Casper Candlewacks in the Time Travelling Toaster by Ivan Brett Page A
Authors: Ivan Brett
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activities on offer included running laps of the courtyard or getting a BZZT . Time was saved in the afternoon by providing lunch and dinner in the same sitting, in the same bowl. Today’s lunch was rice, while dinner was rice. Great to have a variety.
In the evenings, locked up in his cell, Casper was encouraged to have some ‘educational time’. Sitting on his chipped plasterboard bedside table was a fat book called Blight – A History of Violence , which listed every member of the Blight dynasty and the length of their noses. Lights-out never came soon enough, even though the nights that awaited Casper were cold, lumpy and full of bedbugs. Then – BZZT !– the morning tickle and an ominous threat of porridge followed, before it was time for work again.
Talking was forbidden, so making friends was tricky unless you were one of those French mime artists, and Casper wasn’t one of those French mime artists. But on the fourth day, or the fifth (or possibly the sixth – Casper was losing count), as he screwed the lid on his thousandth spitty bottle of the day, he saw the short, blond-haired boy to his right casting him a funny look.
“Hi,” whispered Casper, before looking furtively around to see if he’d get a BZZT.
The boy (or 25227 as he was known) took a couple of screws of his bottle to decide if he’d answer back. When he did, it was hardly audible over the hum of the conveyor belt. “You… Casper?”
Casper nodded.
25227 gasped, took a step back and received a BZZT that made him squeak like a piglet and fall over. He got up without looking at Casper.
The whole exchange could only have taken ten seconds, but it confused Casper greatly. How did the boy know his name? Nobody within the factory had even spoken to Casper, let alone asked him who he was. But from then on, Casper noticed slight changes in how he was treated.
At breakfast, he would find people dropping an extra spoon of porridge from their bowl into his. 25227 and the other workers round Casper’s station would bottle faster so that he could rest his wrists from time to time without getting a BZZT . When Casper grazed his knees after falling to the gravel during the activities break, the stocky bloke called 84192 gave him a piggy-back for the rest of the lap. Then the next day, kindly old 26057 handed him a bandage woven from pillow fabric when the guards weren’t looking. It was nice that they’d help a total stranger, but Casper couldn’t puzzle out why they’d bother. It was all a little baffling.
More baffling, though, was Warehouse 3. Warehouse 3 was off limits. Casper knew that from the enormous W AREHOUSE 3 IS O FF L IMITS sign painted on the front of Warehouse 3. But over the past few days, and increasingly often, Casper had been hearing booms and bangs, crashes and splats echoing from Warehouse 3’s insides. Was that where they were keeping Lamp? And if so, what were they making him do?
The Blights rarely visited the factory floor, apart from the times when the spit vat ran dry. They had more important things to do, like counting their money and putting it in stacks. A little more often than he saw the other Blights, Casper saw Chrys sitting alone up in the glass pod above the factory floor. She’d sit for hours, watching the workers from on high with that nasty scowl of hers, like a lion watching a herd of antelope. Often she’d bring something to fiddle with, like a strip of bubble wrap or one of those squishy stress balls. Whether it was his imagination or not, Casper couldn’t help feeling that Chrys was watching him in particular, though every time he looked up she’d be looking in another direction.
One night as Casper sat reading, the lights went out just as he was approaching his favourite page – the one about Lord Barrington III of Blight (1677–1748), who demanded that the whole of Britain be put to death after the local wine merchant ran out of good claret. Luckily, his messenger caught quite a few plagues
In the evenings, locked up in his cell, Casper was encouraged to have some ‘educational time’. Sitting on his chipped plasterboard bedside table was a fat book called Blight – A History of Violence , which listed every member of the Blight dynasty and the length of their noses. Lights-out never came soon enough, even though the nights that awaited Casper were cold, lumpy and full of bedbugs. Then – BZZT !– the morning tickle and an ominous threat of porridge followed, before it was time for work again.
Talking was forbidden, so making friends was tricky unless you were one of those French mime artists, and Casper wasn’t one of those French mime artists. But on the fourth day, or the fifth (or possibly the sixth – Casper was losing count), as he screwed the lid on his thousandth spitty bottle of the day, he saw the short, blond-haired boy to his right casting him a funny look.
“Hi,” whispered Casper, before looking furtively around to see if he’d get a BZZT.
The boy (or 25227 as he was known) took a couple of screws of his bottle to decide if he’d answer back. When he did, it was hardly audible over the hum of the conveyor belt. “You… Casper?”
Casper nodded.
25227 gasped, took a step back and received a BZZT that made him squeak like a piglet and fall over. He got up without looking at Casper.
The whole exchange could only have taken ten seconds, but it confused Casper greatly. How did the boy know his name? Nobody within the factory had even spoken to Casper, let alone asked him who he was. But from then on, Casper noticed slight changes in how he was treated.
At breakfast, he would find people dropping an extra spoon of porridge from their bowl into his. 25227 and the other workers round Casper’s station would bottle faster so that he could rest his wrists from time to time without getting a BZZT . When Casper grazed his knees after falling to the gravel during the activities break, the stocky bloke called 84192 gave him a piggy-back for the rest of the lap. Then the next day, kindly old 26057 handed him a bandage woven from pillow fabric when the guards weren’t looking. It was nice that they’d help a total stranger, but Casper couldn’t puzzle out why they’d bother. It was all a little baffling.
More baffling, though, was Warehouse 3. Warehouse 3 was off limits. Casper knew that from the enormous W AREHOUSE 3 IS O FF L IMITS sign painted on the front of Warehouse 3. But over the past few days, and increasingly often, Casper had been hearing booms and bangs, crashes and splats echoing from Warehouse 3’s insides. Was that where they were keeping Lamp? And if so, what were they making him do?
The Blights rarely visited the factory floor, apart from the times when the spit vat ran dry. They had more important things to do, like counting their money and putting it in stacks. A little more often than he saw the other Blights, Casper saw Chrys sitting alone up in the glass pod above the factory floor. She’d sit for hours, watching the workers from on high with that nasty scowl of hers, like a lion watching a herd of antelope. Often she’d bring something to fiddle with, like a strip of bubble wrap or one of those squishy stress balls. Whether it was his imagination or not, Casper couldn’t help feeling that Chrys was watching him in particular, though every time he looked up she’d be looking in another direction.
One night as Casper sat reading, the lights went out just as he was approaching his favourite page – the one about Lord Barrington III of Blight (1677–1748), who demanded that the whole of Britain be put to death after the local wine merchant ran out of good claret. Luckily, his messenger caught quite a few plagues
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