When We Got Lost in Dreamland

by Ross Welford

  It starts in Kobi’s cave. I’m getting a bit bored with the whole Kobi thing, to be honest, but at least I know it works and how to control it properly. It’s a bit like the early levels of a video game if you forget to save your progress: you can just whizz through to get to the bit you want.

  Outside the cave are plenty of other boys the same age as me, all wearing the same uniform. I’d be sure to blend in, but I am still nervous.

  There’s a crowd on the beach getting noisier. Beyond them, at the shoreline, are the mammoths that are usually there, but no one is bothered by them. I hear a couple of shouts go up:

  ‘Er is hier!’ and, ‘Er kommt!’ which I know from Miss Linton’s German lessons means ‘He is here!’ and ‘He is coming!’

  I look down at myself and I don’t really like what I see. I am wearing a smartly ironed brown shirt and a neckerchief like the one I had in Cubs, only it’s black. My baggy shorts are held up by a shiny leather belt and on my head is what I now know is called a ‘forage cap’ because I looked it up on the web for my school project.

  The uniform of the Hitler Youth.

  The noise of the crowd has increased and more and more people are surging forward, but they are kept back by stern-looking policemen.

  Then Seb turns up, dressed completely wrong. Instead of black, his neckerchief is bright green, made from the same fabric as his favourite goalie top. Still, no one seems to have noticed. I could get rid of him. He’d leave if I told him to. But I’m beginning to learn that it’s best not to be too controlling in these situations, if it can be avoided. It’s as if I’m allowed a certain amount of control, and it can get used up, like a battery.

  I think of Mam’s song, and decide to just ‘let it be …’

  ‘Come on, Seb – head down. Got your weapon?’

  ‘Yep! Got yours?’

  Do I? I look down – yep, there’s my Nerf gun. I pat the holster attached to my belt and unhook the cover in readiness. ‘Let’s go!’

  We push through the dense crowd as purposefully as we can. No one looks at us.

  I catch a glimpse of a car, still a hundred metres away, and to get a better view I say, ‘Float!’ and I begin to hover a little way above the heads of the crowd and nobody takes any notice at all. The car’s body is polished like a black mirror, coming slowly down the beach.

  It’s the longest car I have ever seen: a Mercedes-Benz, open-topped so that everyone can see the occupants of the three rows of seats – although there is only one that anyone cares about.

  In the back row are two grey-uniformed soldiers, staring warily at the crowd. In front of them, in the middle row, are two more officers. And riding up front next to the driver is the man everyone is cheering. He stands, unsmiling, throwing out his stiff-armed salute to the crowd, who return it, with grins and hoots of joy.

  My heart thumps in my chest. He is so familiar to me from countless pictures, and YouTube clips, and movies and TV shows, and yet here he is in front of me, his car coming along the shore straight towards me and Seb.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I ask Seb again and he nods.

  ‘Ready, Freddie!’ he says.

  The two of us step calmly from the front row and raise our blue plastic guns, ready to go down in history.

  Malcolm and Sebastian Bell: the British boys who shot Adolf Hitler with Nerf guns.

  The driver of the big black Mercedes sees us first, before the officers who are seated behind him, and before Hitler, who is looking out, smirking now, at the cheering crowd.

  I look at the driver and a puzzled expression crosses his face. The car’s not travelling fast, so he has plenty of time to brake as he gets closer. The sudden slowing of the vehicle causes Hitler to jolt forward, grab the top edge of the windscreen and look crossly first at his driver, and then ahead at me and my brother.

  There can’t be many people alive who have seen Adolf Hitler in real life. (I know: you’re probably thinking, Well, neither have you, but it really feels like I have.) He’s shorter than I expected and his face is fleshy and pale. The little square moustache is unmistakable, though, and his cold blue eyes are furious at this interruption to his parade.

  The next few moments appear to pass in slow motion.

  The driver gesticulates angrily with his arm and barks at us, but I don’t understand a word: they are probably ones that Miss Linton won’t ever teach us. At the same time, two of the officers from the car leap out and start coming towards Seb and me.

  ‘Now!’ I shout. ‘Fire!’

  Together we pull the triggers of our guns, unleashing a volley of orange sponge darts at the man they called the Führer. Our aim is rubbish, though: most of the darts ping off the windscreen of the car, leaving Hitler startled but clearly unharmed. A gasp goes up from the crowd.

  ‘Look out!’ I yell at Seb. Then, ‘Reload!’

  On my command, the guns reload automatically, and we turn and fire a burst at the soldiers coming for us. This time our aim is better: the men go down, clutching their heads in pain.

  Only in a dream could sponge darts be that effective!

  The atmosphere in the crowd has changed in seconds. They watch in amazement as Seb and I run closer to the car, firing our toy guns at the uniformed officers, who have extracted their own pistols, but seem uncertain of how to proceed against two boys. One of them looks at Hitler as if for guidance, but Hitler continues to glare at us in silent astonishment.

  This is even more fun than I had expected! I glance over to Seb: he has already downed the SS officer in a burst of orange missiles and is ready for another go at Hitler.

  I raise my gun, tasking careful aim at Hitler’s moustache.

  ‘Okay, Adolf – get ready for one right in your gob!’ I shout.

  My finger is squeezing the trigger when, from behind me, a large arm in a grey sleeve thumps down on the barrel of my gun, causing the ground in front of me to be peppered with orange foam. My assailant’s other arm grabs me in a chokehold and yanks the Nerf gun from my grasp, throwing it to one side.

  I am caught, and immediately think about the Emergency Escape procedure. But before I can say anything I hear Seb scream from the other side of the huge motor.

  ‘Get off me!’

  A huge soldier drags him, hand clamped over his mouth, his feet kicking up sand, until we are standing together facing the big black car, as Adolf Hitler climbs down and walks towards us slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, a cold half-smile on his damp lips. Following a pace behind is a stern-looking female SS officer, her cap pulled low, shielding her face. She is wearing the familiar black uniform, complete with the red-and-white armband featuring the hated Nazi symbol of the swastika.

  She speaks first. ‘Silence! Ach so! Ve have a pair of Englishers, ja? In the uniform off the wunderbar Hitler Youth!’ She indicates me. ‘Do you see, mein Führer?’

  Hitler nods solemnly, looking me up and down.

  ‘Ja, Kapitän Becker. Jawohl!’

  This is good stuff. These people are talking exactly like the Nazi officers in Fit Billy’s film. For the full effect, the woman officer should click her heels together …

  And she does. Then she takes off her cap, and angrily tosses her purple dip-dyed hair. I splutter with laughter when I realise she looks exactly like Kez Becker, and Hitler glares at me.

  Seb cocks his head to one side and sticks out his tongue at Der Führer. ‘I’m not scared of you! You’re a big bully with silly hair and a stupid moustache and … and a rid-ridinkulous salute! Look!’ Seb imitates the Nazi salute and then waggles his fingers wildly, adding a big, wet raspberry through his missing teeth for good measure.

  Hitler pale face turns pink. He purses his lips and narrows his eyes into an expression of pure fury and he barks a command.

  The female officer leans forward and points to the letters SS on her collar.

  ‘Ha, my little friend! Do you know what these letters stand for?’

  Thanks to Fit Billy’s obsession with World War Two, I do.
They stand for Schutzstaffel – Hitler’s dreaded Nazi paramilitary police force. But I don’t know if Seb knows. (Nor do I like the way things are going. Bravery and excitement are all very well, but I am getting very close to calling it quits with the Emergency Escape.)

  Seb peers at the letters and adopts an innocent expression. ‘SS?’ he says, and then he pauses for comic effect. ‘Are you a member of the Secret Seven?’

  It takes a second or two for the SS officer to register what Seb has said, then she screams the German word for ‘no’, ‘Nein!’

  ‘Nope. I’ve read the books,’ says Seb. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s only seven.’

  ‘Insolence!’ she hisses. ‘Mein Führer! We must make an example of these English boys!’

  Hitler nods solemnly and waves his hand casually as if to say, Get on with it then!

  ‘Very well. Bring it out.’

  The officer strides to the rear of the big Mercedes and pops open the boot. Nothing happens for a moment, then a long crocodile flops on to the ground and uncurls itself, turning its head until it faces me.

  I recognise it immediately and a chill goes through me from my skull to my toes.

  Cuthbert.

  This is not in the plan.

  I stare at the crocodile from my childhood nightmares.

  This is not meant to happen!

  On the other hand, I’m quite looking forward to seeing the expression of Hitler’s face when this massive crocodile turns into a furry toy in front of him. A murmur goes round the crowd, and Hitler turns away as though he does not want to witness what comes next.

  It’s okay, Malky. You know what to do. Remember last time?

  The last time I had seen Cuthbert had been the very first Dreaminator dream: the one in the classroom, when he had emerged from beneath the desk I was standing on. Just as I had done then, I extend my hand and say, Cuthbert!’, then, ‘Stop!’

  It doesn’t work.

  Instead of turning into a cuddly toy before my eyes, the beast rises a little on its stumpy legs and starts coming towards me.

  Hitler turns to his officers and laughs. Then he faces me. ‘It’s not vorking, is it, little English boy? You think you are so cleffer. You forget: I am Adolf Hitler, one of the most evil men who has ever lift! Ha ha ha ha! Kutbert – attack him!’

  I try again. ‘Cuthbert! Stop! Stop!’

  Still he advances. I don’t understand: my powers of dream-control should have lasted much longer than this. But I am taking no more risks.

  ‘Emergency Escape!’ I yell to Seb. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  SNAP!

  In a flash, the croc’s jaws clamp down on my extended arm in an agonising grip, tearing at my flesh as it tries to wrench my arm off.

  ‘Wake up!’ I shout, ‘WAKE UP!’

  Nothing happens.

  ‘Wake up!’ I shout again.

  I take a huge lungful of air. Then I tighten my mouth and throat shut and try to breathe out. My cheeks bulge. I strain harder, urging my ears to pop with the effort.

  Meanwhile, the crocodile chews down deeper, his teeth inching further up my arm towards my shoulder. With my other hand, I pinch my nose and blow hard, feeling my eyes and cheeks bulge until I release the air with a loud paaaah!

  Then I open my eyes.

  I’m in bed, panting hard, still imagining that my arm is being eaten by a crocodile. I know now that, if I close my eyes, the images from the dream will come back to me for a few seconds before fading away. So I do, just to test it.

  And there’s the croc, jaws clamped on my wrist, and a shooting pain goes up my arm until I open my eyes again and the croc has gone.

  I am awake, in my own bed. I turn my head and there is Seb, fast asleep in his.

  Except my arm is still hurting. Not badly. Not a-crocodile-is-biting-my-arm-off agony, but it’s definitely sore. I wait a moment until my breathing returns to normal, and look up at the Dreaminator above me.

  No more nightmares! the instructions said. Even when I was little, and before Mam and I had renamed the crocodile Cuthbert, the thing had never actually bitten me. I swing my legs out from under my duvet and shuffle out of bed.

  I turn the bathroom light on and have a wee, and I roll up my pyjama sleeve to look at my arm. The pain is lessening, but it’s still there and … am I imagining this? I look closer.

  Surely not.

  There is a line of indentations, little pink marks, where the croc chomped down. Exactly where its teeth were. Turning my arm from side to side, I can see the marks clearly. Then I hear a noise on the landing outside and the rattle of the bathroom doorknob. It’ll be Seb coming for a drink of water.

  I’m facing the mirror, which reflects the bathroom door behind me.

  The door opens slowly, creaking a little. I look in the mirror and get ready to say hi to Seb, but there’s no one there. That’s odd: it looks like the door is opening by itself.

  I don’t want to turn round. I don’t want to see what is opening the door, because it has to be at ground level, but I force myself to look …

  … and he’s there, on the ground, raised up on his squat legs. He’s half in and half out of the bathroom door. The massive crocodile takes two tottering steps towards me across the tiles and I scream, ‘No!’ as it opens its jaws wide, and slowly closes them again.

  Then from within the beast comes a grating, hollow growl, like an empty metal bin being dragged across rocks. The croc’s mouth opens slightly and it sneers in a deep, upper-class drawl like a British army officer in one of Fit Billy’s war movies.

  ‘I say. Look who it is. Hello, Malcolm!’

  How can this be? In my terror, I scream out for Mam, and back myself up against the sink as the croc inches forward.

  ‘Mam! Seb! Maaaam!’

  Cuthbert’s at my feet now, and I hoist my bum on to the edge of the sink to raise myself off the ground. I kick out at the advancing beast and I can see the shine on his teeth as he slowly closes his mouth and lowers himself on to his belly, bending his back half until he has cleared the door, then using the weight of his knobbled tail to slam the bathroom door shut, completely blocking my escape. He is clearly willing to take as long as he likes.

  ‘Mam!’ I shout again. ‘Maaaam! Help!’

  ‘Aw – calling for mummy, are we?’ Cuthbert sneers. ‘It won’t do you any good, you know.’

  The croc blinks at me patiently, and runs its tongue round its teeth like it’s sizing up its next meal. I scrabble further up the edge of the sink and search with my hands for things to throw. A nailbrush pings off its snout, a glass, a toothbrush, then I glance at the tube of toothpaste in my hand. The name looks strange.

  CLOGAET

  Then the letters seem to move.

  LOGTACE

  Wait. What? Why doesn’t it say COLGATE?

  Something comes back into my head. I remember reading the instructions for the Dreaminator.

  Numbers on clocks and printed words are usually jumbled or indistinct during dreams.

  Crocodiles don’t talk, or blink for that matter. They don’t have tongues, either, not the sort you can stick out, anyway.

  This just cannot be happening.

  I am still dreaming.

  ‘Wake up!’ I shout. ‘Waaake uuuup! Wake up! Oh, please wake up!’ As Cuthbert lunges forward for an attack, I kick out wildly, desperately, sobbing and shouting and trying my hardest to recapture the breath that seems to have been forced from my lungs.

  And I’m back in bed, with my duvet twisted round my legs, thrashing out at …

  … nothing.

  Seb is awake, standing over me, shaking my shoulders. ‘Oh, you’re back! What happened to you? I couldn’t wake you! What happened, Malky?’

  I cannot answer him. I dare not close my eyes. I lie there on my back, my chest heaving, and I feel a bead of sweat trickle off my forehead.

  ‘Is … is this a dream?’ I ask. I can’t see Seb’s face in the dark, just his shadowy form next
to my bed, outlined by the light from the blue crystals hanging above us.

  ‘A dream? Course not. What’s the matter with you? I was in the dream with Hitler, yeah?’

  I nod and wipe the sweat off my brow with my pyjama sleeve. Seb says, ‘Okay, so I woke up and you were here, but you were still asleep. Your face was twitching. I’ve been trying to wake you. I nearly called Mam.’

  My breathing’s returning to normal. ‘Wow. That was intense. I thought I was awake. That is, I … I thought I had woken up. But I hadn’t and … and …’

  It sounds stupid.

  Seb falls back into his bed. Then I hear his chuckle. ‘Did you see Hitler’s face?’

  He rolls over and is asleep in minutes, while I just lie there. The pain in my arm is still there. If I run my fingers along the row of teeth-marks, I can still feel the indentations. Very slightly. But they are there.

  Mam’s at the bedroom door now. ‘You okay, love?’ she whispers. ‘I heard you shout.’

  I shouted?

  ‘Cuthbert back?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She comes into the room, squeezing between our two beds, and sits down on the edge of mine. She reaches out to stroke my hair. ‘Eee, pet. You’re sweating like mad. Bad one, was it?’

  I nod, and she keeps stroking my head, gently. In the dark, I see her eyes move upwards until she’s staring at the Dreaminator, then she looks down at me.

  Make Your Dreams Come True! the box said. It didn’t mention nightmares.

  I roll over so that she can’t see that my eyes are wide open. I don’t want to fall back asleep: I’m scared. My arm still hurts.

  Then she sings the song, really quietly so as not to wake Seb. I haven’t heard it for years, and I still don’t know all of the words.

  ‘Let it be, let it be …’

  After a while, Mam reaches up and turns off the Dreaminator and goes back to bed.

  I fall asleep, but I don’t dream of anything, I don’t think.

  If I had stopped there, things might not have got much worse. But I didn’t, did I?