Flyaway

by Lucy Christopher

  CHAPTER 19

  Dad looks a little better than yesterday. Somehow his skin is less grey. But he still looks so weak, as if he's a hundred years older than he was. I stand behind Mum. I don't know how loudly I should talk to Dad, maybe I shouldn't talk at all. It feels like if I was to shout at him he'd fade away completely. But I want to tell him about how I played football yesterday. Dad used to be an amazing football player, even better than Jack. I jiggle my legs as I remember how I raced down the wing and ran the ball into goal. Then I imagine that Crowy's there, watching me, and I'm lining up another goal, bringing my leg back to shoot, aiming and . . .

  ‘Ow!’

  I blink. Mum's rubbing her shin. I've kicked her leg by mistake.

  ‘What'd you do that for?’ she asks, glaring at me.

  I look across at Dad, who's staring at me too.

  ‘I scored a goal yesterday,’ I blurt out. ‘When Jack let me play.’

  Dad looks so pleased then that his eyes almost seem to become brighter for a moment. I'm glad I've told him. But Mum folds her arms across her chest.

  ‘Did you have to score it again on my leg?’ she mutters.

  I lean down and rub her shin. ‘Sorry, got carried away.’

  But Mum doesn't really mind. She pushes me to the head of Dad's bed so that I can talk to him more. I notice the way Dad's starting to smile. He's more with it today. He can finish sentences. Perhaps he is getting better after all. Perhaps they'll just do these tests then let him out in a day or two. I lean up closer to him, ready to tell him the news that I know will make him smile.

  ‘You were right when you said there was a lake behind the hospital,’ I say. ‘And there's a swan on it too, maybe a whooper.’

  Dad's eyes light up properly then, just as I'd imagined. ‘Why didn't you say?’

  ‘Only saw it yesterday.’

  ‘Is the rest of the flock there?’

  I shake my head. ‘Just one.’

  I walk over to the window. It's near Dad's bed, but it's probably too high up for him to see out of it properly. I look out for him instead. I only see the car park and the ring road and beyond that, fields.

  ‘Your window's facing the wrong way,’ I tell him. ‘You need to go to one on the other side to see the swan.’

  I glance at Mum but she's shaking her head. ‘No chance, babe. Dad's got to stay here.’

  ‘Can't we even take him in a wheelchair? Just for a look.’

  ‘Nope. He's too ill.’

  I come back to Dad. His smile has fallen a little now.

  ‘You'll have to look for me,’ he says in his thin, raspy voice. ‘Keep a watch for the others, too.’

  I glance across at Mum, but she just rolls her eyes as if to say ‘you know what he's like’. She reaches forward to grab Dad's hand.

  ‘If it will keep your spirits up,’ she murmurs, obviously just trying to please him.

  I swear Dad's cheeks are pinker now that he's interested in something.

  And then, suddenly, I know what I'm going to do. I know exactly what I can do to keep Dad's spirits up. I'll watch the swan like he says.

  ‘I'll meet you in the cafe in an hour,’ I tell Mum.

  CHAPTER 20

  I stick to the edge, following the fence around the car park. I can't find a proper entrance, but there is a shed that seems to sag at the corners, and there is a slit in the fence in front of it. It runs vertically from where my shoulder is to the base. I lean against the splintery wood of the shed and pull back the wire, testing it. It bends back easily, as if it has been bent like this before. I curl it towards me like a wave, opening up the slit. Then I kick at it, pushing it back further. I ignore the sign: Keep out. Authorised persons only. Take a breath. Then bend my body through.

  I take a few steps. It doesn't look the same down here as it did through Harry's window. There are plastic bags halfsubmerged in the mud around my feet, crushed beer cans and hundreds of cigarette butts. I step across a faded washing powder box. I almost turn back. It's obvious I'm not supposed to be here. I don't know what those ‘authorised persons’ would do if they found me. I'm not the first person to have done this, though. I can tell that by the way the ground has been trampled into a path that leads to a patch of trees.

  The memory of Dad's face keeps me going. He looked different when I mentioned the swan, excited almost. And Mum said that anything that lifted Dad's spirits was good for him. I try to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing.

  I step across the manky brown carpet of dead leaves. At the patch of trees, I find another sign, propped up against a trunk. Hospital Patrons Only. Please Keep to the Track. The path feels firmer now, as if it used to be a proper trackway.

  I walk on, going deeper into the trees. It gets darker the further in I go. Everything's so silent. There are no machines whirring on and off, no trolleys trundling past, no patients crying out. I can only hear the wind whispering leaves and bits of rubbish about. It smells better than in the hospital, too, like damp leaves and mud. I wish I could bottle it and take it back for Dad.

  I step over another crushed beer can and look ahead to where it's getting lighter. There's a gap beyond the trees. If Dad were here with me he'd walk confidently, blabbing on about how alive it makes a person feel to be out in nature. He'd be stopping to look at beetles in the leaf litter, and touching the trees. He wouldn't be scared at all. There's a real ache in my chest as I think about it. I want Dad here with me. It's not fair that he isn't. But I've got my phone in my pocket. I'll just go up to the lake, take a photo of the swan, have a good look around for any others and then leave. I won't hang about.

  I hear a crack to my left. The bushes shake. A dark patch of brambles moves violently from side to side. I freeze. Then the movement stops. I stare at the leaves, waiting. A drop of frosty water lands on my head and then slides down my cheek. Something small and black shoots out of the bushes. I trip backwards over a tree root and almost fall. But it's only a bird. A stupid coot with a smug white face. I'm such a bag of nerves.

  I get to the lake. The swan is still there. She's not far away, floating on her own. I look across the water and at the land around the edges. There aren't any others. She's smaller and more grey than most, but she's definitely a whooper. Her beak is long and yellow, like all whoopers’, but has traces of pink. I don't think she's even a year old. It's weird, but there's something almost familiar about her. I'm sure she's the same bird we saw at the reserve that day, looping above us. I'm sure I've found her. That's already enough to tell Dad.

  I go to the edge of the water, towards her. She doesn't move but she seems to be watching me, her small black eyes fixed on mine. She's a beautiful swan, with clean feathers and a long, straight neck. I take my phone out of my pocket and take a photo. She doesn't bob her head away. She doesn't look scared of me at all.

  I crouch down and keep watching. Near my feet are some of her chest feathers, a babyish dark grey colour. They are soft and damp, a little like fur. I take the two longest ones and run my forefinger and thumb over them, making them smooth and perfect. I put them in my pocket with my phone. I'll take them for Dad.

  When I look up again, she's there. I mean right there, infront-of-my-face there. Less than a metre away. I don't know how she's swum up to me so quickly, or how I didn't notice. Her eyes are still locked on my face. Birds aren't supposed to have expressions, but this swan seems to. She seems really curious; it's almost human the way she's looking at me. It's like she's asked me a question and now she's waiting for my response. I glance away and then back at her, just to check I'm not imagining it. But she's still looking at me like that.

  I start shuffling backwards up the bank. I move slowly and steadily so she doesn't get alarmed. Even though I'm not scared of swans, I know they're pretty powerful. I mean, everyone's heard stories about swans breaking people's arms with their wings. Granddad told me once that a swan is capable of drowning a dog.

  ‘Why are you so brave?’ I murmur to her.

&
nbsp; She tilts her head as if she's listening. She comes closer. Her feet squelch in the mud as she steps onto the bank. I could reach out and touch her. She stretches her wings out and for a moment she's absolutely massive, towering above me. Her wings block the light. I scrabble to stand. She beats her wings, and a stench of stale water hits my nostrils. Already her beak is stretching towards me and her wings are against my shins.

  ‘Shoo!’ I say. ‘‘I don't have any food.‘

  I turn quickly and jog away from her. I'm not frightened exactly, but there's something odd about this bird. Wild swans should be timid, scared of humans. This one's different.

  I think I'll stop after a few strides, but I don't. I increase my pace. She won't follow me across land, I know, but it feels good to run. It reminds me of playing football with Jack, and of all the training runs we did in the athletics team last summer. I glance back to see the swan returning to the water. She's fine now, no longer angry or whatever it was that made her come up to me like that. I watch her swim away. Maybe she's lonely.

  I run instead of thinking too hard. I want it to be like Jack's football game, when I ran and forgot all the bad stuff. My breathing starts to get heavier, and I feel my shoulders drop as I ease into the pace. Then I hear short, sharp smacks on the water, and I turn my head.

  It's the swan. She's beating her wings, running on the surface of the lake. At first I think she's following me. Then I realise. She's trying to take off. Trying to get the speed she needs from running across the water. I keep moving. I think she's going to lift off at any moment and I wait for her to soar low over my head. But she doesn't. She keeps running across the surface. I see the muscles straining in her neck. As she starts to catch up with me, I feel the sweep of wind coming from her feathers. It's almost as though she's racing me.

  Then I see her eyes. She's still watching me. I stumble, look across at the trees. There's no one else here. Only me. I stare back at her. I even start to run a little towards her. For a moment, it's as if she's drawing me there. I'm gasping for breath, sucking the cold wind down into my lungs. Her feet smack harder on the surface of the lake and she inches ahead. It's almost as if she's urging me to go faster as well. It's ridiculous. Swans don't race each other like this, and they definitely don't race humans.

  I hear the breath rasping in my throat, the strain in my ribs. I slow down, I have to. The swan watches me, falters for a moment. I wave my arms at her, try to scare her into taking off. Instead, spray splashes from her feet as she lowers her body back to the water and refolds her wings. Instantly she's calm, as if she were never running to take off in the first place.

  I collapse onto my hands and knees, and gasp for air. My body's hot, my school shirt's stuck to my back. I turn my head sideways to the lake. I take a breath, as long as I can make it, then another. I see her, now floating further away. Why did she follow me like that? Why didn't she just fly? If Dad were here, he'd probably be able to explain it. Perhaps racing humans around a lake is some strange swan behaviour thing that I've never heard of. Perhaps it's what swans do when they're stressed. I don't know.

  I wait until the breath stops rattling in my throat before I sit up properly. I watch the swan float further away. She's so uninterested now. I stand up, shakily. I glance back at the track. My footprints are there, digging into the muddy surface. I know I didn't imagine what just happened.

  CHAPTER 21

  I walk straight through the hospital entrance and take the stairs two at a time. All the while, I'm starting to doubt what just happened. That swan can't really have been following me. Swans just aren't that interested in humans. Perhaps I've gone mad. Maybe it's because I'm stressed. I remember some TV programme Mum was interested in, where they were talking about how stress affected behaviour. The people who were interviewed did all sorts of strange things. Some of them had even hallucinated whole conversations with imaginary people. Perhaps that's what I've done; I've imagined the swan following me. Or at least, imagined the way she was looking at me. But it felt so real.

  I need to talk to Dad. I know he'll be able to explain it. Maybe that kind of thing has happened to him before; perhaps it's just what swans do, sometimes.

  Visiting hours are over, but I go to Dad's ward anyway. The nurse at the entrance desk takes one look at me and shakes her head.

  ‘You've got mud on your shoes,’ she says with a thick Scottish accent. It's difficult to understand what she means straight away.

  I look down. All the way behind me there's a trail of marks on the shiny floor.

  ‘But I need to tell him something,’ I say, my thoughts still full of the swan. ‘It's important.’

  I keep the feathers grasped tight in my pocket. If the nurse is unhappy about the mud, she probably won't like them much either. She scrunches up her face into that sympathetic look I've seen a lot recently.

  ‘I'm sorry, hen, but you need to have your mum here with you. We can't let you in without her permission . . . even if it were visiting hours.’

  She comes around the desk and stands close to me. I think she can see how worked up I am.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she says softly. ‘Why don't we look at your dad, together, from the doorway?’

  Her voice goes up in pitch, making it sound as if she's talking to a five-year-old. It's not what I want, watching Dad from the doorway with a nurse's hand on my arm. I want to go right up to him and give him the feathers. I want to hug him and ask him about the swan. But what else can I do?

  The nurse leads me to the entrance of the ward. She stands behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I feel like a suspect in a cop show; it's as if she's about to march me off to the police station. The curtains are open around Dad's bed, but I can't see him properly, not from here, not even when I stand on tiptoes. I think he's asleep. He's very still. So still it doesn't look like he's breathing. I feel my heartbeat speed up. I'm being paranoid. There'd be beeping and alarms and nurses running to him if he stopped breathing. I take a step away. I don't want to imagine it.

  ‘See, hen, he's fine,’ the nurse coos. ‘No problems at all. Now what did you want to tell him?’

  I shake her off and make for the door. She's calling something else out to me, something about trying to find my mum, but I deliberately block it out. I hate this; I hate all these other people being responsible for Dad . . . controlling when I can see him and what I can say to him. I know it's not how he'd want it.

  The door to Coronary Care thuds shut behind me. Already I'm walking down the corridor. I'm going to see Harry. My feet know it before my brain's clicked in. He's the only one who might be glad to see me. The only other person who might have seen what happened in the reserve.

  CHAPTER 22

  My shoes make little squelchy noises as I hurry down the corridor. At the door to the children's cancer ward I hesitate. It's locked shut. I lean up against it and peer through the glass section.

  Then the door clicks open and I fall through. There's a nurse on the ward desk, smiling at me. I think she's the one I saw last time.

  ‘Here to see Harry?’ she asks.

  ‘But is he . . . am I allowed?’

  She nods. There's something tired about her expression, but I think she's trying to be friendly. ‘If it's all right with Harry, it's all right with me,’ she says.

  She leads me down the corridor. It doesn't feel as busy in here today. There's less noise, and fewer people. Not so many visitors. Harry's door is shut. The nurse knocks it gently, opens it an inch and looks in.

  ‘Isla's here,’ she says. ‘You up for it?’

  I hang back. I can't hear him reply. What if Harry is really sick? What if he doesn't want to see me? I feel my stomach tighten as I wait. The nurse turns back to me. Gives me a wink.

  ‘Don't stay too long, pet.’

  She holds the door open for me to go through.

  Harry's in bed, propped upright with pillows. He grins when he sees me, beckons me in, but I could be looking at a different boy to the one I remember.
Today, there are dark, dark circles around his eyes, and his skin is even whiter. There are a few strands of hair on his pillows. He reminds me of some sort of furry creature, something that would live underground. I half expect him to scurry away, bury back under the covers.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he says. ‘I didn't think you'd come back to visit.’ There's a questioning look in his eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No way.’ He shakes his head as if I've said the most ridiculous thing. ‘You just missed my mum actually, could have been quite a party.’

  I move to the chair beside his bed. He looks exhausted, as though he's run a marathon. I try not to scrape the chair when I sit down, I don't want to be too loud. Suddenly, what happened at the reserve doesn't seem so important. Not when Harry looks as ill as this.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I ask.

  ‘It's just the chemo. My body doesn't like it too much.’

  I find it hard to believe chemotherapy could make that much difference to someone, and so quickly. He was so casual about it before. But I start nodding as if I understand, then have to look away quickly as he catches my eye.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I say.

  Harry thinks for a moment. ‘I'm not in pain, like how I guess your dad is. But it's just, kinda uncomfortable. Everything aches.’

  His hand flies to his chest and he presses at something through his pyjama top. At first I think it's his heart.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He brushes away my concern. ‘Just my Hickman line.’

  Again, I don't understand. I chew on my lip. It's as if he's living in a different world to me, knowing about a whole bunch of different things. I'm suddenly too shy to say anything. Whatever I say now is going to sound all wrong. So I look out of the window. The lake looks like a blur of colour, and I can't see the swan.