Leah shook her head slowly. I grabbed her by the shoulders and fixed my eyes on hers.
‘I’ll show you,’ I said as I toppled us both from the ledge and into nothingness.
The world swept up to meet us. I felt the rush of air whipping my clothes against my body, my stomach churning. And then I levelled out, turned up to the sky. This time I travelled fast. I had one arm around Leah’s waist, holding her close to me, the other stretched straight up. Pathetic, I know, but sometimes it’s good to do things with style. The ground was shrinking at an incredible rate. I could just make out the sea framing the shape of Australia and then the curvature of Earth itself. We exploded into blackness. The bright dust of stars was all around. Then the bone-white disc leapt up to meet us. I slowed and settled, my feet sending a trail of dust arcing gently in the vacuum. I set Leah onto her feet, took her by the hand and tugged her down next to me. We sat and turned towards the sphere, green and blue and white, hanging against its black backdrop.
I never tired of its beauty. One half was golden in sunlight and we could make out the shape of Africa, and a wedge of South America shrouded in cloud. A line divided Earth, one half hidden in night. We sat, bathed in Earthlight.
‘I look for differences,’ I said. ‘In a dream, there will always be something strange, something illogical. A cordless phone that has a cord, a blade of grass that behaves in a way that is impossible. When I recognise the difference, I know I am in the world of my imagination. The rest is simply what I will to happen.’
Leah kept her face towards the Earth. She said nothing for a minute or two.
‘So this isn’t me sitting here,’ she said finally. ‘It’s your dream of me.’
‘Right.’ I said. ‘That’s right. The real you is asleep somewhere down there. Or maybe not. You might be watching TV or reading a book. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m asleep, lying in my bed, and that has let me into this world, a world where I can travel down a telephone wire. A world where we can fly to the moon.’
‘So I can’t possibly remember this.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘There’s nothing for you to remember. But I’ll remember it, this time we’ve shared. I’ll remember flying with Leah. It’ll help me through the day, the real world, where none of this is possible.’
Leah giggled.
‘So you’re like Superman! Quiet, unassuming Michael Terny during the day, but a lord of creation at night.’
‘I’m a Dreamrider,’ I said. ‘If I want to, I can plan everything, down to the last detail. Most times, I don’t. I control, but I also let my world do what it wants. I set some events in motion, and then see where they take me. I ride the Dream.’
‘It’s not real.’
‘It’s better than real. Real is overrated.’
We sat a while longer, not needing to say much. But I knew it was all on the point of ending, that if I turned I would see it. The glass. I could feel it pressing on me, a solid force a few metres behind my shoulder blades.
And then depression came like a weight. It always happened like this, the joy of freedom soured by the price to be paid. The glass.
I couldn’t control it. I controlled everything else. Everything else. But at the end, always at the end, it was there. Nothing could keep me from it. My gateway back to the real world. I watched Leah and tried to keep her there by force of will. But she was fading. Already I could see the paleness of the moon through her. When she turned towards me, there were stars in her hair. It was pointless, but I tried to firm her, flesh out her figure, keep her whole.
But the stars only brightened. Darkness was eating her. Within a minute she had gone, dissolved into nothingness. I hadn’t even said goodbye. There was no point. I looked back out at the Earth. It was as if I was alone in the universe. The stars were cold and distant. In the whole of existence there was nothing but me and darkness.
Finally, I turned. Now that control was gone, there was no point delaying. Time to wake up. But I had to go through this first. I could sit and watch and refuse to turn. I could do that until it seemed enough hours had passed for the stars themselves to crumble. Time has no meaning in the Dream. It is a different clock that ticks here. But I had to go back. So I turned.
The glass was featureless, as always, apart from the pale tinge of my reflection. I moved my hand towards it and felt the thudding in my chest deepen until it was a roaring in my ears. A trickle of sweat ran down my right cheek. A burst of orange came from the left corner. Something shifted in the glass. Movement. A familiar shape. I felt on the verge of recognition.
And then there was only darkness and the sound of my lungs tearing and gulping at the air.
1 .
The alarm clock said 6.55 a.m. I waited until the beating of my heart faded to a thin pulse, then got up and rummaged through the wardrobe. The tactic yesterday hadn’t worked, but I picked out another anonymous T-shirt and plain shorts. I showered, dressed and went through to the kitchen.
I made a pot of tea and poured myself a cup. Dad, I remembered, had said something about an early shift, but I hadn’t heard him leave. Mary was nowhere to be seen either, though the kitchen door was open. I knew she was wandering the garden, having her first smoke of the day. She didn’t smoke when Dad was home. He hated the smell. So the first thing she did when he left the house was light up. She reeked of smoke, but he chose not to comment. Maybe he thought that if he kept quiet she wouldn’t smoke as much. I didn’t know. It wasn’t something we were ever likely to discuss.
I found an open packet of bacon in the fridge and put a rasher under the grill. Dad would definitely notice if I took more and that would mean another argument about my weight. He’d probably notice anyway. Mary would be cool. She cared about my diet, but she wasn’t too fussy. That was the way things worked for Mary and me – I kept her smoking habit to myself and she did the same for my occasional rasher of bacon. It was one of the things that made us so close – the secrets we kept from a common enemy.
‘How do you feel about today, Michael?’
Her voice startled me. I was watching the rasher sink into the butter on my bread. Mary leaned against the door, a cigarette in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She gave me a kind smile as I brought the sandwich to my mouth.
‘You can always have the day off,’ she continued. ‘It would be understandable, and your dad wouldn’t have to know.’ We both knew, however, that he would find out. He always did.
‘Thanks, Mary,’ I said, taking that first delicious bite. ‘But it won’t be any easier if I don’t go in.’
‘Like riding a bike, and all that?’
‘Exactly,’ I said.
The bus stop was a five-minute walk from the house, but I gave myself plenty of time. I was hoping Leah would get on, but I had no idea if she lived on my route, or even if she took the bus at all. It was a beautiful day and the short walk made me feel better. I was nervous, obviously. That never really went away, even after I’d been at a school for months. But something about the quality of the air, the way the sun shone through the leaves on the trees, made me glad to be there, walking at that particular place, at that particular time. It’s difficult to explain.
It was quiet at the bus stop. I had gone early to miss the rush and only a couple of kids were waiting. Judging by their uniforms, they didn’t go to my school anyway. When the bus arrived, I had nearly all the seating to choose from. The back row was out. Kids who sit at the back of buses don’t ask you to move politely. I sat behind the driver. There were no safe spots, but I stood most chance of avoiding hassle there.
Martin got on at the first stop. He swung up onto the bus with a bunch of other boys and flashed his card at the driver. For a moment I thought he would pass by. I kept my head turned, as if watching something out the window. But then I felt a thump on the vinyl next to me.
‘Hey, Michael,’ he said. ‘It is Michael, isn’t it?’
I remembered what he’d said about answering questions.
&nbs
p; ‘Yes. Michael Terny.’
He grinned. ‘Well, Michael Terny, I’m Martin Leechy. It’s good to see you again. Put it there.’
He held out his hand. I didn’t feel comfortable taking it, but I didn’t have much choice. Once again, he shook my hand firmly.
‘Look, Michael,’ he said. ‘I want to apologise about yesterday. I feel bad. You had every right to dob me in. But you didn’t and I want to say thanks.’
I shrugged.
‘Well, it’s good of you to take that attitude. I appreciate it, I really do,’ he said.
I turned back to the window, hoping he would leave. Martin whistled tunelessly for a while, drumming his fingers on the edge of the seat. Then he tapped me on the arm.
‘The thing is, Michael, I’ve got a question and I was wondering if you’d mind answering it?’
I stared at the back of the driver’s head.
‘You see, you really are enormously fat, Michael, and I was wondering how you got that way? Do you just shovel in food from morning to night? Is that it? Or do you take something? Tablets of some kind?’
I looked down at my knees.
Martin continued. His tone was friendly and relaxed, like he was discussing a footy game with a mate. ‘Maybe you do the reverse of that procedure? What do they call it? When they stick a tube in your guts and it sucks out the fat? Do you go along from time to time and get everybody else’s fat pumped into you? What is it, Mikey? Are we talking nature or nurture, here?’
‘Liposuction,’ I said.
Martin slapped his forehead with his hand.
‘That’s it! Damn. Memory like a sieve!’
I knew then that Martin was going to be more dangerous than other bullies I’d come up against. It had to do with intelligence. Most of the kids who made my life hell were no-hopers, their insults routine and unimaginative. But Martin was smart. The ‘nature/nurture’ remark told me that. Of course, smart kids had bullied me too, but normally they were trying to impress their mates. And sometimes there would be shame in their eyes as they did it. But Martin had no audience. I didn’t know how to deal with his friendly hatred.
The bus pulled to a stop and Leah got on. She flashed her card and was almost past me when she noticed us.
‘Hey, Michael,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
Martin gave a broad smile.
‘Wassup, Leah. How ya doin’?’
She gave a tight smile and a slight nod.
‘Listen, guys,’ said Martin, ‘I’d love to stay and chat, but there’s a group at the back who need my input. You know how it is – you can’t spread yourself too thinly. Isn’t that right, Michael? So I’ll love you and leave you. Here you go, Leah. Have my seat. Not that there’s a great deal of it. You have to hang your buttock over the edge, but I suppose you two know all about hanging buttocks, right? Take care. Later, eh, Michael?’
Leah sat down and I felt the tension drain away. I’m grateful for small victories. Another confrontation avoided, or at least postponed.
‘I dreamed about you last night,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ She blushed, slightly. ‘Not like . . . you know, that sort of dream. I don’t mean . . .’
‘I’m interested in dreams,’ I said. ‘What was it about?’
She shrugged. ‘I have real problems remembering dreams. It’s hazy. I was somewhere high with you and we talked. That’s it. At least, that’s all I remember, but it was a vivid dream. It had to be. They’re the only kind that linger the following day.’
That was interesting. A coincidence, for sure, but I’d give it some thought.
‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘I heard about what happened yesterday. Are you all right? That Martin . . . God, he is such a bastard. Thinks he’s so tough and funny. What was he doing sitting next to you? Giving you a hard time?’
I shrugged.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.’
She looked at me closely. I liked the way her hair flipped under her chin. I liked her plumpness. But it was her eyes more than anything. I’m a sucker for eyes.
‘Listen, Michael,’ she said. ‘He gives you crap, you let someone know. Don’t let him get away with it. Promise me you’ll tell someone.’
‘We’re here,’ I said. The bus had stopped outside the school gates and kids were crowding the aisles, jostling each other. I picked up my bag.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s see if I can get through an entire day.’
‘Michael, let’s see if you can get through an entire day,’ said Mr Atkins.
He’d called me over at the beginning of Home Group. I had a bad feeling he was going to cross-examine me about yesterday, but his eyes were relaxed and smiling.
‘I’m proud of you, my boy,’ he continued. ‘Falling into a chocolate cake within half a day of starting. That has to be some kind of record. And I want you to know that, having done so, you are maintaining the very high standards of Home Group 21. In fact, you have enhanced our already considerable reputation for active stupidity and for that you deserve congratulations.’
He took off his glasses and chewed the end of one arm. It was already pitted with teeth marks.
‘You don’t have anything to tell me, do you, Michael?’ he added. ‘Now you’ve had a chance to sleep on it?’
‘No, Sir. I don’t think so.’
He sighed. ‘No. I didn’t think so either.’
There was a flash of tiredness in his eyes. I’d noticed it yesterday. I knew he was struggling to keep something hidden, his sense of humour a guard against it. He put his glasses on the desk.
‘Michael. I am excessively old and I have been teaching for more years than is good for me. I have a theory that the more time you spend with young people the less you understand them. The less you are capable of understanding. I have no idea what interests young people anymore. I know nothing about the music you listen to, the films you watch, the technology you use. To be honest, I have no idea how my alarm clock works, let alone mobile phones and MSN messaging. But for all that, I am a good listener. Maybe because I don’t know anything at all about you, I’m a better listener. Do you understand what I mean?’
I nodded, but he didn’t seem satisfied.
‘Put very simply,’ he added, ‘if you ever want to talk about anything to someone who is not going to make judgements, then you might do worse than talk to me. I’m too old to be judgemental.’
‘Thanks, Sir,’ I said. ‘You’re a very kind man.’
Mr Atkins’s eyes widened. He frowned for a moment, as if trying to decide whether I was sending him up. Then he laughed.
‘Well, Michael,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m not the only one around here who is too old-fashioned for his own good. “Kind”, eh? Do you know . . . I think you are correct. I am kind. Use my kindness, if you feel so inclined. All right?’
I nodded.
Mr Atkins, almost absent-mindedly, reached out a hand and a coin blinked into existence. He rolled it over the back of his hand, flipping it along the ridges of his knuckles. Then the coin vanished. He turned his hand over, palm up, and there was nothing there. Then he clenched his fist and the coin reappeared, cartwheeling back and forth. I kept my eyes glued to his hand, but I couldn’t see how he did it. Mr Atkins continued to speak, as if his magic show was of no importance.
‘Tell me, Michael. Are you coming to the Year 10 Social this Friday?’
‘The Social?’
‘An esteemed tradition in the hallowed halls of Millways High School. A time when all the Year 10s get together for a night of unbridled disco dancing in the school hall. A time for liaisons with members of the opposite sex. A time for, dare one say it, smuggled grog, the occasional fight and releasing the grip on the old testosterone. A Social.’
‘I don’t think so, Sir.’
‘And why not?’ The coin vanished, then appeared in his left hand. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
‘I’m not really built for di
sco dancing, Sir.’
‘Who is? It’s always struck me as a singularly unnatural activity and one I have avoided assiduously and successfully. But that doesn’t mean you can’t come along just for the . . . well, the social element, I suppose. Come on, Michael. The people who know about such things assure me a splendid time is had by all. And I have it on reliable authority that this year is going to be remarkable. A “themed horror” event. Give it a go, eh?’
‘I’ll think about it, Sir.’
‘Do that. Give it serious thought.’ He picked up his glasses and put them on. ‘And now I’m afraid a pile of Year 9 argumentative essays awaits me.’
Mr Atkins flexed his fingers as if preparing them for the task at hand. There was no sign of the coin. I instinctively patted my pockets, but they were empty.
‘No doubt,’ he continued, ‘I’ll be shocked by the poverty of intellect and the complete disregard for the most rudimentary elements of English grammar, but, as the saying goes, they won’t mark themselves. Have a good day, Michael.’ He fixed me with his gaze. ‘That’s a direct instruction.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’ I nodded. ‘Sir?’
Mr Atkins peered over the top of his glasses.
‘How do you do that, Sir? The thing with the coin.’
He leaned back in the chair and locked his hands behind his head.
‘Ah, Michael. The secret is to practise. Practise and persevere. If you stick at something, you get better. At the start, you make mistakes. You stumble and fail. But keep on at it and suddenly the trick becomes second nature to you. You don’t know how you couldn’t do it before. If you practise you can make the impossible seem easy. Think about it, my boy.’
I smiled. I knew he wasn’t talking only about the coin. My own experiences in the Dream were proof of what he had said. Maybe I could apply the same determination to the real world. I’d think about it.
There were only ten minutes left of Home Group. Kids were sitting around chatting. A few were playing hand-held computer games, but most were in small groups. Leah was with the same knot of girls I’d seen yesterday. I watched from the corner of my eyes. I like to people-watch, carefully. Some people find it annoying. After a few moments Leah came over.
Dreamrider Page 4
