The Daydreamer Read Free Page A

his own things, with no imaginary line down the middle of the room. He lay in the semi-darkness and thought that it was just as well that some good at last had come from that vile monstrosity, the Bad Doll.

    So the months passed, and Peter and Kate became used to having their own rooms and no longer gave it much thought. The interesting dates came and went – Peter’s birthday, fire- work night, Christmas, Kate’s birthday, and then Easter. It was two days after the family Easter egg hunt. Peter was in his room, on his bed, about to eat his last egg. It was the biggest, the heaviest, which was why he had saved it until last. He peeled off the silver and blue foil wrapper. It was almost the size of a rugby ball. He held it in two hands, gazing at it. Then he drew it towards him and pushed into the shell with his thumbs. How he loved the thick, buttery cocoa aroma that poured from the dark hollowness inside. He raised the egg to his nose and breathed in. Then he started to eat.
    Outside, it was raining. There was still a week of holidays. Kate was out at a friend’s house. There was nothing to do but eat. Twenty minutes later, all that was left of the egg was the wrapper. Peter got to his feet, swaying slightly. He felt sick and bored, a perfect combination for a wet afternoon. How strange it was, having his own room was not exciting any more. ‘Sick of chocolate,’ he sighed as he went towards his door. ‘Sick of my room!’

    He stood on the landing, wondering if he was about to be sick. But instead of heading to the lavatory, he walked towards Kate’s room and stepped inside. He had been back hundreds of times before, of course, but never alone. He stood in the centre of the room, watched, as usual, by the dolls. He felt peculiar, and everything looked different. The room was bigger, and he had never noticed before how the floor sloped. There seemed to be more dolls than ever with their glassy stares, and as he went down the slope towards his old bed, he thought he heard a sound, a rustling. He thought he saw something move, but when he turned, everything was still.
    He sat on the bed and thought back over the old days when he had slept here. He’d been just a kid then. Nine! What could he have known? If only his ten-year-old self could go back and tell that innocent fool what was what. When you got to ten, you began to see the whole picture, how things connected, how things worked … an overview …
    Peter was so intent on trying to remember his ignorant younger self of six months before that he did not notice the figure making its way across the carpet towards him. When he did, he gave out a shout of surprise and scrambled right on to the bed, and drew his knees up. Coming towards him at an awkward but steady pace was the Bad Doll. It had taken a paintbrush from Kate’s desk to use as a crutch. It hobbled across the room with bad-tempered gasps, and it was mutter- ing swear words that even a bad doll should not use. It stopped by the bed post to get its breath. Peter was surprised to notice how sweaty its forehead and upper lip were. The Bad Doll leaned the paintbrush against the bed and drew its only fore- arm across its face. And then, with a quick glance at Peter, and taking a deep breath, the Bad Doll snatched up its crutch and set about climbing on to the bed.

    Scrambling up three times your own height with only one arm and a leg takes patience and strength. The Bad Doll had little of either. Its little pink body quivered with the effort and strain as it hung half way up the post, looking for leverage for its paintbrush. The gasps and grunts became louder and more piteous. Slowly the head, sweatier than ever, rose into Peter’s view. He could easily have reached over and lifted the creature on to the bed. And just as easily, he could have swatted it to the floor. But he did nothing. It was all too interesting. He wanted to see what happened. As the Bad Doll inched its way up with cries of ‘Oh blast and