by Ross Welford
Right. Now I have to work quickly. The laptop’s battery icon has already gone down to sixty-three per cent and I have a huge job ahead of me. All my laptop will show me is the information from my memory stick. None of the time travel stuff is loading up and I have no idea how to make it.
But this might work …
Pushing a plug into the wall and flicking a switch, I turn on Pye’s six-screen supercomputer, and pull the nearest one round to face me. The screen is old-fashioned: dark with flickery green letters and numbers, but it’s my only chance.
Copying from the laptop, and using the laptop’s keyboard to navigate up and down the lines of text, I start the task of copying every single character and space into the old computer.
“Precision counts,” and I have never been more aware of how right Grandpa Byron was. I cannot afford to make a single, solitary, tiny error.
After a few minutes, I work out a method, which is to do five characters at a time. I read them out loud slowly, from the laptop:
“Six, five, forward-slash, five, two.” And then repeat them out loud again as I type them into the computer: “Six, five, forward-slash, five, two.” I then check what I have just input.
It’s slow, and it’s the only way I can be sure of not making a mistake.
But after half an hour, I have only done a bit more than half a page of code, and the battery is down to fifty-two per cent. There are seven pages of this stuff. That’s twenty per cent of existing battery life gone, but only about ten per cent of the code rewritten, all of which means I have to go twice as fast, which I just can’t.
But I’m trying. I increase my character input to six, seven and then eight at a time, shouting out the numbers to myself like a series of phone numbers. To remember them quicker without checking, I shout them, I sing them:
“Four, one, colon, slash! Double six, six, dash!”
“X, X, forty-four, equals, bracket, three, five!”
I take a long drink of water from the lab tap and keep going, hitting the keys harder until my fingers are hurting, yelling the numbers and obsessively watching the decreasing battery.
Thirty per cent …
Twenty eight per cent …
And then it really starts to decrease quickly. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen per cent … and I’ve still got two pages to go.
One page, and I’m hitting the keys like a maniac now, shouting, singing, anything to keep my concentration focused and to finish.
And then the screen flickers and dies with half a page of code still to go.
How To Bring A Dead Battery Back To Life
Remove it from the laptop or other device
Wrap it carefully in a waterproof casing such as a ziplock bag. This is important as moisture will damage the battery
Place in your deep-freeze, or the freezer compartment of your fridge, for two or more hours.
You may get enough life back into it to help you in a sticky situation.
I pass some of the next two hours imagining what sort of sticky situation was imagined by the guy who wrote that entry on WikiHow that I had seen ages ago.
Not being able to print off your homework, maybe? Or potentially missing the last fifteen minutes of a movie?
Not being able to enter the code to transport someone home across spacetime probably didn’t figure.
But whoever he was, I owe him a big Thanks Mate, and countless ‘likes’ – because it worked.
I get twenty more battery minutes, and finish inputting with four per cent left to spare. Now I can use Pye’s networked computer to travel back to my time.
I hope.
Just in case it comes in useful, I connect my mobile phone with the USB charger, and charge it from the laptop until the laptop has only one per cent remaining.
I’m knackered. I slump in front of the homemade supercomputer, breathing hard and watching the green characters flicker.
I jump at the voice behind me.
“How long you been here?”
Pye sits down next to me and looks at the screen. “What the heck’s all this?”
“Long story,” I say. “Got your go-kart?”
“We’ll go and get it,” he says.
Before I can object, Pye has left the tech lab and I’m jogging to keep up with him.
“My house isn’t far,” he says.
“We’re going to your house?”
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?” He must be able to read the expression on my face.
“Um … nothing,” I say with exaggerated casualness. “No, nothing at all. Excellent. Great.” I’ve overdone it a bit, and Pye’s brow creases with puzzlement, but he doesn’t say anything.
We’re outside the school by now, and Pye’s putting the key back in the brick hole. The warm, fresh breeze of earlier on has gone and it feels like another storm is coming. The air is so sticky you can almost taste it, and the sky has turned into a dark grey blanket making everything feel close.
Pye and I haven’t said anything for a few minutes, which feels strange, so I break the silence by saying, “Is your dad going to be there? Or your mum?” I add quickly, because that would be the normal thing to say.
This, you’ll have guessed, is what’s worrying me. The prospect of meeting Grandpa Byron is making me sick with anxiety and I’m also a bit excited. It’s exactly the same feeling I had before I went on the Vampire ride at Chessington World of Adventures that time with Mum and Steve: truly terrified, but looking forward to it at the same time. Pye is striding ahead.
“No, my mum’s dead. My dad’s there, but he was still in bed when I left. He’s working lates. And my sister.”
“Your sister?” It’s true: I had completely forgotten about Aunty Hypatia, which is hardly surprising as she is barely ever mentioned at home and I have met her only that once when she wafted into Dad’s funeral preceded by a cloud of heavy perfume.
“Yeah, she’s completely annoying, but don’t worry: she won’t disturb us. She’s only five. I’m not really supposed to leave the house if Dad’s asleep but she’s watching telly and, to be honest, she’d stay there watching it even if it was only the test card.”
“The what?”
“The test card. You know – little girl, noughts and crosses, toy clown.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I have exactly no idea what Pye is on about, but it doesn’t really matter because he’s still talking.
“We just got a colour telly a few weeks ago. I must have been the last kid in Britain to know that football teams had different coloured kits.”
I stare at Pye in astonishment. He looks at me out the side of his eyes, smiles slowly and points an accusing finger at me. “Kidding! Well, not about the colour telly. That is pretty new. Like, I bet you’ve got one, yeah?”
“Sure.” To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen TV pictures that aren’t in colour, apart from the old films that Mum likes but I don’t, except for one with Marilyn Monroe and two guys who dressed up as ladies which was totally hilarious. Anyway, Pye’s still chattering on as we turn the corner.
“So what’s your favourite programme, Al?”
This is tricky. I don’t know any TV programmes from the 80s, so I mumble, “Dunno, really. I don’t watch much TV to be honest.”
“That’s like my dad. He only watches quiz shows. Mastermind is his favourite. I keep telling him—”
I’m so relieved to hear a title that I know that I interrupt Pye. “Oh, yeah – I like that one!”
He comes back at me with the programme’s catchphrase:
“‘I’ve started so I’ll finish!’ I keep telling him he should enter, but he says, ‘Nah, man – telly’s for watchin’ not bein’ on’,” and Pye wobbles his head, and the whole impression of Grandpa Byron – the Geordie-Indian accent, the head-wobble – is so amazingly accurate that I give a delighted shout of laughter and say, “That’s exactly like him! Probably!”
We’ve stopped outside a small house in Sandview Avenue, a long street of tiny semi-d
etached houses leading down to the beach. Wind chimes are hanging from the little porch and they ping and pong in the breeze, which has been getting stronger, bringing a few fat drops of rain.
“C’mon – let’s go in before we get soaked.”
We go in the back door that’s up the side of the house, which opens into the kitchen, and there he is, wearing gold-coloured pyjama bottoms. His slim, tan back is towards us because he’s washing something in the sink, and there’s his long plait of hair – not white like I’m used to, but silky black.
I just stand there for while, my throat so tight that I can’t swallow. I glance around the kitchen, and it’s just like everything I’m used to with him: there’s loads of stuff, things, knick-knacks and whatnots – a souvenir mug, a picture calendar, a tiny glass model of the Buddha – but somehow everything is neat: it doesn’t look cluttered, or messy or dirty, it’s just … him.
There’s a door leading to the hallway and a tiny girl with huge brown eyes looks up at me then scuttles away towards the sound of a television in the front room.
And then he turns to face us, wiping his hands, and gives a big grin and I can see his gold tooth, and he’s exactly the same, only a bit less lined in the face (but only a bit). When I see his smile, it takes all of my effort not to go up to him and give him a huge hug, and smell his smell, but I realise that would be weird, so instead I just smile like an idiot.
“Why, hello, bonny lad! Who’s this? Ye’ve found yer long-lost twin, have ye?” Grandpa Byron is looking at my face really closely, but he hasn’t stopped grinning so I’m feeling a bit more relaxed.
“Daddy-ji – this is Al. He’s starting at our school next term.”
“Hello, Al, how ye deein’?” He puts out his right hand and I clasp it eagerly. It’s the next best thing to a hug, and I pump his hand up and down. As I do, it hits me: this is Grandpa Byron’s right hand. The bad one, on the end of his twisted, useless arm. Except it’s fine: a strong hand, and a straight, healthy arm.
“Very well, thank you, Mr Chaudhury, very well.” I’m almost laughing, I’m so happy, but that would be weird as well.
“Ah man – you can call me Byron. Everyone else does. Can I … can I have me hand back? That’s some grip you’ve got there, bonny lad.” I let him go, reluctantly. He’s peering at me again.
“You’ve got a touch of the tar-brush in you, son – where are your folks from?”
“My dad’s from Punjab. Originally.” I’m nervous where this is headed, but I’m trying to look relaxed.
“Get away! Me too. Tuhanu Panjabi aundi he?”
Now, I know enough to understand that this means, ‘Do you speak Punjabi?’
“Not really,” I say. “We speak English at home. My mum’s Scottish.”
Grandpa Byron smiles and nods. “What’s your last name?”
“Singh.”
“OK. Well, you’re not a Sikh Singh otherwise you’d have a turban. So what are you?”
This is something I hadn’t anticipated. What could he mean, ‘What am I?’ I’m sort of gawping, trying to think what to say, when he helps me out.
“You know – your dad. Is he Rajput, Yadav, Maratha …”
I guess that these are some sort of Indian clans and I pick one at random. “Erm … Maratha?” Grandpa Byron looks upwards in the expression I recognise as he tries to retrieve something from his Memory Palace.
“OK … OK … Maratha Singhs, from … Bahawalpur? You’ll be descended somehow from Dhani Ram Singh, the great Punjabi poet, who died in 1924, who had ten children, called Rani, Raj …”
This is just like listening to Grandpa Byron when he was playing along with the TV quizzes and I start laughing out loud. But Pye puts a stop to it.
“Dad!”
That’s all it takes. Grandpa Byron stops mid-sentence, and his gaze return to us. He looks a bit embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says with a half-smile. Pye is rolling his eyes, but smiling at the same time.
“He’s always doing that – showing off his memory!”
“That’s all right,” I say. “Who won the Wimbledon men’s singles in 1967?”
Without hesitating: “John Newcombe from Australia beat Wilhelm Bungert from Germany in straight sets. And at Wimbledon they call it the ‘gentlemen’s’ singles. Pye been tellin’ you about my memory, has he?”
Pye hasn’t said anything to me about Grandpa Byron’s memory, but I nod yes in reply because I know it will please him. Pye frowns at me, though.
Oops.
But then, I’m saved from any further quizzing on my fictitious family background and my unlikely knowledge of Grandpa Byron’s memory by a piercing scream.
OK, here’s a question for you.
You’re delivering newspapers door to door, and you come across a box of strange masks on someone’s doorstep. Do you:
Completely ignore the box and its contents. It’s not yours, after all.
Look around. If no one’s looking, then perhaps try one on. Quickly.
Find the scariest one you can and scare the nearest five-year-old girl so much that she wets herself.
I’m guessing, and hoping, your answer will be a) or b). I’d like to think I’m a b), but if I’m honest – because I’m honest – it’s probably a).
Definitely not c).
But then, I’m not Macca.
Grandpa Byron is first to run towards the scream, and Pye and I follow him. In the middle of the sitting room, little Hypatia is standing rigid, staring out the window, a tiny puddle of wee darkening the carpet at her feet. She turns to her dad and buries her face in his legs.
“What is it? What is it, Hypie? Are you OK?” he asks, but she just points behind her out of the window. With a jerk of his head, Grandpa Byron indicates to Pye and me to go and check outside.
Opening the front door, we can’t see anything, there’s just noth—
“RAAAAAAAAGH!” A hideous figure leaps up in front of us from behind a bush, causing us both to yell and jump back.
The mask is truly gross: an ugly head in blue and gold and red and white, with big jagged teeth, a long red tongue, and tiny skulls around the edge. And then the mask is lowered and Macca reveals himself, cackling cruelly.
“Ha! It’s the boyfriends! I didn’t knaa ye lived here, man, Chow! Eeh, you should’ve seen your faces. You looked like you were gonna wet yerselves!”
“Well, I think you should be very proud of yourself,” says Grandpa Byron who has appeared, bare-chested, in the doorway, still wearing his gold pyjama bottoms. “You’ve managed to achieve that with a five-year-old girl.” His voice is completely calm, but there’s an icy look in his eyes. “So well done, son. Do you feel big, now?”
If this were you or me, or anyone normal in fact, then we’d be really embarrassed and stammer out some sort of apology. But this is Macca, who straightens his back and tilts his head to one side, looking defiantly at Grandpa Byron with his little bulging eyes, who is waiting for him to say something. Behind Grandpa Byron, in the window, little Hypatia’s face is pressed against the glass, her big, scared eyes still wet.
“Well?”
Macca says nothing. Grandpa Byron turns to us. “Do you know this joker, Pye? Is he a friend of yours?”
Before Pye can answer, Macca chips in with a friendly note in his voice, “Oh, aye. We’re good mates, aren’t we, Chow? Pye? We’re—”
“I wasn’t asking you. Pye?”
Pye’s eyes dart from me, to his dad, to Macca. Macca’s eyes narrow as they meet Pye’s and his nostrils flare.
“Is he a friend of yours, Pye?”
Almost inaudibly, Pye mutters, “Yeah.”
You know what? I think I’d have done the same. Self-preservation and all that. I think no less of Pye.
“All right then. Give me back the mask, say sorry and bugger off.”
I don’t think I have ever heard anyone say sorry and mean it less. Holding Grandpa Byron’s gaze with his own hooded eyes, Macca delivers a clipped, “Sorry,” as
he hands over the mask, then turns sharply, gathering up his bag of newspapers from the driveway and stalking past us.
As he does so, he throws a glance at us and it’s what he does next that sends a chill down my neck.
He winks, and there’s a half-smirk on his lips.
So we’re standing outside Pye’s house, and still the rain’s not raining properly: just occasional drops.
Macca’s round the corner now, and Grandpa Byron shakes his head as he watches him go before bending down to lift up the box of masks. He sees me looking at them and straightens up.
“They’re for Diwali. We’re organising the first Northeast-coast Diwali celebration in the autumn. My friend Baru left them here when he did his milk round first thing. Here.” He picks out the mask that Macca had been using. “This is Kali. You know Kali?”
“She who is death,” I say, and Grandpa Byron grins.
“Very good! Your father tell you that?” I can’t help glancing over at Pye and nodding. He heads indoors.
“Did he also tell you she is the consort of Shiva, the most supreme, the most pure? You see, ‘Kal’ also means ‘time’, and the ‘i’ means ‘cause’ – so Kali is ‘the cause of time’ – the one who allows us to perceive everything, to experience time passing, whereas Shiva, her other half, is timeless. Do you get it?”
I follow Grandpa Byron back into the kitchen – I don’t know where Pye has gone – and he picks up the mask again, staring at it a little dreamily.
I’m not sure I do get it actually, not completely, but I nod anyway. It’s just good to hear him again. He smiles at me, his gold tooth glinting.
“You’re a canny kid you are, son. Too many like you know absolutely nowt about their heritage.” He’s sipping from a large mug and leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Lose sight of the past and you are blind to the future, that’s what I say to Pye.”
