Brian Wilson was ten years old: Chapter 1

Brian Wilson was 10 years, 3 months and 22 days old when he realised that his dreams were different from other childrens’.

He did nothing unusual to deserve strange dreams; he hadn’t eaten any exotic food, his father wouldn’t stand any exotic foods in the house. “If it was good enough for my father and his father before him then it’s good enough for me and its certainly good enough for you,” was his father’s attitude to food, and indeed everything else in life.

Nor was there anything unusual about Brian’s bedtime preparations. His mother had come to separate him from his computer at nine O’clock and made him drink a cup of hot, sweet milky stuff that she insisted would help him sleep. He drank it with her in the kitchen where she spent as much of her time as possible, cooking, cleaning, listening to the radio.

His mother had put him to bed with a hot water bottle (in a furry dragon cover). “It’ll be cold in the night and you’ll be glad you’ve got it then,” she’d said when he protested. He didn’t bother to answer back, though he could have pointed out that by the early hours of the morning, when it really did turn cold, the water bottle would have long lost all its heat, furry dragon cover or not. He was too old to be sleeping with furry dragons anyway.

There was nothing unusual about the way that Brian brushed his teeth, washed his face and looked at himself in the mirror, wondering what he looked like to other people. He climbed into bed in the normal way and closed his eyes in conventional fashion. He did lie awake, staring into the darkness around him, for a short while, but Brian often did that, this was the only time he got to think, the house was too noisy during the day. But it wasn’t long before Brian closed his eyes, realised how very tired he was, and drifted off into a deep happy sleep, full of dreams.

The dream started normally enough. He found himself in a huge classroom, with 1,000s of other children, desk pointing to an enormous cinema screen. There was a buzz of activity while the dreaming children clattered their desks and chairs into position, took out dream images of pens, papers, books, and (the richer children at least) laptop computers. Eventually silence overtook the room, at which point the giant screen flickered into life and an image of a teacher appeared, an elderly man with long white hair and a monotonous voice.

“Good morning class. I’m your teacher for tonight’s lesson, on the history of technology. It's hard to believe I know, but there was once a time when watching video images in your dreams wasn't even possible, when computers could do little more than a typewriter."

In his dream Brian yawned, which is much more difficult than it sounds. History was his least favourite subject and the idea of looking at old washing machines and clunky computers sounded horrific. He remembered his school trip to the local museum a few weeks before, a collection of useless junk like old TV sets (just two channels and not even a video) and rusty pushbikes with just two gears. That was all that Brian had learnt that day, that in the old days machines only had two of everything, no proper choices at all. The idea of having a lesson on the same subject made him yawn again.

Five minutes into the lesson the teacher had only got as far as the invention of the wheel; it was going to be a long night.

Brian looked around to see if he recognised anyone. There were a few boys from his class on the other side of the room, but they were too far away to talk to, besides which they were all wrapped up in their own dreams, their own versions of the lesson. He didn’t recognise the other children, they must be from other schools and other towns. Brian was the only one who bored by the whole exercise, the only one not paying attention. Thousands of children sat at their desks obediently taking notes of everything the teacher said, arms moving pens frantically across the page, fingers tapping furiously at keyboards.

It was at this moment that Brian did a totally unexpected thing. He stood up. Not to ask a question, or to go to the bathroom, but to put on his coat, put his books into his rucksack and walk out of the giant classroom. Nobody noticed, the children were too engrossed in their own dreams of the lesson and the teacher was just a video image that couldn’t see. ‘Why didn’t I think of this before’ Brian wondered as he walked to the sign marked ‘Fire Exit Only’. Why had he made himself sit through so many lessons like all the other children when he could have just walked out?

But as he reached the huge double doors Brian had his first doubts. Nobody had ever walked out before! He was stepping into unchartered territory. He was leaving the security of safe, pre-prepared, educational dreams. What would happen to him, what lay behind the thick wooden door? What dreams lay in store for him once he left the classroom?

He glanced behind him, half expecting a hand poised above his shoulder about to grab. But nobody had noticed, the teacher was still talking about wheels. Brian made up his mind, he wasn’t going to stay for this rubbish. Stretching up to his full height (Brian’s real life teachers always accused him of slouching) Brian just about reached the large wooden handle and leaning his shoulder against thick, heavy and stiff door and pushing with all his strength he just about managed to make it open.

Brian stole another quick glance behind him, just to check that the coast was clear, before stepping out into the world of dreams that lay behind the door.

****

Brian found himself in a huge, grim city that he didn’t recognise. The building he had just walked out of was an enormous tower block. The rest of the buildings in the street were the same, big grey rectangles of concrete, with thousands of small square windows. Nor was there anything else of interest in the street, no trees, no flowers, no birds. There weren’t even any cars, bright red buses, or children playing, there wasn’t anyone at all in the street except for him. He walked around for a while, but soon got bored. All the roads led to yet more roads of identical lines of tower blocks. There wasn’t even an empty tin-can to use as a football, there was no litter, no signs of life at all in fact.

Brian decided to turn round and go back. The lecture was boring, but walking the streets was just as bad and at least he wouldn’t get into trouble in the lesson. That was the good thing about dream lessons, the teachers were never nasty or rude to you. He hated his real teachers, some of them at least. Especially Mr Grant, who knew that Brian hated history and therefore always asked him the questions, made him write on the blackboard and made him stand outside in the corridor if he got anything wrong, which was most lessons.

Brian reached the end of the road he’d just walked down and stopped. He’d come to a junction, one road to the left, one to the right, but couldn’t remember which direction he’d come from. He looked at the road on the left, a long, grey dusty road filled with huge, grey towerblocks. It could have been that one. He looked at the road on the right. Identical. He chose the road on the right, because he had to choose one of them and right was his lucky direction. Looking down the road he saw dozens of tower blocks identical to the one he stepped out of, stretching for miles on both sides of the road.

‘Perhaps’, he thought to himself, ‘if I look in the window, I’ll recognise my classroom’. He walked up to the first building and selected one of the windows at random. The window was higher up than the top of his head, so to look into it he had to grab the window ledge with his hands and pull up the weight of his whole body with an enormous heave. At first he thought he’d never make it, but at the third attempt he managed to lever himself up and clamber his arms and legs onto the ledge. Peering through the window he could make out a class full of children staring at a huge screen. On the screen he could just make out the face of a woman pointing at the picture of an elephant. It was the wrong class. He let himself drop back to the ground.

Brian looked into several other buildings in the same way, but didn’t find his classroom. His arms were beginning to tire, yet there were thousands of windows to check. He began to panic, to fear that he’d never get back into his class, that he’d be lost forever in this strange dream. Would he ever wake up, would spend the rest of his life walking these streets?

Just as he was about to clamber up to the window of the seventh building he was interrupted by a loud shout from behind him. So he wasn't alone. He jumped down to look, ready to greet a new friend or flee a new enemy. He soon made up his mind. In the street behind him stood a fierce looking policeman, carrying a huge wooden cosh, as big and thick as a small tree trunk. Brian could also see handcuffs and restraints dangling from the policeman’s belt. This was not, Brian decided, someone he wanted to stop and talk to.

Brian ran. Without thinking where he was running to, without stopping to ask the policeman what he wanted. He just ran. The policeman stood and stared at him in amazement as he ran passed, not thinking of reaching out his burly arms and stopping Brian in his tracks. So surprised did he seem to see Brian running that he gave him almost a minute’s head start before he turned and ran after him.

Brian expected the policeman to catch him. Though he was fairly fast, Brian’s legs weren’t very long, whereas the policeman was well over six foot with strides that covered almost twice the distance in every footstep. But for all his size and strength the policeman ran no faster than Brian. They ran for miles, neither of them ever changing in pace. They ran past tall grey towerblocks, and, turning into a side road, yet more tower blocks. Brian didn’t know where he was going, but as everywhere looked exactly the same he didn’t think it could matter too much.

After running for what seemed forever he felt his legs start to slow and the policeman began to catch up. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, and could see that he was only a few metres behind. As he was dreaming, and in his dream body not his real one, Brian wasn’t tiring at all from the running. He didn’t even break into a sweat, he was just tiring because he always tired after a few minutes. “I’m dreaming” he though “therefore I can make myself run quicker just by thinking that I can run quicker”.

By this time he could hear the stamp of the policeman's giant shoes thudding against the road, and the breathing of a big, slightly unfit man. Another minute and he would certainly feel giant hands grabbing him. He concentrated really hard on making himself faster, he though about Tony Samson, who was the fasted runner at school. “I am Tony Samson” thought Brian “I can run faster than any other boy, I can run faster than this policeman”. Much to his surprise it worked. He felt his legs gather speed, it became easy to run, as if the air around him became thinner and his legs just passed through it unhindered. Within no time at all he had steamed ahead of the panting, shouting policeman and opened up a huge gap between them.

Brian ran on and on, passed yet more tower blocks. Eventually the noise of the policeman’s stomping feet seemed to have stopped. Slowing slightly Brian turned his head. A long way behind him the policeman was slouched puffing and panting. “Hooray” thought Brian “I’ve finally shaken him off. But his happiness as breaking free didn’t last for long, as he realised that he was even more lost now, he had run miles and miles from the building he’d escaped from. It would take him years to find the building again now, and even if he did all the children would have grown up and the lesson would have changed so he could never recognise it even if he found it. He was trapped here!

Suddenly a great sound filled the air, a piercing whistle, loud enough to be heard in the next town. Brian stopped running to look where it came from, though he already knew the answer. Having recovered his breath the policeman was blowing with all his might into a fist-sized whistle. The sound was deafening, even from a distance.

Before he could wonder what might happen next, it happened. Brian was approaching a crossroads. He could see figures on the road in front of him, and also on the road to his right. They were running. Running towards him. Brian calculated the distance to the crossroads, and to the turning on the left, which had become the only safe route. About a thousand metres he reckoned. Then he calculated the distance the figures in front of him had to run, about 750 metres he reckoned. He was going to get caught.

“I am Tony Samson” he told himself “I am Tony Samson” as he concentrated totally on his running. From somewhere within him he found an extra spurt of energy, an extra spurt of pace. His legs whirled, spurted, whizzed along the road, carrying his body at great speed. The crossroads approached, as did the on-coming policemen. He could see clearly now that they were policemen, two from each direction, all as big and strong looking as the first. Behind him he could still hear the occasional shrill shriek of the whistle, though he had left him far behind by now.

Just 50 metres now, to the crossroads. The men in front of him were about the same distance away, so if he continued to run at the speed he was now he would get there first, just, and could escape down the left turning. But the men coming from the right seemed to be running faster, just 40 metres away. They weren’t running quite as fast as Brian, but they were closer. Too close to call thought Brian. From somewhere he found even more speed. The crossroads neared, 40 metres, 30, 20. He was getting closer, but so were the policemen.

The next few seconds went by in a blur. Brian was running so fast by now that he felt as if he’d lost control of his body. It was not Brian Wilson who could run at such pace, or who was nimble enough to dodge the outstretched hands of the policemen, it was the power of his dreams. Not knowing how he’d done it Brian suddenly found himself free, tearing down the left hand road, opening up a gap from the policemen behind him. He allowed himself a skip of joy, he had just won one of the fastest and closest races ever.

He felt nothing but sheer elation, this had to be the best dream ever. He though about all the other children, all the millions of children from all around the world sitting obediently in the grey tower blocks m, all watching the same boring lessons, whereas he was here, running wild and free, doing whatever he wanted. He allowed himself to laugh out of sheer happiness.

Brian’s delight didn’t last for long. In fact it stopped as soon as he saw the six policemen about half a mile in front of him. He slowed down, to give himself time to think. He realised that to get out of this it was no use being Tony Samson, fast and athletic though he was. He would need the brains of Brian Wilson. He slowed to a walk. Behind him the five policemen had joined together and were running as a pack. He was half-way between the two groups, and they’d both reach him in about two minutes. There was no-one else around, all was still bar the distant pounding of eleven sets of oversized feet.

Around him nothing but grey tower blocks, no side-street to go down. Brian had two options: to be caught or to try and hide in one of the tower blocks. He was afraid of entering the tower blocks, because he’d have to enter one of the classrooms and if he went into the wrong class, he would effectively have entered the wrong dream. What if he woke up as someone else?

But the alternative was running towards him from both sides, eleven policemen with eleven pairs of handcuffs; impossible to escape from. Not even his friend Harry Hood, who had once managed to escape from one of Mrs Morris’ PE lessons by forging a sick note, would be able to escape from eleven sets of handcuffs. Reluctantly he ran up to the door of the nearest building. Reaching up on tiptoe he reached the handle high above his head.

The door opened and Brian hurried into the building, not really caring what he found within. There was another door immediately to his right which he reached up to open. Outside he could hear the confused shouts of the policemen. Obviously like Brian they couldn’t tell which building was which and they weren’t sure which door he’d gone into. He might escape after all, if only this room turned out to be his classroom. Not that that was likely. Several million to one chance in fact. Undeterred he opened the door and walked in.

Nobody heard him so nobody turned and stared. The big screen in front of him showed the same teacher he had left earlier in the lesson, but was this the same class? He looked around. Sure enough there was an empty seat. His empty seat. He recognised the children nearby.

Creeping softly, no point being noticed now, he returned to his seat, picked up his pen and looked at the screen. The grey-haired teacher had just stopped talking and was smiling at the class. “That’s the end of the lesson children," he said and the screen went blank.

Brian woke up.