The 1,000-year-old Boy. Ross Welford

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СКАЧАТЬ went hmphh, and added, ‘Sea air. A bit of the old ventum maris. That’s what you need, son,’ then took a noisy slurp of his tea (black, no sugar).

      He talks like that a lot, does Jasper. So far as I can tell, he has no regional accent, and no foreign accent, either. At times, he sounds slightly American, and at others more Australian, when his voice goes up at the end of a sentence as if he’s asking a question? It’s hard to work out. He was born in Romania and has narrow dark eyes – almost black – behind tinted glasses, and he’s lived in lots of countries.

      I asked him once where he was from. ‘Just call me a nomad,’ he said, baring his teeth. Between you and me, I’m terrified of him.

      With my milk finished and having heard the words ‘prime minister’ come from under Jasper’s beard, I figured it was time to make myself scarce. Once anyone mentions the government, the conversation – so far as I’m involved in it – is not going to improve.

      ‘I’m going outside,’ I said, and I got a grunt of what might have been approval from Jasper.

      

      It was good to get out of the house. I did that big breathe-in-through-your-nose thing and exhaled with a loud ‘Haaah!’

      Our house is on the very edge of the old bit of the estate. There are about ten tiny houses in a row, and then the new houses start next door. Over our back fence is just woodland. The woods don’t even have a name, so far as I know. They’re just ‘the woods’ or ‘that bit of woodland beyond the golf course’.

      It would be really cool if there was a gate in the back fence that I could just open and be in the woods, but there isn’t, so it’s just this wooden wall, basically, at the end of the empty, rectangular yard.

      On one side is an alleyway piled up with junk and smelling of cats’ wee. There’s an old mattress, and a rusty washing machine, and a bin liner spilling old clothes. Dad says it’s the council’s job to clear it up, but they’re obviously not interested. On the other side of Junk Alley live two ladies with short grey hair, Sue and Pru, who Mum has already met and declared ‘very nice’, adding, ‘One of them is a doctor.’ (I always thought doctors were quite well paid, so I don’t know why they’re living round here.)

      Their yard has been turned into a neat, paved garden, and they have about five rescue cats. (Dad snorted when Mum told us. ‘Never trust anyone with more than two cats,’ he said, which I thought was a bit mean. I kind of like cats.)

      On the other side of us is another garden, a proper one with grass, separated from our yard by a rickety fence.

      So on the morning it all started I was standing there with my back to the fence, staring at the old houses made of dirty bricks. Half of the houses look as though they’re not even occupied and a couple have got broken windows. No wonder our house is cheap to rent. Mum and Dad say it’s only temporary.

      ‘Hello, Aidan!’

      I looked about, startled, but I couldn’t see anyone. Then the voice laughed: a short bark of high-pitched glee. A girl. I did a full 360, trying to work out where it was coming from.

      ‘Over here!’

      ‘Where?’ I said. And then, ‘Ow!’ as something hard hit me on the cheek. A few seconds later, something whizzed past my nose.

      ‘Hey! Stop that,’ I said, and the terrier-bark laugh started again. Then I saw it: the yellow tube of a ballpoint pen withdrawing through a large hole in the back fence. Someone was using it as a pea-shooter to fire paper pellets at me, and she was a good shot.

      I went over to the knothole and stooped to peer through it, and almost immediately felt a hard kick on my backside. Spinning round, I saw the tiniest girl grinning wickedly and cackling. I recognised her from school, although I didn’t know her name. We didn’t share any classes.

      ‘W-where did you come from?’ It really was as though she’d materialised from nowhere before my eyes.

      ‘I’m Roxy Minto. I live next door. You’re Aidan!’

      ‘Erm … I know. How did you know my name?’

      She gave a little snort to show that she thought it was a stupid question. ‘How do you think? Your mum spoke to my mum. I saw your removal men carrying stuff in. You’ve got a red bicycle and a white wooden desk in your bedroom. Turn around.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Just turn around.’ She said it with such confidence that I found myself obeying, even though I half expected another kick in the pants.

      ‘How do you know the bike and desk are mine?’ I said over my shoulder, but there was no reply. I turned back … and Roxy had gone. Vanished.

      ‘Roxy?’ Then a plank in the fence that separates our gardens swung up, hinged on a horizontal strut. She poked her head through, giggling. ‘This way!’

      It was a squeeze but I made it. (Roxy’s so tiny that she passed through and barely touched the sides.) And there I was in her overgrown garden, with tatty shrubs and flowers and weeds, and an old plastic slide.

      Roxy strode through the uncut lawn to a massive bush that spilt over the fence and ran tendrils up a hazel tree. She pushed a branch aside and disappeared into it. Seconds later, I heard her voice on the other side of the back fence.

      ‘Are you coming or are you too scared?’

      I pushed aside the branch. The big bush concealed a hole in the fence that led to a path separating the back fences from the woods. Up against the fence, and completely hidden from the garden side by the bush, was a shed: one of the pre-made ones that you see on building sites.

      Roxy stood in the doorway. ‘Welcome to my garage!’ she declared, in her squeaky voice, and I could tell she was proud. She reached inside for a switch and a neon sign hanging from the roof flickered to life. It said GARAGE in pink vertical letters, but the first three letters didn’t work so it just said AGE, but – I have to admit – it was still pretty good.

      Inside was a battered desk, a wonky swivel chair, two wooden stools and a tiny fridge in the shape of a beer can. There was carpet on the floor, a lampshade on the light and even curtains at the windows. A very battered old sofa had yellow foam escaping from tears in the vinyl cushions. I laughed.

      ‘What’s so funny? Don’t you like it?’

      Secretly I thought it was completely awesome, but I wasn’t going to say that, was I?

      ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Wh … where did you get all this stuff?’

      I could tell she was disappointed with my reaction, and I immediately felt a bit bad. ‘Skip-diving, mainly,’ she said. ‘People chuck so much away in them, so you know – reuse, recycle, blah-di-blah. The neon sign’s the pièce de résistance!’ She did an exaggerated French accent and waved her hand theatrically.

      ‘You’d never know there was so much СКАЧАТЬ