Shrunk! (3 page)

No wonder Eric has such odd sandwiches.

He finds a jar of horseradish and slides it on to the counter, and at the same time leaps a wild pirouette that would put Tilly to shame. Then he swings round to look at me.

‘And did you want anything, Grandson of Amalthea?'

‘No – I'm not looking for anything. Although, have you got a spare carrier bag, for my stones?'

He stares at me, his eyes wide and a bit scary.

‘We're all searching. Whether or not we know it. We're all on a journey.' He hands a tired supermarket carrier over the counter, pinning me with his eyes the whole time. ‘But, Grandson of Amalthea, you are just a child. You have a long way to travel – here, feel free to use this bag.'

‘Thanks,' I mumble, trying to slip the mess of weed and boats and stones into the bag without Grandma noticing.

I
think we've finished, but suddenly he's talking again. His long finger shoots across the counter and jabs my pile of pebbles. ‘Remember, some stones hold great and unthought-of powers, more than you can imagine – and here, Tom, in this village, the Veil is thin.'

‘Is it?' I ask, wondering what on earth he means.

‘Oh yes, Tom.' He looks away and wipes the counter down. ‘This village, Bywater-by-Sea, has astral connections you can only dream of.'

Outside the shop Grandma stops to put a plastic bag on her head, to keep the occasional spots of rain from her bird's nest hairdo.

‘Thing is, Tom, dear, Colin
is
short of a synapse or two – but I feel a little responsible, so treat him kindly. For my sake.'

We walk back to the model village together, while I ponder how Grandma could possibly be responsible for the madness that is Eric's dad.

Did you know, dolls' lifebelts sink?

I know it, because Tilly's playing in the bathroom washbasin with her rubbish little Woodland Friends animals, and baby otter is drowning because of his lifebelt. He floats, but it doesn't. She doesn't seem to have noticed. I reach my hand out, to rescue him.

‘NO!' she shouts. ‘YOU MAY NOT PLAY WITH MY WOODLAND FRIENDS.'

‘I was only trying to save him.'

‘Well, don't – I'd rather he drowned.' And then she turns to me. ‘Do you want to play? We could play Woodland Friends star troopers if you like.'

‘What, now?'

She nods.

I probably just stare at her.

‘Poo,' she says, plunging baby otter deep under the water. ‘You never play with me.'

I slip back out of the bathroom. For a moment, I had thought of showing her the dinghy and the boat, but there's nothing like being shouted at to stop you wanting to share with someone.

I've got a stomach ache. Grandma's kidney casserole was disgusting. Dad was the only one who ate it. Mum made polite noises and ran off to get some crackers. I wish we could have fish fingers. Grandma makes what she calls ‘proper food' all the time, with weird bits of meat that no sensible person would ever buy.

We had semolina for pudding. Actually, it was quite nice, but I wasn't going to admit it.

Tilly and I are supposed to have gone to bed.

From my bedroom, I gaze over the bay. There's a small storm cloud floating right over the harbour. It's tiny, like someone painted it there. A man on the shore's waving at it. Some people are weird. And in this village, they're even weirder.

In the distance are some sheep, and next to them are some cows, and Mr Burdock's donkey. And a squirrel on the monkey puzzle tree.

They'd be dead cute small.

I don't even think about it.

Click
,

Click
,

Click
,

Click
,

Click
,

Click
.

‘Eeyore,'
squeaks the donkey and poos on the carpet.

Yay!

The tiny animals race round the floor, nuzzling at the carpet as if they could eat it. They're really cute, but I think they're also really hungry.

Oh dear, I hadn't thought about that. They'll need something to eat. Grass? I chase them around the room and more tiny poos appear on the carpet.

I'd forgotten they could poo.

I corner a sheep, catching him with a glass and a piece of paper. He's like a motorised piece of popcorn racing round and round, but I can't keep him in a glass.

I catch them one by one and collect them together in the lid of a box. Now I've got three pieces of popcorn running about. I trap the cows and donkey between my school shoes and drop them in the box. The squirrel's run away already. I suppose squirrels don't really mix with sheep and cows. I worry about its disappearance for about a nanosecond and address the problem of grass.

It's nearly dark, but so warm all the doors and windows are open. I slip out on to the landing, and tiptoe down the stairs. Dad's stringing silk handkerchiefs together, and Mum's flicking through playing cards.

‘Hello, Tom, love,' she says, calling me into the sitting room. ‘Everything all right?'

‘Yes, Mum.'

‘Lovely living here, isn't it – the sea on your doorstep.' She smiles and strokes my hair.

I think of the skanky beach, the tar blobs on the pebbles, the stink of dead fish. ‘Yes, lovely.'

‘Pick a card?'

Mum holds out the cards. I pick one. Ace of diamonds.

‘Now.' Mum closes her eyes and waves her hands about. ‘Eight of clubs, you've got the eight of clubs.'

‘No,' I say, turning the card round so that she can see it.

‘You've got the ace of diamonds?' She looks puzzled. ‘I don't understand, you shouldn't have – what's gone wrong?'

I leave Mum staring at the pile of cards, and sneak over to the French windows.

No sign of Grandma.

I slip through, into the garden. Behind the miniature bowling green is a miniature meadow. I grab some handfuls of grass and swing round to run back into the house. But Grandma's standing in the doorway, looking expectant.

I hang on to the grass, though I'd like to drop it. ‘For Tilly's Woodland Friends,' I say, and charge past.

But I notice that she's got my school bag, with all the pockets undone, as if she's looking for something.

I get up early and shrink a model dinosaur. It's really small, so I put it in the capsule with Jupiter.

‘Baa.'

My little animals are racing round their pen, so I give them some more grass and hide them under the bed.

Mum's trying on a pumpkin suit.

‘What d'you think, Tom?'

It's not a good look. ‘Lovely, Mum.'

They're doing a Halloween performance in the town hall tonight. I wish they wouldn't.

Grandma's putting saucepans away, noisily. The man on the radio's droning on about something, but with Grandma crashing about, I can't really hear. My breakfast is cereal from a cracked bowl, eaten with a serving spoon which might once have had a silver coating, but is all scratchy and coppery now. It's too big for my mouth and tastes weird.

‘. . .
And we're going over live to our reporter, John King at the University of Manchester . . .
'

Crash. Grandma drops the roasting pan.

‘So, Tom, dear – the other night – when we saw the shooting star . . .'

‘ . . .
from the Jodrell Bank research centre, of course where
. . .'

‘Yes, Grandma?'

‘Did you actually . . . wish?'

Bang. She slams the kitchen door and scrapes the coal scuttle across the yard.

‘. . .
scientists have been working through the night to establish the pattern of events leading up to the disappearance of
. . .'

Bang, crash. She drags it back into the kitchen.

‘No,' I lie.

She stares at me, as if the lie's written all over my face. I feel a blush creep up my neck.

Dad bursts in through the kitchen door with a large sheet of plywood. ‘Have a good day, Tom. Clean your teeth.'

‘Thanks, Dad.' I stuff the last spoon of cereal sludge into my mouth and run.

There's a sort of scuffling on the landing when I get to the top of the stairs, but I can't see any sign of invasion in my bedroom. I've got the meteorite, safe in my pocket, and the boats are sitting on the windowsill. They seem a bit bigger than I remember. I take the mast out of the dinghy and bung them both in my trouser pocket. I pull the box out from under the bed. The tiny sheep nuzzle the pile of grass I picked last night. The cows chew my hairbrush. The donkey's more of a problem – he keeps making this awful noise, so I shut him in the toy garage with a pinch of grass.

‘Eeyore.'

There are loads of tiny poos all over the place.

‘Shh. I'll take you all out later, for a stroll in the model village, but you'll have to wait until I've been to school.' I feel a bit daft talking to the animals, but Tilly does it all the time, and hers are made of plastic.

I dash out of the door and remember Jupiter. Is it safer here or with me?

I glance back in the room. The capsule's lying in the middle of the floor. I'd better take it, just in case.

I'm at the bus stop before Tilly, so I take a moment to look at Jupiter. I click open the capsule but Jupiter's stopped spinning. It's nestling by the dinosaur's tail and it's not a lovely little twinkling star any more – it's more like a brown ball, lying still at the bottom of the capsule. I prod it, and it rolls round the capsule, just like a bead would.

My mouth goes dry. This is not good, surely this is not good. Jupiter is a major part of our solar system and I seem to have killed it. I roll it round the little egg-shaped pod again – perhaps if I can get it spinning fast enough it'll do the glittery thing again.

I roll it faster. Perhaps it's the wrong way?

I roll it the other way. Perhaps that's the wrong way?

I peer in again. It's not even spinning a little bit.

I hold the meteorite next to the capsule – perhaps it'll make it come back to life.

‘Oh, Tom, there you are.' It's Grandma. I should have heard her walking stick on the path. I should have shut the capsule faster, because Tilly's right there at my elbow smiling like a cat.

I stuff everything back in my pockets, the lid half on the pod, and try to look innocent. Tilly's smile gets smugger. I poke her, she makes an exaggerated moan.

‘Tom, love, stop it – come on, act your age, not like a four-year-old.'

I stick my tongue out at Tilly: she does the smile again. I could wring her neck.

She jumps on the bus next to Milly.

And I turn the dead planet over in my pocket.

Mr Bell only has one volume. Loud.

Jacob Devlin giggles all through registration, and Mr Bell ignores it, shouting at the rest of us instead. The classroom's too hot. Everywhere's too hot today. It's more like June than the end of October. Mr Bell gets louder, and I get hotter.

I'm longing for someone to turn the radiators off, but instead, the teaching assistant props the windows open. It doesn't make any difference, it's still boiling.

Mr Bell wants us all to get on with cutting out pumpkin lanterns. He wants us to work as a team. Apparently:

Together

Everyone

Achieves

More.

I don't quite know how more people waiting to use the same knife on a pile of pumpkins can achieve more, but Mr Bell seems very excited about it.

He hands them out to everybody, but it turns out he's only bought twenty-nine pumpkins, not thirty. He's forgotten about me, so I can't work as a team, I can't achieve more. Good, I don't think I could concentrate on cutting one out.

‘Mr Bell, sir, can I go on the computer?' I ask.

He says yes, because he's having a moment with Eric. Eric's face would be white if it wasn't covered in snot.

My back's to the wall, so no one can see what I'm doing. I get the internet up on the screen and type ‘Jupiter' into the search engine.

‘But I really don't feel well, Mr Bell.' Today, Eric's face is so white that it's practically blue. ‘The pumpkins are making me feel sicker.'

‘Sit down by the window, and see how you feel in a bit.' I can tell that Mr Bell doesn't like Eric. He peers at Eric as if Eric's an alien life form.

Eric sits next to Jacob Devlin, his head hanging between his knees.

‘Go away, Snot Face Four Eyes,' says Jacob.

Eric doesn't move.

I type, ‘What would happen if Jupiter didn't exist?' I get a load of answers that I don't understand. I'm just typing, ‘What would happen if Jupiter disappeared?' when Eric leaps to his feet and vomits all over Jacob.

I don't get to look up any more on the computer – Jacob Devlin gets to use it, because he's the headmaster's son and he was the one that Eric vomited on. Jacob also gets to wear a pink glittery tracksuit and some pink sparkly shoes from the lost property box. The tracksuit bottoms are tight around the wrist, the collar and the waist, so Jacob looks like a giant string of glittering sausages. He tries to hide in the corner of the room, but it's like trying to hide a zeppelin in a cornflake box. I wish I had a camera.

I get to sharpen pencils and worry instead. The classroom smells like a cheese factory and the teaching assistant spends the whole time scrubbing the carpet with disinfectant. It's really hard not to vomit in sympathy. I keep swallowing, like Eric did.

I look over Jacob's sparkling shoulder. He's playing a racing game. One hundred and twenty-seven laps. He's not going to get off the computer any time soon.

When the bell goes, I hover inside, hoping to get another go in the empty classroom, but Mr Bell gives me a shove out of the door. ‘Off you go, Tom, have a bit of fresh air. Smells like a vomitorium in here.'