by Ross Welford
“I didn’t steal them. They belonged to Dad! I’ve just taken back what belongs to us.”
“Ee, pet.” Mum sits down at the table and reaches across the table to take my hand, shaking her head. “Whatever that stuff was doing down there, it doesn’t belong to us now. Nothing in that house does, and you can’t go breaking into places to get things that don’t even belong to you.”
“It all goes back tomorrow,” says Steve, flatly.
“But it’s my time machine!” I wail. “If you get all the coordinates right, the computer does the calculations to effect a spacetime warp on anything in the immediate sphere of the garden tub. Honestly!”
How brilliant! I’m telling the whole truth, and yet everyone – with the possible exception of Carly, who of course has already heard all of this and, what with being a goth, may just half believe it – everyone thinks I’m making it up. But so long as the stuff goes back tomorrow, I’ll be fine, because I only need to make one more journey. I’m feeling so confident that my performance has worked that I end up over-egging it a bit by rolling my eyes and saying, “Yeaaaah!”
Too soon.
“Tomorrow?” says Mum. “You’re kidding, Steve. It’s going back tonight. Right now in fact,” and she stands up. “Come on, Al, you can help me down with that flippin’ tub. How the dickens you got it up there in the first place without me hearing I have no idea. And you’re both coming with me to apologise to Graham and Bella. You’ll be lucky if they don’t press charges.”
I go round the table and put my arms around Mum, and she hugs me back.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I say – and I really am. I can tell she’s unhappy, but I’m going to make her happy again when I save Dad. Just for good measure, I give her an extra squeeze and say, “I love you, Mum.”
As it turns out, I’m really glad I did that, because of what’s going to happen next. I give Mum a last squeeze and then run up to my room as fast as I can.
I’m in my room before she’s even stepped away from the table and by the time she’s at my bedroom door, I’ve pulled the bed in front of it, which makes a very effective barricade.
“Al? Al?!” She’s pounding on the door, furious and worried, and she’s soon joined by Steve, who adds, menacingly, “You’re only making it worse, son.”
Worse? How could it be worse? I’ve now jammed my chair in between the end of the bed and the wall and there is no way at all that anyone can get in. If I can blot the noise of banging at the door from my head, then I can get on with the task that I feel I’ve been waiting my whole life to complete.
The main rig-up is easy. The wires go … here, the cable goes … here and that fixes to there, so! Plugging it in, switching it on …
“Al! Al! Open this bloody door, son!” But I hardly hear him, because I’m watching the program load up again, listening to the hard disc’s soft metallic swish, and feeling the laptop getting sweaty in my hands.
The numbers stop scrolling past, and there’s just the blank box, the cursor winking at me, waiting for me to input the string of letters from the top of the black box, and the digits that correspond to the exact time and place I need to be.
I’m playing it safe. I know the coordinates for the nuclear bunker off by heart. As for the date, I input one day later exactly from when I was last in 1984, which seems ages ago but was only last night. And I have to smile to myself, despite the kerfuffle going on outside and despite the sound of Grandpa Byron’s moped sputtering up the path, because that, as Albert Einstein so rightly pointed out, is relativity.
I’m still nervous about the self-rigged time machine.
“Al! Come out, your Grandpa’s here!” Now that does make me feel bad, because out of anyone on earth, Grandpa Byron’s the only one who understands what I’m doing and he’s going to be so disappointed in me. Still, I continue to ignore Mum, and pluck Alan Shearer from his cage, putting him in the tub with a large chunk of walnut, which he is content to sit with and try to cram into his face.
Right, me next. I hear something thump against the window outside, but I’m too busy to care. This time I’m better prepared, frantically shoving things into my school bag:
My phone charger, out of habit.
A handful of food for Alan Shearer.
A toothbrush from next to the sink in my room.
The framed picture of me, Mum and Dad that was taken on the day he died.
A packet of chewing gum.
An apple I’ve been meaning to eat for ages but which has been sitting on my desk for days.
A spare jumper. I don’t know why, it’s just the sort of thing you’re supposed to pack. Mum would be pleased. And that’s it. No wait …
My dad’s letters.
And then I’m in the tub, clutching my schoolbag and the laptop and the hand grips, and I press ‘enter’.
As I do, and as my vision goes a little bit wobbly, I see Grandpa’s Byron’s face in my bedroom window. He has got a ladder from the builders next door and put it up outside and the last thing I see, before the mist clears, is his smooth, old brown face contorted in fear and sadness, his mouth a big “o” as he sees his only grandson disappear before his eyes.
I can’t bear to see him like this, and I shout out “Grandpa Byron!” and I step out of the tub to go to him at the window, but I’m too late. The blur straightens out and my feet touch the ground of the nuclear bunker in 1984.
Outside the bunker, in the garage, it’s all quiet today. No Radio One, no little Stokoe. The garage door is shut but not locked and the strong sun glares through the bumpy glass of the window squares.
I leave Alan Shearer in the drawer under the bunk bed, and Pye is waiting for me down on the beach, at exactly the same spot, probably to the centimetre. “Precision counts,” I think and smile to myself, striding towards him. When we’re close, we just stand and look at each other.
It’s like looking into a mirror. Well, not exactly, because a mirror doesn’t show you exactly how your face is, it shows you a mirror image of your face, which is a bit different. And so it is with Pye – ever so slightly different, but still totally weird.
“You came then,” he says.
“Looks like it.”
He smiles. “You look like Rocky.”
“Rocky who?”
“You know – Rocky Balboa, the boxer? In the film?” and he tugs at the hood on my sweatshirt. “Yo, Adrian, y’know whaddam sayin’?” It’s a lousy impression but I laugh anyway. “Where did you get it?”
I shrug. “I dunno. My mum got it off Amazon I think?”
“Where’s that?”
“Amazon? It’s a webs— a mail order company.” Smooth.
“A catalogue? Yeah, my dad’s got one of them. I’ll have a look. Hey, the cat’s OK! I called in on my way here. Mr Frasier reckons she’s going to make a full recovery.”
“Great,” I say, but in truth I had totally forgotten about the cat what with all the other things going on.
We walk along in silence for a bit, and then I say, “My phone. I need to get it back.”
Pye looks at me but doesn’t say anything. Eventually he says, “Your what?”
“My phone. My mobile. My cellphone. I gave it to Macca yesterday. I need it back?” This is making me nervous because I don’t want to mistrust him.
He repeats, “Your phone?”
“My –” dammit – “my calculator, I mean. And camera. I have to get it back. It’s er … it’s not mine.”
“Well that might be a problem. But Macca’s a friend, after all. Why did you call it your phone?”
I don’t answer, because there’s a hollow feeling in my stomach, as if I’m suddenly really hungry, except I’m not, it’s just hearing Macca described as a ‘friend’ after what happened yesterday is too much.
“A friend, you say? A friend? A friend who makes you torture cats? What sort of friend is that, eh? Tell me? He’s got my … my camera and you have no idea how much trouble this creates.” I pause for breath
and glance across at Pye who looks like he might actually be blinking back tears.
“Well, let’s go to his house, shall we?” he asks, his voice quavering a little.
“OK,” I say. Which is basically how everything starts to go wrong.
“Do you know this house, then?” says Pye.
“Sort of. A bit.” An understatement, of course. “My mum says she’d love to live here, but Dad says it’s too big.”
“That’s Macca’s baby brother!”
“Stokoe,” I nod at the little boy in the front driveway of 40 Chesterton Road. My old house. Pye’s giving me that surprised look again. “I pick these things up,” I say, by way of explanation.
We walk up to the house. “Hi,” says Pye to Stokoe’s mum, who is sitting on the step smoking a cigarette. Her dark-blonde hair is tied back and she’s really thin. “Are you, erm … Mrs MacFaddyen?”
She exhales smoke slowly, looks at us through heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Who’s askin’?”
All right, now – even I know that saying this to a pair of twelve-year-olds is daft. It’s the sort of thing gangsters say to each other in movies.
“I’m Pye Chaudhury. I’m a friend of Mac— Paul’s. From school.”
Mrs MacFaddyen smiles meanly and looks away. Her teeth are yellow and big. “Pye? As in steak and kidney?”
“Well, no actually, as in Pythag— well, yeah, steak and kidney’s fine.”
“Paulie’s never mentioned a Pye,” and when I glance across, Pye looks a bit crestfallen. Just then, Macca appears in the doorway. “This a friend of yours, Paulie?”
“I know him, mam. A’reet, Chow? Who’s your boyfriend?”
Pye laughs, but it sounds a bit forced to me. “This is Al.”
“Hello,” I say.
“Here, aren’t you two alike! You brothers? Twins?” asks Macca’s mum.
“Father and son,” I say, straight-faced, but she isn’t even listening.
“Oi, Stokoe, careful with your juice, you little bleeder!” Mrs MacFaddyen stubs out her cigarette with her foot, stands up and goes inside. “Watch him,” she says to Macca, jerking her head towards Stokoe. “He’s in a right mood this morning.”
As soon as she has gone, Macca picks up the cigarette end that his mum just left and, fishing a lighter from his pocket, lights it up again.
“So what brings you here,” asks Macca, dragging on the cigarette.
Pye looks at me then at Macca. “It’s er … it’s that calculator. Al needs it back.”
“Yeah,” I add, as if that would help.
“Well, it’s more than just a calculator, isn’t it?” Macca says slowly. He’s trying to be dead casual and even blows a smoke ring.
“Well, yes – obviously,” I say, “but I need it back.”
Macca doesn’t move.
“The thing is,” I say, “It doesn’t belong to me.”
“What? You stole it you mean? You naughty boy!” He sucks again at the cigarette end and walks towards us, grinning. This is not going well, I can tell.
“No, I didn’t steal it, it’s …”
“You just said it wasn’t yours.”
“Well, yes, but I’m just borrowing it.”
“So am I. So am I. Besides, it was a fair swap, wasn’t it?” He blows smoke out of his mouth and while I can’t be sure he’s blowing it in my face, it certainly seems like it. He continues: “Meanwhile, thanks for the present you left me.”
Pye and I exchange looks. I can’t decide which is worse: if he has found the laptop, or Alan Shearer.
“What present?” Pye asks.
“The strange present from our little electronical Santy Claus here. I thought it was you at first. Youse two really are alike you y’knaa. But when I saw you together, I realised that it was him coming out of me garage about an hour ago.”
I swallow hard because I don’t like the direction this is going. Pye is looking at me as if he suddenly doesn’t trust me.
“And by the way – Al, is it? – that’s an interestin’ line in robbin’ you’ve got going there. Unconventional, I mean. Most people take things, but you leave them! In my bunker, of all places!”
We’ve been walking up his driveway and by now we’re at the garage doors, which he opens fully. And there it is, on a little table, in a shaft of dusty light, like it’s been posed for an advert for laptops. Next to it is the book-sized black box and a tangle of wires.
At least he hasn’t found Alan Shearer.
“Wow!” says Pye. “Is that a … a portable computer?”
“I would say it is,” says Macca, “though I never knew they could get this small. Is it?” he asks me, and I nod. “How do you turn it on, then?”
Reluctantly, I reach forward and press the on switch at the back. The screen lights up. “It’s the very latest model. From America.”
“Hey! It’s in colour!” says Pye, awestruck.
“How man, Stokoe,” shouts Macca, “come and see this! It’s like the television.” This is just the start-up screen, a picture of a globe spinning in space, and I’m thinking, “you’re going to love the internet!”
Stokoe toddles over as fast as he can. “Ba! Telly!”
What happens next is dead simple and is over in two seconds, but seems to last much, much longer. Relativity strikes again.
I can’t blame Stokoe: he’s only a toddler. But when I replay it in my head later, I can recall every detail. His sticky chin, his wide, pale eyes, his little potbelly.
His wobbly walk.
He comes up to the low table and, what? Misjudges the distance? Stumbles? Either way, he nudges his cup of juice against the side of the table.
Its entire contents spill out. All over the keyboard.
The laptop doesn’t spark or explode or anything. It just stops working. The screen goes blank. We stare at it in silence.
My way home. My way back to Mum and Grandpa Byron.
Gone.
‘Liquid Damage’, they call it in the computer trade. It’s fatal to computers. Most companies don’t even cover ‘LD’ in the guarantees. In short, if you get it wet, you’re stuffed.
Probably. But I hadn’t reckoned on Pye.
“Quick,” he says to Macca. “Get me a glass of water,” but Macca just stands there like a lump. “Quickly!” and he’s off into the kitchen. I’m desperate now, and I really don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m not expecting what comes next. Lifting the black box and wires out of the way, Pye grabs the water and pours it over the laptop.
“Oh great, that’s going to help,” says Macca. I’m too astounded to say anything at all.
“Shut up. We have to rinse out the sticky juice. Where’s the battery?” I turn the laptop upside down so it’s a tent-shape on the table, and the water starts to run out. “Screwdriver. Get me one now! And rubber gloves.”
He’s unscrewed the battery cover and is pulling on the rubber gloves that Macca has brought from the kitchen; then he takes out the dripping battery. “Risk of static shock. Now cat litter. Bring me the cat’s litter tray.”
It’s by the door to the kitchen, and full of cat turds, but I don’t care. Pye and I are working together. Picking them out with my hands, I heap up the grey litter sand and plunge the battery into the tray and cover it over.
“It’s silica. It’s a desiccant. It’s our only hope.” Macca is looking at us, uncomprehending. “It absorbs water.”
“Will it work?” asks Macca.
“No idea. But there’s a chance.”
“I’ve got more,” says Macca. “Cover the computer with it,” and he grabs a handful.
“No! The dust will be too fine. It could damage the PCBs.”
Now, I thought I knew a bit about computers, but Pye is way ahead of me, even though he’s thirty years behind.
“How do you know this stuff?” I ask, in admiration.
Pye shrugs modestly. “I saw something in PC World. Do you know it?”
“What? The shop?”
> “Shop? No, it’s a magazine. It’s great. I mean, battery-operated computers are pretty new, and this one is way ahead of anything I’ve seen, but the principle’s the same.” He has heaped the cat litter on to the battery and covered it completely. “This must be Apple’s fightback product. It’s pretty neat. I like the new logo.”
“Fightback?”
“Yeah. They’ve been stuffed commercially by IBM. But hey, maybe they’ll be a success after all. Who knows?”
Pye’s talk, and his movements, have lost all the hesitancy he was displaying before. Suddenly he’s more confident, and fluent, and the way he has taken charge has had a curious effect on Macca, who is waiting for his command.
Pye has spotted this too. He seizes the opportunity and says, “And Al’s calculator. Give it to him.”
Macca hesitates.
“Now!”
Macca reaches into his pocket and brings out my mobile. “It, er … it doesn’t work any more. Something happened to it.”
I take it from him and flip it open. Nothing. It just looks like the battery has run down, but I’m not missing this chance.
“You’ve wrecked this as well,” I say. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “It’s just—”
Pye stops him by holding up his hand. “Enough! Come on, Al. Get the litter tray. I’ve got your computer. I have an idea. Come on.” He starts to leave the garage, holding the still-dripping laptop carefully. Macca starts to follow us, and Pye turns to face him.
“Not you. You’ve caused enough trouble.”
Pye turns away, but I see the look on Macca’s face. It’s never smart to belittle someone like Macca, I think to myself, hoping Pye’s new-found confidence hasn’t just overstepped the mark.
Until recently, I had never broken into anywhere and now I seem to be making a habit of it.
And I certainly didn’t think I would ever have broken into a school. But it’s the school holidays and here we are, me and Pye, in the technical lab of Culvercot Secondary Modern (since renamed Sir Henry Percy Academy and one of the schools that my school plays football against).
