Paralysis Paradox (Time Travel Through Past Lives Adventure Series Book 1) by Stewart Sanders Read Free Book Online

clothes, and I’d be forced to buy the crap they sell normal people, which would be so humiliating.
    ‘Hi Frankie,’ I said unenthusiastically. ‘I’m just going to say bye to the Mad Hatter.’
    He trotted along next to me and then zoomed off ahead, weaving in and out of the trees. The formal gardens ended at the rockery, and now we were on rougher ground—open, grassy patches interspersed with trees and bushes. Dad said that years ago it would have been woodland, and they would have kept pheasants here for shooting, but then the land was cleared in the war. You could walk for a mile or more through this area before reaching the huge walls that marked the boundary of the estate. In one spot, you could still see the remains of old buildings—ruined brick walls that I used to love playing amongst when I was little. I would bring my dolls and play houses there until Vera discovered where I was going and said it was not safe for children. She didn’t care where I went now; in fact, she’d probably be delighted if something horrible did happen to me here. I didn’t mind. I relished the freedom and the isolation, something that I never got at school.
    Frankie was bounding along like a deer. He did a face plant at one point when he must have got his foot stuck in a rabbit hole that was hidden by the snow.
    ‘You twat!’ I laughed, hoping he’d hurt himself, but he simply got up and brushed the snow off his clothes.
    ‘Watch out!’ Frankie shouted. ‘You’re heading straight for the pond!’
    I stopped, suddenly afraid. He was right. It was somewhere by these fir trees. I had once seen a videotape where a boy fell through the ice in a river, and you could see him being swept along by the current, hammering on the ice above him in terror, until he froze or drowned, whichever came first. Giving the whole area a wide berth, I made my way to the pale blue electricity pylon where the Mad Hatter hung out.
    We’d never seen him wear a hat, but he was mad in a wacky way: hence my nickname for him. Actually, I knew exactly who he was, but it was a secret I kept for Tom Blake, our chauffeur. The Mad Hatter was Tom’s father, but for some reason, Tom did not want anyone to know he was there, so I never told a soul, not even Dad. The Mad Hatter lived with Tom and Tom’s wife, our housekeeper, in their cottage on the estate but spent most of his time in a little shack he had made out of cardboard boxes and old bits of corrugated iron under this pylon. No one ever went to Tom’s cottage, so no one knew about him, and nobody ever came out to this bit of the estate. Vera stuck to the garden, and Dad never even made it that far; the dining room was the furthest he got from his study.
    We had to fight through the undergrowth around the pylon, including brambles and a rhododendron bush. I looked up and could see that there was not a single icicle hanging down from the pylon. It didn’t even look wet. As I got closer I could hear a slight buzzing from it, which should have been a clear warning not to touch it, but as usual I couldn’t resist; I unclothed my hand and touched it as if patting a horse’s neck. I expected it to be warm, but it was freezing cold, just like everything else out here.
    ‘Hello!’ I called. ‘Anyone there?’
    ‘Aha! It be you!’ The old man clambered out from his makeshift shelter with a tin of cat food in his hand. ‘I was just having my elevenses. Do you want some?’ He thrust the can in my face, and I could see a fork sticking out from it. It smelt utterly gross.
    ‘No thanks,’ I replied. He was wiping his mouth with a filthy old handkerchief. Quite frankly, he looked like a scarecrow. His trousers were too baggy for him, so he held them up by a piece of rope tied round his waist, and he had an old green cardigan over his shirt that was full of holes. No coat, no hat. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
    ‘No, I never be cold, Missy, I be used to cold, you see! Not like in the Sharashka, no, not the