Into the Sideways World

We watch the war on TV most nights as it grows worse and gets closer.

Dad sits there, tutting and shaking his head, calling the prime minister names. My older sister, Alex, gets angry, disagreeing with everything Dad says about it, though I don’t think she understands it much better than any of us. Then they shout.

Mam gets upset with both of them, and she has even started shooing me out of the room when it comes on. She says, ‘You’re only twelve, Willa. You don’t need to see this stuff.’

Then Dad says, ‘This is history happening right now. History girl needs to see it!’

‘History girl’ – ha! I won the Year Six history prize last summer, and Dad hasn’t stopped going on about it. He loves stuff like that. Me, I just wrote an essay about the American president John F. Kennedy (the one who was murdered in 1963), with a cool drawing that I copied from a photo and coloured in really carefully.

When it comes to what’s happening now, and World War Three being just round the corner, I’m scared. Everyone is. Well, everyone apart from Manny Weaver, but we’ll come to him soon enough.

Even if I do leave the room, it makes no difference. It’s there when I open my laptop or my phone: video clips of bombs falling from planes, smoking buildings, people being dug out of rubble, angry mobs throwing things at angry soldiers, and angry people posting angry messages on Kwik-e.

I hate it, but it’s pretty hard not to look. You know what I mean. You’ve probably seen the same sort of stuff.

I’m quite good at understanding history when it’s in the past. Less so when it’s happening all around me.

I don’t even know why they’re fighting. Water, I think. And oil, probably. God? In some places, I think it’s all three. One bunch of people hating another bunch of people, everyone else taking sides, and suddenly … boom! There’s a war. That seems to be how it works. Mam says I shouldn’t be scared because the war is happening miles and miles away in other countries. But it’s getting closer; everyone knows that.

My school prize, by the way, was a book called A Little History of the World. There are a lot of wars in it. It sits on my shelf, more or less unread. Every time I go to pick it up, I remember my name being announced in the school hall and nobody cheering.

Mam and Dad couldn’t be at the prize-giving because they had a big meeting with the SunSeasons people who are going to buy our family business and merge it with the bigger (and much nicer) park nearby. They didn’t see what happened – the tumbleweed moment when I walked on to the stage and only the teachers clapped – and I haven’t really told them. I haven’t really told anyone because there’s no one to tell. I suppose I could tell old Maudie, but seeing as she helped me so much with the essay it would only upset her. I’ve kept it to myself.

Meanwhile, the certificate I got is still on the mantelpiece, next to Dad’s air-force medals, and the photo-and-candle shrine to baby Alexander. He was my older brother who didn’t make it past eight days and is now part of history himself.

Right now, they’re arguing again, Mam and Dad, and their door just slammed. It’s sometimes about the war, usually about work. The business is in trouble, I know that much. Mam calls Dad ‘lazy and unimaginative’; he calls her ‘controlling and obsessive’. I can hear them from my room, hissing at each other like angry cats.

Alex stays in her own room, headphones on, fighting a game-war on her computer with someone she’s never met. It wouldn’t be so bad if she would at least talk to me, but instead she just sighs and seethes like the faulty boiler in the shower block.

Conflict? It’s all around me, and I hate it.

Then, before we know it, the prime minister’s on everyone’s screens saying that Britain may be forced to declare war, if our allies do. Suddenly it’s all anyone is talking about.

That is when I meet Manny and find the Sideways World, and nothing is the same ever again.

I think I love Manny Weaver! Not that kind of love, don’t worry. All right, by anyone’s standards, Manny is very good-looking, but we’re only twelve, and I don’t get any of that heart-pounding-squishy-tummy feeling that my sister Alex says is a sure-fire sign of being in love. (She should know: it seems to happen to her about every other month. She’s fifteen.)

So, I guess I just like Manny – a lot. What’s more, he seems to like me, which marks him out as unusual among the kids in my school.

Manny has a streak of … something in him. Something I noticed this morning when he came into our classroom and stood in the doorway: tallish and skinnyish, with a slight stoop, like he’s always getting ready to duck. Everyone turned to look at him: the New Kid.

You or I would probably have done the whole eyes-down-please-don’t-look-at-me thing and scuttled to the place (next to me, worse luck) that Mrs Potts has created: new notebook, school-logo pencil and ‘Welcome to Class 7P’ card.

Not Manny. He stared back for, like, ages. There must have been about twenty people in the classroom. He looked at us all, one by one, his shoulders hunched, his eyes hardly blinking through his long blond fringe. He wasn’t exactly scowling, but he didn’t look friendly, either. Gradually, everyone in the class fell silent as this staring match went on. When his gaze had taken us all in, he gave a tiny nod and whispered, ‘Hi.’ Then the small crowd of Year Sevens parted for him respectfully as he made his way to our table and sat down.

It was obviously another of Mrs Potts’s attempts to ‘bring me out of my shell’, as she once said. You know, pair up the New Kid with the Quiet Kid and see if they make friends. Or perhaps she thinks I’ll be a good influence on him. I never get into trouble at school, and Manny has a look of mischief about him.

I think it’s his eyes mainly: as green and as shiny as a halved kiwi fruit, and starey and sad, which is an odd combination.

There’s no uniform at our school, but we’re supposed to dress ‘sensibly’. Manny came in wearing striped trousers, rainbow-hoop socks and a purple velvet sweatshirt. I heard Deena Malik say, ‘Wow, check out Willy Wonka!’

It’s all part of his streak of ‘otherness’.

A streak of magic, it feels like.

At the end of the school day, I’m waiting by the gym to walk home with Madison and Jess. It will make the walk longer, but I don’t really mind. I’ve brought a Fry’s Chocolate Cream with me to share with them, but then I see them walking off on the other side of the playing fields, too far away to shout after them. How they got there without passing the gym is a mystery. I turn my bike round and go the other way, trying to push down the thought that they’re avoiding me.

Manny is at the end of the alley that leads up from the seafront to school, which everyone calls Dog Poo Lane. He’s just sitting on the wall next to his scuffed yellow bicycle, seemingly minding his own business.

‘Hi, Willa,’ he says before I’m even level with him. I have to brake sharply not to hit him. ‘I thought I’d tell you about myself. Save time, you know?’

What do you say when someone says that? Well, wittily, I go, ‘Erm …’ which he takes to mean, Yes, go right ahead – tell me absolutely everything about yourself even though I haven’t asked.

He pushes back his long blond fringe and says, ‘All right then.’

We start pushing our bikes along the pavement, past the boarded-up shopfronts with graffiti on them. It’s May, but there’s a cold, damp breeze blowing in off the grey North Sea; little clumps of litter snap at our feet like naughty puppies. He stops to pull an ice-lolly wrapper out of his wheel spokes.

‘Don’t be freaked out, Willa,’ he says. ‘It’s just I’ve been in about a thousand foster families with new parents, new brothers and sisters, and I just think it’s quicker this way. I’ll end up telling you this stuff sooner or later, so why not make it sooner?’ Then he grins as if daring me to disagree.

‘Because … I don’t really know you?’

‘Exactly! And this way you will. You see, we’re going to be friends, I can tell. Whoops, watch out – dog poo!’

I skip round it. ‘You can?’

‘Believe me, when you’ve been in as many schools, families, Pupil Referral Units and children’s homes as I have, you get a sense about this stuff. Besides, you need a friend, so why not me?’

Prickling with shame, I stop pushing my bike and swing my leg over, ready to ride off.

‘Hey, wait!’ says Manny. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re wrong. I don’t need a friend.’

‘So why are you coming out of school alone? Why were you hanging round the library at lunchtime on your own? Why—’

‘All right, all right,’ I snap back. ‘Maybe I don’t have loads of friends. What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Well, I don’t have any. Not yet. So, you know …’

Manny can see that I’m a bit embarrassed, so he quickly picks up the thread of the conversation.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Emanuel Weaver – you know that. Birthday: February first, presents are welcome but not required. Kidding! No brothers or sisters. Last foster family emigrated to Australia to get as far away from me as possible.’

I glance at him. He’s half smiling, so I guess he’s joking. He continues. ‘Now living in the care of North Tyneside social services at Winston Churchill House behind the seafront. Never met me dad. Mam … no longer with us.’

He pauses. ‘There you go. That’s me.’

It’s all so abrupt, especially the last bit. I say, ‘Oh. Right. Good. Well, not the last bit, that’s not good. Sorry. Your mam, I mean …’ I’m babbling and embarrassed.

‘Aye, well, thanks. You probably want to know what happened to her?’

‘No! Well, I mean, if she’s, you know, erm … dead, then, erm …’

Oh no, I hate this.

Manny jumps in. ‘She’s not dead, Willa.’

‘Oh. It’s just you said she’s no longer with us, so I thought …’

‘Mental breakdown,’ he says. ‘Basically, she went to the shops and never came back. It’s a long story. I was very little.’

‘That’s horrible, Manny. Poor her. Poor you.’

He stops pushing his bike, fiddling with one of the brake wires. ‘Thanks,’ he says with a sigh. ‘No one really knows exactly what happened. I was only four, so I was hardly told anything other than Mummy’s poorly in the head, that sort of thing. She’s still a missing person officially. But Jakob – that’s my social worker – says I should learn to live with the possibility that my mam is dead.’ He shrugs. ‘Only she isn’t.’

It’s difficult to know what to say. Nobody usually shares that much personal stuff with me, especially not straight away. We push our bikes in silence for another moment, then I say, ‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t,’ he says. ‘But just because I don’t know doesn’t mean it’s not true. I’ll find her one day. I can feel it.’

I look over at him again, and he has his jaw stuck out and his mouth clamped tight shut as if he’s used to telling this story and not crying about it. His eyes are shiny. It’s really awkward for a few moments, then Manny says, ‘Okay. That’s me. What about you?’

Wow.

‘Erm … er … Wilhemina Shafto, but no one calls me that. Birthday: November fourteenth. I live with my mam and dad, who run the Whitley Bay HappyLand Leisure Park.’ I’m gabbling, and it all sounds far too perfect and normal compared with Manny’s life history, so I add, ‘I have a sister called Alex. She’s fifteen and a total pain. Plus my mam and dad are forever arguing because business is so bad, and … well …’

I stop talking. It’s all true, but of course I don’t know the details. Mam and Dad have told me not to talk about the business in case word spreads that HappyLand is in trouble. Whenever the SunSeasons people are due to come round in their shiny cars, my parents’ shouting gets worse.

‘… and the war,’ I add. ‘They’re always arguing about the war.’

‘Why?’ Manny says, sounding genuinely puzzled.

‘Well, you know, they have different opinions about it.’

‘Can they do anything to change it?’

‘Well, no – obviously. None of us can.’

‘Nope. That’s why I stick to worrying about things I can change.’

We’re at the point where I carry on straight to go home, and Manny has to turn left to go to Winston Churchill House. He says, ‘See – we’re friends now? Meet you here tomorrow at eight thirty and we’ll cycle in together. By the way, what’s your number?’

‘My … my number?’

‘Yeah – you know, your phone number?’

I have to open my phone and find my number because it’s not in my head. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked before, at least not by someone my own age.

I say, ‘Don’t you use Kwik-es?’ and he looks a bit embarrassed but covers it with a grin.

‘Nah – that’s for losers! I’m old-school. Check this out!’ He takes out his phone, which is tiny with hardly any screen. There are buttons on it, like on phones from years ago, and the logo says ERICSSON, which I have never even heard of.

‘It’s kind of an antique. My social worker’s Swedish, and he got it for me. It makes calls and sends texts. That’s all. Jakob doesn’t really approve of smartphones. Reckons they stop us talking face to face, and so on. That reminds me,’ Manny says, reaching into his bag and handing over a battered book. ‘I thought you’d like to read this.’

CRYPTIDS – BEYOND LOCH NESS

by

Dr E. Borbas

On the front, there’s a grainy picture of something in a lake – the Loch Ness Monster, I presume. I flip the book over and scan the blurb on the back.

From ancient stories of the Loch Ness Monster, to modern tales of the Beast of Bodmin Moor, there are countless accounts worldwide of mysterious creatures. If they are real, where do they come from?

I look up and Manny is smirking. ‘Jakob says that lending someone a book is the perfect way to make friends because you have to give it back, and then you can talk about it. Some of the words are a bit tricky, but it’s pretty good.’

With that, he is off on his bike, and I’m left flicking through the strange book. It has pictures of big, catlike beasts and lake-dwelling giant serpents, something called a bigfoot and a Mexican monster that sucks the blood of goats …

It’s a minute or two till I get on to my bike, and I realise that, despite how weird this all was, Manny’s right. I think I have a friend.

Weeks have passed since Manny lent me that first book. He’s lent me more since, with titles like:

YETI – The Himalayan Mountain Man

and

LAKE MONSTERS OF THE WORLD!

Now it’s a Saturday afternoon, and he’s picked up another one from the bookstall at the school’s spring fête.

MEGALODON – The Final Proof?

The megalodon is supposed to be a massive shark, like twenty metres long, which lives in the unexplored depths of the ocean. Flicking through it, I see that most of the pictures in the book are blurred, or taken from miles away.

I try to point this out to Manny as we unlock our bikes after the fête.

‘The problem is,’ I say, holding up the copy of Megalodon, ‘the final proof isn’t really proof, is it? Otherwise, they wouldn’t have a question mark in the title.’

Manny hunches his shoulders, which he does when he’s thinking. ‘You know what your problem is?’ he says, huffily. ‘You have no imagination!’

‘No imagina— Manny! That’s not fair! It’s just … there’s no real evidence.’

‘There you go again. Flippin’ evidence! What about eyewitness accounts? That’s what most of your precious history is about, isn’t it? People who have seen stuff! Honestly, Willa …’

He cycles off in the direction of the seafront, and I follow him.

We stop outside the mini-supermarket, and I sigh a little when I see Deena Malik and her pathetic ‘gang’ approaching. She has taken to calling us ‘History and Mystery’. Thankfully, it hasn’t caught on with anyone else, but that doesn’t stop her. I discreetly hand him the book back, and we both head into the shop.

Deena and her mates follow us in. I pick up some sweets, and while I’m paying I keep my eyes fixed on the video screen behind the counter. It’s usually war news, but this time it’s something else.

‘… to our north-east correspondent, Jamie Bates.’

‘Thank you, Tatiana. The quiet coastal town of Whitley Bay in Tyneside has been buzzing for days now with reported sightings of what locals are calling the Whitley Cog.’

Deena has sidled up behind Manny and goes, ‘Ha! This is your sort of thing, Mystery!’

He ignores her, his attention on the screen.

‘Described as a cross between a huge dog and a wild cat, the animal has been spotted on beaches as well as on agricultural land as far north as Blyth. I spoke to a local woman, who described a recent close encounter.’

I gasp as old Maudie, HappyLand’s part-time handywoman, appears on the screen, being interviewed sitting on her favourite seafront bench. ‘Manny, look – that’s Maudie!’

‘It was dusk, and I was just sittin’ here like I do, and that’s when I saw it, down by the beach. It turned its head and looked straight at me: big yellow eyes, and I swear it had a massive fish hanging from its mouth. Great big pointy ears. And then – whoosh – it was back off into the water, quick as you like, and that was it.’

The reporter is walking along the beach now. I can see HappyLand’s ragged flag in the background.

‘Sightings of large creatures like this are not unknown in Britain, although very little in the way of hard evidence has ever been produced …’

‘That’ll be because it’s all made up,’ sneers Deena. ‘Listen to her, the silly old cow! Hey, History – isn’t that your rubbish caravan park?’

The sweet packet crackles as I tighten my fist round it. I’m seething inside, although I don’t say anything. For a start, it’s a holiday centre, not a ‘caravan park’. Also – this is Maudie! I really like her. She helps me with my homework and gives me hot chocolate and …

‘Spring is, of course, the start of the tourist season here in Whitley Bay. It remains to be seen if the presence of a mysterious animal will draw the crowds – or scare them away. This is Jamie Bates in Tyneside for NewsHour.’

‘Thank you, Jamie. And you can see pictures that purport to be of the Whitley Cog on the NewsHour website. Back to the worsening international situation now, and the prime minister, Mrs Boateng, has reacted quickly to reports that …’

There’s a hurried movement behind me and the tinkling of the shop’s bell.

When I look round, Manny’s gone. Deena is hooting with mocking laughter. ‘He’s off to catch it!’

Her friends cackle in response

I hurry out of the shop after Manny, leaving my Haribos on the counter, Deena’s jeering ringing in my ears.

‘History and Mystery strike again, ha ha! Hey, thanks for the sweets!’

‘Ignore her,’ says Manny, who’s waiting a bit further down the street. He’s unable to keep his voice from shaking with excitement. ‘I want to see the Whitley Cog! Quick – look on your phone! Mine doesn’t do websites.’

I bring up the NewsHour webpage. The picture is very bad. It’s been taken from a huge distance away and blown up again and again so that it’s very blurry. You can sort of see the big pointy ears, and a single glinting eye, but most of the body is hidden by undergrowth.

‘See what I mean?’ I say. ‘This is not evidence, this is …’

I look up at Manny, expecting him to be as disappointed as I am, but instead his face is alive.

‘Did you say that old lady was Maudie, your gardener?’

‘Yeah – well, she helps out and mends things and …’

‘And is she a liar?’

‘No! Of course not! She’s … she’s Maudie.’

He’s off, shouting back, ‘Come on then! What are you waiting for?’

We head straight to HappyLand, which is right next to our house. At least this ‘Whitley Cog’ is a good excuse to call in on Maudie, who lives in one of the lodges.

Manny’s bike gets a puncture on the way. He wheels it behind me to Maudie’s workshop-cum-hut where – rain or shine – she sits on an ancient, crooked sofa listening to the news on the radio, or stroking one of her cats, or snoozing.

Manny’s been pestering me from the minute we left the shop. ‘What’s she like? What’s she seen?’

‘Just play it cool,’ I tell him. ‘Maudie is very … mellow.’

She’s in her usual position when we come round the neatly clipped