by Ross Welford
She’s bound to discover it.
‘Hey, what is this?’ she said, and I thought I was found out. But she was touching the tear in my sleeve. ‘Take your jacket off, Malky, älskling. I shall mend this for you before your mama finds out, how about that? Well, for what are you waiting? Get it off!’
At that second, Uncle Pete’s phone rang in his pocket and Mormor was distracted for a moment. We both stopped our hug and waited to see what the news was. I could tell from his tone that he was talking to Mam. He hardly said anything, just things like, ‘Mm-hm,’ and, ‘I see.’ Then there was a long pause, and he said, ‘Oh no.’ Mormor’s hand went up to her mouth in alarm.
‘That was your mam,’ said Uncle Pete, putting his phone away and sitting down heavily. ‘It’s not good news. Seb’s condition is getting worse. Tonight is going to be very critical. I’m really sorry, Malky.’ His mouth was turned down in a tight, thin line, and his face was becoming pink with the effort of not breaking down in front of me.
Mormor looked up at me, her eyes moist. ‘Do you pray, Malky?’
I shrugged. I don’t really, except when we have to at school.
‘You might want to tonight,’ she said, and turned away, quickly. I used the opportunity to dash upstairs. Obviously, they both thought I was going to my room to cry (or pray, perhaps), but I was just eager to get the Dreaminator out from under my jacket.
And so here I am and it’s nearly midnight.
The Dreaminator’s ring of lights seems to glow with a greater intensity than the ones Seb and I had and seems more green than blue. Does that mean it’s more effective?
Uncle Pete’s sleeping on the sofa downstairs and Mormor is in Mam’s room. The TV went off a while ago. Now everything’s quiet. And I’m wide awake.
Then my phone pings with an incoming text message. It’s from Susan.
I was not sure whether to send you this, but here goes.
There is a link to tap on, and when I do it opens a picture. It is a scan of an old newspaper article.
Edinburgh Evening News
Mystery death of ‘Mystic’s’ son
2 March 1988. The death of a teenager at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh has left doctors ‘baffled’.
Uri McKinley, 13, was admitted to the unit on February 23. He had fallen into a ‘spontaneous deep coma’ and doctors were unable to wake him.
His condition rapidly declined and he died peacefully two days ago. Doctors have been unable to pinpoint a cause of death and the matter has been referred to the Scottish legal authorities.
Uri was the only son of entertainer and self-styled ‘Mystic of the Highlands’ Kenneth McKinley and his wife Jeanette.
Mr McKinley toured Scotland in the sixties and seventies, but retired from public life a few years ago.
If I had had any remaining doubts about the seriousness of Seb’s situation, that short article has removed them all.
The more I think about being wide awake, the more it scares me. I have to get back into that dream. Seb is in real danger. He could die, like Kenneth McKinley’s son.
It’s down to me. Everything is down to me.
I look at the clock on my phone. It’s now past three a.m. and I still haven’t slept.
I lie first on one side, then the other, then on my back, then on my front. Mam says she sometimes reads if she can’t sleep, but that would involve turning the light on, which would mean accepting my wakefulness, so I’m definitely not doing that.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve switched the light on. Lying on Seb’s bed is Kobi the Cave Boy.
Just looking at the pictures gives me butterflies. The empty, sandy landscape on the first page is a bit like looking at an old holiday photograph. And the words too are so familiar.
In the shadows of the cave, the fire flickers red,
And Kobi lies down with a rock beneath his head,
And pulls the fur blanket until it tickles his nose
While outside the cave mouth, the cold wind blows.
Kobi feels sleepy and his eyelids close.
Slowly, slowly, like Kobi’s fur blanket, the book sinks down and touches my nose and I don’t even notice.
And then I’m awake again. Dammit! What was that noise? A thump! behind me.
There is it again. Thump!
I look at my phone again: 03.42. Just then a message from Susan flashes up on the screen.
Are you awake?
Thump!
The window. It’s coming from the window. Somebody is throwing something at the window. I shake off my duvet and open the curtain at the exact second a foam dart hits the glass and makes a much louder thump, making me jump back, startled.
In the little backyard, I can make out a figure with dark hair and a buttoned-up jacket, about to fire another missile. Susan sees me and lowers her arm. She’s holding Seb’s Nerf gun that he left under the hedge. I open the window.
‘I wasn’t sure whether to disturb you,’ she hisses.
‘I was nearly asleep,’ I whisper back, trying not to sound angry.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Catch this. Then go back to sleep. It might help. Good luck.’
She fishes in her jacket pocket and pulls out something. Her aim is good and I catch it first time. I look down at the small packet tied with string, and by the time I look back she’s gone, the yard door slamming behind her.
There’s a note taped to the package.
Dear Malky,
Sorry I disturbed you. I lay awake wondering whether I should, but then I thought this was too important.
Do you remember the first time you shared your dream with Seb? You said you remembered the smell of yak’s butter.
And then yesterday – at school – you said you had smelled it again and you had a sort of ‘flashback’.
And again – in our garden, when you suddenly smelled our tea.
And finally – Mr McKinley lighting the cigarette but not smoking it.
Smells and sounds can often trigger the deepest memories. I love meditating under the soft flapping noise of our prayer flags, for example.
And so inside this packet is some yak’s butter. Open it, smell it, leave it open near you.
You are a good person, Malky Bell. You deserve to succeed, so I hope this helps.
Your friend,
Susan
And now I really am tired. I fumble to open the packet, and, as soon as I do, the sharp smell of the yak’s butter begins to fill the room.
I get back into bed and close my eyes. And this time I really do fall asleep, while the Dreaminator hangs above me almost completely still.
It’s different. That’s all I can say right now, looking round the familiar cave where Seb and I have started so many of our adventures. This is the biggest adventure of them all, and he’s not here. I was hoping I’d start this dream where I left Seb – in the clearing with the big guys who captured him. That would have saved time. My subconscious had other ideas.
How is it different? Everything looks the same. There’s the fire, not even smouldering any more; there’s the drawing on the cave wall still: the car that made Seb laugh when he drew it imagining people discovering it in thousands of years’ time. Outside, the cold wind blows just like the book says, and little clouds of sand puff up and disappear in the breeze. Even the fish-shaped airship is drifting in its usual place.
I feel different: that must be it.
It’s not just that I am nervous – although I am. It’s that this is no longer fun. Mola’s words come back to me: ‘It’s like a video game to you, innit? Bam-bam-bam, now I’m dead, press “replay”, new life.’
I find myself saying aloud, ‘Well, it’s not a game now, Mola.’
‘Good, I’m glad you realise it,’ she replies. I swing round and there she is behind me and I gasp. ‘You took your time, Dream-boy,’ she says, but she doesn’t sound angry, just impatient.
‘I … I … couldn’t sleep. Hang on … this is a dream, right?’
The old lad
y rolls her dark little eyes like a teenager. ‘What you think? Course it is.’
‘But … but how come you … I mean …? Are you sharing my dream, or am I just dreaming you?’
‘You gonna waste time worrying about this, Dream-boy?’
‘No, but … why? Why are you here?’
‘You might need some help. Actually … Susan thought you might need help. Now tell me this: how much you wanna get your brother back?’
What sort of question is that? ‘More than anything, Mola! Even more than that!’
She narrows her eyes and nods. ‘Hmm. Sounds like a lot. Come on then. We got a run ahead of us.’
She’s off. We have to get up the beach, up the hill and across the great plain to the canyon, then on to Gravy Lake, before we get to the clearing where Seb was captured. Beside me, Mola runs without even panting. She has lifted up her ankle-length sarong, and her pale legs, knobbly and veined like a crumbly blue cheese, match mine stride for stride.
Soon we’re sprinting across the windy plain, with the Gravy Lake in the distance.
‘Mola!’ I pant. ‘All this super-fast running. It … it will use up my dream-control-power thingy.’
‘So? You got a better idea?’ She’s still hardly even out of breath. ‘You took long time to get here. We not got time for walking.’
She runs ahead of me and soon we are approaching the canyon with the green river of mint custard. I’m beginning to tire, even though I’m dream-running but still: this is going okay, I tell myself. I stop at the river’s edge and sink to my knees, my chest heaving. I count the exposed rocks poking above the surface and forming a route over the water: five steps and I’ll be across.
One of the rocks, though, looks longer than I’m used to. Greener, knobbly. And is it … is it moving?
‘Oh no, no, no,’ I murmur to myself, and I scramble to my feet again. As I watch, the rock rises up a little more and a yellow eye blinks at me slowly as Cuthbert shoves his snout out of the river and starts gliding towards me.
‘Friend of yours?’ says Mola, but my throat is too dry to answer. I’m thinking of my options. I could dream up a Nerf gun? They were pretty effective, only …
Hang on! What about a real gun?
‘Good idea,’ says Fit Billy who has appeared beside me, unexpectedly, just like in a normal dream. Instead of dumbbells, in each hand he holds a huge gun. ‘Can I recommend this?’ He tosses me a gun, which clatters at my feet. ‘A classic Thompson sub-machine-gun. Standard US Army issue throughout World War Two. That model’s the M1A1, slightly lighter. You wanna be careful with it, son. Canny firearm, that is!’
‘Thanks, Billy.’ I crouch to pick it up. When I look again, Billy has gone, but Cuthbert is now coming out of the water. The machine-gun is about a thousand times heavier than Seb’s plastic Nerf gun and I heave it to my shoulder.
‘All right, you! I’ve got you now.’ I squint through the sights, making sure the crocodile is exactly where I want him, and squeeze the cold metal trigger gently, then harder, then harder …
The closer Cuthbert gets, the better my chances of hitting him; but, if I miss, his chances of getting me increase hugely. If he does that, I’ll wake up, and I can’t risk that in case I don’t get to sleep again.
I let the crocodile get closer and closer. Mola is a few metres away, further up the bank. ‘Careful, Dream-boy!’ she warns.
Cuthbert’s jaws open: a direct hit, right in the gob, is what I need. One last squeeze of the trigger, and
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!
The noise is painful in my ears, but I hold my arms and shoulders steady, keeping the gun aimed directly at Cuthbert. I let off another round.
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!
I lower the gun, expecting to see the corpse of a huge crocodile lying in the shallows by the river bank.
‘I say, old boy. Doesn’t seem to be working, does it?’ drawls Cuthbert. ‘Daresay that’s the thing with dreams, hey? Don’t always do what you want! Ah well, tally-ho!’
He runs towards me on his stumpy legs, and I drop the gun. I’ve backed up to the steep bank of the canyon, but I can’t get up it because I can’t get my hands on the handholds, and …
… The croc is getting nearer – like much nearer. The wall of the canyon stretches upwards and I try again to scramble up it without success. I turn back to Cuthbert, and I can see the glint of his teeth.
‘STOP!’ I shout. ‘Stop! Oh man – please just stop!’
Cuthbert darts his long head forward, his jaws clamping down on my foot with agonising force as he starts to pull me towards the water. ‘No! NO!’
From further up the bank, Mola is running to help, shouting, ‘Get off him! Get off him!’
I’m wriggling and twisting, but the more I try to pull my foot out of the croc’s mouth, the harder he grips me, and I kick my other leg and it can’t move properly, because it is tangled up in the duvet …
And I’m sweating in bed, my foot is burning with pain, there’s a book resting on my face, which is dislodged when I move my head, the Dreaminator glows above me and I realise with a sob of frustration and a surge of despair that I have woken up.
‘No!’ I thump my head back on my sweat-damp pillow.
Even in my semi-wakeful state, wrapped in my tangled duvet, I know that if I close my eyes I can re-enter the dream I was in. I’ll be back asleep. And a crocodile’s teeth will be tearing into my foot, and I’ll wake up again …
The thought of it all makes me wake up more, and a few seconds later there is no going back. I’m wide awake. I can see Seb’s empty bed, the moonlight coming through the thin horse-pattern curtains, the blue circle of Kenneth’s Dreaminator shimmering above me, the digits on my phone saying …
04:28
My mind’s still fuzzy. I can’t remember exactly when I fell asleep, but it wasn’t all that long ago. I was reading Kobi the Cave Boy and I drifted off.
I’ve missed my chance, haven’t I?
Even though I am exhausted to the point of feeling sick, I’m not confident I’ll get to sleep again. And, if I do, then what? It doesn’t seem as though my dream-controlling is working at all any more. I lift my aching foot out from under the duvet. It feels wet from sweat … only wetter than that. It is also a bit sticky, but it’s too dark to see anything so I turn my bedside light on and let out a gasp of horror.
Blood is oozing from three deep, triangular puncture wounds in my ankle, exactly matching where Cuthbert bit me. The blood is dripping down my leg and on to the sheet, so I get up and limp to the bathroom.
I’m feeling pretty alert now, and I figure the best way to clean up is to use the showerhead that’s connected to the bath taps. Then I’ll take a towel and wrap my foot tightly.
I see that I’m leaving a trail of crimson drips wherever I move. The shower curtain is pulled closed, concealing the bath. I pull it aside swiftly, and that’s when I actually
SCREAM!
Out loud, and long.
Lying in the bath, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a bright blue-and-green kilt, is the body of Kenneth McKinley, who opens his eyes and rises slowly up from the waist, turning his head until he faces me.
‘Och, forgive me, laddie. Is this a private dream, or can anyone join in?’
My mouth is flapping but no words are coming out.
‘False awakening,’ says Kenneth. ‘Again. You’re having a dream-in-a-dream. Again. I’m surprised you fell for it a second time. Did you not spot the signs?’
‘No … no. I … I … My clock! The time, the numbers … they were fine.’
‘Oh dear, laddie. That’s definitely not good.’ He shakes his head. ‘Yer mind is losing touch with reality. Ooh, it’s a wee bit cramped in here. Like being in a blasted coffin.’ He stands up and stretches his back, his ornamental dirk clanking against the taps.
‘Aren’t you …’ I stumble because it’s difficult to find the right words. It’s no
t a question I have ever had to ask anyone before. ‘Aren’t you dead?’
He looks at me, a strange half-smile on his face. ‘Och, yes, Malcolm. I’m afraid to say I am. Dead as a dodo.’
‘So … you’re a ghost?’
He steps out of the bath and stands next to me. ‘Go on … touch my hand. See? If I was a ghost, your hand would go straight through mine, wouldn’t it? No, you’re having a dream, laddie.’
‘But … you don’t look dead.’
‘Don’t I? I’m glad to hear it, lad, glad to hear it.’ He leans past me to check his reflection in the bathroom mirror and smooths down his hair. Then he grins at me, looking over the top of his purple glasses.
‘Are you all right? That is …’
‘All right? I’m dead, Malcolm! I’m about as far from all right as it’s possible to be.’
‘I … I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you don’t. It’s a dream! Where logic, rationality, sense and good order take second place to strangeness and improbability. But here’s the thing, Malcolm – we’re in Dreamland. And in Dreamland I’m as alive as can be. Just because you’re dreaming it doesn’t mean it isn’t real, Malky lad.’
‘Mola said almost the same thing!’ I say.
He doesn’t seem impressed. ‘Hmm. Did she now? Remember, though, Malcolm: this is your dream, not mine. The only problem is, it seems as though you can’t control it any more. That was always the difficulty with the Dreaminator: the control element never lasted long. Try telling your leg to stop bleeding. Go on.’
I look down at my still-dripping leg. ‘Stop bleeding!’ I say, softly. It doesn’t.
‘See? You’re in your own dream, that’s for sure. But you’re now at the mercy of your subconscious.’
I tear a strip off a towel and dab it round the bite wound. ‘Is that a bad thing?’ I say.
Kenneth sighs. ‘It’s definitely not a good thing. I’m sorry to say that, owing to my demise coming a wee bit earlier than I expected, I never got to warn you about it. On a happier note, your subconscious has brought me along for a last visit to the mysterious dimension of Dreamland, so it can’t be all bad. I think you may just have to let go and see where the ride takes you. Now come on, we haven’t got a lot of time left before you wake naturally, so we can’t stop here bletherin’.’