Speak No Evil

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THE BOY KNOWN AS Carter Street was dreaming.

In his dream, he was in an empty space. There were no windows, no lights, but it wasn’t dark, just a dull, bland grey. He was standing because there was nowhere to sit — no chairs, no sofa. He couldn’t even sit on the floor because there didn’t seem to be a floor. Maybe it wasn’t a room at all. He could have been hanging in the air. Or he might have been inside his own head.

But the room, the space, wherever he was — it wasn’t completely empty. There was a big television. And an unseen hand turned it on.

What he saw on the screen was vaguely familiar, like a rerun of a programme he’d seen before. A young boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, was riding on a roller coaster. He was accompanied by two shadowy, larger figures sitting on either side of him — the boy’s parents? The boy was laughing, throwing his arms up in the air as his car went into a steep descent.

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