There’s not much to do in a hospital. I have to stay in a little longer till they have the results of some tests or other.
My phone has been turned off so that I can rest, but when Jessica and Dad leave, and I’m alone in my room, I turn it on and see loads of messages—all from Ramzy. They start off normal, and I scroll through them quickly.
Then the messages stop. He hasn’t sent one for hours. I call his number but it goes straight to voice mail. I stare at the phone, puzzled by Ramzy’s sudden silence, and then I see I have an email waiting.
An email. From Ramzy. Who has never emailed me in his life.
Before I get a chance to play it, though, Ramzy himself bursts into my room followed by a large woman in a long cloak and an angry face glaring out of her hijab. Aunty Nush.
“It’s me,” says Ramzy unnecessarily. “How are you?”
“Much better—thanks. I thought you were grounded?”
“I am. This is day release to visit the sick. Aunty Nush—this is Georgina.”
If she smiles at me, I miss it, but her face changes a bit, like she’s swallowing something unpleasant-tasting so maybe that is as near as Aunty Nush gets to a smile. She looks like she has forgotten how. She nods slowly a couple of times.
“Two buses to come here,” says Ramzy. “Hope you appreciate it!”
“Yeah, but I’ll be out soon. What’s the rush?”
“Hang on.” Ramzy turns to his aunty and takes her a chair, which creaks dangerously as she plonks herself down on it. They exchange some words in their language. Aunty Nush takes out her phone from the folds of her long cloak and Ramzy sits down next to me.
“Right. That’s her sorted. She doesn’t speak any English, so we’re OK. So—what have you said?”
I tell Ramzy about Mimi’s questions, and about the police being informed. Ramzy looks horrified and glances over at Aunty Nush. “The police?”
“I’m sorry. Dr. Pretorius could be in trouble. Thing is, Ramzy—I can’t remember a lot of it. It’s like the headache has fuzzied up my memory. But they reckon that the bicycle helmet injured my brain, and so she could be responsible. And they don’t like the idea of some weirdo meeting kids on the beach and playing 3-D games, and—”
“But she wasn’t…she’s not…a weirdo,” says Ramzy. “Is she?”
I really don’t know the answer to that. I say, “Ramzy, do you think that was all faked? All that future stuff? My dad definitely does. And the doctors. I mean, what proof do we have?” I’m getting worried telling Ramzy about it, but he seems quite calm. He looks at Aunty Nush again, but she’s absorbed in some game on her phone, glowering at it and stabbing at something with a forefinger.
“Georgie, man. Calm down. I had the very same thought, even as you were in the studio. I was behind Dr. P and she hardly spoke, but I did take a bit of video on my phone when you were standing in front of the shop window. I don’t even think she noticed. I really think you should watch it, though.”
The clip in Ramzy’s email is still open on my laptop. I click on it, and as it plays, the memory begins to return, as though it’s from a long, long time ago.
I’m standing in front of Norman Two-Kids’s shop. There it is, the electronic calendar in the window. Is it proof that I’m in a computer-generated “future”? I’m beginning to doubt it.
“It’s all just fake, Ramzy,” I say, feeling dejected. “I mean—it’s clever and everything, but I think we’ve been tricked. Why she would do that, I have no idea. I mean…”
“But, Georgie. Look closely. There’s a way we can prove it. Really prove it.” Ramzy is smirking a little now and teasing me with something he knows. “Look closer.”
I drag the button back along to the start of the clip, and watch it again, noticing the giant scorpion hiding behind the car this time and it gives me a shiver. But I don’t see anything odd about the calendar, and I say so.
“But look!” Ramzy can’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “What’s next to the calendar?”
“Erm…a Coca-Cola ad. A handwritten sign, which I can’t make out, a video ad for the Geordie Jackpot lottery with the logo and whatnot, erm…”
“Yes! Yes! Describe the moving ad!”
“Can’t you just tell me, Ramzy? OK…it’s a bottle of champagne, and the label says Is it you? The cork pops out and there’s stars and streamers and balls, and the words This week’s winning numbers, and— Oh my Lord, Ramzy! Th-those balls!”
Ramzy is nodding slowly, a sly grin on his face.
I say, “They’ve got numbers on them. The numbers for the lottery draw. Next week’s lottery draw!” I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Ramzy’s eyes are shining with excitement.
“I’ve checked them. Those six numbers have not been selected in any of the draws in the last five years.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if Dr. Pretorius has faked the calendar by, I dunno, layering something on top of existing footage, then she’s also gone to the huge trouble of changing the numbers on a moving advertisement next to it. Seems like a lot of effort.”
I’m still trying to catch up. “So if the numbers of the next Geordie Jackpot match the ones here in this clip, then that will be proof that Dr. Pretorius’s virtual future is real and not fake.”
“Exactly. But you’re missing one thing. We’ll also be…what, Georgie?”
“I don’t know, Ramzy!” I moan. “Stop being so mysterious!”
“Rich, Georgie! It’s like a million pounds if you pick all six numbers!” He isn’t quite shouting, but his excitement causes Aunty Nush to stop her phone game. She glares at him and snarls something I don’t understand.
I swallow hard. I have never paid the Geordie Jackpot much attention.
All I know is this: if you buy a ticket, you can choose six numbers. Once every two weeks, a machine randomly picks six numbered balls. If the numbers on your ticket match the ones chosen by the machine, then you win.
Easy! Except I also know this: the chances of winning the big prize are incredibly tiny. But, if you knew in advance what the numbers were going to be, you could select those exact numbers on your ticket, and…
I must have been daydreaming because Ramzy nudges me and says, “Hey! You still with us?”
“Sorry, Ramzy, I’m just…a bit…”
“Pretty awesome, eh?”
That’s one way of putting it.