We Own the Sky

by Luke Allnutt

  I am sitting forward in my chair, because I don’t want to miss a word. “And after Josh died?”

  “Well, I kidded myself at first, didn’t I, still thinking there was something to it. Josh did last longer than all the doctors thought he would. And maybe if he’d started sooner, then it would have worked. That’s what I told myself, that it was my fault.” Nev looks down into his lap. “It was money, as well, though. I admit that.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes, money.” Nev looks up at me. “I’m not trying to make excuses, like. I know I done wrong. I got in too deep, didn’t I, just too deep. It were one of Dr. Sladkovsky’s staff, who worked in the marketing department, and they saw my posts on the forums, and then they offered me a commission for every patient I brought to the clinic. I was desperate, you see, absolutely desperate. I owed so much to Sladkovsky, over a hundred thousand pounds. The house, after all the other debts were paid off, only covered half of that. Well, they said I could pay my debts off by working for them.

  “I wasn’t sure at first, because I knew I would have to lie about Josh, but then they threatened all this legal action and talking about this extradition treaty. I had already lost the house, everything like, and I was just so scared because I had to provide for Chloe, and there’s no work around here now, nothing. And then the money started coming in from Sladkovsky and it were a lot—real good money—and I started paying off the debt, and we were able to move out of me mum’s and come down here...”

  “Chloe?” I say.

  “Oh, sorry, yes, I’m jabbering away, aren’t I. Chloe is Josh’s sister.”

  The little rain boots at the door, the pictures on the fridge, the cartoons in the background. Him and his little one.

  “I knew what I were doing was wrong, but I couldn’t let Chloe down, you see. She lost her mom, her brother, and I didn’t want her to see her dad go away to prison. I wanted her to have a home, with her own bedroom an’ all.”

  The clouds have obscured the sun, and the light is dimmer now in the front room.

  “Can I, um, can I get you anything, a tea or a coffee or something?” Nev says.

  I don’t answer, just shake my head.

  “And your son, Jack, you said he went to Sladkovsky’s?”

  “Yes, when we were out of options. Jack had a few treatments, and then we stopped.”

  I don’t know why, but I take out the photo of Jack I carry around in my wallet and give it to Nev.

  “Ah,” Nev says, smiling. “I think I remember him from your emails. He’s a nice-looking lad. Can definitely see the resemblance.”

  I take the photo back and look at it again. It was taken in a children’s playground, close to Regent’s Park, just around the corner from Dr. Flanagan’s office on Harley Street. I feel empty, as if I have been fasting: a gripy hollowness that cannot be filled.

  A football hits the window again, and I can hear the glass shudder and bend. Nev does not even flinch. In the corner of the room there is a pile of folded clothes, and I can see that he is ironing his daughter’s school shirts.

  “So why did you stop then?” I say.

  “Stop doing stuff for Sladkovsky you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want the truth?”

  “It would be nice.”

  “I paid off the debt,” Nev says, shrugging. “I was free. They dropped all them legal proceedings.” Nev stops speaking and looks down into his lap. “Look, I... I really am very sorry, about what I’ve done, about what happened to your Jack.”

  It bothers me hearing him say Jack’s name. It seems improper, as if Jack should only be spoken of in hushed reverence. Not by a stranger. Not by Nev.

  “Did the money buy that then?” I say, nodding at a huge high-definition television in the corner.

  “You gonna think I’m lying, but I actually won it. In a raffle, like.”

  “Right, Nev, because you’d never lie to me, would you? You’d never do that.”

  I shift in my seat. The foam in the cushions is old, and I am sinking into a gap in the middle. I look at Nev telling his sob story, his wiry body hunched over in his chair.

  “Do you know how much hope you gave me? And not just me, but hundreds of other parents in exactly the same situation. You won’t remember this, Nev, but I remember. I remember when I got an email from you. I was at our house in London, on the patio. I think I must have read it a hundred times. ‘Good news,’ you said. ‘Another clean set of scans for Josh.’ Still today, I remember those words, because they meant everything to me. I used to read that email over and over again, on my computer, on my phone...”

  I stop. There is nothing more to be said. I stand up to leave and Nev remains seated, motionless, crumpled in the corner. I walk over to him, and he thinks I am going to hit him and he cowers, sinks farther back into the cushions.

  “You’re pathetic, Nev. Absolutely pathetic.” I want to punch him, to smash in his face, but I do not trust myself, scared that I would become unhinged, so I turn around and walk out. As I close the front door behind me, I can hear him crying.

  Outside, the kids who were playing football are now huddled next to the car and I see him again, the boy I thought was Josh. Up close he looks different. His blond hair, which before seemed to shine, is greasy and unkempt. He has cold sores around his mouth, as if he has been sniffing glue.

  “You like watching kiddies play football, do you, mate?” Josh says. He is older than I thought, only about half a head shorter than me. He is swigging from a big yellow can of energy drink, and spits some thick stringy spittle onto the ground. When I look at him now, he does not look anything like Josh—his face is much sharper, harder; his hair a different hue. Was it just wishful thinking, a trick of the mind?

  “Fuck off,” I say.

  “Fack off,” he says, imitating my London accent, and they all laugh, mimicking my southern vowels. “Bit far from home aren’t you, mate,” and the other kids cackle again and move closer as I walk to the car.

  “Is that the one who gave you a hundred quid to suck him off, Gary?”

  They all laugh, like a deranged Greek chorus. At the back of the group, I can see the two boys who told me where Nev lived, their baseball caps pulled down over their faces.

  As I close the car door, the boys move closer, en masse, like a well-drilled regiment. My hands are shaking and I fumble with the keys, and have to grip the steering wheel to keep them steady. I screech away, hearing the chant of “Pe-do, Pe-do!” as the kicks and stones rain down on the car.

  4

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Fri Jun 2, 2017 11:45 am

  From: Rob

  Recipient: naws09

  Hello, hope everything is good with you and you’re feeling a bit better. You asked in your last message why I took my son to Dr. Sladkovsky. Well, the short answer is because I’m stupid, because I was desperate, because I couldn’t accept that my son was going to die.

  I’m not making excuses. My wife, Anna, could see Dr. Sladkovsky was a fraud. She told me, over and over again, but I didn’t listen. I treated her terribly and, understandably, she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I wish I could make it up to her, do something about the pain I’ve caused, but I think it’s too late now.

  Other than that I’m fine. As ever, thanks for listening. How are you doing?

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Fri Jun 2, 2017 1:27 pm

  From: naws09

  Recipient: Rob

  Hi, Rob. Not so bad, thanks, a little lost in my thoughts these days. (That happens when I don’t do much but work and come home to an empty house.)

  I wish so much I had my old life back. Sometimes I look at Facebook and see what I was doing that day three years ago, before this all happened. It makes me so sad to see my old routine: play center, my aerobics class, family days ou
t. It’s strange—a world that is very familiar but now is so distant.

  I have this photo of my daughter, Lucy, in the bath. She is standing there with her goggles on, because she loved to wear goggles in the bath and stick her face under the water and blow bubbles. In the photo she has such a lovely expression on her face, almost a little glum or sulky, as if she’s fed up with me taking photos. I can’t stop looking at it. It’s like I want to touch the photo, to climb inside it, to be back in that bathroom with her again. Anyway, sorry, this message has been all over the place. Probably not making much sense. Take care.

  I have downloaded all of the messages to Nev from Hope’s Place and organized them in a database. That way it is easier to go through them all, by location, by the year they were sent. I cannot exactly say why I am reading them. I know I am looking for something, but what? An explanation, as to how I fell for Nev, how I so readily believed Dr. Sladkovsky?

  I recognize some of the names from Hope’s Place. Thomas Banson. John Stevens. Murial Stenovic. Priya Davidov. It is quickly apparent that most of their children are now dead. I read their obituaries in local newspapers, about their love for Lego, their favorite fluffy slippers, their beloved Leicester City FC. There are eulogies on Facebook, shared hundreds of times, that speak of their children’s resolve, their grace and humor right up until the end.

  I was never interested in the people on Hope’s Place. I did not care about their lives. I just read their posts to find out what treatments their children had received and how that might apply to Jack. I had no interest in the off-topic threads, their weekend plans and road trips, the word-association games they sometimes played.

  I think I even looked down on them. Their bake sales and hashtags. The dolphin swimmers, I used to call them. The people who talked about being blessed, who praised every sunrise, who tried to convince the world—and themselves—that their child’s cancer was really a gift.

  Now I feel like I want to know them, all these desperate parents who poured their hearts out to Nev. So I read their stories. The forensics of how this came to be: the loss of appetite, the dizzy spells at school, how at first they thought it was nothing, just too much football on the weekend. In meticulous detail, as if they were testifying in court, I read about the day their child was diagnosed: whether the sun was shining, what the traffic was like that day, the smell of the receptionist’s perfume, the feel of their clammy skin on the leather seats in the waiting room.

  I read about their family holidays, the jobs they loved and lived for, their trips to the cabin on the lake. The things they did with their children, the days out at Peppa Pig World, the superhero birthday parties. I read about their hopes—a clinical trial, Vitamin-C infusions—and how quickly they were dashed. I read about their loss of faith, how they cursed a God that could allow this to happen.

  They talked a lot about the “before.” Before diagnosis. Before this all happened. Before Jamie got ill. Because now life was delineated differently. It was no longer “before we got married,” or “before Jamie was born.” There was now a new before and a new after. And I noticed just how much they needed to talk about this before, to resurrect this old life, because that was the world they wanted to return to. I understood why they told Nev how much they used to have—the football tournaments, the canal-boat holidays—because then he might understand just how much they had to lose.

  There was another reason why they told Nev everything. Because sometimes telling your story is the only way to stay alive.

  Re: Newly diagnosed

  by johnkelly» Mon Jun 5, 2017 8:05 am

  Hello this has all happened so quickly. We have just received the devastating news that our beloved daughter has a tumor on her brain stem. They are still not sure what kind and we are in shock. She is only ten years old and is the captain of her school soccer team.

  We haven’t told any of our family yet and we have to wait to hear what the doctors say but we wanted to ask if anyone has any experience with tumors on the brain stem? What types of tumors do these tend to be? Can she still be cured? It’s very difficult trying to find answers on this. Can anyone help us please?

  John Kelly

  Re: Newly diagnosed

  by Rob» Mon Jun 5, 2017 8:30 am

  Dear John,

  So sorry that you’re joining the club that no one wants to join. In answer to one of your questions, only pathology would truly show the tumor type and grade. I’m afraid I can’t help you on your particular question about the brain stem, but I am sure that others will weigh in.

  Please, please, try not to panic until you know exactly what you’re dealing with. (I know that’s easier said than done). And please try to stay off Google. There are many different types of tumors—and a lot of them are curable in children. Even in just the last few years, treatments for brain tumors have improved vastly. There is so much to be hopeful about.

  Please let me know if I can help in any way and feel free to PM me any time on the forum if you want to talk. Thinking of you.

  Rob

  Re: Newly diagnosed

  by motherofdavid» Mon Jun 5, 2017 10:36 am

  Don’t really know how to start this but here goes. Our little boy James was diagnosed just over a month ago with Grade 3 Astrocytoma and we had some hope after diagnosis, some stories from this forum actually, and there was this clinical trial that James might have qualified for, but none of it has worked, nothing, and now they’re thinking of stopping treatment because they’re saying there’s nothing else they can do.

  This has just crushed us even though I think deep down I knew it was coming. How on earth can God be so cruel, James is only seven and they say he has probably a few months, maybe even weeks and I knew it was bad when he was diagnosed but thought we might at least have a year or two. I think my husband knew this all along but when the doctor came I have never seen him look so sad so broken. Our life has just gone and I don’t know how I can carry on if we lose him and no one seems to know anything, whether there’s anything now that can help and I just can’t make sense of it, I am just broken.

  Re: Newly diagnosed

  by Rob» Mon Jun 5, 2017 11:02 am

  Dear motherofdavid,

  I’m so sorry that you have received this news. There are no words to make it better. After going through this with my own son, I think there is no making sense of it and it is best not to even try, at least for now.

  All you can do is cherish every moment you have together—as you say yourself, you don’t know how long that will be.

  I wish you and your family all the best. Please feel free to get in touch if you need to talk. I sent you a PM with my contact details and I’m here to listen any time.

  Rob

  Subject: Sorry

  Sent: Wed Jun 7, 2017 12:05 pm

  From: Nev

  To: Rob

  Dear Rob,

  It’s probably too late now and there’s nothing I can say to you, but I just wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for what I’ve done. It was completely wrong of me and I have hurt you and countless other people.

  I am trying to make amends and contacting all of the parents I have deceived. I have also been voluntarily to my local police station to give a statement about my role in all this. I realize, given the case against Dr. Sladkovsky, that I might face criminal proceedings. I will accept any punishment for what I have done and I deserve everything that’s coming to me. I am worried about my Chloe but I have spoken to my sister and she said she could look after her if I had to go away for a while.

  As I said, I don’t expect forgiveness, but I do want you to know how sorry I am and if there was any way I could make it up to you, I would.

  Best Wishes,

  Nev

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Thu Jun 8, 2017 12:05 pm

  From: naws09

  Recipient: Rob


  Hi Rob, just a quick note to say I was very happy to see you on Newly Diagnosed! I know it might not seem like such a big thing, but it has helped me so much. (That sounds terrible, I know. I don’t mean to make it about *us* when of course it’s about helping people going through an awful time, but well, I hope you know what I mean.)

  If I can be philosophical for a minute, I suppose in each of us there is this need to give, to love, to share ourselves—and when we have children, we have this perfect vessel for that. A place we can put all of our love. When I lost my son, suddenly that was all gone. That love didn’t have anywhere to go anymore. I think that’s what I’m trying to do on Newly Diagnosed. Trying to help people but also trying to find a place for all my love (as selfish as I know that sounds).

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Thu Jun 8, 2017 12:15 pm

  From: Rob

  Recipient: naws09

  Thank you. You expressed it perfectly. I want to write more later, but have to run out now. I’m a little confused from your last message. You said when you lost your son. Did you lose another child, as well as Lucy?

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Thu Jun 8, 2017 12:16 pm

  From: naws09

  Recipient: Rob

  I wouldn’t make a very good spy.

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Thu Jun 8, 2017 12:16 pm

  From: Rob

  Recipient: naws09

  What do you mean?

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sent: Thu Jun 8, 2017 12:17 pm

  From: naws09

  Recipient: Rob

  My little slip, my giveaway.

  It’s me, Rob. It’s Anna.

  beachy head

  we were sitting in the sun having a picnic, looking down at the lighthouse and the rocks, and all you could talk about was the box, the kids takeout box from the chinese restaurant. god, that box, Jack, you were so besotted with it, wouldn’t let it out of your sight. you even slept with it in your bed, still with the grease stains and prawn-cracker crumbs until mommy insisted we wash it out. i know what you loved about it, jack. it was the pictures of the balloons, the chinese lanterns, the humming birds flying into the burning sun.