AniMalcolm

Then, he realised where.

Straight in front of him: the goat.

K-Pax had come over to the edge of the pen and was leaning his head over the small fence. His bulging amber eyes were, it seemed, trained on Malcolm. Staring at him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” said Malcolm.

But K-Pax didn’t. He kept looking. Well, of course he’s still looking, thought Malcolm. He’s an animal, and one of the most boring things about animals is that they don’t speak English.

So Malcolm tutted, and stared right back into K-Pax’s eyes.

“OK. Tell you what,” he said, “let’s pretend that Gavin and Maven are right, and you, K-Pax, are really, really wise. Then answer me this. Every other kid in the world loves animals. Every other person in the world, it seems, loves animals. But I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend you, or any other of your furry friends, but I … I just can’t see the point of you.”

During this speech, K-Pax just carried on listening imperviously, occasionally munching on some much-chewed-up grass. If he was offended, he didn’t, it has to be said, show it. He continued simply to stare into Malcolm’s eyes.

Malcolm, even though he knew it was silly, got a strange feeling that the goat was actually staring at him: staring into his soul. He didn’t want to feel that – he particularly didn’t want to feel that about an animal, who he knew couldn’t possibly be doing it – so he made a point of leaning in even closer to K-Pax’s snouty white face.

“So, K-Pax, my question is: why is that? Why don’t I love animals? And more importantly, how – in order to be like everyone else – am I ever going to learn how to love them?”

After Malcolm asked this question, K-Pax seemed, for a second, to shut his eyes, almost – almost – as if he was thinking about it. But it was so quick, it may have been a blink. And when he opened them again, his eyes looked bigger and bulgier than ever.

It had actually felt quite a relief for Malcolm to finally say this stuff out loud. These were things he felt very deeply, but most of the time kept to himself. But once it was out, and the goat was just looking back at him, Malcolm thought:

This is just stupid. I may as well be talking to a brick wall.

Plus there was quite a strong scent of Stinky Blinky coming from … well, Malcolm didn’t really want to think about where it was coming from. So he started to back away.

Except he couldn’t. It was weird. It was like he was rooted to the spot. The ground was a bit dirty around the pen – maybe his wellies had sunk into the mud?

He made to look down at his feet – but he couldn’t do that either. He couldn’t, in fact, take his eyes away from K-Pax’s eyes.

It was like he was being hypnotised. By a goat. This seemed very unlikely to Malcolm, seeing as perhaps the one thing he knew for certain about goats was that none of them had trained in hypnotherapy.

But one or two things about the situation really did seem like hypnotism.

Other eyes looking deep into your eyes, while you look into them, for example; not being able to look away; and … this was probably the big one … suddenly feeling …

… very … very …

… slee ………….

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When Malcolm woke up, on the grass near the goat pen, he felt a little odd. For a start, he felt very tired. Or at least … he felt like all his limbs were much heavier than normal, and that moving his head – or his arms, or his legs – was a real effort. His body in particular felt weighed down, like there was something hefty on his back, pressing him into the grass.

But he had occasionally felt a bit like this waking up at home when he’d gone to bed late. Plus his dad had once described to him feeling exactly like this when he woke up.

So maybe, Malcolm thought, I’ve just slept badly. Which would make sense, seeing as how I hadn’t been planning on going to sleep at all. Last thing I remember was that stupid old goat staring at me, and then – well – I must have passed out. No wonder I feel weird.

He tried to see where the goat had gone, but he couldn’t, for some reason, see much at all. Every time he lifted his head, all he could see were the tips of the grass and just the bottom edge of the goat pen. He strained his neck as high as it could go – it felt, strangely, like he could in fact stretch his neck further up from his shoulders than usual – but he still couldn’t see more than a foot or so above the ground.

Well, of course, Malcolm thought, it’s because I’m lying down. I can feel my tummy and hands and legs on the grass. On, it must be said, the wet and muddy grass. So let’s stand up.

This turned out to be much more difficult than usual. Try as he might, Malcolm couldn’t seem to get off all fours. He pushed and pushed with his arms, trying to get himself up, but nothing doing. It was exhausting.

One more push, he thought. One big heave.

He summoned up all his strength, and started, yes, genuinely started to get up – he even, for a second, saw a tiny bit of goat horn peeping over the pen fence – before tumbling over and ending up on his back.

And then it really seemed impossible to get up. Lying on his back, looking up at the sky, all he seemed to be able to do, however much he tried, was wobble from side to side. He felt like a Weeble. His arms and legs were gyrating, uselessly, in the air. He must look, he thought, like a beetle or a cockroach when they get stuck on their backs.

It was at this point Malcolm noticed something about his arms, which were the only limbs he could actually see. He noticed that they were … kind of green. And kind of … elephantine. Not in the sense of large. More in the sense of small, but really like an elephant’s. Which was odd, seeing as the main thing about elephants is that they are big.

So, he thought – mainly to think about something so as not to just start screaming in terror – what isn’t an elephant but has legs and arms a bit like an elephant’s, only much smaller … plus when they roll over they can’t turn back again … plus is: green?

He felt like the answer was right there, just beyond his reach.

“Hello …” said a deep, low voice next to his ear. “You in a bit of a pickle, mate?”

Malcolm looked round to see where the voice was coming from. Despite everything else he might have thought at that moment when he saw where it was indeed coming from, what he actually thought was: of course.

That’s what’s smaller than an elephant but with similar-shaped arms and legs and gets stuck on its back and is green.

A tortoise.

And then, finally, he screamed in terror.

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About a minute later, Malcolm stopped screaming. Maybe I imagined it all, he thought.

He closed his eyes tight, and opened them again.

Then he looked at his wrinkly green arms, and thought about how he’d rolled on to his back and got stuck there.

He craned forward, and saw a section of something that was clearly on his back. It looked a bit like a World War Two German soldier’s helmet – only greener – and more, well, shell-like. Tortoise-shell like.

Then he started screaming again.

The tortoise – the one who wasn’t Malcolm – just watched him curiously the whole time. Then he said:

“Well, it’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is!!” said Malcolm. “I’m a tortoise! I’m a tortoise!”

“I know that. But it’s happened to all of us at some point …”