by Patrick Ness
“Yes, Miss,” Harry said brightly, with Anton and Sully mumbling the same. They trudged off back to lessons, Conor following in step a metre behind.
“A moment please, Conor,” Miss Kwan said.
He stopped and turned to her but didn’t look up at her face.
“Are you sure everything’s all right between you and those boys?” Miss Kwan said, putting her voice into its “kindly” mode, which was only slightly less scary than full-on shouting.
“Yes, Miss,” Conor said, still not looking at her.
“Because I’m not blind to how Harry works, you know,” she said. “A bully with charisma and top marks is still a bully.” She sighed, annoyed. “He’ll probably end up Prime Minister one day. God help us all.”
Conor said nothing, and the silence took on a particular quality, one he was familiar with, caused by how Miss Kwan’s body shifted forward, her shoulders dropping, her head leaning down towards Conor’s.
He knew what was coming. He knew and hated it.
“I can’t imagine what you must be going through, Conor,” Miss Kwan said, so quiet it was almost a whisper, “but if you ever want to talk, my door is always open.”
He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see the care there, couldn’t bear to hear it in her voice.
(Because he didn’t deserve it.)
(The nightmare flashed in him, the screaming and the terror, and what happened at the end–)
“I’m fine, Miss,” he mumbled, looking at his shoes. “I’m not going through anything.”
After a second, he heard Miss Kwan sigh again. “All right then,” she said. “Forget about the first warning and come back inside.” She patted him once on the shoulder and re-crossed the yard to the doors.
And for a moment, Conor was entirely alone.
He knew right then he could probably stay out there all day and no one would punish him for it.
Which somehow made him feel even worse.
LITTLE TALK
After school, his grandma was waiting for him on the settee.
“We need to have a talk,” she said before he even got the door shut, and there was a look on her face that made him stop. A look that made his stomach hurt.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
His grandmother took in a long, loud breath through her nose and stared out of the front window, as if gathering herself. She looked like a bird of prey. A hawk that could carry off a sheep.
“Your mother has to go back to the hospital,” she said. “You’re going to come and stay with me for a few days. You’ll need to pack a bag.”
Conor didn’t move. “What’s wrong with her?”
His grandma’s eyes widened for just a second, as if she couldn’t believe he was asking a question so cataclysmically stupid. Then she relented. “There’s a lot of pain,” she said. “More than there should be.”
“She’s got medicine for her pain–” Conor started, but his grandmother clapped her hands together, just the once, but loud, loud enough to stop him.
“It’s not working, Conor,” she said, crisply, and it seemed like she was looking just over his head rather than at him. “It’s not working.”
“What’s not working?”
His grandma tapped her hands together lightly a few more times, like she was testing them out or something, then she looked out of the window again, all the while keeping her mouth firmly shut. She finally stood, concentrating on smoothing down her dress.
“Your mum’s upstairs,” she said. “She wants to talk to you.”
“But–”
“Your father’s flying in on Sunday.”
He straightened up. “Dad’s coming?”
“I’ve got some calls to make,” she said, stepping past him and out of the front door, taking out her mobile.
“Why is Dad coming?” he called after her.
“Your mum’s waiting,” she said, pulling the front door shut behind her.
Conor hadn’t even had a chance to put down his rucksack.
His father was coming. His father. From America. Who hadn’t come since the Christmas before last. Whose new wife always seemed to suffer emergencies at the last minute that kept him from visiting more often, especially now that the baby was born. His father, who Conor had grown used to not having around as the trips grew less frequent and the phone calls got further and further apart.
His father was coming.
Why?
“Conor?” he heard his mum call.
She wasn’t in her room. She was in his, lying back on his bed on top of the duvet, gazing out of the window to the churchyard up the hill.
And the yew tree.
Which was just a yew tree.
“Hey, darling,” she said, smiling at him from where she lay, but he could tell by the lines around her eyes that she really was hurting, hurting like he’d only seen her hurt once before. She’d had to go into hospital then as well and hadn’t come out for nearly a fortnight. It had been last Easter, and the weeks at his grandma’s had almost been the death of them both.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Why are you going back to hospital?”
She patted the duvet next to her to get him to come and sit down.
He stayed where he was. “What’s wrong?”
She still smiled but it was tighter now, and she traced her fingers along the threaded pattern of the duvet, grizzly bears that Conor had outgrown years ago. She had tied her red rose scarf around her head, but only loosely, and he could see her pale scalp underneath. He didn’t think she’d even pretended to try on any of his grandma’s old wigs.
“I’m going to be okay,” she said. “I really am.”
“Are you?” he asked.
“We’ve been here before, Conor,” she said. “So don’t worry. I’ve felt really bad and I’ve gone in and they’ve taken care of it. That’s what’ll happen this time.” She patted the duvet cover again. “Won’t you come and sit down next to your tired old mum?”
Conor swallowed, but her smile was brighter and – he could tell – it was a real one. He went over and sat next to her on the side facing the window. She ran her hand through his hair, lifting it out of his eyes, and he could see how skinny her arm was, almost like it was just bone and skin.
“Why is Dad coming?” he asked.
His mother paused, then put her hand back down into her lap. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. Aren’t you excited?”
“Grandma doesn’t seem too happy.”
His mother snorted. “Well, you know how she feels about your dad. Don’t listen to her. Enjoy his visit.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “There’s something else,” Conor finally said. “Isn’t there?”
He felt his mother sit up a little straighter on her pillow. “Look at me, son,” she said, gently.
He turned his head to look at her, though he would have paid a million pounds not to have to do it.
“This latest treatment’s not doing what it’s supposed to,” she said. “All that means is they’re going to have to adjust it, try something else.”
“Is that it?” Conor asked.
She nodded. “That’s it. There’s lots more they can do. It’s normal. Don’t worry.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Because,” and here Conor stopped for a second and looked down at the floor. “Because you could tell me, you know.”
And then he felt her arms around him, her thin, thin arms that used to be so soft when she hugged him. She didn’t say anything, just held onto him. He went back to looking out of the window and after a moment, his mother turned to look, too.
“That’s a yew tree, you know,” she finally said.
Conor rolled his eyes, but not in a bad way. “Yes, Mum, you’ve told me a hundred times.”
“Keep an eye on it for me while I’m away, will you?” she said. “Make sure it’s still here when I get back?”
And Conor knew this was her way of te
lling him she was coming back, so all he did was nod and they both kept looking out at the tree.
Which stayed a tree, no matter how long they looked.
GRANDMA’S HOUSE
Five days. The monster hadn’t come for five days.
Maybe it didn’t know where his grandma lived. Or maybe it was just too far to come. She didn’t have much of a garden anyway, even though her house was way bigger than Conor and his mum’s. She’d crammed her back garden with sheds and a stone pond and a wood-panelled “office” she’d had installed across the back half, where she did most of her estate agent work, a job so boring Conor never listened past the first sentence of her description of it. Everything else was just brick paths and flowers in pots. No room for a tree at all. It didn’t even have grass.
“Don’t stand there gawping, young man,” his grandma said, leaning out of the back door and hooking in an earring. “Your dad’ll be here soon, and I’m going to see your mum.”
“I wasn’t gawping,” Conor said.
“What’s that got to do with the price of milk? Come inside.”
She vanished into the house, and he slowly trudged after her. It was Sunday, the day his father would be arriving from the airport. He would come here and pick up Conor, they’d go and see his mum, and then they’d spend some “father–son” time together. Conor was almost certain this was code for another round of We Need To Have A Talk.
His grandma wouldn’t be here when his father arrived. Which suited everyone.
“Pick up your rucksack from the front hall, please,” she said, stepping past him and grabbing her handbag. “No need for him to think I’m keeping you in a pigsty.”
“Not much chance of that,” Conor muttered as she went to the hall mirror to check her lipstick.
His grandma’s house was cleaner than his mum’s hospital room. Her cleaning lady, Marta, came on Wednesdays, but Conor didn’t see why she bothered. His grandma would get up first thing in the morning to hoover, did laundry four times a week, and once cleaned the bath at midnight before going to bed. She wouldn’t let dinner dishes touch the sink on their way to the dishwasher, once even taking a plate Conor was still eating from.
“A woman my age, living alone,” she said, at least once a day, “if I don’t keep on top of things, who will?”
She said it like a challenge, as if defying Conor to answer.
She drove him to school, and he got there early every single day, even though it was a forty-five minute drive. She was also waiting for him every day after school when he left, taking them both straight to the hospital to see his mum. They’d stay for an hour or so, less if his mum was too tired to talk – which had happened twice out of the previous five days – and then go home to his grandma’s house, where she’d make him do his homework while she ordered whatever take-away they hadn’t already eaten so far.
It was like the time Conor and his mum had stayed in a bed and breakfast one summer in Cornwall. Except cleaner. And bossier.
“Now, Conor,” she said, slipping on her suit jacket. It was a Sunday but she didn’t have any houses to show, so he wasn’t sure why she was dressing up so much just to go to the hospital. He suspected it probably had something to do with making his dad uncomfortable.
“Your father may not notice how tired your mum’s been getting, okay?” she said. “So we’re going to have to work together to make sure he doesn’t overstay his welcome.” She checked herself in the mirror again and lowered her voice. “Not that that’s been a problem.”
She turned, gave him a flash of starfish hand as a wave, and said, “Be good.”
The door clattered shut behind her. Conor was alone in her house.
He went up to the guest room where he slept. His grandma kept calling it his room, but he only ever called it the guest room, which always made his grandmother shake her head and mumble to herself.
But what did she expect? It didn’t look like his room. It didn’t look like anybody’s room, certainly not a boy’s. The walls were bare white except for three different prints of sailing ships, which was probably as far as his grandma’s thinking went towards what boys might like. The sheets and duvet covers were a bright, blinding white, too, and the only other piece of furniture was an oak cabinet big enough to have lunch in.
It could have been any room in any home on any planet anywhere. He didn’t even like being in it, not even to get away from his grandma. He’d only come up now to get a book since his grandma had forbidden hand-held computer games from her house. He fished one out of his bag and made to leave, glancing out of the window to the back garden as he went.
Still just stone paths and sheds and the office.
Nothing looking back at him at all.
The sitting room was one of those sitting rooms where no one ever actually sat. Conor wasn’t allowed in there at any time, lest he smudge the upholstery somehow, so of course this was where he went to read his book while he waited for his father.
He slumped down on her settee, which had curved wooden legs so thin it looked like it was wearing high heels. There was a glass-fronted cabinet opposite, filled with plates on display stands and teacups with so many curlicues it was a wonder you could drink from them without cutting your lips. Hanging over the mantelpiece was his grandma’s prize clock, which no one but her could ever touch. Handed down from her own mother, Conor’s grandma had threatened for years to take it on Antiques Roadshow to get it valued. It had a proper pendulum swinging underneath it, and it chimed, too, every fifteen minutes, loud enough to make you jump if you weren’t expecting it.
The whole room was like a museum of how people lived in olden times. There wasn’t even a television. That was in the kitchen and almost never switched on.
He read. What else was there to do?
He had hoped to talk to his father before he flew out, but what with the hospital visits and the time difference and the new wife’s convenient migraines, he was just going to have to see him when he showed up.
Whenever that would be. Conor looked at the pendulum clock. Twelve forty-two, it said. It would chime in three minutes.
Three empty, quiet minutes.
He realized he was actually nervous. It had been a long time since he’d seen his father in person and not just on Skype. Would he look different? Would Conor look different?
And then there were the other questions. Why was he coming now? His mum didn’t look great, looked even worse after five days in hospital, but she was still hopeful about the new medicine she was being given. Christmas was still months away and Conor’s birthday was already past. So why now?
He looked at the floor, the centre of which was covered in a very expensive, very old-looking oval rug. He reached down and lifted up an edge of it, looking at the polished boards beneath. There was a knot in one of them. He ran his fingers over it, but the board was so old and smooth, you couldn’t tell the difference between the knot and the rest of it.
“Are you in there?” Conor whispered.
He jumped as the doorbell went. He scrambled up and out of the sitting room, feeling more excited than he’d thought he would. He opened the front door.
There was his father, looking totally different but exactly the same.
“Hey, son,” his dad said, his voice bending in that weird way that America had started to shape it.
Conor smiled wider than he had for at least a year.
CHAMP
“How you hanging in there, champ?” his father asked him while they waited for the waitress to bring them their pizzas.
“Champ?” Conor asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow.
“Sorry,” his father said, smiling bashfully. “America is almost a whole different language.”
“Your voice sounds funnier every time I talk to you.”
“Yeah, well.” His father fidgeted with his wine glass. “It’s good to see you.”
Conor took a drink of his Coke. His mum had been really poorly when they’d got to the hospital. They’
d had to wait for his grandma to help her out of the toilet, and then she was so tired all she was really able to say was “Hi, sweetheart,” to Conor and “Hello, Liam,” to his father before falling back to sleep. His grandma ushered them out moments later, a look on her face that even his dad wasn’t going to argue with.
“Your mother is, uh,” his father said now, squinting at nothing in particular. “She’s a fighter, isn’t she?”
Conor shrugged.
“So, how are you holding up, Con?”
“That’s like the eight hundredth time you’ve asked me since you got here,” Conor said.
“Sorry,” his father said.
“I’m fine,” Conor said. “Mum’s on this new medicine. It’ll make her better. She looks bad, but she’s looked bad before. Why is everyone acting like–?”
He stopped and took another drink of his Coke.
“You’re right, son,” his father said. “You’re absolutely right.” He turned his wine glass slowly around once on the table. “Still,” he said. “You’re going to need to be brave for her, Con. You’re going to need to be real, real brave for her.”
“You talk like American television.”
His father laughed, quietly. “Your sister’s doing well. Almost walking.”
“Half-sister,” Conor said.
“I can’t wait for you to meet her,” his father said. “We’ll have to arrange for a visit soon. Maybe even this Christmas. Would you like that?”
Conor met his father’s eyes. “What about Mum?”
“I’ve talked it over with your grandma. She seemed to think it wasn’t a bad idea, as long as we got you back in time for the new school term.”
Conor ran a hand along the edge of the table. “So it’d just be a visit then?”
“What do you mean?” his father said, sounding surprised. “A visit as opposed to…” He trailed off, and Conor knew he’d worked out what he meant. “Conor–”
But Conor suddenly didn’t want him to finish. “There’s a tree that’s been visiting me,” he said, talking quickly, starting to peel the label off the Coke bottle. “It comes to the house at night, tells me stories.”
