Lucky Break

by Rob Stevens

  I picked up the photo from my bedside table and stared at Lenny for a while.

  ‘When we used to go out in the car all together, the whole family, I used to have this recurring disaster fantasy. I’d imagine our car veering off the road and ending up sinking in a watery ditch. Everyone would be unconscious except me. I’d undo my seatbelt and somehow manage to break a window and swim free dragging my sister with me. When I’d pulled her to safety I’d go back into the water. Holding my breath, I’d dive down again and again, rescuing my mum and dad. Finally, I’d save Lenny.’

  ‘Why was he last?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was like a Hollywood movie. Saving him was the big finish – what everything else had been building up to. In my fantasy, I was some kind of hero. Stupid, isn’t it? When my chance came to be an actual hero I chickened out.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I remember seeing the car. Lenny didn’t see it but I did. I remember him stepping into the road. I knew he was going to get hit and I did nothing. Instead I clung onto my mum like a baby.’

  ‘Do you blame yourself?’

  I shrugged. ‘I sometimes think, “If only things had happened differently that morning.” Like, if we hadn’t been playing chase in the first place he probably wouldn’t have run into the road. But we couldn’t have known what was about to happen, I suppose. Mostly I can persuade myself that a game of chase is a pretty normal thing for kids to do.

  ‘The thing that really haunts me is that I saw the car coming before Lenny did. In that split second I should have shouted or pushed him out of the car’s way or … something. I should have done something.’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do they blame you?’

  ‘They don’t actually say it’s my fault, but sometimes I feel like that’s what they’re thinking.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I just can OK?’

  ‘I don’t see how you can tell someone blames you if they haven’t said they blame you.’

  ‘No. Well you wouldn’t, would you? You can’t even tell when someone’s being sarcastic.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Arnold said quietly, turning his head away from me slightly. I swivelled in my chair, feeling mean and wishing I hadn’t snapped. I wondered if he was trying not to cry but then he jumped off the bed and loped across the room. Grabbing an Xbox controller, he turned and beamed at me. ‘Wanna play FIFA?’

  ‘Sure. But don’t cry when I whoop your butt.’ Catching Arnold’s eye I added, ‘Don’t worry. That’s just an expression.’

  Arnold turned out to be a really good loser. He lost about ten matches in a row but his eager, puppy-like enthusiasm never wavered.

  Mum called me down for tea but I said I wasn’t hungry. When I went downstairs a while later the light was on in Mum’s study and Dad was snoring in his armchair. My dinner was keeping warm in the oven so I put it on a tray, along with some drinks and fruit and chocolate and headed back upstairs.

  Arnold and I huddled round the plate.

  ‘The casserole’s awesome.’ Arnold was bent over, scooping chunks of sausage and chicken into his mouth.

  ‘It’s a cassoulet,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘What’s a cassoulet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged – worried that I might seem weird for correcting him. ‘What this is, I suppose. That’s what Mum called it. I think it’s French. She loves anything French.’ I said this like it was really lame but Arnold just smiled.

  ‘My mum loves French food, too.’ He looked into thin air, a blob of sauce on his chin. ‘She calls it cuisine.’

  It was the perfect opportunity to ask more about his parents but something stopped me. Probably the same thing that stops most people asking me about Lenny. I didn’t want to pry. I didn’t want to make him feel awkward. I didn’t want to make myself feel awkward.

  ‘Doesn’t she mind?’ Arnold said, and the moment to ask about his mother had passed.

  ‘Mind what?’

  ‘You bringing your food up here?’

  I shook my head. ‘She’s not bothered so long as I’m safe and sound. We never eat together any more anyway. Mum cooks but hardly ever sits with us – she always finds other stuff to do. Washing, ironing, emailing, anything to avoid all of us doing something together. If Dad’s at work she might sit down, but then if he comes home when we’re eating he won’t join us. It’s like they’re terrified of having us all round the table because then there would be just one empty chair.’

  ‘Lenny’s.’

  ‘It’s like if we all do our own thing – keep moving – we can forget that we’re a man down. They’re terrified that if we all have dinner or watch TV or whatever they’d be unable to cope with the gap Lenny’s left. So they make sure we don’t do anything together. Ever.’

  Arnold shook his head. ‘That’s pretty sad.’

  When we’d eaten we played on the Xbox again. About half-ten I heard footsteps climbing the stairs. Instinctively I knew it was my mum – and that she was going to come into my room.

  ‘You have to hide,’ I whispered.

  ‘Why?’ Arnold said. ‘Where?’

  Desperately scanning my room, I wondered where I could hide Arnold if Mum came in. Under the bed? Would be a good idea if it wasn’t crammed full of old junk. Ditto my wardrobe. Behind the door? Yup, that was the best I could come up with.

  ‘I’ll explain after,’ I said, grabbing Arnold’s arm and pulling him towards the door. ‘Stand here and don’t move.’

  As the door opened, Arnold pressed his back against the wall. The door stopped about an inch from his nose. My mum stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the handle.

  ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said.

  ‘OK. Goodnight.’ I had just sat back on my bed, pretending to be engrossed in my video game.

  ‘I’ve got lots of appointments this weekend so I’ll be out of the house about eight. Back around five I expect.’

  ‘OK.’ I glanced up and smiled, trying not to react to the sight of Arnold, pinned between the door and the wall – just inches from my mum. ‘Is Dad going to be around?’

  Mum gave me a sad smile. ‘I expect he’ll be going into the office. He’s crazy busy right now.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don’t forget your appointment with Dr Laughlin tomorrow. Ten a.m. You’ll need to leave by nine to get there in plenty of time – you don’t want to be rushing.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, tetchily.

  ‘What else have you got planned for tomorrow?’

  I shrugged. ‘Oh, just some base jumping and a spot of wing walking.’

  ‘Don’t be smart with me, Leon.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just going to hang out. Nothing special.’

  ‘Fine – just so long as you’re sensible. Well, keep in touch. Goodnight.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  As Mum closed the door behind her, Arnold and I both let out a long breath.

  ‘Why was I hiding?’ Arnold asked. ‘Why not just introduce me?’

  ‘It’s just a bit late,’ I said, feigning a yawn. ‘Mum’s so hospitable she’d have insisted we go downstairs and have milk and cookies and I’d quite like to play a bit more Xbox, that’s all.’

  ‘But you definitely asked her if it was OK for me to stay?’

  I crossed my fingers behind my back and said, ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Who’s Dr Laughlin?’

  ‘My bereavement counsellor,’ I muttered – the very fact that I had a counsellor was a depressing reminder of the state my life was in. ‘I see her every week to help me cope with Lenny’s death.’

  ‘Does it – help?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Some of the stuff we do is really tough. Last week I wrote a letter to Lenny.’

  ‘What did you write?’

  ‘I just told him the rugby scores and about school and stuff. I joked that Olivia’s hair still looks like she’s
been in an explosion in a hairspray factory. I said Mum and Dad were OK but they’ve changed – everything has changed. I said they miss him. I said I was sorry I didn’t save him. I asked him to forgive me for not warning him about the car or dragging him out of its way. I told him I was sorry for being such a scaredy-cat when he needed me most. And I said that I miss him. That I really, really miss him.’

  A sort of uncontrollable sadness came over me and I put my face in my hands, sobbing silently – my whole body shaking.

  ‘What did you do with the letter?’ Arnold asked.

  I sniffed hard and wiped a sleeve across my nose, making a slimy streak on my sweatshirt. ‘We tied it to a helium balloon and let it go. It was like sending it up to heaven.’ I managed to blurt the words out before more sadness doubled me over.

  After a short pause Arnold said, ‘But it won’t really get to heaven.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The letter won’t actually get to heaven.’ Something about Arnold’s perplexed expression amused me.

  Wiping my face I smiled. ‘I know.’

  ‘So what’s the point of sending it then?’ Arnold’s confusion had turned into indignation. ‘Why send a letter you know will never be delivered. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You’re funny, Arnold,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You just are. Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  Olivia came home about midnight. I knew if she saw my light on she’d come in and say hi so I opened my door as she got to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hey, big sis,’ I said, squeezing my body into the narrow gap I’d created in the doorway.

  ‘Hey, lil bro,’ she replied with a quizzical frown.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Not much. You?’

  ‘The usual.’ I sighed. ‘You know, hanging out. On my own. Just me. Alone.’

  She leaned towards me and sniffed. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No diggedy, sistah,’ I replied, wondering why I’d started talking like a rapper.

  ‘Okey dokey.’ Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sleep tight, Kanye.’

  Arnold and I played games until about two a.m. I didn’t hear Dad come upstairs. Maybe he went to bed later, maybe he slept in his armchair all night.

  The next morning I woke to find Arnold’s green-socked feet staring me in the face. I pushed them away and sat up. The clock on my bedside table said it was nearly half-ten. The house was quiet.

  I was desperate for the loo so I tried to clamber over Arnold without waking him. Unfortunately I got the duvet caught under my elbow so I fell on top of him, kneeing him in the thigh.

  ‘Dead leg!’ he shouted, half laughing and half crying. ‘Sorry,’ I laughed, peering through my curtains at the empty driveway.

  Arnold rolled out of bed and started hopping around the room. ‘Man that hurts,’ he groaned.

  ‘Come on, tough guy,’ I said, once I’d been to the loo. ‘The best thing for a dead leg is to walk it off.’

  ‘Walk? Where to?’

  ‘The kitchen,’ I grinned. ‘I’m starving.’

  I motioned for Arnold to wait on the landing as I crept downstairs. Empty bowls and coffee cups in the kitchen sink told me the coast was clear. From the hallway I beckoned Arnold down and he followed me into the kitchen.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Arnold asked.

  ‘Dad’ll be in the office working on his latest deal. Mum’s probably out recording the number of cars speeding down some residential street,’ I said. As I spoke I noticed a note clamped to the fridge by a magnet. ‘Speak of the devil,’ I said, snatching it off.

  It was from my mum, telling me to eat some fruit and not to run across roads or talk to strangers or climb trees or stick metal cutlery into the toaster or poke my fingers into electrical sockets … I stopped reading at the bottom of the page, and sighed. Instead of turning the sheet over to read the rest of my mum’s cautionary advice I screwed up the note and tossed it into the bin.

  ‘Sorry to spoil your fun today, Arnold,’ I said. ‘But my mum says we mustn’t lie on train tracks and wait for the intercity to run us over. And jumping down abandoned wells is out too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’ Arnold asked.

  ‘Exactly. Why would we?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘What do you fancy for breakfast?’

  Arnold slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. ‘What have you got?’

  I pulled open the fridge door and gazed inside. ‘Everything,’ I said.

  After a breakfast of cereal, toast, smoothie, scrambled eggs and (really, really) crispy bacon, Arnold sat back in his chair.

  ‘I’ve never had black bacon before,’ he said. ‘Is it a French thing?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten bacon noir?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He popped the last piece of burnt meat into his mouth and gazed round the room. ‘This is a huge house. Your parents must be pretty successful?’

  ‘Depends what you call successful.’

  ‘I mean moneywise. Your dad must be really wealthy.’

  ‘If you start asking me how much he earns again I might have to kill you.’

  ‘That’s an expression … right?’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Deadly serious.’

  Arnold looked horrified and I started laughing. ‘I’m going to have to give you some sort of signal to let you know when I’m joking. How about this …’

  I clapped then spread my arms wide, shimmying my open hands.

  ‘What sort of signal is that supposed to be?’ he asked.

  ‘Jazz hands,’ I said. ‘If you see me doing it, you’ll know not to take me seriously. OK?’

  Arnold didn’t look too certain but he nodded.

  ‘Cool. Now can you do the washing-up and tidy my room while I watch some TV?’

  Arnold looked pretty annoyed, then I did the jazz hands thing and he grinned.

  ‘That actually works,’ he said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘So what do you really want to do today?’

  Arnold looked around thoughtfully. He fixed his gaze on the French windows that stretched across the back of our kitchen. Beyond our patio the morning dew twinkled on the vast expanse of flat manicured lawn.

  ‘How about some football in the garden?’ he said.

  ‘Or we could play some FIFA? I’ll go easy on you this time.’

  ‘I’d rather play football.’

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, pulling a face, ‘I’m not allowed to play football in the garden – Mum thinks it’s too dangerous.’

  ‘What about cricket?’

  ‘She knows I don’t play cricket,’ I laughed. ‘Never have.’

  I saw a glint in Arnold’s eye. ‘Let’s play cricket then.’

  ‘I’d say cricket is a lot more dangerous than football, wouldn’t you?’ I said. ‘Especially in a confined space like my garden.’

  Arnold looked suddenly concerned. ‘Has your mum told you not to play it then?’

  ‘No, but only because I never play it,’ I laughed. ‘She hasn’t expressly forbidden me from shooting the windows with an air rifle, either.’

  The concern on Arnold’s face had changed to confusion. ‘Would you rather shoot an air rifle then?’

  ‘No,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘I was just explaining why my mum has never forbidden me from playing cricket in the garden.’

  ‘Great,’ Arnold was beaming now. ‘Cricket it is then. I saw some gear in the summer house last night.’

  ‘Oh right. Yeah – that was Lenny’s. He loved his cricket.’

  ‘It’ll be a laugh,’ said Arnold. ‘Come on.’

  Fifteen minutes later we’d showered and dressed and I was following Arnold down the garden towards the summer house.

  ‘I really don’t know about this,’ I said as Arnold opened the summer-house door and went in. He reappeared a moment later holding a netting bag that contained Lenny’s cricket gear.
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  ‘What don’t you know?’ Arnold opened the bag and tipped out the stumps and bails and the bat.

  ‘Whether this is a good idea.’

  By now Arnold had skewered the lawn with a single stump and was heading away from me, pacing out the wicket.

  ‘Is it twenty or twenty-two yards?’ he called.

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty-two, I think. Look, I really don’t think we should …’

  Arnold said nothing as he knocked three stumps into the ground using the handle of the bat. I winced with each blow, imagining my dad’s reaction if he ever discovered the three evenly spaced holes drilled into his perfect lawn. When Arnold had balanced the bails on the stumps he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  ‘Do you want to bat or bowl?’

  I knew that playing cricket in the garden was a bad idea. Mum would have had a fit if she knew what I was doing – and yet there was no arguing with Arnold’s logic. I had never been told that I mustn’t play cricket in the garden. She had reminded me over and over not to do countless other things that were clearly more stupid and dangerous than playing cricket – like sticking my fingers into electrical sockets, for instance. So I managed to kid myself that maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t forbidden cricket in the garden because it was one of the few sports she deemed to be acceptable.

  But there was something else. Arnold reminded me of Lenny begging me to play cricket with him. Last summer we’d been on holiday to Cornwall for a fortnight. There was a massive field near our cottage and every day Lenny used to plead with me to go over with him and play cricket. I’d always refused. I’d said it was because I didn’t like cricket but it was really because I wasn’t any good at it.

  Looking back, I thought how much fun it would have been. We’d have laughed so much together at my wayward bowling or me slashing the bat at thin air. But at the time I couldn’t bear the prospect of embarrassing myself. If it had been the other way round I knew Lenny would have agreed like a shot. I will always regret disappointing him like that – always wish I could have the chance again to bowl a few balls at my brother.