SHOWERS.
DON’T EAT ANYTHING THAT’S BEEN OUTSIDE. NO FRESH FRUIT, VEG, FISH, MEAT.’
There was a question mark at the end of that, but the meat bit annoyed me; technically, apart from eating fish, I was a vegetarian . . . it was just that it was a bit hard to keep it up
sometimes and there’d been lapses – that Simon knew about and went on about.
‘Yup. Got it!’ I said brightly.
‘And, Ru, this is the most important thing.’
At the top of the list, he wrote one word, in capitals, underlined. Then he wrote over it again, and again. One word:
THINK
‘Do you understand?’ he asked.
It was too horrible; I just wanted to get this mini-lecture/test thing over with, but I knew ‘OK!’ wouldn’t cut it.
‘Like filling the kettle?’ I said.
‘Like filling the kettle,’ said Simon.
Phew. Comprehension test passed. But no –
‘Do you understand, Ruby? You have to think. You have to stop and think, whatever it is, whatever you feel, you have to stop and think.’
‘I get it,’ I said.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you get?’
‘That I’ve got to think,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘About . . . I dunno, about the water and stuff.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
He turned and held my face in his hands; it scrunched the Caspar-kissing sore patch a bit and made it hurt, but I was too freaked out to even say ‘Ow’.
‘Ruby,’ he said. ‘You have to think.’
It was the worst eyeballing he’d ever given me.
‘You have to think about yourself,’ he said. ‘You have to put yourself first.’
Huh?!
My whole life, I’d been told I was selfish. Simon, he’d just say, ‘Will you please stop being so selfish?!’ – while my mum would say something like,
‘Oh, Ruby,’ and I just knew she meant the same thing. And now?
‘You have to think about yourself first, Ruby. About your
survival
.’
Yup, he’d gone from weirding and freaking me out to full-blown scaring me out. He wouldn’t let up.
‘Before you do anything, what are you going to do?’ he asked.
My chin hurt.
‘Think,’ I said.
‘About what?’ he demanded.
‘About me,’ I said. Said? Any second now I could feel I was going to be forced to shout a bit, just to make him lay off.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Think.’
‘About?’
‘ME. Leave me alone, Simon – I’ve got it, all right? I have to think!’
‘About?’
‘Survival!’
‘Whose?’
‘MINE!’ I shouted. I hated him then, more than I had ever done. ‘MINE! ME!’
He let go of my face.
The house was still quiet. I’d shouted and the house was still quiet.
‘
Mum?!
’ I shrieked.
Shrieked; that’s a word for a kind of scream, isn’t it? Not some great howl of a scream, when you know, but the kind of scream you make when –
‘Think!’ Simon shouted, trying to grab my arm.
I was too quick for him. I stormed up the stairs; I flung open the door to their room.
Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . I saw my mum.
She was just lying there, curled round Henry, like she might be asleep. The bed-clothes were all rumpled up. I didn’t fling myself at her, in case she was just sleeping. Yes, I still
thought that was what it could be.
‘Mum?’ I said.
The way she was lying, on her side, she had one arm stretched out across the pillow. Her hand was all bloody. The blood had soaked into the pillow. Her other hand, not bloody, lay on
Henry’s tummy. He was lying on his back, completely still. Only the tiniest little red sore on his cheek.
‘ MUM?! ’
Simon’s hands snatched round my middle and pulled me back. He pinned me to him.
My scream died in the air; it died and joined all the other screams. They live like ghosts, like echoes in the minds of the living.
My scream burst out and died and my lungs refused –
refused
– to suck in air. I wanted to stop, to die with that scream.
‘Breathe, breathe, breathe,’ Simon kept saying. He was crying. He would not let me go.
Then it comes. Your lungs suck in air; your body decides for
DON’T EAT ANYTHING THAT’S BEEN OUTSIDE. NO FRESH FRUIT, VEG, FISH, MEAT.’
There was a question mark at the end of that, but the meat bit annoyed me; technically, apart from eating fish, I was a vegetarian . . . it was just that it was a bit hard to keep it up
sometimes and there’d been lapses – that Simon knew about and went on about.
‘Yup. Got it!’ I said brightly.
‘And, Ru, this is the most important thing.’
At the top of the list, he wrote one word, in capitals, underlined. Then he wrote over it again, and again. One word:
THINK
‘Do you understand?’ he asked.
It was too horrible; I just wanted to get this mini-lecture/test thing over with, but I knew ‘OK!’ wouldn’t cut it.
‘Like filling the kettle?’ I said.
‘Like filling the kettle,’ said Simon.
Phew. Comprehension test passed. But no –
‘Do you understand, Ruby? You have to think. You have to stop and think, whatever it is, whatever you feel, you have to stop and think.’
‘I get it,’ I said.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you get?’
‘That I’ve got to think,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘About . . . I dunno, about the water and stuff.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
He turned and held my face in his hands; it scrunched the Caspar-kissing sore patch a bit and made it hurt, but I was too freaked out to even say ‘Ow’.
‘Ruby,’ he said. ‘You have to think.’
It was the worst eyeballing he’d ever given me.
‘You have to think about yourself,’ he said. ‘You have to put yourself first.’
Huh?!
My whole life, I’d been told I was selfish. Simon, he’d just say, ‘Will you please stop being so selfish?!’ – while my mum would say something like,
‘Oh, Ruby,’ and I just knew she meant the same thing. And now?
‘You have to think about yourself first, Ruby. About your
survival
.’
Yup, he’d gone from weirding and freaking me out to full-blown scaring me out. He wouldn’t let up.
‘Before you do anything, what are you going to do?’ he asked.
My chin hurt.
‘Think,’ I said.
‘About what?’ he demanded.
‘About me,’ I said. Said? Any second now I could feel I was going to be forced to shout a bit, just to make him lay off.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Think.’
‘About?’
‘ME. Leave me alone, Simon – I’ve got it, all right? I have to think!’
‘About?’
‘Survival!’
‘Whose?’
‘MINE!’ I shouted. I hated him then, more than I had ever done. ‘MINE! ME!’
He let go of my face.
The house was still quiet. I’d shouted and the house was still quiet.
‘
Mum?!
’ I shrieked.
Shrieked; that’s a word for a kind of scream, isn’t it? Not some great howl of a scream, when you know, but the kind of scream you make when –
‘Think!’ Simon shouted, trying to grab my arm.
I was too quick for him. I stormed up the stairs; I flung open the door to their room.
Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . I saw my mum.
She was just lying there, curled round Henry, like she might be asleep. The bed-clothes were all rumpled up. I didn’t fling myself at her, in case she was just sleeping. Yes, I still
thought that was what it could be.
‘Mum?’ I said.
The way she was lying, on her side, she had one arm stretched out across the pillow. Her hand was all bloody. The blood had soaked into the pillow. Her other hand, not bloody, lay on
Henry’s tummy. He was lying on his back, completely still. Only the tiniest little red sore on his cheek.
‘ MUM?! ’
Simon’s hands snatched round my middle and pulled me back. He pinned me to him.
My scream died in the air; it died and joined all the other screams. They live like ghosts, like echoes in the minds of the living.
My scream burst out and died and my lungs refused –
refused
– to suck in air. I wanted to stop, to die with that scream.
‘Breathe, breathe, breathe,’ Simon kept saying. He was crying. He would not let me go.
Then it comes. Your lungs suck in air; your body decides for
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