sticky-out ears. He was wearing jeans and a Power Rangers T-shirt, and he was staring up at me, hiseyes really big and round, that way little children can. He looked scared, but also… familiar. Like I’d met him before or something.
Huuuurrr , he said, like a groan, tinggg .
Mum didn’t even react, just carried on about how I ought to start looking after the garden.
“After all, you’re the one who uses it most, and you’re old enough to use a lawnmower.”
I lowered the frying pan; I mean, you can’t whack a little kid, can you?
“How about you start today?” said Mum. “Since you’re feeling better.”
She couldn’t see the little boy at all. Only I could.
He stretched out his hand. Huuuuuurrrr , he groaned, tinng .
I took a step back, but the little boy didn’t move. He was motionless, like a freeze-frame.
“Mum,” I said, trying to sound normal, “can we go back inside?”
She peered at me. “There are no rats out here, so don’t think you can just slob in front of the telly. If you’re well enough to run around, you can help me with some chores.”
“Fine,” I said, not taking my eyes off the little boy. “Whatever.”
Mum gave me a really suspicious look, but she still walked back inside. I took another slow step away from the little boy, and then I couldn’t stay calm any more and I ran straight for the house. As I reached the door I glanced back, and the little boy had vanished.
“You can start by dusting the living room,” said Mum, and for once in my life I was happy to, you know? As long as I was in the house, where everything was normal.
Mum’s living room is really different to Dad’s. The sofa’s comfy and there are cushions everywhere. She has loads of little things on the shelves as well, like candles, vases with coloured twigs in, and photos. Ones of Gran and Granddad, my aunt and cousins, Mum and Brian on the beach, a dog Mum had when she was little, all that. There are photos of me too, about ten of them, starting when I was a baby. I’ve seen them so often I don’t even notice them any more, they’re just part of the background of the room. But as I wiped the shelf, my mind still on what had just happened, one of the photos made me stop completely still. It was in a silver frame, of me standingproudly in my school uniform, the day I started primary school.
Everything went a bit dark around me and all I could hear was my own breathing.
The little boy in the back garden, he looked exactly like me. Me when I was five. Even down to the haircut, even down to the sticky-out ears.
I picked up the photo and stared at it.
Exactly. Definitely.
Just like me.
Chapter Eight
Isis
Isis felt like her mum and Gil set out to ruin her weekend. Gil turned up at the flat on Saturday morning, and he and Cally were obviously making up for not seeing each other: they filled up the sofa, filled up the living room. Isis didn’t have anything against Gil, but this felt like an invasion. She retreated into her bedroom and tried reading, but it was hard with all the giggling and kissing going on.
Her parents had never been like that when they were still together, it had mostly been shouting. After her dad left, Isis used to ask Cally where he was, and mark all his trips onto a world map pinned to her bedroom wall. A way of being with him, and kind of exciting too, to think of her dad in all those exotic places so far away.
Then one day she’d done an online search and found half a dozen companies running cruises around Europe, some of them even taking tours around the coast of Great Britain. Why hadn’t her dad found a job on one of those?
Isis knew other children whose parents were divorced, but their mums and dads still talked and got on. Perhaps her parents had been too in love to be friends afterwards? She’d heard that could happen.
Isis imagined her dad walking into the flat now and stopping in horror at the sight of Cally and Gil snogging away. He’d ask what they
Huuuurrr , he said, like a groan, tinggg .
Mum didn’t even react, just carried on about how I ought to start looking after the garden.
“After all, you’re the one who uses it most, and you’re old enough to use a lawnmower.”
I lowered the frying pan; I mean, you can’t whack a little kid, can you?
“How about you start today?” said Mum. “Since you’re feeling better.”
She couldn’t see the little boy at all. Only I could.
He stretched out his hand. Huuuuuurrrr , he groaned, tinng .
I took a step back, but the little boy didn’t move. He was motionless, like a freeze-frame.
“Mum,” I said, trying to sound normal, “can we go back inside?”
She peered at me. “There are no rats out here, so don’t think you can just slob in front of the telly. If you’re well enough to run around, you can help me with some chores.”
“Fine,” I said, not taking my eyes off the little boy. “Whatever.”
Mum gave me a really suspicious look, but she still walked back inside. I took another slow step away from the little boy, and then I couldn’t stay calm any more and I ran straight for the house. As I reached the door I glanced back, and the little boy had vanished.
“You can start by dusting the living room,” said Mum, and for once in my life I was happy to, you know? As long as I was in the house, where everything was normal.
Mum’s living room is really different to Dad’s. The sofa’s comfy and there are cushions everywhere. She has loads of little things on the shelves as well, like candles, vases with coloured twigs in, and photos. Ones of Gran and Granddad, my aunt and cousins, Mum and Brian on the beach, a dog Mum had when she was little, all that. There are photos of me too, about ten of them, starting when I was a baby. I’ve seen them so often I don’t even notice them any more, they’re just part of the background of the room. But as I wiped the shelf, my mind still on what had just happened, one of the photos made me stop completely still. It was in a silver frame, of me standingproudly in my school uniform, the day I started primary school.
Everything went a bit dark around me and all I could hear was my own breathing.
The little boy in the back garden, he looked exactly like me. Me when I was five. Even down to the haircut, even down to the sticky-out ears.
I picked up the photo and stared at it.
Exactly. Definitely.
Just like me.
Chapter Eight
Isis
Isis felt like her mum and Gil set out to ruin her weekend. Gil turned up at the flat on Saturday morning, and he and Cally were obviously making up for not seeing each other: they filled up the sofa, filled up the living room. Isis didn’t have anything against Gil, but this felt like an invasion. She retreated into her bedroom and tried reading, but it was hard with all the giggling and kissing going on.
Her parents had never been like that when they were still together, it had mostly been shouting. After her dad left, Isis used to ask Cally where he was, and mark all his trips onto a world map pinned to her bedroom wall. A way of being with him, and kind of exciting too, to think of her dad in all those exotic places so far away.
Then one day she’d done an online search and found half a dozen companies running cruises around Europe, some of them even taking tours around the coast of Great Britain. Why hadn’t her dad found a job on one of those?
Isis knew other children whose parents were divorced, but their mums and dads still talked and got on. Perhaps her parents had been too in love to be friends afterwards? She’d heard that could happen.
Isis imagined her dad walking into the flat now and stopping in horror at the sight of Cally and Gil snogging away. He’d ask what they
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