The Bubble Boy (11 page)

‘It’s okay,’ says the nurse. ‘I’m changing the bags.’

I take a deep breath, then another. My arms and legs feel heavy like they are made of metal. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be Iron Man, to be able to pick up cars and bash
my way through walls and then press a button and shoot up high into the sky.

The nurse sits back down beside me. More aches, more pain, more blood in the tubes. I take another deep breath as tears bulge behind my eyes. I want to cry. Iron Man never cries. But I bet he
would if he felt as bad as this.

11 years, 2 months and 27 days

Beep
.
Beep
.
Beep
.

Heart rate
: 87

Body temp.
: 39.6C

Room temp.
: 19C

Humidity
: 9%

Air purity
: 98.5%

Beep
.
Beep
.
Beep
.

I roll over onto my side. The sky is bright white, whiter than I’ve ever seen it. The light pours through the window, across the floor and into my skull. I hear the sound of someone
whispering but can’t see who it is. Out of the bottom of my eyes, I see Amir standing by the window. He’s waving his hands around above his head like he’s guiding the planes.

‘Amir?’

He doesn’t hear me. I try to call again but my voice is too weak and my lips are dry.

Is Amir really there or am I dreaming?

I close my eyes and open them again.

He’s still there, waving his hands out the window. What’s he doing? Maybe the aliens have flown in and landed in the road while I was sleeping.

Amir glances back at me then back out of the window.

‘No, no, not like that, Rashid,’ he whispers. ‘Rashid, not like that!’ He taps his finger gently on the glass. ‘No.’ He turns and looks at the wall opposite
my bed.

Theo Walcott has been moved to the wall opposite the window. There are twelve blank TV screens in his place, four across the top by three down the sides. Wires trail out of the back of them onto
the ground. The screens are on, but there are no pictures on them – only white fuzz and white noise.

Amir holds up a finger. ‘Rashid,’ he whispers loudly. ‘Point it at the sky, not at the ground!’

A man wearing a hard hat stands in a window cleaner’s cradle holding a wrench in his hand. He holds onto the cradle with one hand and reaches up with the other. He knocks the wrench
against a satellite dish until, gradually, it moves and points towards the sky.

Amir tuts and scratches his head. Rashid touches the satellite again.

‘THAT OKAY?’ he mouths.

Amir shakes his head. ‘I no understand,’ he says. ‘Why it not work here when it work at home?’ He walks over to the screens and looks at them one by one like he’s
in an art gallery. Something makes a clicking sound; something else tumbles over.

‘Ah!’ says Amir. He holds up a plug. ‘I got it. I forget to plug the receiver in!’

Outside, Rashid opens his eyes wide. ‘Amir, what the hell?!’

‘Stay there,’ says Amir, laughing. ‘I’ll switch it on now.’

Rashid sees me looking. He looks down at the ground far below, pulls a funny face then holds his hands out by his side. ‘
Where does he think I go?’
he mouths, still attached
to the window.

I’m still so sleepy. So sleepy. My eyelids start to drop but I don’t want them to close in case I can’t open them again. I feel a shadow standing over me. I open my eyes.
Amir’s stood by my side. I try to speak.

‘Shush.’ He puts a finger up to his lips.

I take a deep breath.

‘You going to be fine,’ Amir whispers. He takes a deep breath too. ‘With me,’ he says. ‘You breathe with me.’ He slows his breath and waits for me until our
chests go up and down at the same time. ‘Better?’

My head feels like it’s lifting off the pillow, my arms are lifting into the air and my body too. The monitors beep, slower and slower. The ceiling lights start to flicker.

Beep
.
Beep
.
Beep
.

I close my eyes and everything is dark again.

11 years, 2 months and 28 days

This afternoon I think a bird flew into my window. I heard the thud. But when I opened my eyes it was gone.

A bird can fly at 60 miles per hour.

A falcon can fly at 100 miles per hour.

A bullet flies at 761 miles per hour.

Nobody knows how fast Superman can fly, but it’s faster than that.

Everything goes black again.

11 years, 2 months and 28 days

The ceiling lights are dimmed. Music is playing; a piano with a lady singing so quietly that I can’t hear what the song is. I breathe but it’s hard because my chest
aches like someone is sitting on it. The monitors flash and beep. The bag of blood has gone. Now there’s another bag full of saline that drips through the tube into my arm. That’s water
mixed with salt. They give it to me to rehydrate my cells. It’s supposed to stop me feeling giddy but from the sick feeling in my stomach it doesn’t seem to be working yet.

I feel a warm hand on top of mine. I turn my head. Beth smiles at me.

‘Hey, there you are,’ she whispers. ‘You’ve been fighting a war.’

‘Yeah.’ There’s a lump in my throat.

Beth bites down on her lip. Her eyes are red and dark around the edges, there’s a smudge of black on her cheek. Sometimes when I’m ill it looks like she is hurting as much as me. She
squeezes my hand tighter and I don’t want her to let go.

I try to speak again. Beth pours me a cup of water and holds it to my lips. My throat is so sore it’s like I’m swallowing glass. I take a deep breath and try again. It’s easier
this time. Beth puts the cup on the table beside me.

‘So, who were you? Spider-Man or Superman?’

‘I don’t know . . . but I thought both of them were going to get beat up.’

Beth smiles. She’s not supposed to be here this week, but I’m glad she is. She rubs my hand again. I swallow hard but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling out of my eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t help it. Sorry you had to come.’

‘Joe, it’s okay. I had to see you.’ She looks down at my bed then back at me. ‘But why didn’t you tell the nurses you weren’t feeling well?’

‘I just wanted to be on the TV again.’

Tears fall down the side of my face onto the pillow.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘It’s okay.’ Beth holds me tight until my body stops shaking.

‘Sorry.’

‘If you say you’re sorry one more time, I’m going to get up and leave!’

We both laugh. Neither of us believes what she says.

I tell her I’m tired but I don’t want to sleep because she’s here and she’ll have to go soon. She tells me that’s where I’m wrong, because her university has
said she can stay for the weekend. I lie back and try to relax. I want to tell her what I heard Graham say in the transition zone about kids dying but I don’t want her to worry. I can’t
tell her I think they were talking about me. I turn my head and look at her. She smiles and rubs my hand. She’s always here when I need her.

Beth rubs my arm again. Sometimes it’s like she knows what I’m thinking. I try to speak but my lips are cracked and my mouth is dry.

She smiles at me. ‘Hey, just go to sleep,’ she says. ‘We’ll catch up tomorrow.’

I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

My legs are twitching like snakes under my sheets. Greg’s walking around the room. He has to have a holiday but I’m so happy he’s back. He checks the
monitors, checks my chart then looks at me.

‘You should sleep, mate,’ he says. ‘You know that’s what makes it better.’

‘But I can’t stop them.’ I sit up and clamp my hands on my knees. I need to sleep to stop my legs twitching but it’s because my legs are twitching that I can’t
sleep. Greg puts the chart down and walks over to me.

‘Don’t worry about it, mate. At least it’s a sign you’re coming back to life.’

I press my knees down into my bed again.

‘But it’s worse than I’ve ever had it before.’

‘I’m not surprised it’s bad. You’ve been out for hours.’ He glances at my monitor. Your temperature’s 39C. It’s still high but it’s moving the
right way. Let’s try and walk that ache off.’

I get up and see the empty chair by my bed.

‘When did Beth leave?’

Greg looks at his watch.

‘About two hours ago. She’s sleeping upstairs, in one of the guest rooms. I told her she’d be more help to you if she got some sleep . . . So, are you ready to try a walk,
mate?’

I nod. Greg helps me sit up. I slide my feet over the bed and onto the floor. Blood rushes from my head and the lights turn fuzzy.

After a minute or two my head begins to clear. I nod to Greg and he puts one hand on my wrist and the other on my elbow. I take a deep breath and stand up. We walk to the end of the bed and
stop. Greg looks at the wall.

‘So, where did that lot come from?’

The TV screens hang on the wall like black holes.

‘I thought . . . I thought I was dreaming.’

‘Amir?’

I scratch my head. ‘I remember something. A man floating outside the window.’

‘Why does Amir think you need twelve TVs?’

I shrug and look at the screens.

Amir only said he was getting me Sky, he didn’t say anything about getting more than one TV. I don’t know why he’s done that. It doesn’t matter how many screens we had,
we’d only ever be able to watch one programme at a time.

Greg pulls me up. ‘We’ll have to ask him. Come on, mate. Let’s get these legs sorted.’

We walk up and down the room three times and he tells what he did on his days off. He went bowling with his friends and to the cinema with Katie. They saw
The Maze Runner
.

‘I’d like to see that,’ I say, ‘but I’ll have to wait for the DVD.’

Greg looks over his shoulder at the screens. ‘Maybe that’s what Amir’s trying to do,’ he says, ‘build you a cinema. Now all you need is popcorn and Coke.’

‘That would be great.’ I say. ‘I just need him to tell me how to turn them on.’

‘Well, that would help . . . Come on then, mate. Let’s keep going.’

Me and Greg walk to the window and back towards the door. On the fourth turn we stop for a rest and look out. The planes are flying between the buildings. Down on the streets the roadworks have
reached the phone shop. We watch the lights change and the traffic moves on.

‘Amir says they’re building a magnetic field for aliens to land.’

Greg smiles. ‘Mate, you shouldn’t believe everything Amir says. He might just be playing.’

‘No, I don’t think he is. I think he really believes it.’

Greg nods down at the traffic. ‘Well, if they do land here, I hope someone tells that lot to get out of the way.’ He puts his hand under my arm again. ‘Come on,’ he says.
‘Let’s keep moving. Another half hour and the Pramipexole will kick in. You should be able to settle down then.’

I rest my head against the glass.

‘Hey, mate, I said you’ll be okay.’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘If you’re sure?’

I roll my head from side to side and feel the cold glass on my forehead. I close my eyes. What if Graham and New-cameraman-David were talking about me dying? I look up at Greg. ‘Tell me
about the others?’