Big Change for Stuart

by Lissa Evans

  ‘No,’ said Maxwell Lacey unexpectedly, ‘but my employer is very interested indeed. As a matter of fact, I need to call her now. It’s good to meet you people.’ Smiling, he folded the leaflet into his pocket and then left the room.

  April turned to Clifford again. ‘What sort of wild animal are you using in your wild-animal-based finale?’ she asked.

  ‘Wait and see,’ he said, raising his eyebrows mysteriously. ‘I guarantee it’ll be a surprise …’

  WHEN STUART CAME into the kitchen the next morning, he saw two letters pinned to the cork-board. The first was addressed to Stuart’s father.

  The second was addressed to Stuart. As he stood reading it, his father joined him in the kitchen.

  Father and son looked at each other.

  ‘Orange, banana, peach, plum or melon with your morning repast?’ enquired Stuart’s father, peering down at him.

  ‘Peach please. And I’m going to the museum all day, with April, and then to St Cuthbert’s church hall to see a magic show, with April – I’ll write it in a note for you. And I’ll take a door-key.’

  ‘And I shall prepare a portable container of noon-tide comestibles for you,’ said Stuart’s father, going over to the fridge.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Stuart. He had a sinking feeling that the contents of his packed lunch were going to be very, very healthy.

  April was already waiting for him in the side room of the museum, sitting at the curator’s table. He was relieved to see that she was wearing a new pair of glasses. She was also wearing a new badge. ‘Rod Felton just gave it to me,’ she said, rather gloomily. ‘He said it would make me more official. Don’t laugh.’

  The badge had a picture of a baby in a business suit, sitting at a computer, and it read:

  ‘You’re laughing,’ said April.

  ‘No, honestly,’ lied Stuart.

  ‘And I’ve been given a visitor’s survey as well,’ said April. ‘It’s got questions like Do you feel that the exhibition captions give sufficient information?’

  ‘Well, they don’t at the moment,’ said Stuart. ‘We ought to get started while there are still no visitors to bother us. Do you want to choose which illusion to explore next?’

  ‘OK.’ April walked over to an empty space in the middle of the room, closed her eyes, spun round a couple of times and pointed randomly.

  ‘The Arch of Mirrors,’ she said, opening her eyes and staggering slightly. ‘Two questions: What’s the trick of it, and where does the Magic Star fit in?’

  ‘Three questions,’ corrected Stuart. ‘If we find where the Magic Star fits in, then where will it take us?’ To the desert again? he wondered. Or to a different magical world, with a different sort of puzzle?

  He followed April over to the arch. It was nearly as tall as Stuart’s father, and every inch of it was covered in mirrors. Each mirror was square and was set at a slightly different angle. In the sunny room, light beams seemed to bounce across the surface like ping-pong balls.

  April pushed and then pulled one of the small mirrors. ‘It feels quite springy,’ she said, ‘as if it’s supposed to move. I bet one of them lifts up or swings round in some way.’

  Stuart walked right round the illusion, seeing his reflection shift and change a hundred times. It would take hours and hours to try every mirror, and it would be easy to lose track and forget which ones had been tried.

  ‘It’s making my eyes hurt,’ complained April. ‘Too many reflections.’ She went across to the light switch and turned it off, but sun still flooded in through the single window.

  ‘There’s a blind,’ said Stuart, going over to where a cord was looped around a hook on the wall. He started to free it.

  April had crouched down beside the arch. ‘That’s odd …’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of them doesn’t reflect.’

  The blind rattled down, blocking out the sun. Stuart turned round.

  The arch had totally disappeared.

  ‘April!’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m here!’ She was laughing. ‘Lift up the blind again.’ He hauled it up, and heard himself gasp. The arch was still there, but instead of being covered in mirrors, it was totally black.

  ‘And now look,’ said April, still crouching beside it. She fiddled with something, and the mirrors suddenly appeared again, like an eye opening. ‘They’re all on a swivel,’ she explained. ‘And one of the mirrors near the bottom isn’t a mirror at all, it’s just painted to look like a mirror. When you turn it round, they all turn round, and the backs of them are coloured black.’ She demonstrated again; the arch turned from brilliance to near-invisibility in a second.

  ‘So really,’ she went on, ‘it’s the Disappearing Arch of Mirrors. I bet they put the lights down in the theatre, did a drum-roll, and then all the audience screamed their heads off when it suddenly wasn’t there any longer. And look here …’ she added in a quieter voice.

  Stuart knelt beside her. On the black side of the painted square was a series of grooves in the shape of a star – a star with just five spokes.

  They grinned at each other.

  ‘So maybe that’s how it works,’ said April. ‘We find how the trick operates – the switch or the swivel or the lock or the handle or whatever – and that’s where the Magic Star goes.’ She gave a bounce of excitement. ‘So let’s get going! This is the next one, isn’t it? The next adventure.’

  ‘Yes. Right. OK.’ Stuart realized that he was feeling a bit nervous. Those hours in the desert had seemed awfully real, and there’d been times when he’d felt a bit desperate, not to mention hungry and thirsty. He went over to his rucksack and took out a lunch box and water bottle. ‘Right,’ he said again, steeling himself, half thrilled, half frightened; at least he wouldn’t be on his own this time.

  He took out the star, and knelt beside the Arch of Mirrors.

  ‘Can we hold hands?’ asked April. ‘I don’t want to be left behind.’

  Stuart checked to see that no one else was in the room. ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. April grabbed his left hand; with his right, he fitted the five-spoked star into its socket.

  And the world went black.

  IT WAS ONLY dark for a second, but when the lights came back on, everything had changed. Stuart was still standing in front of the Arch of Mirrors, but it was smaller than before – no taller than himself – and it was brilliantly lit, as if by a spotlight. The only other object in view was an easel, also spot-lit and facing away from the Arch. Everything else was in utter darkness; Stuart couldn’t see whether he was in a room, or a hall, or even on a stage. The silence was total. April was nowhere to be seen. Feeling anxious, he called her name, but his voice sounded thin and weedy, and it disappeared into the gloom, unanswered.

  He stepped round to the front of the easel. Resting against it was an empty picture frame. It was square and about the width of Stuart’s outstretched hand. He could look straight through it and see the arch, a small image of himself reflected in every mirror. Written across the top of the picture frame were the words:

  Stuart picked up the frame and turned it over but there was nothing written on the back. As he returned it to the easel, he got the sudden feeling that something was wrong – that he wasn’t seeing something that he should be seeing. For a second time he picked up the frame, and realized with a chill that there was no answering movement from the reflections: all those rows of Stuarts had remained perfectly still …

  He walked over to the arch. He could see his own face in each mirror, brightly lit in front of a dark background. He could see the blue of his T-shirt, and the dirty smudge that he appeared to have on his right cheekbone. But when he lifted a hand to his face, no hand appeared in the mirrors. He moved closer. The images in the mirrors weren’t painted: they had depth, they were alive, they were breathing, but they weren’t reflections. It was as if each were a TV screen, showing a continuous programme of himself. The Stuart Channel. But each programme was slightly different – one Stuar
t was smiling, another was biting his lip as if perplexed, a third seemed to be looking off to the left.

  ‘Weird,’ said Stuart. He was still holding the picture frame, and on a sudden impulse he placed it flat against the arch. The mirrors that made up the surface were exactly the right size for the frame.

  ‘So do I have to choose one?’ he asked out loud.

  He glanced from image to image, wondering what he was supposed to be looking for. Stuart after Stuart grinned, sneezed, stared, blinked and shrugged at him.

  And, he reminded himself, there were all the mirrors on the other side of the arch as well – he ought to look at those too. He started to walk round it, and then found that he couldn’t: his feet were moving, but he made no progress, as if he were walking on a treadmill or an ice rink. After a couple of minutes of panting effort he gave up; clearly he was supposed to stay where he was.

  ‘OK,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll just have to pick one on this side. They’re all me, anyway.’

  He reached out randomly towards a Stuart who was yawning hugely. The mirror came away after just a single tug. There was a black gap in the arch where it had been.

  What now?

  Stuart walked back to the easel, fitted the mirror into the frame, and put the frame back on the little ledge where he’d found it.

  And instantly the mirror in the frame disappeared.

  Stuart looked at it, startled, and even stuck his hand through the hole, just to make sure. And then he went back to the arch. The black gap had filled up again – he couldn’t even tell where he’d taken the mirror from.

  ‘So that was the wrong choice,’ he muttered. ‘I must have to pick out one in particular—’

  ‘I’m bored,’ said a voice behind him.

  Stuart spun round and saw –

  Himself.

  He yelled.

  Blue T-shirt, smudge on cheek, jeans, scuffed trainers, hands stuffed in pockets.

  ‘I mean, what do you even do here?’ asked the other Stuart, ignoring the yell. ‘This is the dullest place I’ve ever, ever been to, and I didn’t even bring any money with me, so I can’t buy anything, even if I found a shop.’ He had a slightly whiny, irritating voice.

  Do I really sound like that? thought the real Stuart, still reeling from the shock.

  Bored Stuart yawned again. ‘I mean, it’s dark, there’s nothing to see, there’s nowhere to go, there isn’t even anything to sit on, I can’t put on any music, I can’t—’

  ‘Shhhh!’ said the real Stuart. He could hear another voice somewhere, calling his name. He strained his ears.

  ‘I mean, there’s only another two weeks left of the summer holidays,’ droned Bored Stuart, ‘and if I have to spend it in this place, then—’

  ‘Will you please be quiet,’ said Stuart. He could hear the other voice again, and this time he was certain that it was April.

  ‘I CAN JUST ABOUT HEAR YOU!’ he yelled. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’

  A moment passed, and then he heard her distant answer.

  ‘IN FRONT OF THE ARCH. ON THE OTHER SIDE TO YOU, I THINK. HAVE YOU DONE IT YET?’

  ‘DONE WHAT?’

  ‘CHOSEN THE RIGHT MIRROR AND PUT IT IN THE FRAME?’

  ‘NO, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO. WHICH ONE’S THE RIGHT ONE?’

  ‘THE ONE THAT’S YOU.’

  ‘BUT THEY’RE ALL ME.’

  ‘NO THEY’RE NOT.’

  ‘YES THEY ARE.’

  ‘NO THEY’RE NOT. IF YOU LOOK CAREFULLY, YOU’LL SEE THAT THEY MIGHT LOOK A LOT LIKE YOU BUT THEY’RE NOT ACTUALLY YOU. ALL EXCEPT ONE. IT ONLY TOOK ME A COUPLE OF MINUTES TO PICK THE RIGHT ONE, BUT THEN, OF COURSE, I’M USED TO SEEING PEOPLE WHO LOOK LIKE ME BUT WHO AREN’T ACTUALLY ME.’ She sounded (Stuart thought) a bit smug.

  ‘I’m just so bored,’ said Bored Stuart.

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘I can’t remember being as bored as this ever, not even when—’

  ‘Just SHUT UP,’ snapped Stuart.

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I WASN’T SAYING IT TO YOU, APRIL.’

  ‘WHO WERE YOU SAYING IT TO, THEN?’

  ‘SOMEONE WHO LOOKS JUST LIKE ME. BUT WHO ISN’T.’

  ‘I mean,’ continued Bored Stuart, ‘there isn’t even a book or a magazine or anything, so how am I supposed to …’

  Stuart turned and stared at his almost-twin as he drivelled on about how there was nothing to do. He examined every inch of the boy’s face, and tried to compare each feature with what he saw in his own mirror every morning. But the trouble was, he hardly ever looked in his own mirror: four seconds for combing his hair, a quick glimpse of his teeth after brushing, and that was it. The truth was – and the realization made him feel more than a little uneasy – he didn’t really know what he looked like. And he just happened to be in a place where there wasn’t a mirror.

  ‘GOOD LUCK,’ he heard April shout faintly. ‘THE LIGHTS ARE GOING OUT ON THIS SIDE. I THINK I’M ON MY WAY BACK NOW – ACTUALLY, I CAN HEAR SOMETHING ODD. I CAN HEAR A SORT OF CLICKING SOUND IN THE …’ Her voice faded away.

  ‘APRIL!’ he yelled. ‘APRIL?’

  But there was no reply. He was completely on his own.

  ‘I am so bored.’

  Well, nearly on his own.

  STUART PEERED FROM one image to the next, frowning, comparing, worrying, while Bored Stuart grumbled on in the background. Mirror after mirror showed a boy with shortish hair, greyish eyes, a roundish face and a few brownish freckles. An ordinary sort of face, with an ordinary array of expressions: puzzled, amused, tired, interested—

  ‘Bored. I don’t think I’ve ever been this bored in my whole entire life.’

  ‘Please,’ said Stuart, ‘I’m trying to think.’

  ‘There is nothing to do in here.’

  ‘You could help me work out which of these images is actually me.’

  Bored Stuart glanced at the wall of mirrors and groaned. ‘But there are loads of them. It’ll take ages.’

  ‘You’re not exactly doing anything else, are you?’

  Bored Stuart sighed and wandered over to the arch. ‘That one,’ he said almost immediately, pointing to a mirror on the bottom row.

  ‘You sure?’ asked Stuart. ‘Why that one in particular?’

  Bored Stuart shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘You’re just guessing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Stuart stared at the image; it looked just as much like him as all the others. There was nothing to lose. He pulled the mirror off the arch, fitted it into the empty frame and put the frame on the easel. Instantly the mirror disappeared.

  Behind him, there was a grunt. ‘How many of these can you do in one minute?’ demanded a voice.

  Heart sinking, Stuart turned. Another Stuart was doing a series of one-armed press-ups.

  ‘I can’t do any of those at all,’ said Stuart.

  ‘There’s no point in being short and unfit,’ said the other Stuart, a bit breathlessly.

  ‘I’m not unfit.’

  ‘OK, how about some arm-wrestling?’

  ‘No,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Arm-wrestling’s really boring,’ said Bored Stuart.

  ‘Are you saying I’m boring?’ demanded Fit Stuart, leaping to his feet.

  Stuart put his fingers in his ears and walked over to the arch again. It was hopeless. He couldn’t tell one image from another, so he’d just have to get lucky. He started pulling off mirrors until he had a huge stack of them, and then, one by one, he put them in the frame …

  ‘Bad idea,’ muttered Stuart to himself, a bit later. ‘Bad idea.’

  The darkness around the arch was filled with Stuarts. Studious Stuart was reading a history textbook. Jokey Stuart was making farting noises with his armpit while Serious Stuart made a disapproving face. Fit Stuart had organized a hurdles race, using Lazy Stuart, Sleepy Stuart and Bored Stuart as hurdles. Boastful Stuart had told everybody beforehand that he was brilliant at running, and had just now lost rather badly to Silent Stu
art, who hadn’t said anything at all but had so far won the hurdles, the arm-wrestling, and the prize for the largest number of star-jumps in five minutes. The prize had been a spider in a matchbox, donated by Nature-loving Stuart. Moany Stuart had complained about the amount of noise they were all making.

  Stuart slapped another mirror into the frame. It disappeared.

  ‘There are a hundred and thirty-seven mirrors in that arch,’ said a voice behind him, ‘which is one of my favourite prime numbers.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Stuart, not bothering to turn round. ‘So you’re a Stuart who likes maths, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what are the chances of me finding one particular mirror, if every time I choose wrongly, a new one appears?’

  ‘Infinite.’

  Stuart nodded dully. ‘I thought so,’ he said. Suddenly feeling exhausted, he sat down and put his head in his hands.

  ‘I don’t know what to look for,’ he muttered. ‘What makes me me? What am I best at? I’m not sporty, or mathematical, or swotty or jokey.’

  ‘Got anything to eat?’ asked Greedy Stuart, prising open Stuart’s lunch box and then making a face when he saw the healthy contents. ‘Is this all you’ve got?’ he said disgustedly. ‘Salad? And fruit?’

  ‘It’s healthy,’ said Stuart.

  And he remembered the letters his mum had written – one to his dad all about making sure Stuart was eating healthily (much love to my kind, clever husband), and the other to himself (much love to my brave, energetic son …)

  So maybe that’s who he was – Energetic, Brave Stuart. But how could he see those things in a mirror? And anyway, just because his mum had said them, didn’t make them true – mums were always boasting about their kids, and half the boasts were exaggerated. By ‘energetic’ his mum only meant that he was keener on doing things than thinking about them (his school reports always said: Stuart is an energetic boy, as if that wasn’t a very good thing to be). And by ‘brave’, she was probably referring to the time when (aged four) he’d apparently dragged a stepladder halfway across the garden to try and rescue a cat which had got stuck up a tree. She was always telling people the story of how the cat had scratched little Stuart, and then he’d fallen off the ladder and landed on his chin, and how if you looked carefully …