His eyes dart from side to side and I wonder what he’s going to say next. Sometimes I don’t think he knows either. He stares at me like he’s waiting for the next thought to zap into his head but finally it looks like he’s going to stop saying stuff.
I rest my head on my pillow.
‘You okay?’
‘I feel really tired now.’
‘Okay. I just sit here a while.’
‘Haven’t you got to see the others?’
‘No. I stay with you.’
I lay back and think about the TV crew. They’ll be in another ward now, talking to someone just like me. Graham might be talking to the snooker-ball kid. I hope he is, because when the programme is shown next week, I’ll get to see him on TV. I wish I could see him for real but I know he can’t, he’s too sick to leave his bed and come and see me, Greg says.
I look at Amir. After talking so much he’s suddenly sat quietly, twisting a gold ring on his finger.
He sees me looking. ‘Ten years,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Me and my wife. We are married ten years tomorrow.’
That’s nearly my whole life. ‘Do you have any children?’ I ask. Amir’s face lights up. ‘Yes. Do I not tell you?’ He holds up three fingers and taps the tips of each one. ‘Ajala, Shukra, Guru.’
‘I like their names.’
He touches his fingertips again. ‘Earth, Venus and Jupiter. Nine, seven, and three. I love them.’ His eyes shine like his children are stood in front of him.
I smile at how happy his kids make him. He must be a really fun dad. I bet he chases them around his house like my dad used to chase me around this room. I don’t remember it, but Beth says he did. She said he used to put me on his shoulders and pretend he was going to bump into my bed then he’d make an engine noise and swerve around it like we were in a car. Then he’d slow down and put me gently back onto my bed. Sometimes I think I can remember it. That I can smell the shampoo in his hair and his aftershave as we ducked to miss the lights. It feels so real when I think about it. I look up at the ceiling – the lights are too high – I wouldn’t need to duck. It’s like I’ve blocked it all out, or maybe it was just another dream.
I swallow. Amir does the same.
‘I sorry,’ he says.
‘It’s okay. Do you have a picture of them?’
‘No. I don’t need one. It’s like the letters in Countdown. I see them all in here.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘But maybe I’ll bring you one to show you one day.’
I nod and look at the TV. I don’t see the picture or hear the sound. I wish I had pictures of my family in my head but all I have is a pain in my chest and tummy. I’ve seen a few documentaries where people talk about losing someone, but they’re all older than me. They say things like, ‘it’s hard’, that ‘the pain never goes away completely, but it does get easier in time’. But I’m eleven now, and it doesn’t get easier for me. I wish when I hear the word ‘orphan’ that my ribs didn’t squeeze my heart. I wish I was like Amir. I wish I had a family. All I have is me and Beth. I’ll always want Beth here with me, I just wish Mum and Dad could be too.
I lean over, open a drawer and take out a photo to show Amir. ‘It’s me, Mum and Dad, and Beth.’
Amir holds the edge of the photograph between his fingers and smiles. ‘Everyone looks so happy. How old were you?’
‘Six.’
Amir nods and looks at the picture again. I’m sat up on the middle of my bed. Mum and Dad are sat either side and Beth is knelt up behind me. I don’t really remember the day, only what Beth’s told me. She says it wasn’t a special day like Christmas or any of our birthdays. It was just a day of the week when they all came to see me. The photo was taken in the same room as I’m in now. I’ve never been moved out of this room, because it was built specially for me. I had posters of Transformers on the walls then, and my bed was smaller, and the monitors were bigger and grey, not white. Sometimes when I look at the photograph I can hear them talking. Mum looks and sounds like Beth, only older, and Dad looks and talks like Frank Lampard. Beth talks to Mum about school and what subjects she needs to take in sixth form. I talk to Dad about football. I tell him I’m sorry but even though he does look like Frank I support Arsenal. Dad says he doesn’t mind, he likes José Mourinho. I look at Dad smiling in the picture. I wonder if he knows that José Mourinho left Chelsea and then came back again, that when he came back he let Lampard go and now Frank’s scoring goals for Man City. I’ll tell him out loud one day, when Amir isn’t here.
Amir hands me the picture and I put it back in the drawer. When I turn round he’s looking at his watch.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘You have to go.’
‘Sorry.’
I get up and walk over to the window. The traffic lights change from red to green. The drilling has stopped and the workmen have gone home. I look across the rooftops and watch the planes come and go into Heathrow. Hundreds of them fly every day and night. Sometimes they fly so close that I think they’ll crash into each other and explode. But the planes never touch each other. The people in the control towers make sure they don’t do that. I wonder if there’s a person in a control tower somewhere controlling my life. Maybe he sits there watching me on a screen deciding what will happen to me next. Maybe that’s what God does. He watches me from a control tower. I don’t know if God is real, but if he is why does he make me live in a bubble? And why wasn’t he in the control tower directing the traffic the day Mum and Dad had their accident?
My laptop beeps behind me. I smile. I know it’ll be Henry. I feel really tired but so much has happened in both our lives today that we have to talk.
I pick up my laptop and sit down on my bed.
Hey Joe
20:08
Hi Henry
20:08
How’s the alien?
20:08
He’s not an alien. He just believes in them.
And I like him.
20:08
So you’re not scared then?
20:09
No. He’s funny. He’s getting me Sky TV.
20:09
Sky?
20:10
Satellite.
20:10
Oh, what about the TV crew?
20:10
They were great. Miss them already.
But why are we talking about them?
20:10
What?
20:11
Your walk!
20:11
Oh, my walk. Ha! It was OK. Not great
20:11
What happened?
20:11
It was weird. I got to the end of the corridor
and wanted to turn back.
20:12
Germs?
20:12
No. Saw this before I went: http://www.myfoxphilly.com/story/24951458/9-shot-dead-during-violent-night-in-philadelphia
Happened yesterday.
Didn’t think my suit would keep out bullets.
20:12
You were only going to the car park.
20:12
Shootings happen in parking lots.
It was just around the corner.
20:15
But you went though?
20:15
Yeah, Brett checked the whole area like SWAT.
Drainpipes, stairwells, everything.
NASA said if I didn’t go now the schedule
would have to go back by a month.
20:15
A month?
20:16
Lots of men in suits here telling me what to do.
Not spacesuits. Suits suits. I had to go. No choice.
Nearly peed myself when they opened the door.
It was bright outside. I think the sun was out
but all I could see was grey tarmac and green walls,
because of the helmet, and they taped the whole parking
lot off so no one could get
in. Big fence, couldn’t see over,
couldn’t see under. And my helmet was so heavy
I couldn’t lift my head to see the sky.
20:17
I wait for Henry to write more but all I can see is the pencil, still, on the screen like he doesn’t know what to say next and I don’t know what to write either. I sigh. After waiting for so long to go out, all he got to see was tarmac and walls. And I guess nothing much is different out there, really. Just more dangerous. But I wish I could breathe some dangerous fresh air. Just one time.
Henry.
20:20
Yeah.
20:20
Do you want to switch to screen?
20:21
No. I’m OK here.
20:21
Sure?
20:21
Yeah . . . But thanks . . .
I’m fried. Just want to sit here.
20:21
Me too. Not feeling great.
Got a bit of a sore throat.
20:22
Be careful.
20:22
I know
20:23
I reach over for a cup of water. I drink it but with every gulp it feels like I’ve got a hedgehog stuck in my throat. I swallow again. It’s still there. I look back at the screen. I really want to go sleep but Henry is typing at a hundred miles an hour, now.
Got to go again tomorrow. Don’t want to.
20:23
It’s freakier than I thought it would be.
But the mall will be better. Going to be on Philly news.
Wish you could see it.
20:24
I’ll ask Amir if he thinks we can get it.
It’s going to be great.
20:24
You think so?
20:24
Burgers and hotdogs!
20:24
Not so sure.
20:25
Why not?
20:25
Mrs Rambo!!!
20:25
Who?
20:25
http://www.nydailynews.com/news/justice-story/mrs-rambo--killingspree-article-1.1211691
Henry.
20:28
Yeah.
20:28
I think you worry about getting shot too much.
20:28
You worry about car crashes, I worry about guns.
20:29
My stomach aches; the pain moves up towards my heart. My fingers hover over the keyboard, shaking. I wish he hadn’t written that.
Joe? You there?
20:31
Yeah.
20:31
Sorry. Just a joke about the difference
between England and America.
20:32
It’s OK. I’m just really tired.
20:32
Want to go?
20:32
I look at the clock. I know I should go to sleep. But I love talking to Henry.
I feel really tired and funny— like all the blood has gone from my face. I look at the clock.
Henry.
20:39
Yeah.
20:40
Wish you could come here
20:40
Wish you could come here, too.
Maybe the transition zone is really a
teleportation machine. Zoop! Zoop!
20:41
Haha.
20:42
Or you could just jump on one of your planes.
20:42
Wouldn’t get past airport security.
20:43
Cut a hole in the fence. Just jump on.
20:44
Kid did it over here. Hang on . . . Here you go.
http://edition.cnn.com/2014/04/21/us/hawaii-plane-stowaway/
20:44
I click on the link.
Teen hitches ride in the wheel of a plane
I scroll down and read how a boy climbed an airfield perimeter fence, ran across the tarmac, climbed up a wheel and hid in the hold of the plane. I smile. I can’t believe it. The boy flew all the way from San Jose to Hawaii. He was sixteen. It doesn’t say what his name is.
See.
20:48
What do you think?
20:49
Don’t know. Can’t catch a bus, so no chance of a plane.
20:49
But you could, if you got a suit.
20:50
I smile and keep reading. The boy flew for five hours curled up in a ball. He had no reason to go to San Jose; it’s like he did it for a dare. Scientists said he’s lucky to be alive because it was minus eighty degrees. He said being in the wheel was the same as being without much oxygen at the top of Mount Everest.
Fancy it?
20:53
I don’t know. Bit cold.
20:54
Yeah. Need a blanket!
20:54
I look out of the window. The planes are only sixteen miles away. The internet says it takes 31 minutes to get to Heathrow in a car, 42 minutes on the Tube. If I was Thor I could get there quicker. But if I was Thor I wouldn’t need to go to an airport, I could fly all the way to Philadelphia on my own. I’d only have to sneak up onto the roof, stand on the ledge, point my hammer at the sky. If I can reach the stratosphere and come back down without taking a breath, it would only take me a few minutes to get to America. I’d be faster than a plane, faster than a rocket even. I’d be there so quickly that I wouldn’t even have to stop for lunch. My laptop beeps. I look back at the screen.
Hey Joe. Next plane leaves at 14.10. Terminal 3.
20:57
I chuckle.
Henry.
20:58
What?
20:58
They said the stowaway boy might get brain damage.
20:59
Oh crap. I didn’t read all of it. Sorry.
20:59
My head begins to swirl. Sweat drips off my face and trickles down my neck.
Henry!
21:00
What?
21:00
I really don’t feel good.
21:01
The monitors beep.
Heart rate: 111
Body temp.: 40.1C
The numbers start to blur. I blink.
Heart rate: 119
Body temp.: 40.2C
Henry
21:02
Press –
21:02
My head falls against my pillow. My laptop crashes to the floor.
I try to shout but all that comes out is a croak.
This is a crash.
This is when the blood goes from my head to my feet, pours out into the room and drains through a hole in the middle of the floor. This is when the walls start spinning and the pictures blur. Then the ceiling turns black and the floor turns black and I don’t know which way I’m facing any more. My body is cold and wet. My sheets are screwed up and falling off my bed. This is a crash when all I can hear are footsteps and voices around my bed.
‘I feel sick . . . and my head aches.’
‘We know, Joe,’ says Dr Moore. Increase saline, take the atropine to 50 ml.
Charlotte shouldn’t have let them stay so long.
It’s not her fault, we all share responsibility. This could have happened whether they came or not. ‘Easy, Joe. Easy.’
I roll over on my side. A nurse puts her hand on my forehead. My stomach cramps and I retch over a bowl. The room spins again – Dr Moore, Dr Singh, two nurses – we can’t stop filming because someone’s going to die, we can’t stop filming because someone’s going to die. I retch again.
‘Am I going to die?’
Temp 40. BP 70 over 35
‘Am I going to die?’
100 over 55 . . .
‘Am I going to –?’
‘Steady, steady. No, Joe, you’re not going to die.’ Increase the atropine to 60 ml. Let’s leave it there.
Needle in my hand, cold fluid in my
veins, I feel it surge up my arm, through my shoulder and into my chest.
‘Relax, Joe. Deep breaths. Nice deep breaths.’
I try to breathe. I try to breathe deep and not too fast. I try to imagine my feet sinking into soft sand.
‘I want to walk on the beach.’
‘Easy, Joe. Easy.’
‘Watch the waves.’
‘Don’t talk, Joe. Just breathe. It’s okay, we can talk later.’
I blink, see Dr Moore standing over me. Feel so tired. Feel so –
‘I want to watch . . .’
This is a crash.
11 years, 2 months and 26 days
There’s an IV drip by the side of my bed – a plastic bag full of blood hangs from it and there’s a white container marked BLOOD on the floor.
A nurse I’ve not seen before smiles at me. My eyes are too blurry to read her name tag.
‘Okay?’ she whispers. ‘Joe, are you okay?’
My head is so heavy it’s like it’s stuck to the pillow.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Joe. It’s done now.’
I look at the dark blood flowing from the bag, down the tube and into my arm. My eyelids are heavy. They drop down. I open them again. Dr Moore is leant over me. ‘Okay, Joe?’
I try to nod.
‘It’s all right.’ He puts his hand gently on my head. ‘We’ve got you back now.’
The Bubble Boy Page 7
