Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 30
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 30 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Iain’s father answered the door in his bathrobe. “Boys! Up with the sun, eh?” Mr. Lloyd ushered us in, sipping noisily from a steaming mug. “Iain came in late last night, as I’m sure you well know. He’s still sleeping.” He turned and shouted up the stairs. “Iain—! Your mates are here!” He waved at the couch. “You can wait there till he’s decent.” He lifted his mug. “Either of you drink coffee?”
We shook our heads. “Thanks Mr. Lloyd. We’re fine.”
“Righto.” Iain’s dad trudged off for the kitchen, while Stuart and I sat down to wait on the sofa.
“Iain sure does like sleep,” Stuart complained.
“Maybe that’s how he got so big.”
That was the last either of us said for several minutes. Stuart took a piece of wax fruit and turned it over in his hands. Every fifteen seconds or so, he’d glance at the upstairs landing where a corner of Iain’s bedroom door was visible. Eventually he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He leaned toward me and whispered. “That really happened—didn’t it? Last night.”
“Unless we both dreamed it.”
He nodded and sat back. Another fidgety minute passed before he spoke again. “When it was happening, all I could think was, we’d better not get home too late, or we’ll get in trouble.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Stupid, right?”
“I mean—”
“This makes me question everything I ever believed. Everything they—” A door creaked and his eyes darted upwards. Iain appeared at the banister, half-asleep and wholly disheveled, in a set of striped blue-and-white pajamas. He regarded us expressionlessly, then turned and plodded back inside without a word.
“You don’t think he’s gone back to bed…”
“He’ll be down in a few minutes. Probably.”
Sixteen minutes later, he reemerged, washed, dressed, and equipped for a day in town. “You guys must really hate sleep,” Iain muttered, coming down the stairs. “I’m going out!” he shouted.
Iain’s father appeared with three apples, tossing one at each of us. Iain plucked his from the air, and I caught mine with a fraction less casual ease. Stuart’s bounced off and rolled under a table. He scampered after it.
“Keep your energy up,” said Lloyd Senior. To Iain he added, “Don’t get in too much trouble, hm? Your mam and I are going out for dinner. There’s leftovers in the fridge. You remember how to use the popty ping?”
Iain rolled his eyes. “I remember.” He jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon.”
“Thanks for the apple, Mr. Lloyd!” called Stuart breathlessly.
“Thanks,” I echoed.
“Aye, aye, aye.” Mr. Lloyd chased us out. “Enjoy your Saturday, boys.” He shut the door behind us.
“Right.” Seeing our bikes laying in the drive, Iain turned and went back inside. “Be right back.” A moment later he reappeared, shouldering open the garage door, leading his bike by the handlebars. Together, we rolled down into the street, headed towards town. “Is it just me,” he asked, once we were underway, “or did we get home a lot later than we should have?”
“It’s not just you.”
He nodded. “Good.” He glanced at Stuart. “Are you okay? Your face looks a little… off.”
Stuart did look paler than usual. And perhaps a bit wild-eyed. “I didn’t sleep much. Too busy thinking about… implications.”
Iain grunted. “First thing’s first.” He took such a bite of his apple that only a single hemisphere remained. “I’m bloody starving. We’re getting food.”
“There’s something I want t—”
Iain’s apple filled my vision. “After food.”
Twenty minutes later, we were seated around a table at the Wimpy on the Kingsway, each with a cheese eggburger. “A’wight.” Iain exhaled through his nose, having stuffed half of his into his mouth. “You-cm-tlk.”
Stuart nodded supportively while he chewed.
“Last night we—”
“Lost time!” Stuart blurted. A meaty glob arced from his mouth onto the table. He blinked sheepishly and put it back. “…shorry.”
Iain swallowed. “Yeah. What the hell happened?”
I shook my head. “Maybe time passes differently inside Lightfoot’s world.”
“Or,” Stuart postulated, “maybe it’s something to do with the teleportation. If we were traveling at light speed…” He frowned and tilted his head, thinking as he spoke. “Time would’ve slowed down for us, and kept passing normally for everyone else… But if P.T.’s right, and it has to do with wherever we went, then we need to be careful how long we spend there. We could go in for an hour and come out a year later. Everyone’d think we’d vanished.”
“Bloody hell…" Iain’s face darkened.
“Yeah…” I said. “Say—how come neither of you got in trouble for coming in late?”
Iain shrugged. “My parents don’t really care what time I get in, so long as I do.”
“My dad had a night shift at the hospital,” said Stuart. “And my mam wouldn’t wake up if the roof fell in. The only thing that gets her out of bed is the timer on the coffee maker. It brews by itself.”
“I don’t understand how anyone drinks coffee. Tastes like the underside of a fry pan. Anyway, that isn’t what I wanted to talk about.” I wiped my fingers on my trousers, and took the handkerchief from my pocket and set it on the table. “Take a look at this.”
Stuart frowned.
“I don’t get it,” said Iain.
“It’s green!” My pronouncement was met with blank stares. I growled. “Have you two forgotten how all this started? Last night, I found my mam-gu sitting on the porch. Holding this.”
Stuart’s eyebrows rose. “You don't mean—”
“Yes.”
“The man in green…” For the first time Iain looked suitably alarmed.
“But why give it to her?” asked Stuart. “What does it mean?
“Maybe it’s a warning…” Iain darkly, glancing surreptitiously around the restaurant. “But why?”
“It’s like I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s after something. I just… haven’t any idea what it is.”
“I’ve gotta admit,” said Iain. “All this time, I thought it was your imagination. But this is…”
“Creepy,” said Stuart.
“Bloody frightening is what it is.”
“What I want to know is why the Mig doesn’t just come and talk to you,” said Iain. “You aren’t exactly threatening.”
“Mig?”
“Man in green. Keep up.”
“Oh.”
“What did your grandmother say?” Stuart asked.
I grimaced. “It was during one of her episodes. I don’t think she even knew where she was. And she never remembers anything afterwards.”
“Well that’s convenient,” muttered Iain.
I grunted.
“D’you reckon he knows? About her… condition?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How come you didn’t ask…” Glancing around, Stuart lowered his voice to a whisper. “Ask Lightfoot. About him?”
“I didn’t think of it! I didn’t expect to find anything, even though I wanted to, obviously. Then Tom… and Merry, and—”
Stuart nodded.
“Ask next time,” said Iain. “And in the meantime, if he shows up again—call the police.”
“He’s right, P.T.,” Stuart said. “He could be dangerous.”
“But he always disappears! If I call, and he’s gone when they get there… they’re just going to think I’m making things up.”
“Then we’ll just have to do the test—”
“Trial,” corrected Stuart.
Iain rolled his eyes. “Trial. And get back there as soon as we can.”
I took a bite of my burger. “I’fe gom’a couple ideash…”
