The Bubble Boy

by Stewart Foster

  He walks to the end of my bed.

  ‘Look after him, nurse,’ he says. ‘He’s a gooner.’

  The nurse looks at me, puts her hand up to her mouth, like she can’t believe what Dr Moore has just said.

  ‘A gooner.’ He nods at my poster of Theo Walcott on the wall. ‘He supports Arsenal.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought –’

  Dr Moore shakes his head. We both know what she thought he’d said.

  My eyelids fall down.

  Dr Moore’s footsteps fade away.

  Am I a gonner? Maybe I am. I hope not. These new drugs were supposed to make me better, not kill me. The nurse sits down next to me.

  ‘I’ll be right here,’ she says.

  ‘Okay.’

  The new blood goes into my body as the old blood drains away.

  I wish Beth was here. She used to come for all my transfusions but I know she can’t be here all the time. They always make me tired and weak. Sometimes it can make it feel like the room spins around. I’ve only ever had that happen twice; Henry has had it happen twice too. He told me it happens because the blood has been in storage for too long and has got too much potassium in it. But I already knew; I’d looked it up like he had. That’s when I read about graft versus host disease: it’s when the immune cells attack the white cells and the body goes to war with itself. That’s what happened when they tried a bone-marrow transplant when I was four. They took the marrow from Beth; at first they thought it was working but even with the anti-rejection meds, my body wouldn’t take it. That’s when I got a massive fever and my body went to war. I don’t want a war in my body.

  I hear a click and look up at the ceiling. The lights are bright and my ears are full of silence.

  ‘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?’

  ‘What, now? It’s late, mate.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They’re fine, mate.’

  ‘The boy with the snooker-ball head?’

  Greg smiles. ‘Yes, he’s good.’

  ‘Is he still running round?’

  ‘Was the last time I saw him.’

  ‘What about the girl who chases him pretending she’s a horse?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Yes, mate, she’s fine.’

  ‘And the boy who reads The Hunger Games?’

  ‘Yes, he’s still . . . mate, what’s this about?’

  I turn away from the window. ‘Is he okay?’

  Greg puts his hands on my shoulders.‘Yes, mate, he’s okay. Now tell me, what’s up?’

  I shrug. ‘Something I heard Graham say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he couldn’t stop filming just because people die.’

  Greg puts one hand around the back of my neck.

  ‘Mate, you’re okay, everyone else is okay and anyway, Graham might not have been talking about anyone in particular. It’s a hospital. Unfortunately people die all the time.’

  He glances at the time and we walk back to my bed. The light is flashing on my laptop. I stop. Henry. His walk! I’ve been so ill for so long that I’d forgotten about him.

  I flip the lid. Greg nods at my bed.

  ‘Mate, not now, it’s going to be time to get up before you even get to sleep.’

  ‘But it’s Henry. He did his second walk today!’

  Greg sighs. ‘Okay, just the one message. Let’s not push it.’

  I sit on my bed. Greg hands me my laptop.

  Joe

  19:08

  Joe?

  19:45

  Guess you’re busy. Been out again.

  It wasn’t great. More tarmac and green fences.

  Couldn’t see anything.

  But they’re thinking of letting me go out earlier.

  20:12

  BTW the new assistant from NASA is nice.

  Arianne. She’s French!

  20:15

  Umm . . . not sure where you are.

  20:19

  Maybe Beth’s with you. Hope so. Tell her I say hi.

  20:21

  Need to sleep. Try you again later.

  21:14

  I start typing.

  Hey Henry. Sorry your walk was boring.

  21:15

  Great you might get to go out earlier.

  Sorry I haven’t replied. Had a crash.

  21:16

  I press Enter.

  ‘Mate,’ Greg reaches for my laptop. ‘I said one message.’

  ‘I know, but you didn’t say how long.’ Greg shakes his head.

  Anyway, guess
what Amir did? He got me 12 TVs!

  21:17

  ‘Finished?’ He closes the lid down.

  I rest my head back on my pillow. Greg closes the blinds and dims the lights until all I can see are shadows again. I take a deep breath, then another. I can relax now. Greg is back and Beth is here and I get to see her again tomorrow. And soon Amir will be back to switch the TVs on. I close my eyes and listen to the machines beep. The beeps are good. They mean I’ve made it.

  11 years, 2 months and 29 days

  It’s early in the morning. Dr Moore and Dr Hussein are standing by my bed. Three interns are with them. They are people who are training to be doctors. I’ve met loads of them. Sometimes they stay here after they’ve qualified, sometimes they go and work somewhere else. Dr Moore asks Beth if it’s okay that they’re here. Beth tells him I enjoy it, that I like the attention. I smile because I know she’s right. It’s nice to have attention, but not all the time, especially not if I’m really ill. But this morning I’m feeling better.

  ‘So,’ says Dr Moore. ‘How are things with you, young man?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘But my head still hurts.’

  He leans over the bed and looks into my eyes.

  ‘Increase fluids?’ I say.

  Dr Moore smiles. ‘Increase fluids, indeed, and we need to run some more blood tests.’

  ‘Do you think it has something to do with the new drugs?’ I ask.

  ‘Quite likely.’

  I look down at my arms, at the little red marks and bruises where they’ve taken blood before. I always bruise more when I’m sicker, because my platelets are low and my blood doesn’t clot very well.

  ‘Do you think it could be secondary haemolytic anaemia?’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly reacted to something.’ Dr Moore smiles and turns to the interns. ‘So everybody, this is Dr Joe Grant. Doctor of Medicine and Paediatrics.’

  ‘. . . And expert in superheroes,’ says Dr Hussein.

  The three interns laugh. Dr Moore smiles at Beth then looks back at the interns. ‘So everyone, what are we thinking?’