by Ross Welford
And they did get worse: much worse.
Over the next couple of days, I lose count of the number of times someone asks me, ‘Are you okay, Malky?’
Look, have you ever been on a really fast roller coaster? Mam took me and Seb to Thorpe Park two years ago, and there was this ride called TerrorSpeed that Seb was too small for, so I went on my own while he and Mam watched and it was great, but …
When I came off, I was in a bit of a daze. Not dizzy, like staggering and so on. Just … spacey. It wasn’t for long – just a minute or so when I felt as if I was walking on cotton wool.
Well, that’s what this is like, only it’s going on all the time. I keep running my fingers over the indentations in my arm left by Cuthbert’s teeth. They don’t hurt any more, and you can hardly see them, but they are there.
Mam sees me fiddling. ‘What’s up with your arm, Malky?’
I’ve been bitten by an imaginary crocodile, Mam.
I pull my sleeve back down. ‘Nothing. Just a bit itchy.’
I can’t even talk to Susan about it because of our argument. Besides, she’s been away on a trip to some school orchestra competition in Leeds.
And then comes another dream, and this one is … well, I’d better just tell you. Bear with me. It’s funny.
Sort of.
I’m in the lunch hall again. It looks normal. It sounds and smells normal as well. I’m not taking any risks, though. I go up to Mason Todd who eyes me warily – as he might, I suppose. I’ve hardly spoken to him in real life for weeks.
‘Hey, Mason,’ I say. ‘Am I dreaming?’
He looks me up and down, as though I’m a stranger. ‘Of course you are!’ Then he adds, ‘Weirdo.’ He goes back to talking to Tilly Sykes who snorts with laughter at something he murmurs.
This is the awesome thing about being in a dream, you see. I wouldn’t normally do what I do next. And, before I do it, I carry out another ‘reality check’ just in case Mason’s lying. The old digital clock above the serving hatch is flashing numbers randomly – another sure sign that I’m in Dreamland.
‘Hey, Mason!’ I call out, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, even though the lunch hall is pretty noisy. He turns round. ‘Is it true you and Tilly are secretly dating?’
They both turn bright red. ‘No!’ he says.
‘Well, that’s what I’ve heard, but she doesn’t dare tell you that she’s also in love with Jonah Bell, except he’s in love with Kez Becker!’
I’m making this all up, obviously, just because in a dream I can! People start to snigger, then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning round, I see Jonah Bell and his expression is furious. ‘Did you say something?’ he growls.
I’m fearless and loving every second.
‘Yes I did, you big lump,’ I say, right in his face. ‘You’re stupid and the only reason anyone hangs out with you is that they’re even stupider than you!’
People are starting to laugh now, and the feeling of power is terrific. I can say exactly what I want, to whoever I like! I push between some Year Fives on their bench and use it as a step up on to the table, kicking aside some plates and cutlery as I do so. They fall to the ground with a loud clatter and smash, so that everyone who hasn’t yet noticed the commotion turns round to see where the noise is coming from.
That’s when I see Susan Tenzin on the other side of the hall, with a gaggle of her orchestra friends. Her hand is held to her mouth in horror. I’m still stinging from her calling me a snob the other day, so now is the chance to get even in a safe way.
‘See this?’ I yell at her. ‘Do you and your perfect friends have enough to laugh at now?’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr Springham get to his feet over in the corner where the staff sit.
‘You don’t scare me-ee!’ I say in a singsong voice to Mr Springham, pointing at him and dancing a little jig on the table, dislodging more plates. People have stopped laughing now and are sitting open-mouthed in amazement.
I remember Seb’s insults to Adolf Hitler, and I reckon I’ll have a go myself.
‘You’ve hated me since I came into the school, haven’t you? Well, the feeling’s mutual, you … you great baldie spud-head with your too-tight shirts and your wobbly bum!’
This gets a proper gasp. It is just like being onstage as I look down at the faces gazing up at me.
‘Enough! Get down now!’ shouts Mr Springham. He’s only a couple of tables away and from the table I pick up a bowl of school trifle. I mean to throw the trifle and bowl so that it lands perfectly on his head: upside down, like it would in a cartoon, but it slips from my fingers and I watch – almost in slow motion – as the whole thing sails through the air and he bats it away with his arm. The trifle splats up his sleeve and some splashes the side of his face. It’s not a direct hit, which is a bit disappointing for a dream, but I’m having too much fun to care.
This time the crowd groans in amazement: a loud, ‘Oooooh!’
It only holds him back for a second or two. He’s nearly on me now, so I stop my jigging and hold my hands out to the side like a life-size statue.
‘Float!’ I say. ‘Float up!’
I wait for the feeling of the wire pulling me upwards. It’s slow in coming so I lift my heels off the table. ‘Float,’ I say again, then louder, ‘Float!’
Mr Springham is alongside me now. He wipes trifle from his face with his hand and folds his arms in mock patience. My failure to float is annoying. I’m not used to the dream-controlling wearing off so soon.
Mr Springham’s voice is normally deep and loud. Now it’s chillingly quiet.
‘Malcom Bell,’ he hisses, ‘get down from there this minute.’
I look round at the double doors of the lunch hall and say again, ‘The crocodile will be here soon – but have no fear! Cuthbert! Come now!’
But there’s no crocodile. I’m getting a bit desperate now. ‘Float! Float, man!’ I want to hover high above these people, above Mr Springham.
I’m flapping my arms now, and I hear someone say, ‘He’s trying to fly!’
Someone else starts to laugh, ‘Malky Bell’s lost it completely!’ while other people join in the laughter and begin to imitate my arms flapping.
So I stop. I lower my arms. The hall falls quiet and I take a few deep breaths. I look round at everyone looking up at me, some of them with loaded forks paused halfway to their mouths; and at Mr Springham, unusually calm with his arms crossed and a blob of custard hanging from his ear like cheap yellow jewellery.
I don’t know how long I’m there. Several seconds? A minute? It’s hard to tell when you’re dreaming, isn’t it?
I am dreaming … Aren’t I?
More seconds pass.
‘Wake up!’ I shout. I long to wake up in my bed. I hold my breath and puff out my cheeks and go paaaah! A murmur starts up in the hall. Mr Springham holds up his hand to shush everyone.
At the end of the queue of people waiting with their trays I see Susan. When our eyes meet, her face fills with sadness and she slowly shakes her head.
Now I feel sick, because I’m not dreaming, am I? I have just done this for real.
I have just thrown a bowl of trifle at the school’s scariest teacher after calling him a baldie spud-head. I have danced on the table and tried to summon a crocodile called Cuthbert.
I try one more go. ‘Earth – swallow me whole now,’ I pray quietly with my eyes shut. It doesn’t, of course. I’m still there, on the school dining table, and Mr Springham is still waiting for me. If this really was a dream, he’d probably have steam coming out of his ears.
But that doesn’t happen in real life, does it?
An hour later, I’m in Mrs Farroukh’s office.
There’s me, Mrs Farroukh and Mr Springham (in a fresh shirt, no trifle bits and what little hair he has is wet, like he’s rinsed it).
I’m being asked to explain, but the only explanation available is, ‘I thought I was having a dream,’ and I can’t say that becaus
e that’s mad, isn’t it?
I was given ‘time-out’ in the Quiet Room while Mam was called, but she can’t leave work.
I’ve worked one bit out. Mason Todd was being sarcastic when he said, ‘Yes, you’re dreaming’ when I asked him – no surprise there. And I glanced at the clock above the serving hatch as I was marched out of the lunch hall by Mr Springham. It was still flickering and changing like … well, a broken clock.
What happened?
I was in the lunch queue and then I thought I was in a dream. Something made my brain slip. I think about it. I’m wearing an old school sweatshirt that escaped the wash and I cast my mind back. When I was in the lunch queue … I remember glancing down at the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and realising it had some yak’s butter on the sleeve. I sniffed it and then … boom! That was when I thought I was dreaming.
I must be going mad, and that is terrifying.
I look up. They are both staring at me.
‘Sorry’ hardly seems to cover it. They’ll want an explanation. An explanation that I don’t really have without sounding like I have completely lost it.
Which perhaps I have. Didn’t Susan warn me, that time we sat on the bench, looking at the boats? ‘These things can mess with your head, Malky.’
How could I get it so wrong?
‘Do you have anything to say?’ asks Mrs Farroukh.
‘Um,’ I say. ‘I don’t know.’
Mr Springham sighs.
‘Perhaps we could recap the events,’ says Mrs Farroukh. ‘Mr Springham?’
Mr Springham recounts the episode from his point of view. It’s not like he’s exaggerating or anything: he’s just telling the truth, and it’s bad enough. He doesn’t even know about the bit when I called Jonah Bell a stupid lump or whatever it was I said. I’ll be paying for that later, I just know it.
And, all the time, I’m still half hoping that I’ll wake up. It’s as if a thick fog has taken over the space where my brain is supposed to be, and I’m expecting a sea breeze to come along to blow it away and wake me up. I would love this to be a dream, but it isn’t.
Mrs Farroukh takes over, and now we’re on more familiar ground. It’s stuff I haven’t heard in a little while, but it’s still the same.
‘Difficult time with you, Malky … disruptive influence … I had hoped for better things this term … this cannot go unpunished … appointment with Educational Counsellor … letting yourself down …’
And then she stops and both teachers sit down. Mr Springham clears his throat so that I think he’s going to take over where Mrs Farroukh left off, but instead he looks at me steadily and says, very quietly, ‘Is everything all right, Malky? I mean … at home and so on?’
This is a bit odd for me: Mr Springham being nice. I say nothing, so he continues. ‘Look, I know we haven’t always got on so well, but I’m concerned, we’re concerned …’
That’s when there’s a knock at Mrs Farroukh’s door. Impatiently, Mr Springham barks, ‘What is it?’ and Carol, the school receptionist, puts her head round the door.
‘There is someone to see you, Mrs Farroukh. She says it is very important.’
Carol steps aside and Susan Tenzin is standing there, a meek and sad look on her face.
‘I am very surprised and disappointed, Susan,’ says Mrs Farroukh, about five minutes later. ‘I really thought we could expect better things than this from you. A dare, you say?’
Susan nods. ‘I … I thought it might be funny. You see, everyone thinks I am so boring. “Boring Susan” they call me. To my face.’ Her bottom lip starts to wobble a bit.
I have to say I haven’t heard anyone call her this. But she sounds very convincing. Susan’s voice cracks a little when she adds, ‘It’s … it is like I am being bullied.’
I see an exchange of glances between Mrs Farroukh and Mr Springham. A second later, I glance at Susan and, in that brief moment, she winks at me.
That’s right. Susan is lying for me. She is acting! I can’t believe it, but I have to.
She sniffs deeply, as if holding back tears. ‘I did not dare do it myself. But I dared Malcolm to do it. He … he got carried away.’
The bullying thing is clever. Everyone knows that teachers are terrified of bullying. There are posters up all over the school, and regular assemblies and so on. Still, I’m not sure Mr Springham and Mrs Farroukh have completely believed Susan yet.
‘Is this true, Malcolm? You did this as a “dare”?’
I say nothing. ‘Well, is it? Speak up!’ says Mr Springham and I nod the tiniest, most shameful nod I can.
‘Those things he said about you, Susan,’ says Mrs Farroukh. ‘How could you …’
‘It was all planned, wasn’t it, Malky? He did not mean any of it. It was just … banter.’ She says it like she’s trying out a foreign word for the first time.
Mr Springham’s eyes have narrowed and his gaze flicks suspiciously between me and Susan, as though he isn’t quite sure who to believe. I suppose he just can’t work out why Susan would voluntarily take the blame for something she had nothing at all to do with. He says nothing, though.
Eventually, Mrs Farroukh sighs and says, ‘There is no question that I will be writing to your parents this afternoon in the strongest terms. So-called dare or not, Malcolm, this is the sort of behaviour that we do not tolerate here at Marden Middle School. It goes without saying that you will both be withdrawn immediately from the COMMS project and, Susan, your roles as library monitor, orchestra captain and Green Team coordinator are suspended immediately …’
And so it goes on. Valerie the school counsellor gets another mention. Oh, whoopee.
Basically, though, I’ve got away with it.
I did pretty much the worst thing that’s ever been done in this school. It’s going to be talked about for years … and I’m being let off.
And all because of Susan Tenzin.
Of course, I wait until we’re out in the corridor before I smile at her. And it makes my stomach do a little flip when she smiles back.
Susan is free to go to her music lesson.
I am kept in ‘supervised isolation’ until the end of school, which basically means doing my French homework while Miss Biggs, who I’ve never spoken to before, does some marking and – to judge from the snorts and giggles – catches up on Facebook or whatever.
I’m supposed to be learning the perfect tense.
J’ai dormi – I slept.
J’ai rêvé – I dreamed.
Je suis devenu fou – I went mad.
I feel for the bumps on my arm again – a sort of reassurance that I am not actually losing my mind. They’re not there any more, however closely I look. Did I imagine it all, just like I imagined I was in a dream?
‘Malcolm,’ says Miss Biggs, ‘is your homework written on your arm?’
I pull my sleeve down and look again at the stain on the fabric: a large, uneven smudge. The smell is still there: faint but distinctive.
I’m wondering about this, and letting my mind drift, when I’m startled by the end-of-day bell.
It’s 3.30. I’m free to go. The first thing I see when I turn my phone on is a text from Mam.
Just got an email from Mrs Farroukh. We’ll talk tonight.
Not even an ‘x’ at the end. That’s serious.
I’m walking past the library on the way out and Susan appears just as I am passing. She’s been waiting for me, I can tell. I don’t know what to say, apart from, ‘Hi.’
We’re on the Tyne path, walking home together, before either of us says anything else. It’s as if Susan is waiting, but she’s not impatient. She could probably wait for days. She walks close enough to me that I can smell her appley hair.
‘Thank you,’ I say, eventually, after the silence has become too awkward for me. She nods and waits some more. ‘Why … why did you say all that?’ I ask. ‘You know, lie for me? I didn’t think you lied. Buddhism rules an’ that.’
‘It is not a rule, Malky. It is a guid
eline. And I lied because I am worried for you.’
‘You think I’ve gone mad?’
She pauses long enough for me to guess that ‘Yes’ is at least part of her answer. But instead, she shakes her head and says, ‘No,’ which is kind of her.
Then she adds a ‘but’, at which point we hear a voice behind us, and whatever the ‘but’ was going to be is left hanging.
‘Hello, you two! Kenneth – look who it is!’
We both spin round to see Andi pushing old Kenneth McKinley in a wheelchair, with Dennis ambling lazily by their side.
‘Kenneth. Do you see who it is?’
The old man lifts his chin from his chest and peers at us.
Andi says, ‘It’s the children from the weekend, Kenneth. Susan and Malcolm.’
At the mention of my name, his head straightens a bit more. He repeats what he had said the day I met him. ‘Malcolm? Good Scottish name that, eh, lad?’ His speech is soft and slurred.
‘He’s not having such a good day today, are you, Kenneth?’
The old man grunts in response and Andi leans over to zip up his thick fleecy top. I’m trying not to make eye contact with Dennis, who has flopped on to his belly at the first chance, but seems to be watching me suspiciously.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Mr McKinley,’ says Susan, loudly.
‘I’m not flamin’ deaf, lassie. Ninety yearsh old, but I can hear you fine.’ Seems like he’s back to being a grouchy old man.
Susan, though, is not put off. She crouches down next to his wheelchair and takes one of his bony hands in both of hers, looking at his face with her head tipped to one side. She says, ‘You began to tell us something the other day. Before your son – Uri – called. You were talking about the limits of the unconscious mind. I was hoping I might hear more.’
The old man shifts his eyes to look sideways at her. Then he reaches up and whips off his mauve-tinted glasses. Except that the arm of the specs gets caught on one of his big old-man’s ears, making it ping back against his head. It’s like he was trying to be dramatic, but didn’t quite pull it off.