Message in a Bottle

By Harry Brown

An adventure story, with a touch of fantasy, involving the finding of a bottle on a beach. A telepathic link develops between two teenagers on opposite sides of the globe, one of whom is in trouble. Their strange communication channels lead to a rescue mission.

Truly novel ideas are introduced in this book, such as the existence of 'telepathic wormholes' and Yin Yang characters that exist in the subconscious mind. It is written with the teenage/young adult market in mind and could perhaps be described as being in the general genre of stories J K Rowling or Philip Pullman.

The author has made the first 100 downloads absolutely free so please take the trouble to leave a few reviews.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Brown
• Release date: May 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301078189

Book preview

Chapter 1. Jeannie McSweeney.

Cameron woke up with extremely cold feet. He was in his mother’s bed, but the duvet had vanished. There were no curtains on the single window. Early morning light filtered across the small bare room, making things look shadowy and menacing to the four-year-old, who had taken sanctuary beside his mother, the previous evening, after yet another binge-drinking party.

Cameron had learnt early in life that the most unexpected things came in bottles: the smell of flowers, sunshine that his mother painted on her face, the amber liquid that chased away her sadness and dispelled her bouts of sudden anger, the disgusting taste of his medicine. An entire sailing ship, in a bottle, stood pride of place on his granny’s dresser. The island, where he lived, had no mains gas, so even invisible stuff like gas came in bottles! And then, there was his only friend, Jeannie McSweeney: she’d come out of a bottle! She had just appeared in a puff of smoke, materialising suddenly, on his bedroom floor.

Only a few hours ago, when he had scurried through to his mother’s room, frightened by the shouting and the loud music, desperate for comfort, Jeannie McSweeney had called him a cry-baby. He’d paid no heed to her. She thrived on noise and wild behaviour.

‘Mama?’ he cried, peering over the edge of the bed, to see if his mother had fallen out. The dim light showed only an empty bottle, lying on its side. Cameron had a great respect for bottles.

Jumping from the bed, he padded, barefoot, across the carpet. He felt something squelching under his right foot. He switched on the bedside lamp. He had trodden on a pile of puke. It was oozing out from between his toes.

‘Ugh! That’s gross!’ shouted Jeannie McSweeney, from the direction of the open doorway. He could just see her, standing in the hall, dressed in that stupid kilt, with her red hair sticking out like a frizzy halo around her head.

‘Be quiet!’ he cried, ‘Who asked you, anyway?’

Avoiding the rest of the vomit, he scampered down the wooden staircase, leaving a partial right footprint on every other step. Checking the kitchen first, he didn’t really notice the unwashed dishes cluttering the table, the dirty pots stacked in the sink, or the smell of the overflowing rubbish bin. This was all quite normal. He focused on several bottles that were on the table. He noticed that they were all empty. The bathroom door was ajar, so the boy could see that there was nobody in that tiny room. He didn’t go in there, but hastened through the lobby.

‘Och, pull yer pants up, will ye Cameron? They’re near trippin ye up!’

Cameron hauled up his pyjamas bottoms, with both hands, as he ran, wishing that Jeannie McSweeney would just shut up and stop interfering. She was so bossy and loud, unlike his quiet, introverted nature. Even her appearance was bizarre, with that shocking pink mini-kilt, black boots with studs on them, and ridiculous Fair Isle sweater. The clothes clashed with her unruly red hair. She was much taller than him too, and had muscles unbecoming to a girl. Silver rings, of various sizes, pierced her ears and she had a small diamante stud in the side of her nose. Jeannie even had a black tattoo, shaped like a pair of crossed axes, on her upper arm.

‘Where are you, Mama?’ he shouted, entering the lounge.

Jennifer, his mother, was sprawled on the sofa, with the duvet from the bedroom loosely covering her legs, but mainly trailing on the floor. She was lying flat on her back with one thin arm raised above her head. The light, from a glass cocktail cabinet in the corner, cast a soft glow over her sleeping shape.

‘Mama, I’m cold’ said the blond, tousled-headed, little boy, shivering now. He pulled back the duvet to climb up beside his mother. His hand touched her bare leg and it was also cold, very cold. He noticed that her leg was a strange colour of blue. He was aware of the familiar smell of regurgitated alcohol.

‘Mama! Mama, wake up!’ he shouted, shaking her gently.

‘Noo Cameron, if I were you, I’d find that wee hidey-hole before you wake up your mother! She’ll be in a bad mood again,’ Jeannie McSweeney bellowed.

Turning quickly, he ran to the illuminated cabinet and opened the door at its base. The cupboard was empty. Then he checked under the cushions of the armchairs. He found what he was looking for, the familiar flat shape, concealed down the back of the second chair. He pulled out a half-bottle of whisky and carried it over to his mother.

‘Mama, it’s OK now, I found one in your hiding place. You can wake up now,’ he announced, proudly.

He tried to place it in his mother’s open hand, but her fingers would not grasp the bottle. It slipped from her hand and hit the boy on the left foot.

Cameron opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. In a wide-eyed panic, he looked around for Jeannie McSweeney.

Immediately, she produced a set of tartan bagpipes, exactly the same colour as her kilt, and proceeded to blow. A low wail came first and then a full skirl, as she fired the instrument up to ear-splitting volume.

By the time the lady from next door, Mrs Pottinger, arrived to investigate the skirl of Jeannie’s pipes, a large purple bruise was starting to form on the bridge of Cameron’s foot. The boy stood, rooted to the spot, completely silent and unresponsive.

‘Oh, my Lord, my Lord! You poor little mite! Let’s get you out of here,’ said Mrs Pottinger, in a rather panicky voice.

She took off her coat and wrapped it around the frozen youngster and then lifted Cameron into her ample bosom and carried him into her own house, shaking her head all the while and making strange little clucking noises.

Although he felt entirely numb, Cameron soon became aware of the softness of an enormous bed and then, there was the welcome warmth from a hot-water bottle, placed at his feet. Bagpipes now abandoned, Jeannie McSweeney took up a silent vigil at the foot of the big bed.

‘Charles,’ called Mrs Pottinger, to her husband, who had just come in from his night shift at the fish processing factory, and was in the kitchen making breakfast, ‘Get yourself through here and watch over this child, till I dial 999.’

Within a few minutes, an ambulance arrived. Thirty minutes later, Jennifer Mary Bruce was pronounced dead by the on-call doctor. ‘Asphyxiation’ and ‘Cardiac Failure’ and other fancy medical words, graced the death certificate, but the truth was that Cameron’s mother had been a chronic alcoholic for several years, rotting her liver with the amber stuff from a bottle. Aged only twenty-two years, she had choked to death on her own vomit.

Nobody knew who Cameron’s father was. There was a strong possibility that he may have been a sailor from abroad, serving on some passing ship, stopping for a few days in the island’s cosmopolitan port.

The doctor examined the silent boy in Mrs Pottinger’s guest bed.

‘Do you know if the child has any next of kin, Mrs Pottinger?’ he asked her.

‘Well, yes doctor, the grandparents have a small croft on the island, about twenty miles away. I’ve already given them a ring and they’re coming right here. They’re a decent couple of folk, as far as I know, not at all like their drunken daughter!’

‘Well, that’s good to know. Now, I’m prescribing a strong sedative for the boy. Can you make sure he takes it? You can dissolve it in a cup of milk or orange juice.’

‘Yes, of course, doctor, that’s no problem.’

The doctor pulled back the bed covers, looked again at the boy’s feet, and added, ‘I really don’t like the look of that bruising. I’d better write a letter, for the grandparents to take along to their local GP. The boy will need to be seen again in twenty-four hours.' He proceeded to scribble a short note and handed it to Mrs Pottinger.

Cameron drank the offered liquid, without uttering a word, and fell into a fitful, drug-induced sleep. It only lasted a couple of hours, before he woke up again, to the cold reality that something terrible had happened to his mother. Jeannie McSweeney was still there, filing her finger nails at the foot of the strange bed.

‘Where is my mama, Jeannie McSweeney?’

‘She’s dead, Cameron. You are just going to have to deal with that.’

Jim and Mary Bruce arrived mid-morning. They were heartbroken by their only daughter’s death. They knew that it had been caused entirely by her chosen way of living, but still they felt shocked by the reality of what had happened, and also, they felt guilty. In retrospect, perhaps they could have done more.

Always discontented with crofting life in the country, Jenny had left their rural home at the age of sixteen, causing a scandal in the village by running off with a thirty-five-year-old married man from the town. The liaison had only lasted a few months, but Jenny was headstrong and had refused to come back home. She had taken a job as a check-out operator in a supermarket and rented a room in a small flat. Over the next two years, she had become part of a young, binge-drinking culture; she had even dabbled in drugs. She fell pregnant when barely eighteen years old, became severely depressed, and her lifestyle had then spiralled completely out of control. She quickly gravitated to chronic alcoholism. Nothing her parents said or did had made any difference. Jim and Mary knew that their daughter led a wild and precarious life, but they had not realised quite how bad, things were. Rather than interfere, they had simply thought that the best policy was to give Jenny space, until she came to her senses.

Now, as they entered the terrible scene of their daughter’s unexpected death, they solemnly resolved to do better with the upbringing of their only grandson.

Cameron heard the knock on Mrs Pottinger’s front door, and then he detected the familiar voices of his grandparents. The boy tried to rise from the bed, but his limbs were too heavy, still affected by the sedative. However, he heard every word of their conversation.

‘Mrs Pottinger, we can only thank you for being here for them, especially for our Cameron. It is a terrible tragedy,’ said his grandfather.

‘It is that, Mr Bruce. It’s such waste of a young life. It’s a pity things were allowed to deteriorate so far,’ replied Mrs Pottinger, with more than a hint of accusation in her voice.

‘Well, we really had no idea the situation was this bad. We knew Jenny liked a wild social life, but we truly thought that she’d started to settle down… ’ His voice tailed away as he thought about his daughter, before continuing, ‘Jenny was just so easily influenced by the wrong kind of folk. She was a very weak-willed lass. We tried to reason with her, but I guess she had… a kind of illness really.’

‘Illness? She was just too fond of the bottle! It’s a bad thing when a young woman takes to the bottle, a bad thing!’ Mrs Pottinger made the clucking noise again.

‘Our Jenny used to be such a good girl,’ said Mary, quietly, choking back tears. During the entire journey to town, poor, timid Mary had wept in the car, and her eyes were red, but she was trying to re-gain control, in front of strange company.

‘How is Cameron, Mrs Pottinger? Is he still asleep?’ Jim Bruce asked anxiously, trying to change the subject away from the deep misery that was etched on Mary’s face, and the overwhelming shame that filled his heart.

‘He slept for a while after I gave him that sedative that the doctor prescribed, but he’s been awake for an hour or so now. I hear him talking to himself. It sounds just as if somebody is in the room with him. Poor little lad, he’s in shock. He keeps mentioning a particular name: Jeannie McSweeney. Who on earth is that? ‘

‘I’ve never heard of her. Perhaps it’s a friend from the playschool. Anyway, let’s get the boy into the car and we’ll take him home with us now. We’ve brought a blanket to wrap him in, and I’ve picked up a few of his clothes from next door.’

As they loaded Cameron and a small, plastic bag of his possessions, into the car, Jeannie McSweeney climbed into the back seat and settled down beside the boy. She was chewing gum. She winked at him and blew a bubble that burst with a loud pop!

Chapter 2. Drawers and Dreams

The day following the death of his mother, Cameron developed swollen glands and a sore throat, and the doctor confirmed that the boy had contracted glandular fever. On the day of his mother’s funeral, Cameron started to bleed: first he bled from the nose, then his gums, and finally the whites of his eyes turned red. He was rushed into hospital for further tests.

Cameron had always had the misfortune of being a sickly child. Throughout his early childhood, he had experienced a constant stream of viral infections: measles before he was a year old, colds, flu, and tonsillitis, always accompanied by widespread spontaneous bruising of his skin, caused by sub-dermal bleeding. He looked like a battered baby at such times. Consequently, his mother had been suspected of abusing him. Her alcohol problem had lent weight to this suspicion, and probably delayed the true diagnosis being made.

It was hardly surprising that he always seemed to thrive better in the country while staying with his grandparents. He knew them well, because his mother had sent him there frequently, to recuperate from bouts of illness, and to allow her to party, without a toddler clinging to her skirts.

Cameron was sick of probing needles before the doctors finally diagnosed his problem: a very rare blood disorder called Idiopathic Thrombocytopoenic Purpura, or ITP for short, characterised by an overactive immune system.

‘How do we deal with this illness then, doctor?’ asked Jim Bruce.

‘Well, Mr Bruce, at certain times, Cameron’s blood does not clot properly. Whenever something triggers an episode of ITP, the first signs will be purpura, these tiny bruises that look like purple spots. The condition is dangerous and life threatening and we need to treat it aggressively with drugs.’

‘So, will he be sick like this all the time?’

‘Not at all, between episodes of ITP, Cameron will be a normal healthy boy. We really don’t know what causes the attacks, or how often he will have them. We have to play this by ear, I’m afraid.’

Released from hospital, but confined indoors, to recuperate, Cameron was allowed to explore the contents of the big oak dresser that sat in the corner of his grandparent’s front room. It had remained unchanged for decades, a time capsule of handy objects. The cluttered drawers were full of wonder, for a small boy. He ran his fingers over old postcards, sent by Mary’s brother, during his years in the Merchant Navy. The boy stared long and hard at the many sepia-coloured photographs of strange folk, who somehow looked familiar. He laid out the treasures in an orderly fashion: needles, thread, tangled wool, fishing line, hooks, lead sinkers, Tilley lamp wicks, turnip seeds... before putting them all back again.

He went through the same ritual many times, always speaking to Jeannie McSweeney about the curios, asking her opinion, telling her a likely tale about each item. Each time, the drawer revealed another secret: a book of matches depicting a beautiful city, with Chinese lettering above all the shops and rickshaws in the street; a mother of pearl brooch with a broken clasp; a geisha girl; a golden mosque. It was like Aladdin’s cave. The dresser drawer was a great source of comfort to Cameron. He imagined that his father was a sailor, visiting these exotic places and sending home keepsakes. Jeannie was not convinced.

‘I’m worried about the boy, Jim. He’s constantly speaking to that invisible girl. He’s away in a world of his own,’ Mary fretted.

‘He’ll grow out of it, Mary. A lot of kids have an imaginary friend. It’s good that he is actually talking. I heard him arguing with Jeannie yesterday, so that’s a sure sign that he is beginning to have more self-confidence. He’s getting healthier as well. He’ll go to school soon, and then he’ll make real friends of his own and Jeannie McSweeney’ll vanish for good.’

‘I hope you’re right, Jim. I couldn’t stand it if we lost another child,’ Mary said, sadly.

Cameron indeed grew stronger, and soon, he was enrolled in the local primary school, a small school with only eight other children in his class. Over the next few years, the episodes of the strange ITP continued to plague the boy. Due to persistent bouts of illness, Cameron tended to be house-bound, on average, about one week in every month, and hospitalised about four times each year. Consequently he missed much of his primary schooling, and never made a close friendship within his peer group.

Jeannie McSweeney was always present in Cameron’s life, but as time passed, she took on a less prominent role, her occasional appearances usually coinciding with the times when Cameron was poorly. She remained unchanged over the years, while Cameron caught up with her in terms of height. She seemed altogether less domineering. Jeannie often got the blame for acts of mischief. If chocolate biscuits mysteriously disappeared in the night, it was always Jeannie McSweeney who was held responsible. Whenever a dish or an ornament was broken, or a book mislaid, Jim would say, ‘It must’ve been Jeannie McSweeney, eh Cameron?’

The whole family accepted the presence of Jeannie McSweeney in their midst, and, as time went on, they were able to joke about her, in this light-hearted way.

At the age of eleven, Cameron progressed to secondary school in town. During his first week in the new school, he remained a bit of a loner, staying quietly apart from his nineteen other classmates, twelve of whom were girls. At first, Cameron was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the school, catering for about a thousand children from all over the island. He wasn’t used to changing classrooms for each and every subject either, every time a bell rang, signifying the end of a period. Jim and Mary asked how he liked it.

He merely replied, ‘It’s OK, but you practically need anti-riot gear to walk up the corridor between classes!’

Because there were only seven boys in first year, they were lumped together with fourteen older boys, from the year above, for a couple of their classes: science, taught by a snooty gentleman called Mr Bryce; and physical education, organised by a powerful, toothy woman, officially called Miss Lamb, but quickly nicknamed Jolly Hockeysticks.

Due to his medical history, Cameron was forbidden, by Jolly Hockeysticks, from participating in any of the usual contact sports. Shortly after the start of term, while his classmates were playing football, Cameron was left sitting in the locker room. Surrounded by the usual debris of discarded clothing, damp towels and sweaty trainers, he was making good use of the time by preparing a new timetable, to help him remember where he was actually meant to be during each school period, since he had gone to the wrong classroom at least twice already.

He heard a commotion coming from the nearby shower cubicles. On going to investigate, he found three large boys bullying a much smaller one. He recognised the tallest fellow as big Stevie Manson, because he was a particularly good badminton player. Stevie was not a very friendly boy and he had a very spotty complexion.

‘Either hand over the answers to the chemistry test or… let’s have a better look at your silly short legs, McPhee?’ said an overweight lump of a guy, prodding the little one with a fat forefinger and causing him to back up into one of the shower cubicles, still fully clothed, clutching his exercise book.

‘Leave me alone, Melvin, I won’t allow you to crib my homework again… and I don’t want to go for a shower.’

‘Turn the water on, Melvin, give that smartass a right soaking,’ hissed big Stevie, while the third boy laughed and jumped about, making mindless shrieking noises like a wild animal.

Melvin turned the water on, soaking the unfortunate victim. Although the boy was clearly a second year student, Cameron could see that he was very tiny and that, his limbs were disproportionately short compared to his body. The bullies continued to taunt the boy, shouting abusive comments.

‘Look, guys, Runty McPhee’s pissed himself again! It’s running down his pathetic little legs!’

‘Not such a smartass now, are you Runty?’

‘My name is Charlie’ said the boy, with a quiet dignity, and no tears, despite his predicament, looking at each of his attackers in turn, ‘Why don’t you go and pick on somebody your own size, Melvin. Stevie, you should read a few books and see if you can educate that pea-sized brain to do your own homework. As for you, Animal Ainsley… well, I doubt you’ve got two brain cells to rub together anyway!’

Cameron was impressed. Although small in stature, this Charlie was clearly an exceptional character. There was no denying that he looked a bit geekish, with his straight, black, spiky hair, sticking out in all directions from a central parting, a wide gap between prominent front teeth and thick glasses that magnified his eyes to the onlooker. Charlie’s eyes were his best feature, being a vivid shade of blue and reflecting an inner wisdom beyond his tender years.

‘Yeah, c’mon Stevie, back off and leave Charlie alone, eh?’ Cameron ventured, tentatively, immediately regretting that he’d opened his mouth.

The bullies rounded on Cameron, allowing Charlie enough time to step from the shower and drip towards the outer door.

‘What’s it got to do with you, snot-nose? Mind your own bleeding business or you’ll get more than you bargained for,’ the flabby Melvin threatened, taking a menacing step towards Cameron. Intent on tormenting a fresh victim, Melvin pushed Cameron into the empty locker room, followed closely by the other two bullies.

They