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The Shock of the Fall
Nathan Filer
WINNER OF THE COSTA BOOK OF THE YEAR 2013WINNER OF THE SPECSAVERS POPULAR FICTION BOOK OF THE YEAR 2014WINNER OF THE BETTY TRASK PRIZE 2014It is recommended readers use the Publisher's Fonts as they are crucial to the storytelling.‘I’ll tell you what happened because it will be a good way to introduce my brother. His name’s Simon. I think you’re going to like him. I really do. But in a couple of pages he’ll be dead. And he was never the same after that.’There are books you can’t stop reading, which keep you up all night.There are books which let us into the hidden parts of life and make them vividly real.There are books which, because of the sheer skill with which every word is chosen, linger in your mind for days.The Shock of the Fall is all of these books.The Shock of the Fall is an extraordinary portrait of one man’s descent into mental illness. It is a brave and groundbreaking novel from one of the most exciting new voices in fiction.



THE SHOCK OF THE FALL
Nathan Filer



Copyright (#ulink_851f3fa8-0b63-5247-b352-2af261d49264)
The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Nathan Filer 2013
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Nathan Filer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007491452
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007491445
Version: 2015-04-20
For Emily
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u594dbc2e-bbde-5788-ae27-8693485617c3)
Dedication (#ufca97ef6-24ef-5c43-8be3-8a8e57df5f06)
the girl and her doll (#u5502ded2-c62b-5d2d-9459-6a344e8d9dfb)
family portraits (#u19007bf6-dfe8-5757-ba83-3651da3937e6)
kicking and wailing (#u89677c58-6c28-5e89-91c7-64af0534b142)
hypotonia n. a state of reduced tension in muscle. (#u4a6920f1-511f-5045-b7fc-4c115d1e76ad)
spoon fed (#uc6566a26-2eef-5e98-8ca7-ff7c17efccd9)
mon ami (#uc3875888-5790-5d16-8a10-958a95031e12)
school runs (#u48f26574-9867-58ef-b3eb-c101f12e7391)
dead people still have birthdays (#ub0983b09-51ee-5176-8163-2a9de69b8088)
a different story (#u02d89c81-6e7f-5518-9ee3-6c3f3b2af22a)
second opinion (#u5c3e9faf-0dc2-5445-800d-8b45af38061b)
a whole new chapter (#u607e151a-25b7-593d-be44-2ce3cb9e485a)
handshakes (#u1d68ac74-506f-50f7-be63-78bf234121d0)
prodrome n. an early symptom that a disease is developing. (#udca65a6e-064b-5b84-9b22-906d1c8db1a3)
the watching stair (#litres_trial_promo)
a cloud of smoke (#litres_trial_promo)
is this question useful? (#litres_trial_promo)
the magnolia elephant (#litres_trial_promo)
milestones (#litres_trial_promo)
the same story (#litres_trial_promo)
make yourself at home (#litres_trial_promo)
truth no. 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
truth no. 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
truth no. 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
how best we can support you (#litres_trial_promo)
clock watching (#litres_trial_promo)
day 13, for example (#litres_trial_promo)
*I don’t hear voices (#litres_trial_promo)
drawing behaviour (#litres_trial_promo)
writing behaviour (#litres_trial_promo)
empty dull thud (#litres_trial_promo)
open wide (#litres_trial_promo)
sharp scratch (#litres_trial_promo)
this goodbye, the goodbye (#litres_trial_promo)
keepsake (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
A Q&A with Nathan Filer (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for The Shock of the Fall (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#ue5ae6624-0b28-5bb9-81e5-a9628fa0a320)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
It is recommended readers use the Publisher's Fonts when viewing The Shock of the Fall as an ebook. Different fonts are used in this novel and this will enhance the reading experience.

the girl and her doll (#ulink_1d1a07c1-f40b-501c-9e8b-09ee23c727ee)
I should say that I am not a nice person. Sometimes I try to be, but often I’m not. So when it was my turn to cover my eyes and count to a hundred – I cheated.
I stood at the spot where you had to stand when it was your turn to count, which was beside the recycling bins, next to the shop selling disposable barbecues and spare tent pegs. And near to there is a small patch of overgrown grass, tucked away behind a water tap.
Except I don’t remember standing there. Not really. You don’t always remember the details like that, do you? You don’t remember if you were beside the recycling bins, or further up the path near to the shower blocks, and whether actually the water tap is up there?
I can’t now hear the manic cry of seagulls, or taste the salt in the air. I don’t feel the heat of the afternoon sun making me sweat beneath a clean white dressing on my knee, or the itching of suncream in the cracks of my scabs. I can’t make myself relive the vague sensation of having been abandoned. And neither – for what it’s worth – do I actually remember deciding to cheat, and open my eyes.
She looked about my age, with red hair and a face flecked in hundreds of freckles. Her cream dress was dusty around the hem from kneeling on the ground, and clutched to her chest was a small cloth doll, with a smudged pink face, brown woollen hair, and eyes made of shining black buttons.
The first thing she did was place her doll beside her, resting it ever so gently on the long grass. It looked comfortable, with its arms flopped to the sides and its head propped up a little. I thought it looked comfortable anyway.
We were so close I could hear the scratching and scraping, as she began to break up the dry ground with a stick. She didn’t notice me though, even when she threw the stick away and it nearly landed on my toes, all exposed in my stupid plastic flip-flops. I would have been wearing my trainers but you know what my mum’s like. Trainers, on a lovely day like today. Surely not. She’s like that.
A wasp buzzed around my head, and usually that would be enough to get me flapping around all over the place, except I didn’t let myself. I stayed totally still, not wanting to disturb the little girl, or not wanting her to know I was there. She was digging with her fingers now, pulling up the dry earth with her bare hands, until the hole was deep enough. Then she rubbed the dirt from her fingers as best she could, picked up her doll again, and kissed it twice.
That is the part I can still see most clearly – those two kisses, one on its forehead, one on the cheek.
I forgot to say, but the doll wore a coat. It was bright yellow, with a black plastic buckle at the front. This is important because the next thing she did was undo the buckle, and take this coat off. She did this very quickly, and stuffed it down the front of her dress.
Sometimes – times like now – when I think of those two kisses, it is as though I can actually feel them.
One on the forehead.
One on the cheek.
What happened next is less clear in my mind because it has merged into so many other memories, been played out in so many other ways that I can’t separate the real from the imagined, or even be sure there is a difference. So I don’t know exactly when she started to cry, or if she was crying already. And I don’t know if she hesitated before throwing the last handful of dirt. But I do know by the time the doll was covered, and the earth patted down, she was bent over, clutching the yellow coat to her chest, and weeping.
When you’re a nine-year-old boy, it’s no easy thing to comfort a girl. Especially if you don’t know her, or even what the matter is.
I gave it my best shot.
Intending to rest my arm lightly across her shoulders – the way Dad did to Mum when we took family walks – I shuffled forward, where in a moment of indecision I couldn’t commit either to kneeling beside her or staying standing. I hovered awkwardly between the two, then overbalanced, toppling in slow motion, so the first this weeping girl was aware of me, was the entire weight of my body, gently pushing her face into a freshly dug grave. I still don’t know what I should have said to make things better, and I’ve thought about this a lot. But lying beside her with the tips of our noses nearly touching, I tried, ‘I’m Matthew. What’s your name?’
She didn’t answer straight away. She tilted her head to get a better look at me, and as she did that I felt a single strand of her long hair slip quickly across the side of my tongue, leaving my mouth at the corner. ‘I’m Annabelle,’ she said.
Her name was Annabelle.
The girl with the red hair and a face flecked in hundreds of freckles is called Annabelle. Try and remember that if you can. Hold onto it through everything else that happens in life, through all the things that might make you want to forget – keep it safe somewhere.
I stood up. The dressing on my knee was now a dirty brown. I started to say we were playing hide-and-seek, that she could play too if she wanted. But she interrupted. She spoke calmly, not sounding angry or upset. And what she said was, ‘You’re not welcome here any more, Matthew.’
‘What?’
She didn’t look at me, she drew herself onto her hands and knees and focused on the small pile of loose earth – patting it neat again, making it perfect. ‘This is my daddy’s caravan park. I live here, and you’re not welcome. Go home.’
‘But—’
‘Get lost!’
She was upright in an instant, moving towards me with her chest puffed out, like a small animal trying to look bigger. She said it again, ‘Get lost, I told you. You’re not welcome.’
A seagull laughed mockingly, and Annabelle shouted, ‘You’ve ruined everything.’
It was too late to explain. By the time I reached the footpath, she was kneeling on the ground again, the little yellow doll’s coat held to her face.
The other children were shouting out, calling to be found. But I didn’t look for them. Past the shower blocks, past the shop, cutting through the park – I ran as fast as I could, my flip-flops slapping on the hot tarmac. I didn’t let myself stop, I didn’t even let myself slow down until I was close enough to our caravan to see Mum sitting out on the deckchair. She was wearing her straw sun hat, and looking out to the sea. She smiled and waved at me, but I knew I was still in her bad books. We’d sort of fallen out a few days before. It’s stupid because it was only really me who got hurt, and the scabs were nearly healed now, but my parents sometimes find it hard to let stuff go.
Mum in particular, she holds grudges.
I guess I do too.
I’ll tell you what happened because it will be a good way to introduce my brother. His name’s Simon. I think you’re going to like him. I really do. But in a couple of pages he’ll be dead. And he was never the same after that.
When we arrived at Ocean Cove Holiday Park – bored from the journey, and desperate to explore – we were told it was okay for us to go anywhere in the site, but were forbidden from going to the beach by ourselves because of how steep and uneven the path is. And because you have to go onto the main road for a bit to get to the top of it. Our parents were the kind to worry about that sort of thing – about steep paths and main roads. I decided to go to the beach anyway. I often did things that I wasn’t allowed to do, and my brother would follow. If I hadn’t decided to name this part of my story the girl and her doll then I could have named it, the shock of the fall and the blood on my knee because that was important too.
There was the shock of the fall and the blood on my knee. I’ve never been good with pain. This is something I hate about myself. I’m a total wimp. By the time Simon caught up with me, at the twist in the path where exposed roots snare unsuspecting ankles – I was wailing like a baby.
He looked so worried it was almost funny. He had a big round face, which was forever smiling and made me think of the moon. But suddenly he looked so fucking worried.
This is what Simon did. He collected me in his arms and carried me step-by-step back up the cliff path, and the quarter of a mile or so to our caravan. He did that for me.
I think a couple of adults tried to help, but the thing you need to know about Simon is that he was a bit different from most people you might meet. He went to a special school where they were taught basic stuff like not talking to strangers, so whenever he felt unsure of himself or panicked, he would retreat to these lessons to feel safe. That’s the way he worked.
He carried me all by himself. But he wasn’t strong. This was a symptom of his disorder, a weakness of the muscles. It has a name that I can’t think of now, but I’ll look it up if I get the chance. It meant that the walk half killed him. So when we got back to the caravan he had to spend the rest of the day in bed.
Here are the three things I remember most clearly from when Simon carried me:
1/ The way my chin banged against his shoulder as he walked. I worried that I was hurting him, but I was too wrapped up in my own pain to say anything.
2/ So I kissed his shoulder better, in the way that when you’re little you believe this actually works. I don’t think he noticed though, because my chin was banging against him with every step, and when I kissed him, my teeth banged instead, which, if anything, probably hurt more.
3/ Shhh, shhh. It’ll be okay. That’s what he said as he placed me down outside our caravan, before running in to get Mum. I might not have been clear enough – Simon really wasn’t strong. Carrying me like that was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but still he tried to reassure me. Shhh, shhh. It’ll be okay. He sounded so grown-up, so gentle and certain. For the first time in my life it truly felt like I had a big brother. In the few short seconds whilst I waited for Mum to come out, as I cradled my knee, stared at the dirt and grit in the skin, convinced myself I could see the bone, in those few short seconds – I felt totally safe.



Mum cleaned and dressed the wound, then she shouted at me for putting Simon in such a horrible position. Dad shouted at me too. At one point they were both shouting together, so that I wasn’t even sure who to look at. This was the way it worked. Even though my brother was three years older, it was always me who was responsible for everything. I often resented him for that. But not this time. This time he was my hero.
So that’s my story to introduce Simon. And it’s also the reason I was still in Mum’s bad books as I arrived, breathless, at our caravan, trying to make sense of what had happened with the small girl and her cloth doll.
‘Sweetheart, you’re ashen.’
She’s always calling me ashen, my mum. These days she calls me it all the time. But I forgot she said it way back then too. I completely forgot that she’s always called me ashen.
‘I’m sorry about the other day, Mum.’ And I was sorry. I’d been thinking about it a lot. About how Simon had to carry me, and how worried he had looked.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re on holiday. Try and enjoy yourself. Your dad went down to the beach with Simon, they’ve taken the kite. Shall we join them?’
‘I think I’m going to stay in for a bit. It’s hot out. I think I’m going to watch some telly.’
‘On a lovely day like today? Honestly, Matthew. What are we going to do with you?’
She sort of asked that in a friendly way, as though she didn’t really feel a need to do anything with me. She could be nice like that. She could definitely be nice like that.
‘I don’t know Mum. Sorry about the other day. Sorry about everything.’
‘It’s forgotten sweetheart, really.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise. Let’s go and fly that kite, shall we?’
‘I don’t feel like it.’
‘You’re not watching telly, Matt.’
‘I’m in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek.’
‘You’re hiding?’
‘No. I’m seeking. I should do that really.’
But the other children had got bored of waiting to be found, and had broken off into smaller groups, and other games. I didn’t feel like playing anyway. So I wandered around for a bit, and I found myself back at the place where the girl had been. Only she wasn’t there any more. There was just the small mound of earth, now carefully decorated with a few picked buttercups and daisies, and – to mark the spot – two sticks, placed neatly in a cross.
I felt very sad. And I feel a bit sad even thinking about it. Anyway, I have to go. Jeanette from Art Group’s doing her nervous bird impression; fluttering around at the top of the corridor, trying to catch my attention.
That paper-mache won’t make itself.
I have to go.

family portraits (#ulink_4b665f8e-5593-5789-a252-3d22c746dbd8)
The next thing I knew Mum was turning up the volume of the radio, so I wouldn’t hear her crying.
It was stupid. I could hear her. I was sitting right behind her in the car and she was crying really loudly. So was Dad for that matter. He was crying and driving at the same time. I honestly didn’t know if I was crying too, but I figured that I probably was. It seemed like I should be anyway. So I touched my cheeks, but it turned out they were dry. I wasn’t crying at all.
This is what people mean when they talk about being numb, isn’t it? I was too numb to cry, you sometimes hear people say on the TV. Like on daytime chat shows or whatever. I couldn’t even feel anything, they explain. I was just completely numb. And the people in the audience nod sympathetically, like they’ve all been there, they all know exactly how this feels. I reckon it was like that, but at the time I felt very guilty about it. I buried my head in my hands, so that if Mum or Dad turned around, they would think I was crying with them.
They didn’t turn around. I never felt the reassuring squeeze of a hand on my leg, they never said it would be okay. Nobody whispered, Shhh, shhh.
I knew then – I was totally alone.
It was a strange thing to find out that way.
On the radio the DJ was introducing some new song in this really chipper voice, like it was the best song ever recorded and it made his life complete to be able to introduce it. But none of this made any sense to me. I couldn’t understand why the DJ was so happy when something so terrible had happened. That was my first proper thought. It was the thing that I remember thinking as I sort of woke up. And this is the best way that I can describe it, even though I hadn’t really been asleep.
Memories were falling away, like a dream when we first open our eyes. It was a lot like that. I could only make out the edges – night-time, running, the police were there somewhere.
And Simon was dead.
My brother was dead.
I couldn’t hold onto any of it though. I wouldn’t get to hold it again for a very long time.
I can’t talk about it yet either. I have one chance to get this right. I need to be careful. To unfold everything neatly, so that I know how to fold it away again if it all gets too much. And everyone knows, the best way to fold something neatly is to follow the folds that are already there.



My grandmother (Mum’s mum, the one we call Nanny Noo) reads books by Danielle Steel and Catherine Cookson, and whenever she gets a new one the first thing she does is flip straight to the back to read the last page.
She always does that.
I went to stay with her for a bit. Just for the first week or so. It was a very sad week, and probably the most lonely of my life. I don’t think it is even possible to feel more lonely, even if you didn’t have your granddad and your Nanny Noo to keep you company.
You’ve probably never met my granddad, but if you have then you will know that he is a keen gardener. Only he doesn’t have a garden. That’s kind of funny if you think about it. But it isn’t that funny because he rents a small allotment a short drive from their flat, where he is able to grow vegetables and a few herbs like rosemary and some others that I always forget.
That week we spent ages there. Sometimes I would help with the weeding, or sometimes I would sit at the edge of his patch of allotment and play Donkey Kong on my Game Boy Color, so long as I kept the volume turned down. Mostly though, I would just wander about lifting stones to look at insects. I liked ants the best. Simon and I always used to look for ants’ nests in our own garden. He thought they were brilliant, and he pleaded with our mum to let him have an Ant Farm in his room. He usually got his way. But not that time.
Granddad helped me lift the bigger paving slabs so I could see the nests. The moment a slab was lifted the ants would go mental, scurrying around passing secret messages to each other and carrying their tiny white and yellow eggs underground to safety.
Within a couple of minutes the surface would be completely deserted, except for maybe a few woodlice wandering clumsily through to see what all the fuss was about. Occasionally I’d poke a twig down one of the little holes, and in an instant a dozen soldier ants would be back out on the offensive, prepared to give their lives for the colony. Not that I ever hurt them. I only wanted to watch.
After Granddad had finished weeding or pulling up vegetables or planting new ones, we’d carefully place back the slab and head home for our tea. I don’t remember us ever talking. I know we must have done. But what words we shared have escaped from my memory completely, like ants down a hole.
Nanny Noo made nice food. She is one of those people who tries to feed you the moment you walk through the door, and doesn’t stop trying to feed you until the moment you leave. She might even make you a quick ham sandwich for your journey.
It is a nice way to be. I think people who are generous with food have a goodness about them. But that week or so that I stayed with them was very difficult because I had no appetite. I felt sick a lot of the time, and once or twice I actually was sick. This was difficult for Nanny Noo too, because if she couldn’t solve a problem through the stomach – like with a bowl of soup or a roasted chicken or a slice of Battenberg – she felt out of her depth. One time I spied her standing in the kitchen, hunched over the untouched dishes and sobbing.
Bedtimes were hardest. I was staying in the spare room, which never gets properly dark because there is a street lamp outside the window and the curtains are thin. I would lie awake each night for ages and ages, staring through the gloom, wishing that I could just go home, and wondering if I ever would.
‘Can I sleep in here tonight, Nanny?’
She didn’t stir, so I walked in slowly and lifted the corner of her quilt. Nanny Noo has one of those electric blankets on account of her cold bones. It was a warm night though, so it wasn’t plugged in, and next thing I knew I was letting out a quiet yelp as my bare foot pressed down onto the upturned plug.
‘Sweetheart?’
‘Are you awake, Nanny?’
‘Shhh, you’ll wake up Granddad.’
She lifted the quilt and I climbed in beside her, ‘I stood on the plug,’ I said. ‘I hurt my foot a bit.’
I could feel the warmth of Nanny’s breath against my ear. I could hear Granddad’s rhythmic snoring.
‘I can’t remember anything,’ I said at last. ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did.’
At least I wanted to say that. It was all I could think about, and I desperately wanted to say it, but that isn’t the same thing. I could feel Nanny’s breath against my ear. ‘You stood on the plug, my poor angel. You hurt your foot.’
When I went home it was just Mum and Dad and me. On our first evening together the three of us sank onto the big green couch, which is how it always was because Simon preferred to sit cross-legged on the carpet – his face right up close to the television.
That was sort of our family portrait. It’s not the kind of thing you think you would miss. Maybe you don’t even notice it all those thousands of times, sitting between your mum and dad on the big green couch with your big brother on the carpet getting in the way of the telly. Maybe you don’t even notice that.
But you notice it when he isn’t there any more. You notice so many of the places where he isn’t, and you hear so many of the things he doesn’t say.
I do.
I hear them all the time.
Mum switched on the television for the start of EastEnders. This was like a ritual. We even videoed it if we weren’t going to be home. It was funny because Simon had a huge crush on Bianca. We all used to tease him about it and tell him that Ricky would beat him up. It was only for fun. He used to laugh out loud, rolling about on the carpet. He had the sort of laugh people call infectious. Whenever he laughed it made everything that bit better.
I don’t know if you watch EastEnders, or even if you do, I don’t suppose you’ll remember an episode from so long ago. But this one stayed with me. I remember sitting on the couch and watching as all the lies and deceit about Bianca sleeping with her mum’s boyfriend and a whole load of other stuff finally came to its bitter conclusion. This was the episode when Bianca left Walford.
We didn’t speak for a long time after that. We didn’t even move. Other programmes started and ended well into the night. This was our new family portrait – the three of us, sitting side by side, staring at the space where Simon used to be.

PLEASE STOP READING
OVER MY SHOULDER
She keeps reading over my shoulder. It is hard enough to concentrate in this place without people reading over your shoulder.
I had to put that in big letters to drive the message home. It worked, but now I feel bad about it. It was the student social worker who was looking over my shoulder, the young one with the minty breath and big gold earrings. She’s really nice.
Anyway, now she’s skipped away down the corridor, acting bright and breezy. But I know that I’ve embarrassed her because people only skip like that, and act all bright and breezy, when they’re embarrassed. We don’t need to skip when we’re not embarrassed – we can just walk.
It’s good to be able to use this computer though. I had a teaching session on it with the occupational therapist. His name’s Steve, and I don’t suppose I’ll mention him again. But he was satisfied I knew not to try to eat the keyboard, or whatever it is they worry about. So he said it’s okay for me to use it for my writing. Except he still didn’t give me a password, so I have to ask each time, and we only get forty minutes. It’s like that here, forty minutes for this, and ten minutes for that. But I am sorry about embarrassing that student social worker. I really am. I hate stuff like that.

kicking and wailing (#ulink_76fa373b-7846-537b-9c4f-0f9dfb496e2e)
I had no right to attend my brother’s funeral. But I did attend. I wore a white polyester shirt that itched like mad around the collar, and a black clip-on tie. The church echoed whenever anyone coughed. And afterwards there were scones with cream and jam. And that is all I can remember.
But now I should slow down a bit. I tend to rush when I’m nervous. I do it when I’m speaking too, which is weird because you tend to think it’s just those small tightly wound men who speak quickly. I’m about six feet tall and might even still be growing. I’m nineteen, so maybe not. I’m definitely growing outwards though. I’m way fatter than I should be. We can blame the medication for that – it’s a common side effect.
Anyway, I speak too quickly. I rush through words I find uncomfortable, and I’m doing that now.
I need to slow down because I want to explain how my world slowed down. I also need to talk about how life has a shape and a size, and how it can be made to fit into something small – like a house.
But the first thing I want to say is how quiet everything got. That was the first thing I noticed. It was as though somebody had come along and turned the volume to just above mute, and now everyone felt a need to talk in whispers. Not just Mum and Dad, but people who came to visit us too – like something terrible was asleep in the corner of the room and nobody dared be the one to wake it.
I’m talking about relatives here, people like my aunties and grandparents. My parents were never the sort to have loads of friends. I had a few. But they were at school. That was the other thing that happened. I think I might be rushing again, but I’ll just tell you quickly about how I stopped going to school, because it’s important, and because it is an actual thing that happened. Most of life isn’t anything. Most of life is just the passing of time, and we’re even asleep for a fair chunk of that.
When I’m heavily medicated I sleep for up to eighteen hours a day. During these times I am far more interested in my dreams than in reality, because they take up so much more of my time. If I’m having nice dreams, I consider life to be pretty good. When the medication isn’t working properly – or if I decide not to take it – I spend more time awake. But then my dreams have a way of following me.
It’s like we each have a wall that separates our dreams from reality, but mine has cracks in it. The dreams can wriggle and squeeze their way through, until it’s hard to know the difference.
Sometimes


But now I’m getting distracted.
I’m forever getting distracted. I need to concentrate, because there is a lot I want to write about – like this stuff about my school. Summer was over. September was edging to a close, and I still hadn’t been back to the classroom. So a decision had to be made.
The headmaster phoned and I listened to Mum’s half of the conversation from the watching stair. It wasn’t much of a conversation though. Basically she just said thank you a load of times. Then she called me to the telephone for my turn.
It was weird, because I never really talked to my headmaster at school. I mean, you really only talk to your teachers. I can’t say for sure that I had ever once spoken to my headmaster, and now here he was on the end of the telephone saying, ‘Hello Matthew, it’s Mr Rogers.’
‘Hello sir,’ I managed. My voice sounded very small all of a sudden. I waited for him to say something else, and Mum squeezed my shoulder.
‘I’ve just been speaking with your mum, but I wanted to talk to you too. Is that okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know this is a very difficult and sad time for you. I can only imagine how hard it must be.’
I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what there was to say, so there was a really long silence. Then I started to agree that it was hard, but Mr Rogers started talking again at the same time, repeating that it was sad. So then we both stopped to let the other one talk, and neither of us said anything. Mum rubbed at the top of my back. I’ve never been any good on the phone.
‘Matthew, I won’t keep you because I know this is hard. But I wanted to tell you that everyone is thinking of you, that we miss you. And however long this takes, however long you need, you’ll be welcomed back warmly. So you mustn’t be afraid.’
That was a strange thing for him to say because I don’t think I was afraid until then. I felt a lot of things – a lot that I didn’t properly understand – but not afraid. Except when he said that, I suddenly was. So I just said thank you a few times too, and Mum gave me a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Do you want to speak to my mum again?’
‘I think we’re done for now,’ Mr Rogers said. ‘I’d just wanted to say a few words to you. We’ll see you soon, okay?’
I let the phone drop into its cradle with a loud clunk.
He didn’t see me soon. I didn’t go back to school for a long time, and never to that school. I don’t know how these decisions were made. That’s the thing when you are nine years old; you don’t really get told anything. Like if you are taken out of school nobody has to tell you why. People don’t have to tell you anything. I think, though, most of the things we do, are driven by fear. I think my mum was very frightened of losing me. I think that is what it was. But I don’t want to put thoughts in your head.
If you’re a parent you can stop your children going to school, and sit them at the kitchen table with a workbook instead. Just write a letter to the head, and that is it. You don’t even need to be a teacher, although Mum was. Sort of. I should tell you about my mum, because you probably have never met her.
She is thin and pale, with cold hands. She has a broad chin that she is very self-conscious about. She sniffs the milk before she drinks it. She loves me. And she is mad. That will do for now.
I say that she was sort of a teacher because once upon a time she was going to be. This was when she was trying to get pregnant, but there were some complications and the doctors said that she might not be able to conceive. I know this stuff, without any recollection of being told it. I think she decided to become a teacher to give her life a meaning, or to distract her. I don’t suppose there is much difference.
So she enrolled at university and did the course. Then she got pregnant with Simon, and her meaning came kicking and wailing the regular way.
But she got to be my teacher. Each and every weekday, after Dad had set off for work, our school day would begin. First we would clear the breakfast table together, stacking plates and bowls by the sink for Mum to wash whilst I made a start on the pile of Key Stage exercise books. I was a clever child back then. I think that took Mum by surprise.
When Simon was alive he could be a bit of a sponge, soaking up the attention. He didn’t mean to or anything, but that is what special needs do – they demand more of the things around them. I seemed to go unnoticed. But sitting at the kitchen table, Mum did notice me. It might have been easier for her if I had been stupid. I only just thought that now as I wrote it, but it might be true. There were these tests at the end of each chapter of the Key Stage Science, Maths and French workbooks, and whenever I got everything right she would go quiet for ages. But if I only got nearly everything right, she would be encouraging, and gently talk me through my mistakes. That was weird. So I started making mistakes on purpose.
We never went out, and we never talked about anything except school work. That was strange too, because it wasn’t as if Mum acted like a teacher. Sometimes she would kiss me on the forehead or stroke my hair or whatever. But we just didn’t talk about anything except what was in the books. And that is exactly how the days unfolded for a long time, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how long in terms of weeks or months. It merged into one extended moment, with me sitting at the kitchen table doing my tests, and Mum talking me through my deliberate mistakes.
That is what I mean by my world slowing down, but it is hard to explain because it only takes a couple of pages to say how it was day after day. But it is the day-after-day that takes so long.
When my work was done I would watch cartoons or play some Nintendo. Or sometimes I would go upstairs and gently press my ear against Simon’s bedroom door, listening. Sometimes I would kill a bit of time doing that. We never talked about that either. Mum would make tea, and we would wait for my dad to get home. I should tell you about my dad, because you probably have never met him.
He is tall and broad, and stoops a little. He wears a leather jacket because he used to ride a motorbike. He calls me mon ami. And he loves me. That will do for now.
I said my mother is mad. I said that. But you might not see it. I mean, you might not think that anything I’ve told you proves she is mad. But there are different kinds of madness. Some madness doesn’t act mad to begin with, sometimes it will knock politely at the door, and when you let it in, it’ll simply sit in the corner without a fuss – and grow. Then one day, maybe many months after your decision to take your son out of school and isolate him in a house for reasons that got lost in your grief, one day that madness will stir in the chair, and it will say to him, ‘You look pale.’
‘What?’
‘You look pale. You don’t look well at all sweetheart. Are you feeling okay?’
‘I’m fine, I think. I have a bit of a sore throat.’
‘Let me feel you.’ She put the back of her hand against my forehead. ‘Oh, darling. You feel hot. You’re burning up.’
‘Really? I feel okay.’
‘You’ve been looking pale for a few days now. I don’t think you get enough sunshine.’
‘We never go out!’ I said that angrily. I didn’t mean to, but that’s the way it came out. It wasn’t fair of me either because we did go out sometimes. I wasn’t a prisoner or anything.
We didn’t go out much, though. And never without Dad taking us. I suppose that’s what I mean by saying how life can shrink into a house. I suppose I’m just ungrateful. Mum must have thought so, because she suddenly looked at me like I’d spat on her or something. But then she said very sweetly, ‘Shall we go for a walk? We could pop in to see Dr Marlow, he can look at your throat.’
It wasn’t cold, but she took my orange winter coat from the hook, and she zipped it right to the top with the hood pulled up. Then we stepped outside.
To get to the local GP surgery from our house, you had to walk past my school. Or rather, what used to be my school. Mum held my hand as we crossed the main road, and as we rounded the corner I could hear distant shouts and laughter drifting over from the playground. I must have resisted. I don’t remember doing so on purpose, but I must have done because as we got closer Mum’s grip on me tightened, taking hold of my wrist and pulling me along.
‘Let’s go back, Mum.’
We didn’t go back. We walked right up to the school, and along the whole length of the fence so that I was practically being dragged, with my stupid hood right over my eyes.
‘Is that you, Matthew? Hello Mrs Homes. Hello Matthew.’
I can’t think of her name now. Gemma, or something. It doesn’t matter anyway.
‘Hey, it’s Matthew!’
The thing is, I was even popular. The group of children who gathered at the fence did so because they liked me. They were my classmates and would have been shaken up by what had happened, and my sudden exit from their lives. But I didn’t talk to them. I can’t explain it. I looked straight ahead, hiding behind my hood, whilst Mum said, ‘Matthew isn’t very well today. Go back and play.’
Dr Marlow asked me to open wide. He looked inside my mouth, breathing his warm breath into me, smelling of coffee. There was nothing wrong with my throat that a few lozenges and some Lemsip couldn’t fix. He said I should get some rest. So that was that. Only it wasn’t.
It was just the start.

hypotonian. a state of reduced tension in muscle. (#ulink_5e53325f-6fc1-5a65-a07e-af31c6f4c0cf)
There was the shock of the fall and the blood on my knee, and Simon carried me all the way back to the caravan, all by himself, without any help from anyone, even though it half killed him, but he did it anyway, he did it for me, because he loved me.
I already told you that.
And then I said there is a proper word for weak muscles, that I would look it up if I got the chance. And possibly you forgot all about it. But I didn’t. I didn’t forget.
There is a Nursing Dictionary kept in the office at the top of the back staircase, and I could see it there on the table. I could see it when I went to the office to ask if I could go on the computer for a while to do my writing.
It was really funny though, because the girl I asked (the young one with the minty breath and big gold earrings, who is forever trying to read over my shoulder), she just kind of froze. She was the only person in the office, and she totally froze, as if the Nursing Dictionary contains all these secrets that patients aren’t allowed to know. Seriously, she couldn’t even open her mouth.
Then a really funny thing happened. Do you remember Steve? I only mentioned him that once. He was the one who gave me the teaching session on this computer. I said that I probably wouldn’t mention him again. Well, he came into the office next, and the girl turned to him and asked, really hesitantly, whether or not patients could look in the dictionary? That is how she said it too. She said ‘Um, um, is it appropriate for patients to borrow the dictionary Steven?’
And you’ll never guess what he did. He stepped past her, and in one move he threw the dictionary back through the air like a rugby pass, right into my hands. And at the same time he said, ‘What ya askin’ me for?’ He said it just like that. He said, ‘What ya askin’ me for?’
Then he turned to me and winked. But it wasn’t even a quiet wink, because he made a little clicking noise with his tongue as if to say, you and me kiddo, we’re in this together.
Do you know what I mean? I don’t know if I am explaining it very well. But you can see why it’s funny. It’s funny because the girl didn’t know whether or not I could even look in the dictionary. And then it was doubly funny because Steve made her look really stupid, by being all casual about it.
But the really funny thing. The thing that makes me laugh out loud. The really funny thing is that Steve made that little clicking noise with his tongue, and winked at me, as if to show that he was on my side or something. Except you’re not on my side, are you Steve? Because if you were on my side you just would have handed me the dictionary like a grown-up. Because if you make a big fucking gesture of it Steve, then it becomes a big fucking deal. But that is what these people do – the Steves of this world – they all try and make something out of nothing. And they all do it for themselves.
Simon had hypotonia. He also had microgenia, macroglossia, epicanthic folds, an atrial septal defect, and a beautiful smiling face that looked like the moon. I hate this fucking place.

spoon fed (#ulink_c396cd29-2f92-5b22-8e49-ad0281dcc62c)
Mum pulled open the quilt at the entrance and peered inside, ‘I’ve forgotten the password again.’
‘You can’t come in then.’
‘Will you tell me it one more time?’
‘Nope.’ I pulled the quilt back against the radiator, gripping it tightly with my fist.
‘Bully.’
‘I’m not a bully, I’ve told you once already.’
‘Super Mario?’
‘Close.’
‘Hmm. What’s his girlfriend called?’
‘Princess Peach.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s not it either, is it?’
‘Uh-uh. Actually, she isn’t Princess Peach in this game. And you’re getting warmer. Sort of.’
‘Cryptic clues, eh?’
‘What does cryptic mean?’
‘It means if you don’t tell me the password I’ll cry.’
I opened a small gap and watched as she made her pretend sad face, with bottom lip trembling. It was hard not to laugh.
‘Oh, charming. Here I am, pouring my heart out, and my own son and heir is smirking at me.’
‘I’m not smirking.’
‘What’s this then?’ Her arm crept in, through a gap I hadn’t noticed. She did that thing when you make a bird’s beak with your hand, pecking up my arm until she found my face. She propped up the corners of my mouth. ‘Ah-ha. I knew it!’
It’s good being a bit ill when you’re a kid, isn’t it?
It’s better if you go to a proper school, because then when you stay home for the day it’s a treat. If you have your lessons at home anyway, there isn’t anywhere to go. Unless you’re allowed to build your own den.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a clue.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I’m playing it right … now.’
I let the entrance fall open and quickly picked up my Game Boy Color. Mum tilted her head, squinting at the cartridge. ‘Donkey Kong!’
‘You may enter.’
It was really just the space between the back of the couch and the wall, but I stretched a quilt over the top, tucking it behind the radiator. It was nice to hide away in there, playing games or watching TV through the gap beside the curtains.
Mum crouched on all fours and crawled inside. ‘Show me how to play it then.’
‘Really?’
‘What, you don’t think mummies can?’
There wasn’t much room, but that made it better in a way. It was cosy. ‘Hold it like that, with your thumbs on the buttons. See him at the bottom?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He’s Mario. You need to make him climb to the top, without the barrels hitting you.’
‘What’s at the top?’
‘His girlfriend.’
‘Not the princess?’
‘She’s in other games. It’s started, you need to concentrate—’
When the first barrel hit her, she said it wasn’t fair because she was about to get good.
‘It’s still your go. You have more than one life. Shall I tell you when you need to jump?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Mum, shall I tell you when to jump?’
She kissed me on the cheek.
‘Yes please.’
I’m not a mind-reader. I can’t tell you what my mum was thinking. Sometimes I worry people might be able to place thoughts in my head, or take my thoughts away. But with Mum, there’s nothing.
‘You’re better than Dad.’
‘Really?’
‘He can’t get past Level One.’
My mum is made of angles, and sharp corners of bone. She isn’t great to cuddle. But she put a cushion on her lap for me to rest my head, and that was comfortable.
At lunchtime she made vegetable stew.
Usually we ate at the table, but this time we took our bowls into the den. I was starting to feel floppy and useless.
‘Try and eat up, sweetheart.’
‘It hurts to swallow.’
She looked in my throat and said my tonsils were still swollen, that she’d make a Lemsip after we’d eaten. She picked up my spoon, and fed me a mouthful, scooping a bit of spillage off my chin like you would for a baby. Then she said, ‘Why more than one life?’
‘What?’
‘In computer games. It doesn’t make sense, having lots of lives. It makes no sense at all.’
‘It’s just the way they are.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m being silly, aren’t I? Shall we play Snakes and Ladders next?’
I opened my mouth, and she fed me another spoonful. It wasn’t a plastic spoon or anything. It wasn’t for babies. It was a regular spoon.

mon ami (#ulink_ebd0cc87-bf31-5303-b153-26c45d2de256)
He used to burst through the door, waiting at the foot of my bed all wide-eyed and unblinking. Some mornings I wasn’t in the mood so sent him away. I regret that now.
But mostly his enthusiasm was catching, so even if I was half asleep I’d get out of bed to load up the N64, and we’d sit on our beanbags playing Mario 64, arguing over whether Luigi could be unlocked as a character. Then at quarter to seven our dad would come through to tell us we should work hard at school today, and that he was off to earn a crust. That is the kind of thing my dad says. He says, earn a crust. I like it.
The other reason Dad used to come into my bedroom was so Simon and me could do this thing we used to do. What we’d do is listen out for him as he walked across the landing towards my bedroom door. He was easy to hear because he wore heavy steel-toe-capped boots, and because he wanted us to hear him. So he would walk deliberately heavy-footed, and usually say something loud and obvious to my mum like, ‘Bye bye then darling. I’m just going to say cheerio to the boys.’
As soon as we heard him say that, Simon and me would quickly hide behind the door, so when he looked in he wouldn’t be able to see us. He’d step inside pretending to be confused, saying something under his breath like, ‘Where have those boys got to?’
It was stupid really, because by this time Simon wouldn’t be able to stop from giggling. That didn’t matter though, because we all knew it was just pretend. And it was fun. The most fun thing was at this point Simon and me would leap out from behind the door, and wrestle Dad to the ground.
That is what we used to do when Simon was alive, but now Simon wasn’t alive, I never got up before my dad. At quarter to seven he would still come into my room to find me lying awake, unsure of how to begin. That must have been hard for him.
He came in every morning anyway, to sit beside me for a few minutes and just be there.
‘Morning mon ami, you okay?’ He ruffled my hair, in that way grown-ups do to children, and we did our special handshake. ‘You going to work hard for Mummy today?’
I nodded, yes.
‘Good lad. Work hard then you can get a decent job and look after your old pa, eh?’
‘I will mon ami.’


It started in France when I was five years old. This was our only holiday abroad, and Mum had won it in a magazine competition. It was something to be proud of, first prize in a True Lives writing contest, eight hundred words or less about what makes your family special. She wrote about the struggles and rewards of raising a child with Down Syndrome. I don’t suppose I got a mention. The judges loved it.
Some people can remember way back to the beginning of their lives. I’ve even met people who say they can remember being born.
The farthest back my mind can reach puts me standing in a rock pool, with my dad holding one of my hands for balance, in the other I’m clutching my brand new net, and we are catching fish together. It isn’t a whole memory. I just keep a few fragments; a cold slice of water just below my knees, seagulls, a boat in the distance – that sort of thing. Dad can remember more. He can remember that we talked, and what we talked about. A five-year-old boy and his daddy chewing the cud over everything from the size of the sea to where the sun goes at night. And whatever I said in that rock pool, it was enough for my dad to like me. So that was that. We became friends. But because we were in France we became amis. I don’t suppose any of this matters. I just wanted to remind myself.


‘Right then. I’m off to earn that crust.’
‘Do you have to go, Dad?’
‘Only until we win the lottery, eh?’ Then he winked at me (but not in a Steve way) and we did our special handshake again. ‘Work hard for Mummy.’
Mum wore her long nightdress and the silly animal slippers Simon had once chosen for her birthday. ‘Morning baby boy.’
‘Tell me about France again, Mum.’
She stepped into my room and opened the curtains, so that for a moment, standing in front of the window, she became nothing but a faceless silhouette. Then she said it again. Just like before. ‘Sweetheart, you look pale.’

school runs (#ulink_ebf008ff-0aff-5c5f-bb7b-fdde0a36433a)
I think of Mum zipping closed my orange winter coat again, and pulling up the hood again so the grey fur lining clings to the sweat on my forehead and brushes at my ears. I think of it, and it is happening. Hot honey and lemon drunk down in gulps from the mug I once gave to her – no longer special – and a bitter chalky after-taste of ground-up paracetamol.
‘I’m sorry about the other day, sweetheart.’
‘Sorry for what, Mummy?’
‘For dragging you past the playground, with the other children staring.’
‘Were you punishing me?’
‘I don’t know. I might have been. I’m not sure.’
‘Do we have to do it again?’
‘I think so, yes. You have your coat on.’
‘You put it on me. You zipped it up.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we should go.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I know that, Matthew. But you’re unwell, and you might need antibiotics. We need to get you seen. Did I really zip your coat up?’
‘But why now? Why can’t we wait until after playtime has finished?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t worked that out yet.’
I pass her back the empty mug, World’s Greatest Mum. I think of this and I am there again. She’s opening the door, reaching out her hand. I take it, and I am there.
‘No!’
‘Matthew, don’t answer me back. We need to go. We need to get you seen.’
‘No. I want Dad.’
‘Don’t be silly, he’s at work. Now you’re letting all the cold air inside. Stop it. We need to go.’
Her grip is tight, but I’m stronger than she thinks. I pull back hard, and snag at her charm bracelet with the hook of my finger.
‘Now look what you’ve done. It’s broken.’ She bends over to pick up the fallen chain, with its tiny silver charms littering the ground. I push past her. I push her harder than I should. She loses balance, arms flapping like pigeon wings before she falls. ‘Matthew! Wait! What is it?’
In a few strides I’m through the gate, slamming it behind me. I run as fast as I can, but she’s catching up. My foot skids off the pavement, I’m startled by the urgent blast from a speeding van.
‘Baby, wait. Please.’
‘No.’
I take my chance, running across the main road, cutting between a line of cars, causing one to swerve. She’s forced to wait. I round the corner, and the next, and am at my school. ‘Is that you again, Matthew? Hey, it’s Matthew again. Look, his mum’s chasing him. His mum’s chasing him. Look! His mum’s chasing him!’
I am ahead, and she is chasing. She’s crying out for me to stop. She’s calling me her baby. She’s calling me her baby boy. I stop. Turn around. Then fall into her arms.
‘Look at them. Look at them. Get a teacher, someone. Look at them.’ I am lifted from the ground, held by her. She is kissing my forehead and telling me that it will be okay. She’s carrying me, and I can feel her heartbeat through my stupid hood.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay baby boy.’
‘I miss him so much, Mum.’
‘I know you do. Oh, my baby. I know you do.’ She’s carrying me, and I can feel her heartbeat through my stupid hood.

Children must be accompanied by an adult
AT ALL TIMES
In Bristol there is a famous bridge called the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It’s a popular hangout for the suicidal. There is even a notice on it with a telephone number for the Samaritans.
When my mum first left school, before she met Dad, she worked doing paper filing at Rolls-Royce.
It wasn’t a happy time because her boss was a horrible man who made her feel stupid and worthless. She wanted to quit, but was too worried to tell Granddad because he had wanted her to stay at school, and having a job was a condition of her leaving.
She was riding back on her moped one evening, but when she reached home she didn’t stop.
‘I kept going,’ she told me. She perched on the edge of my bed in her nightgown, having woken me in the middle of the night to climb in beside me. She did that a lot.
‘I had nothing to live for,’ she whispered.
‘Are you okay, Mummy?’
She didn’t know that she was going to the suspension bridge, but she was. She only realized, when she couldn’t find it.
‘I was lost.’
‘Should I get Dad?’
‘Let’s go to sleep.’
‘Are you sleeping here tonight?’
‘Am I allowed?’
‘Of course.’
‘I was lost,’ she whispered into the pillow. ‘I couldn’t even get that right.’

dead people still have birthdays (#ulink_1b12d965-2eee-5971-abb0-2bcb839dea62)
The night before my dead brother should have turned thirteen years old I was woken by the sound of him playing in his bedroom.
I was getting better at picturing him in my mind. So I kept my eyes closed and watched as he reached beneath his bed and pulled out the painted cardboard box.
These were his keepsakes, but if you’re like Simon, and the whole world is a place of wonder, everything is a keepsake. There were countless small plastic toys from Christmas crackers and McDonald’s Happy Meals. There were stickers from the dentist saying, I was brave, and stickers from the speech therapist saying, Well Done, or You are a Star! There were postcards from Granddad and Nanny Noo – if his name was on it, it was going in his box. There were swimming badges, certificates, a fossil from Chesil Beach, good pebbles, paintings, pictures, birthday cards, a broken watch – so much crap he could hardly close the lid.
Simon kept every single day of his life.
It was strange to think of it all still there. In some ways it was strange even to think of his room being there. I remember when we first got home from Ocean Cove, the three of us stood in the driveway, listening to the little clicking sounds as the car’s engine cooled. We stared at the house. His room had stayed put, the first-floor window, with his yellow Pokémon curtains. It hadn’t the courtesy to up and leave. It stayed right where we’d left it, at the top of the stairs, the room next to mine.
Hugging a pillow to my chest and keeping my eyes shut tight, I could see him searching through his memories to find the most important one – a scrap of yellow cotton. It was this he was first wrapped in as a tiny bundle of joy and fear, and it became his comfort blanket. At seven, eight, nine years of age – he always had it with him, forever carrying it around. Until the day I told him that he looked like a baby. I told him he looked like a little baby with his little baby blanket, that if he wasn’t so thick all the time he’d understand. It disappeared after that, everyone proudly accepting he’d outgrown it.
I lay listening to him, sleep drifting back over me as he climbed into his bed. Then breaking through, not enough to wake me, but at the very edge of my awareness, another sound – Mum was singing him a lullaby.
Spring sunshine painted pillars of white across my carpet.
It was Saturday, which meant breakfast around the table. I put on my dressing gown, but didn’t go downstairs straight away. I wanted to check something first.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been in his room.
Dad hadn’t wanted me to feel afraid or weird about anything, so after I got back from staying with Nanny Noo, we went in together. We shuffled around awkwardly and Dad said something about how he knew Simon wouldn’t mind if I played with his toys.
People always think they know what dead people would and wouldn’t mind, and it’s always the same as what they would and wouldn’t mind – like this time at school when a really naughty boy, Ashley Stone, died of Meningitis. We had this special assembly for him which even his mum attended, where Mr Rogers talked about how spirited and playful Ashley was, and how we’d always remember him with love. Then he said he was certain Ashley would want us to try and be brave, and to work hard. But I don’t think Ashley would have wanted that at all, and maybe that’s because I didn’t want it. So you see what I mean? But I suppose Dad was right. Simon wouldn’t mind if I played with his toys because he never minded. I didn’t play with them though, and the reason is the obvious one. I felt too guilty. Some things in life are exactly as we imagine.
His model aeroplanes swung gently on their strings, and the radiator creaked and groaned. I stood beside his bed lifting the comfort blanket from his pillow. ‘Hey Si,’ I whispered. ‘Happy birthday.’ Then I placed the blanket back in his keepsake box, and closed the lid.
I guess children believe whatever they want to believe.
Perhaps adults do too.
In the kitchen Dad was making a start on breakfast, prodding bacon around a sizzling pan. ‘Morning, mon ami.’
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Bacon sandwich?’
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘She didn’t sleep well, sunshine. Bacon sandwich?’
‘I want marmalade, I think.’ I opened the cupboard, pulled out a jar and struggled with the lid before handing it to Dad.
‘You must have loosened it for me, eh?’
He lifted a rasher, considered it, and dropped it back in the pan. ‘Are you sure you don’t want bacon? I’m having bacon.’
‘We go to the doctor’s a lot, Dad.’
‘Ouch. Shit!’
He glared at the reddened flesh on his knuckle, as though expecting it to say sorry.
‘Did you burn yourself, Daddy?’
‘It’s not so bad.’ Stepping to the sink, he turned on the cold tap and made a comment about how untidy the garden looked. I scooped out four large spoonfuls of marmalade, emptying it. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘The jar? What for?’
‘Will you keep your voices down?’ The door swung open hard, banging against the table. ‘I need some bloody sleep. Please let me sleep today.’
She didn’t say it in an angry way, more like pleading. She closed the door again, slowly this time, and as I listened to her footsteps climbing the stairs, I felt a horrible emptiness in my tummy – the kind that breakfast can’t fill.
‘It’s okay sunshine,’ Dad said, forcing a smile, ‘You didn’t do anything. Today’s a bit difficult. How about you finish up your breakfast and I’ll go talk to her, eh?’
He said that like it was a question, but it wasn’t. What he meant was that I had no choice but to stay put, whilst he followed her upstairs. But I didn’t want to sit by myself at the table again, or listen to another muffled argument throbbing through the walls. Besides, I had something to do. I picked up the marmalade jar and stepped out of the back door into our garden.
These are the memories that crawl under my skin. Simon had wanted an Ant Farm, and dead people still have birthdays.
Crouching beside the tool shed with mud between my toes, I lifted large flat stones like Granddad had taught me. But it was too early in the year, so even under the bigger slabs I could only find earthworms and beetles. I looked deeper, digging a hole with my fingers – as the first drops of rain hit my dressing gown, I was somewhere else: It’s dark, night-time, the air tastes of salt, and Simon is beside me, wiping rain from his cheeks and bleating that he doesn’t like it any more, that he doesn’t like it and wants to go back. I keep digging, telling him to stop being a baby, to hold the torch still, and he holds it with trembling hands, until her button eyes glisten in the beam.
‘Matthew, sweetheart!’ Mum was standing at her bedroom window calling out, ‘It’s pouring down!’
As I opened the back door, the front door slammed shut.
I ran upstairs.
‘Sweetheart, what are we going to do with you?’ She took my wet dressing gown, wrapping me in a towel.
‘Where did Dad go?’
‘He’s gone for a walk.’
‘It’s raining.’
‘I doubt he’ll be long.’
‘I wanted us all to have breakfast together.’
‘I’m so tired, Matthew.’
We sat beside each other on the bed, watching the rain against the window.

a different story (#ulink_d18a368c-83fd-58de-82ee-016988b3012d)
Only fifteen minutes today, then puncture time. I have a few compliance problems with tablets, the answer – a long, sharp needle.
Every other week, alternate sides.
I’d rather not think about it now. It’s best not to think until the injection is actually going in.
I want to tell a story. When Click-Click-Wink Steve first got me started on the computer, he said I could use the printer as well. ‘To share your writing with us, Matt. Or take it home to keep safe.’
Except the other day the printer didn’t work. I’d been thinking about the time Mum took me to see Dr Marlow, but we saw a different GP instead. I couldn’t remember the details, like what exactly my mum thought was wrong with me, or why Dr Marlow wasn’t there. So I made something up about the mole beside my nipple, and Dr Marlow being on holiday. Perhaps that was even true, it’s not important. The important part was this new doctor asked to speak with Mum in private, and their conversation was the beginning of a whole new chapter in our lives. But when I tried to print this, an error message flashed up and no paper came out.
So that was that.
Until this morning at Art Group – where whispery Jeanette gives out bottles of poster paint, glue, knackered old felt tips and tissue paper, and we are supposed to express ourselves. I sat beside Patricia, who must be sixty years old, or maybe even older, but wears a long blonde wig and pretends to be twenty. She wears dark sunglasses, bright pink lipstick, and today she’s wearing her bright pink catsuit too. She usually draws colourful patterns in crayon, which Jeanette says are beautiful. But this morning she was doing something else, quietly absorbed, making precise cuts into sheets of paper with a pair of blunt scissors, then carefully arranging the cut-out pieces onto a square of cardboard.



I suppose the printer must have finally coughed up my pages, and they ended up with the scrap paper. It was a strange feeling, and for a moment I wanted to shout, but I didn’t because Patricia’s a really nice person and I think if she’d known it was my writing, she wouldn’t have taken it. She shook her head, turning away from me slightly; PLEASE STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER. You can see why this was different, though? But I didn’t want to upset her, so I carried on doing my sketches, whilst she carried on rearranging my life, sticking it down with Pritt Stick.
I waited until just before the end of the hour, when we have a few minutes to share what we’ve done with the group, but I knew Patricia wouldn’t, because even though she wears those clothes, she’s actually very shy.
‘I’ll clean the brushes,’ I offered.
‘Is it that time already?’ asked Jeanette.
I want to tell a different story, a story belonging to someone else. It will not be the same as mine, and though it might be sad in some ways, it will also be happy because in the end there are beautiful crayon patterns and a lady with long blonde hair who stays twenty years old forever.
I moved around the table collecting paintbrushes, and glanced over her shoulder. What we can know about Patricia’s story, is that she’s



second opinion (#ulink_2a16e0aa-dd13-5cde-bd70-085de1af1f94)
She ran the tip of her finger over the small dark mole beside my nipple, and I felt my face grow hot.
‘It doesn’t itch?’
‘No.’
‘Has it grown or changed colour?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We usually see Dr Marlow,’ Mum offered for the third time.
I pulled my top on and shrank into the chair, self-conscious of my changing body, of how it had started to stretch and stink and grow wisps of hair, so that with each passing day I knew myself a little less.
‘How old are you, Matthew?’
‘He’s ten,’ my mum answered.
‘I’m nearly eleven,’ I said.
She turned back to the computer screen, scanning appointment after appointment. I stared absently at the two framed photographs of Dr Marlow’s daughters – the younger one riding her horse, and her sister in graduation robes, grinning, with eyes half closed – and I wondered if this new doctor would get her own office, and have pictures of her own family for me to stare at every couple of weeks, until I felt I’d met them.
‘How are you getting on at school?’
‘What?’
She was looking right at me, not buried in a prescription sheet or tapping on her keyboard, but looking right at me, leaning forwards.
Mum coughed, and said she thought my mole had grown, but maybe it hadn’t.
‘You must be starting secondary school after the holidays?’
I wanted to turn to Mum for reassurance, but there was something about how the doctor was leaning forwards that held me. I don’t mean I felt trapped. I mean I felt held.
‘I don’t go to school.’
‘No?’
‘We home tutor,’ Mum said. Then, ‘I used to be a teacher.’
The doctor kept looking at me. She had placed her chair near to mine, and now I found myself leaning forward as well. It’s difficult to explain, but in that moment I felt safe, as though I could say anything I wanted.
I didn’t say anything though.
The doctor nodded.
‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about with the mole, Matthew. Do you?’
I shook my head.
Mum was on her feet, already saying thank you, already ushering me to the door, then the doctor said, ‘I wonder if perhaps we might be able to talk in private for a moment?’
I felt Mum’s grip tighten on my arm, her eyes darting between us. ‘But. I’m his mother.’
‘Sorry, no. I wasn’t clear Susan. I wonder if you and I might talk in private for a moment?’ She then turned to me and said, ‘It’s really nothing to worry about, Matthew.’
The receptionist was telling a woman with a pushchair how Dr Marlow was on holiday until the end of the month, but a young lady doctor was covering and she was very nice, and they even hoped she might stay on. I sat on the rubber mat in the corner, where they keep toys for children. I guess I was too old really, and after a while of glaring at me and sighing heavily, the woman asked whether I’d mind making room for her child to play.
‘Can I play with him?’
‘Oh.’
Her little boy reached out a hand, and I gave him a Stickle Brick, which he dropped to the floor and laughed like it was the funniest thing to ever happen. I picked it up and we did it again, this time his mum laughed too and said, ‘He’s bonkers, I tell you, absolutely bonkers.’
‘I’ve got a brother.’
‘Oh, right?’
‘Yeah. He was older than me. We were good mates. But he’s dead and stuff now.’
‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry—’
The bell chimed and a name scrolled across the sign by reception. ‘That’s us I’m afraid. Come on mister.’ She picked up her little boy and he immediately began to whimper, stretching his arms back towards me.
‘Someone’s made a new friend,’ she said, before rushing him down the corridor.
‘I’ve got a brother,’ I said again to no one in particular. ‘But I don’t think about him so much any more.’
I put the Stickle Bricks away.
Mum appeared, pressing a prescription sheet into her handbag.
‘Is everything okay, Mum?’
‘Let’s get ice creams.’
I don’t suppose it was the best weather for the park – it was pretty cold and cloudy. But we went anyway. Mum bought us ice creams from the van, and we perched on the swings next to each other. ‘I’ve not been a very good Mummy, have I?’
‘Is that what the doctor said?’
‘I worry, Matthew. I worry all the time.’
‘Do you need medicine?’
‘I might.’
‘Are you and Dad going to get divorced?’
‘Sweetheart, why would you even think that?’
‘I don’t know. Are you?’
‘Of course not.’ She finished her ice cream, stepped off the swing, and started to push mine.
‘I’m not a baby, Mum.’
‘I know, sorry. I know. Sometimes I think you’re more grown up than me.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘I do. And you’re definitely too clever for me now. You do those exercise books quicker than I can mark them.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do, sweetheart. I think if you went back to school, the teachers wouldn’t know what hit them.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘I’m allowed?’
‘Is it what you want?’
This might not have happened so quickly as I’m telling it, or reached the surface of our conversation so easily. Probably we were in the park for a very long time, drifting in and out of silences, each moving around an idea, afraid to reach out and see it sink away, and this time, to impossible depths. No. It didn’t happen quickly or easily. But it did happen. On that day. In that park.
‘It isn’t that I don’t like you teaching me—’
‘I know. It’s okay. I know.’
‘We could still do lessons in the evenings.’
‘I’ll help with your homework.’
‘And you’ll still help me type up my stories?’
‘If you’ll let me. I’d like that a lot.’
A good thing about talking to someone who is standing behind you is that you can pretend you don’t know they’re crying, and not trouble yourself too much with working out why. You can simply concentrate on helping them feel better.
‘You can push me if you want, Mum.’
‘Oh I can push you now, can I?’
‘If you want.’
She did, she pushed me on the swing, higher and higher, and when at last the grey clouds parted for the sun to shine through, it was like it was shining just for us.

a whole new chapter (#ulink_1e7f5aed-6677-52e2-a2a6-4c469272f79b)
‘Uh, what? Hey mon ami.’
‘Can you help me do my tie up, Dad?’
‘What time is it?’
Mum turned over in bed, and pulled off her eye mask. ‘Matthew, it’s the middle of the night.’
‘I don’t know how to do it up. Can I turn the light on?’
I pressed the switch and they both groaned, then Dad said, through a yawn, ‘Usually you put a shirt on first, mate.’
‘I just want to practise.’
‘We can practise in the morning, before I go to work.’ He rolled over, pulling the quilt above his head. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
I switched their light off and went back to my room, grappling with the knot – too nervous to sleep. It wasn’t so long before Mum came through to sit with me though. I knew she would. I knew she would come and sit with me if I woke them.
‘You need to get some sleep, darling.’
‘What if no one likes me?’
I didn’t know who was most worried about me going back to school – me or her. She had her little yellow pills though, which took the edge off.
‘Of course they will.’ She stroked the hair behind my ear, like she used to when I was little, ‘Of course they will.’
‘But what if they don’t?’
She told me the story about her first day at secondary school, of how she had broken her arm in the summer holiday so was wearing a plaster cast. She said there were so many new faces, but the new faces were feeling exactly the same as she was. By lunchtime her plaster cast was scrawled with well-wishing messages from her brand new group of friends.
‘What happened next?’
‘It’s cold, let me in.’
I pulled back my covers and budged over so she could climb in beside me.
‘This is the good part,’ she said, propping up a pillow. ‘One of the playground monitors saw my plaster cast with the writing, and wanted me punished for breaking school uniform rules! So my very first day I was marched to the headmistress, who thanked the monitor for her concerns, looked at my cast, picked up a pen, and wrote Welcome to Pen Park High.’
It was a good story, I suppose.
If it was true.
FUCK IT
I haven’t been feeling too good these last couple of days.
This is far more difficult than I thought. Thinking about the past is like digging up graves.
Once-upon-a-time we buried the memories we didn’t want. We found a little patch of grass at Ocean Cove Holiday Park, beside the recycling bins, or further up the path near to the shower blocks, and we kept hold of the memories we wanted, and we buried the rest.
But coming to this place every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, spending half my life with NUTTERS like Patricia, and the Asian guy in the relaxation room, slyly pocketing pieces from the jigsaw puzzles and rocking backwards and forwards like he’s a pendulum, and the skinny BITCH who skips along the corridor singing God Will Save Us, God Will Save Us, when all I want to do is concentrate, but can’t because the stuff they inject makes me twitch and contort, and fills my mouth with so much saliva I’m actually drooling onto the fucking keyboard – I’m just saying this is harder than I thought.
‘The thing is Mum, it wasn’t the same for you, was it?’
‘In some ways—’
‘No. It wasn’t. It wasn’t the same because Nanny Noo didn’t stop you going to school in the first place, or make you sit by yourself for a whole year making pretend mistakes in your exercise books and wondering when—’
‘Matthew, no. I didn’t—’
‘Wondering when I would have to go to the doctor’s, if you’d drag me there past the whole school, staring and pointing—’
‘Matthew, please—’
‘Staring and pointing at me—’
‘It wasn’t like—’
‘It was! It was just like that. And you made it like that. So now I have to see them all again. I don’t care about the new people. I don’t care about the people who don’t know me. I don’t care about not having anyone to write on a stupid plaster cast. I don’t—’
‘Matthew, please listen to me.’
She tried to put her arms around me but I pulled away. ‘No. I don’t have to listen. I don’t have to listen any more. I’m never going to listen to you. I don’t care what you think.’
‘You need to get some sleep, Matt.’
She wobbled a bit as she got to her feet, and for a second looked down at me as though balanced on a cliff edge.
I had one more thing to say, but I didn’t want to shout it. I forced each word into a tightly bound whisper.
‘I hate you.’
Mum closed my door softly behind her.

handshakes (#ulink_11dc1400-7f93-5efa-9c69-829decb93789)
I didn’t describe the special handshake I do with Dad.
When we became amis we decided on a handshake. I think I’ve mentioned it already, but I didn’t say how it goes. It’s a special handshake, not a secret handshake. So I can tell you.
What we do is reach out with our left hands and link our fingers, then we touch the tips of our thumbs together. We must have done this thousands of times.
I haven’t counted.
Each special handshake takes a brief second, but if each one was placed end to end they would stretch for hours.
If somebody took a photograph every time, at the precise moment our thumbs touch, and viewed the photographs in a flip book, it would make a time-lapse film – like you get on wildlife programmes to see plants grow, or weeds creeping across a forest floor.
The film begins with a five-year-old boy, on holiday with his family in France. He’s been trying to delay bedtime by talking to his dad about the hermit crab they caught in the rock pool. The handshake was his dad’s idea. Their thumbs touch, and the camera clicks. In the background, on the hotel balcony, the boy’s Mum and older brother look on. They reveal a hint of pride, and jealousy.
Day and night flash in a strobe, seasons collide, clouds explode, candles melt onto icing sugar, a wreath rots way. The boy and his dad rush through time, thumbs pressed together.
The boy grows like a weed.
And in every moment is a world unseen – beyond balconies, outside of memory, far from the reach of understanding.
I can only describe reality as I know it. I’m doing my best, and promise to keep trying. Shake on it.

prodromen. an early symptom that a disease is developing. (#ulink_ec42dd82-35ef-538d-8020-9912942ac3e8)
There is weather and there is climate.
If it rains outside, or if you stab a classmate’s shoulder with a compass needle, over and over, until his white cotton school shirt looks like blotting paper, that is the weather.
But if you live in a place where it is often likely to rain, or your perception falters and dislocates so that you retreat, suspicious and afraid of those closest to you, that is the climate.
These are the things we learnt at school.
I have an illness, a disease with the shape and sound of a snake. Whenever I learn something new, it learns it too.
If you have HIV or Cancer, or Athlete’s Foot, you can’t teach them anything. When Ashley Stone was dying of Meningitis, he might have known that he was dying, but his Meningitis didn’t know. Meningitis doesn’t know anything. But my illness knows everything that I know. This was a difficult thing to get my head around, but the moment I understood it, my illness understood it too.
These are the things we learnt.
We learnt about atoms.
This illness and me.
I was thirteen.
‘STOP THAT, STOP THAT AT ONCE!’
His face turned purple, and a thick vein started throbbing on the side of his neck. Mr Philips was the sort of teacher who wanted lessons to be fun. It took a lot to make him angry.
Jacob Greening could manage though. I can’t remember what he was doing, exactly. This was in science, so probably it had something to do with the gas taps. In the science block there were these gas taps on the tables for fuelling Bunsen burners. It might have been that Jacob put his mouth over one of them and was sucking at the gas to see what would happen – it might have been his face that was turning purple, his neck veins throbbing. Perhaps he was set to exhale it onto a lighter flame, to breathe fire.
Jacob wanted to make lessons fun too.
We’d met on the very first day.
It happened like this:
Dad had taught me to knot my tie, as promised. Jacob turned up to school without one. In registration he started whispering into my ear, as though we’d known each other for years. He was going on about needing to see the Head Teacher, how it was private, and really important. I didn’t listen properly. My mind kept taking me back to what I’d said to Mum, about hating her. She’d driven me to school in silence. I pressed my face against the cool glass, and she flicked through radio stations. I’d hurt her feelings, and was trying to decide if I cared. Jacob was still talking, only now I realized he was anxious. His words were tripping over each other. He had to see the Head Teacher, but he didn’t have a tie. That was the crux of it.
‘You can have mine if you want.’
‘Can I?’
I gave him my tie and he wrapped it inside his collar, then looked at me helplessly. So I knotted it for him. I turned down his collar and tucked the end inside his shirt. I suppose it made us friends. He sat next to me in lessons but at breaks he’d be gone, bolting through the school gates with his rucksack held tight to one shoulder, and his anorak flapping in the wind. He had special permission to go home. This wasn’t something he talked about.
Mr Philips crashed a fist onto our table, ‘It’s not good enough Jacob! This constant childish, dangerous behaviour—’
‘Sorry sir.’ Even as he said it, a smile crept across his acned face. It is strange how fast we change – he wasn’t the sort to give a shit about school ties any more.
‘Get out! Get out of my classroom!’
He slowly moved to pack his stuff away.
‘Leave your bag. You can get it after the bell.’
‘But—’
‘Out! Now!’
The problem with sitting next to Jacob was that whenever he drew attention to himself, everyone looked at me too. I felt a surge of anger towards him then. Here is a question:
What do you have in common with Albert Einstein?

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