Ways to Live Forever

by Sally Nicholls

  He grinned at me, daring me to say something.

  I liked him already.

  “It wouldn’t work,” I said. “You’d do better to tell them that you’ve got a very rich dying uncle looking for an heir and his last wish is a cigarette. People don’t care about rich uncles dying of too many cigarettes, but they do kids.”

  The boy raised his eyebrows. “Worth a try,” he said. “Are you coming?”

  I hesitated. “Why’re you worried about the nurses?” I said. “No one’s going to care if you go to the shop, are they?”

  The boy tapped his nose mysteriously. “It’s to get them off our scent,” he said. “Like, say they smell smoke in my room. If I haven’t left the floor, it can’t have been me, can it? How would I get cigarettes? So it must’ve been a visitor or someone. See?”

  I did. Kind of. Actually, I thought they’d be way more suspicious if they caught him trying to sneak past them. But I knew that wasn’t the point.

  It was a game. The nurses were the enemy. We were the resistance army.

  It wasn’t hard getting past the nurses’ station. There was only one nurse there anyway, so I told her that the little kid in the room next to mine was making a racket. Which was true.

  As soon as she was gone, Felix cried, “Go! Go!” and we were off – full-speed down the corridor to freedom.

  We had great fun trying to get people to buy Felix cigarettes. Felix started with the uncle story, but no one believed him. And if he said he was dying, they just looked shocked and hurried away. So we had to think of other things.

  I told a nice-looking woman with two little kids that my sister was having an operation and the surgeon needed cigarettes to stop his hands shaking. She just laughed and told me to find another surgeon.

  Felix told an old man he was getting withdrawal symptoms from cigarettes, which was very dangerous in his weakened condition. That was a mistake. The old man started telling him all about what happened to him when he quit smoking. Felix kept nodding like he was really interested and the man kept saying, “Don’t believe what they tell you. Ninety-five, I am. Ninety-five!”

  Felix and I kept looking at each other and trying not to laugh.

  I told a weedy-looking man with a beard that I was doing a school project on how many people on a cancer ward would take a cigarette. He told me to use a questionnaire instead.

  In the end, Felix told this teenage girl that a kid on the children’s ward was going to beat us up if we didn’t buy him some cigarettes. I don’t think she believed him, but she bought the cigarettes anyway.

  And after that, Felix and I were friends.

  WHY DOES GOD MAKE

  KIDS GET ILL?

  16th January

  Today, school was at Felix’s house, so Mum could go and see one of her friends for the day. Felix lives on the other side of Middlesbrough in this little terrace house, which always smells of dog. They’ve got this fat, flat dog called Maisy. She’s the colour of a doormat and she’s got this really dopey, surprised expression. Felix always has dog hairs on his bed, but he doesn’t care.

  Mrs Willis let us play Top Trumps instead of school. She said if anybody asked, it was maths.

  We also did my new question.

  As a list.

  Mrs Willis started it. “Right,” she said, when I showed her my question. “Why does God make kids get ill? What do you think? How many solutions can you come up with before twelve?”

  Felix said, “He doesn’t exist. It’s obvious. That’s why.”

  “That’s not a reason!” I said.

  “Of course it is,” said Felix. “He might not. Go on. Write it down.”

  I wrote it down.

  1. He doesn’t exist.

  “Number two—” I began, but Felix beat me to it.

  “Number two,” he said, leaning forward. “Number two – he does exist but he’s secretly evil. He likes torturing little kids for fun.”

  “I’m not putting that!” I said.

  “Why not?” said Felix. “It might be true. And don’t tell me you’ve never thought it.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “There you go,” said Felix. “Number two – go on— ”

  2. God is really evil.

  “We’re only having nice ones now,” I said firmly.

  “There aren’t any nice ones,” said Felix. “How can there be? Someone gives kids cancer, they don’t do it to be nice.” He glared at me, like it was my fault.

  I thought for a moment, then wrote:

  3. God is like a big doctor. He makes people ill so’s to make them better, the same way doctors give people chemotherapy to make them better. It doesn’t matter to God if you die, because you just go to heaven, which is where he lives anyway.

  “That’s rubbish!” said Felix, reading over my shoulder.

  “It’s what my mum thinks,” I said defensively.

  “How does having cancer make you better?”

  “Well –” I hesitated. “It teaches you stuff.”

  “Like?”

  “Well . . . like. . .” I floundered. “Like, what’s important in life. I dunno. You get all excited about being able to ride your bike. And . . . and you realize how important your family are. Stuff like that.”

  “That,” said Felix, “is the biggest load of crap I ever heard. God gives you cancer to teach you how good riding a bike is? You can’t put that there!”

  “It’s there now,” I said. I looked up. “Go on,” I said. “You think of another one.”

  “There is no reason,” said Felix. “It just happens.”

  4. There is no reason.

  “5.,” I said. “There is a reason, but we’re too stupid to understand it.” I looked pointedly at Felix. He laughed.

  “Not very educational, your book, is it?” he said. But he was enjoying himself. You could tell. “It’s punishment for being bad,” he said.

  “It is not!” I said.

  “Why not?” Felix leaned forward. “That’s what Buddhists say. They think everything that happens in this life is karma for what you did in all your other ones. So maybe we were both bank robbers or something in another life and this is payback. You can’t not put it in! What if you publish your book? You’ll get all these Buddhist kids reading it, all peeved ’cause they know why you’re ill and it’s not there! That’s discrimination!”

  “Buddhists aren’t anything to do with God,” I said. “Buddhists don’t believe in God. They believe in . . . in Buddha.”

  “Atheists don’t believe in God either,” said Felix. “And their reason is first of all.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t think we were ill because we’d done something wrong, any more than I thought Hitler was leader of Germany as a reward for doing something good. But he was right. I couldn’t not put it in.

  6. We did something awful in a past life and this is punishment.

  “There!” said Felix with satisfaction. “What next?”

  I didn’t say anything. I was thinking about what Felix had said, about the Buddhist kids. What if I do write a whole book? If I do, I don’t want kids to read it and go around thinking it’s their fault they’re ill, because they’d done something wrong.

  “7,” I said. “We’re perfect already. We don’t need to learn anything else. Being ill is a present. Like . . . like a Get-Into-Heaven-Free Card.”

  “A Get-Into-Heaven-Free Card!” said Felix.

  “It’s not as stupid as it sounds,” I told him. “In the olden days, when kids used to die all the time, they used to think that. ‘He was too good for this earth.’ That’s what they used to say. Or, ‘God loved him so much, he wanted him in Heaven.’”

  “That’s rubbish,” said Felix. “I’m not perfect.” He shook his head. “Anyone reads your book, they’re going to think you’re insane,” he said. “First you tell them it’s a punishment, then you say it’s a present for being good!”

  “It’s just a list!” I said. “They aren’t all true at the same time
!”

  Felix pulled a face.

  “Idiot,” I said.

  TOO DISTURBING FOR HOME VIEWING

  17th January

  After class, I had pizza with Felix and his mum. Afterwards, I said to Felix, “Shall we go to your room?” He has loads more music than me and some good games as well.

  Felix shook his head. He put his hand up to his mouth and said in a French resistance sort of whisper, “Let’s go to Mickey’s room . . . less chance of being interrupted. . .”

  “Why—”

  “Shh!”

  You always know when Felix is planning something. He has this secretive air, like he knows something and you don’t. He had it now. He wouldn’t tell me anything until we got up to Mickey’s room, which took ages because he’s not very good at climbing stairs. Mickey is Felix’s brother. He works on an oil rig, one month on and one month off.

  When we finally got up to his room, Felix said, “Listen. You know you wanted to see horror films. . .”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “Well, look!”

  He was sitting on Mickey’s bed. He pulled something out from behind the pillow and flourished it at me.

  “The Exorcist!”

  I grabbed it off him. We read the back of the box eagerly.

  “‘Inspired by real events . . .’”

  “‘The Exorcist has, until now, been considered too disturbing for home viewing . . . one of the most shocking and gripping movies ever made.’”

  “Have you seen it?”

  Felix shook his head. “I only found it yesterday. It’s supposed to be the worst film ever though. People used to faint in cinemas. . . There’s this one bit where the girl’s head spins all the way around. . .”

  “What’s so scary about that?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Felix admitted. “But it’s an 18, so it must be pretty bad. And if you’re going to watch a horror film, this is the one to watch.”

  We shut Mickey’s door and turned on his DVD.

  It was dead boring. We kept expecting monsters or demons or something to appear, but nothing did. There was a whole bit that looked like something out of Indiana Jones, except that nothing happened apart from this old guy digging up coins. We both thought they were probably evil, possessed demonic coins, but they weren’t.

  Then it got confusing. There was a long bit with this kid and her mum, but it kept getting mixed up with some priest who didn’t seem to have anything to do with anything. All he did was drink whisky and visit his mother. The most exciting thing that happened was the girl playing with a Ouija board, but even that wasn’t particularly scary.

  Nothing too bad happened to the girl after she’d done the Ouija board, but you could kind of tell something was going to. There was a funny scene where she wet herself at a party. And then there was a great long bit in a hospital, which neither of us liked much, so Felix tried to fast-forward and find the head-going-round-backwards scene.

  I don’t know if what he found was the bit that made people faint, but it was horrible. There was a room with curtains flapping and books flying around and the kid stabbing herself with a cross and there was blood everywhere and she was saying all this horrible stuff in a voice that didn’t sound like hers and her face had gone all weird and I was just thinking how awful it would be if that was you and something was making you do that and—

  And then Felix’s mum walked into the room.

  Felix’s mum wouldn’t let us watch the rest. Felix made a big fuss, going on about how if we didn’t know how it ended we’d be haunted by the kid with the blood for ever after, but she wouldn’t listen.

  “She gets cured,” she said. “End of story. Now go and blow up some aliens or something.”

  Secretly, I was glad we didn’t watch any more. There was something about the idea of something living in your body and making you do creepy stuff that I didn’t like. We spent the rest of the afternoon playing on Felix’s computer. But after that I couldn’t stop wondering about whatever it was that had happened to that kid. “Inspired by real events”, it said on the box. What did that mean? What if it was really true? Could something like that happen to you?

  I worried about it all afternoon and most of the evening, until Granny said would I stop moping for goodness’ sake, because it was driving her crazy. She’d come back from taking Ella to Brownies and stayed to talk to Mum. Only Mum’d gone to answer the phone.

  “Have you and that boy been up to something again?” she said.

  “No,” I said3, and then, “Do you believe in demons?”

  “Demons?” said Granny. “You mean with horns and pitchforks?”

  “No,” I said. “Like . . . evil spirits. That possess people.”

  “No,” said Granny firmly. “Absolute rubbish.”

  “But you believe in ghosts and things,” I said.

  “There’s no point in inventing devils to be scared of,” said Granny, very sternly. “We’ve enough real things to worry about without making up more for ourselves.”

  “Right,” I said. “And I wasn’t scared. I only wondered.”

  It wasn’t really a very comforting thing for Granny to say, when you think about it. But after that I wasn’t worried any more.

  MY LIFE IN HOSPITALS

  It’s Tuesday today. We don’t have school on Tuesdays, because I have clinic. Felix doesn’t go to my clinic, because he doesn’t have leukaemia like me. He goes to a different one, on Thursday. I know I ought to say what clinic was like, but I’m not going to. It’s not very exciting. They weigh you and measure you and do blood tests and talk to you and give you some drugs there and some drugs to take home. That’s it, really.

  I can see why Dad thinks I’m getting better, but it’s only because I’m on different drugs now. See, when you get leukaemia they give you chemotherapy, which is poison. It’s not supposed to kill you, it’s supposed to kill the cancer, but you get sick too. Your hair falls out and your skin burns and all sorts of stuff. So of course I’m better now I’m not having it any more.

  I’ve had it twice. Dad wanted me to have it again, but they said no.

  Leukaemia always comes back. They think they’ve cured it, then it comes back. Not to everyone. True fact: eighty-five per cent of people get properly cured forever. That’s eight-and-a-half out of every ten people. Eighty-five out of every hundred. Eight hundred and fifty out of every thousand.

  That’s most people.

  But it always comes back to me.

  Leukaemia is a type of cancer. What happens is, your body makes too many white blood cells.4 White blood cells are like your own personal resistance army. They fight infections and stuff. But when you get leukaemia they take over and the other blood cells get scrunched up and can’t do all the things they’re supposed to do. So you get ill. Like, you might get very pale or get loads of bruises or nosebleeds that won’t stop or you feel tired all the time.

  I’ve had it three times, including now. The first time was when I was six. I was in hospital having chemotherapy for a month and I had to take pills for ages afterwards. But they thought they’d cured it, for sure.

  It came back again when I was ten. That’s when I met Felix. They gave me the chemotherapy drugs then as well and my hair fell out again and everything. And they thought they’d cured it then too. Well, kind of.

  “Let’s wait and see,” they said. Or, “Fingers crossed.” And Mum looked scared and Dad went quiet.

  Mum and Dad are good at being scared and quiet. And this time they were right. It did come back again. After only two and a half months.

  CAPTAIN CASSIDY

  21st January

  When Dad came home from work last night, he didn’t read his newspaper like usual. He came and watched me working. I was looking through my Warhammer magazine, trying to find pictures to stick in my book.

  “Is this the great school project again?” he said. A funny smile was twitching round his lips. I think he could see it was more than just a
project.

  I hesitated. Then, even though I knew it was probably stupid, I said it. “I’m writing a book.”

  “A book!” Dad raised his eyebrows. “I tried to write a book when I was your age. Captain Cassidy and the Castle of Doom it was called.”

  “What happened?” I said. Dad laughed.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I never got beyond chapter one.”

  “My book’s about me,” I said.

  Dad stopped laughing. “About you?”

  “About . . . being ill. And everything.”

  “Ah.” Dad was quiet. I waited for him to say something else but he didn’t. I bent my head over the magazine. The silence stretched and stretched and then, suddenly, I heard his chair scrape. I looked up quickly, but he’d gone.

  I thought that was it, but I was wrong. Today, when he came home from work, he had a present for me. It was a ring binder with Spiderman on it, a new tube of Pritt Stick and some sugar paper.

  “For your book,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s . . . thanks.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. He sat down in his chair and opened his paper. Then he lowered it again. “Just one thing,” he said. “You’re not writing a weepy book full of poems and pictures of rainbows, are you?”

  “No,” I said. I wasn’t sure what kind of book he was talking about, but it didn’t sound like mine. “It’s not that sort of book,” I said.

  “That’s all right, then,” said Dad, opening his paper again.

  DR BILL

  When my leukaemia came back for the third time, we had to go and talk about it with Dr Bill. He’s a paediatric oncologist, which is a cancer doctor for kids. He wears this red headscarf with white dots, like a pirate. He does it so’s the kids with no hair don’t feel so bad. His real name is Dr William Bottomley, but no one ever calls him that.