Casper Candlewacks in the Time Travelling Toaster (7 page)

A large stone building leant so far to the right that the rickety clock tower sprouting from its roof was almost sideways. The clock itself had a smashed face with the minute hand pointing outwards, on which three red-eyed pigeons perched. The other dark buildings that lined the square were in a similar state, all wrecked and abandoned. In fact the only thing in a good state was the huge, solid-gold statue in the centre depicting a proud, slim man wielding a bejewelled sword. He had the pointiest, longest nose Casper had ever seen, on which four pigeons were perching.

“My father,” muttered Chrys. “Anemonie’s son. Lord Oleander Blight. Horrible man. Come on, we’re not safe yet.” She set off for the far corner of the square.

They turned left, past a thick mud dam that had redirected the river’s flow on to the square, then left again down a wide stretch of road, then right on to a street of crumbling houses with a chipped sign that read C
RACKLIN
C
RESCENT
.

“I… I
live
here,” Casper breathed. “Well…
lived,
” he corrected.

Chrys ducked off the street at a familiar house on the left. Like all the others, it looked run-down and empty, but nevertheless she knocked three times on the door.

The letterbox flapped open and a pair of wide green eyes peeped out. “Who goes there?”

“Ahem.
The golden eagle flies at midnight
.”

There was a pause. The eyes behind the letterbox blinked. “What time’s it now, then?”

Chrys closed her eyes. “That’s our password, Flanella.”

“Oh, right. Our password.” The eyes looked out at her two visitors. “Good. What do we do now?”

“You let us in,” snapped Chrys, looking around for pursuers.

“How do I know it’s you?”

“I gave you the right password, that’s how.”

“I didn’t even know we had a password.”

“
The golden eagle flies at midnight!
That was our password. Just let me in, they’ll be on us any moment.”

“OK, you may pass,” said the eyes. The letterbox clanged as it dropped and everything went silent.

Chrys sighed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Flanella?”

The eyes reappeared. “Yes?”

“Are you going to let us in or not?”

“Oh, yeah. I knew I forgot something.”

The door swung open, Casper was pushed inside and the door slammed shut. Two smiling faces greeted him in the gloomy hallway. One was young, one old. One stood, one sat in a blooping, humming wheelchair. One was a stranger to Casper and the other was so very familiar.

“Hello, Cashper,” grinned Betty Woons toothlessly.

“Hello, Betty,” said Casper, hardly believing the words as they came out.

She held up a crumpled brown paper bag. “Jelly bean?”

“This him?” The head of a chubby middle-aged lady poked out from the living room.

I’m home
, he thought.

“He don’t look like much.” A younger, taller woman trotted down the stairs. “I thought he’d at least have muscles or horns or somethin’.”

Except it’s not home. It’s more… broken.

“Thish ish the feller.” Betty Woons reached out her withered arm to give Casper a pat, her watery eyes twinkling. “Our little shaviour.”

The ladies gasped and watched Casper adoringly, waiting for some sort of speech.

“Erm, hi.” Casper smiled awkwardly. “I’m Casper. I used to live here. In the past, I guess. I’m not your saviour, though. And Betty… sorry, but how can you be here?”

The old woman looked no wrinklier than the morning at the bus stop, yet a hundred years had passed. She just winked knowingly and said, “I could ashk you the same question, Cashper.”

“Lamp made a Time Toaster, and then we got imprisoned by the Blights. But Chrys freed me, and I don’t know why she did that. I’m just a boy.”

“That you are, Cashper,” sang Betty wobbily. “An’ a very speshal boy at that.”

Apart from the cluster of grinning ladies standing in his hall, Casper’s house hadn’t changed that much in the last hundred years. There was still that faint smell of nappies. Casper’s shoes stuck to the carpet just as they used to, and the same recognisable bite marks from his sister, Cuddles, still dotted the same wonky furniture. Mice still occupied the gap behind the floorboards, but judging by the two squeaking guards with tiny helmets protecting their hole, they’d developed considerably since Casper lived here.

“This is all very well, and thanks for bringing me home,” Casper started, “but… can someone tell me what’s going on?”

“Plenty of time for that.” Betty waved her aged hands dismissively. “Come on, we’ll get you out o’ that tag.” She whirled her wheelchair in a circle and barged straight through the other women using the plough attachment she’d fitted on the front. Hesitantly, Casper followed.

The ladies bustled after Casper, pushing him into a chair and rolling up the bottom of his overalls, lugging his leg on to another chair and inspecting the tag fearfully.

The young girl who’d been at the door, Flanella, galumphed away only to return with a thick black laptop computer, covered in wires of all colours, and various bleeping attachments. “Right then, Malcolm,” she said, “let’s see what you can do.” She stretched one red wire straight, gave its end a twist and stuffed it into a gap in the links of Casper’s tag.

“I’m called Casper,” said Casper. “Not Malcolm.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, then,” said the girl. “Malcolm’s my ’puter. He’s helping me log into your tag. He needs the password, though.”

The women looked at Chrys, but she just bit her lip. “Briar does that stuff. He never tells me passwords.”

Flanella’s face folded with concentration. “Ooh, I know!” she gasped. “
The eagle flies at midnight!
”

“No, that’s
our
password,” grunted Chrys.

“Is it?”

“Try… I dunno… try some of his favourite things.”

Flanella tried
PUPPIES, MARSHMALLOWS
and
CUDDLING
, and then, under the instruction of Chrys,
MONEY, PAIN
and
SLAVERY
.

As Flanella tapped away at Malcolm, Betty Woons poured Casper a cup of tea-flavoured jelly beans. He took a sip and chewed.

“There you go,” warbled Betty. “Get them down you. They’re your favourite.”

It was true. Back in the old days, 107-year-old Betty used to give out packs of her home-made jelly beans to all the kids in Corne-on-the-Kobb. Some of them, like smoked salmon or hairclip ’n’ onion flavour, were yuckier than a cuddle with a skunk. Casper would feed those ones to the pigeons, saving pumpkin pie, toffee sundae and his personal favourite, tea with two sugars, for himself. It was nice to see Betty and her beans again, even if she reminded him of home. Proper home, that is.

Casper blinked. Something in his brain had gone
twang
. “Hang on, Betty…”

“Yesh? More tea?”

“Why are you here? I thought this was the future.”

“Oh, erm, good point. I’d better go, then.” She wheeled round to leave.

“Wait! Don’t go! Tell me how you got here.”

She braked. “I… erm… took the long way round.”

“You mean you
aged
? But that makes you –” Casper did a quick mental calculation – “two hundred and seven!” She was wrinkly enough, but…

“Jelly beans an’ strong brandy,” she nodded. “Never mind none o’ that fruit ’n’ veg rubbish.”

“Wow,” breathed Casper. “Wish I could live that long.”

Betty laughed at a joke Casper hadn’t told. “You’re doing all right, Cashper.”

“I’m only eleven, though.”

“You’ll catch up,” she said, and wheeled away to brew another pot.

Flanella had hacked into the tag by this time. (Turns out the password was
PASSWORD
.) She chatted away softly to Malcolm as she tapped on his keyboard. “Copy that folder,” she’d say. “Disable data transfer, there’s a good Malcolm.” The wire attached to Casper’s tag fizzed and gave him a little
bzzt
.

Casper winced. “I never got the hang of computers.”

“’Puters are easy. It’s just tapping or clicking. Sometimes both. Malcolm’s better than people because when you tap a person they don’t do anything, just say ‘Oy!’ and tap you back. Also people don’t have Wi-Fi. Malcolm does.”

Casper hadn’t a clue what the girl was talking about. He couldn’t help thinking that out in the darkness of Corne-on-the-Kobb, Briar and his guards must be searching.

“Won’t find us,” said Chrys, reading Casper’s mind. “I’ve been coming here for years. You’ve seen the front. Looks empty, like every other house.”

“But what do you mean by
‘here’? What are you all doing here?”

“We’re the only ones left,” said the chubby lady. “Our friends and families’ve been –” she shivered – “employed.”

It hung in the air like one of Casper’s baby sister’s burps. Never had a single word seemed so ominous. Casper cast his mind back to the hundreds of workers inside Warehouse 2, and felt a little colder. “Those are your families?”

“Yer.” The woman sniffed. “Ain’t seen ’em for years. Maybe even months.”

“But can’t you rescue them, just like you rescued me?”

Chrys’s lip curled. “You saw how hard it was just to get you out. Burnt my bridges now, anyway. Briar’ll only have me back if I’m in more than one piece. You splashed too loud, Candlewacks.”

“Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

He felt a bit guilty now. “So why’d you bother to rescue me if it was such a risk?”

“My brother’s got your friend building something. He never let me see it, but you’ve heard the noises. Whatever it is, it’s almost ready. And when it is, chances of escape will slip to just under none.”

“But still, why rescue
me
?”

CLICK.

“Aha!” cheered Flanella. She hit the
RETURN
key with gusto and the tag unclipped, slipping off Casper’s ankle like a suddenly bored snake.

Underneath, his skin was sweaty and pink. Casper scratched it with relief. “That’s better, Flanella. Thanks.”

“Me? No, it’s Malcolm you need to thank.”

“Oh… erm… thanks, Malcolm.”

“Come upstairs, dear,” said Betty. “There’sh a coupla people you’ll wanna meet. They’ll be able to explain things.”

Casper helped Betty into a sturdy white stairlift.

“Ooh, be a love and push that green button.”

Casper did as he was told and the stairlift ground into motion.

Half an hour later, they reached the top.

“Forgot me wheelchair,” said Betty. “I’ll just pop down in the lift an’ get it.”

“No!” shouted Casper. “No, it’s fine. Let me get it.”

“Shuch a gentleman,” smiled Betty.

He trotted downstairs and hauled the wheelchair back up with him, then lugged Betty’s frail frame off the lift and into its cushions.

“Thanksh, dear. You alwaysh were a good boy.”

Casper finally thought to ask, “So who are we seeing?”

“I ain’t seeing anyone. Just eshcorted you up here. First door on the right. Would you be a love and help me back into the lift? There’sh a good lad.”

Casper sighed and transferred Betty into her lift. Then he took the wheelchair back downstairs where she’d be able to reach it when her stairlift got there. Betty gave him a wink as they passed on his way back up.

It was dark and silent upstairs, save for the grinding whirr of Betty’s stairlift. Casper felt the need to tiptoe the length of the landing. He knocked on the first door on the right – his bedroom door – and waited.

“Enter,” whispered an old, tired voice.

The door creaked like it always had. Inside, two decrepit men with barely any hair rocked gently on two rocking chairs. Casper edged forward, suddenly nervous. He held out a hand.

“Pleased to meet you, sirs.”

“Better not,” whispered the more slender of the gentlemen. “My companion here tells me that if I were to shake my own hand, the universe would explode.”

“Your
own
hand?”

The gentleman grinned a grin that was bewilderingly familiar, and held out his hand for Casper to see.

Casper recognised that hand.

“Two freckles and a scar from the pigeons,” the gentleman said. “Nice to meet me.”

Casper looked at his own palm, and then up at the gentleman’s face, and gasped.