First published in the United Kingdom by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2024

Published in this ebook edition in 2024

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Text copyright © Ross Welford 2024

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Cover illustrations copyright © Tom Clohosy Cole 2024

Ross Welford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

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Source ISBN: 9780008544775

Ebook Edition © January 2024 ISBN: 9780008544782

Version: 2023-12-04

‘The laws of science do not distinguish between the past and the future.’

Stephen Hawking

I should really do one of those ‘Previously on …’ things like they do on Netflix.

So here goes.

[CLEARS THROAT]

The story so far …

[WISTFUL MUSIC PLAYS]

On my first twelfth birthday – which was only a few weeks ago, but to say ‘several lifetimes ago’ isn’t completely wrong – I, Albert Einstein Hawking Chaudhury, received a pet hamster and a letter from my dad. My dad’s name was Pye and he died four years ago, leaving the letter for me to open.

By then, Mum had remarried a bloke called Steve, who came with a daughter, Carly: my stepsister, and we’d moved up the coast to Blyth. I didn’t like either of them to begin with.

Dad’s letter told me where I would find a time machine that he had built in secret, in our old house in Culvercot. He begged me to use it to go back in time to prevent …

[DRAMATIC CHORD]

… the accident that claimed his life.

Accompanied by my hamster (named Alan Shearer by football-mad Steve) and against the advice of my wise old Grandpa Byron, I ended up in 1984. There I met Pye – my own father! – as a twelve-year-old. We quickly became friends, teaming up against the local bully, Paul ‘Macca’ MacFaddyen.

Pye did not know we were father and son.

[SOUNDS OF VIOLENT STORM]

One day in 1984, Pye and I went out with his home-made go-kart, the Lean Mean Green Machine. He steered it off the promenade in Culvercot, drowning in a stormy sea.

(I know, I know. It doesn’t make a lot of sense written down like that. This is just a catch-up, remember?)

[SUSPENSEFUL MUSIC BUILDS]

If my dad drowned before I was born, where did that leave me? Could I even exist? I was terrified that Alan Shearer and I would be stuck in 1984 and – among many other things – I had to set fire to my school in order to get back to the present day.

I had one more task: I sent my hamster back in time with a written warning to my dad to avoid using the Lean Mean Green Machine on that day.

Amazingly, it worked! My dad – Pye – read the message: he didn’t go out on his go-kart at all that day. That meant he avoided:

a) the accident that later killed him when I was eight, and

b) steering the kart off the promenade into the sea.

When I finally made it back to the present day myself, the time machine was all but destroyed.

[HAPPY MUSIC]

I did not care about that, though, because I had succeeded in my mission.

In other words (and to make a much longer story short), he’s alive. He recognises me as the boy from his childhood who sent him a hamster to warn him of the impending accident.

I got what I wanted.

I am so happy! So very, very happy.

[MUSIC STOPS ABRUPTLY]

Well, I was. To begin with …

You may remember that my dad died twice. As for me, I ended up having two twelfth birthdays, which sounds like a whole lot more fun. Trust me: it isn’t.

It all happened because I rebuilt my dad’s time machine. (Which looked nothing like you’d imagine, by the way. It was a laptop, a bunch of wires, a black box the size of a paperback book and a garden tub.)

You know those films when the nerdy hero does something brilliant with a computer and there’s a clock ticking down because the bomb’s about to go off, and his fingers are flying over the keyboard, sweat pouring down his face, music, lights flashing, a klaxon blaring, and then he hits the button with two seconds to spare and saves the world?

Well, it wasn’t like that. It was a lot more boring: there were no flashing lights, no warning klaxon. I didn’t actually do anything except ask an artificial-intelligence bot to fix the damaged computer program, and even that was Carly’s idea.

(Oh yeah, Carly’s back in the picture: more of her later.)

Still, it worked – only not perfectly. Very imperfectly, as it turned out.

Which goes some way to explaining why we are in a cave, many millions of years ago, being eyed up as a potential lunch by a family of dinosaurs.

Who is this ‘we’? Well, there’s me, my hamster (Alan Shearer, remember him?), a small tortoise (Tortellini, don’t ask), my former stepsister Carly, and the soon-to-be-eaten Paulie MacFaddyen – the nephew of Macca, the meanest kid I ever met back in 1984.

None of it’s my fault, I should say. Definitely not my fault. Apart from the rebuilding-the-time-machine bit.

Last time I time-travelled, all I did was sit in a zinc garden tub, type in some code and hit ‘enter’ on the old laptop and then it just kind of happened. There was a slight misting of my vision for a few seconds, as though looking through steam, and that was it: 1984, here I come!

This time, though, it goes on for ages. Everything is dark. The air seems to swirl around us while Grandpa Byron’s electric tuk-tuk – a vehicle a bit like a golf buggy – vibrates. I hear Carly moan.

‘Al? Al? Is this meant to happen? Can you stop it?’

No and no are the answers to that, but I don’t say it aloud.

‘Woss goin’ on, Chow?’ says Paulie MacFaddyen in his strong Geordie accent.

‘Al, I think I’m gonna be …’ followed by the unmistakable sound of Carly throwing up, although it’s too dark to see much.

Still it continues. Ten seconds? Longer? As my namesake Albert Einstein said, ‘Time is an illusion.’

‘Can anyone else smell spew?’ says Paulie. ‘Ah … gross! You’ve puked all over me feet. Ergh, I’ve just put me hand in it!’

‘Al, for goodness’ sake, make it STOP!’ screams Carly and, as if in response, that is when the vibrating stops and the light returns. We all stare out, panting, at a bleak landscape dotted with clumps of tall ferns and low twisted trees.

Paulie looks up, his eyes wide with astonishment. ‘What the …? How? How’ja do that? Is this VR or summit?’ He steps down cautiously from the tuk-tuk and crouches to touch the sandy earth. ‘Whoa!’ he gasps, and he reaches his arms out as if exploring the limits of the illusion.

We’re on the edge of a swamp. Behind us, dark, dense trees sprout from marshy earth and a flat dry plain stretches ahead of us. About a hundred metres away, the land slopes steeply down to a grey sea. Everything is lit by pale late-afternoon sun and I just know what Carly’s reaction will be. She’ll say, ‘Wow. Frea-key!’

Except she doesn’t.

She turns, her face contorted with fear, and screams, ‘What have you done, Al, you complete flaming pinhead?’

I’m asking myself the same question. None of this was meant to happen. Consequently, I find myself getting defensive.

‘What have I done? Me? I haven’t done anything. It’s this massive brain-fart here who … who …’ I point at Paulie, then realise that I don’t know what I’m talking about. ‘What did you do?’

Paulie’s fake hardman swagger is nowhere to be seen. The wonder has vanished from his face too and his voice has taken on a nervous bleat. ‘Me? I … I didn’t do nowt. I only came to play wi’ your flippin’ hamster, so calm doon. I’m the one wi’ spew all over me—’

‘Calm down?’ says Carly. ‘How dare you! Something’s gone wrong with his time machine and you’re telling me to calm down?’

‘Wi’ his … what?’ says Paulie.

Carly is breathing heavily through her nose like an angry bull, and she and Paulie stare at each other, both of them terrified and furious.

I say, ‘This was not, erm … intentional.’

‘Oh, no kidding?’ says Carly, sarcastically. She releases the air in her lungs with an exasperated sigh.

Paulie has regained some of his confidence and juts out his chin. ‘Did she just say “time machine”, Chow?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, she did.’ I sigh.

‘Hello? I’m here, you know. Name’s Carly.’

Paulie ignores her. ‘You’re kiddin’? Ha’way, man, y’can just turn it off, can’t you? It’s pretty good, though. I mean – no goggles, helmets. Did y’make this yourself, Chow? How come you never told me? I’m supposed to be yer best mate. I saw this thing once on KlickMe …’

I’ve tuned out. Chow is Paulie’s nickname for me. Short for my last name, Chaudhury. I hate it. Every time he calls me ‘Chow’, I’m reminded of Macca, his horrible Uncle Paul, back in 1984. It was my dad’s nickname too. ‘Best mate’ freaked me out as well because I hardly know Paulie. I’ll explain in a bit.

I interrupt his story about something he once saw on KlickMe and say, ‘Carly’s right. About the time travel. Well, we say “time travel”, although …’

But I’m not sure I want – or am even able – to explain in more detail. Not yet.

Paulie says, ‘Although what?’ He takes an aggressive step towards me and I flinch. ‘What?’ he repeats.

So, as simply as I can, I tell him. My dad invented a sort of time machine that seems, on this occasion, to have malfunctioned. To say the least. I think Paulie more or less believes me. He kind of has to because about a minute ago we were in my garage and now we’re not. His flash of aggression dies down and he does his nervous squint, like a huge blink that contorts his face.

He says, ‘You’re gonna gerrus back, yeah? I mean, from wherever we are?’

‘Of course,’ I say with more confidence than I feel.

I turn back to the tuk-tuk. My hamster, Alan Shearer, is safe in the bottom of a lidless yellow cool box wedged beneath the rear seat. On the seat is the key to it all – the laptop that I lift out, wiping some of Carly’s sick off it with my sleeve. The blistered screen is blank. There are, so far as I can tell at this stage, only two reasons why that might be. The first is that the whole thing has broken, burned out. That would mean we were stuck here forever. Out loud, I voice the second possibility.

‘I think …’ I begin hesitantly, ‘I think the battery has run down.’

‘Oh, fantastic, Al, you total chump,’ snaps Carly. ‘Didn’t you charge it?’

‘Of course I did. It’s just … all of that … that stuff that happened just now must have depleted the charge super-quick. It’ll recharge from the tuk-tuk battery. I’m, erm … certain.’

I turn the switch on the front panel of the tuk-tuk. Nothing happens.

‘We’ll have to wait for it to recharge from the solar panel on the roof. It might take a while. Look: the solar charger light is on at least.’ I point to the panel where a tiny blue light indicates that the recharging is underway. ‘At a guess, the time-counter malfunctioned and we just kept going back into the past until the battery drained. Then we stopped.’

The three of us eye one another.

Paulie squints again. ‘You’re not kiddin’, are you, Chow?’ Again there’s that wobble of fear in his voice. I can’t blame him for being scared. I am too.

I shake my head. ‘It looks like we’ve ended up where no one lives.’

I’m not sure if I have ever been anywhere where there’s no sign of humans at all. There are no houses or roads, no ploughed fields, or planted hedges, or telegraph poles, or electricity pylons, or wind turbines, or even litter … Nothing.

‘Wherever we are, it’s flippin’ cold,’ says Carly, hugging herself. ‘How long till that thing charges again?’

‘A few hours, at a guess?’ I say. Carly and Paulie both take out their phones.

‘Oh great. No power, no nothing,’ Carly says, tapping the screen repeatedly.

‘Me neither,’ says Paulie.

Carly tuts and then screams as a massive bird swoops down from behind us, skimming close to her head before flapping off with a strange, growling squawk. Carly cowers with her arms over her head. ‘What was that?’

Paulie follows the bird with his gaze and its huge wings make a loud snap like a sail in the wind. It joins two others high in the sky. ‘That’s norra bird that I recognise.’

‘You know birds?’ says Carly, lowering her arms cautiously. She stares warily at the sky. ‘Didn’t have you down as a twitcher.’

He gives her a dark look. ‘Didn’t have you down as a pain in the neck, but we live and learn. I know a bit. Enough to think that there’s summit up wi’ them.’

Still keeping a wary eye on the circling birds, Carly heads towards the cliff. Paulie and I hang back while I dislodge the cool box containing my hamster. I say to him, ‘If they’re not birds, then what are they?’ He doesn’t answer at first, instead craning his neck upwards towards the creatures. ‘Paulie?’

‘Hm? What? Dunno for sure.’ He puffs out his cheeks, then adds, ‘No one knows, really.’ He sees my puzzled expression. ‘Reptiles, Chow. Reptiles. Sorta related to birds, but … not birds, if y’know what I mean.’

‘Not really.’

‘Put it this way: think of them like dinosaurs.’

‘Di … dinosaurs?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you know this how?’

He shrugs. ‘KlickMe. There’s a section called DinoKlick and, well … them’s dinosaurs.’

‘D-dinosaurs?’ I say again.

He glances around as though someone might hear, then squints. ‘Are you scared, Chow?’

He is scared. It’s obvious. Why wouldn’t he be? And so I lie.

‘Scared? Me? Nah. The battery’ll charge up. Just gorra wait.’

Gorra wait. I talk more Geordie with Paulie. I don’t even know why. As for being scared: I’m absolutely terrified.

Carly stands where the land slopes sharply down to a grey beach, her shoulders hunched, her long hair and oversized black coat flapping in the breeze and casting a long shadow behind her. At the bottom of the slope, a deep crack in the rock forms a kind of triangular cave.

She sniffs deeply as though she’s been crying and her mascara is smudged. ‘How far back in time have we come, Al?’ she says without turning round. ‘If that’s what we’ve done?’

I look back at the dry, pebbly expanse I walked across and then back down at the sand. Paulie has scrambled down the small cliff and is swishing his feet in the water to clean the sick off.

I say, ‘According to Paulie, millions of years.’

She gives me a look as if to say: Why on earth should we believe him?

I put down the cool box and take out Alan Shearer. There’s a shallow puddle next to my foot and I watch while he has a drink.

Suddenly one of the birds that we saw before swoops up the side of the cliff next to me and plucks up my hamster in its long claws. It is already regaining height when I scream and run forward, arms outstretched, startling the bird enough that it drops its prey. Alan Shearer lands a few metres away and – seemingly unharmed – scuttles under a rock.

The bird circles back and lands a few paces from us, folding its papery wings into its back and fixing the rock with a huge black eye. Close up, it’s unlike any bird I’ve ever seen, with a fat, hooked beak like a parrot and coarse grey feathers. I dart to the rock and lift it to reveal my hamster beneath, and I gather him in my hands.

‘Go on!’ I shout at the bird and I stamp my foot. ‘Go away!’ It cocks its head curiously, but doesn’t move.

‘Frea-key!’ breathes Carly, taking a step back. ‘What even is that?’

‘Paulie, erm … Paulie reckons it’s a dinosaur. But—’

‘A dinosaur?’

‘Look – it’s got feathers. Which places it – and us – in, well … the Cretaceous period. Maybe.’

Carly’s face barely moves as she repeats the word Cretaceous. Then she starts to make her way down the slope to get away from the bird.

‘It’s a period of prehistory,’ I say as I follow her, holding the cool box. ‘You know Jurassic Park? The Jurassic period came before the Cretaceous.’

‘How do you two even know this stuff? Are you both in the same kiddie dinosaur club or something?’

I ignore her sneering. ‘Pregnant camels often sit down carefully, perhaps their joints creak,’ I say in response.

She stops to face me and says, ‘Are you messing with me? What have pregnant camels got to do with …’

‘Grandpa Byron taught me that. It’s a … a menny-monic. The first letters of the words help you to remember the periods. So: Precambrian, Cambrian, Ordovician, Silurian, Devonian, erm … Carboniferous, Permian, Triassic …’

‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. I think. And the word is mnemonic. Silent “m”. It’s just a relief we’re not in the Jurassic era,’ says Carly. ‘The last thing I wanna do is meet any of the monsters that were in that film.’

‘Ah, but you see … Whoa, steady on!’

The bird has started to hop down towards us on scaly, muscular legs. We descend further towards Paulie on the shore, but it keeps coming, stopping a few paces away. It opens and closes its batlike wings and then stretches its neck forward. I’m sure it knows that the cool box contains a tasty snack, and once again I flap an arm and stamp to discourage it. It makes a gurgling growl and takes a heavy step further down the cliff.

Slowly, I crouch and, without taking my eyes from the bird, feel with my hand for a rock to throw at it.

‘And I’m not in any dinosaur club, either,’ I say to Carly. ‘Some people just know stuff and remember it.’

Straightening up, I take aim and draw back my hand when Carly shouts, ‘Al! Stop! No!’ and clambers back up the cliff towards me.

The commotion has been enough to stop the bird’s advance. Apparently giving up, it stretches out its wings and takes two lumbering steps to get airborne. We follow its progress flying low over the sea, then it glides down to land gracefully on the surface of the water. I’m still clutching the rock.

‘Look,’ says Carly. I follow her eyes to what I am holding and I nearly drop it with astonishment. It’s not a stone but the shell of a small tortoise. Smooth and shiny on the dome, with dark brown and orange swirls and a creamy underside. I hold it flat on my palm.

Carly whistles in admiration. ‘It’s beautiful. Do you think there’s a tortoise in there?’

As if to answer her question, from the end nearest to my fingers there appears a wrinkled head, followed by two tiny, creased legs.

‘Ohmigosh!’ squeaks Carly. ‘She’s gorgeous!’

‘How do you know it’s a she?’ I say. I put my head close, admiring the pale orange spots on the leathery brown skin.

‘I don’t. But it’s just as likely as being a he, so … why not?’ Carly reaches out and lifts the tortoise from my hand, causing it – okay, causing her – to pull in her head and legs.

Suddenly there’s a huge splash and a squawk from where the dinosaur bird had landed. We both turn to see a disturbance in the sea. Seconds later, the water is flat again, only with no bird bobbing on the surface.

‘What the …?’ says Carly. ‘He was … she was …’

Exactly where the dino-bird disappeared, two shapes have appeared just above the surface of the water. They soon take on the form of heads, one of them holding the flapping bird in its long snout. They rise further, as though they are now walking on the seabed. Both heads are fully exposed, then the one holding the bird tips its head back and its neck bulges as, still wriggling, the bird slides down its throat.

‘That,’ declares Carly, ‘is super-gross.’

Paulie has run to join us. ‘Did you see that?’ he gasps.

The three of us retreat up the beach as the creatures slowly advance in the shallows. Their heads are narrow, their yellow-brown snouts tapering to a sharp point. Jutting out of their rounded grey-brown bodies are triangular penguin flippers that end in two curved claws. Each has a long, thick tail protruding from the water. The creatures don’t seem to have noticed us. Together, they turn back to the sea and open their mouths to squawk in unison, a high, coarse whine.

Carly says, ‘It’s like they’re calling for someone.’

‘I wish you hadn’t said that, Carly,’ I murmur.

She’s hardly got the words out of her mouth when there’s a motion in the water several metres further out. Another shape breaks through the surface, head first, followed by a vast, conical tail, and then the whole beast emerges, identical but much bigger: a monstrous animal, three, maybe four metres tall, with seawater cascading off its back and sides, its tail swishing in the water and causing waves that, seconds later, break on the shore. Its snout alone is as big as my outstretched arms and when it opens its mouth to reveal teeth the size of my hand I find my knees weakening. The monster shuts it again with a loud clack and strides towards the smaller creatures.

‘It’s their mam,’ croaks Paulie. ‘And she’s …’

He tails off as the adult dinosaur turns her massive head away from her young and looks towards us. I can see the nostrils on top of her snout open and close as she sniffs the air. Seconds later, the two young creatures do the same.

‘She’s smelling us,’ says Carly as the mother beast takes another stride nearer the shore. Paulie has already started retreating further, scrambling towards the cliff and the cavelike fissure in the rock.

I don’t need to think twice, for the three creatures are now stomping out of the water with a strange waddling motion, the younger pair screeching in excitement.

The cave entrance is small, and we have to crouch to get further in. After a metre or two it opens up a bit and we can all hunch near the back, with a perfect view of the creatures coming up the sand, straight at us. At the entrance, they stop, and the smallest one, about my height, lowers its head and takes two steps into the cave, baring its teeth.

It can get no further without crouching, and – for whatever reason – it doesn’t do this. Maybe it can’t. Instead, it gives an angry scream and backs out unsteadily as its mother approaches the entrance. I swear I feel the sand beneath my feet tremble with every massive step she takes.

Her bulk almost blocks out the rest of the light coming into the cave and my insides bubble with fear.

The dinosaur lowers her head, turning it to peer inside with a vast amber eye the size of a football. A deep, scabbed gash beneath it looks like a recent injury. Then she blinks and shoves her snout into the cave, making us retreat further. Her scaly top lip curls back to reveal yellow, cracked teeth strung with strands of seaweed. Then she roars – a stinking, honking scream that echoes round the cave, her snout snap-snapping. If I reach out, I could actually put my fist in the moist, steaming nostril.

Paulie has thrown his stubby arms round me, which would definitely be odd in other circumstances. On my other side, Carly does the same and the three of us clutch one another in terror, cowering against the damp back wall of the cave.

‘Al?’ yells Carly in my ear. ‘Just remind me how the heck we ended up here. Because, you know, I wouldn’t wanna die without understanding.’

How did we end up here?

It’s a good question. So let me tell you.

I had been ‘back’ about three weeks.

By this, I mean back from my first episode of time travelling in a modified garden tub, accompanied by my pet hamster, Alan Shearer – the one to prevent my dad’s death.

That’s when I tracked down my former stepsister Carly.

She didn’t know me, of course. But to understand why, you have to know a little bit about what I’m calling time travel. Don’t worry: I don’t mean the science of it. Even I don’t understand that properly. All I really know is that I changed the universe. Trouble is, I’m not at all sure the universe is very happy about it.

You see, in the world I now live in …

1. My dad didn’t die. I sent a letter ‘back in time’ to save his life. That means:

2. Mum didn’t end up getting remarried to a colleague from work. (He was called Steve and in a different life he became my stepdad while Carly, his daughter, became my stepsister.) That means:

3. My whole life is different from how it was before.

That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it?

So why do I feel like a stranger in my own life?

On my phone was a photograph of Carly that I took before I did the whole time-travel thing. I kind of forgot that I’d taken it: there was a lot going on. Anyway, it popped up on my phone the first time I turned it on after arriving in this new version of reality, and it was like a strange echo from another dimension.

Come to think of it, that’s pretty much exactly what it was.

In my old life, when Carly had been my stepsister, I’d got her to do this ‘magical’ ritual that involved lighting a candle. It was all to persuade her to help me get my dad back, even though she didn’t know it. In the photo, she was sitting cross-legged, the flame and the mirror illuminating her face with her black lipstick and eyeliner.

Anyway, a few days ago, I brought it up in my phone’s message app and I sent the photo to her with the message:

You won’t remember this. But I do!

My name’s Al. I’m not a stalker :)

Looking back, that wasn’t exactly phrased brilliantly. I mean, how would you feel about receiving a photo of yourself that you had no memory of?

And that bit about not being a stalker – you know, someone who follows someone around? I was trying not to sound creepy, but I think I did the opposite. I didn’t hear back from her and, to be honest, I was quite relieved because by then I was trying to settle back into my new home life and thinking that things might, eventually, get back to the sort of normal that I had longed for when I started messing with time, space, interdimensional shift and so on.

And then Carly messaged me back.

I’d been down on the promenade, looking out over the sea on my own, which I know sounds a bit Billy No-Mates, but I’m used to it. Time travel didn’t change that bit of my life. Anyway, I was heading back home to watch MindGames on telly with Grandpa Byron when my phone pinged. I looked at it and with a nervous finger tapped the screen where it said CARLY.

Who are you?

Where did you get this picture?

How did you get my number?

That doesn’t sound very friendly, does it? I was already regretting getting in touch with her.

For one thing, Carly is not completely unconnected to me in this world. Her dad, Steve, still works in the Tyneside Library Service with Mum. There could be endless awkward questions and I didn’t fancy the conversation about Mum marrying Steve. That could get very uncomfortable.

So I didn’t message back. What would I have said anyway? ‘Hi, that is a picture of you in another dimension of spacetime, when you were performing a fake magical ritual.’

My hands were deep in my pockets and my head was deep in thought as I crossed the seafront road. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so direct? Perhaps I should have said something like, Hi, I’m Al – our parents are work colleagues. I wonder if you can explain this picture? I can!

No, that’s just dumb.

Okay, how about, Dear Carly, you may not know me, but …?

PAAAAARP! The noise of the horn was so loud that I jumped right up in the air. A purple vehicle like a three-wheeled golf cart had braked right in front of me. The driver shook his head in disbelief.

‘Al! You blithering silly-billy! I am nearly running you over! What in the name of goodness gracious are you doing crossing the road in a daydream?’

Grandpa Byron. The vehicle was his automated rickshaw: an electric covered tricycle with a single seat for the driver and a bench seat behind it on top of the motor. We just call it his ‘tuk-tuk’.

‘I … I’m sorry!’ I stammered. ‘I wasn’t looking.’

‘That much is bally well obvious.’ My grandpa is never cross for long. A couple of seconds later, he rolled his eyes at me, then grinned, flashing his gold tooth. ‘We’ll be late for MindGames. Hop on!’

There were a few cars behind and they were honking their horns as I climbed on to the rear seat. Grandpa Byron gave them a cheery wave and honked back until, with a jerk and a whirr, we were on the move again.

My phone pinged in my pocket. Carly again.

Well? Are you going to answer my questions?

What do I say? I decided the best thing was to go for a lie. I know, I know: as Grandpa Byron is fond of saying, ‘A lie takes care of the present, but it has no future.’ On the other hand, it was for her own good. She’d only freak out at the truth. It was really hard to type, bouncing on the tuk-tuk’s rear seat, but I managed a short message.

Ha! Just kidding. It’s just

some1 who looks like u.

Jack x

Jack? Who’s Jack? I don’t know! I just made it up, all right? Everyone knows a Jack. There were three in my year at my last school. I was hoping that she’d read it and decide that …

Ping!

This message had a picture attached. A close-up from the one I sent her, with an arrow pointing to the tiny brown birthmark Carly has on her chin.

Grandpa Byron talked to me over his shoulder.

‘Those infernal devices, Al, man! You’re never leavin’ it alone!’

‘Yeah, yeah – won’t be long. Just this is …’ I tailed off as I read Carly’s message.

Of course it’s me.

And why are you pretending to be Jack?

Your message is tagged as Al Chaudhury.

What’s this all about?

Should have thought of that.

Ping!

Are you related to the Sarah Chaudhury who works with my dad?

This was getting really embarrassing. Why did I send her that flippin’ picture?

My fingers were trembling when I composed a reply and it took ages because I kept typing the wrong letters. In the end, I sent this:

Can we meet? I will come to your house.

I know where you live!

At least, I think I know where she lives. It’s probably in the same place in Blyth that we lived when Mum and Steve got together in what I now think of as My Other Life.

By the time we were home, there was still no response. Grandpa Byron stopped the tuk-tuk in the driveway. Mum was bringing drying in from the garden and she said, ‘Ee! Got a lift, did you? Lucky you.’

Grandpa Byron smiled. ‘Oh aye, I found this young ragamuffin at the … ah, the side of the road. Thought he looked like he needed feedin’ so I brought him here.’

I love my grandpa’s way of talking. He grew up in India and then moved to the north-east, so he has an Indian accent which sounds Geordie, mixed with old words and expressions.

I smiled back at him, grateful that he didn’t tell on me for crossing the road without looking, but I was still thinking about my text conversation, wishing the whole thing would go away.

I reread the message I had sent. I suppose that I know where you live bit could have come across as, I dunno, threatening? I know that’s silly; I mean, it’s me, Al Chaudhury. I don’t think I’ve ever threatened anything or anyone.

Only she didn’t know that, did she? I could have been anyone. Especially since I’d just pretended to be called Jack.

I was rereading it for the tenth time and wondering if I should send her another message somehow proving that I was a harmless twelve-year-old, maybe attaching a picture of myself or something, when a message popped up.

BLOCKED.

Carly F has blocked you.

You may no longer communicate with Carly F on this platform.

I switched my phone off. As in off off. That was one way of making the problem go away.

For now.

Next day, I was helping Dad in the hamster bunker, and the whole Carly thing was still on my mind.

She blocked me. She flippin’ well BLOCKED me!

‘Careful, Al, the wood shavings are spilling out of the bottom,’ said Dad, interrupting my train of thought. He pointed at a hole in the bin liner. ‘Look at the mess! Honestly, man …’ He sighed, tutted, then wordlessly handed me the broom.

The hamster bunker was an every-Sunday chore that didn’t actually take all that long and mainly involved changing the wood shavings that line the cages, checking the water dispensers, that sort of thing. I dumped the leaking bag in the wheelie bin outside and descended again to the former bomb shelter beneath our house, now converted to what was basically a five-star, air-conditioned hamster hotel.

The bunker had always been here, but in my previous existence it was where Dad had hidden his garden-tub-and-laptop time machine. Back then, he’d had no interest in hamsters. It meant that every time I came in here, I was reminded how much I changed when I went back in time to save Dad’s life.

It wasn’t always a comfortable feeling. Dad often forgot that this whole ‘hamster bunker’ thing was new to me, and he got annoyed when I did stuff wrong.

‘No, Al! How many times? Dry food goes in that container there!’ Then he’d catch my slightly hurt look and say, ‘Ah, I’m sorry, son. This is new to you. I forget.’

It’s as though, as well as everyone around me being a different version of themselves, I was actually a different version of me.

‘Can I hold them now?’ I asked.

Dad lifted up a little wooden door in the side of one of the cages that lined the long wall. Inside was a curled-up female hamster – this one was called Serena Williams – and her four tiny babies. Alan Shearer the umpteenth was their dad and I was dying to hold them. You’re supposed to wait two weeks before you touch baby hamsters because their mums don’t like it, and that time was finally up.

Serena Williams didn’t seem to mind when Dad reached into the nest and super-carefully lifted out a tiny baby, no bigger than my thumb, and put it into my waiting palm.

‘Boy or girl?’ I asked, holding it up to my face.

‘Hard to tell at this stage. If it’s a boy, he’ll be Alan Shearer the twenty-eighth.’

Ever since Dad received the original Alan Shearer – the hamster that I sent through spacetime, bearing a letter with the warning to Dad that saved his life – he’d been obsessed with hamsters. He wrote about them in specialist magazines, he met with other hamster fanciers and he bred them. Most of them he sold to pet shops; some he kept for exhibiting at things like the European Hamster Council Convention. Every year or two, there was a new Alan Shearer.

Dad loved it down here with just his hammies for company. He was always a fairly solitary person – even before he died when I was eight, and before the events that took me back to 1984 that led to me saving his life. But this was different.

Dad was different. I shook my head to rid myself of the thought. I was discovering that you couldn’t alter one bit of history without it affecting other parts. Back when I befriended him as a boy called Pye, he was a bit of a tech whizz, a computer nerd who had built a game from scratch that he called ZZZZZAP!! I really wanted to ask him about that and I had waited all week to get him in the best mood – which seemed to be Sunday mornings in the hamster bunker.

I placed the baby hamster back with Serena Williams who sniffed him suspiciously before deciding no harm had occurred and curling herself round him. I closed the little hatch door.

‘Dad?’ I said as casually as I could. ‘Pye?’

‘Yes, Al Singh?’

‘Al Singh’ was the name I gave myself in 1984. There had been a few attempts by both of us to get to the bottom of what happened, but I think Dad was finding it a bit tiresome now. He wasn’t weird with me or anything; after all, he was the one who recognised me as Al Singh in the first place. It was just …

The mechanics. The time machine. It was all so unbelievable, even though it was real. I wanted to work out what had happened.

I’d told Mum, Dad and Grandpa Byron all about my adventures with Alan Shearer the hamster. All about the previous four years, in fact.

‘At the time, did you ever think that time travel was responsible?’ I said, sweeping some sawdust into a pile. ‘You know – for me turning up in your life when you were twelve, and then just disappearing again?’

Dad paused and leant back on the counter. ‘Of course not. It never occurred to me. But I never understood the name. A few years later, I started hearing about this footballer who had the same name as your hamster. He was everywhere. As you know, I’m not that bothered about football, but you couldn’t escape this fella! He was captain of the England team, I think.’

‘Alan Shearer!’

‘Exactly. A name like that – it’s unusual enough not to be a coincidence. But I didn’t work it out until I saw you standing in front of me as Al Singh: my friend from the past. And even then, well …’

‘So why did you lose interest in computers?’ I asked him as if I didn’t care. But he spotted it. His shoulders dropped.

‘Ah, not this again, son. I thought I’d explained? It’s the same for a lot of kids who get pets, I suppose.’ Dad sat down on an upturned plastic bin and indicated for me to sit opposite on the wobbly office chair by the workbench. ‘It gives them something else to be concerned about. Computers can be isolating, you know? It’s just you and that screen, tapping away. It’s pretty lonely. Till I met you – that is, Al Singh – I was a loner. I had no mum, and back home was my little sister and your grandpa. I wasn’t exactly unhappy. Your grandpa was as lovely then as he is now. And your Aunty Hypatia was a typical annoying little sister!’ He chuckled a bit at some memory. ‘I just hadn’t quite cracked the “making friends” thing, you know?’

I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.

‘I think that’s why I like hamsters, Al. Hamsters are essentially pretty solitary little creatures. Obviously, they’re not totally solitary, otherwise, you know …’

‘There’d be no baby hamsters?’

‘Quite. But otherwise they’re happiest pootling around on their own. And it made me realise that there’s nothing wrong with that! So long as you just be yourself, then—’

This was turning into a little talk about ‘being yourself’ and the next bit couldn’t be far off …

‘So, if you want a friend, you have to be a friend, Al …’

And there it was. I held my hand up.

‘Dad,’ I said, ‘that’s not want I want to talk about.’

He blinked hard behind his specs. ‘Oh.’

‘I want to understand what happened, Dad. How it happened. And only you can explain because only you built it.’

‘But that was a different me, son.’

He said it. I’m not sure how much of the rest I heard, not properly. ‘That hamster you sent me put us both on a different path.’

‘But … but where’s the me that was here before?’ I said. Dad gave his little snuffle of laughter, which set me more on edge. It was as though he didn’t take me seriously. ‘That’s something I cannot help you with, Al.’

He stood up, which I took to be a signal that our chat was over. ‘If you want my opinion, you should forget all about that weird and frankly dangerous time-travelling program that I apparently wrote and help me chop up some carrots for these guys. And by the way – all this time-travel talk does your mum’s head in. You might want to leave it alone. It’s caused us enough … Oh, never mind.’

I think he was going to say ‘caused us enough arguments’. Since I’d returned from the past, there’d been a mood between Mum and Dad that I hadn’t really noticed before: a coolness, a tension. I had wondered if I was the cause. Now I knew.

I turned for the door of the bunker and he said, ‘Even if I knew how to, Al, I wouldn’t help you rebuild it, if that’s what you’re hoping. That would be dangerous and stupid. Besides, it was all destroyed anyway. You said so, didn’t you?’

‘Yep.’

‘So that’s the end of the matter. The future’s what counts, not the past. Come on, son. You’re starting back at school tomorrow. Chin up, eh?’

I was about to tell Dad that I still had the basic program on a USB stick, only there was something in his voice that put me off. A reluctance to explore further. Or perhaps simply a contentment that things had stayed the same as they were before.

Whatever it was, I knew this much: ever since I’d come back from the past to this new version of the present, nothing felt the same. And worse – I couldn’t avoid school.

I’d been dreading school. I kept telling myself to view it simply as A Significant Challenge, but that hadn’t been working. Significant Challenges don’t make your insides turn to jelly.

As you must surely know by now, in this world Mum and I never moved up the coast to Blyth to live with Steve and Carly. We were still living in the same house in Culvercot where I was born, with Grandpa Byron staying with us while his house was repainted.

And so, because we never moved away, that meant I was about to start school where everyone knew the – what shall we say? – the previous version of me.

‘You’ll be fine, Al, pet,’ Mum had said countless times. ‘Just be yourself.’

Even that was a bit confusing, since I wasn’t sure how many ‘selves’ I had.

I was in my pyjamas ready for bed, with Alan Shearer nibbling on a few nuts on my desk, when I went on to the school’s website and looked up the class lists. The good news was I was in a class where there were quite a few names I remembered from primary school, so I was pleased about that. I scrolled down to a picture showing a scowling boy with a thick neck accompanying a story headlined ‘Year Seven boy’s model dinosaur wins praise’. The picture was captioned ‘Paul MacFaddyen, 7M’.

My stomach gave a little lurch.

Macca.

The memory of Macca in 1984 came back to me easily, more’s the pity.

… His sneering, fake friendship with me and Pye …

… His attempt to fire my poor hamster on a firework rocket …

… and then his sleeve catching fire, and Pye accidentally knocking him into the sea, and his shriek as the waves carried them both away …

I found I was panting and I looked away from the screen as Mum came in.

‘You all right, love? What’s wrong?’

I pointed at the screen. ‘P-Paul MacFaddyen? H-how? I mean,’ I stammered.

I had already told Mum loads of what went on, but I was never sure she really got it all. Who would?

She peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh, him,’ she tutted. ‘Paulie joined your school when you moved up to secondary. His dad’s got a funny name. Stoke-something.’

‘Stokoe?’

‘That’s it. I think you’re quite good friends with him. I wasn’t keen on him at first. But he doesn’t have the easiest home life, bless him, with a dad like that.’

‘Like what?’

Mum glanced around as though someone might be listening and then whispered, ‘Prison, Al. His dad’s in prison. But you knew that. Or at least you used to.’

Stokoe MacFaddyen. Macca’s little brother, with a permanent crust of snot on his upper lip; the kid who knocked orange juice over my laptop in 1984 was now the dad of a schoolfriend and he was in jail. No wonder it did Mum’s head in.

My biggest fear was that everyone at school would think I was weird.

That’s because this was a world where my dad didn’t die four years ago.

I don’t know anything that has happened at school in the last four years!

Grandpa Byron reckoned that being thought of as weird was not actually the worst thing.

‘People used to say I was weird, Al. My friend Balvinder still says that. I prefer to think of myself as a special limited edition. You should try it.’

Good advice, I guess. So, while I tried to tell myself that being weird was just a side effect of being utterly awesome (another of his bits of advice), I devised a number of backup strategies.

1. If I didn’t recognise someone: ‘Oh, you’ve changed your hair over the holidays.’

2. If I forgot something obvious, like where our classroom was: ‘Ha ha! Just kidding – of course I remember!’

3. When 2. failed, try: ‘Ha ha! Memory like a sieve, me! Sheesh – what am I like?’ That one was bold, and I probably wouldn’t be able to use it very often, but we’d have to wait and see.

I woke up with the summer sun shining through a crack in the curtains and on to my face. It wasn’t even 5 a.m.

Without quite knowing why, I got up and went along the landing to Mum and Dad’s room and put my head round the door. They were both fast asleep, Dad snoring quietly.

I hadn’t dreamed it then (which I think I might have been wondering). My whole adventure, that is. It had been real. I was here, back at home, with Mum, and Dad was alive. Only …

It wasn’t right, was it? There in the grey light of Mum and Dad’s bedroom, it smelled different. Everything else that I could see was the same: Mum’s slippers; Dad’s tousled bed-hair, now with a grey patch at the front that he hadn’t had four years ago; their greenish duvet cover. But, when I took a deep breath through my nose, the room smelled … different. Only slightly, but still …

I returned to my own room and lay there, listening to the world outside: the first Metro train rumbling on the line behind our house; Old Annie calling her dog. Everything the same as it was before.

Well, almost. Annie’s dog used to be called Ralphie and now it was called Rex. It was a tiny detail but, like the smell of Mum and Dad’s room, it bugged me.

Take Grandpa Byron, for example. His hair was the same: long and white-ish with a thick braid that reached halfway down his back, sometimes ending in a coloured ribbon or something seasonal like a lotus flower for Diwali. Only now he dressed differently.

See, when Dad died (in the other world), Grandpa Byron started wearing these yellowy robes that symbolised his devotion to an Indian guru that he met on a retreat in Punjab. Now, though, he wore embroidered waistcoats and baggy striped trousers that he got from Tynemouth Station Market. And remember his moped? That was now a tuk-tuk. Even though it was the same colour – a vibrant mauve – it was yet another sign that the world I inhabited now was not the world I grew up in.

I felt like an imposter in my own life.

I was wide awake now, thinking again about something Grandpa Byron had said a few days earlier. I’d been telling him about when I’d gone back in time and met him and Aunt Hypatia when she was little.

He nodded, eyes closed, at the memory and said, ‘You know we talk about “the universe”, Al? Well, some of the ancient Vedic scholars preferred to think in terms of “universes”.’ He emphasised the plural. He told me a long and strange tale about a god called Brahma Samhita who was 311 trillion years old, and all I understood at the end of it was that there may be many, many universes, just like ours.

I reached under my bed and pulled out a book that I’d found in the big library in North Shields: The Multiverse For Dummies. The lady at the counter had looked at me over her specs when she scanned it. ‘Is this for you?’ she’d said, and when I nodded she’d seemed impressed.

I read half the first chapter before it defeated me. I opened it now at the first page again.

The theory of parallel universes says that somewhere in the vast infinity of space there are other planets exactly like earth. Indeed, the infinite universe has infinitely many earths. On some of them, the events that occur are virtually identical to those on our own planet.

Already, my head was starting to swim a bit just like it always did. But I forced myself to read on.

We never see or go to these other universes because of the speed of light – what Einstein called ‘the universal speed limit’.

But Dad’s time machine had solved this. How, I didn’t know and I probably never would now because this Dad knew much more about hamsters than quantum physics. Somehow, though, his machine had transported me through spacetime to a world where he hadn’t died, but which was, in almost every other respect, identical.

I sighed, and turned back to the first page. I smiled when I read:

Not all scientists really believe that these universes even exist. And almost no one believes that we could ever contact these worlds.

My thoughts turned back to Grandpa Byron and something he told me that, deep inside, I think I already knew. That my adventure was not over.

He said, ‘Everything will be all right in the end, Al. And if it’s not all right then it’s not the end.’

Then my alarm went off for school. Oh great.

Everyone seemed to agree that I should try to be as ‘normal’ as possible, and, seeing as the ‘old Al’ always took the bus along the seafront, that’s just what ‘new Al’ should do as well.

Mum and Dad had already been into school to talk to Mr Springham, who was now the head. They’d told him that I’d been experiencing occasional bouts of Juvenile Transient Global Amnesia. I think Dad made that up after looking on the internet for a bit, but it sounded good, didn’t it? It sounded real.

‘I know you’ll be fine,’ said Dad. ‘We’ve told them you’re receiving treatment and the doctors are optimistic. It just means they’ll go easy on you if, well …’

‘Do you mean if I act all weird?’

Dad thought about this for a bit before saying, ‘Yes, Al. That just about covers it.’

It was all going round and round in my head as I walked to the seafront for the bus to school. I turned up my school blazer collar and drew in my head so as not to be noticed.

Fat chance. When the bus came, I got on, tapped my card and forced a smile at the driver when she chirped, ‘All right, son! Cheer up, eh? It might never happen.’

The bus was pretty full and I shuffled down towards the back where there were spare seats. Then I stopped, stunned, and turned round to face the front in case I had been spotted, my heart hammering.

I was imagining it, surely?

Slowly, as though I was just casually glancing round the bus, I turned back. The girl was looking down, scrolling on her phone, so I got a better look at her: round-cheeked, older than me, a long dark fringe falling over her heavily mascara’d eyes.

I would recognise my former stepsister anywhere.

Except Carly didn’t live around here. Or didn’t before, anyway. She lived up the coast in Blyth.

‘No standing if seats are available!’ said the driver on the bus’s PA system.

There were two empty seats in the back row behind Carly and I moved towards them, turning my face in case she saw me – although, logically, there was no reason she would even recognise me. I sat down next to a figure hunched over his bag and when he looked up I knew straight away I’d made a huge mistake.

It was his heavy-lidded eyes and thick neck. He glared at me and I quickly looked away.

‘Y’areet, Chow? Woss bin the marra wi’ ye?’

The strong Geordie accent. ‘What’s been the matter with you?’

Paulie MacFaddyen – the nephew of Macca, the meanest boy I ever met, back in 1984. He looked exactly the same as his uncle and he was my friend, according to Mum. Within twenty seconds, I had encountered two people from my former life and it was all a bit overwhelming.

Quickly, I said, ‘Erm … nothing. I-I mean nowt. Nowt serious anyway. How are you, erm, Paulie?’

He narrowed his eyes at me and then sneered. ‘How am I? I’m most frightfully well, old chap.’ He was mocking me. Or was he just joking?

Another kid who looked like he was in about Year Four or even younger came to the back and sat down in the seat on my other side. Paulie leaned across me and said to him, ‘What. The hell. Are you. Doin’?’

‘The d-driver said I had to sit down,’ the boy said in a quavering voice, smiling nervously with big eyes.

‘She also said there’s plenty of room on the top deck. Didn’t you hear? Are y’deaf as well as thick? That’s someone’s seat.’

Just then, the girl in the seat in front – Carly – looked up from her phone and back at Paulie. ‘Leave him alone. You don’t own that seat. Go on upstairs yourself if he’s bothering you.’

‘I-it’s okay,’ the kid stammered, beginning to move. ‘I’ll just …’

‘You stay right there,’ said Carly, instantly reminding me of how she had gently stuck up for me when her friend Jolyon Dancey was mocking me for reading my hamster book. I was so completely impressed. Carly was a couple of years older than me. She was quite big physically, but age and size were not what made the difference here: it was her attitude. Carly had loads of it, and it was actually a bit scary.

She turned to the little kid. ‘Thing with bullies,’ she said, ‘they always back down because in their tiny hearts they’re pathetic cowards.’ Then she glared meaningfully at me and Paulie. ‘Aren’t you?’

Hang on, I wanted to say, I’m not a bully! I had nothing to do with it!

Paulie, for his part, seemed completely stunned at being spoken to like that and his face contorted into a rapid squint-like blink before he looked down and spent the rest of the journey, only two stops, on his phone.

Carly, of course, had not recognised me. Why would she?

When it was our stop, I got up quickly to make a clean escape. There was a clatter of feet and a press of backpacks and suddenly I was on the pavement watching Carly’s back as she met up with a small gang of similar-aged girls.

I felt a sharp flick on the back of my ear and, from behind, Paulie tried to give me a wedgie while shouting, ‘Wed-gieee!’, which I skilfully dodged, making him step in a deep puddle.

‘What the heck, Chow? Look what you’ve made me do!’

I was so confused. Was Paulie now my friend? Was I in his group? Why was Carly now at my school?

‘Hello, Al!’ said a voice, and I turned to see a girl I recognised from primary school called …

Oh no, what was her name? Four years ago, Miss Addy’s class. I sat next to her, for heaven’s sake! I was sick down her back in assembly once. She was nice to me when Dad died.

It was her teeth: two prominent canine teeth that she used to joke were her vampire fangs, although her face had changed a bit and they were nowhere near as noticeable. She was with a boy I didn’t know. Then her name popped into my head.

‘Er … hi, Katie Pelling. I … I mean Katie. Y’all right?’ Then I smiled at the boy, in case I knew him.

She crinkled her eyes at me. ‘Katie! I’ve not been called that for years.’

Oh no. What is her name if it’s not Katie Pelling? Is it Katherine?

She said, ‘Did you finish the project? You know: the “Visit Somewhere New” thing?’

I wondered if the year 1984 counts as ‘somewhere new’? Probably not. I said the lie I had practised. ‘Ah, no. I, um … I’ve been poorly. Got a brain infection for a few days and—’

(That didn’t sound right. It was like I was describing something really serious – a brain infection – as though it was no more important than an insect bite.)

The boy whose name I didn’t know widened his eyes. ‘Yeah, we heard. Are you okay now?’ he said.

I grinned and wobbled my head. ‘Don’t I look it? Course I am! The doctors said I might experience some temporary cognitive impairment, that’s all.’

‘Hmm. That sounds bad,’ said the boy, looking over my shoulder for someone he’d rather talk to.

It’s obvious. They looked suspicious, unfriendly. Or was I imagining it?

I said, ‘I may be a bit forgetful for a while, that’s all. Nothing serious.’

‘How was Scarborough, Kat? Where did you stay?’ said the boy, and at last I found out her new name.

It was like that for the rest of the day. I got the wrong classrooms. I wasn’t up to date with lessons. I called the geography teacher ‘sir’ and he said, ‘I think you should know by now that I don’t like “sir”, Al. Please address me by my name.’

Oh, this was horrible. I felt myself going bright red.

‘I … I’ve forgotten, sir,’ I mumbled. ‘I mean, Mr, erm …’

The whole class erupted with laughter, but the teacher had obviously been warned. ‘That’s enough, everyone. It’s all right, Al. It’s Mr Parker.’ He smiled, but everyone else was staring at me.

The only good thing was discovering that I don’t share any classes with Paulie. Still, I skipped lunch because I just couldn’t face the crowds in the rowdy dining hall, where there’d be more people whose names I should have known but didn’t. By the time the bell went at 3.30, I’d hardly spoken to anyone and I was miserable, not to mention light-headed with hunger.

A stranger in my own life. I could not have felt worse.

Top tip: when you think that things can’t get much worse, stand by for things getting much worse.

I really didn’t fancy the school bus home. Instead, I was walking quickly in the hope of avoiding Paulie. It had only been a day, and I was worn out being someone else, being a different version of me.

I was thinking about this when I heard the voice behind me shout, ‘Oi, Chow!’ My spirits sank further.

‘You deaf or summit? Chow, man! Chow!’

Paulie was red-faced from walking fast to catch up with me. He had a strange, lopsided stride that looked like it took a lot of effort.

‘What was all that about on the bus this mornin’, Chow?’ barked Paulie. ‘Honestly, I thought you’d gone nuts or summit.’

At first I thought he was just being aggressive. But, from the way he looked at me, there was obviously something else going on, and I couldn’t work out what.

So I sort of shrugged and went, ‘Hmp,’ which I hoped was bland enough not to mean anything. Paulie came alongside me, stopped, and did his whole-face squint thing before speaking.

‘And what about that lass, eh? What a nosy cow,’ he said, and I felt like going, ‘Hey, that’s my stepsister,’ but I didn’t because, well … she wasn’t, was she? Not here.

For the longest time, I stood there, not knowing what to say, and Paulie went, ‘Y’doin’ it again, man, Chow!’ He poked me hard in the chest with a dirty middle finger. ‘Hello? [Poke] Hello? [Poke] We will connect you as soon as possible …’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, quickly, mainly so that he’d stop poking me. ‘That lass, eh? What was she like? Ha ha!’

All the while, I was thinking, Am I doing this right? Perhaps he really is a friend and I misread the situation?

Then he grinned. ‘I can see I’m gonna have to watch you, Chow!’ He drummed my upper arm with his fists in a way that was not exactly painful, but not exactly pain free, either. ‘Ah, sorry. Din’t mean to hurt Chow, did I? Wouldn’t do that to me lickle mate, would I?’ He finished off with a final punch and a vigorous tousling of my hair.

I was saved from more of this by a loud beep-beep from behind. Turning, I saw Grandpa Byron had come up to us almost silently in his electric tuk-tuk and boy, was I glad to see him.

Paulie looked as surprised at the appearance of the tuk-tuk as you’d expect. As well as being purple, the whole thing was decorated with a painting of a famous Hindi singer called Asha something-or-other on the back, with swirling patterns and plastic flower garlands. Grandpa Byron told me he’d had it restored by a cousin who owned a factory in Chandigarh, India, with a special go-faster electric motor. There was a solar panel on the roof and a little sign saying TAXI because that was what it used to be.

‘Hop in,’ said Grandpa Byron. Then, to my horror, he said to Paulie, who was already shrugging off his backpack in order to get into the cabin, ‘You too, sonny. I’m supposin’ you’ll want to—’

I interrupted. ‘No! No, it’s all right. I … I think he’s going in the other direction, aren’t you, Paulie? Sorry!’ I was in the tuk-tuk by now and I added quickly, ‘Let’s go, or we’ll be late for the, erm … for the thing. See you tomorrow, Paulie!’

Grandpa Byron looked between the two of us. Then, a bit unwillingly, I think, he twisted the accelerator on the handgrip and the tuk-tuk buzzed away, leaving Paulie on the pavement holding his backpack, squinting, and looking a bit bewildered.

We had gone only a few metres when Grandpa Byron said over his shoulder, ‘What was all that aboot, bonny lad? It did not seem very amiable.’

I risked a look back and Paulie was still standing there, watching us go. Something like sympathy pricked my heart, even though I didn’t really like him. I nearly asked Grandpa Byron to turn round, but I didn’t.

‘I … I’m not sure,’ I said. Grandpa Byron grunted in response and powered up the tuk-tuk till the wind whipped past my face.

We were zipping along now at quite a speed. He turned his head to speak as we approached a roundabout.

‘You need to be careful,’ said Grandpa Byron, raising his voice over the rushing wind. ‘Good friends are not as common as you think. In fact …’

Because I was facing forward, I saw the cat the moment that it darted out into the road.

‘Look out!’ I yelled, but I couldn’t wait for Grandpa Byron to react. Instead, without even thinking, I lunged forward and yanked his arm, causing the tuk-tuk to swerve violently away from the cat. With a bone-jarring thump, the front wheel slammed into the high concrete kerb of the roundabout. There was a screech of someone else’s tyres.

The tuk-tuk tipped over on its nose and I found myself sailing through the air, thrown free of the little cabin and somersaulting like an acrobat in a school uniform, my school bag arcing above me, scattering pencils and books. I even had time to dread the moment of impact that I knew would be painful. I landed heavily on my side in a flowerbed and lay there for a moment, dazed but conscious, and painfully, terrifyingly winded. For several seconds, I struggled for breath and I felt as though I’d black out until, with a desperate wheeze, my lungs filled up again and I was staring at the sky, while car horns parped all around us.

I don’t know how long it was until I made out a voice. Probably only a few seconds.

‘Are you all right, son? You okay?’

‘Careful, man, careful – don’t move him. He might’ve broken something.’

‘Silly old fool wasn’t paying attention!’

‘Is … is the cat all right?’ That last one was me.

A hand brushed soil from my face. I winced as I turned on my side to spit out a mouthful of leaves.

‘Steady on, son. Have you broken anything?’

‘Is he bleeding anywhere? Check his skull.’

I sat up slowly, helped by what felt like a dozen pairs of hands. My fingers worked; my legs and feet worked. Nothing was broken. Then I heard a panicked voice.

‘Call an ambulance! Someone call an ambulance, quick!’

I turned round slowly to see Grandpa Byron lying beneath the upturned tuk-tuk. Two men pushed the vehicle upright as I staggered to my feet.

‘Grandpa Byron!’ I croaked. ‘Are you all right?’ I sank to my knees by his head.

‘Leave him, son, leave him,’ someone said.

But I couldn’t. His eyes were open but unseeing and a small rivulet of blood trickled from his mouth and down into his hair.

‘Grandpa Byron!’ I wailed. ‘Wake up!’

A woman came over and put her arm round me. ‘What’s your name, son?’ she said, gently, and I told her. ‘You were lucky to land where you did, Al. Your grandpa hit his head on that bollard there.’

She pointed out a low concrete bollard with an advertisement for Becker & Sons, Funeral Directors.

‘Is … is he alive?’ I turned back to Grandpa Byron and placed my ear on his chest, without really knowing what I was doing. ‘Grandpa Byron, oh, please wake up!’

‘There’s a paramedic coming now, son. The fire station’s just over there.’

‘Is he alive? Is he alive?’ I shouted.

‘Calm down, son. Just wait, just wait,’ was the only answer I got.

Grandpa Byron didn’t die. Well, not that time anyway, but I’ll come to that soon enough. The crash, though, set off a whole sequence of events. Events that led to us being in that cave, hiding from those dinosaurs.

It was all my fault, of course. Still, that was – when I look back on it – the moment that the universe began to repair the rip I had caused.

It’s all my fault.

That was my first thought when I saw Grandpa Byron a few hours later, propped up on massive pillows, bruised and still.

I stood close to Mum and put my arm round her. She hugged me back. Except it was a fraction of a second too late. See, my old mum – my real mum? – would not have hesitated. Her arms would have been round me first, actually, and she’d have pulled me close and told me not to worry, and Dad would have made a daft joke to lighten the mood, and reminded me that the doctors were optimistic that Grandpa Byron would make ‘significant improvements’.

None of that happened. It was like they weren’t my mum and dad – and I can tell you now, that is not a good feeling. I ended up staring at them till Dad said, ‘You okay, son?’ and I snapped out of it.

We each took one of the seats at the side of Grandpa Byron’s bed. Dad held his hand in both of his. ‘It’s Pye,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me, Papa-ji?’

He was ‘very lucky to be alive’, one of the doctors had told Dad.

And me? I was even luckier. The skin on my right cheekbone was scraped and I landed hard on my right thumb, which was sprained and now had a bandage, but otherwise I came off lightly. The solar panel on the roof of the tuk-tuk took most of the impact and even that wasn’t badly damaged.

I swapped places with Dad and took Grandpa Byron’s big hand in mine. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me, Al.’

Nothing. I tried to swallow, but there was a big lump in my throat.

And then I saw his left eye – the less bruised one – twitch. Just a bit: the eyeball moved behind the thin skin of his eyelid. I gasped.

Dad said, ‘Rapid eye movement during sleep indicates dreaming, Al. I’ll bet your Grandpa Byron’s going through his Memory Palaces, eh? Just like when he meditates. Giving them a good old tidy-up and clear-out, eh?’

Then Grandpa Byron’s eye opened.

‘Papa-ji?’ said Dad.

Grandpa Byron didn’t look at Dad, but kept his eye directed at me and I found myself holding my breath. His mouth drew into a tight line, then his tongue protruded as he tried to wet his lips.

‘Do you want some water?’ I said, and I held the plastic beaker to his mouth, but he didn’t drink. Instead, he opened his mouth and croaked a sound.

‘Mess,’ he said. At least, I think that’s what he said.

‘What was that, Papa-ji?’ asked Dad.

Grandpa Byron’s mouth turned down in an expression of sadness and he blinked his eye. He repeated, ‘Mess. C’mplete ruddy mess.’ Then his eye shut and it looked as though he’d gone to sleep again.

Or worse. They can’t have been his last words, surely? ‘Grandpa Byron,’ I said. Then again, louder. ‘Grandpa Byron! Don’t … don’t …’ I could not say it. I squeezed his hand harder, again and again, as though that would stop him dying.

His eye opened and he said, ‘Stop it.’

‘What? What are you—’

Mum reached forward and touched my hand. ‘I think you’re squeezing him too hard, pet.’

I stopped. He licked his lips again and said another word.

‘Cat. Cat.’

‘The cat’s fine, Byron,’ said Mum. Slowly, his good eye swivelled to her. ‘You missed it. It’s fine.’

He made the tiniest movement with his head, but it was definitely a nod and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, and I knew then that Grandpa Byron was not going to die, and I wanted to weep with relief because the whole thing had been my fault anyway. If we’d gone back for Paulie, I told myself, none of this would have happened.

We stayed a bit longer, but soon the bossy nurse was shuffling back in and telling us that he needed to rest. Grandpa Byron did not open his eye again, but as we left he croaked that word again.

‘Mess.’

What could he mean?

Mum and I were waiting in the big foyer of the hospital while Dad went to fetch the car. There was an aquarium filled with coloured fish along one wall that was occupying my attention when I heard Mum, just a few metres away, say, ‘Oh, hi, Steve!’

In the reflection of the aquarium glass, I saw Mum talking to a man. Even with his back to me, I recognised my former stepfather immediately. I froze. Then I glanced to my right where there was a coffee shop. It was only small, but perhaps I could lose myself in there for a few moments? I hunched my shoulders and scuttled off.

‘Al! Al! Where are you going?’ called Mum. ‘Come on, we’re just about to go.’

There was no escaping. I turned, keeping my head down, but the man who Mum was talking to had turned to look at me.

‘Hello, Al!’ he said, jovially. ‘Your mam’s told me a lot about you. Nice to meet you at last!’ He pointed at my bandaged thumb. ‘I hear you’ve been in a bit of a scrape.’

I looked up warily. It was definitely him. Same grey hair, little potbelly, even the same navy zip-up fleece. It was more than a bit strange that this man – or rather someone exactly like him in another spacetime dimension – had been my stepdad for the last four years.

A bit strange? What am I talking about? This went way, way beyond strange and into the realm of totally and utterly deranged. I could barely speak, although I knew I had to.

‘Hi, Steve,’ I said, and then I thought, Oops.

‘You know my name! Smart lad. I suppose your mam’s mentioned me?’

‘Erm … yeah. That’s it,’ I mumbled.

Mum said, ‘Steve’s just become a dad again, Al. Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘Yeah? I mean … yeah! Great!’

Last thing I knew, Steve’s first wife had died years ago. He was a widower, and that’s how he and Mum became closer. But of course that was in My Other Life. In this life, he’d obviously remarried someone else who’d just had a baby.

‘Thanks,’ said Steve. ‘It was all a bit unexpected. I hope I’ve got the energy now. I’m pretty sure Carly will help, though. She—’

I didn’t want to hear more. This was not going in a direction I liked. ‘I’m just gonna, erm … look for Dad,’ I said.

Too late. Steve glanced over my shoulder and smiled at Mum. ‘And here she is! Hey, Carly – come and say hi to Sarah and Al.’

I turned and there she was in front of me, arms crossed and scowling from beneath her fringe, just like she used to.

‘Hi, Carly,’ I said.

‘Al Chaudhury?’ she said, turning on a cold smile. At that moment, a cleaner pushing a floor-polisher came between us and our parents. Carly’s smile vanished and she growled, ‘So. We meet again.’

For a couple of seconds, I thought Carly was referring to our previous life when she was my stepsister, until she said, ‘That was you on the bus the other day, bullying that kid, wasn’t it?’

By now, Mum had gone off to coo at Steve’s new baby. Dad was fetching the car that was parked miles away, so he could be a while, worse luck. I was on my own.

‘It wasn’t. It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘It was Paulie MacFaddyen.’

She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Kuh. That loser. Anyway – it was you what sent me them texts, wasn’t it?’ She stood in front of me, chewing gum and tapping her foot impatiently.

There was no getting away from it, so I nodded. ‘It’s … it’s complicated.’

‘Oh, “complicated”, is it?’ She made air quotes with her fingers. ‘How about you “uncomplicate” it and just tell me where and, more importantly, how you got that photo? I mean, I could easily just tell your mam that you’ve been harassing me.’ She must have seen the look that crossed my face. ‘No, you don’t want that, do you? So, go ahead, Jack. Just tell me. The truth, I mean.’

This was horrible and I might actually have been squirming; certainly my feet were twisting on the floor and it made me look awkward. I was silent.

‘All right, let’s get a bit more serious, shall we, Jack – sorry, Al? Either you tell me, in detail, about that photo and what the … the heck is going on in your head, or I take the whole thing to Mrs Pike and say you’ve been sending me threatening messages. You know – messages that say “I know where you live” and so on.’

I must have looked blank because she went on, ‘Don’t you know Mrs Pike? Head of Year Nine? Always banging on about “toxic masculinity”. You’ll be in so much trouble. Specially when I add that you were bullying little Dmitri Benton on the bus. Racist bullying. He’s only eight.’

‘What? It definitely wasn’t racist. He’s not even …’

‘His mam’s Greek, Al. It’s enough for Mrs Pike. Tut-tut.’

Carly looked at me, wide-eyed and innocent, and I knew I was beaten. Sly, sarcastic, manipulative: this Carly was exactly like the version in my previous life.

‘You won’t believe me,’ I said with a sigh.

She raised her eyebrows in a way that said: Try me.

That was when I remembered what the old Carly was like. She believed in magic spells – I mean real ones. She reckoned horoscopes could tell you what sort of a day you were going to have and that the Jennings twins from our old Year Eight were psychic because ‘twins usually are’. If she believed in that, I could be in with a chance. A small one, but it was worth a go.

Besides, there was something about standing there, talking to Carly, that was strangely familiar. Comforting. I know that sounds daft because she wasn’t exactly being nice to me. It was just that with everything that had been happening, well … talking to my stepsister – my former stepsister – felt good. It felt right.

We sat down on a plastic bench in the foyer and, after extracting a firm promise not to tell anyone else, I started to tell her what – so far – I had only told Mum, Dad and Grandpa Byron.

I took a deep breath and asked, ‘Do you believe in different dimensions of existence, Carly?’

I managed to get the tone just right so that she didn’t think I was mocking her. When she half shrugged and said, ‘Maybe,’ I knew I could carry on.

So there I was, telling it all to Carly in the noisy lobby of the hospital. The whole lot: the time machine, Grandpa Byron, Alan Shearer, my dad drowning … I pointed to the photo on her phone and explained how it had happened that she – actually one of her infinitely numbered other-dimensional selves – was photographed like that.

I left out some details that might freak her out, such as the fact that my mum and her dad had been married; or knowing what the inside of her house looked like.

Still, she didn’t scoff, or argue back, or say, ‘Stop being ridiculous, Al, you complete fantasist.’

No. Once I paused to take a breath, she dragged her eyes from the photo and said the one thing that I was secretly hoping she would say: ‘Wow. Frea-key!’

‘And so,’ I continued, ‘you asked me to take a picture of you doing this ritual. And – one way or another – the whole thing worked.’ I added, ‘Thanks to you.’

Well, that was a bit of an overstatement, but I thought it would help.

Did she really believe me? Or was she just stringing me along? It was hard to tell: Carly could be pretty devious, but she had her weak spots and believing in ‘real magic’ was one of them.

‘You two getting on all right?’ said Mum. She was walking towards us with Steve, holding two cardboard cups of coffee. ‘Your baby brother, Carly, is an absolute angel. You must feel so proud.’

Carly smiled weakly in a way that made me think she wasn’t actually all that happy about the new arrival in her family. But she said the right things, like, ‘Yeah, he’s sweet, eh?’ and, ‘It’ll be nice to have a baby brother.’

Mum said, ‘Did Carly tell you, Al? They’ve moved to Culvercot! On the seafront. She’s at your school.’

‘Yeah, my stepmum said we needed more room,’ Carly said, sounding unconvinced. ‘I preferred it in Blyth.’ She caught Steve’s eye and added, ‘But Culvercot’s fine.’

Just then, Dad rushed into the foyer, looking flustered. ‘Come on, come on. I’m parked in a red zone. I’ll get a ticket. Chop chop,’ and he started shooing us out.

Carly pulled my sleeve and whispered in my ear.

‘I don’t believe you, you know. You must think I was born yesterday.’

‘Come on, Al!’ called Dad.

‘It … it’s the truth, Carly!’

‘If it’s the truth, then I want to see this so-called time machine.’

‘But … but there’s nothing to see. It’s just—’

‘In that case, I’ll be knocking on Mrs Pike’s door tomorrow.’

‘Al! For the last time!’

I looked desperately between Dad, waving his arms over by the door, and Carly, head tipped on one side, forming a gum bubble. ‘Your choice,’ she said.

‘Fine. You win. See me at school tomorrow. I’ll sort something out.’

Carly blinked hard. ‘You want me to speak to you? In school?’

Honestly, the way she said it was like I’d just asked her to snog me onstage during prize-giving. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll text you.’

I turned to leave and she said, with a slight smirk, ‘No. I’ll text you.’ Then she added, ‘Sorry about your grandad, by the way,’ and I think she kind of meant it.

Going home in the car, we were all a bit subdued. Dad does this thing when he’s upset of biting his bottom lip and he’d been doing it so much since Grandpa Byron’s accident that it was red and a bit swollen.

Mum was driving and Dad had his forehead pressed against the passenger-side window. The windscreen wipers were going whup-whup.

Dad swivelled round in his seat to look at me.

‘Your grandpa’s going to be living with us for a bit longer, Al. Just till he’s a bit more, you know …’

‘Shipshape and Bristol fashion,’ I said. It’s one of Grandpa Byron’s expressions. (I don’t really know what it means other than ‘all good’.)

‘Exactly. You won’t mind?’ said Dad.

‘Mind? Why should I mind?’

‘That’s the spirit.’

A few days went by with no word from Carly; meanwhile, I kept a very low profile at school.

I let slip in a biology lesson that I owned a hamster, and ever since then Paulie MacFaddyen had told me he wanted to get one as well. I’d taken to spending breaktimes in the toilets to avoid him. I felt a bit bad about it, but it was his whole aggressive, bantery loudness that was just exhausting.

And then Carly’s message came late one night.

Tomorrow after school.

End of your street by the church.

It’ll be easier.

I kind of got it. Carly, although she was new at the school, had already fallen in with the alternative Goth-emo crowd. Most of them were older than her, and one of them was even in the sixth form, so there was no way on this earth that Carly was going to be seen voluntarily hanging out with a nerdy-looking Year Seven.

Anyway, she was there on the seafront by the big old grey church, chewing gum and casting glances left and right in case anyone saw her.

I can’t really blame Mum for being a bit wary of Carly. For a start, she’s two years older than me and her fashion sense is a bit off-putting, to grown-ups anyway. When I knew her before, I don’t think she owned a single item of clothing that wasn’t black, and even in school she wore heavy black mascara and black lipstick, and she claimed to like really dreary music by sad people.

On the upside, though, she was the daughter of a colleague of Mum’s and so Mum tried to look pleased when I asked her if Carly could come over after school.

‘She’s just helping me with homework, Mum.’

‘Don’t forget – we’re going to see your grandpa later, Al.’

Grandpa Byron’s recovery would, according to the doctors, be ‘very gradual’.

‘Is that it?’ said Carly, making absolutely zero attempt to hide the disappointment in her voice.

We were in my room and I had the remnants of the ‘time machine’ on my bed. I’d already tried to explain to Carly how time travel worked. Trouble is, I don’t really understand it myself, not all of it, and Dad’s no good. Besides, it’s not even time travel in the ‘traditional’ sense anyway.

So, I had:

1. The knackered old laptop with a brownish blister in the middle of the screen.

2. The black metal box that, considering the work it has done, was not looking all that bad.

3. The handgrips attached to long cables that used to go into the back of the black box. And …

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s it. There was a tin tub as well. Zinc, actually. I told you it wasn’t much to look at.’

‘From what you’re describing, I’m not sure it’s time travel at all,’ drawled Carly. ‘It’s more like moving between different dimensions. Kind of multiversal.’

My jaw dropped open. ‘You … you know about this stuff?’

She rolled her eyes extravagantly. ‘Everyone’s heard of the multiverse, mate. I just never thought it was, you know, more than a theory.’

She called me ‘mate’. That’s … encouraging. I think.

From the drawer by my bed, I took out a small memory stick and held it up. ‘This is my dad’s code,’ I said, and a shiver went down my back when I remembered copying the whole thing out, one character at a time, in the deserted school tech lab. ‘It’s almost all there from the looks of it. There are some big gaps in the code, though. I’ve no idea how to fix it.’

We were interrupted by Mum coming into my room without knocking. She was holding a tray with two drinks on it and a plate of … well, I’m not quite sure what they were. I jumped as though I’d been caught out doing something secretive, which, in a way, I had.

‘Hello, you two,’ Mum said. ‘Are you okay, Al? What’s all that on your bed?’

I started to stammer. ‘I … erm … it’s …’

‘It’s a science project, Mrs C,’ said Carly. ‘It’s a whole-school initiative. We have to team up with younger students and dismantle an old electronic device to identify the components that might be suitable for recycling.’

Wow. She didn’t even stumble or have to think. She wasn’t finished, either. ‘Have you heard about the cobalt mining trade, Mrs C? It’s really shocking, so by recycling as much as we can from old computers and phones we can have a genuine impact.’

‘Oh? Oh well, that’s … erm, that’s very good, Carly. Well done! And you too, Al. I thought you might like some juice and some home-made brownies?’

So that’s what the black stuff is.

‘Cor. They look delicious!’ The lies just kept on coming.

It seemed to be working, though. Mum left the tray and backed out, smiling and saying, ‘Call me Sarah, love.’

Neither of us said anything until Mum’s footsteps had retreated down the stairs. Carly reached for a brownie.

‘At your own risk,’ I warned, but too late. She’d already bitten into it.

She chewed with some difficulty, then said, ‘I’ve had worse,’ and crammed the rest into her mouth. ‘Anyway – you reckon we can get this thing working again? That’d be awesome!’

I was horrified. ‘Get it working? Are you actually kidding? No way, Carly. I nearly died. I was stuck in 1984. I’m not risking that again. The only reason I’m showing you all this is so that you don’t think I’m some random weirdo sending you strange text messages.’

She stared at me, open-mouthed, revealing chewed brownie still on her tongue. ‘You think this is proof? This, Al, is just a burnt-out laptop and … and a load of old tat! I thought you were going to show me – you know – a time machine. As it is, I’m back to thinking you’ve copied some photo of me from somewhere and Photoshopped it or whatever you creeps do, in order to freak me out, or to make yourself feel better about yourself.’

‘It’s not like that, Carly. Honestly, it isn’t! And I don’t even know how to use Photoshop.’

Her arms were folded tight, her lips pursed and she stood with her weight on one hip in the most disbelieving pose possible. I, on the other hand, was desperate for her to believe me. Things were hard enough at school without Carly adding to it by telling people that I was some nut with a time-travel fantasy.

More than that, though, I wanted her to believe me because …

I like her.

There. I said it. Carly started off as The Stepsister From Hell, but thanks to the adventures we went through together I grew close to her. It was just like having a real big sister. And now? I was surprised to discover that, in a world where nothing is quite right and where I’m not even sure I should be anyway, I kind of missed that. A lot.

Finally, with a dramatic toss of her head, she said, ‘I’m so disappointed. I thought you were better than this.’ She stomped to the door before turning and saying, ‘Show me it can work, Al, at the very least.’

‘I can’t, Carly!’ I said, and I could hear my voice getting high and whiny. ‘I told you: there are big gaps in the code! I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

She glared at me and blew her fringe from her eyes. ‘Well, that’s disappointing, isn’t it? For you, I mean.’

She turned to the door and I said, a bit too pleadingly, ‘So … are you going to tell?’

‘Let me think.’

Then she was off downstairs and out of the front door. From my bedroom window, I watched her go down the alleyway to the seafront. I didn’t even know if she meant, ‘Let me think about whether or not to tell Mrs Pike,’ or, ‘Let me think about a solution.’

It had to be the first. I mean, there’s no way I could fix Dad’s program.

There was simply no means of achieving what she wanted.

Ten minutes later, I got a text from her.

ABCArtInt.

Human interface artificial-intelligence bot. Free to download.

Try asking it to fix the code.

Good luck!

Artificial Intelligence? AI? An experimental technology that people say will change the world?

Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Back in my old life – my real life, if you like – when I lived with Mum and Steve, I had a clunky old laptop for homework and so on. Here, though, in this world, I have a new one. Well, newish. Nothing too expensive, but pretty nice all the same, and fast and with lots of memory. I logged in, and found that my palm was so sweaty that, when I opened my fist, the little memory stick clung to my skin.

Carly had made me curious. Could an artificial-intelligence program really repair Dad’s time-travel code?

My hand was trembling when I inserted the USB stick into the slot on the side of the laptop and opened the file that appeared on screen.

I clicked through the various dialogue boxes that popped up until …

There it was! A long – very long – series of commands and code that looked like this:

Fllp //htt 223 4445 88876549 19973720 +

RUN DOC

G & %% //: oo 18736

GO TO

——— SEND = PASS

Bbhs 7 7 7 7 you 4

Honestly, it looked as though whoever wrote it – my dad in the other world – was just hitting his keyboard randomly with boxing gloves on, and every now and then taking them off to type a proper word.

But Dad knew what he was doing. This was, after all, someone who, aged twelve, had designed a video game called ZZZZZAP!! before video games were even much of a thing and when so-called ‘artificial intelligence’ was hardly even imagined.

Next, I downloaded the program that Carly had told me about: ABCArtInt. I signed up as a ‘test user’.

Hi Albert. Welcome to ABCArtInt, an open-source Large Language Model. Ask me anything!

I typed a question on the screen:

Can you repair a damaged program?

The cursor blinked for a few moments, then typed its answer, the words appearing one by one.

If enough of the original program remains, I can generate replacement code based on patterns in the original. This would be highly experimental and would carry no guarantee of working.

If you wish to proceed, try uploading a copy of the file you wish to repair here. I will do the rest.

And so I did.

As the file was uploading, I looked at the other stuff stored on the memory stick one by one. The stuff that I saw that very first night, when I had broken into the bunker that now houses Dad’s hamsters.

There’s the one with a movie clip where Dad demonstrates the clock disappearing, which looks like a camera trick.

And there was another untitled one. I don’t recall seeing it before, but I could easily have missed it.

Once again, a little movie clip of Dad appeared, talking directly to me. It was just so strange to have a different dad from the one downstairs talking to me on the screen. It was as though he had a double. Still, there he was: my dad, with his messy hair and his wonky smile.

‘You’ll see, Al, that I have connected the black box to a zinc tub. Zinc, however, is not the only metal that will provide the magnetic resonance required for the space-temporal shift to occur. According to my calculations, aluminium and some steel alloys would also work. A car or similar would have been ideal. A garden tub, though, was the only one I could get through the door of the bunker, so that will be your vehicle. Good luck, son! And remember: don’t bring any organic matter back from …’

The picture went fuzzy and then it stopped.

ERROR ENCOUNTERED.

I played it back again.

As I watched, a strange feeling came over me. I realised that I was thinking of the man on the screen as my real dad, my original dad. And if that was the case, then what did that make my dad in this world?

Some sort of fake dad?

‘And remember: don’t bring any organic matter back from …’

How had I missed this clip – and what did it mean? Don’t bring any organic matter back from where? Back from any time travelling, I suppose. But that was okay, I told myself, as I thought back to when I had last used Dad’s device: it had just been me – me alone. Still, it made me feel uneasy and I quickly closed down the window on the screen. Then I let out a squeak of fright at the voice behind me.

‘What are you watching, Al?’

Mum was standing in the doorway. ‘It sounded like your dad’s voice,’ she said. I turned round and calculated whether or not she’d seen anything.

‘Ah, no. Just something on … on, erm … YouTube,’ I lied, and I turned back so she couldn’t see me blushing. ‘When are we going to the hospital?’

‘Al, love, I think you’d better come downstairs. Me and your dad need to talk to you.’

‘Will he get better?’ I asked in a small voice after Mum and Dad spent ten minutes trying to be gentle. I just wanted the truth, as blunt as it might be.

Dad’s lips were tight and his face was pale. ‘Not really, Al. From now, the doctors say there will be a decline in his cognitive capacity until, well … until he remembers almost nothing. But for a long time the symptoms will be variable.’

A decline in his cognitive capacity. In other words, Grandpa Byron’s brain – his glorious, wide, funny, inventive brain, including his seemingly infinite memory, with its endless Memory Palaces stuffed with facts and knowledge – will stop working. It was too much to imagine.

I said nothing, trying to take in what I’d just been told.

Do you want to know the details? Grandpa Byron has TES – traumatic encephalopathy syndrome. In short, the crash had injured the part of his brain where memories are stored.

‘Does he know?’ I said, without knowing what I would prefer the answer to be.

‘Oh aye. You can’t keep much from your grandpa,’ said Mum. ‘He knew as soon as he regained consciousness and realised his precious Memory Palaces were in a “complete ruddy mess”.’

‘So we’re not going to see him?’

‘Not this evening, Al. He’s resting.’

‘Does he blame me?’

‘Blame you, Al? Why?’

‘Because I caused the accident.’

‘Al, love. You were trying to save the cat.’

‘I’d rather have saved Grandpa Byron.’

Back upstairs, I blinked away tears as I watched the progress bar on my laptop crawl along to fill up the space, then there was a ping.

Repair complete. Click to save.

Of course I clicked to save. Even though, I told myself, I was never going to use it.

Why on earth would I want to time-travel again? Besides, we didn’t even have a garden tub like the one I used last time, so that kind of settled it.

Grandpa Byron was being kept in hospital for ‘further tests’.

The hospital wasn’t that far on the bus, and even if it had been a long way I would still have gone, but I’d been told not to visit him for a while because it tired him out.

‘Just give him time, Al, pet,’ said Mum. ‘He’s not as young as he once was.’

We didn’t know exactly how old Grandpa Byron was anyhow. He said he’d lost his documents when he first came to England years ago and had ‘forgotten’ – which, given his awesome memory, must have been about the only thing he’d ever forgotten. He said he was in his sixties, but Mum reckoned he was older and had shaved a few years off just because.

One week after the accident, though, I couldn’t wait any longer. I decided to visit anyway, straight after school, and I’d be able to stay as long as I liked because:

1. Mum thinks I’m at a school thing called Science Club, which I just made up.

2. She’s out hosting some library event till later anyway, and

3. Having checked in on Grandpa Byron, Dad left this morning for the European Hamster Council’s Annual General Meeting in Brussels.

He left me to top up the food and water in the bunker, which I did this morning.

The big, unfriendly nurse on Grandpa Byron’s ward (who Dad had nicknamed ‘Nurse Ratched’, after some old movie he liked) was there when I turned up. I said a polite, ‘Hello, I’m here to see …’

‘You cannot see ’im. He restin’.’

‘But I’ve come all the way fr—’

‘You can wait downstair. Café. Visitin’ time not for fifteen more minutes. Go.’ She flicked a finger at the double ward doors.

As I moved towards them, they burst open and a porter pushed through a wheeled trolley. Nurse Ratched had turned her attention back to a young male doctor and was giggling at something he said, so she didn’t notice when I doubled back and, concealing myself behind the porter, scuttled past the big desk and into Grandpa Byron’s corridor.

The door to his room was open. I was pleased that he looked a little bit more like the grandpa I knew. The swelling in his face had gone down, and he was no longer hooked up to any machines, although his head was still bandaged. His long grey hair stuck out from beneath a close-fitting turban of surgical dressings.

It was his eyes, though, that drew my attention. Instead of being pin-sharp and alert, they seemed watery and unfocused when he turned his head to look at me.

‘Hiya?’ I said.

He blinked slowly in reply and his mouth moved a bit before he spoke. ‘Al?’ he croaked. Then, as though he had heard how old and wobbly he sounded, he cleared his throat, blinked hard and started again. ‘Al! Hello, bonny lad. You’re early. Come on in.’

Early? It was 4 p.m. I didn’t know he was expecting me.

I longed to re-establish the routine we used to have in My Other Life. Back then, I would often visit Grandpa Byron at his home, and we’d drink the sweet milky tea called chai and eat Indian sweets. I took out the vacuum flask that had been in my backpack since this morning.

‘I’ve brought chai, Grandpa Byron,’ I said, and again he looked at me like a cloud had passed between us.

He said, ‘Chai? When did you learn to …’ Then he stopped for a second before grinning. ‘Of course! Chai! Yes, please – you’re excellent at makin’ chai, aren’t you? And I have made some Bombay mix to have with it.’

‘You’ve made some? How?’ And it was my turn to stop myself.

Grandpa Byron used to make Bombay mix himself, and it was the best: sweet and salty and spicy. We even gave it its own name, ‘Mumbai Bix’, for a joke. But he couldn’t have made any here, in hospital, and he’d obviously forgotten the joke name.

He was distracted from answering me by the theme tune of our favourite TV quiz, MindGames, coming from the little television mounted on the wall. I poured chai into two plastic cups.

On TV, the presenter said, ‘For fifty points, Erin and Alice, in which year did Lyndon B. Johnson become president of the USA?’

I glanced across at Grandpa Byron, expecting him to answer straight away. Questions like this are an absolute piece of cake for him. Thanks to his astonishing Memory Palaces system, he has lists of presidents, prime ministers, World Cup goal-scorers, Oscar winners all in his head, so I was just waiting for him to bark the right answer.

Except he didn’t. He sat there, blinking, eyes cast down, lips moving as he tried to recall, then he took a sip of chai, almost like he was embarrassed. I said nothing and waited for the next question. It was no big deal. I mean – he wasn’t a machine. He did sometimes get the answers wrong!

‘The answer you wanted, ladies, is 1963. All right, for one hundred points now, and a crack at round two, answer me this. Which common household rodent has the Latin name Mesocricetus auratus? Take your time …’

I needed no time and shouted the answer: ‘Syrian hamster!’ (Well, I should have known that, shouldn’t I?)

I looked across at Grandpa Byron, expecting him to be pleased that I answered one correctly, but he was still muttering to himself. ‘I got it right, Grandpa Byron!’ I said and he just nodded distractedly.

‘Nineteen sixty-three,’ he murmured. ‘Kennedy assassinated, Johnson became president. How was I not knowing that?’ Then he turned to me, grinned and said something that sent a chill down my back.

‘Now then, how’s that bogie of yours doin’, Pye? The Lean Mean Whatsitsname? Been out on it lately?’

I stared at Grandpa Byron in astonishment. He was thinking of the Lean Mean Green Machine, obviously: the home-made go-cart, or ‘bogie’, that Dad had had back in 1984. Hang on … he called me Pye!

‘G-Grandpa Byron,’ I stammered, ‘it … it’s me. Al. Y-your grandson.’

He blinked hard, then said, ‘Why aye, man. Course you are. What are you on about?’

‘You called me Pye. My dad’s name.’

‘Did I? Ee, what am I like?’ He sipped his chai. ‘Good tea, Al! You always were good at makin’ the old chai, eh? Now then, how are these two lassies gettin’ on wi’ MindGames?’

We turned back to the television, although I could hardly concentrate. This time, Grandpa Byron got one or two questions right, but I wasn’t really paying attention. See, if it was just getting my name wrong, I wouldn’t be worried. Everyone does that from time to time. It was the Lean Mean Green Machine thing. And missing a simple quiz question.

Mum and Dad had warned me, but I hadn’t really believed them. Could Grandpa Byron, possessor of the greatest memory I have ever known, the author of the book The Memory Palaces of the Sri Kalpana, actually be losing his wonderful memory?

‘Lake Titicaca!’ he answered to the TV, then he turned to me, smiling. ‘Easy-peasy lemon … lemon, erm … lemon drizzle cake.’ Then he squinted and shook his head as though he knew that wasn’t right.

We sat there together for the longest time, saying nothing. I felt something wet on my cheek and, reaching up, I found a tear, which I wiped away secretly.

Lemon drizzle cake set me off, I think.

‘Do not cry for me, Al,’ said Grandpa Byron after a few moments in silence. Suddenly his voice was clear and, when I looked up, the sparkle had returned to his eyes and it was as if nothing was different. ‘I saw you, son. I know what’s goin’ on – and I know you do too.’

‘You do?’ I said with a sniff.

‘Oh yes indeed. And it is something that I hope to be able to bear.’ His attention was momentarily caught by the television and he shouted, ‘Moscow!’ to a question I didn’t even hear. Then he tutted when the answer was given as Los Angeles.

He turned his head to me, slowly. ‘Although, Al, if that time machine of yours is still workin’, I cannot think of a better time to use it, hmm?’

I felt as though all the air had been forced out of my chest, and it was a few seconds till I realised what my grandpa had just said. I stammered, ‘D-do you mean … what I think you mean?’

Grandpa Byron pushed himself up in his hospital bed and took a couple of deep breaths as he considered what to say. Suddenly he seemed ten years younger. Dad had warned me that his mental decline could be inconsistent, but I did not imagine that the changes might come and go this suddenly.

He said, ‘Indeed I doodie-do. Or I did. Of course, what you call time travel was nowt of the sort. You told me so yourself.’

‘I did?’

‘Interdimensional something or other. As you know, me memory is not what it was.’

‘Relatively Shifting Between Spacetime Dimensions’ was how my dad had described it in the letter he’d left for me to open on my birthday. But even he had said ‘time travel’ would do as a description.

Grandpa Byron said, ‘Do you even understand what that means, Al?’

I wobbled my head like he does and he laughed. I murmured, ‘Do you?’

Instead of answering me directly, he said, ‘Did I ever show you the book I wrote? The Memory Palaces of the Sri Kalpana?’

This was the book about memory – and lots more besides – that Grandpa Byron had lent to me back when … well, back when I was first dabbling with time travel. It was very complicated and difficult to read. I had not got far with it, to be honest.

‘You did. Only that was in another time.’

‘No, Al. It was in another dimension. The ancient scholars of the Sri Kalpana understood this. That our world is not unique. There are billions, trillions, an infinite number of worlds just like ours, differing in an infinite number of ways. There are—’

‘Yeah,’ I interrupted. ‘The multiverse. But where are they, these other worlds?’

Now it was his turn to do the head wobble. He waved his hand in a circular motion. ‘They are all around us, Al. The ancient scholars even suggested that they are within us.’

Oh, here we go. I sighed a little inwardly. Talk of worlds within us and the infinite capacity of the universe is always likely to tire me quickly. And, of course, Grandpa Byron may not have been thinking straight.

I said, ‘Hmm. And you get to them how? Don’t tell me – by meditating?’ I was trying not to sound scornful, but I obviously failed, to judge from the dark look that passed over Grandpa Byron’s face. ‘I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …’

He frowned. ‘It is not to be expected that a boy of your age should grasp the vastness of the infinite. It often befuddles this old noggin too. It seems, though, that the method you used was, shall we say, a short-cutting? You were travelling to a different world – a different universe, indeed – enabling you to access outcomes that were more, ah … pleasing to you. You did not want to live in a world in which your father had died, and, Lord knows, I cannot blame you for that. And my dear son did not want that for you, either. So, thanks to his genius, a machine was created that allowed you to change worlds. Except …’

He stopped, mid-sentence, as if a switch had been flicked. ‘Except what?’ I said.

He blinked and then shook his head. ‘Except you cannot change you, Al. You are always with you.’

I let this sink in for a moment. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t even considered this before, but here it was, stated in plain – well, plainish – English, by Grandpa Byron.

‘So the world I did live in still exists?’

‘I should say it definitely does, Al. Probably.’

‘Then you …’ I cast my eyes round the room and landed my gaze back on my grandpa. ‘You’re not my real Grandpa Byron. None of this is my world. Mum and Dad are not …’

I left the words hanging, momentarily overwhelmed with regret that I had ever left my old world.

Grandpa Byron gave his mysterious little smile again. ‘That does sound like a distinctly feasible possibility. When your father died, you ran away from that hardship in your life, Al. And when you do that you can only make things worse. For you cannot run away from yourself. If you try, you will disappear!’

We stayed silent for a while, then Grandpa Byron cleared his throat and said, ‘But the absence of so-called doppelgängers in your travels is a mystery. You know what a doppelgänger is, Al?’

I nodded. ‘I think of them as “space twins”.’

Grandpa Byron giggled. ‘Hee hee! Space twins! How very well you put it, Al. Replicas of you, differing in only tiny ways. And yet you have never encountered one. Why might that be?’

I had read Dad’s letters so many times during my travels with Alan Shearer that large portions of them were committed to memory. I said, ‘The laws of spacetime – even though we may not yet fully understand them – seem to be beautifully arranged to prevent such chaos.’

Grandpa Byron grunted and repeated, ‘Seem to be, eh? So where’s your doppelgänger in this world, Al? Surely there should be a double of you living with your mum and dad, no?’

I had thought of this too, without ever coming up with a proper answer. I was so relieved to be back in my home, with my dad alive, that I was very, very content simply to shrug and accept things as they were.

As if reading my mind, Grandpa Byron said, ‘You just accepted it because it was good?’

‘I guess so.’

He let a long pause hang in the warm air between us. Then suddenly he clapped his hands together and winced because he had forgotten that one of them was still sore, and he sat up straight. ‘Would you kindly fetch my shoes and my trousers? I have a fulminant urge to eat chicken jalfrezi and tarka dal from the Spice of the Sands in Culvercot with a geet big fluffy naan bread and some of that delicious—’

‘You’re … you’re leaving?’

He swung his long brown legs over the side of the bed and, arms outstretched, performed two deep knee bends, making his joints crackle like a popcorn machine. He breathed in and out with a loud ‘Haaaah!’ then he cleared his throat noisily.

‘Why aye, man. I’m just occupyin’ a bed here. And the food is unspeakable. Ah, give us me shirt as well, please.’

Suddenly my grandfather was a flurry of activity, hopping round the small hospital room, looking for a sock, putting the wrong arm in his shirtsleeve and urging me to either get out of his way or to stop standing around ‘like a colossal nincompoop’ and help him.

‘We don’t have a garden tub,’ I blurted out. ‘I mean, if that’s what you were thinking …’

I didn’t hear the door open behind me.

‘Brian! Brian!’ came the shocked voice of Nurse Ratched. ‘What on earth you doin’?’ She glared at me. ‘And I thought I told you to wait.’

Grandpa Byron stopped, holding a sock in one hand, his shirt buttoned up unevenly. ‘Ah! My dear ward sister!’ He beamed at her. ‘Kindly convey my warmest thanks to the doctors and your staff for their wonderful care and to the caterers for their, ah …’ He glanced at the plate of uneaten whatever it was. ‘For their noble efforts in no doubt difficult circumstances.’

‘But … but you cannot just leave, Brian.’

‘Number one, me name is Byron. By-rrrron. Two, I most certainly can leave. And, three, I most certainly shall.’

‘But you gotta be examined! Sign papers, voluntary discharge. This is against regulations!’

Grandpa Byron shoved his toothbrush into the top of a small leather bag and zipped it up. Then he turned to the nurse who was blocking the door with her bulk, hands on her hips, jaw thrust forward angrily.

‘God bless our wonderful NHS, et cetera, et cetera. Thank you for your care. Now, nurse: unless you propose to rugby-tackle an old man to the floor, I suggest most heartily that you stand aside. Al … follow me. Good day, sister.’

She knew she was no match for him. As Grandpa Byron strode through the doorway, I managed to shoot her a look that was meant to say, Very sorry, as well as, I’ve no idea, either.

Grandpa Byron was several paces ahead of me as I struggled after him, his spare clothes trailing from the leather bag I was carrying.

‘It is most surprising, the recovery I’m feeling … ta very much, goodbye!’ he said to the astonished nurses at the desk at the end of the ward. ‘Al – what you said there has made me realise something … Excuse me, after you, Doctor …’

No one pursued us out of the ward. The lift doors were closing as we approached and Grandpa Byron picked up speed to wedge his foot in the space. When the doors slid shut, we were alone in the lift. I was panting, but he smiled serenely as we descended in silence.

When the doors opened, he was off again, dodging nimbly through the busy hospital foyer, leaving me far behind, open-mouthed in astonishment. Then he turned and called back to me, attracting puzzled glances from everyone.

‘My future is in your hands, my boy – but presently we must visit the past!’

An hour or so later, Grandpa Byron burped quietly, pushed his empty plate away and said, ‘As excellent as ever, Tarun. Almost as good as your papa-ji used to make. Perhaps a little less cumin next time, hm?’

Until he had started eating – that is, from the moment he’d left the hospital and for the whole taxi journey to the restaurant – Grandpa Byron had kept up an exhausting monologue that sometimes made sense and sometimes didn’t. I’m sure the taxi driver thought he was off his rocker, and maybe he was right. When we got out, he gave me a sympathetic smile, rolled his eyes and murmured, ‘Good luck with him, son!’

Grandpa Byron didn’t stop talking till his first mouthful of poppadom and it was nearly all to do with using the so-called time machine to go back to last week, before the tuk-tuk accident, and, quite simply, watch out for the cat. Whenever I tried to say it would not be possible, he listened, then seemed to forget what I’d just said.

The waiter smiled and said to me, ‘Some more for you, young sir?’ but I shook my head, trying not to stare. Tarun. The man before me was the man in the corner shop that I tried to steal from back in 1984 – much older now, but still easily recognisable. Of course, he didn’t recognise me.

The chicken jalfrezi was so spicy it made me sweat and a bead of moisture fell from my forehead on to the tablecloth. It was late afternoon and the restaurant was empty apart from us. Tarun pulled up a chair to our table.

‘So, you are better, Byron-ji? They said you were going to die!’

‘Well, they were right.’ There was a twinkle in my grandpa’s eye. ‘We are all going to die, Tarun, man. Only not yet. Now then, I believe you’ve been lookin’ after me vehicle?’

The Spice of the Sands was back-to-back with a car-repair garage. Tarun took us through the restaurant kitchen and out the back, past the bins and through a connecting door to the garage where we were greeted by a thin woman wearing a thick cardigan over a sari.

‘Good afternoon, Simi,’ said Grandpa Byron, cheerily. ‘You’re looking especially lovely today. You’ve met my grandson, Al?’

Simi smiled bashfully at the compliment and tugged at her cardigan. She pointed to the bandage that was still wrapped round Grandpa Byron’s head. ‘I thought you were in hospital? That crash, I mean …’

‘Nowt to worry about, my dear Simi. Couple of aspirins and I was as right as, erm … right as … writer’s cramp.’

Simi looked puzzled but smiled again anyway. Grandpa Byron shook his head a little like a wet dog, and then we followed Simi past two or three cars with their bonnets up where men in overalls were working. One of them joined us at Grandpa Byron’s tuk-tuk in the corner of the workshop.

‘It wasn’t too badly damaged, Byron,’ said the man, Balvinder. ‘No harm to the motor, thankfully. Thing is, electric vehicles like this are not really my thing. It’s more like a computer on wheels.’ He crouched down and unplugged a cable from beneath the steering bar. It was connected to a laptop, grimy with oily fingerprints. ‘I’ve replaced the zinc panel here, and your front forks took a bad knock …’

‘And the battered fish?’ said Grandpa Byron. ‘Ahem. That is, the … ah … the battery. Battery!’

Balvinder looked at him oddly, then continued. ‘I’ve replaced it: new regulations. The original still works, though. It’s all charged up ready to go. We took it for a test, me and Simi, last night. You get some funny looks in this thing, I can tell you.’

Grandpa Byron eased himself into the driving seat at the front and pressed the blue start button. The tuk-tuk coughed into life and I hopped in.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked and Grandpa leaned in close to me.

‘Where? More like when, bonny lad! Where’s that contraption of yours with all the gubbins?’

I sighed a little and I felt my insides churn. He’s not well. He’s not thinking straight.

‘It … it’s at home. But I really think—’

‘Let us jolly well go then! Make way, make way!’ He tucked in a loose flap of bandage round his head and we reversed out of the workshop.

I heard Balvinder mutter to Simi as they stepped aside, ‘Flaming heck. What’s up with Byron? Did you hear him? Are we sure he should be driving?’

I didn’t hear her response because there was a clatter of empty oil cans as Grandpa Byron backed into them and then sped out of the workshop, the motor whining like an angry sewing machine.

It was only a few minutes till we were back at my house. Carly was sitting on the wall by our front drive, scrolling on her phone. She looked up at the noise of the tuk-tuk approaching and scowled, looking pointedly at the watch on her wrist. We passed her and glided up the driveway.

‘Friend of yours? She doesn’t look very … friendly,’ murmured Grandpa Byron, killing the motor of the tuk-tuk by pressing the button. Carly eyed Grandpa Byron’s bandaged head, opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind.

Back when I’d first known Carly, she had not been very nice about my grandpa. She reckoned he smelled – which he did, of course – everybody has their own smell, as any dog can tell you. I think Grandpa Byron’s smell – sort of minty from his hair-oil and liquorice-y from his toothpaste – is one of the nicest things about him, and so I was steeling myself for Carly saying something snide, or reacting badly when Grandpa Byron approached her and said a friendly, ‘Hello, young miss.’ But she didn’t.

Give it time, I told myself. Even when Carly returned his warm smile, I didn’t quite trust her.

‘Let me guess. You must be Carly,’ said Grandpa Byron. She looked surprised.

‘How do you—’

Grandpa Byron winked at her. ‘Ah, but like seeds cast on a wind, your fame travels far and wide, young lady.’

She wrinkled her brow, and I sighed inwardly. I was guessing that Grandpa Byron has remembered what I told him about my adventures. He was, after all, the one who paid me most attention. I definitely told him about Carly and how she looked. I wish he hadn’t said that, though: Carly was suspicious enough of me anyway; throw an eccentric old man into the mix and who could tell what she’d do?

She did nothing. I suppose she thought I’d been talking about her, which was a bit uncomfortable, but she already reckoned I was strange anyway.

‘Ha’way then – I daresay you too want to see this wonderful time machine?’

Carly looked at me, then at Grandpa Byron. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ she said, as prickly as she ever was. ‘I thought you said it was a secret?’

Grandpa Byron learned his English in India when he was a boy. He once told me he tried to memorise all the words in the English dictionary, without knowing for sure which ones were still used and which ones weren’t.

Anyway, right now he comes up with a beauty. The three of us were in my room, and he looked at the burnt-out laptop, the black box, and the other bits of junk attached to it laid out on my bed. Then he sucked his teeth and said, ‘Well. That is decidedly unpropitious.’

‘Decidedly … what?’

He tutted. ‘Unpropitious, Al. Honestly, I sometimes am wondering if you speak English at all.’

From his tone, I guessed that unpropitious means, well … unpromising? Unlikely to work. I went with that anyway.

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Like I’ve been saying, there’s no chance it’ll work. We may as well forget about the whole—’

Carly chipped in. ‘But, Al – you said you’d repaired the code.’

Gee, thanks, Carly. I gave her a fierce shut up look, which I had to switch off quickly when Grandpa Byron turned to look at me quizzically, one eye shut tight. ‘You repaired all the computerising code? How the golly gosh did you do that?’

‘AI!’ said Carly, cheerfully. ‘It was my idea. Artificial Intelligence.’

‘I know what it is,’ he said, a bit crisply. ‘But – can this be trusted? Because everything I have heard suggests it is most considerably treacherous. How can a machine replicate the glorious wonders of the human mind, Al?’

I couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Stop!’ I said. ‘Just … stop it! Both of you. You have to listen.’

And so there, in my bedroom, as Carly and Grandpa Byron sat on the edge of my bed, I did my best to explain Dad’s Law of Doppelgängers.

‘I don’t know how,’ I said, ‘but something prevents you travelling to a period in time – past or future – where you already exist. You can’t meet your double – your “space twin”. It’s why, when I wanted to warn my dad about going on the Lean Mean Green Machine, I had to send a letter back in time instead of getting in the machine and travelling myself.’

The two of them sat for a moment in silence. Then Grandpa Byron leapt to his feet, making Carly and me jump with surprise.

‘That’s it, my boy!’ he cried. ‘A letter! We can use this wonderful device to send a letter back in time, just as you did, and warn me!’ He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me towards him, kissing the top of my head in his joy while Carly looked on, bemused.

Grandpa Byron had obviously forgotten what he’d said about AI being untrustworthy.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘are you, that is … are we actually, you know, going to use this? Because I’m not at all sure …’

Grandpa Byron looked so hard into my eyes that I had to turn away. When I did, he extended a long brown finger and gently turned my chin so that I was forced to look back into his deep green eyes.

‘You were, I believe, considering the possibility of using time travel once again to prevent a certain accident?’

‘No. You were,’ I said.

‘This way will be much, much safer. Do you not see?’

‘No, I don’t!’ I said, trying to prevent my voice from rising in pitch, which made me sound panicky. ‘You always said it was a “ludicrous adventure” – you know, don’t mess with time and all of that. It was in your Sri Kalpana book.’

It sounded like I’d read the book. I hadn’t, but I remembered him saying it.

‘I said that?’ said Grandpa Byron, furrowing his brow. ‘When?’

‘Well … when I was, you know … when I had the machine before. And you thought that interfering with nature’s laws was dangerous.’

‘I said that as well, did I?’

‘Well, not you exactly. The version of you that I knew back then. I think:’

‘So not me, in other words? Because, you see, I think – that is, this version of me thinks – that if nature hands you the opportunity to do something as utterly fantastic as this then it must be the very thing that you have to do. Come wi’ me – I have the most canny and splendiferous potion. Ocean. Notion! That’s it.’

I’m getting desperate. ‘But just now,’ I shouted, ‘in the hospital – you said you can’t run away from yourself!’

Grandpa Byron wasn’t listening. Without waiting for me and Carly, he gathered up the laptop, and everything else from my bed and headed out of my room. ‘Ha’way, you two! Time and tide wait for no, for no … erm, forever and ever, amen. Follow me!’

Carly tugged my sleeve and mouthed the words, What the flip? at me. She tapped her temple with her forefinger and I could only shrug.

‘But, Grandpa Byron … wait. I mean …’ Once again, I was left watching him as he skipped ahead of me and down the stairs.

He is not okay! went a tiny voice in my head. I mean, Grandpa Byron had always been enthusiastic about things, and he had never, that I can remember, condescended to me. That is, he’d always addressed me like a friend, using long words and expressions and just assuming that I would catch on to their meaning, or ask. And he was always right.

But this? This was next-level enthusiasm, and it was exhausting.

Grandpa Byron drove the tuk-tuk into the garage, leaving just enough space over the entrance to the hamster bunker. What with the rest of the stuff that we store there, there really wasn’t very much room. He ushered Carly and me on to the back seat of his tuk-tuk.

‘Are we going somewhere, Gramps, because—’

‘No, no, my girl. Have no fear. It’s quite simple. Allow me to explain.’

And he did. And – at the time, when he said it – it did not sound completely crazy. We would hook up the laptop with the repaired program to a shiny aluminium pot that Grandpa Byron had taken from one of Mum’s houseplants in the kitchen.

Following my instructions, he clamped a wire to the plant pot with a metal clip. Then he extracted a blunt pencil from his stripy trousers and quickly scribbled something on the back of an old envelope.

‘What do you think, Al?’ said Grandpa Byron. ‘Exceedingly super-brilliant, or what?’

I peered at what he had written, but I don’t read Punjabi. It looked like this:

‘It’s a letter to myself! We’ll send it two weeks into the past to warn me about the cat that will dart out in front of my tuk-tuk at about three forty-five p.m. on the day we crashed!’

‘But it can’t work!’ I say. ‘It’s not time travel. It’s spacetime dimensional whatnot! All you’d be doing …’

‘But it worked for you, did it not?’ said Grandpa Byron. ‘You sent the letter to your father, and everything changed around you!’

‘Well, yes, but …’ I realised that I could not explain what had happened. I just knew that it had.

‘Listen to me, Al.’ In a second, Grandpa Byron’s manic energy of the last hour or so seemed to diminish. ‘The one thing I’ve spent my life developin’ is my memory. As you know, I can remember every single day of my life.’

That was true. One of his Memory Palaces was devoted to maintaining a vast mental library of remembered incidents: at least one for every day since he was about ten years old.

‘Well … I could,’ he said. ‘But not now. Go on – try me.’

‘Honestly, I don’t need—’

‘Try me,’ he insisted.

I sigh. ‘Sixth of March 1978?’

Ordinarily, he’d have thought for a moment, then said something like, ‘Ah, yes. Blustery day. Umbrella turned inside out on the seafront,’ then he might have added other details if they came to him. It was incredible to see: every single day. Sometimes they were bigger things, like the day a prime minister resigned, or somebody famous won a sports tournament. This time, though, he thought, and thought, then said, ‘Nope. Can’t remember at all. See, bonny lad: me Memory Palaces are a complete ruddy mess. This way I have a chance.’

I thought about reminding him again of what he had said back in the hospital, not two hours ago. All that stuff about running away from the hardship in my life, but it was pointless. Besides, I wanted my old grandpa back. Was that so wrong?

Instead, I pointed to the scrap of paper in his hand and said, ‘But why here? Why in the tuk-tuk itself?’

‘Because that is where I am certain to find it, hmm? And anyway it has a much more reliable battery than that burnt-out old laptop of yours. Now then, Al – do you recall where Balvinder plugged everything in? It was here somewhere …’

He got on his knees to fiddle around at the front of the tuk-tuk where there was a covered USB port.

Carly, for her part, seemed to have decided that this was a great idea. I looked at her with disbelief when she said, ‘Good plan, Gramps.’ Then she jerked her head at me and drew me closer.

‘He’s crackers, Al,’ she hissed. ‘I mean, I’m sorry if that’s a bit insensitive, but …’

‘Charlie!’ called Grandpa Byron. ‘Just pass me your chewing gum, would you, Charlie? I think I’ve found something …’

Carly rolled her eyes at me, took out her gum and handed it to Grandpa Byron.

‘You are not getting anywhere unless you try,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about computers, but I am quite proficient with more mechanical stuff. Now that fits in there, which is good news, and I’ll just plug it with this.’ He pressed the chewing gum firmly against the top of a screw on the black box. ‘Just to be sure. Can’t be too careful, eh?’

He took a lighter from his pocket and used it to fuse two plastic-coated wires together, then tossed it to Carly, saying, ‘Catch!’

He stood up and stretched his back. ‘Ooh, bless my blimey!’ He was swaying very slightly, with his arm extended in front of him. ‘Stood up too quickly, I think.’

‘Are you all right?’ I said, and I took his other arm to steer him towards the battered sofa next to the old gas cooker. He had gone very pale and sank down on the lumpy cushions.

‘I … I am tippety-top, old fruit. Fruit salad. Salad tongs. King of Tonga. King of Rock and Roll … ooh dear. My mind is … mind is made up. Up, up and away …’

He was definitely not all right.

He looked up and smiled, his eyes blank. ‘Perhaps a glass of water would be, erm … would be … completely piano stool. June the sixth 1944. More turnips, Aunty William?’

‘Keep an eye on him – he’s having a turn,’ I said to Carly, who was staring at him in disbelief. I dashed off to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I returned, he gulped it thirstily, then smacked his lips.

‘I’m going to call Mum,’ I said, and I took out my phone.

But Grandpa Byron sprang to his feet, declaring, ‘No. No, Al. Please do not trouble your mam. She will only worry. I am in fine fettle, I assure you. Occasional relapses are to be expected. Sorry about that.’

I think what he meant was that Mum would try to stop him doing what he wanted to do. Still, reluctantly, I put my phone down on the workbench.

‘I think,’ said Grandpa Byron, ‘I think I need to meditate on the situation.’

He headed a little unsteadily into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Straight away, I picked up my phone again. It went to voicemail.

‘Mum, it’s Grandpa Byron,’ I said. ‘You need to come home. He’s, he’s …’ I looked over at Carly who was tapping her temple again. ‘He’s discharged himself from hospital and he’s not thinking straight. So … gimme a call.’

I put the phone down again next to Hamsterdam – the linked transparent boxes containing Alan Shearer. Perhaps he sensed the vibration because, seconds later, his little black nose emerged from the pile of wood shavings where he was sleeping. Then he yawned, which turned sharp-tongued, sarcastic Carly into a squealing six-year-old.

‘Ohmigosh, that’s so cuuuute!’ she squeaked and demanded to hold him. She cupped him in her hands and sat on the rear seat of the tuk-tuk, telling him again and again in a baby voice how lovely he was, which for all I know he really liked.

I slid into the rear seat and picked up the note that Grandpa Byron had written to himself. Carly looked up from cooing at Alan Shearer.

‘We should send it anyway,’ she said. ‘If it works, he’ll be straightened out immediately. If it doesn’t, then no harm done, eh?’

No harm done? I think I was trying to convince myself.

I turned the motor of the tuk-tuk on and as soon as I did, the screen of the laptop started to glow in a way that was familiar to me from before. This time, though, there was no passcode required – the one I could not now forget, about the kings and queens of England sung to the tune of ‘The Blaydon Races.’ Instead, the screen opened on row after row of numbers scrolling past rapidly on the half-melted screen. I should have known then that something was not right, but I said nothing and settled down next to Carly, with the aluminium flowerpot wedged between us, the computer resting on my lap.

‘What’s happening?’ said Carly, glancing over at the laptop screen and then refocusing on Alan Shearer. ‘Ooh, you’re so cuuuute!’ she said again, then she pointed at the screen. ‘Is it meant to do that? I mean, that’s just a load of code. Anyone could do—’

‘Carly,’ I said as calmly as I could, ‘I’m not sure that this is right. It didn’t do this last time.’

‘It’s not gonna … you know, launch or anything?’ she said and I reassured her that that couldn’t happen.

That was the moment I could have stopped it all, but I froze, fingers over the keyboard, mesmerised by the scrolling code. I was about to hit the ‘esc’ button and abandon the whole thing when, without me touching anything, a map appeared on the screen with a grid overlaid on it. This too was familiar from before and my heartbeat started to quicken: a memory bubbling up in me of my previous journeys. I paused.

Carly was still playing with Alan Shearer, letting him run over her hands again and again. It was funny: till then, I had never known Carly express affection for anything, really. It seemed to me that she wore this sort of invisible shell, so that nothing could make her either really happy or really sad. Her response to virtually everything was a baleful stare, a half-shrug and the pop of a gum bubble.

A hamster, though? That seemed to change her. Best of all, Alan Shearer really liked her. I know it sounds daft if you’ve never owned one, but believe me: these little rodents are perfectly capable of knowing when they like someone or not, and the way he sat in the palm of Carly’s hand, cleaning his whiskers, was a sure sign that he trusted her and that gave me a warm feeling.

‘He likes you,’ I said, looking up from the computer screen, and she smiled shyly, obviously very pleased. Carly hardly ever smiles, so that was another positive result.

Just then, I heard a voice outside. Someone was pulling at the loose garage door.

‘Oi oi! You in there, Chow?’

I groaned. That was all I needed.

I did not want to talk to Paulie MacFaddyen right now.

I got down from the tuk-tuk and looked with alarm at the rattling garage door. ‘I know you’re in there, Chow! Woss the marra? I rang y’doorbell, man.’

Slowly, the door opened with a loud creak and a shaft of sunlight burst through the crack in the door.

‘Why’d ye keep hidin’ from me, Chow?’ said Paulie, his voice simultaneously aggressive and a bit hurt. He swaggered into the garage, hands deep in the pockets of his dirty shorts. He hadn’t yet seen Carly sitting in the rear seat of the tuk-tuk.

‘Wh-what are you doing here?’ I said.

‘Chow, man. D’ye not read your messages? I said I was comin’ round to see your hamster, din’t I? By the way, I looked through your front window. That old fella y’were with the other day – is that your grandad? He’s sittin’ cross-legged in the middle of the floor wi’ his eyes shut. Is he OK?’

‘He’s … meditating.’

Paulie didn’t seem interested in the answer. Instead, he eyed the tuk-tuk with a curled lip. ‘An’ this is … what? A golf buggy?’

‘It’s a tuk-tuk. Listen, Paulie, why don’t you come back later? It’s not exactly—’

‘Later? I’ve walked all the way here in me flip-flops. They’re killin’ me.’ He kicked them off and waggled his dirty toes in relief. ‘I just wanna—’

Paulie stopped because he’d come round to the front of the tuk-tuk and was now face to face with Carly. They eyed each other for a good five seconds.

‘This, erm … this is Carly,’ I said.

‘We’ve met,’ said Carly, icily. ‘Do you remember, on the bus? Didn’t you hear what Al said? It’s not convenient at the moment.’

They stayed like that for another few seconds until Paulie squinted, then broke the silence. ‘A’reet, I can tell when I’m not welcome. Let’s just see this hamster, eh? Then I’ll be on me way. I reckon I’m gonna get one. We can be hamster buddies, eh?’

I can’t think of anyone less suitable to own a small pet like Alan Shearer than Paulie. Still, he stepped on to the metal platform at the back of the tuk-tuk next to Carly and held out his hands. Carly looked over at me for permission, and I give a little nod. I mean – what could go wrong? Still, I sat facing backwards on the front seat just to keep an eye on things.

While Alan Shearer was relaxed with Carly, he was not at all keen on Paulie. As soon as Carly dropped him into Paulie’s cupped hands, he shivered, then ran up Pauly’s forearm, trying to escape.

Paulie was irritated. ‘Hey! Hey! Don’t do that – c’mere. Come back!’

And then he did the worst thing you can do with a hamster, which is to grab it roughly. Alan Shearer responded in the way lots of creatures do if they think they’re in danger. Attack. He sank his teeth into Paulie’s thumb. making him shout out with pain and let go.

The hamster landed with a plop on the laptop keyboard that was still plugged into the motor and connected with a metal clip to Mum’s aluminium plant pot containing Grandpa Byron’s scribbled message. Relieved to be free, he scuttled around, his paws hitting different keys and making something happen on the laptop screen.

‘Oh no, no, no …’ I leaned over to pick him up and dump him in the cool box, but the damage was done. Whatever keys he had landed on started something happening in the workings of the computer, and I had no idea what.

‘Get out!’ I yelled to Carly.

She thought I was yelling at Paulie MacFaddyen, who thought so too and said, ‘Why? Calm down, man. I’m stayin’ right here. What are you doin’?’ There was no room on Carly’s side for her to get out, and Paulie was stubbornly blocking the opening on his side.

At the same time, I was frantically pressing the ‘esc’ button then the ‘return’ button and pretty much anything I could to stop the laptop.

Unplug it, Al! Good idea … but it was too late. The wobbly bubble of air that used to surround me in the garden tub now engulfed the whole of Grandpa Byron’s tuk-tuk.

‘What’s going on, Al? Al?’ shouted Carly. She stood up to get out, but as soon as she touched the bubble there was a loud noise like a bug hitting a mosquito zapper. She squealed and sat back down, holding her burnt knuckles. This hadn’t happened last time. None of this had happened last time. Still, I was pretty sure of one thing.

‘I hate to say it, Carly, but I think that, once again, I am time travelling with a hamster!’

‘We’re what?’ shouted Paulie over an unexpected loud whooshing noise that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. ‘Chow, man! What did ye say? Woss happenin’? Yoww!’ He too had pushed at the bubble and the same thing had happened, making him yelp with pain.

Then, instantly, everything went black, apart from a dull bluish glow coming from the tuk-tuk’s control panel.

I was hoping that my eyes would get used to the dark and allow me to see something, but after several seconds nothing happened. Then the whooshing sound got louder until Carly shouted, ‘Al? You there?’ I felt her hand groping for mine.

‘Yeah, I’m here. Who’s that?’ I reached forward with my other hand groping in the black and touched a face.

‘Ow, that’s me, man, Chow. What happened to the light?’

Everyone’s voices were raised over the whooshing.

‘You did this, MacFaddyen, you massive twonk,’ snarled Carly. ‘Anyway, what is going on, Al?’

‘I dunno, do I? It wasn’t like this before.’

‘What wasn’t like this before? Can’t you put this thing’s headlights on, Chow, man?’

That actually wasn’t a stupid idea. I let go of Carly’s hand and fumbled for a switch on the tuk-tuk’s control panel. On the third try, the headlights came on, but instead of lighting up the garage – the broken sofa, a rolled-up carpet, the steps down to Dad’s hamster bunker, and so on – there were just the yellowish beams shining into endless blackness, and two dials on the control panel – speed and battery power – whose lines of dots seemed to be diminishing even as I watched.

In a second – or maybe longer, like I said before, it was hard to tell – the darkness was replaced by a blinding white light so intense that it hurt my eyes. Paulie started wailing again. Carly leaned over and vomited on his shoes, and he said, ‘Ergh, I’ve just put me hand in it!’ and everything went still.

This is where I started telling you about all of this. This is where the story began.

The hot, dry landscape? The strange birds? And the hungry dinosaurs outside the cave where Carly, Paulie and I are now cowering?

That’s where we are now.

We’ve been in this cave an hour? Two? None of us has a watch and our phones are dead.

Do you remember the tortoise that I nearly used as a weapon against the dinosaur-bird? Carly, it turns out, had put it into her big coat pocket and is now trying to tempt it to eat a bit of seaweed. It’s not interested. Paulie soon got bored with tapping its shell to make its head retract and has started telling us more than we ever wanted to know about dinosaurs.

The ones outside are still prowling on the beach. There are two small ones – each about my height – and the big one that we’ve assumed is their mother. With their stubby feathers and long snouts, they’re not at all like any I’ve seen in books or films. This, Paulie reckons, is not unusual.

‘We only know about a thousand dinosaurs,’ he says. ‘There’s probably thousands more.’

It turns out that Paulie knows more than is exactly normal about dinosaurs, and it seems as though he wants to tell Carly and me every fact he has stored. And the thing is, it’s not completely boring. Well, I don’t think so anyway.

‘… but they were herbivores – they ate only plants – and no one really knows what the long necks were for. But as for Triceratops, them big frills they had on their heads? Well …’

‘Paulie? Give it a rest, eh?’ says Carly.

Paulie falls silent, casting her an aggrieved look. Then I catch his eye and I roll my eyes at Carly’s rudeness, and he smirks back at me, and I grin, and in that tiny moment there is a warmth between Paulie and me that I hadn’t known before.

Carly sighs. ‘Can we just get this straight? I mean, from the top, once more, this time making sense?’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer, but launches straight in. ‘Your grandpa Brian—’

‘Byron,’ I snap.

‘Whatever. By-ron is losing his mind thanks to an accident that you caused …’

I let it go. She’s right.

‘So he sends a scribbled note back in time to tell him to watch out for a cat in the road so that he won’t crash and lose his marbles?’

I shrug. ‘Sounds about right.’

‘But instead everything went wrong and we’re now, what, millions and millions of years ago?’

‘Well, not everything. The note in the aluminium pot has gone.’

‘Oh great,’ scoffs Carly. ‘We’re stranded in prehistory, but at least we’re the best intergalactic couriers ever. “IGC – the number-one choice for multiverse messaging!”’

I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

The cave entrance is narrow enough to keep us safe for the time being, but we’re trapped. Every now and then, one of the smaller creatures pokes its head in and sniffs, like a baker checking the oven to see if the pies are done.

I lie on the ground, resting my head against the cool box containing Alan Shearer, not caring that my back is getting soaked in a puddle of sticky liquid. The rest of the sand is littered with dried-up seaweed and piles of whitened driftwood. I look across at Paulie, sitting barefoot on the sand.

If he hadn’t taken off his flip-flops … I think, remembering how I had hung my trainers round my neck when I first used the zinc tub to go to 1984. ‘A good connection was required,’ Dad had said.

If only the cat hadn’t darted out in front of the tuk-tuk …

If only Paulie hadn’t kicked off his flip-flops …

If only Alan Shearer hadn’t bitten him …

They were all tiny events, with big consequences. I began wondering if we were at the complete mercy of such events – if anything that happened was really random.

From her coat pocket, Carly produces the lighter that Grandpa Byron had used to fuse the two wires together, and the three of us gather driftwood to create a small fire.

We sit huddled round the weak flames, feeding the fire by hand while outside the cave the sun has begun its long summer descent in the sky.

Paulie sniffs. I hadn’t noticed he’d been crying, but he takes a shaky breath afterwards and I realise that his constant chatter was just a way to stop himself sobbing. He swallows noisily and wipes his eyes with his chubby forearm.

‘’M no’ a coward,’ he says.

Carly and I both say, ‘What?’

‘That thing you said on the bus the other day. I’m not a coward.’

‘Well—’ begins Carly after a moment.

‘I’m not even a bully. It’s Victor.’ His voice is steadier now and it feels like something he has practised saying.

‘Victor Cass bullies you?’ I say in disbelief. ‘It doesn’t look like that.’

‘He’s someone to hang out with. He’s my …’ Here Paulie pauses. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘You had to think about that,’ says Carly, but not meanly. Paulie sniffs again and throws a handful of dry moss on the fire.

‘I thought you were my friend, Chow. But then lately … you know?’

Poor Paulie. He sniffs deeply again. ‘I don’t like Victor. That’s why …’ He looks at me, squints, then looks away. ‘We were friends. You and me. And then you came back to school and you were all, like, snotty wi’ me. Why was that?’

And now it’s my turn to feel bad.

‘It was a different me,’ I say.

And, as simply as I can, I try to explain exactly what has gone on, and why. From the day I received the letter from my dad, to meeting Paulie’s dad as a toddler, how his Uncle Paul nearly drowned. (I miss out the bit about the cat on the beach.) Carly and Paulie’s astonished faces glow orange in the light of the fire. I mean, Carly’s heard it before, but I guess it bears retelling.

‘This is the truth, Chow?’ says Paulie, eventually. ‘I mean – you’re not …?’

‘Every word.’

His eyes widen. ‘You met me granny? What was she like?’

I thought back to the woman I’d met in 1984, and this time I do lie. ‘She was nice,’ I say, and he smiles. ‘Really nice,’ I add.

‘I never met her. Dad says she was horrible but, y’know, why should I believe him?’

There’s a low screech from outside the cave.

‘Barney’s back,’ says Carly, but Paulie barely hears her. He rests his forehead on his knees and lets out a wail of fear and anguish.

‘What are we gonna do? I mean … people will notice we’ve gone, won’t they? Me mam’ll be dead worried.’

I nod. ‘I reckon the tuk-tuk battery will have recharged by now: it’s had a good blast of sunshine on the solar generator. But, erm …’ I hesitate, not wanting to voice the bad news.

‘But what?’ says Paulie.

Carly and I creep to the cave entrance and I point at the sky, now a deep pink. ‘Look at that raincloud over there. It’s been building up for the last hour. It’s gonna pour down soon.’

I really don’t fancy the chances of either the tuk-tuk or the laptop in a rainstorm. We have to get back to it soon. We’re all hungry and thirsty – including poor Alan Shearer who has curled up in the bottom of the plastic cool box.

‘They’re reptiles, aren’t they? Dinosaurs?’ says Carly.

‘Archosaurs of the genus Reptilia,’ mumbles Paulie from behind us, without lifting his head from his knees.

Carly’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Get you!’ she says. ‘We’ve just done this in biology, right? Reptiles are cold-blooded. That means they’ll be inactive when the sun goes down because it’ll be too cold.’

‘The ones in Jurassic Park were pretty active at night,’ I say. She gives me a withering look.

‘That was fiction, Al. This is real, and so is the trouble we’re in. We need to wait a little longer till the sun has gone down, then we can get back to the tuk-tuk and, you know … go home?’

I move closer to the fire and throw on one of the last pieces of driftwood. Carly returns from the mouth of the cave.

‘Can’t see them,’ she says.

I have picked up a long branch and I’m trying to light it to use as a torch. Of course, like any stick you try to light, the flame quickly dies down when I remove it from the fire. After a couple of goes, I toss it to one side. Seconds later, there’s the flicker of a bluish flame where the stick landed, and it keeps burning as though the sand around it is on fire.

‘What the …?’ says Carly. She gets up and has a closer look, touching the sand near where it burns. She rubs her fingers and then sniffs them.

‘Here – what do you think?’ She extends her fingers. They smell faintly of roadworks.

‘I know – it’s like that stuff they put on mended roads!’

‘That’s tar,’ says Paulie. ‘Does tar burn like that?’

‘Looks like it,’ I say. I bend down and get some of the sticky stuff on my fingers. ‘We need some fabric. I’ve got an idea.’

‘Well, I’m not getting undressed in front of you two,’ says Carly. She points to Paulie. ‘Come on, Paulie. Off with your shirt.’

He looks aggrieved and points to me. ‘What about h—’

‘Do you want to help or don’t you?’ snaps Carly. Sulkily, Paulie pulls off his red-and-white-striped football top.

‘Better be worth it,’ he mutters. ‘Me best Sunderland top, tharriz.’

A few moments later, I have covered Paulie’s shirt with as much of the tar as I can. There’s loads of sand mixed in as well, but I can’t help that. I wrap it tightly round the driftwood stick and hold it to the fire where it smokes and sparks before bursting into a blue and yellow flame.

‘This is going to protect us, is it?’ says Carly, trying to sound hopeful.

‘Might do. I mean, you see it in films, don’t you? You know – holding back a lion or something with a flaming branch?’ She looks doubtful.

The last, longer stick of driftwood is near the mouth of the cave and the pool of sticky oil is not all used up yet. Carly takes off the black hoodie that’s under her long coat and gets as much of the gloop on it as she can. ‘This was a birthday present,’ she says. ‘My dad’ll be furious.’

As she says it, there’s the distant screech of the baby dinos. ‘It’ll be your dad or their mum,’ I say. I thought I was being funny – you know, a little quip to lighten the mood like cool characters do in films. But then I see her face fall and the genuine terror etched across it, and I realise what an idiot I sound like. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’

There are no more driftwood branches, so we’ll have to make do with two torches between the three of us. I follow Carly out of the cave, carrying the cool box containing Alan Shearer.

‘Come on – we don’t have long,’ she says. ‘These torches aren’t going to last more than a few minutes. Hang on – where’s Paulie?’

I look behind us back into the cave, but it’s almost totally dark in there now. ‘Paulie?’ I shout into the darkness, but there’s no reply. I go further, towards the embers of the fire that we’d left, Carly behind me, and there he is, crouched against the back wall, hugging his knees with terror.

‘Paulie! For God’s sake, man, you’ve gotta come now – we haven’t got long!’ I was almost shouting, and it made Paulie flinch.

‘I ca … ca …’ he stammers, while curling further back, as if the wall behind him could somehow swallow him up.

‘You can! You have to!’ This time I really am shouting.

‘Shush,’ says Carly, sharply. She casts her torch aside and approaches Paulie, bending down on her haunches and picking up something from the ground that I can’t see in the flickering light.

‘Here, Paulie,’ she says in almost a whisper. ‘Take this. I need you to help me bring this back. I can’t carry her properly if I’ve got the torch, but you can. Just walk between me and Al, and we’ll take it easy, eh?’

What on earth is she talking about? I’m boiling over with nerves and frustration.

‘Take it easy?’ I squeak. ‘I don’t think … ow!’

Without looking, Carly has reached behind her and slapped me sharply on the leg. ‘You okay with that, Paulie? Come on now. Take her. Her name is, erm … What do you reckon her name is?’

It takes ages, maybe thirty seconds, during which I’m casting nervous looks back at the cave opening and at the flame I am holding. Eventually, he looks up at Carly, his eyes wet but trusting, and then back down at what he’s holding in his cupped hands. He looks about six years old. ‘Tortellini?’ he says in a small voice.

Carly chuckles as if genuinely amused, and, to be fair, it is quite a good name. ‘Perfect! And you’re gonna be the first person in history to own a prehistoric tortoise. Now, come on, on your feet.’

Slowly, Paulie stands up. He sniffs, swallows hard and then clears his throat as if embarrassed.

I risk saying, ‘Come on, pal. Follow me.’ I raise my torch, and lead the way out of the cave.

The sun has almost set, the pink sky has morphed into a dark violet, and the light from the stars is unlike anything I have ever seen before. Huge white smears across the black sky and endless, endless pinpricks of brilliance, and the moon isn’t even up yet. I wish I was in the mood to appreciate it.

We’re only five metres or so out of the cave and clambering up the steep incline when I feel the first fat raindrops. One hits the torch I’m holding and it sizzles. Then I hear a dinosaur roar behind us.

I hadn’t taken much notice of Paulie’s limp before. But it turns out he cannot run as fast as me, or even Carly (and Carly is not what you’d call athletic). Despite our promise of keeping him between us, he soon falls behind. Copying Carly, I’m trying to be gentle and positive, saying things like, ‘Come on, mate – keep up! Not far!’ while inside I’m screaming, Hurry up, you flaming idiot! Do you want us all to be eaten?

Carly and I have scrambled to the top of the sloping cliff and we are already about ten metres ahead of him. The yellow cool box with Alan Shearer in it bangs against my legs as I run.

‘Ha’ad on, man! Wait for me!’ Paulie screams as he too gets to the top. He’s still holding Tortellini in both hands and I want to say, ‘Just drop the flippin’ tortoise, man!’ I can see a young dino gaining on Paulie, with the other one a few metres behind.

The mother is nowhere to be seen. I have a horrible feeling that she has said to her children, ‘Go on – these ones are for you.’

I can’t just leave Paulie to the mercy of these beasts. I shout to Carly, ‘Run ahead! Start the tuk-tuk – big blue button – and come back. We can hold them off.’

‘No, Al—’

‘Just GO!’ I shout and I turn back to Paulie.

Why? I cannot say. It was a stupid decision. I know that in seconds. Surely it means we’ll both be killed? I glance back and see the torch that Carly is carrying getting nearer to where we left the tuk-tuk.

Paulie has slowed right down, wheezing for breath, his leg now dragging behind him, and I run back to him, my flaming torch held high. Both of the young dinosaurs have stopped about three metres away, wary of approaching the flame that is now spitting as more raindrops hit it. Either of them could destroy me in seconds with a bite or the swipe of a tail, or a slash from the vicious claws at the end of their limbs.

Neither Paulie nor I speak. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. We’re on level ground now, and the smallest dino has edged round to my right, getting closer. It opens its mouth as though yawning, though it might just be trying to frighten me. If so, it’s working.

‘Do … do you think they’re getting used to the fire?’ says Paulie.

I swish the torch around towards the other beast, making the flame glow brighter, but it doesn’t seem to flinch.

‘Could be. And it’s not gonna last much longer anyway. Come on, Carly.’

I dare to look at the tip of the torch. Sure enough, I can see patches where the tar has burnt out and it’s definitely not as bright as before. Seconds later, there’s the merest flicker of a blue flame remaining.

‘Here, take it, quick,’ I say, and I pass it to Paulie, who holds it in one hand, his other clutching Tortellini.

I rest the cool box on the ground, and quickly take off my T-shirt.

‘There’s tar on the back of this from before,’ I say. ‘It may catch fire.’

I hold it to the torch and it lights quickly, sending up a tongue of flame and causing me to yell in pain as it burns my fingers. I wave it up and down at the smaller dinosaur who has started to come yet closer, and I even advance a couple of paces.

‘Yaah! Go on! Go away!’

It emits a throaty hiss and staggers backwards. I need a weapon and there’s only one thing I can think of. It is dangerous, but not as dangerous as getting eaten by a small scary-saurus.

With my T-shirt flaming on the ground and keeping one eye on the spitting beast, I take out Alan Shearer from the cool box. Holding him as carefully as I can, I shove him down the front of my trousers, inside my underpants. It won’t be for long.

‘Please don’t bite, matey,’ I murmur. Thankfully, I feel him wriggling, but he seems to trust me.

I bend to pick up a big rock with both hands, dropping it in the cool box with a thud. The little dino takes its chance to dart forward.

‘Get lost! No!’ I scream.

My T-shirt is almost out of flame, and the larger creature is getting more confident. Paulie yells some words that would get him an immediate detention at school and I see the beast approach him with open jaws.

They are both only about two metres away from us when I hear the whine of the tuk-tuk behind us, but it’s going to arrive too late. In one movement, I kick the tattered T-shirt, still flickering with flame, at the smaller creature and then swing the heavy cool box in a wide arc.

My idea was to release it to connect with its head. It would have worked too if I’d been a better shot. Instead, it glances against the beast’s neck and it barely notices, before leaning forward and emitting a demonic roar that stinks of rotting vegetation and old fish.

Suddenly we’re bathed in a pool of brilliant light as Carly finds the tuk-tuk’s headlights and drives up to us at full speed, honking the vehicle’s squeaky horn. The dinos grunt in surprise at the sound and the light, staggering backwards, and it buys us crucial seconds. At the last minute, Carly swerves towards us and I leap on to the back of the moving vehicle with Paulie right behind me.

‘Here!’ he screams. ‘Catch!’ Without thinking, I put out my hands and find myself holding the tortoise he’s been carrying. By my feet he throws the remains of his T-shirt, as though he thinks it can be mended. Then he grabs on to the moving tuk-tuk.

Is it his bad leg? Or just bad luck? His fingers slip off the metal bar supporting the roof, now soaking wet as the rain intensifies, and we speed away from him.

‘Stop! Stop!’ I shout, but we keep going.

‘Where are the brakes? I don’t know where—’

‘Right foot! We’ve gotta go back!’ I shout. ‘Twist the throttle fully!’

Carly turns her wrist to get the last bit of speed from the tuk-tuk and we bounce over the pebbly surface away from the cliff, turning a sharp circle back towards Paulie and the baby dinos.

That’s when I see it and my stomach lurches with terror. From the shadows of the swamp, and lit up in the yellow light of the tuk-tuk’s headlights, lumbers a creature even bigger than the mother dinosaur, its footsteps crunching on the stones, emitting a bellow of terrifying volume. We are speeding right towards its gaping jaws.

‘Uh-oh. It’s Big Daddy,’ mutters Carly.

This one is easily as tall as a house and stands on massive hindlegs. Every part of it is covered with thick, glistening feathers and its head is the size of our school minibus, with a huge, conical rhino horn growing out of the top of its knobbled snout. Its thick arms are short, ending in lobster-like claws. On either side of the massive beast stand the young dinos, which only come up to its knees.

Between us and this monstrous beast is Paulie, limping towards us in the rain, his arm raised in desperation like he’s hailing some sort of prehistoric taxi.

It’s too late. We are only a few metres from him when the beast leans down to scoop him up in a two-clawed grip, dangling him two metres above the ground. A crack of thunder overhead almost – but not quite – drowns out Paulie’s agonised scream as we head straight for the dino. The creature moves as though to block our way and Carly twists the steering bar to avoid colliding with it at the same time as I scream, ‘Between its legs!’

It is our only hope, and Carly can see that too. With a final, desperate yank of the steering bar, she aims the tuk-tuk at the gap between the animal’s trunk-like legs. In surprise, the dino drops Paulie before he has been lifted very high and he lands with a splash in the soft edges of the swamp as we pass him. I cannot see where he goes next, for with its now-freed claw the dinosaur swipes at the tuk-tuk as we pass beneath it.

The beast makes another lunge for us. Its double claw connects with my shirtless back, gouging a diagonal furrow from my shoulder to my spine, but I hardly feel a thing at first.

I look back. In the dark and rain, all I can see is the vast outline of the dinosaur turning towards us. As it does, its tail swishes round, the end just flicking the rear of the tuk-tuk and making it wobble.

‘Where is he?’ screams Carly. ‘Where’s Paulie? I’ve got to turn.’

Looking ahead, I can see why. The headlights are reflected in the swamp that’s quickly approaching and seconds later the water is halfway up the wheels. She steers away from the water and drives for a few more seconds. The dinosaurs have not followed us.

It was probably only a minute ago that I put poor old Alan Shearer down my trousers. I put Tortellini on the seat and immediately start to unfasten them to retrieve him.

‘Can we stop, Carly? Is it safe?’

She steers the tuk-tuk round to face the direction we have come from and stamps hard on the brake, sending me as well as the tortoise, the laptop and all the other bits surging forward off the back seat. The headlights shine back over the soaking plain, but illuminate nothing but raindrops and definitely no dinosaurs.

‘Paulie!’ I shout, then we shout it again together, ‘Paulie!’

In the eerie silence, I gasp, for my injured back has begun to pulse with pain. I don’t care: any longer in a cramped space like my pants could be fatal to my hamster. I pull him out, causing Carly to scream when she turns round and sees me fiddling.

‘Al! You can’t have a wee now! Oh. It’s your hamster.’

‘Of course it’s my hamster— Owww …’

Even in the poor light, I can see my blood smearing on the pale vinyl seat, but I’m so relieved that Alan Shearer is unharmed that I don’t really care. I have blood and rain running down my back and on to my hands, and it’s getting into my hamster’s fur, but he’s safe. With the hand that isn’t cradling Alan Shearer, I pick up the open laptop, trying to shield it from the rain with my body.

‘No!’ I breathe. Then, ‘No, no, no! Not yet, not yet! We have to get Paulie.’

‘It’s too late for Paulie, Al. He’s … he’s …’

Only it isn’t. To the side of the tuk-tuk and limping badly into the glare of the headlights is Paulie. And behind him is the giant dinosaur, just walking – for one of its steps is equal to at least four of Paulie’s. I raise my hand to point ahead to where he is. ‘Look!’

Then I glance down at the laptop’s blood-splashed screen. The lines and lines of code are scrolling faster than I can follow, and the bubble-like barrier is surrounding the tuk-tuk.

‘No!’ I shout again. ‘Not now!’

I am blinded by a sharp light and I shut my eyes tight to avoid it.

‘Visual noise’, they call it. Those blotches and colours you see when you close your eyes …

Everything is red and orange because I’m shutting mine tight. There’s a high-pitched ringing sound that I think is coming from inside my head. Then, beneath it, barely audible at first, there’s a voice.

‘Oh my gracious Lordy! Al! What has happened? Sarah! Sarah!! Come now.’

I am on the ground, on my back, staring at the strip light on the garage ceiling. If I turn my head a little, I can see the tuk-tuk with wisps of smoke rising from its metal sides. I can smell peppermint – that’s Grandpa Byron’s hair oil. He’s leaning over me. Then Mum’s voice: ‘Oh God, oh God, is he going to be all right? Al, Al – speak to me. Al?’

I cough. ‘Hi, Mum – owwww!’

‘Call an ambulance, Byron. He’s bleeding. Oh, and … Carly! What happened? What have you done?’

It’s chaos. Utter screaming, shouting mayhem. I try to get up, but Mum pushes me back. ‘Stay where you are, Al. How did this happen?’

From somewhere deep inside me, I can feel anxiety and fear and dread all rising up through my throat as if I’m going to vomit, but you can’t vomit feelings, can you?

Well, fancy that: turns out you can. I’m not sick very much, but afterwards I feel a bit better.

‘Alan Shearer,’ I croak. ‘Carly? Paulie. Paulie!’

‘We’re here, Al.’ That’s Mum’s voice. ‘I’ve put your hamster back in his cage. He was covered in blood, love.’

I’m still squinting against the bright light and I do not want to speak again because my tongue feels thick and my throat is hot and sore from vomiting. In addition, there’s a dull throbbing on my back, right where the …

‘D-dinosaur … It got me.’ No one hears.

‘Carly, are you all right, pet? I’m going to call your dad. You’re soaking wet, love! Were you both out in the rain?’

Carly, who is sitting on the old sofa, holding her forehead, answers back in a dazed sort of voice. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Whatever. Wow, I feel weird. You okay, Al?’

‘I need to look at that wound.’ Mum rolls me over gently and sucks in air sharply when she sees my back. ‘Ee, that’s bad. How did this happen, love?’

‘Ambulance eight minutes,’ says Grandpa Byron. ‘Who is doing this to you? Where is your shirt? What happened, Al?’

I have still hardly said anything. That question again and again. Everybody wants to know what happened. You can hardly blame them. Trouble is, what do I say? I’m not even sure I know myself. By now, I’m sitting up. Mum is pressing a towel against my ripped back, which is hurting like mad, while waves of dizziness wash over me, for which I’m actually pleased because it stops me having to talk. So I sit there, panting and moaning a bit more than I need to because it gives me time to order my thoughts and try to work out what to say.

Carly’s dad, Steve, arrives before the ambulance. He is wet from the rain outside, red-faced and out of breath after turning back from his cycle ride up the coast, and he puts his arms round Carly and says, ‘What happened? Are you all right, pet? What’s going on?’

Carly says, ‘It’s best if Al explains,’ and I manage to shoot her a look that says, Oh, thanks a lot, Carly.

Except she’s right, of course.

I look again at the tuk-tuk, standing in exactly the same position as when we started. It’s certainly bashed up a little bit, though it’s not wrecked. There’s a dent in the back panel. I’m pretty sure that is where the dinosaur’s tail whacked it. From where I’m sitting, I can see a burnt T-shirt by the rear seat, and there is blood – mine, I guess – smeared over the white vinyl seat coverings. The laptop and the black box and the wires and everything else are still there in a tangled mess on the floor of the tuk-tuk.

And from underneath all of that, unnoticed by anyone else, a small brown-and-orange tortoise pokes its tiny, scaly head.

Then Steve steps away from Carly and says in a loud voice, ‘Right. That’s it. Will somebody tell me right now what the blazes has happened here?’ and I know that by ‘somebody’ he really means ‘me’.

I open my mouth to say, ‘I don’t know’, which I know is a stupid answer, but it’s the only one I can think of at the moment, but then Carly pipes up.

‘It was my fault,’ she says. ‘It … it was a dare.’

A dare? I hold my breath, waiting for another brilliant, fluent lie. She doesn’t disappoint.

‘We … we were outside when it started raining, and … and I said I bet you couldn’t charge a laptop from the tuk-tuk battery …’

So far so good …

‘And so, erm … we started to argue, and I pushed Al and he fell against the corner there.’ She points to a piece of metal sticking out of the tuk-tuk’s side: another bit of damage from our adventures that I hadn’t noticed. ‘He cut his back as he fell and hit his head. It was horrible. And … and … I’m sorry, you know?’

She starts to whimper. I think she’s faking, although I cannot be sure. And suddenly she’s sobbing, and gulping for air, and this – I think – is for real. Maybe it’s just all the tension of the last few hours being released. Steve has put his arms round her again and he’s saying, ‘Shh, shh, it’s okay.’

Mum looks at me with that sort of ‘disappointed parent’ look, but she obviously wants to believe Carly. I mean: it’s a ridiculous explanation with so many holes in it, but compared to the real explanation it makes absolute perfect sense.

Only Grandpa Byron’s face shows no emotion. He looks at Carly, his arms folded across his chest, and then at me. And I mean stares – a stare from Grandpa Byron is usually worth an entire speech, but this time I just don’t know what’s going through his head. He must know this is nonsense, but he’s saying nothing at the moment, and for that I am very grateful.

Whatever he was going to say will have to wait anyway because there’s the quick blast of an ambulance siren coming from down the street and, moments later, I am having a ten-centimetre gash in my shoulder cleaned and stitched by a paramedic, and all the while I’m thinking, What about Paulie?

Did anyone see him arrive at our house?

When will someone notice he’s missing?

The answer to that will come quicker than I expect.

The gash in my shoulder still hurts like mad. The bleeding has stopped, though, and now there’s a dressing on it, but otherwise I’m okay. Carly and I were given the full going-over: checked for concussion, temperature, blood pressure, everything. I was advised to rest and told we should call the non-emergency line if I felt any recurring symptoms.

And so now we’re all in our kitchen. There’s me and Carly, her dad, my mum and Grandpa Byron. Mum’s made tea and brought out a packet of digestive biscuits, and I immediately eat about six because I’m completely starving. Mum would normally tell me off for being greedy, but Carly’s just scoffed at least as many as I have, so she can’t really. The clock on the wall shows that, despite spending several hours in the prehistoric age, no time has elapsed here.

Steve’s taken off his rain jacket and he stands there in head-to-toe yellow-and-black cycling Lycra, like some podgy wasp. There’s a large triangular sweat patch from his chest to his navel. It is odd to see him again, but of course I cannot tell him that once, in a different life, he was the stepdad I never really got on with. (He’s not all bad. We both reached for the last biscuit together, and he withdrew his hand, letting me have it, which was nice of him.)

Nobody really knows what to say, I don’t think. Grandpa Byron hasn’t uttered a single word. Mum fills the gap by warbling, ‘More tea, anyone?’ She squeezes past me to fill the kettle when I hear my phone ringing where I had left it on the workbench.

In the garage, I pick it up and check the caller ID.

PAULIE MCF

Surely not? How on earth can Paulie MacFaddyen be calling me?

With a trembling finger, I swipe the screen to answer the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, pet. This is Laura. Laura Lee-MacFaddyen. Paulie’s mam.’

I nearly drop the phone. ‘Oh yes. Hello.’

‘I’m calling from Paulie’s old phone. Your number was on it. Have you seen him, pet?’

Simple question, you’d think. With a far, far from simple answer. I am never any good in situations like this: I’m not like Carly. I stumble, I mumble, and I sound like I’m lying even when I’m not. Except, of course, this time I am.

‘Erm … seen him? Ahh … today? Recently?’

She slows down as if she’s talking to someone not very intelligent.

‘Aye, pet. That’s why I’m calling. Have you seen Paulie? Today?’

‘Let me see, erm … today?’

She says nothing, probably because I sound like an idiot. In the corner of the garage, I see Paulie’s flip-flops that he kicked off. ‘Today? Erm …’

Telling the truth is not going to do me any good.

I say, ‘No.’

Look, don’t judge me, okay? The truth about why I just told a blatant untruth is that I’m scared. I’m scared about what happened to Paulie, and I’m terrified of telling the truth because it would go something like this:

‘Yes, Mrs Lee-MacFaddyen, I saw Paulie quite recently and I can’t be sure, but I think he’s been eaten by a dinosaur.’

So I lied.

‘It’s just that he said he was going round your house to play with your hamster and I haven’t seen him since. He didn’t call you then?’

I swallow. ‘No.’ Then I remember he said he’d texted me. There’ll be a record of that. Criminals are forever getting caught by evidence found on their phones, aren’t they? Except she’s using his old phone. Paulie had his phone with him when he was …

I’m facing the tuk-tuk when I see Tortellini walk unsteadily from beneath a tangle of wires to the edge of the rear platform and peer over the edge. It’s too far for her to drop, so she edges back. Paulie’s mum is still talking.

‘I’ve tried phoning his new number, but he’s not picking up and he’s not answering his messages, and I’m so worried.’

Oh no, this is horrible. She sounds really upset.

‘Listen, pet: if you see him, or if he calls you, tell him to call me, will you? I’m worried sick.’

‘Uh-huh. I mean, yes, I’ll tell him.’

I’m about to say bye when I think I hear her sob before the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone for a moment and then look back at the tuk-tuk where Tortellini is still contemplating a drop to the garage floor. Picking her up, once again I admire her tiny, colourful shell and I hold her close to my face as she slowly stretches her neck and opens her little horned beak.

‘Welcome to the twenty-first century, Tortellini,’ I whisper, turning her round so that she can see the rest of the garage. ‘What have we done?’

She doesn’t say anything, obviously, but she definitely doesn’t look impressed. But, between her and the laptop and the black box and the cables tangled on the tuk-tuk’s floor, a thought begins to form that I can’t even describe properly. A thought that in some way – somehow – I’ve messed everything up really badly.

No creature from sixty-five million years ago should exist now, should it?

‘Al?’ calls Mum from the kitchen.

Tortellini looks at me and blinks slowly, then I put her into Hamsterdam along with Alan Shearer, who doesn’t even wake.

‘Who was that?’ says Mum when I’m back in the kitchen.

‘Oh, erm … just some kid from school.’

‘Really? It sounded like a woman.’

Of course she could hear the voice. ‘Erm … he’s got quite a high voice has, erm … Jack.’

I hate myself. One lie leads to another, which leads to another. Meanwhile, Steve is zipping up his jacket and getting ready to leave with Carly. I manage to catch Carly’s eye as she’s on her way out of the kitchen.

Paulie’s mum, I mouth, and she nods and then pulls a Yeesh, that’s awkward face.

‘Thanks for the tea, Sarah,’ says Steve. ‘Sorry for all the bother. Nice to meet you, Byron!’

Grandpa Byron! He has remained silent while we’ve drunk our tea. I even kind of forgot he was there, sitting in the corner on a kitchen chair. Surely he knows what’s up? He must do. Although he didn’t see Paulie, did he?

That’s when I remember the aluminium pot with the note in it. It had been wedged between Carly and me on the back seat of the tuk-tuk, hadn’t it? Only it’s not there now …

As she leaves, Carly turns back and mimes sending me a text message and mouths the word later. I nod in reply. I hear the front door close and to be honest I’m half expecting Mum to come back in and say, ‘Right, young man, enough of the nonsense. What on earth have you been up to?’

Only … she doesn’t. Instead, she starts fussing over the dressing on my back, asking if I’m feeling all right, offering me ice cream, and suggesting that I go and have a little lie-down on the sofa and watch some telly. It makes me feel worse. I don’t deserve people being kind to me.

‘Aw, Al, pet. You need cheering up. I know: I’ll bring Alan Shearer in from the garage, shall I? He always makes you—’

‘No!’ I say with too much force. She’ll see Tortellini, and that will be yet another thing to invent an explanation for. ‘No, it’s … he’s probably sleeping. Best leave him. Honestly. I-I’m fine, Mum. I think I’ll go upstairs.’

I get a text from Carly:

WTH? Did that just happen?

For real?

Where’s Paulie?

We shouldn’t talk about this by text, Carly.

Delete everything.

I’ll call you when I know

more.

BTW do you know what

tortoises eat?

I really am going to have to tell the truth at some point, aren’t I? That realisation swirls in my head as I lie on my bed. I’ve brought up Tortellini from downstairs and she’s now under my bed in a cardboard box with a soapdish from the bathroom containing water and a handful of hamster food.

I’m woken by the doorbell downstairs. The clock by my bed says 8.30 p.m. I’ve been asleep for ages. I hear a conversation on the doorstep, then Mum’s footsteps on the stairs. She puts her head round my bedroom door.

‘Al, pet. Can you come downstairs?’

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s the police, love. It’s about Paulie.’

Two police officers in yellow jackets are standing in the kitchen, talking to Grandpa Byron, when I walk in with Mum. I’ve got a clean T-shirt on and had a wash; I think I look pretty normal, although my head feels like a tumble drier full of bricks inside and my heart is thumping so hard you can almost see it.

I manoeuvre myself on to a kitchen stool, wincing at the pain in my shoulder.

‘Hello, Albert,’ says one of the officers. ‘I’m Sergeant Alton, but you can call me Jo. This is Constable Shah. We’re from North Shields police station. We’re doing door-to-doors about your friend Paulie. His mam’s worried about where he might have got to and we need to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?’

I nod. Mum and Grandpa Byron sit on the other side of the kitchen table. The bandage around his head has gone, which is good news. In fact, now that I think about it, it was gone before, though I didn’t notice. It looks as though he has showered and changed and is completely better, which is good news, obviously, although …

‘Albert? Did you hear me?’

‘Sorry. Yeah.’ I drag my eyes from Grandpa Byron and force myself to look at the police officer.

Sergeant Alton tips her head on one side, looks at me for a long time before she says, ‘So, Albert. Can I say, first of all, that you’re not in any trouble, all right? We just want to find Paulie and know that he’s safe, okay? He’s only been missing a few hours so he’s probably just having a bit of an adventure on his own. No need to panic yet, eh?’

We’ll save the panicking till later, I think.

‘Have you seen Paulie today, Albert?’

I swallow hard and mutter, ‘No.’

The sergeant taps her teeth with the end of her pen and tuts. ‘I see. Only we’ve spoken to your neighbour, Mr Frasier? He says he saw a boy matching Paulie’s description walking up your driveway this afternoon. Are you quite sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

I’ve heard people say that lies get easier the more you tell them. Well, whoever came up with that was lying. Each time Sergeant Alton asks me something and I lie about it, it gets harder and harder. I look up and catch the police officers exchanging a glance. The constable takes out his phone.

‘Thing is, Albert,’ he says, ‘we’ve spoken to your neighbour opposite as well. Did you know she’s got a security camera by her front door? Anyway, have a look at this.’

He turns the phone’s screen to face me. The picture is poor-quality security footage, but it’s clear what it shows: Old Annie-over-the-road’s drive, our street and then the entrance to our driveway at the top of the picture. The time-stamp on the picture reads 17.12.

‘So this is twelve minutes past five as you can see. And look here.’ He points to a pair of legs – the rest is cut off – walking along the pavement and then turning up our driveway.

‘Do you know who that is?’

No point in lying when I don’t have to.

‘Yes, it’s Carly. Carly Fowler.’

‘Friend of yours?’

I nod. The officer fast-forwards the picture until it shows another pair of legs walking up the drive. The picture is tiny and blurry, but there’s no doubt that the legs belong to Paulie. Same baggy shorts, same flip-flops, same crooked walk. The time-stamp says 17.41.

‘You see, this matches what Paulie’s mam said he was wearing,’ says Constable Shah.

I glance across at Mum who seems so confused; Grandpa Byron has this baffled expression, but he’s looking at me, twirling his plaited hair in his fingers.

Constable Shah says, ‘See, Albert, the problem we have is that Paulie – or whoever these feet belong to – never comes out of your driveway. It’s like he went up the path and, you know … disappeared.’

He lets this sink in. No one says anything.

At last Sergeant Alton breaks the silence. She opens her notebook and reads from it. ‘At seventeen forty-four, the emergency services logged a call from this address. Report of concussion and a wound requiring stitches. That’ll be you, Albert, yeah?’ She leans across the kitchen table and I can almost feel the intensity of her gaze.

‘We’ve taken a statement from your grandpa. He says he was inside the house asleep and heard nothing.’

We all look over at Grandpa Byron who nods firmly.

‘Albert. Al? Look at me, Al. Did Paulie do this to you?’ says the sergeant.

I look up, horrified. ‘What? No! No! He had nothing … he wasn’t even … I mean …’ My breath is coming in short bursts and I feel a bit dizzy with fear and worry. I look over at Mum and she knows I’m lying, I can tell.

‘This is serious, Albert,’ says Sergeant Alton. ‘You see, I don’t think you’re telling us the truth. And, unless you do, this is only going to get worse, son.’

I’m quiet for a long time, maybe a whole minute. I stare at my mum, then at Grandpa Byron. I weigh up my options, and the only thing I can work out is that lying is just going to make everything worse. I can’t keep it up forever, can I? So I decide to tell them the truth.

Come on – what would you do?

‘I’ve got this time machine,’ I say.

Mum goes, ‘Oh, Al, not this again …’

But now that I’ve started there’s no going back, is there?

‘Well, not so much a time machine as a “spacetime shift” machine.’ I add little air quotes with my fingers. ‘Actually, spacetime shift isn’t all that accurate, either. I’d say it was more like a … like a …’ I pause. I look down and see that the constable has written down ‘time machine’ then crossed it out. ‘Do you know anything about quantum physics?’

The two officers exchange glances.

‘Not a lot, son, no,’ says the sergeant. ‘Do you?’

‘A little bit. I think I kind of get the wave-particle duality—’

‘Hang on, hang on. We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. This, erm … time machine …’ She says the words slowly, as if she can’t quite believe they’re coming out of her mouth. ‘Where does that come from?’

‘My dad made it.’

They’re still not writing anything down. ‘Your dad?’

Sergeant Alton looks across at Mum who shakes her head. ‘He’s away,’ says Mum. ‘On business.’

‘Well, not this dad. I mean my dad in another spacetime dimension. He was a computer genius, and before he died he was working on this awesome program, in secret, that would enable the user to shift between worlds. It’s sort of based on Einstein’s theories of relativity, but with added bits of Hugh Everett, who was the American scientist that developed the Many Worlds Theory?’

I stop speaking, mainly because I can hear myself, and it sounds like I’m making it up to seem as if I know more than I do. Both of the officers snap their notebooks shut at the same time.

‘All right, Albert,’ says the sergeant. ‘I think Constable Shah and I should come back another time when you’re ready to tell us what really happened, eh?’

‘But this is—’

‘Enough, son. You’ve had a nasty accident and you’re not thinking straight. You need to get some rest.’

I sink my head on to my arms. Then the sergeant stops at the doorway and turns.

‘You might want to think about Paulie while you’re resting, Albert. His mam’s beside herself with worry. Who knows where he might be or who might have taken him, hmm? Think on, son.’

Paulie MacFaddyen! Every time I close my eyes, I get a vision of him with his odd crooked run. The massive dinosaur was stalking him purposefully, barely needing to run, its footsteps were so long.

‘Wait for me … wait for me … don’t go …’

He wanted to be my friend! I can feel the sadness and terror building up in me again, and that thickness in my throat that comes before crying. Then the constable, ignoring the look of contempt from his sergeant, says, ‘This time machine, Albert. Could we, you know … see it?’

Does he believe me? Surely not.

The only thing I want to look at are Paulie’s flip-flops. It’s like they’re magnetising my eyeballs, and I have to try really hard not to stare in case someone sees me. They’re there, in the corner.

‘This your vehicle, sir?’ says Constable Shah, staring at Grandpa Byron’s tuk-tuk. Grandpa Byron nods.

‘I’ve seen this around, Constable. Surprised you haven’t noticed it,’ says the sergeant. ‘Not many like this.’

Sergeant Alton steps closer, her feet now right next to the flip-flops that I’m still not looking at. She runs her finger across the vinyl seat cover. It comes away reddish brown. ‘Blood, Albert?’

‘Yes. It’s mine. I think. I mean definitely. Who else’s …’ I stop myself.

The constable has gone round to the other side of the tuk-tuk, pulling a pair of blue disposable gloves from his pocket. He leans into the rear passenger section. When he stands upright, he holds up the burnt remains of a red-and-white-striped football top. Mum gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. Grandpa Byron slips his arm round her shoulders.

‘Do you think we’re looking at a crime scene here, Sarge?’

‘I think we may be. Well done, Constable,’ says the sergeant. She turns to me, arms folded, stern. ‘Albert Chaudhury. How old are you, son?’

‘I’m twelve.’

She nods, thoughtfully, then puffs out her cheeks. ‘I hope you realise, Albert, that under English law that is old enough to be charged with the most serious crimes. I’m not arresting you, not yet. We don’t even know if a crime has been committed. But if I were you, son, I’d be hoping with every fibre of my being that your pal Paulie MacFaddyen turns up soon, and unharmed.’ She turns her gaze on Mum and Grandpa Byron in the doorway to the garage. ‘I’d say that goes for you as well. The sooner you can persuade this lad here to tell us the truth, instead of some story about alien spaceships or whatever the heck …’

‘It’s not a spaceship!’ I snap.

‘Or whatever it was,’ she continues, ‘the better for all concerned. Meanwhile, I’m declaring this garage and this vehicle a scene of importance to an investigation. You will be breaking the law if you touch the vehicle or come in here. Constable, tape it off, please.’

I can hear Mum at the front door as the police officers leave, and then the door shuts. Now she’s on the phone – to Dad, it sounds like. (‘Where’ve you been? I’ve left about ten voicemails,’ I hear her saying.) I’m in the living room with Grandpa Byron. I notice that even the bruise beneath his eye has gone.

I think I know what’s happened, and I am wondering how to ask him, when Mum comes back in, still holding her phone. She says to Dad, ‘Do you want to speak to him?’ Then, ‘OK, I’ll tell him,’ and she ends the call. I’m relieved not to have to talk to my dad. In a situation like this, all I want is someone who understands exactly what I’ve been through, and there’s no one. I’m a bit sad to realise that.

Besides, there’s something that is really troubling me. Before Mum can say anything, I blurt out, ‘So, all this time, you never even believed me, and you still don’t?’

One of the worst things about the last hour or so has been learning that my own mother has been pretending these past weeks.

Pretending to believe me when I told her about my time travelling with Alan Shearer.

Pretending to believe me when I told her that Dad died from a piece of metal that entered his skull in 1984 and killed him years later.

Pretending to believe me about using Dad’s time machine to prevent the accident in the first place and thereby stop Dad from dying …

Except she’s not my own mother, is she?

She sighs and says, ‘Come on, daft lad. We need to sort this out.’ She gives me a little hug round the shoulders that makes me feel better, but only a bit.

She goes into the kitchen and starts fiddling with the kettle and cups. I check my phone for messages from Carly. Nothing.

I catch Grandpa Byron’s eye: surely he believes me? I know he doesn’t exactly approve of ‘messing with the laws of nature’ as he would put it, but he’d know when I was telling the truth, wouldn’t he?

I say, ‘Grandpa By—’

He interrupts by getting to his feet and saying, ‘I think this is between you and your mam, lad. I’m just going to tidy up national and state capitals …’

I blink at him, puzzled, and he repeats, ‘National and state capitals. You know, Ouagadougou, capital of Burkina Faso; Jaipur, capital of Rajasthan, and so on. I did FA and League Cup winners earlier. Most beneficial.’

‘Does this mean … you’re better?’ I say, and he narrows his eyes.

‘Better than what?’

‘I mean after … the, you know … your accident?’

‘My accident …?’

Then something strange happens to Grandpa Byron’s expression. His eyes widen, and he smiles slowly as though he has just discovered something important. He gives three deep nods.

‘Yes, Al,’ he says. ‘I am better. Thank you. Thank you very much.’ He leaves the room, muttering, ‘Most remarkable …’ to himself, taking his cup of tea from the tray as Mum comes back in.

I wait till he’s gone, then I say to Mum, ‘Has Grandpa Byron been in hospital recently?’

‘Erm … no. I don’t think so? Why?’

‘So … the whole crash with the tuk-tuk didn’t happen? In this world, I mean.’

Mum has her mug halfway to her mouth and she stops, then puts it down again. ‘Al,’ she says, solemnly. ‘This really has got to stop. We’ve all had more than enough. Time travelling, other worlds, the whole thing. Just stop, all right?’

‘But you said!’ I reply, deliberately controlling my voice so it doesn’t go high and whiny. ‘You said you believed me!’

‘I think I was always pretty clear that it was not easy to believe, love. I just thought, you know … it was a phase. And it was probably best to … to …’

‘To lie? After all you—’

‘Oh, cut it out, Al,’ she snaps. ‘It’s all complete nonsense. You’ve caused a right carry-on – I can tell you that for nowt. Why on earth do you think your dad and me have been at each other’s throats for weeks?’

This hits me like a blow to my chest and I feel winded. Mum continues.

‘You don’t know anything about what I’ve been feeling, or your dad or your poor grandpa for that matter. Suddenly, a few weeks ago, out of nowhere you start telling us this … this fairy tale about you and that blimmin’ hamster and some mad time machine that your dad invented. That’s your dad who’s apparently dead, although he isn’t any more, at least not the last time I looked. And as for your dad? I couldn’t believe that he went along with it! Some rubbish about “Al Singh” and his flippin’ hamsters, and then you not wanting to go back to school because you won’t know anyone …’

Mum pauses for breath, but I know there’s more to come. It’s as though this has all been building up inside her for days or weeks even. It’s tumbling out of her and overflowing like a boiling pot, and all I can do is listen, horrified, as I learn that my mum does not believe a word of what happened to me. I can see she’s fighting back tears.

‘Seriously, Al? Time travel? Oh, he’s got an active imagination, that one! That’s your Aunty Ellie. She reckons it’s a right laugh. Do you think he identifies as an alien? The number of times I’ve wanted to tell you to stop it, to stop with the fairy tales, to get a flamin’ grip, Al. You’re twelve years old, for crying out loud. Oh yes, I’ve asked for advice. You’ve been quite the thread on Mumsnet. You know what most people said? “He’ll grow out of it – don’t worry.” Well, I do worry, Al. I’m your mum and I love you and …’

‘What about Grandpa Byron?’ I butt in, angrily. ‘He believes me.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Byron will believe anything. He’d believe the moon was made of green cheese if it was written by the “wise old elders of the Sri Kalpana”.’ Then she claps her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Al. I shouldn’t have said that. It was unkind of me.’

She swallows hard, but this emotional speech is making her eyes overflow. She takes a deep breath through her nose and looks at the ceiling, but it’s no good. When the tears start, it sets me off too because I hate the idea that my mum is upset, as much as I hate the idea that she doesn’t believe me.

I find myself saying, ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ although I’m not certain what I’m sorry for. I’m sorry she’s upset, sure. But I can’t be sorry for telling the truth, can I? Her arms are round me now, and I feel her chest heaving as she sobs, and I kind of stay there, not hugging her back because I’m still angry that she doesn’t believe me.

Then she squeezes me more and sniffs. She says, ‘All right, Albert Einstein Hawking –’ she sometimes uses all my forenames if she’s being super-friendly – ‘no more lies, eh? Just look at the upset it’s causing with all of this Paulie business. Your dad’s coming back early from the Hamster Council. He’ll be home tomorrow.’

No more lies?

In other words, I just keep on pretending? From now on, I just have to pretend that this is my world, the world I grew up in, whereas I know – I know for absolute certain – that I am now in a different world, a different dimension, whatever you want to call it, and that everything and everyone around me changes every time I get into that wretched so-called ‘time machine’.

I pull away from Mum’s embrace, and look straight into her wet eyes. There is nothing – not a thing – that I can say that will make this situation better.

I’m stuck with it. I’m stuck here forever. I’m responsible for Paulie’s disappearance and I’m going to be found out.

This is not the life I wanted.

I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling bruised by my row with Mum, and more miserable than I have ever been in my life. More miserable even than on both the occasions that Dad died.

Can I ever get back to the world I was born in? The world with my real mum and my real grandpa? A world where I haven’t caused someone to get eaten by a dinosaur?

I jump in alarm when I hear an unfamiliar beep. I look at my phone and there’s a little red dot on the email app. I never get emails. I tap the icon and it pops open. The email is from Carly sent at 21.44. Why on earth is she sending me an email? I scroll down to read it.

Police have been here. I’m grounded. Phone confiscated. Sending this from my laptop. We need to talk but tonight’s no good: Louise is still up with the baby. Meet you on the headland tomorrow morning? 6.30 a.m. How’s Gramps?

And she’s signed it.

Carly x

I don’t reply straight away. This requires thought.

I check on Tortellini below my bed. She’s drunk some of the water and most of the food has gone, which I’m pleased to see. I guess she’s asleep because her legs and head are pulled into her shell in the corner of the box.

I email Carly back.

Okay. Grandpa Byron better, by the way.

Somehow his letter in Punjabi must have been ‘delivered’?

I sign it too, my finger hovering over the X key. What have I got to lose?

Al x

I was down on the headland even before 6.30 a.m., tiptoeing down the stairs so as not to wake anyone. I’d left a note for Mum saying I’d gone for a walk and would be back before school. It was unusual, but I didn’t want to worry her. As I pulled the front door shut, I heard Grandpa Byron’s mobile phone tinkle in the spare room.

The sun’s been up for a while, but there is no heat in the day yet and I wish I’d put a jacket on. I’m sitting on the bench next to a bunch of wilted flowers that has been Sellotaped there in memory of someone, and staring out at the silver-blue sea when Carly arrives. She’s in her school uniform and carrying a bag of swimming gear, having told Steve and her stepmum that she was joining the school’s Summer Swim programme to account for her early departure.

‘You? In a swimming club?’ I scoff and she punches me gently on the arm.

‘Why not? Come on, why not?’

‘Because all your mascara would run and you’d have to stop chewing gum while you swam!’ I say, and then wonder if I’d gone too far.

But she starts giggling too. And it builds into a laugh and then Carly is honking like a seal, which makes me laugh even more because I haven’t heard her – or anyone for that matter – laugh like that, and for one short moment I am so happy to have made Carly laugh, I feel like we are properly brother and sister.

But, as soon as I think of it, I stop laughing, and then I find that I am crying instead because the whole thing is just so overwhelming.

In my former life, the idea of breaking down in front of Carly would have been unthinkable. ‘Aw, poor widdle Allie,’ she’d have mocked. ‘Life not going the way you want it to? Suck it up, buttercup.’ Then she’d have blown a gum bubble and popped it and stalked off, arms folded and that, pretty much, is why I’d hated her.

Only now is different. I mean – I think I get it. This is technically a different Carly in a different dimension of spacetime, but still: something has changed between us. So now when I start to cry, she edges closer and puts her hand on my hunched back. It’s not a hug, nowhere near, but this is Carly, after all, and right now it’s the most comforting thing ever. At first it just makes me cry a bit more till I produce a string of snot and even that doesn’t make her say, ‘Eew, gross,’ as I would expect. Instead, she fumbles in her jacket pocket and gives me a crumpled tissue. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

I sniff and wipe my nose, and still Carly stays quiet. I think we’re both thinking the same thing, but neither of us wants to say it. At last we each take a breath and say together, ‘I think …’

‘No, you first …’

‘No, you first …’

There’s a pause and once again we both speak simultaneously. ‘I think …’ It makes us both laugh, and I quickly say, ‘I think we need to go and get him.’

‘I was about to say the same thing.’

‘I know.’

We’re both silent for a long time, before Carly says, ‘When? And how?’

A voice behind us says, ‘You are gonna have to be going pretty bloomin’ quickly.’

We both spin round to see Grandpa Byron, hands deep in his baggy trousers, the morning sun glinting off the little sequins sewn into his waistcoat.

‘So that is the when. As for how, there is only one way.’

‘Wh-what are you doing here?’ I stammer.

From his pocket, Grandpa Byron pulls out an old envelope with Punjabi writing on it, a little singed around the edges, which he hands to me. I recognise it straight away.

‘You … you found this in the—’

‘In the tuk-tuk, yes indeedy! I knew I’d written it, for I recognise my own handwriting. But of course I also knew that I had not written it! It all combined to prove to me that – despite my doubts – your experiments with time and dimensions were not imaginary.’

Carly reaches forward and takes the envelope with the Punjabi writing on the back. ‘So … you found this in your TikTok? And you didn’t have your accident?’

‘I drove most cautiously and avoided any and all incommodiousness. And cats, of course.’

‘Wow. Frea-key!’

‘Freaky it most definitely is, bonny lass.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?’ I asked, and he wobbled his head.

‘I do believe your mind was quite full of other matters. I thought it would be better to wait. I was not even sure what to make of it all. We found you in the garage jabbering about dinosaurs.’

Carly is staring at the envelope, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘But … but if you didn’t have the accident, then Al and I wouldn’t have met … Hang on.’ She’s going slowly, thinking as she speaks. ‘And we wouldn’t have been trying to send you this message in Punjabi, and it wouldn’t have all gone wrong and Paulie would not have been ki …’. She cannot bring herself to say it. Still, Grandpa Byron nods as though she has confirmed something he suspected. Carly says, ‘So how does that all work?’

She looks pleadingly at both of us.

‘I think I can explain,’ says Grandpa Byron. ‘Come with me.’

‘I have just come from seeing Laura Lee-MacFaddyen, poor woman,’ says Grandpa Byron as we walk along the shoreline. ‘She called me first thing this morning, almost out of her mind with worry. That’s when I saw you hurrying along the path.’ His gaze is cast down to the sand.

‘Do you know her?’ I ask, surprised at this revelation.

‘A bit. Her husband Stokoe was a local ne’er-do-well.’

Carly pipes up. ‘A what?’

‘A ne’er-do-well, a rapscallion, Carly. A reprobate.’ Her face is still a blank, but Grandpa Byron continues. ‘I knew Laura’s mother. She was a friend of Al’s Grandma Julie, my late wife. She struggles. That family has always struggled. It is as though they’re cursed with a cloud that rains on them when the sun shines on the rest of us. Stokoe’s in jail and is unlikely to be freed any time soon.’

I think of the little Stokoe I knew back in 1984. ‘Why? What did he do?’ Perhaps Grandpa Byron will tell me more than Mum did.

‘Oh goodness golly, you are so enquiring, Al. He went to jail for assaulting his own son. He was drunk – threw him down some stairs. That’s why the boy has a limp. Laura tells me Stokoe keeps on fighting in jail, so his sentence is always being increased. She’s done her best with young Paul – Paulie. He has a streak of his dad in him, she says, but he’s not a baddie laddie. An’ if Laura loses him, it will destroy her. Furthermore and notwithstanding, it may destroy each of us as well. We are all under suspicion.’

This is something that I’d feared, but hearing it from Grandpa Byron is just terrifying. ‘But … they can’t prove anything, can they? I mean, Paulie may have, I dunno, run away?’

‘What would you believe, Al? The police’s case – that all of us are somehow responsible for his disappearance? They have bloody fingerprints on my tuk-tuk, a burnt football shirt, his DNA all over the place, no doubt. Or would you believe the truth: that he was killed in, what shall we say? An encounter with a dinosaur many millions of years ago? Is that not what happened, Al?’

We’re now at the steps that lead up from the beach and we turn to look at the calm indigo sea. Grandpa Byron rests in hand on my shoulder when I nod my reply.

Carly says, ‘So do you believe us, Gramps?’

He closes his eyes in contemplation for a moment and then he nods slowly and decisively. ‘We can only understand things, children, according to our five senses. Nonetheless, we know there is more. We just don’t know what.’

I take this to mean he does believe us. He goes on. ‘So, to answer your very good question, “So how does that work?”, it seems to me that the universe – or maybe the universes – are engaged in a struggle to put everything back in order from the chaos that Al here began.’ I feel my cheeks reddening and I look away. ‘You see, according to the scholars of—’

‘How are we gonna put it right then?’ says Carly, interrupting. Grandpa Byron doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he’s uncertain himself.

My stomach is so tightly knotted with fear that I don’t know how I even speak. ‘I’ve already thought about this,’ I say. ‘Going back that far in time used up all the battery in the tuk-tuk. It took hours to recharge. I’m not hanging around with marauding dinosaurs again while it recharges.’

‘I too have been contemplating,’ says Grandpa Byron. ‘And I have an idea.’

The shutters on the entrance to Balvinder’s Motors are rattling up as we approach down the back lane.

Simi pauses while she polishes her glasses on her sari, then she pulls her cardigan tight around her bony frame.

‘I’m sorry, Byron,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Your old battery has been sold.’ She looks at us in turn and smiles. ‘He’ll be here any minute,’ she adds, by way of explanation.

Carly snaps, ‘Who’s bought it? What do you mean?’

Simi widens her eyes in surprise at Carly’s rudeness. ‘Why, the recycling man. If you must know,’ she adds, tartly. She turns back to Grandpa Byron. ‘He offers good prices for recyclable EV batteries, Byron. You didn’t say you wanted to keep your old one. That is why Balvinder repaired your tuk-tuk for free.’

‘I’ll double it!’ says Grandpa Byron, clapping his hands once as though he’s just performed a magic trick. ‘Whatever he said he’d pay, I’ll pay double.’ He shoves his hand in his trouser pocket and from a battered leather purse pulls out a roll of banknotes.

He pushes a few notes into Simi’s hand. It’s obviously enough because she tucks them straight into her cardigan pocket and nods.

Moments later, we’re in the car-repair workshop again, looking down at the huge battery that once powered the tuk-tuk. It’s big and flat, like a coffee-table top.

‘So let me get this straight,’ says Carly, quietly, so the others can’t hear. ‘We take this extra battery with us. How’s that gonna help?’

‘Don’t you see? If one travels with two fully charged batteries, the rescue of Paulie can occur. Just change batteries, and one comes straight back – no need to wait for it to recharge. Quite simple. Now help me to carry this: it’s jolly well heavy.’

And so together we lug the big battery back home. As we stagger up my front path, the same two police officers as before are coming out of the house and Mum is flapping nervously, saying, ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you. You’ll be late for school. What on earth is that?’

Sergeant Alton blinks hard at the big battery. I suppose if you’ve never seen the battery of an electric vehicle (and who has, let’s face it) you too might believe Carly when – without hesitating – she declares, ‘It’s your new aid to meditation, isn’t it, Gramps? You sit on it, and a low-level electrical pulse stimulates the nervous system, enabling the user to achieve deeper, more meaningful, erm … transcendence.’

How she does it, I just do not know, and I’m in awe.

A half-smile appears on Grandpa Byron’s face. ‘Yes. Exactly that.’

Sergeant Alton sighs. ‘I see. Please keep your mobile switched on, Mrs Chaudhury. Albert and Carly, I suggest you two get off to school. We’re sending a team of specialist officers within the next hour and we’ll need to ask more questions and perform tests on that vehicle.’

The officers depart in their car, leaving us on the driveway with the big battery.

Mum looks sceptical. ‘It’s filthy, Byron. You’re not bringing that in here.’

‘Then I shall store it in the garage. I know, the police tape, et cetera. We won’t touch anything.’

And, without waiting further, he kicks open the front garage door and we shuffle in with the battery, dumping it in the rear section of the tuk-tuk.

Mum says, ‘Al – hurry up and get changed or you’ll be late for school. I’ve got to pop in to work, but I’ll be back in an hour.’

‘We don’t have long,’ says Grandpa Byron after Mum has gone back into the house. ‘One hour, according to that bobby.’

Carly wrinkles her brow at me and mouths, Who’s Bobby?

‘He means police officer,’ I say. ‘And he’s right. We have to move quickly. And if we’re putting the universe back to how it should be we have a small reptile to take care of.’

‘Oh. My. Word,’ says Carly, the words muffled through the hand she has closed over her mouth and nose. ‘That completely stinks.’

She’s right. If we were in a cartoon, there’d be a green cloud labelled ‘pong’ hanging in my bedroom. As it is, it’s just a foul smell, heavy and rotten and so distinct I can taste it.

With an outstretched arm, I pull the cardboard box from beneath my bed and look inside. In one corner is Tortellini. Her legs are withdrawn into her shell, but her head is extended and resting on the base of the box, looking withered and even more wrinkled than usual. For a moment, I think she’s dead, then she opens her eyes with effort and appears to look at us. The bottom of the box is covered almost completely with greenish-brown slime. Is it poo or is it sick? As we watch, another weak squirt of green ejected from her rear end gives us our answer.

‘Oh, the poor thing,’ says Carly and, forgetting the smell, she reaches out to run her finger over Tortellini’s brightly patterned shell, and even that seems a bit duller than before. She turns to me. ‘What on earth has she been eating?’

‘Hey, don’t blame me!’ I say, feeling defensive. ‘I gave her some hamster food. Is that so wrong?’

Carly tuts, but more in sorrow than anything. ‘I guess not. I mean – who knows what prehistoric tortoises eat?’

‘Not hamster food, obviously,’ I say. Tortellini lifts her head with effort and blinks slowly again. ‘Don’t worry, old girl,’ I say, softly, as though raising my voice above a whisper would somehow harm her further. ‘We’re taking you back to where you came from.’

Half an hour later, we’re ready to go

1. Mum will be back soon.

2. Grandpa Byron has gone to his house ‘to fetch something’ and says he’ll join us in ten minutes ‘and not a jiffy more’.

3. The main tuk-tuk battery is fully recharged.

4. We’ve located the connection for the spare battery, which is propped up on the back seat and taking up far too much room, and

5. I have set the time-counter on the laptop to the last-known destination: sixty-four million, two hundred and twenty-three thousand, seven hundred and twelve years, sixty-four days and two hours ago.

‘Are we going back to when we arrived, Al, or to when we left because I don’t want to see those dinosaurs again?’ says Carly, and, looking at her fear-filled face, I am glad to reassure her.

‘Neither,’ I say. ‘We’re going back to just before we were there last time. It’s the only way this’ll work. If it works.’

She looks doubtful. ‘You’ll need to explain that better, Einstein.’ For once, I don’t mind the nickname.

‘Listen. So long as we’re there, and we stay for a little while, then we’ll be occupying that bit of spacetime. Does that make sense?’

Carly imitates Grandpa Byron’s ‘yes and no’ head wobble. I go on: ‘If we are there, that means that when the other you, me and Paulie try to travel to the same place, they won’t be able to, thanks to Dad’s Law of Doppelgängers. You can’t be somewhere that’s already occupied by yourself. Get it?’

Carly nods slowly and uncertainly in response.

I say, ‘See? It’s simple! Then we return long before the dinos come out of the sea. Do you understand?’

‘No, Al. Because how come we’re here? Where’s the you and me that were here before you and me got here? What has changed?’

I swallow hard. This is the thing I’ve been trying to explain to myself ever since it all happened the first time. I’ve never worked it out.

‘I don’t know, Carly. I just wish it would all stop.’ I sigh. I had tried so hard to make it simple. ‘Look, why don’t I try to explain another way?’ I say.

‘Look, why don’t you just not, eh? Just tell me we won’t meet any dinosaurs.’

‘We won’t meet any dinosaurs, Carly,’ I say, adding a muttered, ‘probably.’

‘I heard that.’

Just then, Grandpa Byron bursts through the connecting kitchen door, pulling down the police tape. He bustles into the garage, holding a long, dusty canvas bag that he dumps on the floor.

‘I was calculatin’ we may need some protection,’ he says as he unzips the bag, extracting from it a pair of cricket leg pads, padded gloves and a helmet, complete with a metal grille front. He crouches to start strapping on the pads, while Carly looks on, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘I got the idea as I was meditating on me cricketin’ Memory Palace yesterday and I remembered that the mighty Indian batsman Sunil Gavaskar famously never wore a helmet. So I dug out me old kit!’

‘You played cricket?’ I say. ‘I never knew.’

‘One doesn’t like to boast,’ says Grandpa Byron with a grin. ‘More so seeing as there’s nowt much to boast of. I played with the North Shields Pakindians. A short-lived and consistently unsuccessful side in the 1970s Northern Amateur League. The team featured just about every man under sixty of South Asian heritage in the area in 1972.’

He buckles the chinstrap and pulls it tight. Then he takes out two cricket bats and hands one each to me and Carly. ‘Weapons!’ he says with a wild look in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s quite grasped the nature of the danger we face. It would be like attacking a grizzly bear with a toothpick.

From outside comes the noise of Mum’s car, followed immediately by others. Through the bobbled glass of the garage windows comes the flashing blue light of a police car. Grandpa Byron locks the kitchen door behind him, just as Mum begins to knock.

‘Al! Al! Byron! Are you in there? You know you shouldn’t be. The police are here and your dad is five minutes away in a taxi.’

It’s now or not at all. Our only chance to rescue a boy who – only a short while ago – I didn’t even like, alongside a former stepsister I used to feel the same about. An old shoebox with holes containing a very poorly tortoise is wedged into the space beneath the tuk-tuk’s front seat.

‘Life take strange turns, does it not, bonny lad?’ says Grandpa Byron, easing himself into the driver’s seat. ‘Everything set?’

‘Aye aye, Captain Grandpa,’ I say with much more enthusiasm than I feel. I see Paulie’s flip-flops in the corner and remember that my feet need to be bare on the metal floor of the tuk-tuk. It was all in Dad’s original instructions. I take off my trainers and socks, then open up the laptop and press ‘return’ on the screen.

‘Byron! Open this door right now!’

Suddenly Carly leaps out of the rear seat and takes two steps to Alan Shearer’s hamster house.

‘What on earth, Carly? What are you—’

‘Not going without this fella,’ she says.

In a matter of seconds, Carly has scooped up my hamster and popped him in the hollow plastic ball that he loves running around in. She clicks it shut as she sits back down in the tuk-tuk.

‘He’s a lucky charm, isn’t he?’ she says, holding up the transparent ball and smiling at Alan Shearer inside.

‘No!’ I shout.

It’s too late to argue. The misty bubble that indicates the machine is working forms quickly and then …

It disappears almost instantly. This time, there is no strange black journey through interdimensional hyperspace (if that’s what it was – I just made that up, by the way).

Everything’s the same. The three of us sit there in the tuk-tuk. My heart is still hammering, and I’m looking around for signs that we have time-travelled, and then calming down when I conclude that we have not.

‘What’s up?’ says Carly. ‘Didn’t it work?’

‘Seems not.’ I can’t help adding, ‘No thanks to you.’

Carly flares her nostrils as she always does when she’s criticised for whatever reason. ‘Me? Me? I think you’ll find it was—’

‘No, it was you, Carly. All that faffing around with Alan Shearer at the last second. What were you thinking? It’s messed something up. Lucky charm, for heaven’s sake. Give him here, will you? I’ll put him back out of harm’s way.’

Scowling, Carly hands over the ball containing Alan Shearer and I get out of the tuk-tuk. On my way to his hamster house, I put my ear to the connecting door to the kitchen to check that Mum had gone. Hearing nothing, I quietly open it. As soon as I do, I hear her voice.

‘Al? Al! What are you doing? Why aren’t you changed?’

Her heels are click-clacking over the kitchen tiles, and she’s wearing a dress I haven’t seen before.

‘Why are you—’ I begin, but Mum interrupts.

‘Hello? Earth to Al? Come on, daft lad, chop chop. The car will be here any minute. Today of all days, Al – don’t mess us around.’

You could say that I’m a bit of an old hand at this time-travel lark by now, and I recognise the feeling that is bubbling up inside me. The feeling that something’s not right: it’s an instinct thing, I’m sure.

Have we time-travelled, after all?

There’s a calendar on our fridge door, and that’ll give me a clue as to the date. Only I can’t see it from where I’m standing in the doorway and I shuffle towards it.

‘Wrong way, Al! Your bedroom’s upstairs, remember? Ee, honestly, today of all days.’

I begin to edge back towards the door to the garage.

‘Al, I’m not going to tell you again. Put that blimmin’ hamster back and get changed. And brush your hair as well. It’s like a bird’s … Where are you going?’

‘I’m just putting him back in the garage like you said!’

Mum tuts loudly. ‘Well, hurry up!’

I slip through the connecting door, taking the garage key with me. I lock the door behind me, which is just as well because straight away the handle rattles and Mum is thumping.

‘Al! Al! Al!’ Then she mutters, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ and I hear her footsteps retreat to the sink followed by a heavy sigh.

Carly and Grandpa Byron know better than to say anything out loud. So I stay, my back against the thin connecting door, still holding the hamster ball, listening to everything happening on the other side of it. The kitchen tap gushes, and I hear a glass filling with water. Then Mum shouts, ‘Pye? Are you ready, love?’ followed by a muffled reply from upstairs.

When did Dad get back?

Then Mum’s phone buzzes on the worktop.

‘Hello? Yes … thank you, Mr Singh-Kumar … we’ll be out in five minutes.’

She shouts from the other side of the door, so close that it makes me jump.

‘Al! AAAL!’

And then comes a reply that sends my already confused head into a tailspin.

‘I’m here, Mum. Why are you shouting?’

My voice is followed by the sound of a shriek of fright and a glass being dropped on the kitchen tiles.

Okay. Pay attention. Like, as much attention as I am now paying to what’s going on behind the thin door that connects the kitchen to the garage.

This is impossible.

This cannot be happening.

And yet it is.

As I have said before, Dad’s Law of Doppelgängers means I cannot be anywhere that I already exist otherwise I could meet my double, and the laws of the universe are so arranged to prevent such chaos.

That’s what Dad said.

So I can’t have time-travelled, unless it’s to a time before or after I’m alive. My first thought. then, is that in this world I am dead.

Except – that hasn’t happened, has it? I’m not dead because Mum has just recognised me when I went into the kitchen, and now she’s talking to someone else called Al.

‘H-how did you do that, Al?’ I hear her say, her voice shaking.

‘Do what, Mum? Blimey, mind the glass. I’ll get the dustpan.’ (This Al’s voice sounds very, very like mine.)

‘You … you were there with your hamster and … and now you’re here, I mean there, and you’ve changed clothes so quickly, that is … how? I didn’t see you …’

‘Are you all right, Mum? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

By now, Carly is next to me, her face screwed up in sheer bafflement at what she’s hearing. ‘Who’s that?’ she hisses, pointing at the door.

There is no easy way to say this. ‘It’s me,’ I whisper back. Carly’s jaw hangs open in disbelief.

Perhaps Dad was wrong? After all, wasn’t his Law of Doppelgängers just, well … made up? A cool-sounding rule to explain what appeared to be happening?

Maybe the time machine has done something different?

Maybe the AI repair of the code was faulty?

Maybe something else has happened?

How would I know?

I hear Mum say, ‘Not in there, Al: put it in the garage bin,’ and then the handle of the door rattles. ‘Hey, Mum, the door’s locked. Where’s the key?’

‘You took it when you … when you … Ee, Al, I’m so confused. Just leave it there.’

And then I hear Dad’s voice as he comes into the kitchen. ‘All right. Shall we do this? You look smart, Al. I like the colourful tie. Your grandad would be proud. What was it he used to say? “The better you dress …”’

They both say, ‘…“the worse you can behave!”’

What was all that about? Why ‘used to say’? Why the past tense?

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

‘I’m really going to miss him, Dad,’ says the one who sounds like me.

‘Me too, son. Me too. Come on, Sarah love – no tears, not right now, eh?’

There’s a deep sniff from Mum, then she says, ‘The car’s here. They’re waiting outside. There’s a few others as well. Al – you go with your Aunty Ellie and Cousin Sam.’

‘What about Hypatia?’

‘I spoke to her last night,’ says Dad. ‘She’s going straight to the temple. They’re saying it’s going to be the biggest Sikh funeral for years. Certainly the biggest the new temple has ever had. Your grandad was a very popular man, Al.’

Grandpa Byron has joined us at the door, listening to all of this, his eyes wide and his mouth even wider. On the other side of the door, there’s the bustling noise of three people leaving the kitchen and Mum’s heels on the tiles.

I look down to find that I’m still clutching the ball containing Alan Shearer and I go to replace him in Hamsterdam. That is when I see another identical hamster already there, peering at me with shiny black eyes. I let out a shriek of surprise.

‘What was that?’ says Al on the other side of the door.

Then the doorbell rings and Dad says, ‘Come on then, let’s do this.’

We hear them leaving the kitchen while the three of us stand in a triangle next to the bright mauve tuk-tuk, none of us knowing what to say. Eventually, the silence is broken by Carly popping another gum bubble and whispering, ‘That’s the doppelgänger theory busted then.’

Grandpa Byron murmurs, ‘My … my own funeral?’

I say, ‘Does that mean you … you’re dead?’

‘Well, I jolly well hope so, Al.’

I can’t tell if he’s trying to be funny or not. Then he goes silent again.

The front door closes, followed by the sound of several pairs of feet walking down our little driveway. I’m overwhelmed with a desire to see them, and also with a dread of the same thing happening. I feel a surge in my stomach like you get standing on a tall bridge or something when you wonder what would happen if you jumped, but of course you never actually do.

Anyway, I give the hamster ball to Carly and grab a little stepladder. Standing on top of the three steps, I can look out of the front garage door’s missing pane and what I see makes my knees weak.

Grandpa Byron puts a supporting hand on my back so that I don’t fall off the steps and says, ‘You shipshape, my boy?’

‘I … I think so.’ Then I go quiet as I marvel at the sight before me.

Gathered on the driveway are Mum, Dad, Aunty Ellie … and me. I swallow hard, unable to take my eyes off this version of me with my polished school shoes, new black jeans, a shirt and an orange tie. Mum’s wearing a new, flowery summer dress while Dad has on his best suit which looks a little tight around the middle.

There are other people standing around as well. I recognise Mr Frasier the retired vet from down the road, in a jacket and colourful tie, and three or four people standing by a big black car with black suits and hats.

‘Come on, Al. Let me see. It’s my funeral, after all,’ says Grandpa Byron and I let him take my place on the steps. He climbs up slowly on account of still wearing the cricket pads.

‘Ah, well, at least they’ve followed my instructions,’ he says, sounding satisfied. ‘In my will, I state do not wear white. Instead, wear something to remember my colourful life.’

Normally, Sikhs would wear white at a funeral. Grandpa Byron describes himself as a ‘sort-of’ Sikh. ‘A Sikh is a sort of Hindu, and I am a sort of Sikh,’ he told me once. Suddenly he ducks down from the window. ‘Oh blimey – I think you saw me,’ he whispers.

‘What? I saw you do what?’ I say.

‘No … You saw me. The you that’s out there, not the you that’s in here. Shh.’

He saw him? I try to imagine what that must be like, what I would think. I’m standing in the driveway, waiting to go to my grandpa’s funeral, when I see him peering at me through a broken window in the garage door!

‘Maybe he didn’t recognise you?’ I say. ‘The cricket helmet, you know?’

What would I do? My answer comes seconds later when I hear footsteps coming up the driveway towards the garage, then Mum’s voice saying, ‘Al! Al? What are you doing? Where are you going?’

‘I … I’ve just seen …’

I’m pretty sure that I too would hesitate. ‘I’ve just seen Grandpa Byron looking at me through that broken window’ is a very odd thing to say, given the circumstances. I reckon I would stop mid-sentence too, as he has done. I’d think, That cannot be. I must be imagining things.

But would I? Would I really? Honestly, my mind is racing in the few seconds until I hear the footsteps come right up to the garage door. I think back to when Dad died (the first time). He had already been experimenting with his time machine and ended up being seen by Mum, and Aunty Ellie said it was a ghost, and …

There’s a rumbling noise outside. Al is pulling the wheelie bin over to the garage door.

‘Al, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing?’ shouts Dad.

‘Quick. Hide!’ I hiss at Carly and Grandpa Byron and, seconds later, Carly is crouched behind the old cooker while Grandpa Byron is hidden inside the tuk-tuk. Me? I’m by the stepladder, pressed up against the garage door, holding it shut in case the other Al tries to kick it open. The gap in the window is not big enough to allow you to look straight down. I hear Al clamber on to the wheelie bin.

‘Al! What are you playing at? Come down from there and get in the car at once!’

‘One second, Dad!’ comes my voice from above my head. Then, quieter, ‘Hello? Grandpa Byron?’

My heart is thumping. Will Grandpa Byron think it’s me calling him and come out? When Al calls again, he says, ‘I know you’re there. I saw you,’ but still Grandpa Byron does not reveal himself.

‘Have you time-travelled?’ Al says in a loud whisper. ‘Or are you a ghost?’

Dad shouts, ‘Al Chaudhury! This is your last warning, sunshine. Get down now!’

That’s when I step forward, mount the steps and look my double right in the face.

‘This shouldn’t happen,’ I say.

‘The laws of spacetime seem to be beautifully arranged to prevent such chaos,’ says the other me, awestruck, quoting Dad’s letter back to me.

‘So … how?’ I say. ‘What date is this?’

The answer Al gives nearly knocks me off the steps in surprise and I say, ‘The … seventh of August? This year? Do you mean to say we’ve travelled to the future?’

It’s only a month from now.

‘Looks like it,’ he says. ‘But … but the doppelgänger thing. How? And where’s Grandpa Byron? I saw him.’

‘Al. NOW!’ We both recognise Mum’s tone as the absolute ultimate in last warnings.

‘Don’t go anywhere!’ he says as his face disappears from the broken window and I hear his feet thump on the ground. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘Honestly, Al, what on earth were you thinking of? I don’t know what’s got into you. On today of all days …’

Mum’s telling-off recedes along with multiple footsteps down the path. There’s the banging of expensive-sounding car doors and the purr of engines as the funeral party departs for the Sikh temple in Tynemouth.

‘D-did you see him?’ I croak to the others.

‘No, but I heard him,’ says Carly, emerging from behind the cooker. ‘Sounded like you.’

‘It was me! Another me. And if he’s anything like me – which I suppose he is – then the first thing he’s gonna do when he gets back is come looking for me. Cos I would.’

‘I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen: you know, “doppel twins” or whatever.’

‘None of this is supposed to happen, Carly. It’s just …’ I tail off with a sigh.

Grandpa Byron, hunched over from his crouched position in the tuk-tuk, stretches his back and says, ‘Dead, eh? Funny that: I’ve never felt better in me life!’

Just then, there’s a scraping noise, a sort of sh-sh-sh coming from the tuk-tuk. Cautiously, I bend closer to hear better. Sh-sh-sh.

It’s coming from beneath the front seat and I lift out the shoebox containing Tortellini, taking off the lid to check she’s still alive. She is – but only just. Grandpa Byron leans in for a better look.

‘A tortoise, Al? Where in bejasus did that come from?’

‘I … that is, we … we brought her back from the prehistoric age, and …’

‘Oh my days!’ breathes Carly. ‘Could that be it? Could that be why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Think about it! Your doppelgänger law. Perhaps it’s … I dunno … maybe it’s all messed up because Tortellini’s with us?’

I look first at Carly, then at Grandpa Byron and finally at the sad little tortoise scratching weakly at the side of the cardboard box. A memory flashes into my head. It’s Dad, in that little unfinished video clip on the USB stick.

‘And remember: don’t bring any organic matter back from …’

Had Dad known? I look again at poor Tortellini.

‘I think you might be right,’ I say.

Carefully, I lift up the small tortoise. Her head hangs out of her shell and her eyes are dull. Whether or not bringing her back from the past really has caused everything to go wrong isn’t something I can work out right now, or even ever. I replace her in the box. With trembling hands, I pick up the laptop and sit on the concrete garage floor while I hit a few keys, trying to find out what has gone wrong. As if I’d know.

I put my life – my lives, come to think of it – in the hands of some computer program that I didn’t even understand and now we’re paying the price.

ERROR ENCOUNTERED.

Press return to fix and reload.

My finger hesitates, but I don’t have a lot of choice, do I? I press ‘return’.

‘How long?’ says Carly.

I look at the progress bar and groan. ‘Ninety-two minutes.’

There’s a noise next to me and, when I look down, the plastic ball is coming towards me, steered by the hamster inside it. Retrieving Alan Shearer from the ball, I hold him in my hands while I let my head loll back on to the cool brick wall behind me.

Eventually, Carly says, in a far-too-calm voice that is obviously an attempt to conceal her fear, ‘Al, mate. Would you mind explaining what the heck’s going on?’

I say, ‘This should not be possible. The travelling-to-the-future bit.’

‘No kidding, Einstein.’ This time the ‘Einstein’ thing does annoy me.

Grandpa Byron takes a deep breath and clears his throat. ‘The only way that that could be possible is if we cease to perceive time as linear, as suggested by the scholars of the Sri Kalpana, of course.’

‘You’ve lost me. The Sri what?’ says Carly, and I don’t really blame her. I barely grasp it myself. Still, suppressing a little groan, I give it a go.

‘How’s this?’ I say. ‘The past and the present and the future exist only in our imaginations. In fact, everything in spacetime is happening simultaneously, and time travel means we’re moving between, erm … dimensions of, erm … things.’

‘Brilliant,’ says Carly. ‘I understand perfectly now. Thanks, Al.’

I smile, and it’s a moment before I realise that she’s being sarcastic.

Carly goes over to the door to the kitchen. We’ve been here more than an hour.

‘I don’t think you should go in there,’ says Grandpa Byron, who has been very quiet till now. ‘I am most concerned there may be more of these doppelgängers. I’m not remotely convinced they are good to encounter.’

‘Well, I want to talk to that, erm … that me again,’ I say. ‘He said not to go anywhere. Perhaps he can help.’

‘Help with what?’ says Carly, scornfully.

‘I don’t know about you,’ says Grandpa Byron, ‘but I am quite keen to discover how I die. I think that’s worth sticking around for, do you not? After all, if it is preventable, then we might prevent it, for me at least? And, before you ask, this would not be changing the past, but rather avoiding one of many possible futures.’

He’s right, of course. Grandpa Byron is usually right. Only this time there is something different. I can see a fear written on his face that I’ve never seen before. He seems smaller, more vulnerable, and I do not like it.

‘Look at it this way, Al: unless this time machine can take us back to exactly when and where we left, then three things could happen. Not only will we all disappear from the world we were in – and heaven only knows the complications that will cause – but, in addition, you two will be living here – in a world where there is an exact copy of each of you, and I will be a modern-day Lazarus.’

‘Who the heck’s Lazarus?’ says Carly, causing Grandpa Byron to shake his head.

‘It is in the Bible, dear girl. You would do well to read it. Jesus of Nazareth brought a dead man, Lazarus, back to life. It caused quite the sensation in first-century Judea. I do not imagine the reaction now would be any less astounding.’

There’s a pause while we take in what Grandpa Byron has just said.

‘It was messed up right from the start,’ I say with a sigh. ‘The fact there was no doppelgänger of me when I came back from 1984 proves … oh, it proves I’ve been a complete idiot.’

Nobody disagrees, which is a bit harsh.

‘How long till we can go home?’ says Carly. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

I look at the laptop. The screen is blank, apart from a tiny progress bar in the top left corner.

‘There’s good news and bad news. The good news is the battery’s charging. The bad news is the reload is taking forever. Like, one per cent every minute or so.’

‘A hundred minutes,’ says Carly. ‘No, thanks. Besides, I’m dying for a wee and if you dare suggest I use a bucket or something …’

I hold up the key to the connecting door.

Grandpa Byron has gone quiet again and I can’t say I blame him. Carly’s in the toilet and I look across at him, sitting at the kitchen table, still in his cricket gear, reading a leaflet. He holds it out to me. There is a photograph of him on the front that I remember being taken a few years ago when we went to Druridge Bay and it rained while we had ice creams. I get a sad feeling because I remember the day so well.

Turning it over, I see a list of Sikh prayers and songs that will be sung at the funeral, including three verses of the popular Geordie song, ‘The Blaydon Races’. Even though the whole situation is very strange, it makes me smile.

‘You’re getting people to sing “The Blaydon Races” at your funeral?’ I say in disbelief. ‘It’s usually sung at football matches.’

Grandpa Byron shrugs modestly. ‘Well, as you know, I was never what you call a traditional Hindu. Ever since I came to the north-east all those years ago, I have loved that song. It is like a Geordie national anthem to me. You see—’

We are interrupted by Carly who comes bursting into the kitchen, holding a samosa. I fold up the service sheet and shove it in my back pocket.

‘Al, Gramps. Come and look at this!’

We follow her into the living room and both gasp at the sight before us. Laid out on a long trestle table are plate after plate of various Indian foods. Fat, crispy samosas, bhajis and pakoras; plates of coloured rice, deep-fried spiced eggs and long skewers of kofta all filling the room with an intoxicating aroma of curry spices. Grandpa Byron takes off his cricket helmet, the better to appreciate the scene, nodding contentedly. I’m a little bit nervous in case anyone can see us through the front window, but the big hedge is a good shield, and we’ll be gone before anyone gets back.

‘Just as I wished. Tarun has catered splendidly,’ he says, then he points to a large plate of fudge, the pieces artfully arranged. ‘Look, Al, they even have our favourite – badam barfi.’

I had missed breakfast this morning and I cannot resist taking a piece for each of us, even though it spoils the arrangement on the plate. Biting into it is heavenly: a sweet, creamy blend of cardamom and sugar. So I have another.

I’m on to my third when I freeze. We all hear it at the same time.

A key turning in the front door, followed by voices, and Mum saying, ‘Pye – will you put the kettle on straight away, please, and start heating up the sag aloo? Al, love, take your jacket upstairs, please, then go and get the ice from the garage freezer.’

Back so early? Well, that changes things.

In our house, you can get from the living room (where we are now) to the kitchen without going into the hallway. Carly is closest. I swear, I have never seen anyone move that fast. By the time the living-room door begins to open, Carly has vanished so quickly it would not have surprised me if she’d left behind a puff of smoke.

Which leaves me and Grandpa Byron too far from the kitchen door to make it. There’s only one place we can go. The near-floor-length cloth covering the trestle table that Grandpa Byron and I dive beneath must still have been twitching when Mum comes into the room, followed by others.

‘Ee, my God,’ says Mum. ‘Look at that!’

What can she see? I’m on my hands and knees under the table, head to head with Grandpa Byron, and I quickly check that we haven’t done anything daft like leaving a foot poking out. I can’t really move, though, not easily.

‘Who’s been at the buffet?’ Mum says. ‘Look! The … the badam whatnot! There’s pieces missing! And, oh! That’s a half-eaten samosa on the floor. Someone’s dropped it!’

Someone? I lock eyes with Grandpa Byron and he wipes crumbs from his face.

Mum is upset, I can tell, and I hear the door to the living room open again. ‘Al! Al Chaudhury! Could you not even wait?’

The other Al has come into the room and my heart starts to pound.

‘Wait for what?’ he says.

‘Last time I looked, that badam-thingy was perfect. You’ve scoffed loads of it and dropped a samosa on the floor.’

‘But, Mum, honestly, I never touched it!’

He must know it was us!

‘And so who did, eh? A ghost?’

She’s closer than she thinks.

Dad’s voice is next. ‘Come on, this is not a day for quarrelling. Everyone’s arriving now. Al, go and get the door, eh? That’s your Aunty Ellie and Sam.’

I think, Oh great. Cousin Sam, and not in a good way. Generally, I try to avoid Sam, but because he’s my cousin it’s not always possible. He’s always there at family events and we’re expected to get on because we’re cousins and boys and roughly the same age.

Except we don’t. Well, put it this way: I don’t get on with him. I think he thinks I like him. Sam thinks everyone likes him, but I just kind of pretend so as not to hurt Mum’s feelings because Aunty Ellie is her sister.

I hear them at the front door. Sam is obnoxious from the start. ‘Hey! Al! Why aye, man, hadaway, eh, eh?’

I sigh inwardly. This is Sam’s never-ending ‘joke’ about my Geordie accent. He and Aunty Ellie live in Leeds so he’s got a Yorkshire accent. I suppose I could retaliate, but I can’t do accents, so the easiest thing is just to pretend I don’t mind. Besides, this is a funeral. The other Al – whose feet I can see coming into the room now – is in mourning for his poor grandad, so it’s hardly the right time for what Sam calls ‘mega-bantz’. Not that that stops him, obviously.

I can’t see a clock, but surely enough time has passed for the program to have loaded on the laptop? I don’t want to wait around any longer than necessary, but it’s looking like we may be stuck here for a while.

Sam is standing next to the table now – I recognise his trainers. He whines, ‘Oh ’eck! Look at this lot! It’s all curreh! Ah can’t stand curreh, me.’

‘Sammy! Don’t be rude,’ hisses Aunty Ellie. ‘It’s in honour of your Great-uncle Byron.’

‘’E weren’t even a proper uncle, Mam. ’E weren’t related to me, were ’e?’

‘He was your Aunty Sarah’s father-in-law, Sammy, and we all loved him very much.’

Crouched beneath the table, I catch Grandpa Byron’s eye and we both smile a bit sadly. Then Sam pipes up, ‘Well, I didn’t. ’E smelled funny. All flowery and curry-ish.’

The smile on Grandpa Byron’s face becomes a scowl.

Aunty Ellie says a sharp, ‘Shush, Sammy,’ and I see her foot in shiny black high heels tap Sam’s ankle. ‘There’s some sandwiches there, look. Have one of them.’

‘Are they egg? Ah can’t eat egg sandwiches. They smell of farts …’

It’s becoming hard to distinguish people’s voices as more come into the living room and the buzz of conversation gets louder. Grandpa Byron has managed to rearrange his limbs so that he’s sitting with his padded legs crossed and fairly comfortable, although he’s quite hunched. There’s some sort of diagonal metal support under the table that prevents me from doing anything like that, and I can’t wriggle around at all or I’ll wobble the whole thing and reveal our hiding place.

The end of the trestle table adjoins the short sofa by the window. Craning my neck, I see that if I crawl backwards carefully, I could possibly – possibly – come out from beneath the end of the table and get behind the sofa without being seen.

While I’m thinking about this, Cousin Sam and Aunty Ellie have resumed their conversation right next to me, and I pick up some of it. Too much, if I’m honest.

‘Oh, Mam. Do I ’ave to?’

‘Look at him, poor lad. He’s lost his grandpa. He looks so sad.’

‘’E’s weird.’

‘Sammy, you’ve known him since you were little!’

‘’E’s been weird since I were little an’ all. God, I ’ate comin’ ’ere.’

Grandpa Byron reaches out a hand and grips my shoulder. In fact, I’m feeling relieved because at least I know now that me and Sam’s dislike is mutual. Well, relieved and furious. I mean, me? Weird? I look at Grandpa Byron and he mouths the words, Special limited edition, and I grin back at him.

Mum’s voice is next. ‘There you are, Sam! Thank you for coming. I’ve hardly seen you, love. Al will be so pleased you’re here.’

No, he won’t.

Just then, my phone buzzes once in my pocket. I reach round and extract it from my jeans pocket. It’s Carly.

Where the heck are you?

I type back.

Under the table. You?

In the garage hiding behind

the cooker. Again. Your doppel

twin came in looking for you

and calling your name.

Hang in there.

Battery’s charged.

Don’t be long.

I spot my chance when Mum says to Sam, ‘Why don’t you two boys go upstairs and play? It’s all grown-ups down here.’

Half a minute later, and Al and Sam must have left the room. I can tell from the position of people’s feet that a lot of people are at the buffet table, nudging it now and then, so any wobbling caused by my movements won’t be noticed. I begin to shuffle backwards towards the sofa when Grandpa Byron stops me with his hand.

‘Where are you going?’ he whispers.

‘Stay here,’ I whisper back. ‘When you hear the glass smash, make your move. No one will be looking, probably.’

Grandpa Byron’s eyes widen, then he nods, trusting me to do what is necessary.

I say, ‘Give me your helmet.’

He hands it over from his lap. It’s surprisingly heavy.

My plan – if you can call it that – is to get out from under the table and cause a huge distraction by throwing something – a heavy cricket helmet, say – at the centre bay window. When it smashes, everyone will turn to look at the commotion, allowing a crucial few seconds for Grandpa Byron to scramble unnoticed from beneath the table and get to the kitchen.

As for me, I’ll work something out.

Look, I know it’s not much of a plan, but I’ve got to do something and right now it’s all we have to rely on.

Clutching the cricket helmet, I continue to shuffle out from under the end of the table and squeeze behind the sofa. Excellent. No one has seen me. I take a few deep breaths.

All calmer, no drama. I make another mental list:

1. I will casually emerge from behind the sofa, hoping not to draw too much attention to myself.

2. If anyone notices me, they will assume I’ve got changed out of my smart clothes.

3. I will then casually saunter over to the window and …

4. Sling the helmet as hard as I can at the glass.

Okay, Al. Think about this. Why not something else?

I try out different options in my head:

1. Throw a drink at someone? No, that’s just mean. Anyway, who?

2. Start a fight with Cousin Sam! Much more satisfying. Except he’s upstairs, and bigger than me.

3. Have a fit of grief-stricken hysterics? No. I just couldn’t.

I wait behind the sofa, heart pounding, listening to snatches of conversation.

‘Oh, I know. Such a kind man …’

‘I still don’t get what he wanted with that old battery, Simi. Carried it from the workshop, they did …’

‘Did you ever read his book? The Memory Palaces of Something-or-other? No, me neither …’

‘He was a jolly excellent cook indeed. Kept all of the recipes in his head …’

‘Oh! His memory was phenomenal, Tarun! Never forgot a name unless he wanted to …’

‘It was just like Byron. All to avoid hitting a cat in the road!’

Inching my head round the end of the sofa, I check for any sign of the other Al and Cousin Sam, just to be sure.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. They’re back.

It’s now or never, though. Or perhaps ‘now and forever’ – who knows at this stage?

In my experience, most adults don’t take much notice of children when there are other adults around. I wait as long as I dare, before standing up behind the sofa and, just in case anybody is watching (which I don’t think they are), I say, ‘Aha! Got it!’ and hold up a tiny plastic dinosaur that has been there for goodness knows how long.

I move towards the window through the crowded room of adults who are holding cups and saucers, or plates of samosas, or wine glasses. I’m shorter than almost all of them, and I’m kind of sad I can’t stay. Some of my favourite people are here, a few are wearing wonderfully coloured robes, saris and turbans and there’s an old great-uncle whose name I forget who has a collie who does magic tricks. (That’s the uncle who does the magic … Oh, never mind.)

Right, Al. Straight ahead. Just go for it. It’s only a window. It’ll break outwards, meaning less danger to anyone sitting nearby.

The other Al is still separated from me by several people, which is good, as is the hubbub of people talking. I have taken a single step when I feel someone grab my hand and spin me round.

‘Albert! You got changed quickly. I don’t blame you. Come here, my boy …’

I am pulled into a hard embrace by Aunty Hypatia, and my head almost disappears in her vast bosom.

‘Oh … hi, Aunty Hypatia. Nice to ooooffff mmff …’

When she releases me, she holds me at arm’s length and says, ‘Look at you, Al. You’ve grown so much!’

‘Yeah, you too,’ I say without thinking. My mind is not on small talk, and I only realise what I have said when I see the hurt look on her face. ‘No, no … I didn’t mean that. I meant … I meant, erm … excuse me.’

I pull away from her, trying not to look at her expression because I really like Aunty Hypatia. But some things are more important than other people’s feelings and this is one of them. I push past Simi in the most amazing sequinned sari I have ever seen, past Old Annie from over the road.

I’m about a metre away from the window, knowing that my whole future, my whole life, depends on me doing this right. Not just me, either: Grandpa Byron and Carly are both relying on me. So I draw back the arm holding the helmet …

‘Eh, what the ’eck are you doin’, Al?’ says Cousin Sam, spraying me with crisps. He looks at me a bit oddly: maybe it’s my different clothes?

Think, Al, think. Now is the time for a snappy lie. Carly could do it.

‘Oh, erm … nothing. Just, er … stretching,’ I say, flexing my arm a bit.

He stares at me, his mouth open, revealing a tongue coated in chewed-up crisps. He points at my bare feet. ‘What’s ’appened to yer shoes?’ Then he leans in and says, quietly, ‘You’re just as daft as yer dead grandpa, you are,’ and then he straightens up, pleased with his own cruelty, and lifts his other hand, holding a massive piece of Black Forest gateau to his smirking face.

Something inside me flips. ‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘Well, how daft is this?’

I actually time it perfectly, placing my hand beneath his at the perfect second and shoving the cake right into his face, hard. His eyes widen in shock, and I follow up with a strong shove in his chest with both my hands. He staggers, but his balance is completely off and I see him tip backwards with a loud shout of ‘Uurk!’ before collapsing hard on to a low table of teacups and wine glasses and exhaling crumbs like a mini cakey volcano.

You know that sound of someone dropping a plate in the school dining room? Everyone, and I mean everyone, turns to look and there’s a big shout of ‘Whaaaaaay!’ Well, it’s a bit like that, but the sound of breaking is much louder (and no shout of ‘whaaay!’).

Sam’s lying there, covered in tea and broken cups. I have taken my chance and so – to my huge relief – has Grandpa Byron. I see him shuffling out, bottom first, from under the end of the table, but absolutely no one is looking at him. I quickly toss him the cricket helmet that I’m still holding and he jams it on to his head, providing at least some sort of disguise.

A man in a turban says, ‘What on earth …?’

Aunty Ellie squeals, ‘Sammy! What are you doing?’

Sam wails, ‘It were Al! ’E pushed meh!’

‘Don’t be silly, Sammy – Al’s over there. Look!’

The commotion was all the cover Grandpa Byron and I needed. Seconds later, we’re in the kitchen, Grandpa Byron is crouching with his head down, and there’s Mum, her back to me, taking something from the microwave. Can we sneak past her?

Grandpa Byron manages it and scuttles quickly through the door to the garage just as Mum turns.

‘Ah, Al – there you are. What was that noise?’

‘Oh, er … a car backfiring outside. I think someone dropped a cup as well.’

‘Are you OK, pet? I see you’ve got changed already.’ She looks me up and down and says, ‘Was there nothing clean and ironed, love? And where are your shoes?’ Then she holds out a plate of something I don’t recognise. ‘Here – hand these round, would you?’

‘Wh-what are they?’

‘They’re a bit of an experiment. Rice pudding vol-au-vents. I saw it on Instag—’

I interrupt. ‘Dad has told me to get some ice from the freezer,’ I say with my hand on the door handle already.

‘I’ll come and help you. It’s in the top drawer of the freezer – you may not reach.’

‘No! No! I’ll be fine, really! Honestly!’

I can’t keep the panic from my voice, but it’s too late. Mum has followed me through and she stops dead in her tracks when she sees Carly sitting on the tuk-tuk’s back seat, her eyes wide and frightened, like a rabbit on the road at night. I can see Grandpa Byron’s leg, in his stripy trousers, poking out from behind the old cooker, but Mum’s attention is on Carly.

‘Who on earth are you?’ says Mum. Of course, this version of Mum hasn’t met Carly before.

And that complicates things.

Mum closes the connecting door before turning back to me and Carly. She folds her arms and fixes me with a ‘mum-stare’. You probably know the type.

‘There’s something going on with you, Al Chaudhury. You’ve been behaving strangely all day, starting with that business climbing on the bin as we were leaving. It’s not all to do with your poor Grandpa Byron. I want to know why.’

Once again, I figure I might as well tell the truth. What other option is there?

‘You remember Al Singh?’ I say.

(Do you remember? Al Singh was the name I gave myself when Dad and I met as boys in 1984. Just checking. I have explained it all to him and Mum since.)

Mum’s shoulders sag. ‘Oh, Al. Not that timewarpy stuff again. I’ve had enough, I really have.’

That timewarpy stuff. Of course, I know now that Mum didn’t believe as much as she pretended. We’ve already had that row. To be honest, I can’t say that I blame her. Still, this is not the right time to do a quick revision course in spacetime and the theory of multiverses.

‘And as for you …’ she says, turning her attention to Carly.

Carly steps down from the tuk-tuk and extends her right hand politely. ‘How do you do, Mrs Chaudhury. I’m Carly Fowler. You work with my dad, Steve. He couldn’t come so he sent me along to pass on his condolences. We’re both very sorry for your loss.’

Right now, I could not love Carly more. She has totally transformed from the moody Goth that she normally is and Mum is perfectly wrong-footed by her politeness. Carly has even swallowed her gum.

‘Oh, erm … hello, Carly,’ she says, shaking her hand. ‘I … I didn’t know Byron and your dad …’

‘Oh yes. From years back, apparently. My dad always spoke very highly of him.’

‘Ee, well. I never knew. Thanks for coming, Carly. That’s very kind.’

Mum turns to me again, as if she was going to question us more, but then she is stopped by the ting-ting-ting of a spoon tapping on a wine glass.

‘Ah, that’s your dad,’ says Mum. ‘He’s going to make a little speech thanking everyone for coming.’ She looks at Carly, then at me. ‘I’ve not finished with you, Al Chaudhury. Not by a long chalk. Right now, you’re coming with me. I’m not having you missing your dad’s speech.’ And with that she grabbed my wrist with one hand while she opened the connecting door with the other, practically throwing me into the kitchen before I could object.

‘Wait for me!’ says Carly. She sees my horrified face.

‘No one’s going to be looking at you, Al,’ she whispers. ‘They’re all looking at your dad. Just hide behind me.’

I follow them both into the house, staying well to the back of the thirty or more people who are all facing Dad.

‘… to everyone for coming. I just wish my beloved papa-ji could hear all of the wonderful things people have been saying about him.’

I feel a poke in my back and turn to see Grandpa Byron crouching a little and smirking inside his cricket-helmet disguise. ‘I had to hear this, my boy!’ he hisses. ‘My very own funeral eulogy!’

Dad is quite a shy man, so he doesn’t speak for long, but it’s still sad and sweet, and there are a lot of people discreetly dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. After a few minutes, he begins to wrap up.

‘There’ll never be another quite like him,’ says Dad, choking up a little on the words, which makes my chin wobble a bit as well. ‘And if there’s one thing I regret, it’s not taking the time to tell him, often and to his face, that I loved him. Oh sure – he knew. Of course he did. But knowing it is not the same as hearing it said, is it?’ He takes a deep breath and adds softly, ‘And now it’s too late. So please: don’t make my mistake.’

Is it recklessness that makes me do what I do next? Or a jagged, awkward regret that I, too, had not said those precious words to my own dad – my real dad – before he died?

I was only eight, so it’s not really my fault, but still …

I glance behind me to see the crouched figure of Grandpa Byron slinking back into the kitchen, and I hear the door to the garage open and shut. What have I got to lose? I push forward to Dad. I take his hand, saying, ‘Dad! Remember Al Singh!’

He can’t possibly understand everything straight away, but he looks first at me in my scruffy clothes and bare feet, then at the other Al and finally back at me. ‘Everybody, wait here!’ says Dad, raising his voice above the mystified hubbub. ‘Al – come with me, and bring your, ah … friend with you.’ He turns to the crowd. ‘Bit of an emergency, everyone. It’s all under control!’

Seconds later, Carly, the other Al and I bundle through the connecting door into the garage. Dad locks the door behind him, reducing the clamour in the house to a murmur.

‘Right. Will someone explain to me just what on earth …’ Dad starts off all forceful. But then he sees Grandpa Byron, cricket helmet off, sitting in the back seat of the tuk-tuk – the father whose funeral he has just hosted. He gasps, his knees buckle a bit, but he stays upright, unable to drag his eyes away. Then he looks at each of us in turn before returning his gaze to his father.

‘You … you’re real?’ Dad croaks. He reaches out a hand to check that his father is not a ghost. Grandpa Byron takes it, and then steps down from the tuk-tuk, pulling Dad into a tight embrace, and there they stay for a while, Grandpa Byron rubbing Dad’s back and murmuring in Punjabi, like I guess he did when Dad was a little boy.

Al, Carly and I catch one another’s eye. ‘Wow,’ says Carly, shaking her head in disbelief, and we both join in, saying, ‘Frea-key!’

Dad’s face is streaked with tears when he pulls away from his embrace with Grandpa Byron.

‘You’re not a ghost, Papa-ji,’ he says. ‘You’re really here.’

He pats Grandpa Byron’s chest with his palm to prove his solidity and starts chuckling through his sobs at the sheer madness of the situation. Grandpa Byron holds Dad by the shoulders and stares into his eyes. He’s still a bit taller than his son, and I get an instant flashback of Dad doing the same to me once when I was little.

‘Yes, Pye,’ he says. ‘But I think you understand that I should not be.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I throw my arms round Dad, knowing as I do – without quite understanding why – that this may be the last time I get to hug him. ‘It’s all my fault.’

He responds by saying, ‘Shh, shh. It’s all right.’

‘My dear Pythagoras,’ says Grandpa Byron, gently, ‘I cannot stay, son. Do you understand?’

Dad looks at him, then at both me and the other Al, then at the laptop and finally at the wires and stuff in the tuk-tuk. He nods sadly and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. He turns to me and sniffs. ‘Al Singh? My boyhood friend who grew up to be my son. What chaos we caused, hmm? Don’t blame yourself, Al. That other me should never have asked you to use the time machine in the first place.’

I say, ‘It’s all gone wrong. But it wasn’t just you, Dad. It was … well –’ I nudge the doppelgänger next to me – ‘us.’

Al, who has been watching quietly, catches my eye and we share a smile.

Mum’s voice comes through the connecting door. ‘Pye! Al? You all right? Everyone’s very concerned.’

Al calls back, ‘Yes, Mum. It’s complicated.’

Dad says, ‘Everything is fine, love. Give us a minute.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ says Al to me. ‘You are me, what – three weeks ago?’

‘I guess so,’ I say. ‘Why aren’t you here? That is, why am I here? I mean … why … oh, I give up!’

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I realise you’ve probably got to go back and everything. But can you just, you know, explain?’

‘Quickly?’ adds Carly.

I say, ‘I’ll try. First, though, how did he die?’ I jerk my thumb at Grandpa Byron. ‘I mean … the other one. The one that’s dead.’

‘An accident,’ says Al, looking at the tuk-tuk. ‘In this.’

I nod. ‘There was a cat? You were thrown clear and he was killed?’

Al swallows hard. ‘Yeah. Different for you, was it?’

‘Yes. We both survived, but he had massive brain damage, so me and Carly …’

The other Al squeaks in surprise and points at Carly. ‘So it is you! Carly Fowler!’

She raises her palm. ‘Wassup, stepbro-space-twin-doppel-double from another universe?’

‘Long story,’ I say. ‘We tried sending a message, like I – that is, you and me – did with Alan Shearer back in 1984. To warn Grandpa Byron, you know?’

Al is nodding along, apparently understanding it all. I go on. ‘But then Paulie MacFaddyen got stuck and we had to go back and get him …’ At the mention of Paulie MacFaddyen, Al’s face screws up in puzzlement, but he doesn’t stop me. ‘And then we think that the prehistoric tortoise that we brought back messed with the doppelgänger rule so, erm … that is how we’re here.’

Dad is looking at us each in turn, his mouth agape.

I say, ‘It’s called the Many Worlds Theory, Dad. Dates back to a guy called Everett in the 1950s, as a way of explaining the wave-particle conundrum of quantum physics. You see—’

Thankfully, Grandpa Byron interjects (for I had pretty much reached the limit of my knowledge of quantum physics). ‘It dates back a lot, lot longer than that, my boy.’

‘Let me guess,’ says Al. ‘Did the scholars of the Sri Kalpana write something about it?’

‘Enough!’ says Dad. ‘I think it’s sufficient to know that this is a theory with many variations that nobody has proved conclusively, and yet we are experiencing. Agreed?’

I look at Al and then at Grandpa Byron. We all nod.

Al says, ‘I’m sorry, Grandpa Byron. I didn’t mean to, you know …’

‘Be a clever-dicky?’ He grins and his gold tooth glints. ‘All right. But now we need to get back because who knows what may happen if we don’t? The universe seems to be righting itself from the chaos we’ve caused, and I for one do not want to stand in its way.’

Dad sighs sadly and nods. ‘I get it,’ he says. ‘Sort of.’

He and Grandpa Byron have not let go of each other and they stand there, arms round each other’s shoulders, like kids showing that they are ‘best pals’.

The knocking on the door resumes. ‘Pye! Al!’

This time, I am taking no risks. Alan Shearer is safe in his hamster ball. The laptop and both batteries are fully charged. Grandpa Byron and Dad hug one more time. I say to Dad, ‘Hey – wasn’t there something you wanted to say to him?’

Dad looks puzzled for a second and then his face clears and he gasps at the realisation.

‘Yes! Yes, there was.’ He turns to Grandpa Byron and says softly, ‘I love you, Papa-ji.’

Grandpa Byron smiles and says, ‘I love you too, Pye,’ and Dad says, ‘I know,’ and they hug once more.

They might have stayed there forever if the thumping on the door had not started again.

With a final squeeze, Grandpa Byron disengages from his embrace with Dad and climbs on to the driver’s seat of the tuk-tuk while Carly and I jam into the seat behind, Alan Shearer between us in his plastic ball, with the laptop and black box and spare battery making everything very squashed.

‘Hey, Al,’ I say to my double. ‘It’s a shame we couldn’t hang out more. I’ve always said I quite enjoy my own company.’

‘You know what, Al … I mean Als?’ says Carly. ‘That was pretty funny. Can we go now, though?’

‘Wait!’ I say, looking at Dad. I am overcome with a powerful feeling that this will be the last time I see him. I can’t explain it, but just in case I’m right I get out and give him the biggest hug. He kisses the top of my head like he used to and I say, ‘I love you, Dad,’ and he says, ‘I love you too, son. Forever and ever.’

I squeeze him again, then climb back into the tuk-tuk and instantly the translucent bubble appears around it.

‘For as long as time?’ I say. Dad grins his crooked smile back at me.

‘Sure! For as long as …’

‘Sure! For as long as …’

‘Sure! For as long as …’

It’s as though I’m watching a movie clip on repeat. In front of us, my dad says the same thing over and over again, the action jerking back to the start as soon as he’s finished, and starting again.

‘Al?’ say Carly and Grandpa Byron together.

‘I know, I know. Do you want me to stop it?’

‘Yes!’ cries Carly in terror. ‘It’s not working properly, is it? We’ve just met doppel-doubles and now this.’

‘We haven’t gone anywhere yet, so I don’t know.’

‘Sure! For as long as …’

And then everything goes black. And the last time that happened wasn’t good.

If you remember, the original plan – which is a grand name for something dreamed up in a bit of a panic – was not to physically rescue Paulie. It was simply to occupy the previous bit of spacetime so that Paulie, Carly and I could never have made the journey in the first place.

But now it seems as though that rule no longer applies. I wonder if the others realise? I don’t think it’s the right time to ask.

Amid the familiar whooshing noise, and the faint smell of fireworks and the ear popping like you get on an aeroplane, I even try a joke. ‘We are now approaching sixty-five million years BC. Please return your seats to an upright position and make sure your baggage is safely stowed in the overhead lockers …’

No one laughs, but at least Carly’s not sick this time. No sooner have I finished speaking than the tuk-tuk creaks and wobbles and we’re back on the same stony plain under brilliant starlight with the moon rising above the sea.

‘Al?’ says Carly. ‘Wasn’t it, you know, daytime when we arrived before?’

Ordinarily, I’d think that this was Carly being snarky, but I don’t think she is. I look next at the battery-power indicator: as I watch, the display clicks from one per cent to zero per cent and the last light from the tuk-tuk’s control panel fades away.

‘Is that a problem?’ says Grandpa Byron, who had said nothing at all during the period of blackness, and has stepped down from the tuk-tuk, gazing above him, awestruck.

I don’t reply, mainly because I don’t know. The first thing I do is to reach beneath the driver’s position and take out the shoebox containing Tortellini. I remove the lid slowly, worried that she may not have survived the trauma of the journey.

I breathe a little sigh of relief. Her head’s not limp any more; in fact, for whatever reason – the prehistoric air, the smells, who knows? – she looks okay. Carly lifts her out and together we carry her a few metres to where there’s a large rock with a slight overhang. I place her beneath it and we both stroke her shell. Her leathery neck stretches forward and her beak opens in a wide yawn.

‘There you go, my friend,’ I say. ‘Welcome home.’

She blinks slowly, then curls back into her shell. I smile at Carly. ‘Job done.’

She cocks her head doubtfully. ‘Half done,’ she says.

‘Looks like it’s worked, bonny lad?’ says Grandpa Byron, walking over to us. He arches his back and grimaces. ‘I must be saying: in all of my meditations and imaginings, I never once thought I would be physically shifting dimensions. If only my old guru, the wise … oh my Lordy.’

He is looking behind us, hands on his hips, and Carly and I turn to follow his gaze. Twenty metres away, nearer to the swamp, is a mauve tuk-tuk, identical to the one we have just stepped out of.

‘Is that a good thing, Al? I’m not sure any more,’ says Carly.

Whatever the answer is – and it’s probably ‘no’ – I don’t get the chance to respond, for the moment Carly finishes, there’s the unmistakable sound of a young dinosaur’s roar, and then, on the edge of the slope above the beach, we spot three figures, two of them holding flaming sticks above their heads and running in our direction, one further behind and limping. It’s too dark, and we’re too far away for them to have noticed us yet.

‘Is that … is that …’ stammers Grandpa Byron.

‘Yeah, Gramps,’ says Carly. ‘It’s us. Frea-key or what? But it means we have less time than we thought. Can you hook up the extra battery, like double-quick? Al, where the heck are you going?’

‘Don’t worry about me – just get the tuk-tuk ready! We’ve got about a minute till daddy dino comes out of that swamp.’

I run to the other vehicle. I leap into the driving seat and start it, driving straight towards the oncoming trio of Al-two, Carly-two and – most importantly – the only Paulie. If I get to them quickly, we can put more distance between the creatures chasing them. It will buy us vital extra moments.

I flick on the tuk-tuk’s headlights, illuminating them in the beam. The light also shows up the pair of young dinosaurs in pursuit. Seconds later, I am alongside Al, Carly and Paulie, their faces a picture of utter bewilderment.

‘Quick – get in!’ I yell.

Together they say, ‘Who are you?’ and then, ‘Ohmigod, Al – it’s you!’

As for Paulie, he just swears loudly and adds, ‘No way. No way!’

This is not the time for gentle persuasion. Instead, I grab Paulie forcibly by the arm and pull him hard, yelling in his face, ‘I haven’t got time to explain, but if you don’t get into this tuk-tuk right now, you’re gonna be eaten by a dinosaur, and you two will be suspected of his murder along with Grandpa Byron over there, all right?’

Al squeaks in astonishment. ‘Grandpa Byron’s here?’

‘Yes, he is, and that stupid voice you do when you’re scared, you’re gonna have to … oh, never mind. Get in!’

They do. Al, I notice, is still carrying the cool box containing another Alan Shearer: I’ve clearly got to them before I throw the box at the dino. He wedges it under the rear seat. I’ve turned the tuk-tuk round by now, but we have lost the lead we had on the advancing dinosaurs.

I raise my voice over the whining hum of the motor. ‘Get ready to switch tuk-tuks, Paulie! Al, me, whatever I call you, if you see the big dinosaur, don’t drive between its legs. Reverse away instead. Left handgrip, twist it to R for reverse. Other than that, you’re on your own.’

‘There’s another one? How do we know this is true? I mean, you could be …’

Al is cut off by the ear-splitting roar of the giant dinosaur lumbering out of the swamp, stopping a few metres away, hot clouds of steam from its snout glowing grey in the moonlight.

‘Believe me now? God, you’re annoying sometimes. Just do as I say. There’s been a spacetime, erm, well … something weird—’

‘Do you mean a rip in the fabric of spacetime?’ says Carly-two. ‘Frea-key!’

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘we’ve got less than twenty seconds till we’re supper. So let’s go! And another thing – aargh!’

The tuk-tuk has hit a rock and, as though in slow motion, we tip over, dislodging both us and the hamster ball containing the first Alan Shearer. I watch in dismay as it lands behind us and the two halves fall open. There’s easily enough light from the moon and the stars and the headlamps to see Alan Shearer scamper out of the ball. Poor thing, he’s heading straight towards the advancing dinosaur who hasn’t seen him. The creature lifts its mighty clawed foot and I scream out as it brings it down on my hamster.

Of all the things to happen. We’ve come this far only to see my precious pet squished under the claw of a prehistoric monster.

But suddenly the dinosaur stops. Then it lifts up its foot, grunting and shaking it hard, too distracted to pay attention to us as we rock the tuk-tuk back on to its three wheels. I can see Alan Shearer hanging on with his teeth to the dino’s foot.

He has bitten it! Probably in a bit of tender skin between its claws, and certainly not hard enough to feel like more than a pinprick to such a monstrous animal … but it’s enough! On the third shake, the tiny creature falls from the huge feathered foot and scampers off, terrified, under the same rock sheltering Tortellini.

I think my hamster has just saved all our lives!

‘Get him!’ I shout, suddenly totally clear-headed. ‘We need to take him back for everything to be in order!’

The delay has helped us without a doubt, and I start the tuk-tuk again, circling back round as tightly as I can, but the accident has made the steering bar stiff and unresponsive. I yank it as hard as I can, aiming at the rock hiding Alan Shearer. I can even see him cowering beneath it. I feel the stitches in my shoulder opening up, pop pop pop, and I howl with pain.

Worse than that, though, from the front of the vehicle comes a soft snapping sound.

‘Look out!’ screams Carly.

Heading straight at us at full speed is the other tuk-tuk, driven by the other Carly, with Grandpa Byron standing behind her, hanging on with one hand, his other fist shaking a cricket bat menacingly at the big dinosaur and yelling, ‘You great ruddy monstrosity!’

My steering bar no longer reacts to anything I do and I know for certain we’re going to collide. In the seconds before the impact, I lean out as far as I can to try to dig my hand under the rock to pick up Alan Shearer.

But I’m too late.

Time was not on my side.

If I had known what was about to happen, would I have done anything differently?

That is impossible to answer. I couldn’t have prevented it. I could have not done a load of stuff leading up to it, but that crash? That crash in which two identical time machines collide?

Nope, I couldn’t have stopped that. I’ve thought about it since, a lot. I think perhaps it was all part of the universe putting everything right again.

The crash, when it comes, throws up a huge bubble of light, catapulting me from the driver’s seat, smashing my nose into the windscreen and pressing us all together: both of the tuk-tuks, both editions of me and of Carly, one Grandpa Byron and the one we had done all this for: Paulie. Still shirtless, Paulie clings on to the back seat, his legs dangling over the side. Then the bubble of light that has formed round the stalled vehicles bursts with a shower of sparks, and the noise of the dinosaurs roaring in frustration seems to shatter like a million pieces of a mirror as we are plunged once again into complete darkness.

This time, the noise is deafening; the wind – or whatever it is – like a hurricane and we are all screaming and constantly checking on one another, saying, ‘Are you okay?’ and ‘Where are you?’ and ‘Hold on! Hold on!’

Then Grandpa Byron shouts in my ear, ‘You missed him but I got him! Little rapscallion bit me to smithereens, but I got him!’ and in the darkness I feel the warm fur of Alan Shearer in my hands.

But, even though we’re all gripping each other by the hands and whatever clothing we can grasp, it isn’t enough.

I feel the other Al’s hand in mine. ‘Hang on tight!’ I yell.

And then he’s gone. It’s not like he’s been pulled away or anything: it’s just one second he’s here and the next he’s not, and it’s too dark to see anything, so I shout, ‘Al?’ and there’s no reply. I call, ‘Carly?’

And again. ‘Carly? Carly! Paulie! Grandpa Byron?’ I ball up my hands into fists and realise that my hamster has gone too.

I keep screaming their names, but only the wind replies. I can’t see anything because it’s so dark. A few more seconds pass, and I can taste the blood trickling from my busted nose into my mouth and I know then that however alone I might ever have felt, or may ever feel in the future, there is no loneliness as empty and profound as the one I encountered hunched on my own in a tuk-tuk in the middle of – what? – a spacetime void?

It occurs to me again – that ‘what-if’ of standing on a cliff edge – and I imagine what might happen if I stood up from my seat and stepped into the emptiness that engulfs me.

So I relax my grip on the handlebars. I have been holding on so tight that it feels good not to try so hard. Standing on the foot supports, I raise my weight from the tuk-tuk seat in readiness to step out.

Then the wind stops and I remember nothing more.

‘Welcome back, Al.’

Who’s that? The voice is familiar. I take a breath through my mouth because my nose is blocked and I can taste the air. Cool. Clean.

‘Carly?’ I croak. ‘Paulie? Paulie!’

‘We’re here, Al.’ That is Mum’s voice. Mum’s voice! I want to hear it again. ‘I’m here,’ she says.

I want to open my eyes but the light is too bright. It’ll hurt. Nor do I want to speak again because my tongue feels thick, and my throat is dry and sore. In addition, there’s a dull throbbing on my back, right where my stitches …

‘D-dinosaur … we go’ away. Din’ we?’

‘Shush, Al, pet. You need to rest.’

I force myself to open my eyes. She is leaning over me, smiling unhappily. I blink away the blurriness and run a dry tongue round my lips, and then I cough, which causes a spasm of pain in my back, and I groan. There’s a dull ache from the centre of my face and when I look down I see a bandage on my nose.

I bashed it on the windscreen of the tuk-tuk, didn’t I?

‘I’ll go and get a nurse. They need to know you’re awake,’ says Mum, and I watch her back as she walks to the door. I turn my head and there is Grandpa Byron sitting next to the bed, wearing the saffron-coloured robes that I haven’t seen in ages. I smile but it hurts.

‘What happened? Are you okay? The dinosaurs …’ I say no more as I’m overtaken with another coughing fit and then another stab of agony in my back. Grandpa Byron says nothing, but he reaches out his arm and gently pats my leg through the bedclothes.

I say, ‘The dinosaur got me. But … but that was the first time. Then we went back, and we crashed into the other tuk-tuk.’

Grandpa Byron whispers, ‘Shush, shush, bonny lad.’

It feels like hours later, but I can’t really tell. Mum is back in the room now with two women in green hospital wear.

‘Hello, Al,’ says the older one. She is holding an iPad that she looks at as she talks to me. ‘I’m Dr Homewood. How are you feeling?’

I cannot say more than, ‘Hmm. ’Kay.’

‘Good. So, Al, you have some stitches that have ripped apart and a nasty infection that we’re controlling with intravenous antibiotics …’

And so on. I don’t understand a word, to be honest. Meanwhile, the other woman, a nurse I guess, at least smiles at me before shoving a thermometer in my ear as the doctor drones on.

I manage to croak, ‘How long have I been here?’

Dr Homewood looks at her screen again and then up at the clock on the wall. ‘Thirty-two hours, Al. You were in quite a state when the paramedics got to you.’

I try to swallow but it is too sore. The nurse sees this and offers me a paper cup of water, which I drink greedily, and then I flop my head back on the pillow.

Dr Homewood clears her throat and puts her iPad down, looking at me straight for the first time. She smiles and pushes her large glasses up her nose.

‘Can you tell me how you got the injury, Al? Who did those stitches?’

‘Yes, it was a dino … I mean … a …’

I stop. I’m alert enough to realise that – yet again – telling a doctor – telling anybody – that I was attacked by a dinosaur is simply not going to be believed. I’m so worn out with this. I want it all to stop.

‘Yes?’ says Dr Homewood, gently.

‘A dog,’ I say. ‘I was bitten by a dog.’

She blinks slowly behind her glasses. ‘A dog,’ she repeats. ‘And, erm … what sort of dog was this?’

Oh man. I am so sick of all this.

I can’t even summon the energy to answer. I say nothing for the longest time, until eventually Dr Homewood says, ‘Al? There is a police officer outside waiting to talk to you.’

Here we go again.

I close my eyes and say, ‘I am very tired.’

That’s true, at any rate. I’m about as tired as it is possible to be. I’m thinking so hard right now, but nothing makes sense. At least, not ‘sense’ in the way that other people would understand.

See, what is the truth is not always what makes sense. Which is the sort of thing Grandpa Byron would say.

As the ancient scholars wrote, my boy, what is truth is not always sensible and what is sensible is not always the truth.

I open my eyes again and turn to Mum. ‘Where’s Paulie? Did he … is he okay?’

The doctor gets to her feet and says, ‘I’ll leave you for now.’

I know I’m not going to like what comes. It’s written all over their faces. Plus, there’s something about Grandpa Byron that is both familiar and unfamiliar and I don’t quite get it. It’s not just the robes he’s wearing, which I haven’t seen since … since …

Mum leans over from her chair by the side of my bed and takes my hand gently in hers.

‘Al, love. You have to tell us what happened. It’s quite serious.’

I answer with a question of my own. ‘Carly? Did she make it?’

‘Make it where, love? She’s fine! She’ll be here soon.’

‘And Paulie? Did he … that is, where is he?’

Mum and Grandpa Byron exchange a glance. ‘Paulie?’ says Mum, gently. ‘Who’s he? Or she?’

‘You know: Paulie MacFaddyen. My, erm … my friend at school?’

She laughs a little. ‘See? I told you you’d make friends eventually!’

I want to keep closing my eyes except every time I do I see the massive dinosaur, or smell its breath, or hear the sickening thump of Paulie’s body being thrown on to the marshy ground, and so I open them again and have to look at reality here in the hospital. I turn my head to stare out of the window instead. It’s evening and the sky is a vivid orange-pink.

There’s a knock on the door and, seconds later, two police officers in yellow jackets are standing by my bed. I manoeuvre myself into a sitting position.

‘Hello, Albert,’ says one. Her face is vaguely familiar, but I don’t know where from. ‘I’m Sergeant Alton. You can call me Jo. This is …’

I beat her to it. ‘Constable Shah,’ I say, and the police officer’s eyebrows shoot up.

‘How d’you know that?’ he says, and I shrug. Should I bother telling them? It’s pointless.

‘Perhaps you can start at the beginning?’ says Sergeant Alton.

I go through the motions of trying really hard to remember something: you know, screwing up my face, opening and closing my mouth, puffing out my cheeks and staring at the ceiling, until eventually I say, ‘Sorry. I can’t remember a thing.’

The officers both tut with frustration. Then there’s a familiar voice outside the closed door.

‘Is he in here?’

‘He’s being interviewed by the police at the moment, Mr Fowler.’

Mr Fowler? That’s … that’s Steve. Mum’s colleague from work. Carly’s dad. What on earth is he doing here?

The door opens and in bursts Steve, grinning and holding two carrier bags. Close behind him is Carly, barking at someone on her phone. ‘I don’t care! You do not get to treat me like that, Jolyon. If I never see you again, it’ll be too soon. Get lost.’ She pockets her phone and smiles sweetly. ‘Sorry ’bout that!’

‘You made it!’ I say to Carly, grinning massively. ‘Oh my God, you made it! I’m so pleased! Are you okay?’

She looks baffled. ‘Um, yeah. I’m fine. I just had to dump Jolyon Dancey, but that’s no biggie. You’ve done me a favour, mate.’

‘There’s me lad!’ says Steve. ‘’Scuse me, officers. Don’t mind me. How do, Byron! How are you diddlin’?’

To say I’m surprised at all this good humour from Steve doesn’t quite capture my reaction, except everything so far has been pretty unexpected from the second I opened my eyes.

The woman officer coughs and says, ‘Ah … we’ll leave you all to it for the moment. Our investigations are ongoing. We’ll be back to see if your memory of what happened improves, Al.’

So I’m feeling pretty confused, especially when Steve goes over to Mum and says, ‘Evening, pet,’ and kisses her. On the lips.

Okay, stop right now.

This is getting too strange. I say to Mum, ‘Where’s Dad?’ and she blinks rapidly in response as a flash of sadness crosses her face.

‘Oh, Al, pet,’ she says, ‘I think you’re still a bit disorientated.’

I say nothing for ages. And that’s when I begin to get it.

Back in the garage, when I hugged my dad for what felt like the last time, I had been right. It was hours ago, right? But it feels like only seconds. I reach up with my good arm and touch my scalp where he kissed me.

The realisation feels like a weight pressing on my chest. So much that for a second or two I can’t breathe. And then, slowly, the weight lifts a little, I take a breath, and my mind begins to clear.

I go over the things that happened: it all started with my pet hamster and the letter from my dad; then there was breaking into our old house at night to find Dad’s time machine; going back to 1984 and meeting Pye; the incident with Macca and the cat; the horrible accident with the Lean Mean Green Machine; the fire I caused at the school in order to get home; then meeting my dad again and his prize hamsters; rebuilding the time machine and crashing the tuk-tuk, our escape from the dinosaurs, but losing Paulie; and being at Grandpa Byron’s funeral – man, that was weird! – and wanting all the madness to stop, and finally – finally – waking up here …

Blinking hard, I look round at the people in the room: Mum, Steve, Carly, Grandpa Byron.

But no Dad.

Not in this world, anyhow.

And somehow I feel okay with that. Not happy. Just okay.

Because this is my world. I’ve tried several others, but this is the only one I fit into.

Isn’t it?

I need to check. I see my clothes folded on a stool by the window.

‘Pass me my jeans, please,’ I say.

I shove my hand in the front pocket and pull out the plastic dinosaur that I’d found behind the sofa that time when I had been hiding at Grandpa’s funeral. In the back pocket is a folded sheet of thick paper that I open up enough to see that it is Grandpa Byron’s printed funeral service. For the moment at least, I leave it in my pocket.

‘Al, Al? Are you all right? You drifted off for a minute there.’

That’s Mum speaking. ‘Yeah. I’m okay. I think.’

‘Well, that’s nice. Only we reckoned that hospital is a rotten place to spend your twelfth birthday, so we brought your presents here. Go on, Byron – give him yours first.’

My twelfth birthday?

That was weeks ago!

Reaching beneath his long yellow robes, Grandpa Byron hands over a card. With a twinkle in his eye, he says, ‘Finances are a bit tight, bonny lad. It’s only a card.’

Something tells me he is joking, and so I risk saying so. ‘I know what’s in here,’ I say as I rip open the card. ‘There will be two twenty-pound notes.’ He smiles as the money falls out on to the bed.

‘How on earth were you knowing that?’

I want to say, ‘Because that’s what happened on my last twelfth birthday,’ but I don’t because Steve is handing me a soft, gift-wrapped parcel.

‘I know what is in here as well,’ I say. ‘It’s a Newcastle United top. With Albert Twelve printed on the back.’

Steve chuckles. ‘You must have seen it!’

‘How, Dad?’ says Carly. ‘It only arrived last night – you were worried it wouldn’t get here on time. I reckon my bro’s got X-ray eyes!’

I’m quite enjoying this, and I grin as I hold up the black-and-white striped top. ‘I love it!’ I say, and this time I mean it. ‘There’s a bit of growing room in it as well, so I’ll be able to wear it for ages. Thanks, Steve!’

He smiles and ruffles my hair, and I don’t even mind that. Carly gives me a card next. On the front is a cartoon of a tortoise wearing a party hat and the caption says ‘Have a turtle-y awesome birthday!’ Carly’s grinning like mad.

I point to the drawing and say, ‘A tortoise? Really?’ and she shrugs and says, ‘Yeah. Why not?’ I think it’s just a coincidence.

Finally, Mum takes a second present from the carrier bag. It’s a shoebox with a few holes in it. It isn’t wrapped, apart from a ribbon round it.

I think, If this contains a tortoise, I give up. Nothing makes sense. If, on the other hand …

I risk it and say out loud, ‘There’s a hamster inside that,’ and they all gasp again.

‘That’s incredible,’ says Mum.

I lift off the lid, and there he is. Cute and sandy-coloured, with long whiskers and a twitchy nose. ‘Hello,’ I say, and I pick him up. ‘Hey, Steve. Have you already thought of a name for him?’

‘Well, I have, as a matter of fact,’ says Steve.

‘Yeah, me too,’ I say. ‘Meet –’ and I pause just like they do on TV competitions – ‘Alan Shearer!’

The look on Steve’s face! He sits down heavily in the plastic hospital chair, shaking his head in wonder. ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say. Exactly!’

‘What do you reckon, Carly?’ I say.

Alan Shearer is running around on the bed covers, and I hope a nurse doesn’t come in right now because I don’t think hamsters are very welcome in hospitals.

I wait for her to say the line. You know, ‘A hamster? They’re just rats for babies.’ She pops a gum bubble and studies him, head on one side. Finally, she nods.

‘Cute. Daft name, but definitely cute.’

‘Well, I’m glad you like him,’ says Mum, beaming. ‘Because there’s one more thing for you. It’s time to give Al The Letter.’

From her backpack, Mum takes a letter: a thick white envelope inscribed in spidery handwriting with my name: Albert Einstein Hawking Chaudhury. ‘It’s from your dad. From before he died,’ she says, and I resist the temptation to be all ‘clever-dicky’ and say, ‘I know,’ because that wouldn’t be nice right now. Instead, I look all curious as I read the instructions on the front, despite knowing exactly what is inside.

IMPORTANT: DO NOT open this envelope until SIXTEEN hours after receiving it. To be delivered on his twelfth birthday.

‘I think I should read this in private,’ I say and everyone nods in agreement.

Afterwards, when they’ve gone, I read the letter again. And again, although, in truth, I already know it by heart. I think about throwing it away, or tearing it up and flushing it down the loo, or somehow burning it, but I don’t.

Of course I don’t. It’s from my dad, after all, and I loved him. Love him even. Because if I’ve learned one thing over the past few crazy weeks, it’s that time – future and past – is far more complicated than anything we can imagine. And so I’ll keep his letter and it will stay with me forever, just like the memory of my dad.

My dad who died twice.

And that is the end of my story. Well, almost the end …

Grandpa Byron is the only one that understands the full story. He is perhaps the only person alive who could possibly get his head round what happened and so, eventually, I told him the whole truth. I showed him his funeral notice, which made him say, ‘Wow, frea-key!’, which he has definitely picked up from Carly. And I even showed him – and him alone – Dad’s letter. When he read it, his eyes grew moist, then he handed it back to me.

‘He was quite the dreamer, your papa-ji,’ he said. ‘But this was no dream, eh?’

It’s a Saturday lunchtime and Grandpa Byron and I have come to Culvercot, as we often do, to eat at Spice of the Sands. The mauve tuk-tuk still attracts humorous glances and people take pictures of it on their phones. My friend Freddie Stayward at St Eddie’s calls it the ‘Ultra Violet Fright’, which made Grandpa Byron laugh so much.

Anyway, the police had impounded the tuk-tuk at first – that is to say kept a hold of it – after I was found next to it outside where we used to live in Culvercot, the day it all happened. I was alone, bleeding and unconscious. The police gave up questioning me in the end: nothing added up for them.

As for me, though, more memories have returned about how I came to be there and I have a pretty full picture. There were the dinosaurs, obviously, and Tortellini the tortoise, and the two tuk-tuks crashing into each other, and the other Al and Carly clinging on to the vehicle, with a second Alan Shearer wedged beneath the seat in a cool box. And Paulie of course. Strange Paulie, weak and aggressive at the same time, both bully and bullied, desperate to be liked, yet pretending he didn’t care about anyone.

After a while, nobody claimed the bashed-up mauve tuk-tuk; the police and vehicle authorities had no record of it even existing. So it went into a police auction, Grandpa Byron put in a ridiculously low bid and bought it for, as he said, ‘peanuts’.

For the umpteenth time, I ask Grandpa Byron, ‘Do you think Paulie got back okay? You know – to the world where he belonged?’

He wipes up some bhuna sauce with a folded chapatti and pops it in his mouth before answering. ‘Indubitably, my dear Al. I should say that the universe has a way of repairin’ any rips that occur in what you call “spacetime”. Not that I am an expert, of course. But look – you are here. I see no reason why that young lad did not make it back safely. Plus both Alan Shearers, and the other Carly and Al as well – otherwise, where are they all?’

It’s a good point. He says, ‘Just think – you messed with spacetime, but spacetime had the last laugh.’

‘Do you mean to say, “the laws of spacetime seem to be beautifully arranged to prevent such chaos?”’ I say, quoting my dad, and Grandpa Byron nods slowly.

‘Y’see, bonny lad, you tried to run away from your life. But that’s a race you’ll never win.’

As explanations go, it will have to do. We sit for a moment as Tarun clears the plates, then I say, ‘Do you miss him, Grandpa Byron?’

He smiles sadly, then reaches over and grips my hand. ‘Only when I’m breathin’, bonny lad. Only when I’m breathin’.’

Then he drains the last of his can of Fanta and looks at the clock on the wall. ‘Come on. Your stepdad’ll be waiting. Got your shirt on?’

I lift up my jacket to reveal my Newcastle United top and feel the fluttering of anticipation in my stomach. Steve has arranged tickets for us to watch Newcastle’s first home match of the season – a team that till fairly recently I had had no interest in, and yet today I could not be more excited. I’ve started memorising all the team stats using Grandpa Byron’s memory tricks. Mum and Carly are coming too, and Mum will do her thing of randomly shouting things like, ‘Man on!’ and ‘Great pass!’, which Carly and I think is hilarious.

‘By the way,’ says Grandpa Byron, rummaging in the pocket of his leather biking jacket, ‘I found this when I was cleaning the tuk-tuk. Do you recognise it?’

He opens his fist to show a cream triangle about four centimetres long.

‘It … it’s a tooth,’ I say. ‘A dinosaur’s tooth?’

He presses it into my palm and winks. ‘Better hang on to it then, bonny lad. It might be bringin’ you good luck.’

‘Do you believe in good luck?’ I say.

We’re right by the tuk-tuk now, and I can see the hole where the dinosaur tooth penetrated the back panel right where my shoulder was.

He crouches a little so he can look me straight in the eye. ‘Oh yes, Al. And you’ve experienced some very great luck.’

‘I have?’

He nods sagely. ‘Sometimes, bonny lad, not getting exactly what you want turns out to be the best luck of all.’

I sit in the back of the tuk-tuk, and people smile as we pass and I clutch the dinosaur tooth tightly in my palm.

Then, just as we turn up Beach Road, I see him.

He’s unmistakable in his red-and-white football top and he’s with a man and they both grin as the man points to the tuk-tuk as we pass. It’s only a moment, but it tells me all I need to know. The man’s other hand rests gently on Paulie’s shoulder, like a dad’s might. I think, The universe has even put that right!

I smile and raise my hand in a greeting and Paulie does the same, even though he doesn’t know me, and for one tiny instant our eyes lock, and then he starts to run. A straight, level stride with no sign of a limp, and I know that I am back where I should be.

And this time I’m here to stay.

I truly hope you have enjoyed reading this book. You may like to know the other people, apart from me, who have helped to get it into your hands. (By the way – if you didn’t enjoy the book, then don’t blame them: that is all my fault!)

All authors are helped by their editors. In my case, it’s Nick Lake and Tom Bonnick at HarperCollins who help to guide the story through from its initial conception to the delivery of the early drafts – all with tact and patience for which I’m immensely grateful. Then other people get involved: Jane Baldock dealt with copyediting by the ever-vigilant Jane Tait, saving me from countless embarrassing mistakes. The marvellous cover is again by the brilliant Tom Clohosy Cole.

I owe all of these people, and many more involved both before and after publication, a huge ‘thank you’.

Most of all, though, I want to acknowledge you, the readers. Your enthusiasm for the characters of Al, Grandpa Byron, Carly and the rest was what persuaded me to bring them back for another adventure. Thank you!

RW

Keep Reading …

Travel back to the original adventure!

On Al Chaudhury’s twelfth birthday his beloved Grandpa Byron gives him a letter from Al’s late father. In it Al receives a mission: travel back to 1984 in a secret time machine and save his father’s life.

Al soon discovers that time travel requires daring and imagination. It also requires lies, theft, setting his school on fire and ignoring philosophical advice from Grandpa Byron. All without losing his pet hamster, Alan Shearer …

Click on the cover to read more.

The year is 2425. Centuries after a catastrophic meteor collision, nature has retaken the earth. In a small town in what was once England, young Ocean Mooney and the monkey-owning Duke Smiff have just dug up a 400-year-old tablet computer.

Meanwhile, in the present day, Thomas Reeve and his genius cousin Kylie create the Time Tablet – a device which they hope will allow them to communicate with the future.

But when the Time Tablet malfunctions live on television, Thomas and Kylie are sucked into the year 2425 – and have only 24 hours to return home, and save the future of humanity …

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When twelve-year-olds Willa and Manny hear of a mysterious animal prowling their town, they are determined to prove it is real. Following the creature into a cave one full moon, they are swept into an alternate, ideal, world – one where pollution and conflict have been conquered decades ago and even their own families seem happier.

But when they return, no one believes them. So, with a global war looming in their own world, their quest for proof of the Sideways World becomes ever-more urgent, in a nail-biting race against time.

And Willa and Manny will have to make an impossible decision: because once you find a perfect world, can you ever leave it behind …?

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When eleven-year-old Malky and his younger brother Seb become the owners of a “Dreaminator”, they are thrust into worlds beyond their wildest imagination.

From tree-top flights and Spanish galleons, to thrilling battles and sporting greatness – it seems like nothing is out of reach when you can share a dream with someone else.

But … impossible dreams come with incredible risks, and when Seb won’t wake up and is taken to hospital in a coma, Malky is forced to leave reality behind and undertake a final, terrifying journey to the stone-age to wake his brother …

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Turning invisible at will: it’s one way of curing your acne. But far more drastic than thirteen-year-old Ethel Leatherhead intended when she tried a combination of untested medicines and a sunbed.

It’s fun at first, being invisible. And aided by her friend Boydy, she manages to keep her extraordinary ability secret. Or does she …?

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Books by Ross Welford

THE DOG WHO SAVED THE WORLD

THE KID WHO CAME FROM SPACE

THE 1,000-YEAR-OLD BOY

TIME TRAVELLING WITH A HAMSTER

WHAT NOT TO DO IF YOU TURN INVISIBLE

WHEN WE GOT LOST IN DREAMLAND

INTO THE SIDEWAYS WORLD

THE MONKEY WHO FELL FROM THE FUTURE

TIME TRAVELLING WITH A TORTOISE

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