So what had happened to bring them together so suddenly?
So unnaturally?
What had changed?
What could have changed?
It wasn’t as if watching me behaving like a hypnotized numpty was going to make them forget their differences.
And then there was that odd thing that Dad had let slip when I told him what had happened. First had been that dismissive, Well, Kyle, that’s just not the way we remember it, and then that confusing account of the end of the talent show.
Danny woke you all up, Dad had said, and we all went home.
It didn’t fit.
Danny had been the sixth act.
There had been a whole lot more acts to come after Danny.
Danny woke you all up, and we all went home.
I could imagine some of the horrors that would have come after Danny: lame Karaoke; awful dance routines; someone playing the recorder; a kid with a new electric guitar who thought he was the next Jimi Hendrix.
Danny woke you all up, and we all went home.
Then there was the inevitable prize-giving that always took half an hour longer than it needed to.
Then a repeat of the winning act.
Polite applause.
The end.
Danny woke you all up, and we all went home.
The contest had been, at best, a quarter of the way to being over.
There was a whole lot more to enjoy.
Or endure.
They didn’t even stop to announce a winner.
Danny woke you all up, and we all went home.
Liar, I thought.
What had really happened?
Mr Peterson said: "It means that . . . we are the only . . . the only ones left . . . four . . . four against all…"
I realized then that this wasn’t over yet.
It wasn’t happy-ever-after. And it certainly wasn’t everything back to normal.
This, I realized, was just the beginning.
But the beginning of what?
Chapter 16
I wasn’t going to get any answers from my parents, that much seemed certain. They either didn’t know what had happened, or weren’t saying.
The first explanation was scary because our parents are always supposed to have the answers to our questions.
The second explanation was worse still.
That they knew exactly what had happened and were keeping it from me.
But what reason could they have for lying to me?
The questions kept circling around in my head, and I would have given anything for them to stop. But they wouldn"t.
What had really happened to us all?
I couldn’t sort this out on my own.
I tried the TV I’ve got in my room, which meant hunting for the remote control in the chaos that covered the floor. I turned over books and comics, clothes and papers, finally finding it hiding under my pillow.
I stabbed the "on" button with my thumb and the TV was all white.
Still no way of seeing what was going on in the rest of the world.
I found myself wishing that my parents had bought me the laptop I’d been asking for. The one I’ll get when my schoolwork improves, or when I stop daydreaming, or when I start keeping my room tidy.
The only computer in the house was my dad’s, in his study, but I didn’t trust my parents and was pretty sure he wouldn’t want me using it.
So who could I trust?
There were only three names on my list: the three people who had been with me when the rest of the village played musical statues.
Top of that list was Lilly.
Sure, she hated me because I dumped her and never gave her a reason.
But. But. But.
Why should that get in the way?
She’d never know how much it hurt to let her out of my life, or how much I’ve regretted it every time I’ve seen her and Simon together.
We’d been through the same events.
I needed to speak to her.
I sat up.
If I saw Lilly, then Simon would most likely be there too, and maybe I could see if he was acting oddly too.
I could find out what he remembered about the talent show, and see if it matched my parents" memory or mine.
I’d made up my mind.
I was going to get to the bottom of this.
I got downstairs to find Dad standing in the hall, seemingly studying the wallpaper.
And, more importantly, he was blocking the front door.
He made a show of pretending he wasn’t waiting for me, but had no other reason for standing where he was. He turned when he heard me on the stairs and his face lit up as if he was pleased to see me. Didn’t make it to his eyes, though. They looked at me coldly.
"Ah, Kyle," he said. "Are you feeling better?"
I nodded.
"I’m fine," I told him. "Lying down seems to have cleared my head a bit."
"Good." Dad nodded, perhaps to demonstrate that this was indeed good. "There’s someone here to see you."
I hadn’t heard anyone arrive, but then I had been sort of lost in my own thoughts.
So who was it?
Lilly? That had to be who it was. She probably had a whole bunch of questions that needed answers too. Well, she’d beaten me to it.
Dad opened the living-room door and ushered me in.
Mum was sitting in her chair, the one with the various remote controls in pouches on the arm, while the other chair was occupied by our local GP, Doctor Campbell.
The last time I’d seen him had been months ago, when I’d injured my wrist playing tennis with Simon.
Dad followed me in and pointedly shut the living-room door behind him.
"Hello, Kyle," the doctor said, his old face watchful.
"Hi," I said, my mind racing.
I sat down at one end of the sofa, while Dad took a seat at the other end, leaving plenty of distance between us. The three adults looked dreadfully serious, and if I didn’t know better I’d have thought I was in a great deal of trouble for something I had done.
Doctor Campbell smiled at me, but it was a controlled smile. He smoothed out some wrinkles from his trouser leg.
"Your parents asked me over," he said. "They thought that you might be feeling . . . ill."
I smiled back.
"Me?" I said. "I'm fine."
"Good. Good." The doctor nodded. "So you don’t feel feverish? Or disorientated?’
"No, I really am fine."
"Your parents are quite worried about you." His eyes narrowed to slits and it looked like he was watching for my reactions to his words. "That was quite a story you told them earlier, wasn’t it?"
I didn’t like this.
I didn’t like it at all.
My mouth was dry and I felt panicked. I didn’t answer. I just sat there looking at the doctor, wondering where this was going.
Doctor Campbell sighed.
"Tell me what happened today," he said, and his voice had a coaxing tone to it.
"I don’t know," I said. "I mean, I’m really not sure."
"But your parents told me what you told them; that everyone in the village turned to statues for . . . how long did you say?"
He raised an overly furry eyebrow at me.
I shook my head.
"I didn’t." My throat felt scratchy.
He was scrutinising me as if I were a germ under his microscope.
"You didn’t say? Or you didn’t really experience it?"
I nodded. Evasive.
The doctor frowned, turned to my dad and said, "I’m getting nowhere. Perhaps you could try…?"