Free The Yoghurt Plot by Fleur Hitchcock

other end of the pavement. I can’t see Lorna, which is just as well because if I was to get near her at this moment I think I’d have to kill her, if only to save the world. The bag seems to have its own power source and is getting further and further ahead.
    I follow it around a corner, almost reaching it, before a car sweeps by, whisking it high into the air and over the sea wall.
    â€˜Yay!’ says Lorna, running up alongside me. ‘That was hilarious.’
    I’d like to throw her over the sea wall, but instead, I say, ‘You nearly got us arrested.’
    It sounds feeble and she shrugs.
    â€˜Lucky I had Granddad’s money. Anyway, you shouldn’t steal.’
    â€˜Honestly, Bugg, it was only two and a half p. I doubt he’d have called the police. Here, try this, it’s delicious.’
    She hands me a big clear glass bottle with a bobbly texture. ‘Cream Soda’, it says. I take a gulp. It’s like drinking warm vanilla ice cream. I’m not sure it’s entirely pleasant, but I’m so thirsty I don’t really care. We turn back and walk on past the shop into the countryside, finding the little path we took before. Butterflies flap past, and swifts swoop and dive on us. It’s really beautiful, but I’m still completely furious with Lorna. It’s as if she has no idea what can happen if you change things.
    A fresh yellow butterfly whisks past the end of my nose and lands on a tall yellow plant. It’s drying its wings in the sun. Despite my anger, I pause to watch. I can’t imagine how anyone drove the first bulldozer into this, destroyed the hedgerow, dug up the grass. It so pretty, so green and alive.
    Our little house stands like a white island in the green, tall hedges cuddling around it, keeping it snug.
    We walk up to the hedge and peer into the garden. This time there’s a man digging a hole. He’s got his back to us and he’s listening to a little transistor radio on a chair. Distorted rock-and-roll music blares out, covering the sounds of our feet on the gravel driveway. I tiptoe, but Lorna makes a run for the kitchen door. I follow and crash into her back where she stands just inside the doorway, about an inch from a large, aproned woman holding a rolling pin in her left hand and Lorna’s arm in her right.
    â€˜Who,’ she demands, ‘are you?’
    â€˜Ah,’ says Lorna.
    I pull open the fridge, grab two modern-looking yoghurts, the spoons we used earlier and rip off the tops.
    â€˜I beg your pardon! What on earth are you thinking of? Helping yourself to food from my fridge!’
    â€˜I’m really sorry – Mrs –’ I say, plunging the spoon deep into the first pot and feeding it to Lorna. ‘But we have to –’
    â€˜That’s what happened last time. That’s what that other boy said. Well, I’ve a mind to call the police. Jack! Jack, we’ve a pair of young burglars!’ she shouts at the open door.
    I cram two more spoonfuls into my mouth, and two more into Lorna’s – the large woman is starting to fade.
    Another spoon, and another, and another, and the kitchen fades, the woman’s gone. So’s the kitchen.
    I look down at my feet.
    Shingle.

Chapter 16
    â€˜What?’ says Lorna, looking around. ‘Oh my days! What’s happened?’
    There’s nothing. We’re on shingle, but it’s not by the sea. The sea’s miles out there with the remains of the pier. The pier that actually looks more complete than anywhere else here. The beach seems to have come right inland. All there is in the landscape is a huge bank of stones, some patches of grass, reeds, lumps of rusty concrete, a bin and a sign sticking out of the ground.
    No houses, no estate, no nothing.
    There’s the fridge of course. Standing there, all on its own, no electricity – no chance of electricity, humming. Actually, growling.
    â€˜Is this now,’