The Bubble Boy (28 page)

Charlotte R comes back and hands me my phone. ‘She’s lovely,’ she says.

‘I know, but she worries too much.’

‘That’s what sisters do.’

‘But sometimes she won’t leave me alone.’

My phone buzzes.

‘See?’

I look at my phone.

‘Is it her?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you smiling?’ Charlotte R leans over and pulls a funny face. ‘Who’s sending you pictures of crop circles?’

‘A friend.’

‘That’s a bit of a weird thing to send!’

I shrug and look at the picture again. It’s a crop circle with three dots in the middle. I spread my fingers on the screen and zoom in. Ajala, Shukra and Guru are stood in the middle of a
field waving at me. I smile. They look like they’re having a great time with Amir. I wish I could chat to him, but I don’t want to ruin his holiday by telling him I’m ill.
Besides, I might be better by the time he’s back. I click on my phone and send Amir a smiley face.

Charlotte stays with me for most of the afternoon. She brings me lunch – sausages and mashed potato – I don’t feel like eating it so she gives me a glass of pink lumpy liquid
instead. She says it will help build my strength back up but all it does is make me feel sick.

She sits next to me and reads a book while I go on my laptop again. There’s still no message from Henry but since Beth called I don’t feel so bad.

I press Send and scroll down.

There are three more messages, the last one is from Hannah.

I click on Hannah’s last message.

I smile. I’m glad Hannah wrote to me. Most of the time people send one or two messages and stop. Usually it’s for a class writing competition to see who can write
the best letter. They are all slightly different but then end up asking the same question: ‘What’s it like to live in a bubble?’ and after I reply they send me a photograph of
their Bubble Boy project stuck to the classroom wall. I hope Hannah isn’t writing a project.

I press Enter. That’s the last message. I look around the room. It’s so quiet without Henry messaging and not having Amir buzzing round.

I click on a video of Sarah.

‘Hi Dew, today you’re going to learn about the French Revolution. How it changed and shaped the future of France and Europe.’

Charlotte R looks up from her book.

I show her my screen. ‘Do you want to watch?’

‘No. I think I’ll stick to this.’ She shows me the cover of her book. There’s a picture of a boy running across a field on the front.

‘Is it any good?’

‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s a bit happier than the last one.’

‘What happened in that?’

‘I don’t think you really want to know.’ I think that means that somebody dies.

I click on Play. I hear the blast of a bugle and the bang of gunshots as soldiers in blue uniforms fight outside castle in the Battle of the Bastille. The air is full of smoke and the soldiers
are screaming as they fire cannons and charge at each other with bayonets on their rifles. The flashing lights hurt my eyes. The cannons hurt my ears. I turn the brightness and the sound down and
lay back on my pillow . . .

I don’t know what happened in the French Revolution because when I wake up my laptop is on the table beside me. Charlotte R’s book is on the chair. I can hear
people talking in the transition zone but they’re so quiet I can’t hear what they’re saying. I sit up on my bed and strain my ears. The doctors and nurses always do this when
I’m really ill. It’s like the transition room is their meeting room where they talk about all the things they don’t want me to know about. They think that I will worry too much if
I know everything, and I do. But I worry about the things they don’t tell me more.

I pull my covers away and slide my feet onto the floor. My body feels like lead and my legs feel like sticks. The door seems a hundred feet away. I steady myself on my mattress and edge slowly
to the end of my bed. The voices get louder but I still can’t hear what’s being said.

My head begins to hurt and the door begins to blur. I let go of the bed and fall onto the chair by my bathroom.

‘So he’s . . .’

‘Yes, been . . .’

I shuffle my chair quietly across the floor and press my ear against the door. I hear the rip of paper towels and the sound of water running into the sink.

‘Two, this morning . . .’

‘Anything . . .’

‘That’s all they would . . . How’s he been?’

‘Restless, I think maybe . . .’

I still can’t hear. It’s like listening to TV when pigeons are sitting on the satellite dish.

The water stops. There’s a click, then the rush of the air as someone dries their hands. What are they talking about?

The air stops. I press my ear so hard against the door that I can feel the blood thumping through my head.

‘He’s just too ill to cope with it. We need to . . .’ – hiss of disinfectant – ‘a while.’

‘He’s been looking on the internet all day.’

What can’t I cope with? What’s on the internet?

‘Yeah, we need to get that away – you said he’s asleep now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, let’s do that first.’

‘It’s on the table by the side of his bed.’

I sit up and look at the table and see my laptop.

Is it Henry? Is Henry ill? Is he –?

I push myself up off the chair and stagger back to my bed.

The door slides open.

I grab my laptop and open it up.

‘Mate, what are you doing up?’

I look at my screen and click on the refresh icon.

Greg walks over to me and reaches out. I pull my laptop away and look back at the screen.

It can’t be. It can’t be true. It’s not true.

‘They’ve probably made a mistake! Greg? They must have made a mistake! Haven’t they? Don’t newspapers lie all the time?’

Greg puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Mate, I’m so sorry.’

Blood whooshes in my ears. I think something is going wrong with my heart. It hurts. It hurts.

‘I told you something was bad!’ I cover my face with my hands but it doesn’t stop my tears from falling out. My lungs feel like they’re bursting out of my chest. I
can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

Greg sits down on my bed and wraps his arm around me. I’m scared my heart is going to burst and my lungs are going to break my ribs.

Where is Henry? Where is he? They’ve made a mistake.

I look up at Greg. ‘They’ve made a mistake,’ I say. ‘They must have.’

‘No, mate. I’m sorry, but I don’t think they have. The hospital made an announcement.’

Greg keeps talking but I’m crying so loud that I can’t hear what he says. I feel like I’m a robot that is shutting down, with my lights flickering out as I melt into the
ground. Maybe it’s the drugs they’re giving me. They’ve given me too many; they’re fighting each other and not the infection. That can make me feel crazy and make me imagine
things that aren’t real. The door slides open. Charlotte R walks in and stands at the end of my bed.

‘It’s okay,’ Greg says. ‘I’ve got him . . . I’ve got you mate.’ He pulls my head close against his chest.

‘It hurts. Everything hurts!’ I keep crying, keep shouting. I’m so confused and upset that I don’t know which words stay in my head and which ones come out of my mouth.
Henry’s dead and I think I might die too. Maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe this horrible feeling is because I’m dying too and we really did have the same thing. We both lived in a
bubble. We both went outside. Now we’re going to die at the same time.

We’ve been ill loads of times but the doctors have always found a way to fix us. The infections usually sneak up on us. They don’t make us feel really bad straight away. Was there a
bug in his suit or at the mall? Maybe it was in the ambulance, but NASA would have scrubbed it clean and disinfected it, wouldn’t they? I still might have the same thing. I still might die
too. We shouldn’t have gone outside. Our bubbles are boring sometimes but at least they are safe.

I scrunch my eyes tight but the tears come again, and my heart surges again.

Greg wraps his arms tighter around me.

Henry’s dead.

Henry’s dead. I bury my head in Greg’s chest. I want this pain to go away. I want Greg to squeeze me tighter and never let go. This was supposed to be the best day ever and now I
just want it to end.

11 years, 3 months and 14 days

I’m lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I sniff and wipe my tears on my sleeve. I’ve been crying all night. I’ve been crying so much that my eyes are
aching and my cheeks are sore. I heard a nurse walking around my room. I saw her standing over me. But her words were a mumble and her face was a blur. She reached out and touched my arm, but I
didn’t feel it.

Tears roll down my cheeks and onto my wet pillow. When I close my eyes I see Henry. When I open them, I see him too. I know it’s just in my mind, because where my heart should be
there’s a big black hole. The red charge light on my laptop is blurry through my tears. I can’t stop my hand reaching out, just to check. I slide it onto my bed, flip up the top and
stare at the clocks.

It’s 09:15 in London.

It’s 04:15 in Philadelphia.

The minutes tick over.

09:16

09:17

I’ve had two clocks in my head for years. I ate breakfast when Henry was sleeping. I ate lunch when he was eating breakfast. I ate tea when he was eating lunch and I went to bed when he
was still up watching TV.

It’s 09:18.

09:19.

09:20.

09:21.

I’m missing him already even though if he was still alive he wouldn’t be up yet. I wish the Skype light would shine. I wish the pencil would start to scribble.

09:22

09:23

There’s nothing there. Just our last messages. I close my laptop down and look around my room. I don’t feel like watching the screens. I don’t feel like listening to music. I
don’t feel like doing anything. I’ve got pictures of football players and superheroes on my wall but I’m all alone. Henry might have lived inside my laptop but my whole room feels
empty now he’s gone.

I think about last night. I remember going on my laptop. I remember Greg rushing in. I remember my heart and my lungs hurting and crying and shouting things . . . Did I tell Greg I’d been
outside? I think I did but I can’t remember anything properly. I think the drugs are jumbling my brain. I don’t know what was real or what was a dream. All I know is that Henry is gone.
I’ll never see his face or read his messages on Skype again. I just want him to come back.

I know something is wrong when Greg calls me ‘Joe’.

I know something is wrong when Beth bites her nails and doesn’t talk.

I know something is wrong when Dr Moore rubs his hand across his mouth.

I know something is wrong when I open my eyes and find all three of them are around my bed at the same time.

Dr Moore sits on the edge of the bed. He puts his hand on mine ‘Joe,’ he whispers. ‘I’m really sorry to hear about your friend.’

I look up at Beth. I want her to reach down and hug me. But she just stands there with a worried look on her face. I can’t tell if it’s because of Henry or because she’s found
out what I’ve done.