Читать книгу A Pocketful of Stars - Aisha Bushby - Страница 9

‘Wake up,’ something whispers into the darkness. ‘Safiya, wake up.’

When I next open my eyes I’m lying on my back staring up at the sky. The stars wink at me, brighter than I’ve seen them before. There are thousands of them, millions, coating the land like a great big blanket. The moon greets me shyly in a crescent wave.

I sit up. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, for me to get my bearings. I’m in some sort of courtyard.

It’s hot, hotter than I’ve ever known it. Like opening the oven door just after you’ve baked something delicious. I almost expect my glasses to fog. The smells are wild and sweet.

Wood. Rose, maybe? And orange.

I look up to see an enormous house staring back at me.

Where am I?

Silver branches scale the house walls, covering almost every inch of it. They bleed into the windows and out of the doors.

They sway, like blades of grass in the breeze, and tap at the glass of the windows, as if asking to be let in. Except there is no wind. The night is as dry as lavender sprigs. Looking closer I can see the branches are as thick as a snake, with leaves like gnarled fingers protruding from them.

They reach out for me, and that’s when I see they’re not swaying at all, but wriggling like little worms.

I swear I can hear them whisper my name. ‘Safiya,’ they hiss. ‘Safiya, welcome.’

I shudder, step back, and look around me.

This is the biggest house I’ve ever seen, about the size of the block of flats Mum lives in.

There’s a set of swings to the right of me, a couple of cars parked in front of it, and a great big iron gate to my left leading out on to the road.

How did I get here?

I try to think back to the last thing I was doing. But it’s as if the memory is just out of reach. My brain feels foggy, like I’ve just woken up. Moving around is strange too, like when I step I’m floating, instead of walking. I wave my hand in front of my face and I can see it blur a little.

That’s when I remember what I was doing, and the realization comes crashing down like hailstones. I was sitting by Mum’s hospital bed. But then how did I get here? And where am I? I need to leave this place. I’m trespassing after all, I think, looking at the big iron gate.

Once, when Elle and I were little, we snuck into her neighbour’s garden. It wasn’t exactly our fault.

We were playing Frisbee and it flew into the vegetable patch next door. It started off with us jumping over the fence to go and get it, but then Elle turned to me.

‘It’s like being in The Secret Garden, isn’t it?’

She was right. This wasn’t like any normal vegetable patch. It was huge, taller than both of us. We played hide-and-seek, and pretended we were Jack, climbing up the beanstalk into giant territory. Except a very real giant – or so we imagined at the time – in the form of Elle’s neighbour threatened to call the police when he saw us there.

‘I was just getting my Frisbee,’ Elle said sweetly.

It worked, and we didn’t even get in trouble.

Still, Elle’s not here right now, even though I wish she was.

She would know what to do.

I rush towards the gate and pull it open with a great big creak. But it’s almost as if something is trying to pull me back, like an elastic band stretching as far as it can go.

And I swear I hear a voice whisper, ‘Come back, Safiya.’

But when I turn round to see who spoke, no one’s there.

I’m not sure what to do with myself once I’m away from the house. There are rows of equally giant houses to my left and right, a park across the street framed with palm trees, and a corner shop that sits on the other side of it.

It seems to be open. Maybe I can ask them to tell me where I am. Maybe they can explain why it’s so hot, why there are trees I’ve never seen in England before, and why I keep hearing someone call my name.

I don’t seem to have anything on me, even though I could swear my phone was in my pocket when I got to the hospital.

I run across the street, eyes darting left and right, looking out for people and cars. But as my foot hits the pavement on the other side of the road, the corner shop starts to shake and crumble. The roof sinks in and the walls tumble down, down, down, like a sandcastle washed away by the ocean.

The park turns to ash. Replacing it is a barren wasteland of sand for miles, mounds of it everywhere.

I turn round, but the house has disappeared too.

Before I have the chance to panic I hear another voice, a different one this time.

‘Visiting hours are over, love,’ someone says from a distance.