The Kid Who Came From Space. Ross Welford

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      If the events leading up to my discovery of Tammy’s bicycle are clear in my mind, then what came next is all a bit of a blur.

      As I pedalled along the pot-holed forestry road towards the village, I kept thinking of reasons for Tammy’s bike to be abandoned.

      She had left it there and decided to walk. Not likely. In fact, so unlikely as to be impossible.

      She had accepted a lift in someone’s car. Again, not likely. Why would she? And besides – who from? Hardly anyone comes along that road, and why would they offer her a lift, and why would she leave her bike? And … the whole thing was silly.

      By the time I crossed the bridge over the burn, I was convinced something horrible had happened to Tammy.

      The south side of the village is pretty much a single street of old terraced farm cottages. I pulled up next to Scottish Sheila’s house and allowed my bike to clatter to the ground as I leapt off and hammered on the old lady’s door.

      ‘All right, all right!’ came a voice from inside.

      I had started talking almost before the door was open.

      ‘Is Tammy here?’ I jabbered. ‘She was supposed to come here – have you seen her?’

      ‘Hello, young fella,’ said Sheila with a smile, as though she hadn’t heard me.

      ‘Well, have you?’ I barked, and she looked taken aback.

      ‘Have I wha …’

      ‘Have you seen Tammy?’ I shouted. I was panicking and my manners were shot.

      ‘Well, no. No’ today. I thought—’

      ‘Bye!’ I said and ran back to my bike. I turned it around and cycled as fast as I could back to our end of the village.

      The Stargazer was lit up, and there were lights on the big tree outside that I had helped to put up last week with Tammy. As I cycled up the driveway, I could hear singing already. The carols had started early, and I saw through the window that Cora Fox-Templeton, Iggy’s mum, was accompanying them on the pub’s jangly old piano. Iggy was standing next to her and Suzy was sitting on top of the piano like she was about to lay an egg. The singing came through the windows:

      ‘Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king!’

      I jumped off my bike and burst through the doors into the entrance lobby and went straight into the bar, where the noise and the heat and the music hit me.

      ‘Peace on Earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled …’

      A cheer went up over by the bar and Dad called out, ‘Right, you lot! Who’s for a Goblet of Fire?’ It’s one of his barman’s stunts which I’ve seen loads of times: a tray of cocktails is lined up then they all burst into flames as he sets fire to the alcohol. I love watching it normally.

      Mam had picked up the tray, and I pushed my way through the groups of people till I got to her.

      ‘Mam! Mam!’

      She turned to me crossly, shaking her head as she carried on singing.

      ‘Mam! You’ve got to listen!’

      ‘Watch out! I’m holding a fire hazard here!’ she said. ‘Right – who wants one? Not now, Ethan!’

      ‘Yes, now!’ I shouted.

      People had noticed, and one or two nudged one another and stopped singing. I had no choice. I grabbed the lid of the piano and slammed it down on the keys while Iggy’s mum yelped and pulled her hands out just in time. There was a loud bang as the lid shut, a rattling of Cora’s bangles, and Suzy ruffled her feathers in disapproval. A few seconds later, the singing wound down.

      ‘Ethan! What on earth …’ began Mam, pushing her way towards me, but I wasn’t listening.

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