by Ross Welford
Dad sits back on the sofa, looking satisfied.
I say, ‘When you say, “nothing at all”, what does that mean?’
‘Just that, young man. It’s a plastic hoop with a few strings and wires with some small stones …’
‘They’re crystals!’
He doesn’t seem impressed. ‘If you say so. They’re each illuminated by a low-watt filament powered by a battery.’ He smiles at me. ‘My girlfriend works in the radiology department. They’re always quiet today so I had her run all the tests – you know, X-rays and so on? It is exactly what it looks like – a cheap toy. And completely ineffective. Like I say, there’s absolutely nothing …’
I think it’s ‘cheap toy’ that upsets me the most. I interrupt him. ‘It’s not! It’s not a cheap toy. It’s a wonderful invention and the inventor’s just died and the only reason that it’s ineffective now is because you’ve pulled it apart!’
The young doctor looks startled at my outburst. ‘I … I’m sorry, Malcolm. I mean, I could try to fix them if you want, only your dad …’
‘That won’t be necessary, doctor,’ says Dad, briskly. ‘Thanks for taking so much trouble over a complete waste of time.’ He gathers up the bundle of wires and string and plastic pieces and dumps the whole lot in the swing-bin in the corner, then dusts his hands in a ‘job-done’ sort of way.
He turns to me. There are tears pricking the back of my eyes now and I think he can tell because he softens his tone and sits down with a sigh. Mam’s glaring at him.
‘Malky, mate. I knew I recognised the name of those things from somewhere. It’s been bugging me for ages.’ He tuts to himself as if remembering something unpleasant. His eyes flick to the doctor, as though he is wondering whether to continue, then he takes a breath. ‘When I was … getting better … there was a patient in our therapy group, Karen. Well into her sixties, maybe more. She said she’d come across a “Dreaminator” years ago and, well …’ Dad pauses to find the right words. ‘She blamed it for her … for her troubles. Her addictions. It’s all nonsense, Malky. But some nonsense can be dangerous, do you see?’
He waits until I nod.
‘Who is this dead inventor anyway? I thought you said you got them at the Lifeboat sale.’
I can feel myself getting red with anger and shame. ‘I … er …’
Dad snaps, ‘I hope you haven’t been lying, Malky.’
Now Mam gets involved. Since Dad left, she hates him telling me and Seb off. ‘Back off, Tom – he’s upset. And keep your voice down. You’ve no idea what it’s like bringing them two up when you don’t even contribute enough money …’
‘Don’t go there, Mary, just don’t!’ hisses Dad. ‘At least I wouldn’t allow physical violence …’
And they’re off. I watch this go on, along with an embarrassed doctor and a bewildered Uncle Pete and Mormor. I don’t even say anything. I just leave the room, closing the door behind me and managing to hold on to my tears until I’m in the car park, when they come like I’ve taken my finger off the end of a hose. I can’t even see Dad’s car, so I just sit on a wall and sob.
I cry for Seb, alone in a horrible dream land, getting worse by the hour. I cry for Kenneth McKinley as well, a sad old man dying alone and forgotten. And I cry for myself, wrongly accused of punching my brother when he’s sick. Most of all, though, I cry out of fear: for now I know there is only one thing left I can do.
Of course, the doctor is wrong. I know that much. You can analyse and examine something, and pull it apart as much as you like. But he and his stupid girlfriend didn’t ever use it, did they? They never lay underneath it and slept, and shared dreams, and sailed in Spanish galleons, and experienced the whole … the whole … magic of it. Did they?
One thing is for sure, though.
I have to act, and soon. I have to get into Becker’s funeral parlour, and steal the last remaining Dreaminator.
Mam and Dad are staying overnight at the hospital in two rooms near the intensive care unit. Mormor and Uncle Pete are driving me home and staying at our house. We’re in Pete’s car, and neither of them has said a word to me for the past ten minutes. It convinces me that they think:
a) I punched Seb in the face while he was lying in a coma in hospital. Why would I do that?
b) If I could do that, then I’m probably responsible – somehow – for Seb’s current condition.
Well, they’re half right, at least.
As for me, I’m not keen on talking, anyhow. I have enough going on in my head without adding conversation.
I stare out of the car window as we turn left along the seafront towards home. It’s an overcast, muggy evening, and the usual breeze from the lilac-grey sea isn’t even bothering the leaves on the trees. People with drinks stand outside the Park Hotel, laughing; a small crowd of day-trippers with cool boxes and sandy feet wait at the bus stop; and, a little bit further along the front, a familiar figure walks alongside a slow black-and-ginger dog …
‘Stop!’ I shout. ‘Please stop!’
‘What’s wrong, pal?’ asks Uncle Pete, turning back to look at me and making the car swerve a little.
It is definitely her – Kez Becker – and walking alongside her is Dennis.
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just need to speak to that girl. See? Her with the dog there!’
But we are driving too fast, and we’re already way past her.
‘Susan? It’s me … Guess what? I’ve just seen Dennis being walked by Kez Becker by the Park Hotel.’
I’m up in my room, lying on my bed under the hook where the Dreaminator used to be. I told Uncle Pete and Mormor that I wasn’t hungry (untrue) and that I was tired (untrue) and that I was going upstairs to read (also untrue).
‘What?’ says Susan.
‘Dennis. Kez has got Dennis – Kenneth McKinley’s dog?’
‘All right …’
‘Look. Seb is … he’s not improving. In fact, he’s getting worse. We have to act fast. And Kez Becker is the key.’
‘The key to what?’
‘Getting the Dreaminator from the funeral parlour!’
‘And how will we get Kez to help us?’
‘I don’t know.’ I say. ‘I haven’t thought of that yet.’
‘I see.’ She sounds doubtful. ‘But … it is getting late and Mola is …’
‘No,’ I say. ‘We haven’t got much time.’
I tell her everything about the hospital, about Seb writhing on the bed and getting the wound on his face, and the ICU …
‘How soon can you meet me?’ says Susan, her tone suddenly changing from doubtful to positive.
‘How soon? You mean now?’
‘You said it was urgent.’
‘I know. But I can’t just … leave. I’ve got relatives here.’
‘You will find a way. Twenty minutes. By the Priory gates. I have an idea.’
I take a deep breath and look in the mirror. Is that me? My blond haystack is the same, my bogie-coloured eyes (Seb’s description) and the freckles over my nose … they are all familiar. But something has changed. Do I look older? That’s silly. A nearly-twelve-year-old can’t suddenly look older.
Perhaps I just feel it. I run my hand through my hair, and, as I do, I touch the spot where, weeks ago now, I bruised my scalp when I floated up to the ceiling that very first time. It doesn’t hurt now, there’s no bump or anything, but it makes me think.
I go back to my bed and lie on it, trying to position my head against the headboard to touch the same spot, and I really can’t. Not easily, anyway. I did this the first morning, remember, but I just thought I must have bumped my head on the wall. Now I know that I didn’t.
The head-bump from my dream became real, just like the teeth-marks, just like the sores on Seb’s wrists …
It has been going wrong right from the start!
I stand up from my bed, tighten my jaw and say with as much determination as I can: ‘You can do this, Malky.’
Downstairs, I hold up a pla
stic bag with a book in it, trying to behave as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Uncle Pete and Mormor are in the living room, watching television with the sound turned up to loud because Mormor’s hearing is really bad.
‘I have to take this back!’ I shout. ‘I won’t be long,’ and I turn to go, believing for a whole second that I have got away with it.
‘Hang on, mate. Where are you going?’ says Uncle Pete, muting the sound and making Mormor look up from her phone. ‘It’s nearly half past eight. It’s dark out.’
Okay, okay, total relaxation. They don’t know that this isn’t normal.
‘Oh, it’s just a school thing.’ Don’t make your voice go high, Malky. ‘Ahem. Susan left her school iPad here. Earlier. Before. By mistake. And she needs it right now. She’s only at the end of the street.’ I’m gabbling, definitely, but I’m keeping my voice low.
‘School iPads, heh? So modern!’ says Mormor, raising her eyebrows.
Oh, please don’t ask to see it. There’s just a book inside this bag, and our school doesn’t use iPads, anyway.
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Who is this that you’re meeting?’ says Uncle Pete.
Oh, come on! I can see the clock on the mantelpiece eating up the minutes …
‘Susan. Susan Tenzin. Big house at the end. She’s always round here. Mam and Dad know her really well. She’s like my best friend.’
Somehow this seems less like a lie than it might have done until recently.
‘Well, that’s nice,’ says Mormor. ‘I had a friend called Susan when I was at school, and …’
Oh no! She wants to chat!
I add, ‘They’re Buddhists,’ for good measure just because I know Uncle Pete did a mindfulness retreat in Greece last Christmas. ‘And they go to bed very early.’ He gets the hint.
‘Don’t be long. Got your phone with you?’
I wave it at him and I’m out of the door before he can change his mind, and I run to meet Susan on time.
Susan and I lean against the railings in front of the old priory, facing Becker & Sons, and already I’m creeped out just by looking at it. Susan straightens up and looks at me keenly.
‘It is all about psychology,’ she says. ‘I have been trying to work out how she will think.’
She’s good, I’ll give her that. She sounds as though she knows what she is talking about.
‘Option one: we could tell Kezia the truth. Say that you need to get the Dreaminator in order to … you know, do what you need to do, and ask her to go into her father’s funeral parlour and take it from wherever it is.’
I don’t have to think about this for very long. ‘Not gonna happen. She won’t believe me for a start, and, even if she does, she’s not just gonna steal something as … what? A favour?’
‘Correct. So we have to use psychology.’
She’s leading me down a certain path – and, better still, she’s making me want to be led.
‘Okay, Einstein. How’s that gonna happen? Just tell me, Susan.’
She holds her chin and taps it with her forefinger as if deep in thought, although it’s an act. She has worked this out already.
‘You told me once about Kez Becker’s “Halloween Challenge” …’
I stare at her, horrified. ‘No, Susan. No, no, no …’
‘It is the only way,’ she says. ‘How else are we going to get in and have a look around to find the Dreaminator? It will be in a box with a label, or on a shelf, or something. We can not go in and ask for it, can we? The place is not even open, and we can’t wait until tomorrow.’ She looks at my face, and I quickly hide my expression of terror. She even laughs a little and pats my arm like she does. ‘Relax, Malky. You will not be in there long.’
‘But … but, Susan, man …’ There is no easy way of saying this. ‘There’ll be … b-bodies. Dead people.’
‘No, there will not. I have done some research. They are not just left lying around, you know. They must be securely stored and refrigerated in a dedicated, licensed unit. It is the law, specifically the Public Health Act of 1984. That building over there is just a showroom and a workshop.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, a little too anxiously.
‘Almost certain.’
I don’t like the ‘almost’.
‘Half an hour, yeah?’ I say.
‘That is what you told me Kezia said. She is a strange girl, that is for sure.’
‘Ha ha ha! Stranger than you can possibly imagine!’ says Kez, coming up behind us and making us jump. She has Dennis on the end of a long rope, and he sniffs around in the bushes near us. For once, he doesn’t growl at me. Perhaps he’s okay with me when I’m not on his territory.
Kez squeezes in between Susan and me as if the three of us have always been best pals. ‘What’s up, losers? Very intriguing text message, Susan. How’d you get my number?’
‘COMMS contact sheet, obviously. Staying in touch, you know?’
Susan has set this up already? I glance over at her and she catches my eye with a slight smirk.
Kez makes a pffft sound. ‘Oh, that! Ha – you suckers! I managed to get out of that, eh? Told old Farroukh I had “gerontophobia”, didn’t I?’
She smirks when Susan and I both say, ‘What’s that?’
‘It means a fear of old people. It’s a real thing. Said I suffered “psychological trauma” cos of me dad’s business. Made it up, of course, but she seemed to believe me. And now you’re dragging me away from me regular Saturday night horror film, hur hur! Night of the Dead it was, and I tell you …’
‘Cut out the spooky stuff, Kezia,’ Susan says, but not sharply. ‘And let’s just get this done, yes? How come you’ve got good old Dennis, by the way?’
Kez swivels her head between us. ‘Good old Dennis? Are you kidding? Stinkin’ bag of fur more like! Never stops pooin’. I’ve said I’ll look after it temporarily, like. Wish I hadn’t. They found it at old man McKinley’s house. Did you hear?’
Susan nods. ‘Yes. It was very sad, wasn’t it?’
Kez shrugs. ‘Aye, very sad. RIP an’ all that. Didn’t you have to visit him as part of the COMMS thing? Anyway, I’ve only got it until St Woof’s, the rescue centre in Whitley Bay, find a space. They’ve said just a few days. Which is just as well, because it flippin’ reeks and, and … oh no. You dirty, horrible brute!’
Dennis has hunkered down for a poo, and I suddenly feel so sorry for the dog. His sad look is still there, and now he’s getting shouted at by Kez for something he can’t understand.
Kez makes gagging noises and fishes a black plastic poo bag from her pocket. ‘I hate this bit. Really hate it.’
Susan reaches over and plucks the bag from her hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I will do it.’ Quick as anything, she puts her hand in the bag, scoops up Dennis’s poo, turns the whole thing inside out and ties the top. She deposits the bag in a bin on a lamppost and comes back, smiling. ‘There,’ she says. ‘Easy-peasy! Good boy, Dennis!’ The old dog licks her hand gratefully.
Kez grunts. ‘Hmph. Thanks.’
And I think: Clever Susan! Now Kez owes us.
‘Anyway. What was your text all about?’ says Kez. ‘What’s it got to do with my challenge?’
‘Ah yes. Your challenge, Kezia. Let me just reiterate. You say that you will give ten pounds to anyone who will stay alone in your father’s funeral parlour at night for half an hour?’
Hearing Susan say it out loud like that makes my bum clench in fear.
There are dead people there!
Yes, yes, I know. Susan reckons there aren’t. And you can tell me all you like about the logic of it. Dead people are dead: they can’t harm you. There is no such thing as ghosts: I know that too. What possible harm can come to you, just sitting in the dark for half an hour? None at all. You won’t even see a body: they’re all locked away in a huge refrigerator, that is if there even are any.
Still.
Kez says, ‘Ah, I dunno, man. Money’s a bit
tight at the moment, you know? I don’t think I have ten quid to me name right now.’
I look at Dennis, and his sad face.
‘I’ll do it for the dog,’ I say. ‘You don’t even have to give me a tenner.’ The words are out of my mouth before I really think about it.
Kez stares at me. ‘Hang on. You’ll spend half an hour in there, in the dark, and I don’t even need to give you a tenner? All I have to do is hand over this smelly old hound that’s going to the rescue home, anyway?’
This is not good. Kez is suspicious. Time for some acting. I stand up from the wall and take a few steps in the direction of home.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘It’s a stupid idea, and far too scary. There’s no way I could do that just to own a dog for a few days. Bye.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ says Kez, and I know then that she’s bought it.
Psychology, Susan called it. Seems like it works.
A lot of the Becker & Sons square building is concealed discreetly behind high hedges, with only the reception bit clearly visible from the street. We’ve come round to the walled car park at the back, beyond which are thick trees and an embankment leading to the old railway line. It’s overlooked by the Beckers’ flat, which occupies the whole of the first floor, but there are no lights on anywhere. It’s very dark and Front Street suddenly feels miles away.
I look at Kez, and I think, Imagine living so close to dead bodies! But of course it’s all normal to her. She goes over to one of the long black funeral cars and crouches down, putting her hand inside the rear wheel arch and extracting a set of keys.
‘Me dad’s forever telling Terry not to leave them there. Good job he ignores him, eh?’ she says. ‘Right then: you ready for this?’
My heart feels tight in my chest and I can hardly swallow. I clench my teeth and give a short nod as Kez approaches us, jangling the keys. We follow her round to the big double doors.