What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible

by Ross Welford

  The nurse doesn’t look at me. ‘She has a visitor, eh? Lucky you, Lizzie: that’s two in one day!’ Then she says to me, ‘Sorry, love, I just start my shift. Look in the visitor book, though. Everyone sign in.’

  I know I didn’t sign in. The home seems pretty relaxed about it.

  ‘Hey, Lizzie. How are you no boilin’ under this blanket, hey? Come – I’ll take it off you.’

  The nurse lifts off the tartan blanket. Great-gran’s hands have been under it the whole time, clutching a piece of stiff paper.

  It’s a photograph. An old one, with a shiny surface.

  I know instantly who the man is – it’s my dad, all beard and grungy hair – and he’s holding a little child who could be me, but might not be (it’s a bit blurry). And there’s a woman behind him, and she’s grinning and has a hand on my foot, as if she’s wanting to be in the picture, wanting to show that she’s part of this.

  Except it’s not my mum. This woman has a mouth that is heavily made up, with dark, upswept glasses, an enormous auburn hairdo piled up. She’s vaguely familiar in a rock-star/celebrity sort of way but I have no idea of her name.

  Why would someone who is not my mum be in a picture like that? It could be some sister of my dad, I suppose. Come to think of it, it could be anyone.

  Anyone at all.

  But it isn’t, is it?

  Great-gran wanted me to see this photo, and that’s why she told me to come.

  Great-gran shakily turns the photo over and over in her hands, and looks up at me slowly.

  ‘Is this me, Great-gran?’ I ask, and I take it from her gently. ‘Who’s the woman?’

  Great-gran is not looking at me. Her mouth begins to move, and she licks her lips. I recognise this: she’s building up the energy to say something.

  ‘Who are you?’ she says. Her eyes have demisted and they’re looking straight at me.

  Surely Great-gran knows who I am? My insides give a tiny lurch as I realise that perhaps she’s finally losing her mind. Not recognising her own great-granddaughter?

  Gently, I say, ‘It’s me, Great-gran. Ethel. Your great-granddaughter.’ I add, a little louder, ‘Ethel.’

  Her eyes narrow and her lips come together in what could be an expression of impatience.

  ‘Who are you, hinny?’

  I take the picture from her and look closer. It’s definitely me; it’s definitely Dad. I point to the woman with all the hair.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I ask.

  But Great-gran’s eyes have misted over, as if she’s pulled a net curtain across her gaze, and she turns again to the window.

  I hold the picture up close to get a better look. That’s when I smell it.

  Old tobacco. Sniffing the picture, I confirm to myself that there is a very faint but definite smell of cigarettes on it.

  So I’m peering at the picture and sniffing it, which probably looks strange, and I become aware that the nurse from before is looking over my shoulder. She has been listening to our conversation, and I didn’t realise she was there.

  ‘You know who that looks like?’ the nurse says, as she plumps up a cushion and wedges it behind Great-gran. ‘Aw, you so young. She die years ago. Probably before you are born, even. Is like Felina! Looks the spit. She did that song, “Light the light … dad a dee dee …”’

  The nurse sings a line from the same song that Boydy sang that day. I’ve also heard of the name Felina, I think; obviously a stage name.

  I nod to the nurse. ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve heard that.’

  I feel sure the picture is a present for me, so I put it in my pocket.

  Then the nurse says something else. She just chunters on, making conversation.

  ‘Destroy by show business, that’s what they say.’

  ‘Who? Felina?’

  ‘Yes. Drugs, alcohol … the whole lot. Ruin her. Kill her eventually, yes? Let it be a lesson, petal.’ She’s wagging a finger at me, but she isn’t being mean.

  ‘I know she like the songs.’ She turns to Great-gran and speaks a little louder. ‘You like Felina’s songs, don’t you, Lizzie? You quite the fan girl, aren’t you?’

  Great-gran just blinks out of the window. I think she smiles a little.

  ‘I am in here the other day and one of the songs come on the radio. Hey, I could tell she is listenin’. Her fingers start movin’ with the music, I swear to God.’

  On the way home, I use up some of my phone’s data allowance to listen to ‘Light the Light’ by Felina. It’s a slowish song, with lots of fuzzy guitar, a saxophone (I think) and deep drumbeats. And Felina’s voice is throaty but beautiful.

  ‘You always said that I never should,

  And I always said that I would and I could.

  You were never there

  But I didn’t want to care, so …

  Light the light! Let me see you tonight.

  Light the light! Let me put it right …’

  I’m not much good at analysing song lyrics. So many of them seem to be pretty meaningless. But I think this is clearly an angry poem about a woman and a man she wasn’t getting on with. It makes me sad, but I still listen to it three times.

  I’m back shortly before Gram is dropped off by the Revd Henry Robinson.

  I don’t tell her that I’ve been to see Great-gran, and I don’t show her the photo. I know it’s significant, but I can’t work out why, and it’s pretty clear that it’s some sort of a secret.

  Why would Great-gran ask me who I am?

  I’m guarding a secret. Gram and Great-gran too. It’s an isolating feeling. I wonder: if everything was out in the open, would I do what I do next?

  That night before bed, in readiness for tomorrow, I drink a litre of Dr Chang His Skin So Clear. I nearly throw it all back up again, but don’t.

  Tomorrow I will be invisible again. Tomorrow I will make amends for being so mean to Elliot Boyd.

  But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You know it, and I know it.

  Making amends for being mean is nice and everything – and, yes, we should all try not to hurt other people’s feelings in the first place – but it’s hardly a good enough reason for such a risky venture.

  So why am I doing it?

  It’s the last thing I think of before I fall into a fitful, sweaty sleep:

  Who am I?

  Who am I?

  I’m going to turn myself invisible again, and I’m going to find out.

  And now, another confession.

  I am a thief.

  Not a bad one. It’s just that the stuff from China on the internet, Dr Chang His Skin So Clear, I bought using Gram’s credit card.

  It’s wrong, I know, and if Gram ever found out she’d be so upset with me.

  I don’t think she will find out, though. Not for a while, at any rate. I know for a fact that she’s truly hopeless at checking her bank statements: they pile up, unopened, in a drawer in the kitchen for weeks and weeks, and then she’ll have a whole evening when she opens them all and puts them in a folder that once or twice a year she hands over to Mr Chatterjee, who does her accounts.

  If I wanted to, I could probably use Gram’s card to order all sorts, but I don’t. In fact, this is the only time I’ve ever done it and that was only because Gram refused my request to order it for me on the grounds that it was ‘stuff and nonsense’ and ‘quite possibly dangerous’.

  So, I am a thief.

  I am now about to become a forger as well.

  I have to forge a sick note from Gram to my school – I mean, if I’m invisible, they’re going to think I’m absent, aren’t they? This, as it turns out, is even easier since the school accepts emails for absences.

  Next morning I’m up at six and downstairs on the computer before Gram gets up. I have opened up Gram’s email account.

  TO: admin@whitleybayacademy.ac.uk

  FROM: beatriceleatherhead12@btinternet.co.uk

  RE: Ethel Leatherhead, Class 8A

  Please excuse Ethel from school today. She is unwel
l with a stomach complaint. I expect she will be back tomorrow.

  Thank you

  B. Leatherhead (Mrs)

  I click SEND and then go into the ‘SENT’ folder and delete the email.

  Now the waiting starts. I need to wait for the school administrator to reply with an acknowledgement, then delete it immediately. That way it won’t show up on Gram’s phone if she checks her email at work.

  The computer pings with an incoming email, but not the one I’m waiting for, so I turn the volume down.

  Mrs Moncur, the administrator, is usually at school by about 7.45 because I have seen her arrive when I used to go for early choir practice (until Gram stopped me because she thought I wasn’t getting enough sleep).

  Gram comes down at about 7.30.

  I’m nervous but trying to act normally, keeping an eye on the computer.

  ‘Have you taken the paper in?’ asks Gram when she comes in for breakfast.

  We have the newspaper delivered in the morning, and Gram reads it while eating a slice of wholegrain toast and half a grapefruit. Meanwhile, I munch my cereal.

  ‘No,’ I reply.

  The paperboy is totally unreliable, missing about one day a week. And when that happens, Gram goes to the computer to check the headlines online.

  Time to think quick. The router is on the other side of the kitchen from the computer, by the fridge, and as Gram pulls out the stool to sit down, I casually take my glass to get some juice and flick the router’s switch to OFF.

  It’s only going to be a temporary solution. I mean, Gram’s not a computer expert, but she can turn a router on and off.

  I hear her tutting.

  ‘Honestly. Ethel, can you have a look at this? I can’t open the internet.’

  ‘Have you run a diagnostics check?’ I ask, leaning over her and clicking with the mouse. ‘It was playing up yesterday.’

  A diagnostics check takes a couple of minutes, but it’ll come back with a message saying, You are not connected to the internet. Please check your router.

  While the check is running, Gram leaves the kitchen.

  I’m going to have to act quickly.

  I open up Word, select a boring font and rapidly type the following:

  YOUR INTERNET SERVICE PROVIDER IS TEMPORARILY DISABLED. ERROR NO. 809. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.

  I do a quick screen grab and import it into the photos folder.

  Oh my, I forgot how long the photos take to load …

  Once it’s there, I open it and hit EDIT, cropping it so that it’s just a rectangle of text, which I move to the desktop.

  I can hear Gram coming back downstairs.

  I position the notice bang in the middle of the screen, and take another screen grab, which I open and enlarge to full screen just as Gram comes back into the kitchen.

  I adjust my facial expression from one of TOTAL PANIC to mild irritation and I tut.

  ‘Some problem with the server,’ I say. ‘Look.’

  She comes over and reads the error notice. It actually looks nothing like a real error notice, but if you’re not suspicious then it looks OK.

  Thankfully Gram’s not suspicious. She waggles the mouse a bit, tuts to herself, then goes to put the kettle on again.

  Result! At that moment, an ‘incoming message’ alert appears at the top right of the screen.

  Thank you for informing us of your child’s absence. I hope she recovers soon.

  Yours sincerely

  Mrs D. Moncur (Administrator)

  I hit ‘delete’ quietly while Gram’s back is turned.

  Phew. All that for a day or two off school.

  Now that Gram has left for work (I ‘suddenly remembered’ a Geography assignment that I hadn’t finished, so she left without me), I have chugged another two cups of what I now think of as Dr Chang’s Fantastically Foul His Skin So Clear.

  I am getting better at keeping it down. I am not feeling sick so much, although my stomach is churning with nerves and is distended with gas, just like the last time.

  I figure I will wait for the gas to start to make its escape, as it were, before I get on the sunbed. I want everything to be the same as before.

  I don’t have to wait long. An hour or so after Gram has left, I start on the burping.

  I’m trying to back-time from the start of our school Whitley’s Got Talent show, which is 1.30, straight after lunch. Last time, my invisibility lasted about five hours, so really I don’t want to get off the sunbed till about 10.30 or later. That means that, so far, my timing is fine.

  My heart is beating, my stomach is twisting, my brain is racing, and as for my burps – you just don’t want to know. This is not a normal smell. Even if you’d been eating curried eggs or something, you could not produce a smell like this. It hangs in the air of the garage like a toxic fog.

  Getting on the sunbed this time is different from the last – mainly because I know what is going to happen, so I am nervous, and also I won’t fall asleep. Instead, I just lie there, with my eyes shut.

  I’ve put the radio on this time, and a caller to the radio station is saying:

  ‘… so I’d like you to play “Light the Light” by Felina for me please, Jamie.’

  That’s strange. I mean, I know it’s just a coincidence, but still …

  ‘Great choice! Great choice. One of my personal favourites. Why that one, Chrissie?’

  ‘It’s for my mum,’ says the caller. ‘It reminds me of her. She passed away when—’

  But Jamie Farrow cuts her off, presumably because nine thirty in the morning is no time to be getting maudlin on Radio North-East.

  ‘For your mum! That’s lovely, Chrissie, what a nice thought, and I’m sure she appreciates it wherever she is. So, for Chrissie in Blaydon, and her lovely mum, here she is: the late, great Felina with “Light the Light”.’

  The song is already familiar to me: the slow boom boom boom of the bass drum to start, then a deep, rusty guitar chord followed by Felina’s throaty vocals, and for some reason – no doubt the combination of the fear I’m feeling and everything else that’s happening – I find myself getting emotional. A lump appears in my throat, which I swallow back down, and I have to turn the radio off.

  I lie in silence and let the time drift by, and I close my eyes because it’s not good to stare at the UV tubes inside a sunbed.

  I know I don’t fall asleep, but it’s like waking up. I know it’s happening, because the UV light starts coming through my eyelids, slowly at first.

  I open my eyes to take a look at what’s happening.

  Holding my hand in front of my face, I can see through it: it’s like it’s made of a translucent plastic, getting clearer by the second. It’s hard to see precisely, because my eyes are a little bit dazzled by the strong light, but it is definitely, definitely working.

  I know it is finished when I close my eyes tight and I am still looking at the mauvey light of the sunbed tubes.

  To be on the safe side – although I’m not sure if ‘safe’ is the right word here – I lie there for an extra few minutes before lifting the lid and climbing off.

  I go over to the mirror and marvel once again that I am totally, utterly, amazingly invisible.

  And now I’m going into school.

  I’m standing on the front step, and I discover that I just can’t do it.

  I can’t confidently stride forward and out into Eastbourne Gardens and turn right up towards school like I normally would.

  I’m almost certain it’s because I am naked.

  Not that anyone can see me, of course. But I can feel the breeze on my bare stomach and it’s just not right.

  I try to imagine that I am wearing a swimsuit, which helps.

  I get out of the door and a few metres up the road before turning back when I see old Paddy Flynn shuffling down to the seafront on his Zimmer frame. I know in my heart that he can’t see me. It’s all going on in my invisible head.

  And while I dither on the doorstep, I run throu
gh the plan again:

  Go onstage, invisible.

  Take the guitar from Boydy, who will be murdering some song or other.

  Make it look like he’s levitating the guitar.

  Boydy gets loads of applause and people say he’s awesome, so …

  He forgives me for calling him fat, which I didn’t really, but I did more or less.

  I couldn’t tell you why it bothers me so much, what I did to him. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago that I didn’t even want to be friends. But it does. Maybe it’s because if I don’t try to make it up to him then I’m just as bad as Aramynta and the others.

  More than anything, it’s the look on Boydy’s face that day in the school canteen. The look of someone who has just discovered that everything is not as he thought it was. I can relate to that.

  Whatever the reason, it seems like I’m doing this.

  First, though, I have to get out of my front door, and perhaps the answer is clothes.

  I’m not doing the clown mask again, though, that’s for sure.

  Well, half an hour later I’ve made it to the school gate and it was a piece of cake, really.

  Jeans, socks, trainers, an old zip-up rain jacket that no one at school will recognise (see? I’m thinking ahead), a pair of Gram’s white gloves, sunglasses and …

  A stocking over my head! Just like a bank robber (from back when people robbed banks). I’ve taken a pair of Gram’s tights (clean ones) and cut one leg off, pulling it over my face. The colour is sort of flesh-ish, so if I zip up the rain jacket over my mouth, and pull the hood’s cord tight, there’s only my (invisible) nose and the sunglasses showing.

  I do look a bit odd, I’ll admit. It’s a muggy June day and most people are going around without jackets, but still, if I keep my head down you don’t really notice. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  And now I’m standing outside the school gate and it’s locked. A year ago, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but ever since some girl in Year Ten’s uncle turned up to try to take her away, the school has had this massive security overhaul, which means thumbprint sensors and cameras on the gates.