Tim stared at his own face on the news – then a photograph of Fredric Wilde arrived on screen. Sure enough, the reporter said Eisenstone, Tim and Dee were wanted in connection with his murder.
‘I don’t understand,’ Dee whispered.
‘Clarice. She must have ordered it,’ Tim said.
‘How on earth would we have been able to kill him anyway?’ Dee asked.
Previously Tim had thought that if they found a way to prove what Clarice had done, they could try and expose her – get it in the newspapers and on the Internet. Let the world know that she was a wrong’un. Now though, that clearly wasn’t an option. Who would believe a group of murderers, especially ones with such insane theories about the Prime Minister?
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Tim said to Dee. ‘It’s far-fetched to accuse us of murdering someone in a prison, but it sounds way more believable than the truth ever will.’
The TV then cut to another familiar face – the multicoloured jumper girl from Glassbridge Orphanage. She was standing outside the building, talking to a reporter – at the bottom of the screen it said she was a ‘Close friend of Timothy Hart’.
‘He seemed strange that morning,’ she said. ‘I’ve known him all my life – you can just tell when something is wrong.’
‘It’s her,’ Tim whispered. ‘The megaphone girl.’
‘Did he say where he might go?’ the reporter asked.
The girl hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, he said he was leaving Glassbridge and heading … heading north. But he didn’t say why.’
‘You told her where you were going?’ Dee asked.
‘No,’ Tim said. ‘No, I didn’t say …’ And then he realised. ‘I think … I think she’s covering for me. The police, the Grey Guards, they must have asked her. This is good. It’ll divert their attention even more. I think, here, she’s my best friend?’
Even after everything, the idea that he had a different history muddled his mind in ways he couldn’t explain. And still, for reasons he didn’t understand yet, he couldn’t remember any of it – for which he was hugely grateful.
‘You said I was your best friend,’ Dee added. She seemed slightly annoyed.
‘You are my best friend.’ He caught Phil’s eye. ‘Best real friend,’ Tim added. The monkey stepped to Dee’s side and copied her expression, although his was far sassier. ‘That was the wrong word,’ Tim qualified. ‘You know what I mean: best human friend.’
‘Well, the news is saying she is, so …’
‘I’ve never even … I don’t know who … I don’t even know her name,’ Tim said, his voice a little high-pitched. ‘You can’t be jealous. You’ve known me for a day. Trust me, you are my best friend. She’s just some weird creation to make my new life look real.’
Still, he was oddly comforted to know there was someone here that was looking out for him.
As Tim created some imperfect breakfast for them all, he remembered a hazy dream he had last night after he’d flown off and out of room ninety-eight in his mind. In the dream Clarice was his mother and, in a weird way, he was Stephen. It didn’t play out in the correct order, but he saw snippets of what Clarice used to do to her son. Shouting at him, hitting him for no reason other than her own anger, her own failures.
And now Fredric Wilde had been added to her ever-growing list of victims.
Tim sat in silence on his beanbag, watching a thin strip of daylight on the rug, and felt a strange sadness. Fredric was no saint but he didn’t deserve to die. In fact, despite everything Fredric had done, Tim still thought there was good in him – somewhere, deep down, but it was there. The same could not be said for Clarice Crowfield.
He wished then, from the bottom of his heart, that there was some way they could just stay in room ninety-eight, this safe space, forever. But he knew that too wasn’t an option.
‘Wait,’ Dee said, turning to face him. ‘I have a brilliant idea.’ She threw the blanket off her shoulders and stood up. ‘I am about to deliver a bombshell,’ she said. ‘A laser-guided logic rocket. Are you ready?’
Tim nodded. ‘Do it.’
‘The imagination box – it creates anything you imagine, right?’
‘That’s a good explanation, yeah.’
‘OK,’ Dee said, pacing. ‘And, as we discussed, the information required to create any of these items, this finger monkey, these wonky croissants and so on … You don’t – you can’t – personally know the atomic make-up of these things.’
Eisenstone was paying close attention to his granddaughter – he’d clearly thought long and hard about how his invention might work. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The code, the raw data … the, the blueprints for any item created, even tiny ones, would fill thousands of thick, thick books. Tim couldn’t – at least consciously – know it.’
‘Well, then, create a map,’ Dee suggested. ‘A map with the location of the imagination station marked on it. Actually, for that matter, you could just create a booklet containing the solution to every problem you’ll ever have.’
‘What impact would that have on the already flimsy case for free will?’ Phil wondered.
‘Or,’ Dee went on, ‘could you even cut out the middleman and make a new imagination station?’
‘I would steer away from that option,’ Eisenstone said. ‘This technology is powerful, the implications are, well, huge. Grand indeed. Creating conflict between two machines competing for reality? It could well damage the very fabric of space-time. A schizophrenic universe would be no good for anyone. The risk is … is just too high.’
‘Fine, but the map could work?’ Dee said. ‘We’d need a simple experiment to test it. If you … maybe … I know, try and create a piece of paper with Granddad’s pin number on it.’
Tim explained that he had previously used the technology in ways which could be considered ‘psychic’ – like when he’d used his own box to create computer passwords written inside fortune cookies. However, the piece of paper that Eisenstone pulled from the box had three numbers right and one number wrong.
‘This, this is still incredible,’ the professor said. ‘I can’t fathom the odds of this being a lucky guess.’
‘So, what does that mean?’ Dee asked. ‘Tim can access some information outside of his mind?’
‘Hmm.’ Eisenstone thought for a moment. ‘It is hard to say … Perhaps yes, but his own preconceptions, his own knowledge and thoughts and emotions are, are maybe contaminating the process?’ He looked at Tim now. ‘Or perhaps your abilities are waning with age – you’re growing up, which can cause the imagination to fade.’
Tim frowned – he didn’t like that idea at all. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘It’s gotta be the chip.’
He turned his head so they could look at the scar on his neck. Earlier he had told them what it did, but the professor seemed compelled to ask about it again.
‘According to Rick, who made it, it basically interferes with my imagination,’ Tim explained. ‘It sounds bad but, trust me, it’s a good thing. Without it, anything I imagine simply appears. Nice pattern on the wall, cup of tea, cool breeze on a hot day, megaspiders, fire, sabre-toothed tiger. You name it. No need for a box, or a reader. There’s no barrier between the real world and my imagination.’
‘Sounds awesome,’ Dee said.
‘It can be,’ Tim admitted. ‘When I can control it. But it can also be extremely dangerous.’
‘Indeed,’ Eisenstone said. ‘Not all thoughts are good thoughts.’
‘Exactly.’ Tim nodded in agreement. ‘Using the box seems a much safer way – I just have to concentrate, that’s all. So, if I was to imagine a map …’
He closed his eyes and pressed the button, focusing on keeping his mind clear. When the machine finished he pulled out a small booklet, which he folded open and flattened on the floor.
‘Where is this?’ Dee asked.
Eisenstone put his glasses on and peered down. ‘Some of these streets are recognisable.’
It looked like a detailed road map. However at the edges the lines faded away to nothing. And some of them clearly weren’t accurate – some numbers and road names were just nonsense, random symbols and letters in strange orders. One lane even curled round and made a face.
However, in the centre was a red X.
‘It’s London,’ Dee said. ‘Look, that’s the Thames.’ She traced the splodgy, blue smear that ran along the map with her finger.
‘Then … then indeed,’ the professor nodded, stroking his chin. ‘Then this would be Crowfield Tower.’
‘She’s got her own tower,’ Tim said. ‘Of course.’
‘So … either the imagination station is in the tower, or that’s where Tim believes it to be?’ Dee said.
‘At any rate,’ Phil declared, scurrying across the paper. ‘I think this is where we should set our sights.’ The monkey then began marching clumsily along the map, patting his chest and letting out a quiet roar. ‘Timothy, look. I am Ping Pong. No, wait, King Pong.’
‘Kong.’
‘Kong Pong?’
‘Are you OK?’ Tim asked.
‘It’s settled then,’ Dee said. ‘We need to break into Crowfield Tower.’