‘No. How did I let him disappear? There must have been a point when I saw what was happening. I must have noticed he was fading. I must have noticed and done nothing.’
Delia was silent.
‘I know it’s my fault.’
‘That’s not going to help anyone, though, is it?’
‘What if we find him, what if we find him right now, and I still can’t see him?’
For a moment Delia wanted nothing more than to run away. This was too hard, it was too much. She wasn’t equipped for dealing with real human emotions, with real fear and brokenness. She had a long history of ignoring feelings until they went away.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’
Delia and Anthony sat still and silent in the crowded tube carriage. It pulled into the station for Heathrow. Anthony looked at Delia, his eyebrows raised in enquiry. She nodded and they stepped out and headed for the escalator.
Anthony was still looking pale and frightened.
‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ said Delia. ‘You think I’m wrong, remember?’
He didn’t answer. He rode the escalator to the top and waited for Delia to lead the way.
‘Hey,’ he said after a while, ‘you’re going the wrong way.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘But you’re heading to arrivals.’
‘I’m heading to Jake.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, Anthony, I just know it’s true.’
Delia gasped as she turned the corner into the arrivals area. She was suddenly standing on sparse but vibrant grass; the terminal looked like a wild garden. And over in the distance, growing where the grass was thickest, was a small tree.
Delia could see someone underneath it, curled up and still.
Jake.
Jake stands on the footpath facing his house. He waits for his mum to come back out to take him to the doctor.
He doesn’t know. If he knew, he would have gone in with her. If he knew, he wouldn’t have let her go in at all. If he knew, he would run inside now and find her. He would drag her outside. He would hold everything up so she could get out. He would just hug her.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know he’s seen her for the last time.
He’s excited about having the day off school. It feels like he’s breaking the rules, even though it’s his mother that’s making him.
He doesn’t want to go to the doctor, he never wants to go to the doctor, he hates his stupid foot for making him, but he’s glad to not be at school. He’s excited about getting a sundae at McDonald’s.
His mum’s taking a long time to come out of the house and he’s getting bored. He doesn’t care if she finds the recipe she needs or not, he just doesn’t like waiting. He doesn’t even know why his mum is so worried about remembering to bring a recipe for a lady she doesn’t even like. He thinks that when he’s grown up and no one is telling him what to do anymore he won’t be nice to anyone except his friends.
He looks up at the sky. It is grey and uninteresting. When he was a much littler kid, last year, the weather had done interesting things. There had been thunderstorms and snow and days so hot your ice cream melted before you had a chance to eat it. Now the weather never did anything fun. Who even cares about the weather anyway?
Jake scowls and glares at the front door. He doesn’t care about getting to the doctor, but the faster they do that, the sooner there’ll be ice cream.
The first thing he notices is the roof. It ripples and surges as if it’s made of water. The road and the footpath he stands on do the same thing. He grabs the lamppost and he doesn’t fall down. The roof isn’t made to ripple like that. The walls can’t hold it together. Jake can do nothing, he can’t even speak, he can’t call out. The house falls, the house his mother has gone back into, the house she hasn’t yet come back from, falls.
And Jake is left alone.
Jake had fallen asleep and woken up and fallen asleep and woken up more times than he knew as he sat under the tree at Heathrow Airport. He didn’t know why he was staying there; he didn’t know what he was waiting for. The person who needed the letter was gone now, she was changed, and there was no reason to think she’d change back. But he didn’t want to take it away again. It was too important.
Jake doesn’t bother to open his eyes; there’s nothing new to see. He sits still and folds and unfolds the letter.
Cassie,
I’m coming. Soon.
Floss.
He has no idea how long he’s been waiting.
His back is resting against the tree, and so he knows the tree is lost. He knows that it arrived at the airport and got lost there, and he knows that people still are afraid of it. They leave it alone, although they didn’t always.
Jake doesn’t hear anyone approach him. The grass is thick where he is and hides the sound, so he doesn’t realise anyone’s there at first.
‘Jake,’ someone says. Someone familiar. Someone important.
‘Jake, are you all right?’
Jake opens his eyes.
‘Hi Dad,’ he says. ‘Hi.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m OK. I was just thinking.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had to bring something. I was supposed to give it to someone but there’s no one here.’
There was someone with his dad, standing just behind him. The girl. Delia.
‘Can you come home please, Jake?’ said his dad. ‘We’ve been really worried about you.’
‘Can I wait a bit longer? In case they come?’
Jake’s dad looked worried for a moment. ‘I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘If I can wait with you. Will you tell me about it all?’
Delia.
DELIA STOOD A COUPLE OF feet away from the bizarre tree that was standing at the arrivals gate of Terminal Two of Heathrow Airport. She was watching Jake and Anthony talk as they sat side by side, half concealed by branches. They looked so alike, and so engrossed.
She turned to go.
‘Delia,’ Anthony called. ‘Where are you going?’
She smiled, a little, almost. She almost smiled. ‘Home,’ she said. ‘This story’s just for you.’
‘You won’t find your way.’
‘I actually think I will,’ said Delia. ‘I have a good feeling.’
She smiled properly this time, once at Anthony and once at Jake, and walked away.
Under the tree, Anthony stared after her. He glanced down at his son. ‘What a woman,’ he said.
And the branches around them rustled.
Acknowledgements.
WHEN I WAS WRITING AND re-writing this book, I was too broke to have had any fun were it not for the excellent people who were willing to pay for my drinks and food and tickets to things. So thanks to Jamie, Adam, Mike, Brendan, Jonno, Serena, Annie, Jav, Ben, Jude, Matt, Fran, Kat, Caroline, Lucy, Duncan, Joel, Sacha, Jon, Lizzie and Colin, and several others I’ve definitely forgotten.
Also thanks to Amy Grace, Erin Simpson and the collected Matthewsons for jumping on my bandwagon when there was no promise of it leading anywhere, and to Jamie Drew for absorbing all my unfiltered emotions.
Finally, giddy and incredulous thanks to Scott, Rachel and Cicely at the Friday Project, and all the delightful people at HarperCollins.
About the Publisher
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Of Things Gone Astray Page 21
