Bad Dreams

by Anne Fine

  Or . . .

  It was the creepiest thought yet. Maybe the necklace recognized its enemies. Maybe it sensed when someone hated it and thought the whole idea of seeing the future was sick and horrible, and quite, quite wrong.

  And I do think that. I truly do. Suppose I had a necklace like Imogen’s, and touched a photo of someone in my family – Dad, say – and suddenly knew that something dreadful was going to happen to him before he came home on his next leave. I couldn’t bear it. I’d go mad.

  No, seeing the future is terrible. Crippling. It shouldn’t be wished on anyone. And it was hardly Imogen’s fault that her dad wasn’t around any more, and her mother was the sort who preferred seeing things as ‘interesting’ or ‘fun’, to looking at them clearly.

  It could be one of Professor Blackstaffe’s little problems.

  Someone you know has special powers that make her life horribly difficult.

  Do you:

  A:Put a stop to it any way you can?

  B:Not interfere, because it’s a ‘gift’ she’s been given?

  C: Hope things will work out right?

  My mother would have been a definite A. She had as good as said so.

  I wasn’t sure if Mrs Tate was B or C. I did know one thing, though. They were both useless.

  So I knew something else, too: it was up to me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I had my doubts, though. Lots of people have a gift that makes life hard for them. Dennis has to do two hours on the piano every evening. Clive couldn’t come on the French trip because his football coach said it was far too near the county trial. And Moira’s parents have to drag her out of bed at five every morning to drive to the ice rink for her solo practice.

  At least, though, most of the time, those three enjoy what they’re doing. Poor Imogen might be happy enough lost in her daydreams on the little yellow tub in the book corner, but, when I thought about it, the only time I’d ever seen her truly happy was that time in the pool. Who would have thought that taking off a tiny gold chain could cause such a miracle of transformation? Like Snow White in her coffin when the bite of poisoned apple fell from her lips, Imogen had woken to her own real self – lively and noisy, and surrounded by friends (just exactly the sort of person Mr Hooper wishes I was!).

  He is a teacher, so I asked him first.

  ‘What is the word for one of those things that makes someone different?’

  He looked at me as if I’d spoken to him in Greek. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Well, what sort of “different”?’

  I glanced at Imogen. ‘Sorry. I can’t tell you that, either.’

  I knew exactly what was coming next.

  ‘All right, Mel. Give me an example.’

  I didn’t want to say a word about gold, or even jewellery. But thinking about the necklace did remind me of the peculiar scratches on the gold. Water and roots, she’d said. So, just for an example, I picked one of those.

  ‘Suppose it was some sort of root.’

  ‘Some sort of root?’

  It did sound a bit daft. ‘All right,’ I said hastily. ‘Some kind of acorn. A silver acorn that’s been lost for years. And, when it’s found, everyone who touches it—’

  Again, I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was to invite suspicion.

  ‘Everyone who touches it can cook sausages perfectly!’

  I’d certainly invited suspicion now.

  ‘Melly,’ Mr Hooper asked me, ‘do you really think you ought to be in school today? Were you at all feverish this morning?’

  I brushed his anxieties aside. ‘What is it called?’ I said. ‘I know there has to be a word for it. What’s it called? A magic something that makes people able to do things they can’t do normally.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ he said. ‘It’s called a talisman. Or an amulet. They’re both charmed objects. Both have magic powers.’

  So it was back to the town library. And now, with the right words, I found my way through all the indexes, and through the lists on screens. And there was loads. A paragraph in this book, a whole chapter in that. Even a few sinister stories. In fact, from reading some, I started to see why these peculiar charmed objects were always being found in places like the darkest caverns and the deepest wells. They’d almost certainly been chucked there by the poor soul who’d had the rotten, miserable luck of being blessed with them before.

  Because, all through my reading, one thing was absolutely clear as paint. My first, and worst, suspicion was the right one. For all she might love those magic moments in the book corner, dreaming of playing with puppies, or cantering through moonlight on snow-white steeds, Imogen would never be properly happy until she was rid of the necklace.

  I sat in the library window-seat, chewing my nails, working out what to say to her. First, I’d explain about the necklace. Then I’d remind her of all the bad things about the gift, and how it was ruining her school life. And then I’d get her to agree that the best thing to do was—

  ‘Up here? On this shelf? Oh, thank you!’

  Over the other side of the tall shelving stacks, someone was speaking to the librarian.

  I knew that breathless, eager voice. I peeped round the bookshelves. Yes! It was Imogen’s mother. Around her shoulders was a wrap like an old-fashioned counterpane of bright sewn squares, and in her blazing hair were rows and rows of pretty pink plastic slides.

  If she’d been my mother, I’d have crawled out of the library with my head in a bag. Instead, I watched her carefully. She drew down book after book, flicking through, peering at indexes in the back and returning them to the bookshelves. And then she settled on a large red book as big as a brick. Pulling a pencil out of the little bag dangling from her wrist, she copied a few words down on a scrap of paper, skipped a few pages, then copied down a few words more.

  Then, looking satisfied, she slid the book back on the shelf and left.

  I didn’t take my eyes off its cover for one single second. So there was no mistake. I pulled the right book out.

  And my heart sank. The book in my hand was called Make More of Magic!

  So it was obvious that, to rescue poor Imogen, I was definitely going to have to get rid of the necklace myself. But how? You can’t just snatch a gold chain from around someone’s neck and hope they’ll not notice. All week, the problem gnawed at me. I tried to slide the idea into her head of taking it off.

  ‘Doesn’t it irritate your skin a bit, wearing it all day?’ I asked her.

  ‘No,’ she said cheerily. ‘Mum used to find it scratchy. That’s why she hardly ever wore it. But it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.’

  No hope there, then. So I tried something else. ‘Well, don’t you worry about losing it when we have sports, or in dancing?’

  But she just shook her head. And since the only time I’d ever seen her take it off was at the pool when Mum persuaded her, I was stuck.

  And stayed stuck. I couldn’t, after all, invite her swimming again, and snaffle it then. Mum would end up in jail. But I was sure there had to be some way of parting Imogen from her necklace.

  Twice that week I thought, I’ll give up. It’s not my problem. And twice, Mr Hooper picked her to fetch the set of reading books, The Hunted, out of the cupboard. The first time, she managed to bring them back in a pile balanced on her own workbook and slide them off, untouched, onto his desk. But it did cause an avalanche. So, next day, when he told her to fetch the books again, he added, ‘And, this time, Imogen, try carrying them sensibly.’

  She left her workbook on her desk, and carried the readers in a normal pile. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were wide with fright.

  ‘Really,’ he said, quite sharply. ‘All I said to you was “Carry them sensibly”. There’s no need to look as if I’m going to catch you and put you in the broth pot!’

  So that was the ending of yet another book given away – another reading time spoiled. And Imogen didn’t look to
o happy, either, at the ticking off. So I kept thinking, turning crazy, far-fetched plans over and over in my mind as the end of term crept steadily closer.

  Imogen kept asking, ‘Melly, is something wrong?’

  And I’d say, ‘Nothing. No. I was just thinking.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  And Mr Hooper soon climbed on my back as well.

  ‘Is something worrying you, Mel? Are you getting nervous about the Harries Cup?’

  It seemed as good an excuse as any for being too distracted to work properly. So, not exactly lying, I told him in an anxious voice, ‘Well, there are only two days, three hours and five minutes before the race . . .’

  He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Brace up! You won’t have any problems. It’s my guess that—’

  Imogen swivelled hastily in her seat. ‘Mr Hooper! You mustn’t say that! Anything might happen!’

  ‘Yes,’ Tasj said, overhearing. ‘Melly might get cramp.’

  ‘Or meet a shark under water,’ Luke offered helpfully.

  ‘Or get her toe stuck in the pool drain,’ suggested Maria.

  Mr Hooper let out one of his great who’d-be-a-teacher groans. ‘What is it about the people in this classroom? Why can’t a teacher even have a private word with one of his pupils without everyone in earshot muscling in with their feeble jokes and half-witted suggestions!’

  He turned to Imogen, to correct her work. And just as well, because one of those feeble jokes and half-witted suggestions had given me the best idea I’d had – the only idea I’d had in a whole week of solid thinking – of how to rescue Imogen and get rid of the necklace without either me or Mum being arrested for robbery.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Next morning, I hauled my gym mat onto the pile, and said to Miss Rorty, ‘Did you hear about the swimming gala at Green Lane Primary?’

  She pulled my mat straighter. ‘No. What about it?’

  ‘Tons of things lost,’ I told her. ‘Watches. Bracelets. Everything.’

  ‘What, stolen?’

  ‘No, no,’ I assured her. ‘Just fallen off in the water.’

  ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘To find someone’s tiny silver crucifix, they even had to drain the pool.’

  ‘Drain the pool? Really?’

  I added the clincher as I turned my back. ‘And the school had to pay for it.’

  Her forehead wrinkled. ‘Melly, where did you hear—?’

  No way of answering that one. And the people behind were pushing. So I fled.

  They only pinned up the notice the day before the race.

  SWIMMING GALA

  No watches or jewellery

  are to be worn tomorrow in

  the water. All swimmers are

  advised to leave their valuables

  at home.

  ‘I’m just going to tuck my watch into my sock,’ I said to Imogen. ‘I know it’ll be safe.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’re not out of the changing rooms that long. Especially people like you, who are only in the class relay.’

  That set her off again, fretting about her one part in the gala – swimming her width.

  ‘Will they mind if I’m the slowest?’

  ‘You won’t be slowest,’ I assured her. ‘Tasj will be slowest. She only learned to swim two weeks ago. And Colin Hamblebury’s pretty useless. He just thrashes his arms about and never gets anywhere. And Liz doesn’t put herself out much. So you’ll probably even be faster than her.’

  Imogen was still looking worried. ‘You really do believe you have it taped, this swimming gala, don’t you, Mel?’

  ‘You bet,’ I said, not mentioning that, this year, it was going to be more important than ever to judge it right. I’d worked out that I’d only have eight or so seconds’ leeway before Toby Harrison would come steaming up behind, with Surina behind him, and at least one of the Trent twins after her. One clumsy dive, and I’d lose most of my head start. So I had two more things to practise now, and only one session in the pool to get both of them perfect before the big race.

  ‘Nervous?’ asked Imogen, but I wouldn’t say. For one thing, although she only had one measly width to swim, each time I caught her eye, it seemed to me that she was still staring at me anxiously, and I didn’t want to make her worse. And for another, she was the last person in the world I could confide in this time, because my plan to win the Harries Cup now included wasting six seconds getting rid of her necklace.

  Six seconds exactly. I’d timed it. My new ‘touchthe-bottom’ tumble turn took four seconds longer than usual. And then you had to add on another two before I was back up to speed. It was still a dead cert, if not the romp home I’d wanted. But there seemed no way out. No point in explaining to anyone about the necklace if no-one was going to be tough enough to throw it away for good. For that was the only thing. All the books said so.

  I could try and explain to her mother. The problem was, I wasn’t sure what Mrs Tate would do. My mother would have taken a ferry out to sea, to drop the pesky thing deeper. But Mrs Tate was different. You only had to peek in her enchanted back garden with its secret dells and perky elves, or join in eating iced fairy cakes in one of her story-book tea times, to know she didn’t really live in the sensible grown-up world where people look after their children properly and protect them from things that might damage them. Look how excited she already was about Imogen’s weird powers – ‘Anything “special” happen?’ If I explained that I’d worked out that they came through the gold chain, instead of wanting to hurl it over a cliff into the sea, she’d more than likely clap her hands together and tell us it was exactly like something in one of her favourite old books, Ellen’s Enchanted Necklace. She’d look up ‘amulets’ in Make More of Magic!, and want Imogen to keep it to see what would happen.

  If Imogen ended up looking grey and haunted enough under the strain, then Mrs Tate might finally come to her senses and lock the chain safely away for a while. But not for long, I’d bet. After a bit, the memory of how it had chewed up her daughter’s life would begin to fade round the edges. She’d soon forget how rotten Imogen’s schoolwork had been, and how people used to move away when she came near, and how she could scarcely bear to touch some books, and daydreamed her life away when she picked up others.

  And, one rainy day, out it would come again. ‘Just in case you’re a bit better at it, now that you’re older,’ or, ‘Just in case, this time, it only tells you about nice things.’

  But I’m not tired and distracted. And I can open any book I like without jumping for fright, or acting as if the pages have scorched me. And, over the week, I had been reading up on all sorts of magic rings and lamps and mirrors and swords and boots and wands and crystals, and even pebbles. I’d found a dozen stories called things like The Amulet in the Wood, and The Silver Talisman, and Sasha’s Charmed Bracelet, and The Enchanted Cap of Gold.

  And I’d learned this. You weren’t free till you threw whichever horrible thing it was away.

  As far as possible. Firmly. For good, for sure, and for ever.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  So I said nothing. Nothing to Mum, when she made me my favourite pancakes for breakfast – ‘to stoke me up properly’. Nothing to Dad, who must have put his alarm on in the middle of the night to phone and wish me luck from Singapore. And nothing when people looked up as I walked in the classroom, and asked, ‘Are you nervous, Mel?’ or, ‘Getting excited?’

  ‘A bit,’ was all I answered, as if the Harries Cup was the one thing on my mind, not jewellery theft, and spoiling a perfectly good friendship. And I kept my cool front up all through the morning, and all through lunch, and on the walk to the pool. When Miss Rorty winked at me during the Grand Opening, I winked back. I tried not to worry as I inspected Councillor Archibald Leroy for signs of a possible heart attack. And when we were sent off to change, straight after the fourth years, I made as many jokey faces as everyone else while Miss Ranki
n prowled round the cubicles, fussing and scolding.

  ‘Hurry up. There are still loads of people to come through these changing rooms. Don’t leave so much as a sock in the cubicles. Put your stuff neatly on the benches.’

  Her eyes fell on Imogen’s pile. ‘And sensibly, please, Imogen.’

  I could see why she’d said it. Imogen had rolled up her uniform into a giant sausage. Clearly, she’d taken my advice and hidden the necklace inside it. But even without looking, I would have known she wasn’t wearing it, because the first thing Miss Rankin did as she scolded was drop both hands cheerfully onto her shoulders to push her back to her clothes pile. And only a moment later, Maria slid an arm in hers. ‘Hey, Immy. Ready to break the world water speed record?’

  Imogen turned to me. ‘Coming?’

  I nodded, and, as a trio, we splashed through the footbath into the brightness of the pool and huddled round one of the radiators, waiting for Mrs Parkin to get round to calling out our first big race.

  It wasn’t long.

  ‘Inter-Class Relay! Mr Hooper’s, Mrs Potter’s and Ms Robinson’s classes. Half of you on each side, please. One width each!’

  Our class always puts the weedy swimmers on first, to get them over. Tasj started us off, and she was absolutely useless, as usual. Then Colin Hamblebury fell in and thrashed his arms about a bit, losing us half a width more. And Liz hadn’t improved much. She just stroked her way across idly, not even bothering to glance to the side to see how the other two classes were doing.

  But Imogen did brilliantly. She ended up swimming against Norman Pizarro and Tara Bloor, neither of whom are much good. But still she made up miles in her short width, and when she got out of the water, everyone was cheering.

  ‘Well done, Immy!’

  ‘Excellent swim, Miss Mermaid!’

  She looked delighted. And I was really pleased as well, because it showed that what I had in mind was right. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes since she’d taken off the necklace, and look! Already she seemed to have melted in and become just like one of the others. She was laughing and joking, and huddling round the radiator as if she were just one more companionable bee in a hive. They’ll be plaiting her hair next, I remember thinking. And, just for a moment, I wondered if I would be jealous when it was all over, and she was in a gang with them, and no longer a loner like I am.