‘Look at that!’ Fran’s dad pointed to the wallpaper with disgust. ‘She’s afraid!’
‘The wallpaper . . .’ Lydia breathed.
‘You’re turning it yellow.’ Fran frowned. ‘It’s mood wallpaper. You put your hands on it and it turns different colours depending on how you’re feeling. Why’re you afraid?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Lydia couldn’t get another word out. If only the hammering in her head would stop – just for a second.
Fran and her dad started asking more questions, both of them speaking at once. Lydia watched as their questions grew fainter and fainter until she could see that their lips were moving but could hear no sound. Fran turned to her dad and started shaking his arm. Lydia watched as Fran pointed at her while she spoke, but still Lydia couldn’t hear what was being said. Both of their faces began to spin around her. Lydia’s legs vanished from under her and with a groan she felt herself falling, falling, falling.
Lydia opened her eyes slowly.
‘How’re you feeling? You’ve been out for ages.’ Fran was smiling down at her.
It took a few moments for Lydia to focus properly.
‘You gave us quite a shock there. We didn’t mean to scare you,’ Fran said. ‘We didn’t realize you were so badly hurt. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’
Lydia turned her head. She was in a bedroom, smaller than her own at home. The walls were painted white with splotches of paint all the colours of the rainbow dotted here, there and everywhere. A huge screen, like an enormous TV screen, entirely filled one wall but it was switched off. Apart from the screen and the bed, there was not a lot else in the room.
‘It was touch and go there for a while,’ Fran carried on. ‘Those EM rifles are deadly. You’re lucky the bullet just sliced across your arm, otherwise it could have taken your whole arm off. Dad says you’re lucky it wasn’t more serious.’
‘What’s an EM rifle?’ Lydia frowned.
‘An electro-magnetic rifle.’
Lydia was still none the wiser. She looked around again.
‘Is this your room?’
Fran nodded, then she smiled. Lydia stared at her.
‘You really look like someone else I know,’ Lydia couldn’t help saying.
‘Then I feel sorry for the other person. I hate the way I look,’ Fran said with disgust.
Lydia and Fran exchanged a small smile.
‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ Fran said slowly. ‘But Dad was right, I should have been more cautious. We have to be very careful about who we trust these days.’
Lydia didn’t reply. What could she say?
‘How’s your arm?’ Fran asked.
‘Not too bad. It doesn’t hurt as much now.’
‘Dad had to staple it.’
‘He had to do what?’ Lydia stared.
‘Calm down! Dad used to be a nurse. Your arm was badly cut so he had to staple it,’ Fran replied.
‘Staple it? With metal staples?’
‘Of course not. He used medical staples.’
Lydia looked unconvinced.
‘They’re made of a special plastic,’ Fran explained. ‘As your arm heals, the staples will dissolve. I’m sorry but Dad didn’t have a chance to close the wound in time. He says you’re going to have a permanent scar there.’
Lydia sat up and gingerly felt her left arm. ‘At least your dad has stopped it hurting.’ She shrugged. That was all she cared about at the moment. ‘Does he still think I’m a spy?’
‘You were so badly hurt that he’s not sure what to think any more,’ Fran admitted.
Lydia still didn’t understand what was going on.
‘Is he always that suspicious of every person he doesn’t know?’ she asked.
‘He has to be. We all do. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Night Guards have tried to plant spies amongst us,’ Fran said.
‘Why?’ Lydia asked.
Fran’s eyes narrowed. Her expression turned ice-cold. ‘Because we hate the Tyrant. We fight back against him in any way we can. And one day we’ll win.’
‘The Tyrant?’
‘He owns this town. The Night Guards work for him. He hates us,’ Fran said bitterly.
‘How can someone own a whole town?’ Lydia frowned.
Slowly Fran shook her head. ‘You don’t know anything, do you? All the towns in this country are owned by someone. After Scotland and then Northern Ireland became independent, more and more regions in England and Wales decided to go the same way. When the central government in London collapsed, each region was supposed to vote in their own governors. But everyone knows all you need is enough money and then you can buy any town you want. And once you’ve bought a town or city, no one interferes. Some regions do OK; some like us in Hensonville don’t.’
‘But why would anyone want to buy a whole town? I mean, what would you do with it once you had it?’ Lydia asked.
‘The Tyrant makes our lives a misery. He hates us. Every day he comes on the viewscreen and tells us how much he despises us and we’re all forced to listen to him,’ said Fran.
‘That’s the viewscreen?’ Lydia pointed to the huge screen which covered one wall.
Fran nodded.
‘Why does this Tyrant hate you all so much?’ Lydia asked.
Fran shrugged. ‘He just does. He arrived from London one day and took over this town. I think my mum discovered something about him just before she was killed by the Night Guards, but she never got the chance to tell me what it was.’
‘Does your dad know?’
Fran shook her head, adding, ‘At least that’s what he says.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry about your mum.’ Lydia wasn’t sure what to say.
Fran shrugged and looked down at the floor. ‘It was a long time ago. I can hardly remember her.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that made it any better,’ said Lydia.
‘It doesn’t,’ Fran admitted.
‘This Tyrant sounds like a nasty piece of work.’ Lydia shook her head.
‘He is. Lots of people have been taken to his mansion by the Night Guards. Not one of them has ever been seen again,’ said Fran.
Lydia shivered. ‘I don’t know where I am or what’s going on, but I wish I was at home!’
‘Dad’s in a meeting with the others of the Resistance. He’s going to ask them about you. Maybe we can help you get home,’ Fran said. ‘Dad reckons you came from another town but you’re suffering from shock caused by your arm injury. He reckons that’s what has made you so confused.’
Lydia had heard that shock could do that to you, but she didn’t think that was her problem. The first thing she had to do was sort out what on earth was going on.
‘This, er . . . Resistance you were talking about? Is that like in the Second World War when some people secretly fought against the Nazis?’ asked Lydia.
Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t think I should say any more about that. I’ve said too much already. Dad would bust a blood-vessel if he knew.’
‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’
After a moment’s silence, Lydia and Fran giggled conspiratorially. Fran glanced down at her watch.
‘Dad’s meeting should be well under way by now. I’ll see you later,’ she said.
‘Where’re you going?’ asked Lydia. She didn’t fancy being by herself.
Fran’s voice lowered. ‘I’m going to listen in on Dad’s meeting.’
‘Can I join you?’ Lydia asked.
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘Please, Fran. I need to find out what’s going on. I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing here and nothing makes any sense.’
Deep frown lines creased the skin around Fran’s mouth.
‘You can trust me – I promise,’ said Lydia. ‘I’m not a spy. I’m not about to betray you to this tyrant person. Besides, I wouldn’t know him if I tripped over him. Please?’
Fran sighed heavily. ‘OK then, but for heaven’s sake, don’t make any
noise. I’m not supposed to be listening to them either.’
Fran gave Lydia a clean shirt to wear. It felt very strange – almost papery – but once Lydia put it on it was very warm. She tucked it into her jeans and together the two girls crept out of the room and down the stairs. Fran put her finger over her lips as they tiptoed to the basement door. Slowly, oh so slowly, Fran turned the door handle. She beckoned Lydia over and they both listened.
‘. . . and you’re wrong,’ one man’s voice argued vehemently. ‘If we get rid of him, how do you know he won’t be replaced by someone even worse?’
‘There is no one worse,’ a woman’s voice said bitterly.
Lydia strained closer.
‘Getting rid of him sends out a clear message that tyrants and dictators won’t be tolerated in this town,’ said another man’s voice.
At least five different voices started arguing amongst themselves. Suddenly they all stopped, like a radio being switched off. Fran’s hand was already on the door handle, ready to shut the door in a hurry, when a new woman’s voice said quietly, ‘The Night Guards killed my husband and my son. I have more reason to hate them and that murdering Tyrant than any of you. But none of you are thinking logically. I say we should . . .’
Lydia drew away, horrified. She couldn’t listen to any more. What was going on in this strange place? Where was she? She pulled Fran away from the door.
‘Fran,’ she whispered. ‘Why doesn’t your dad and all the other grown-ups just call the police or get the government to do something?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Lydia, the Night Guards are the police. And the Tyrant is the government – at least as far as this town is concerned.’
Lydia stared at her. Something very bizarre had happened from the time when Lydia was knocked out on the moors, but she had no idea what. It was like waking up in the middle of Wonderland. No matter which way Lydia turned, nothing made sense.
Fran beckoned Lydia back to the door.
‘If only he had some family,’ said a second man’s voice. ‘Then we could kidnap his wife or children and have something to bargain with.’
‘I heard they did that with the ruler of Leeds!’ said a woman Lydia hadn’t yet heard speak.
‘He’s too smart to have a family and for exactly that reason,’ said the first man bitterly. ‘Henson would never allow himself to do the things normal people do – like have a family.’
Lydia felt as if she’d just been kicked in the stomach. She froze.
‘What’s the matter?’ Fran asked, concerned.
‘W-What’s the tyrant’s name?’ Lydia could barely get the words out. ‘His full name?’
‘Everyone knows that,’ Fran replied. ‘It’s Daniel Henson.’
Chapter Twelve
Answers
‘Daniel Henson . . .’ Lydia breathed. It wasn’t, it couldn’t be her brother. Lydia closed her eyes tight and fought against the panic that rose within her like a tidal wave.
‘Lydia, are you all right?’
‘My brother’s name is Daniel Henson,’ Lydia said weakly.
‘Your brother?’ Fran was appalled.
‘Yeah . . . he’s . . . he’s ten.’ Lydia’s voice trembled.
There was a deathly silence. Then Fran started to giggle. ‘For a moment there I thought . . . Well, never mind what I thought! Imagine thinking the Tyrant is your brother! The Tyrant is pushing fifty and you’re what? Twelve?’
Lydia nodded.
‘The same age as me,’ Fran said, but Lydia hardly heard her.
A possible explanation for what was happening crept into her mind, but she shook her head. It was too bizarre, too ridiculous to be true. It couldn’t be. But the thought refused to leave her head. Lydia had a new question now. Not where was she, but when . . . ?
‘What’s he like – Daniel Henson?’ Lydia forced herself to ask.
Fran’s smile vanished. ‘He’s old and ugly and mean. He’s been the ruler of this town since before I was born.’
Lydia stared at Fran until her eyelids started to hurt and her eyes began to ache.
‘What year is this?’ Lydia whispered.
‘You should know that – you’re the same age as me. Can’t you count?’ Fran’s eyes narrowed. ‘Look Lydia, you’re worrying me. Maybe I should call my dad . . .’
‘No! Don’t!’ Lydia looked around quickly. ‘I . . . I need to sit down.’
Lydia walked over to the bottom step and sat down before Fran could stop her. Closing her eyes she pinched her left forearm. She clicked her heels together again and again. Then she opened her eyes slowly. She wasn’t lying in her own bed. She wasn’t even back in Tarwich. The wallpaper surrounding her was still a brilliant, burning yellow. Was this all real? Was Lydia really in the future? It was impossible, ludicrous – and yet, here she was . . . Fran stood in front of Lydia, a bewildered look on her face.
‘Fran, could you touch that wallpaper please?’ Lydia asked.
Fran walked over to the wall and did as Lydia asked. Jets of maroon and burgundy spread outwards from her hands.
‘What do those colours mean?’ asked Lydia.
‘Confusion!’ Fran smiled drily. ‘And you’re the one confusing me!’
Lydia looked around. When she’d first arrived at the house she’d only really noticed the things that were the same as in her time. Now she could see the things that were different.
The strange-shaped light bulbs dotted around the ceiling but no light-switches anywhere that Lydia could see. The viewscreen, the tracker mobiles, the peculiar wallpaper, even the strange papery shirt that Lydia was wearing. Lydia took the bottom of her shirt in both hands and tried to tear it. It was like trying to tear a pair of thick tights.
The future . . .
Lydia still couldn’t believe it. And yet here she was. It had to be true. What other explanation was there?
I can’t be dreaming. Surely I’d have woken up by now if I was dreaming, Lydia thought.
‘How d’you switch your lights on?’ she asked, looking up at the light bulbs decorating the ceiling.
‘Hall lights on!’ Fran said, puzzled.
Immediately every hall light came on.
‘And to turn them off?’ Lydia asked.
‘Hall lights off!’ frowned Fran. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
Lydia shook her head. A joke? If only it was. Then Lydia remembered something her mum always said whenever she and Danny hadn’t tidied up their rooms.
‘Who cleans the house?’ Lydia asked. ‘Is that you and your dad?’
Fran’s frown deepened. ‘Our house robot of course. It’s only a model GH-1042-A so it’s really slow but it gets the job done – eventually.’
Mum was always saying, ‘If you two are waiting for someone to clean your rooms for you, you’ll have to wait until some time in the twenty-fifth century when housework robots are available. Until then, get to it!’
So Mum was right. Housework robots were coming – and sooner than she thought!
‘The Tyrant won’t allow anyone he doesn’t absolutely trust to have any robot that’s more advanced than the model GH-1042-A,’ Fran added bitterly. ‘He’s probably afraid we’ll re-program them or something and send the robots after him.’
Lydia walked over to the heavy curtain which hung from ceiling to floor before the front door. She pulled it aside. The front door wasn’t made of wood. It was made of steel.
‘How d’you get in and out?’ Lydia asked Fran.
‘There’s a keypad outside and a control switch inside.’ Fran frowned.
‘So you don’t need a key?’
‘A key for what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Lydia let the curtain fall over the door again. She looked up. Sprinklers had been placed at regular intervals along the ceiling. All of the downstairs wallpaper was covered in a mass of pink and burgundy swirls now.
‘What’re you doing?’ Fran asked curiously.
‘I’m not asleep. I’m not dreaming all thi
s, am I?’ Lydia said slowly.
All the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together. Lydia swallowed hard. Somehow the storm on the moors must have pitched her forward in time – decades into the future . . . It was impossible – and yet here she was. And the searing ache of her arm was too painful to be anything but real.
And Daniel Henson . . . Was he really her brother or was it just a coincidence? Daniel Henson was a common enough name. It couldn’t be her brother. He’d never do all the bad things that everyone was talking about. He would never do anything to be so hated. Never. But what if it was her brother . . . ? Then something else occurred to Lydia.
‘Fran, what was your mum’s maiden name? Her full name?’
‘Frances Weldon. I was named after her. I wish Mum and Dad had picked something else. I really hate the name Frances,’ she grumbled.
Frankie . . .
So Fran was related to Frankie after all. Frankie was Fran’s mother. That meant that Frankie was all right. She’d survived the accident and woken up. She’d even grown up and had a daughter. Lydia’s smile faded. Fran said that her mum had died when she was a lot younger – killed by the Night Guards. Lydia wanted to cry because she wasn’t sure how she felt. Relief that Frankie had survived her accident in the past, but then what? To be killed so violently, so horribly . . .
Maybe, after the accident, she and Frankie had made up? Maybe the truth had come out about the sports cup? Maybe – hopefully – they’d become better friends than ever before?
‘I really am in the future,’ Lydia realized.
‘What did you say?’ Fran asked.
Lydia stood up slowly. She had a problem. She needed help, desperately. But could she trust Fran? Would Fran turn her back on her just as Frankie had done? Even now a flare of the old burning bitterness swept through Lydia’s body. Just as quickly, it died. She had a more urgent problem now. How was she going to get back to her own time? Beside that, every other problem was minuscule. With a sigh, Lydia realized that she didn’t have any choice. She needed Fran’s help.
‘Fran, I need to talk to you.’
Just at that moment, Fran’s dad emerged from the basement.