Us vs the World E-Book

Catriona Child

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 364

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Why is Mum crying? Why is she up so early? Why isn't Dad looking after her? Something unusual is happening in an Edinburgh bungalow, and at the heart of it are Jude and Sam Redpath, a mother and son forced to confront both their grief and their darkest secrets. Still reeling from a doping scandal that shocked the athletic world and with a baby on the way, Jude knows she must keep her family safe, no matter the sacrifice. But what does that mean she should do? Child's third novel is a truly unique tale of grief and desperation. Us vs the World questions not only the nature of the digital world and the strength of family bonds but how far you would really go for what - and who - you love?

Leseprobe

CATRIONA CHILD was born in 1980 in Dundee. Hailed as ‘one of the brightest prospects among a thriving breed of fresh Scottish writing talent,’ she has a degree in English from the University of Aberdeen and an MA with Distinction in Creative Writing from Lancaster University. Her debut novel, Trackman, was published in 2012 and was described by The Herald as ‘having all the makings of a cult hit.’ Her second novel, Swim Until You Can’t See Land, was published in 2014. She has been published in The Sunday Herald, the 404 Ink Earth literary magazine, Northwords Now and in the Scottish Book Trust Family Legends anthology. She lives just outside Edinburgh with her husband Allan and their two children, Corrie and Alasdair.

First published 2021

ISBN: 978-1-80425-005-1

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

Typeset in 10.5 point Sabon by Lapiz

© Catriona Child 2021

For Alasdair

Contents

Preface

2018: Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Jude

Sam

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Winter 2023

I don’t know what month it is, but I know it’s winter. It’s dark and it’s cold and it’s becoming even harder to survive. Every day it seems like there’s less of us and more of them.

The world (or what’s left of it) versus them.

Alice and I were always so fixated on using the written word to try and save history. We were kids though and it was all a game back then. We never really believed something like this would happen to us.

They say that history is written by the victors. At the moment it doesn’t feel like I’m on the winning side, but if I don’t leave some record behind then who will?

2018

Sam

Mum’s crying. Why’s she crying?

Not just crying, sobbing.

Something bad has happened. Really bad. That’s not the way she cries when she talks about Granny, or when she watches The Notebook.

My stomach flips, churns inside me.

It’s still dark outside, what time is it? I reach over to my bedside table, feel for my watch, press the button on the side that makes it light up.

5:33am.

What’s she doing up so early?

She doesn’t sound real. More like an animal. Out of breath. Suck, suck, sucking in the air, like her lungs have stopped working. The noise is all around me, as if I’m wearing headphones and she’s inside my ears.

I should get up. Go and see her. But I’m stuck, unable to move. My legs frozen. I don’t want to get out of bed. I’m terrified of finding out the reason she’s making a noise like that. It might get me too.

I close my eyes against the shapes of my bedroom. I wish I could close off the noise as easily. I try to relax, to find the fuzzy images and muddled thoughts of sleep. Force myself down into dreams rather than have to deal with reality. But I can’t. The noise, the fear of what’s causing that noise won’t let me. I’m wide awake.

Something’s telling me that when I find out the cause, I’ll never be able to sleep again.

Where’s Dad? Why isn’t he looking after her?

She stops for a moment and blows her nose. I can hear the thickness of the snot. Her breath shudders and I visualise it scraping through her, catching on all the ridges and organs, making her body tremble. She’s still crying but it’s no longer the full-on belly ache of before. Now she’s whimpering like a child. Sucking in, in, in, trying to catch her breath.

My hands shake and I clutch my duvet. It’s warm under here. Not just in bed, but in the moment before I find out. Once I get up I’ll wish I was back here in my room, in this moment. I know I will. The me in here is different. The me who doesn’t know what’s happened. Once I go out there, the me of now might change forever.

I hear the kettle start to boil and the rattle of a teaspoon. I picture Dad pouring hot water into Mum’s mug. The one with my handprint on it from when I was a baby. Dad said he had to push the pram up and down the street outside the shop until I fell asleep, as that was the only way he could get me to stay still long enough to make the print.

Will he take the new baby to get one when she arrives? Will Mum use that mug instead? Put my one into the cupboard.

Dad’ll get the milk now. Open the fridge. Glance at the scan picture stuck to the door with magnets. The black and white blob of my sister.

What if something’s happened to her? To the baby? Dad said this time would be okay. The magic scan, he called it when he stuck it to the fridge door.

We’re okay. We have the magic scan. We know she’s a girl. Nothing can happen to her now she’s a girl.

No, it can’t be the baby. Dad would have taken Mum straight to hospital. He wouldn’t be making her a cup of tea. Decaf now. Everything about the baby, even the teabags.

Maybe it’s just hormones? Dad said we have to be patient with Mum. It’s harder to have a baby at her age, harder than when she had me. If she shouts at me for no reason, I just have to let her. She doesn’t really mean it.

It’s quiet now. No voices. No crying. Just the creaks of the house.

Maybe Mum’s in labour? I still don’t move. I definitely don’t want to see any of that. Alice tried to get me to watch an episode of One Born Every Minute when I told her Mum was pregnant. I watched about half before I had to turn it off. Still, Mum didn’t sound like any of those women. Especially that one the midwives all made faces about as they sat in the staffroom eating biscuits and drinking tea.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. The sound of my watch on the bedside table. It fell under my bed once and I woke in the middle of the night, could hear something ticking underneath me.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

I started to imagine someone under my bed. Hiding there. Lying beneath me, looking up at the bottom of my mattress. Giving themselves away by the sound of their watch.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

I convinced myself someone was under there. And even though I imagined hands reaching up, or a knife ready to plunge through the mattress, I still couldn’t move. I just lay there and listened to the tick, tick, tick, tick.

If I get up I make the bad thing happen. I set it in motion. If I don’t get up, the day won’t start. It stays still as long as I do.

Mum’s silence is worse than the crying. I have to get up. I can’t leave her like that.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

I count down in my head. Three, two, one. Three, two, one. Three, two, one. I’ll get up on one, I’ll get up on one. But every time I reach it, I start the countdown again. Three, two, one. Three, two, one. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

I start at ten instead, give myself longer.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…

Three, two, one.

I kick the duvet off and jump out of bed before I have a chance to stop myself. It’s not cold but I pull on socks and a hoodie. Anything to delay the moment. I open my bedroom door, stand in the hallway.

The kitchen light’s on and I can see Mum sitting at the breakfast bar. Arms out in front of her, hands cradling the mug. I don’t think she knows I’m here, even when I start to walk towards her.

‘Mum,’ I say from the doorway. It comes out a whisper, the phlegmy rasp of morning voice. I try to clear my throat but I can’t make my voice go any louder.

‘Mum?’

She stands and empties her tea down the sink before she notices me. She opens her mouth but the words get stuck somewhere and it’s just a noise that comes out.

I look around for Dad. What’s happened?

I want to tell Mum how much she’s scaring me, but I can’t. She doesn’t look like she’s really here. Like she’s some weird CGI version of herself.

‘Sam,’ she says.

Her voice is different too. Not Mum’s voice.

‘Sam,… I think… your dad…, he’s…, I think he’s died.’

Her voice rises and squeaks on the word died.

What she says isn’t complete. I wait for the next part of her sentence.

He’s dyed…

Dyed what? Dyed his hair? Dyed blue? Red?

But, no. That’s it. She’s looking at me for a reaction.

I can hear her voice saying the word over and over in my head. Died. Died. Died. The way she squeaked when she said it. I want to laugh at how funny she sounded. I have to clench my teeth to stop the laughter from blurting out.

‘Your dad. He’s… I think he’s…’

She can’t say it again.

That word that made her voice squeak.

Died.

Died.

Dead.

Dad.

Dad. Dead. Dad. Dead.

No. That’s not right. That can’t be what she said.

The fear inside surges through me. I knew something bad was coming, but not this.

She takes a step towards me, reaches out to take my hand. We’ve not held hands since I was in primary school. I can tell by her face that she’s not joking. There’s a pounding in my ears.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

I need to wake up now. This isn’t happening. This is just one of those bad dreams where you wake up and find yourself with your head under the pillow gasping for breath.

I try to force myself to wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Sam.

But it doesn’t work. I’m already awake.

‘Sam? Sam, darling.’

Mum’s hands are clammy. She stands in front of me. Her belly touches mine. I can feel the heat of it against me.

Sam, you’ve always been my little hot water bottle.

‘What happened?’

I was sure I heard Dad come home last night. But maybe that was the dream? That was the dream and this is reality. It’s all the wrong way round.

Mum shakes her head.

‘I don’t know, Sam. He said he had the flu or something…’

She can’t speak, can’t finish what’s she’s trying to tell me.

I’m embarrassed to cry in front of her.

I feel the pressure build in my throat and mouth, look at the floor. There’s a pea lying under the breakfast bar. I bend and pick it up, step away from Mum, pull away from her clammy hands. From the words coming out of her, from the heat of her belly. The pea is hard and shrivelled. I roll it between finger and thumb, finger and thumb, drop it in the food bin.

It takes this movement to process what she’s just said.

He had the flu.

You don’t die of the flu.

I don’t understand. When she said he’d died, my brain leapt to the conclusion that he hadn’t come home last night. Had been in an accident.

Nothing makes sense. Words turn to treacle inside my head. How am I supposed to trust what’s happening when I can’t trust my own brain?

‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

‘I gave your dad some paracetamol then I fell asleep on the sofa.’

She sits down again.

The floor tilts.

White noise in my head.

‘Why didn’t I wake up when the ambulance came? What did they say it was?’ I ask.

‘What?’ Mum replies.

‘The paramedics?’

‘What paramedics?’

‘The ambulance?’

‘I didn’t phone an ambulance.’

‘How do you know he’s dead then?’ My voice gets louder and higher. Cracks on the word dead. Why can neither of us say that word? I’m shouting. She’s not making any sense.

‘He might be okay. Why don’t you phone an ambulance?’

‘I’m going to phone someone now. I just… needed a moment.’

I know it’s wrong, but I want to shake her, hit her. Why isn’t she behaving the way she should? Why isn’t she acting like my mum? I run out of the kitchen into the hall, head for their bedroom.

‘Sam, no! Sam, don’t!’ I hear the scrape of her chair against the floor as she gets up to follow after me. Slow with all the extra weight.

She grabs the hood of my jumper, tugs me back, but then lets go. I stop at their bedroom door.

‘Sam, please. I’m not going to stop you but, please, just think if you really want to do this.’

I ignore her. I don’t care. Because he’s not dead. He had the flu, that’s all. I don’t know why Mum’s decided he’s dead, but she’s wrong. She’s wrong. She isn’t making any sense at all. She’s not a doctor. An image of her standing over Dad, feeling for a pulse, flickers through my head and I feel myself start to laugh again.

I push open the door.

The bedside light’s on. I can make out the shape of him under the duvet. I stop at the bottom of the bed. Hold my breath. Listen for his. Watch to see any rise and fall.

The duvet is still. The thunder of blood is in my ears.

What if she’s right? There’s a bad smell in here, like BO and farts but worse. Much worse.

Move, please move, Dad. Throw a pillow at me. Shout at me to get out, you’re not well. Ask me to bring you a coffee. Anything. Just do something.

Dad? I think I say it aloud, but then I realise I’m saying it in my head. Over and over. Dad. Dad. Dad. Wake up, Dad. Please, wake up.

I take a step forward.

His arm hangs out of bed, fingers brushing the carpet.

I stare at his fingertips, will them to twitch.

I take another step forward.

I can see Dad’s head properly now. His eyes are closed. His face doesn’t look right. His cheeks are blotchy, like corned beef. Has someone replaced Mum and Dad while I was asleep?

‘Dad?’ I say it out loud now. I don’t care if he’s not well. He needs to wake up. Stop scaring us like this.

‘Dad?’

My voice comes out all weird again. What’s happened to us? I went to bed like normal last night but something shifted while I slept.

‘Dad, please. Stop messing about.’

‘Dad, please.’

‘Sam, darling,’ I jump as Mum touches my arm, tries to hug me.

‘No! Get off me!’ I pull away from her and stumble beside the bed. Dad’s hand droops in front of me. I reach out, but stop before I touch it. It’s not right, it doesn’t look right. I poke it, poke it again, but it just hangs limp. I pinch it, nip it. Harder and harder. I want to hurt him. Why won’t he wake up?

I hit out at his hand, slap it over and over and over. I can’t stop thinking about that time in primary seven when he tried to hold my hand to walk me to school and I told him not to. My friends would laugh at me if they saw. And the way his face looked as he said no problem and let go. For the rest of the day I couldn’t stop seeing the way his face looked when he said no problem and let go.

‘Sam, Sam.’

Mum’s on the floor next to me now. She pulls me away from his hand and squeezes her arms around me, gripping me against that warm over-sized belly. She strokes my hair and whispers to me and it’s only then that I realise I’m crying. The tears blur everything and I can’t see her properly. I feel her fingers squeezing my shoulders, her voice soothing, telling me over and over that she loves me and it’s going to be alright.

21st October 2014

Hey Sam,

It’s 10:53am and I’m in Science. We’re meant to be watching this film on the eye, and long and short sight, but I’m writing to you instead. Mr Bennett – the science genius, has just worked out where the volume button is so we can actually hear what the film is saying! He’s now trying to get the film back to the start so we can see the bit we missed but I think that technology is beyond his abilities!

Anyway, I was thinking last night we could write an autobiography to each other so we know about each other’s lives before we met – what do you think? Well, it doesn’t matter what you think really as I’m going to write one for you now anyway. This is what this letter is supposed to be although I’ve just wasted half of it on other stuff about Science.

So here goes:

Name: Alice Elizabeth Wilson

Born: 10th April 2003 in Edinburgh

Life Story:

Hi, I’m in English now. I had to stop writing in Science because Mr Bennett made us all stop and draw a diagram of the eye. Anyway, I shall continue.

Life Story: Mum was super young when she had me, like a teenager. She told me

Okay, I’m at home now. Louise who I sit beside in English was being totally annoying and kept asking me what I was writing. Then we all got split up into groups to act out scenes from Twelfth Night, so I couldn’t finish this. So, where was I?

She told me… what? Oh yeah, so she told me that her waters broke in the middle of a History exam but I think she made that up. But yeah, she was super young. My dad was the same age but he left when I was two or something so I don’t remember him. I think they met at a Foo Fighters concert or something. Or maybe that was their first date?

Hi, I’m back. I had to stop writing there because we had a power cut. Exciting or what?! Not really, because I couldn’t see anything and Mum didn’t have any batteries for the torch! Anyway, it’s back on now, so I’ll continue. Again!!

When I was really little we lived with Gran and Grandad (he was still alive then) next door to you! I don’t really remember that though. There’s lots of photos of me there as a baby and sometimes I get mixed up between real memories and memories from looking at photos. Then we moved to a flat in Gorgie and I went to Dalry Primary School. When I was in P5 my Grandad died, it was really sad and Mum and Gran both went a bit weird for a while and that’s when they decided I was going to Mary Erskine’s where I am now. Mum says Gran is conflicted as she’s an old socialist at heart but she doesn’t want me to get pregnant at 16 and she thinks a private school will prevent that! Whatever?! As if I’m going to do that anyway. It’s all a bit Gilmore Girls really. Do you watch that? If you don’t, you should. I bet you’d like Rory!

My best friends at school are Emily, Rachel C and Rachel M – confusing, I know! I used to have a pet fish called Spektor but not anymore. I used to go to Guides on a Monday night but I stopped going. I play the flute at school and I’m in the school band. I’m learning to crochet right now as Gran is teaching me. I’ve been to France and Italy with the school but my best holiday ever was when Mum hired a camper van and we drove round Scotland and camped on beaches and stuff.

Anyway, this has taken me all day to write so I’m going to stop now. You have to write me back your life story, okay!

Alice

xx

Jude

‘Was that you, Sam?’

We’re both lying on the floor, like two wrestlers, tangled up in each other. How long have we been like this? Time isn’t moving the way it should.

‘What?’ he replies.

I try to work out how to get myself up off the floor, which limbs belong to me. The bump gets in the way.

‘Hang on,’ Sam says as I start to move. He pulls himself out from under me, then he’s on his feet, helping me up.

I hear it again. A groan.

The heartburn kept burping up into my windpipe, burning as I swallowed it back down. I forced myself out of bed to get a glass of milk. It was freezing and it went for my teeth as I gulped it down, but the indigestion dissipated almost immediately. I patted my belly, imagined the baby bathing in white, like Cleopatra. Adam kept telling me to take proper antacids, Rennies or something.

‘It’s just chalk, it’s not harmful. Like eating coal.’

‘Why would I eat coal?’

‘Loads of pregnant ladies crave coal, and it doesn’t harm the baby.’

‘Who do you know that has ever eaten coal?’

‘Ask your midwife next time you see her.’

I didn’t want to take anything. Not even antacid. Nothing that could harm the baby. Milk works for me and it feels like my bones and her bones strengthen with each glass. Chalk is brittle, full of air pockets, it dissolves in the rain.

Maybe she’d have a full head of hair when she came. An old wives’ tale I’d heard. Indigestion in pregnancy equals a hairy baby.

I rinsed out the glass and left it to drain on the counter. My feet were cold against the kitchen lino and I wished I’d put my slippers on. As I headed back to bed, I anticipated the cosiness of snuggling under the duvet.

‘His hand moved, I saw it,’ Sam says.

I look at Adam’s hand. His fingers twitch.

‘Thank God. Oh, thank God. Adam, Adam,’ I lean over the bed, shake him by the shoulders. ‘Adam, you gave us such a fright.’

Sam takes his dad’s hand, cradles the arm that hangs out of bed.

‘His arm’s all cold, Mum.’

‘Adam, Adam, wake up, darling. Oh, God. I should have phoned an ambulance.’

I honestly thought he was dead. The shock of that was so great I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t want to set things in motion. Make the call that would lead to him being taken away.

I glance across at the bedside table. The paracetamol lies untouched, next to the glass of water. Adam’s phone is there too. I bring it to life, my finger hovering over the button for emergency calls.

I checked the alarm clock as I got back into bed.

1:38am

I pulled the covers right up to my neck, pushed my feet between Adam’s thighs to warm them up. He was roasting, heat radiating from him. His pyjamas were damp, the sheets around him clammy.

‘Adam, are you okay?’

I rolled towards him, rested my palm against his forehead. I lifted the duvet, wafted it up and down.

‘I think you’ve got a fever,’ I said.

He groaned and turned over. Deep and phlegmy snores rumbled up from his belly.

I went back to the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water and pressed out two paracetamol from a packet lying in the cutlery drawer. When I got back to the bedroom, I switched on his bedside light and shook Adam awake.

‘Take these. I think you’re coming down with something.’

Adam opened his eyes and looked at me, but he was still half asleep.

‘I’m going to lie down on the sofa. I don’t want to catch anything with the baby. Shout if you need me.’

He grunted.

I bent over to kiss him but stopped myself. I could feel the heat, the moisture, could taste the salt without my lips touching him. I was scared of catching what he had. I pressed a finger to my lips instead, touched his forehead and left him alone.

‘He’s hurting me! Get him off me, Mum!’

Adam grips onto Sam with both hands. His fingers press into the skin, leaving white marks. He’s trying to pull Sam onto the bed, a strange rasping sound coming from his throat. His eyes are still closed, eyelids fluttering. He must be having some kind of seizure.

‘Mum!’

I hear Adam’s teeth snap, snap, snap as he tries to bite down. Maybe this is like sleepwalking? He’s in a sort of delirium and doesn’t know what he’s doing?

‘Adam. That’s Sam. What are you doing? Let go of him.’

I drop the phone, manage to prise Adam’s fingers away and pull Sam out of reach. Adam’s arms stretch out, grabbing and clawing at the air.

I woke under a blanket on the sofa, the TV flickering in front of me. I fumbled for the remote control, pointed it at the screen and checked the time.

5:02am.

I started to drift off again, but the need to pee stopped me. I kicked off the blanket and rolled off the sofa. While I was up I decided to check on Adam.

I laid my hand on his chest but I couldn’t feel him breathing. I couldn’t hear it either. I held my fingers over his mouth, under his nose. Waited for his musky morning breath to warm my fingertips, but there was nothing. Only the cold tingle from my washed hands. I pushed my fingers into his neck, dug deep to find a pulse. Pressed harder, trying to gag him awake. If only he would choke, ask me what the hell I was doing.

But he didn’t move. I tried his wrist. No pulse. I pulled the duvet aside, lifted Adam’s t-shirt and pressed my face against his chest. I wasn’t sure where his heart should be, so I moved my ear all over him, his chest hair fetid against my cheek. There was nothing. Nothing but silence. I started to say his name, over and over and over.

‘Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam.’

I shook him. Slapped the sides of his face. Gentle at first, but then harder, harder, not caring if I hurt him.

‘Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam.’

Adam writhes around on the bed, pushing himself up, desperate to get at us. I get flashes of his eyeballs, bloodshot and rolling. He’s not there. That’s not him in there. He’s having a fit or something. I feel like I’m underwater. All I can do is stare at him.

‘Mum, Mum!’ Sam grabs my face in both hands, pulls my gaze away and I break the surface again. He drags me out of the bedroom. We both stand in the doorway for a moment, stop to look back at Adam.

‘What’s wrong with him, Mum?’ Sam asks.

‘I don’t know.’

Adam tumbles out of bed and half crawls, half drags himself towards us. Without thinking, we slam the door on him. I’m reminded of the way we would play We’re Going on a Bear Hunt with Sam when he was younger.

Forgetting to shut the door like the characters in the book, then laughing as we jumped under the covers to hide and vowing we’d never go bear hunting again.

There’s no ambiguity here between savage or lonely. Adam is savage and will hurt us if he catches us. His gentle bear hugs replaced by a mauling beast.

24/10/14

Hey Alice,

How are you? It’s 7:32pm and I’m meant to be doing Maths homework but I’m writing to you instead. Thanks for your letter and your life story. I guess I can write one back to you if you want me to? There’s not much to tell though.

My name is Sam Redpath. I was born on the 19th February 2003 in Edinburgh. We used to live near the Botanic Gardens but then we moved next door to your gran after what happened to Dad. You know about that so there’s no point writing it all down, plus that’s Dad’s life story not mine.

My friends at school are Nick and Bryan. I used to go to an athletics club after school but I don’t anymore. I sometimes

My mum just came in and asked me if I was writing a diary! What is she on?!

I’ve totally forgotten what I was going to say now, and I can’t really think of anything else. I told you my life story wasn’t all that interesting. It’s now 8:46pm and it has taken me over an hour just to write this! Dad has just come in and told me to get on with my homework. He is so annoying sometimes.

Bye for now,

Sam

x

Sam

He gives us a moments relief before we feel him on the other side of the door. It’s like that scene in Jurassic Park: relax, and then the handle starts to rattle. The velociraptors have worked out how to open the door.

‘There’s a key,’ Mum says.

I grip the door handle, fight against him on the other side, as she rummages in the cabinet next to the front door. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her pulling out drawers full of paper, envelopes, old phone books, pens, rubber bands, medals.

‘Hurry up, Mum.’

‘I’m trying. We’ve not used them since we moved in.’

Finally she pulls out a keyring with a pile of old keys attached to it.

It’s almost like Dad knows there’s not much time. He’s doing his best to make it out here.

Mum tries key after key after key, fumbling with them on the keyring. It feels like forever, but the fifth one finally fits and clicks: the door locked. We both sink to the carpet, out of breath.

‘Thank God we never got rid of these old doors like we meant to,’ she says.

Dad sounds like a trapped dog. Whining, scratching, bashing himself against the door.

Mum’s face is pure white. It’s such a cliché. But she is. White as a ghost. Another cliché.

Mum’s a ghost and Dad’s a zombie.

Wait.

He’s what?

Why did that just come into my head?

A zombie? Don’t be fucking stupid, Sam.

There’s something seriously wrong with him. But a zombie? There’s something wrong with me too if I believe that.

‘We should phone an ambulance,’ I say.

‘They’d have to get the police to restrain him.’

‘Mum, we need to do something.’

‘I know. Let’s see if he calms down.’

‘But…’

‘Sam.’

That voice. The one she’s used on me since I was a kid. Don’t argue with me, Sam. I’m not changing my mind.

Why is she being so weird, still refusing to phone for help? If she’d just done that in the first place, instead of diagnosing death when she clearly has no fucking idea what’s going on.

Zombie.

The word pops into my head again.

Zombie.

I shake it away.

Zombie.

Is that why she’s being so strange? Does she think he’s one too? No, it’s just me being stupid.

There’s a crash and we both jump.

‘I think that was the wardrobe,’ Mum says.

Seven years bad luck.

There’s another smash as the other mirrored door goes.

Is that fourteen years now? Does it go up and up and up depending on how many mirrors you break, or can you break as many as you like in one complete incident? Alice’s gran would know.

Mum doesn’t look right at all. She’s usually so calm. The one with the plasters, who doesn’t panic at the sight of blood.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. Sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to snap.’

I take the key out of the keyhole and try to peer through. The hole’s too small though, too dark. I can’t see anything. There’s a bash that makes the door shudder. He must have heard me move the key.

‘Sam, get away from the door.’

Mum takes the keyring and removes the key for the bedroom. Puts it back in the lock. Then she shoves everything back in the cabinet again.

‘Come on, Sam. He’ll never calm down if we’re out here. Get away from there.’

Zombie.

I want to say the word to Mum. Say it out loud, take its power away.

I follow her into the kitchen.

We both stand looking at each other. Listening.

Evidence that he’s calmed down doesn’t come. Ten minutes later he’s still going. Moaning, pacing the bedroom. Trashing the place.

I shut the kitchen door and Mum sits on a stool at the breakfast bar. We can still hear him, but it’s muffled now. I put the kettle on to drown him out even more.

Mum’s mobile lies in front of her. She picks it up, swipes the screen and enters the passcode. I watch her dial 999 but she doesn’t hit call. She looks at the numbers until the power save kicks in and the screen goes blank. She swipes the screen. Dials 999 again. Watches as it goes blank once more.

999. Blank.

999. Blank.

999. Blank.

I want to shake her. Just phone them or put the phone down. Stop messing around. Make a decision. Tell me what we’re going to do.

The kettle clicks off.

‘Do you want a cup of tea, Mum?’

‘Tell me what to do, Sam.’

‘Have a cup of tea.’

‘No, I mean… who should I call? An ambulance? The police?’

What? She’s actually asking me that?

‘I don’t know.’

She puts her phone down. A picture of me and Dad on holiday last year is her background image. Her shortcuts arranged in such a way that nothing covers either of our faces. Then the screen goes dark again and I just see her reflection.

‘Yes, please.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll have a tea, please.’

I flick the kettle back on again, make us both a cup, sit next to her at the breakfast bar.

Zombie.

Zombie.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

I saw someone driving one of those 4x4 cars the other day, the ones that have the spare tyres hanging on the back door. They had a joke tyre cover, at least I think it was a joke. Instead of the usual rhino logo, or picture of a dog, it had the words Zombie Outbreak Response Team.

It made me laugh at the time. I thought it was cool.

Maybe we should call them?

‘Are you sure he was…’ I ask.

I can’t bring myself to say it. The word.

Dead.

I think I might cry again if I say the actual word. And I don’t want to. Today was the first time in years that I’ve let myself cry in front of her. Even during all that shit with Dad, when people at school were giving me a hard time, when Mum and Dad kept fighting, I didn’t. I locked myself in the bathroom, did my crying in there.

‘I thought he was. I was sure. Not that I’m medically qualified or anything.’

‘I thought he was too,’ I reply.

I did. I’ve never seen a dead body before, but when I went into their room and saw him lying on the bed… He didn’t look real. He didn’t look alive. It wasn’t Dad. I don’t know how I imagined a dead body would look, but he looked and felt like someone not there anymore.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

I sip my tea. I’m suddenly hungry. Starving. I’ve been up for ages and I’ve had nothing to eat yet. Don’t people stop eating when someone close to them di…

But he’s not de…

Is he?

All I can think about now is food. What can I eat? I just sit there though. What would Mum think of me if she knew what was going through my head?

Your dad’s a zombie and you’re thinking of your stomach!

That’s two of us then.

What’s wrong with me? Why am I thinking these dreadful things at a time like this?

And he’s not. He can’t be.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

Neither of us speak.

Sausages.

Bacon rolls.

Zombie.

Cornflakes.

Crisps.

Zombie.

Mars Bar.

Cheese.

I’m being totally heartless. My dad is…

Dead?

Alive?

Both at the same time.

What’s that word? The one they always say in Buffy to describe a demon. Alice’s favourite TV show.

Corporeal.

That’s it. Corporeal.

I don’t even know what that means.

Fuck sake. That’s my dad in there. And I’m sitting here thinking of Buffy. And zombies. And ways to initiate breakfast.

Maybe I’m in shock? Mum is. She’s being so weird.

‘Do you want another cup of tea, darling?’ she asks.

The darling makes me feel like an even bigger shit for wanting to eat. I nod. She gets up and flicks the kettle back on. I think about denying myself food now, even if Mum puts it in front of me. Punish myself on purpose.

I’m too hungry though.

Like Dad.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

Maybe I’ve got it too. I’ll become like Dad. Turn into that… whatever that is.

‘I should probably eat something,’ Mum says as she pours water into our mugs.

She rubs her belly. ‘I’m not sure I can face anything.’

I take that as a sign to make toast. The bread’s soft when I take it from the bag and it takes all my willpower not to just ram it in my mouth there and then.

Where has this hunger come from?

‘Sam! No wonder we never have any butter.’

I stop spreading the toast. Pile it on a plate. I’d made it all for myself but when Mum sees the plate she helps herself, so I place it down as if I’d always intended for us to share.

The first slice disappears before I can even savour the taste. I help myself to another. The butter greasy on my fingers.

There’s a blob of butter on the side of Mum’s mouth. She doesn’t notice it’s there. I can’t stop staring at it. It’s starting to bug me. Why hasn’t she noticed it? Why doesn’t she wipe it away? I feel like a total shit again for allowing myself to get irritated at something so stupid and which makes her seem so vulnerable. Eventually she takes a drink of tea, wipes her mouth, and it disappears.

‘He seems quieter now. What do you think?’ Mum asks.

She stands and opens the kitchen door, but it’s still the same. The scraping and scratching, the incessant moaning.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

Mum shuts the door and sits down again.

‘If we’re going to phone an ambulance, we have to do it now.’ she says.

‘Do you think we should?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. If we leave him any longer, and he doesn’t get better, they’ll ask why we didn’t phone straight away.’

‘Why didn’t you phone straight away?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should have.’

‘Don’t tell me what I should have done.’

She stands and clears the mugs and the plate, loads them into the dishwasher.

‘Can’t you put anything away?’

She puts the lid on the butter and puts the tub back in the fridge.

I’m still hungry, I want more.

Mum leans against the counter.

‘Do you remember what Dad was like when he took the drugs?’

‘What do you mean?’

Where has this come from?

‘Like, his moods. He lost his temper over little things.’

I nod as I remember the incident with my Lego. I used to have a big box of the stuff and I was always making these elaborate constructions out of it, castles, houses, forts. Each one bigger than the last, with different levels and rooms and staircases. I’d tip the Lego out onto the floor and scrabble through it for the right bit. I was doing that one afternoon when Dad came home from training and then I heard him and Mum start to argue in the kitchen. The next thing I remember was him bursting into my bedroom and smashing up my Lego castle.

‘Will you just shut up!’ He shouted at me.

He didn’t touch me but, for a split second, I thought he was going to. Mum went mental at him. Told me we were leaving. That made me even more upset though. In the end we stayed but Mum didn’t leave my side. I’d never seen Dad like that before. He apologised later, like really apologised. I think it scared him too, how close he got. That was just a few months before he was caught.

He never put that anecdote into his autobiography.

Mum said to me later that she thought he got careless on purpose. Got so ashamed of himself he wanted to be caught.

That wasn’t your dad, Sam, she said. That wasn’t your dad.

That’s not him now either.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

‘Is he on drugs again?’ I ask.

‘No, no. I don’t mean that. I just wonder if it’s like those mood swings? If we leave him, it’ll pass and we can get in there and see what’s going on?’

‘We’ve left him quite a long time already.’

‘I know. Listen, if you want me to phone someone, I will. Just tell me that’s what you want me to do.’

‘Do you want to do that?’

‘Part of me does and part of me doesn’t.’

It’s on the tip of my tongue.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

I don’t know what I want her to do. This isn’t fair. She’s the grown-up. She should decide.

Maybe she’s right? About the drugs. The mood swings.

‘You go and get ready for school. I’m home today, so I’ll keep an eye on him.’

School. School? I’d almost forgotten it’s a school day. I can’t believe she wants me to just get ready and head to school like nothing’s happened.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

The moment’s gone now. I can’t tell her.

I get up from the breakfast bar.

‘I’ll go for a shower then.’

‘And, Sam. We can’t tell anyone until we know for ourselves what we’re going to do. Not even Alice, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I reply.

Fall From Grace by Adam Redpath

I’m not trying to deflect blame but it was my coach, Kennedy Jones, who first suggested that we try something different. In all of our early conversations he never stated explicitly what it was we were about to do, but it was definitely implied. Words such as drugs, illegal, banned substances, cheating, were never said out loud, but we both knew that was what we were discussing. Maybe if we’d been more direct with each other, I might not have gone through with it. I just buried my head in the sand. Kennedy knew exactly how to pitch it to me. He massaged my ego, played to my sense of injustice, my love for my family.

You’re such a talented athlete. I wouldn’t suggest this to just anyone. You work hard, train hard. You already have the ability, you just need a helping hand.

Everyone else is doing it. This is about making it an even playing field.

You don’t take it during competition, it’s for training only. To aid recovery, help you train harder. You’re getting older now. Your body takes longer to recover.

You’ll be able to provide for your family. Give them everything they need.