on her right side and sometimes, in order to do that, you have to make harsh choices. And so I laugh at Kez’s ridiculous posh-voice mockery of Susan. Then, to make it worse, I add something of my own.

  ‘Followed by a piccolo lesson?’ And as the words pass my lips I feel wretched and guilty and immediately want to take them back, but it’s too late: I have sided with Kez. Quickly, I add a forced ‘ha ha!’ as insurance because I know that in a few seconds I’ll have to say, ‘It was a joke, Susan!’

  Susan stops, right there in the street, and, ignoring Kez completely, turns full-on to me, blinking in hurt and surprise. She is actually stammering, she’s so upset. Her mouth quivers. ‘You … you know your problem, Malky Bell?’

  I find myself going on the offensive, even though I realise I have hurt her. ‘No, Susan Tenzin. What is my problem?’ My tone is sullen and defiant.

  ‘You’re a snob.’

  Well, that takes me by surprise.

  ‘I’m a snob? What – says the posh girl who plays the piccolo, who has a massive garden?’

  ‘Exactly. You have just proved it. You look down on me because of my background, because of who I am, and because of how I speak! None of that has anything to do with who I am, but you have decided you are better than me. Isn’t that exactly what being a snob is?’

  I was angry at Susan, but I hadn’t wanted to upset her. ‘I don’t think I’m better than you.’

  ‘Yes, you jolly well do! You make jokes about my accent, you think that I live in a nice house and that I assume you are inferior, when all I have done is try to be friendly. You’re even ashamed to be seen getting out of my car. You have no idea, Malky, how many people at school are like you. Ooh, look at her, little Miss Perfect! Talk about judging people! So what do I do? I do what my daddy says: I keep my head down, I work hard and I join things. Orchestra, library club, COMMS – anything. I thought you were different, Malky. I really did. I thought we were friends. But you are not: you are just as snobbish as all the rest and I hate you!’

  Her volume has not increased while saying this, and in fact the last bit is almost whispered. But I can see her eyes are wet. I wish I could take back what I said. I really didn’t mean to hurt her.

  Just five minutes earlier I loved the way she hung on to every word I said.

  ‘I … I was only joking,’ I murmur.

  ‘There is something you are keeping quiet, Malky Bell. I thought you were going to tell me back then, I thought you trusted me, but you know what? I am not even interested any more. And as for your dreams? You are not the only one that can do it, you know. You are not all that special.’

  I don’t have a chance to apologise, because she turns and runs across the road and down the back lane in the direction of her street.

  Kez and I watch her go. Then Kez tuts.

  ‘Posh lasses, man Bell. Nowt but trouble. What was all that about dreams, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. She’s nuts.’

  I’m about to walk away when Kez says, ‘Hold on. Have you thought any more about my Halloween Challenge? Only I’ve come up with some refinements, and …’ I interrupt her.

  ‘No, Kez. I haven’t. I think it’s a horrible idea!’

  Where was that courage two minutes ago when I should have stood up for Susan Tenzin?

  Kez takes a step closer and takes her hands out of her pockets. ‘You’re just chicken, aren’t you, Bell?’ She starts to flap her arms, chicken-style, when there’s the deep grumble of a motorbike engine behind us and we both leap out of the way. The motorbike pulls to a sudden halt between us and the rider lifts up the visor helmet.

  Kez’s dad nods at me, then says, ‘There you are, Kezia! Your mum’s calling you. I’m going up the coast.’ He waits. Kezia doesn’t move. ‘Now, Kez. Off you go. Chop chop.’

  It’s the distraction I need. As Kez’s dad twists his wrist and the bike moves off, growling, along Front Street, I walk away quickly in the same direction that Susan went. Kez is left standing in front of the shop window, looking furious, with a stone angel peeping over her shoulder.

  Then her expression changes to a smirk and she makes the chicken-arms again.

  I trudge home. Nice one, Malky, I think, bitterly. I seem to be losing control of everything in my life and it is not even lunchtime.

  Roll on bedtime, I say.

  That evening, Fit Billy’s round again. He’s made salad, which at least makes Mam happy, and she’s put on make-up for some reason. She’s fine without it, if you ask me.

  Because he made our food, Mam says Billy can choose what to watch and of course it’s something about World War Two. We can’t afford Netflix and stuff, so he’s brought a DVD: some comedy with a man pretending to be Adolf Hitler, which I don’t really like, but Mam and Billy are laughing and even Seb looks like he’s enjoying it.

  Before it finishes, I say I’m going to bed, and Seb gets up to follow me.

  ‘Are you all right, pet?’ says Mam. ‘You’ve been very quiet. You never told me about your school visit thingy.’

  ‘I’m okay. I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

  Billy gets up and sits on the sofa close to Mam, because you get a better view of the screen. ‘He’s just tired, aren’t you, pal? Go on, off you go!’ Well, that’s strange – Billy sending me off to bed, but I’m halfway out of the door, anyway.

  As soon as we’re upstairs, Seb says we should dream about killing Adolf Hitler.

  ‘It’ll be awethome!’ he said. ‘We’ll be the boys who assassinate a mass murderer!’ (Try saying that with no front teeth, I dare you.)

  We’re at the top of the stairs. I can hear the film has finished, and the pop of a wine cork, and now Mam and Fit Billy are talking about painting the fence between our backyards and they’re laughing. (I can’t imagine what’s so funny about painting a fence.)

  ‘No,’ I say, firmly. ‘We’re not killing anyone, Seb. Not even in a dream. You know that.’

  His face falls.

  ‘Think about it. Our dreams are so real, there’s hardly any difference between them and real life, yeah?’ He nods. ‘So, do you really want to know what it’s like to kill someone? Even someone like Hitler? When you’re seven? It’s horrible. It could really mess with your head.’

  I’ve just used the same phrase that Susan used with me, but it’s different this time because Seb’s my little brother.

  He agrees, reluctantly. Then he comes up with the idea of attacking Adolf Hitler with our Nerf guns. It’s still more ambitious than anything else we have tried. Perhaps I am getting cocky.

  But it does sound fun.

  Seb and I were supposed to see Dad this afternoon, but he texted earlier to say he couldn’t make it. Mam tutted and said, ‘You’d think he lived in Mexico, not Middlesbrough.’

  So, when we get to our room, I FaceTime Dad on my cracked phone instead. As soon as he answers, he says, ‘Are those the dream things behind you? I’ve heard a lot about them.’

  I’ve listened to Mam and Dad talking on the phone and I know that Dad thinks it’s all a bit strange. Seb, though, comes over to my bed and grabs the phone, excitedly. ‘Yes!’ he says. ‘Do you want to see them?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Dad.

  ‘Okay.’ Seb gets up, switches them on, gets even more excited and before I can stop him he says, ‘And, best of all, me and Malky can share each other’s dreams! Can’t we, Malky?’

  I might have known this would happen. It’s all very well me keeping quiet, knowing – because I’m much older than him – that people will react with disbelief, or scoff, or simply not understand. But Seb doesn’t do that. He just says it all, straight out, while Dad’s face stays blank. Seb gets one of the Dreaminator boxes and holds it up to my phone to show Dad.

  ‘A Dreaminator?’ D
ad says in a mysterious sort of voice.

  ‘Have you heard of it?’ I ask. I’m about to tell him that I met the inventor this morning, but I’m put off by his suspicious tone of voice.

  ‘The name rings a bell,’ Dad replies. ‘Dunno where from, though.’

  At that point, Dad’s girlfriend calls for him and he has to go. I keep thinking that the word ‘Dreaminator’ has stirred up some memory in Dad that he doesn’t want to – or can’t – tell me.

  Hours later, I still can’t sleep. It’s a really warm night for September. I’ve flung the cover off and I lie there, listening to Seb snuffle.

  ‘You awake, Malk?’ he whispers.

  ‘Mm-hm.’

  ‘Me too. Are we going to do the dream, with the Nerf guns? Shooting Hitler?’

  ‘If we get to sleep, yeah.’

  ‘Cool.’ He lies back. ‘Will you read Kobi to me?’

  I put the light on with a sigh. He’s already sitting up now and has got the book in his hands. I prop myself up on my pillow and start reading.

  ‘In the shadows of the cave, the fire flickers red,

  And Kobi lies down with a rock beneath his head …’

  We get halfway through the story, to the bit I know is his favourite.

  ‘A ride upon a mammoth? What a wonderful idea!

  Kobi clambers up its trunk and hangs on to its ear …’

  But Seb’s already asleep. When I close the book’s cover, I see something that I’ve never noticed before. On the flap is small, scrawly writing:

  To Seb from Dad. Be brave like Kobi x

  Only it’s obviously not Dad’s writing. It’s Seb’s.

  Seb, who hardly ever mentions Dad. I turn out the light and flop back on to my hot pillow, a strange feeling inside me. I think it might be protectiveness towards my brother?

  It’s new, and I don’t like it.

  And that’s not all. Because, a few hours later, I’m dreaming the dream that will change everything.

  Remember: it was Seb’s idea. I can at least blame him for that. He was the one who came up with the idea of attacking Adolf Hitler.