The roundabout had been painted in bright colours when new, but that was many years ago. The reds and greens had faded, the paint peeling to reveal an old, but solid, wooden construction. Shaped like a large cake, it had six metal handrails radiating from the centre. They curved down at the edge to a narrow platform around the base. Whenever it started to turn, the roundabout would moan in protest, reaching an almost painful squeal as it gathered speed.
Simon sat between the angle formed by two of the rails, close to the centre. Even with his legs stretched out, they didn’t reach the edge of the platform. His fingers scratched at the paint and a flake of deep green caught under his nail. He winced and extracted it carefully.
The roundabout started to move. Simon gripped the rails and turned to see who was pushing it. But there was nobody there.
The playground was now revolving around him. Swings, slide, shed, trees, woman. He had to wait until it went round again before he caught a second glance at the woman. She looked old, maybe as old as the roundabout.
It gathered speed. His fingers locked round the cold metal rails. Shed, trees, woman. She stepped onto the roundabout, facing him, holding the same two rails, but at the edge, and leaning back. Her arms were stretched wide apart. Long gnarled fingers locked around the metal bars. She blocked any chance of escape.
The background became a blur as the roundabout spun even faster. The woman smiled. Bright green, laser-like eyes were set in her yellow-grey skin. She looked like he imagined a witch might look.
“What is your wish?” She asked quietly.
“I’d like to get off please.”
“Too simple,” She snapped. “Tell me, what do you want most in the whole wide world?”
Simon was already feeling dizzy. His voice wobbled and he said the first thing that came into his head, hoping she would be satisfied and set him free.
“I want to be famous.”
She reached forward and held his ankle with the fingers of her right hand. They were ice cold, and a shiver ran through his body. She was now floating out and away from him, her only connection to him was her hand holding his ankle. The force of the spinning roundabout stretched her into a thin green-grey streak.
The roundabout turned faster. She grew even longer and thinner still, little more than a wisp of dull greenish grey mist. After a few more revolutions, woman dissolved into the air, disappeared in the same way mist can suddenly clear on a summer’s morning. The roundabout slowed. It creaked as it came to a halt. Another shiver ran over Simon’s skin.
As he made his way home, he heard voices. He turned to see a group of girls from his school. Normally they would barely acknowledge his presence, except to tell him to leave them alone, but now they were screaming his name.
“Simon, Simon, please, wait for us.”
Their desperate pleas scared him. Simon broke into a run, but when he turned the corner into the street in which he lived, he could see another group of people outside his parents’ house, some with cameras, others with microphones. He ducked down a grassy lane, between two houses. A network of pathways led to the back gardens of all the houses. The girls were still in pursuit, but he had gained ground on them, and they didn’t see the route he had taken.
He rattled open the back gate to his garden and slammed it shut behind him, bursting through the back door into his house. His parents and older sister were sat around the kitchen table. Simon froze, his back still against the door, his hand still on the bolt he had slid into its keep.
“Where have you been?” His mother didn’t wait for an answer. “You knew the studio was going to release your name today. Now we’ve got reporters at the front door and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”
Simon had no idea what they were talking about.
His sister glared at him. “Thanks to you and your ‘film career’ we’re going to have to move now. And I won’t be able to see any of my friends.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon whispered, still confused, but beginning to believe that the woman at the playground may have been a real witch.
“It makes sense,” his father said. “I’m sorry Sarah, but your friends will still be able to visit – and we’ll have a swimming pool.”
Simon didn’t want to go anywhere, he didn’t want to move house, not even for a swimming pool. Although he was sometimes bullied at his school, he had friends there too.
“Why can’t we just stay here?” He asked.
The group of girls were knocking on the front door and calling for Simon to come out.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
Still standing just inside the back door, still with his hand on the doorknob, he opened it and fled.
Before anyone could stop him, he was at the gate at the bottom of the garden. He checked nobody was in the alley, and followed the narrow, litter strewn lanes behind the houses. The playground was still deserted. He started the roundabout spinning and edged into the centre again.
Swings, slide, shed, trees. Swings, slide, shed, trees, woman.
“Back already, are we?”
“I don’t want to be famous.”
“Really? Well, you still have two wishes left, so choose wisely.”
Simon thought hard. What would solve all his problems?
“I’d like to be older.” He whispered.
The woman giggled. It sounded wrong coming from her and should have been a warning. Her face drew closer and closer to his, until their noses were almost touching. She began to tumble, as though performing a somersault over his head. He tried to turn, to see where she had gone, but he couldn’t move quickly enough, something in his back ached when tried to look over his shoulder.
The roundabout slowed to a halt and Simon edged his way forward until his feet were on the ground once again. Standing upright was difficult. He pushed hard with both hands on the wooden platform and groaned. He felt unsteady, maybe dizzy, as though he might fall over if someone brushed against him.
“Can I get your stick for you?” A voice asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone your age on a roundabout before.”
“I’m sorry.” Simon muttered. “I don’t understand.”
A young mother was standing in front of him with a small girl. She took hold of his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Can you tell me where you live?”
“Fifty-four Linden Street. Why?”
“My mother lived there when she was a girl. It was pulled down a few years ago. There’s no houses there now. Can you tell me your name?”
Simon looked down at his hand resting on the top of his walking stick. His skin appeared translucent, traced with wiry blue veins. The knuckles on his fingers were swollen and bent at strange angles. It couldn’t be his hand, not unless he was very old.
The witch on the roundabout had tricked him again. He tried to pull free from the grip of the concerned mother and tumbled back onto the platform of the roundabout. A dagger of pain seared through his hip as he fell. His hands grasped the metal rails as tightly as he could, ignoring the aches in his hands. Through gritted teeth he hissed at the young mother.
“Turn it, please, turn the dammed roundabout.”
The little girl shouted. “I’ll do it,” and, before her mother could stop her, she pushed at the bar and the roundabout began to spin.
It went faster and faster. The girl and her mother disappeared into a blur of swings, slide, shed, trees, swings, slide, witch, shed, trees.
Simon shouted, but his voice slightly croaked a little with the effort. “You cheated.”
“You didn’t say how old,” she replied, smiling.
“Do I still have one wish left?”
“There are always three wishes. It’s a tradition, although I have no idea why.”
“I want to be me again. Just me.”
“You are sure that’s all you want? She sounded disappointed.
Simon had no doubts. “Yes. Exactly as I was before I met you.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure that’s possible. Some traces of magic are always left after each wish.”
The spinning slowed, and the witch or woman, or whatever she was, began to grow translucent. Simon could see the trees through her but, before disappearing, she winked at him.
At last, the roundabout ground to a halt, making one last groan in protest. Simon looked at his hands. They were back to normal. He slid forward on his bottom until he got to the edge of the platform.
“I am never, ever, going on that roundabout ever again.” He mumbled.
“Hi Simon.” It was one of the girls who had chased him earlier, when he was famous. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
“Do you want to walk me home?”
The trees behind the girl became slightly blurred. The woman, witch, whatever she was, half reappeared, winked, and faded from sight.
Bruce Aiken 