Storm

by Nicola Skinner

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Busy thinking. You wouldn’t understand,’ I said.

  Please, he mouthed silently.

  I took a deep sigh.

  ‘Oh all right,’ I said. ‘This had better be good.’

  And I slowly and deliberately got up from the bed, enjoying his look of barely concealed impatience. I followed him down the stairs and out into the hot quiet garden.

  From the side of his mouth, he mumbled, ‘I thought we could …’

  Surprised, I noted the tinge of pink creeping up his neck towards his face.

  ‘I thought we could brain gage IRL together.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Brain gage IRL. You and me. This afternoon?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He blinked. ‘Sorry. Sometimes I forget you’re from the past.’

  I tried not to look insulted. ‘How would you say it the old-fashioned way?’

  ‘Erm …’ He creased his forehead in concentration. ‘Hang out?’

  ‘And you all say brain gage IRL now?’

  ‘Yeah?’ He looked at me as if that made total sense.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I haven’t got long,’ he prompted me again. ‘Only an hour or so.’

  But he wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. ‘Why have you ignored me for the last week?’

  His face didn’t move a muscle. ‘I don’t want my father to know I can see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  He flicked those eyes at me, and then I realised. How had I been so dense?

  ‘Oh, because I’m dead? Would he think you’d lost your marbles?’

  Now it was his turn to look stumped. ‘What?’

  ‘Gone crackers? Mad? Er, mental data glitch?’

  He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Something like that.’

  I gave an airless sigh of relief.

  Of course. Scanlon didn’t want to get a reputation for seeing ghosts. Well, that made total sense. I could understand why you’d want to keep a thing like that to yourself. At the start of Year Five, Melissa Troutbag went through a period of insisting she could see her dead grandmother’s face in our school canteen’s baked potatoes. No one sat next to her at lunch for a whole term.

  Scanlon checked his watch. ‘I haven’t got long. Is there anywhere we can go without those flipping Historic Homes people staring at me all the time? Somewhere quiet?’

  Small shadows leapt across his face. I glanced up at the leaves rustling over us and had a brilliant idea.

  ‘I know just the place,’ I said. ‘Brain rage ABC coming right up.’

  ‘It’s … Never mind.’

  FOR TWO BLISSFUL weeks, I had a buddy. Our friendship didn’t, admittedly, look good on paper. It wasn’t what you’d call conventional. My friend never stayed long, never invited me back to his house, wasn’t much of a conversationalist, rarely smiled … and he smelt quite bad.

  So yeah, it wasn’t standard. We weren’t giving each other Bestie For Ever! necklaces, put it that way. But there were four or five wonderful afternoons when Scanlon managed to give his dad the slip and come alone. He’d race to the house on an old bike, looking and smelling so peculiarly pungent that the other tourists in the queue would draw their children closer and mutter about raising the price of the admission to keep the place special.

  I hated to admit it, but they had a point. Scanlon was no oil painting. He’d turn up in stained clothes, reeking of sweat and paint and other odd industrial smells I couldn’t place. Sometimes I’d detect another smell too, a sickly-sweet stench like a plate of fruit that had gone bad in the sun, but that would come and go.

  And he was often sunburnt all over, with cuts and grazes on his hands. But he wouldn’t be drawn on how he got them. The one time I asked if he was all right, he’d muttered something about doing some DIY for his dad, he was fine and couldn’t I just drop it? Then he’d given a meaningful look at my threadbare Christmas jumper, shell-studded legs and battered face, and I hadn’t asked again.

  Our favourite hide-out was the tree house. Apart from being the only place without a Room Sentry, in the drowsy late-summer afternoons there was something lovely about lying on its rough boards while the leaves danced over us. It was also surprisingly easy to evacuate. Scanlon would simply sit on the wooden planks, with his particular aroma, and stare at the other children in that unnerving way of his, while I shook a tree branch or two to get the message across.

  On the rare occasions that didn’t work, he’d tell the kids that the café was giving out free ice creams. Once all the children had scrambled eagerly down the rope ladder, he’d draw it up quickly, so none of them could come up again, then turn deaf when they begged him to let them up. And he’d keep ignoring them until they drifted off.

  ‘Ignoring children is something you’re really good at,’ I’d tease him, and for a second, he’d stare at me warily, then flash those ratty teeth, and give a short, sharp laugh of surprise.

  Like Sea View on a rainy day, conversations with Scanlon needed to be navigated extremely carefully. I quickly learnt which topics of conversation he preferred, and which to steer away from.

  Talking about his home, or where he lived, wasn’t an area he seemed that comfortable with. (‘We move around a lot, depending on Dad’s work,’ he’d explained curtly.)

  What did his dad do? (‘Collector,’ he’d said, then abruptly announced it was time for him to leave.)

  Once he did tell me how old he was. (‘I turned twelve a month ago.’) But when I’d replied excitedly, ‘Me too! Well, nearly. We’re practically the same age! We should have a joint birthday party!’, he’d just stared at me impassively. Then he said: ‘Your concept has flaws.’

  He was closed up about his mum. (‘She died when I was six. No, I don’t have any brothers or sisters.’)

  He wouldn’t be drawn on what Crawler wanted him to find at Sea View Cottage. (‘I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, he’s not going to find it. Not if I have anything to do with it.’)

  He wasn’t much good at small talk either. If I asked if he’d had a good day, he’d shrug and mutter something unhelpful like: ‘Define “good”.’

  When I asked if he had any hobbies, he’d snorted and said witheringly, ‘Oh, absolutely, I sail in the summer and ski in the winter.’ And that had been that.

  So yeah, not asking him anything too personal was a good rule of thumb. But I’m not saying he was bad company. Not at all. Some things he was much happier to chat about. He was obsessed with schools. He couldn’t get over the fact that when I’d been alive, every child in Great Britain had been able to go to school for free. ‘Education has changed completely since you were alive, Frankie. There aren’t any state schools any more. They’ve all been closed since the government decided to spend the money on World War Three instead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. World War Four. Now, most kids, unless they’re mega-rich, just use Skool Tools at home – it’s like a plug-in? And if there’s anything we want insta-cog for, we ask Coddle and then you normally get an instant load. If you have the tech credits, of course, which I usually don’t.’

  He loved sharing what he’d been able to learn from his plug-in schooling, whatever that was.

  That was how I finally learnt what tent udders meant.

  ‘People don’t say things are “good” or “bad” much these days. Most adjectives have been replaced by … numerical grading,’ Scanlon explained. ‘In your century – or what we call the User Experience Age – people got asked so often to rate their experiences on the internet that it changed language permanently. That’s what Skool Tool Module Twelve says anyway.’

  After puzzling over this for some time, I worked out that words like ‘brilliant’ became, over time, replaced by the phrase ‘ten out of ten’. Which, over time, changed into ‘ten outer’. Which changed to ‘tent udder’ and sometimes just ‘tent’.

  And he said that people smelt of mushroom sou
p because loads of clothes were made out of mushrooms in the twenty-second century. Something to do with cotton not being sustainable, or something. The last thing he shed light on was the whole pyjamas-during-the-day trend. He said that people in his century wore sleepwear fashion in the same way that people in my century wore sportswear fashion: ‘As a bit of a lie. Like, a lot of people in your century wore sportswear and never did any sports at all, right? But they did it to look healthier than they actually were.’

  Basically, people in the future didn’t get much sleep but tried to pretend they did through wearing pyjamas during the day to give the illusion they were more well rested than they really were. And then, looking more enthusiastic than usual, Scanlon started using words he’d learnt from Skool Tools. Words like ‘status indicators’ and ‘sartorial power statements’, until I asked him to stop because my brain ached. At which point he’d laughed shyly, and asked, ‘Is this how brothers and sisters talk to each other?’

  But above and beyond all of those topics, there was one thing he loved to talk about the most: my family. Although, really, it was me that did the talking. He just liked to listen.

  USUALLY, HE’D TURN up with very specific questions about the life we’d had at home, and then settle back against the trunk of the tree with a satisfied sigh, like I was his favourite box set. Questions like: ‘What does “tuck you in” mean and is it fun?’ or ‘Did anyone ever make you a cake for your birthday, and what was it like?’

  At first, it was hard to answer him. Not only was it painful, but my memories had grown rusty.

  ‘There are holograms down in the garden for that sort of thing,’ I snapped, the first time he asked me about the past, one afternoon in the tree house. ‘Why don’t you ask them?’

  Warm, fat raindrops began to fall. The edge of the boards shone in the light.

  ‘I’d rather hear it from you,’ he said simply. ‘So, did you ever go camping?’

  My throat grew thick. Panic filled me when I skimmed my thoughts. I can’t remember!

  But Scanlon looked so eager, so encouraging, that my fears melted away.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said slowly, experimentally. ‘I think so. Maybe.’

  Like tiny flowers, images began to open up softly in my mind. ‘There was one place we used to go near here, called … Blue Cove, I think? You could only reach it if you knew the secret way through the woods …’

  It was like opening an old toy chest and finding all my faded favourites waiting inside for me. As I sifted through my half-remembered life, pain and love approached each other, gently.

  ‘We’d go there on Friday afternoons, after school, as soon as it was warm enough. We’d string up four hammocks on these trees we always used …’

  Scanlon made himself more comfortable by lying down on the boards with his arms behind his head. ‘What would you do then?’ he murmured.

  ‘Well …’ I drew my knees up to my chest. ‘We’d light a fire and have crisps and squash, and then we’d rest some baking potatoes on the grill for later, and then we’d swim in the …’ my voice stumbled, ‘… sea.’

  The pain turned sharp. I bit my lip.

  Scanlon gave me one of his gentlest close-lipped smiles and it helped.

  ‘Birdie always went in the water first – she was like that – and Dad would always go last, doing a big showy-offy dive, making a noise like a whale with a blowhole …’ I laughed then, out loud. ‘Then we’d go back to the hammocks and the baked potatoes would be ready, which we’d have with baked beans and sour cream, cos you have to have sour cream with baked potatoes – that is a fact.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said a soft voice.

  ‘Then me and Birdie would drink too much lemonade and have a burping competition, and Mum and Dad would drink rum, and we’d play cards, and when the moon was high they’d tuck us into our hammocks and …’

  There was a soft, repetitive sound from Scanlon, like deep breathing.

  I stared at the wet boards. ‘… there were always loads of shooting stars.’

  I closed my eyes. For a moment I saw the orange flames dancing in the night’s velvet, heard the snap of the logs and the sound of my parents talking quietly, while the waves moved gently on the beach as if they would never, ever hurt us.

  I tilted my head back and listened to the rain fall on the leaves overhead, as my eyes widened with realisation. I’d been lucky. I’d been happy. I’d had everything a human being could need: adventure, love, a rickety-rackety house at the top of the world, parents who cared more about spending time with us than loading the dishwasher.

  Yet ever since I’d died, I’d been pitied. Tourists had marvelled at how little we’d had, how simple and unlucky we’d been, and I’d believed them. Well, we had been unlucky – at the end. But the rest of the time we’d lived life the way it was meant to be lived.

  But that sort of joy – quiet and private – is hard to imagine, unless you have it too. True happiness is the biggest secret in the world. It’s as impossible to capture as mist. You might as well try to put the solar system in a jam jar. It can’t be contained or explained; it’s beyond words.

  So if the tourists didn’t understand – so be it. If all they saw was what we didn’t have, that said more about them, not us, and I’d just have to make peace with that. Besides, who could blame them for not really getting it? They did their best with the relics we left behind. If they thought we’d had a picture of someone else’s pug over our sofa, what did it matter? After all, when someone shows you their life, what are you expected to notice?

  And it would happen to them too. One day, their descendants would look back at their time on Earth, and misunderstand them as well. It was just the way it was. But at least I knew what we’d had. I saw it properly, for the first time, and that was enough.

  I looked over, feeling as if something inside me had loosened, and wanting to say thank you somehow, but Scanlon was fast asleep and snoring gently.

  ONE AFTERNOON HE turned up with vivid bruising down his arms.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I asked.

  ‘I was building for my dad,’ he muttered in that sideways manner, flashing his Repeat Visitor card at Chrix and slipping into the dark hall. ‘Slipped. Fell into some scaffolding. Nothing to worry about.’

  I eyed him uncertainly. I wanted to ask him what he’d been building that could have been so dangerous – he was twelve, after all, so it could barely have been anything more challenging than Lego – but something about the way he glared at me defiantly made me hold back.

  Once we’d navigated the hall and kitchen and made our way into the garden, we fell into an uneasy silence. I waited for Scanlon to climb up the rope ladder of the tree house, as usual, but he seemed distracted.

  He took a deep breath and glanced around. Something in the skin of his face seemed to sag. That smell came back too, the one of rotting fruit, and I was unexpectedly filled with dread.

  ‘Frankie, this is my last visit. I’ve come to say log off,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Log off. Er … goodbye? We’re leaving today. Packing up. We’re going somewhere else. Dad wants us to go to the Republic of Scotterland – he’s got a tip-off he’d like to investigate for his collection.’

  ‘D-do you have to go?’ I stammered.

  He nodded grimly. ‘Yeah,’ he said softly. ‘I have to go. I always have to go.’ He straightened his back and met my eyes. ‘But honestly, Frankie, this trip here has been the best I’ve ever had.’ He blinked rapidly, looked up at the sky. ‘I’ve had an okay time. I’ve … well, you know – you.’

  I stared at him, stung by how final he sounded.

  ‘And you’ve only just thought to tell me this now? You’ve had an okay time?’

  He flinched. ‘Please don’t get angry,’ he said through lips gone white and bloodless. ‘Please. You promised you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why? What difference does it make? You’re not even going to be here. Look at you
, dishing out instructions as you abandon me. Wow, whatta pal—’

  As my voice tiptoed steadily closer to fury, Scanlon began to look around the garden with horrid jerky movements, like a frightened bird.

  ‘Frankie, I’m begging you. Don’t do this. Just … let’s say goodbye calmly, okay? I know you’re upset—’

  ‘You could say that.’

  He squirmed, then looked me in the eyes with a dreadful sincerity. ‘Look, Frankie, don’t take this the wrong way, but this is a good thing. I’m glad I won’t be seeing you again.’

  At the sight of my face he had the grace to look sheepish and said, ‘No, sorry, that came out all wrong.’

  But it was too late by then. Things inside me were flapping their jagged wings.

  ‘I thought we were friends, Scanlon,’ I said. And then the full reality of what this meant sunk in. ‘If you leave, I won’t have anyone – anyone. You can’t go. I … need you.’

  You’re the only person in my life – death, whatever – now. You’re the only one who can see me.

  ‘You don’t need me,’ he muttered. ‘In fact, you’re better off without me.’ And he gave me a searching look before saying, ‘Log off, Frankie.’

  Then he turned and walked back into the house through the kitchen.

  I followed him, stumbling and inadvertently walking through tourists, light-headed with anguish, trying and failing to work out how to persuade him to stay, to not abandon me too – not like …

  We’d just reached the hall when a figure seemed to materialise out of the dark.

  ‘Hello, son,’ said the shadow.

  ‘Dad,’ said Scanlon in a curiously guilty voice, like he’d been caught with his hand in the sweetie jar. ‘I … was just—’

  ‘Saying your goodbyes?’ Crawler said.

  Something about the way his eyes raked around the hallway set my teeth on edge.

  ‘When I couldn’t find you at home I had a hunch you’d be here.’

  Scanlon’s whole body seemed to shrink as he walked towards his father.