by Kim Slater
I must have only had a couple of hours’ kip last night. It feels like Sergei’s mate Chopin is playing one of his Nocturnes up and down my leg – with a sledgehammer.
‘Dr Hall did say it would be tough for a few days,’ Dad says, as if that makes it all OK. He pops the second pill out of its plastic bubble and hands it to me.
‘Can’t we get any stronger painkillers than this?’ I swallow the second tablet down with a swig of tea. ‘I can’t stand this throbbing all day; it’ll drive me nuts.’
‘These are quite strong . . .’ Dad inspects the label on the packet. ‘You can only take them every four hours, too.’
Great. Every day, my life gets to be more of a train wreck.
‘Let’s get you into your chair.’ Dad turns and calls out, ‘Sergei!’
Seconds later, in Sergei bounces with that smug look pasted on to his face.
‘Here I am, Pete.’ He’s all eager to please. The creep.
He drapes my other arm around his shoulders, and between them they manage to get me across the hall into the living room.
By the time I get my bum on the seat cushion, I’m dripping with perspiration and my leg feels like it’s on fire.
‘I’ll pick your crutches up today,’ Dad says, moving the table lamp next to me and placing my mug of tea next to it. ‘Not as they’ll be any use to you at the minute, but Dr Hall said, as soon as you feel up to it, you can start to move around a bit on them every day.’
I smirk as I think about the satisfaction I’d get from wrapping one of those crutches around Sergei’s head when he’s buzzing around me like a fly. Then I feel bad when I think about how he’s trying to help me. I can’t help wondering if I’d have been as caring if he’d been the one mowed down . . .
‘That is better, Calum,’ Sergei trills. ‘Keep your neck up.’
Dad laughs. ‘Chin up, Sergei. It’s chin up.’
‘Ah, thank you, Pete. One day, I will get the hang of your strange British sayings.’
‘Your English is brilliant, lad – isn’t it, Calum?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘I suppose.’
Dad has got some local jobs on today, so he’s not back home until later. It seems like he really did mean it at the hospital when he said he’d be spending more time at home.
When he’s gone to work, Angie brings me in an omelette and a sliced tomato. For breakfast.
I look down at the food but I don’t touch it.
‘You must eat, Calum.’ She plonks her hands on her hips.
‘I don’t want it.’
She never even asked what I fancied. Who eats anything but cereal for breakfast?
It wasn’t that long ago, I could do what I liked. I made all the decisions in this flat when Dad was working away. Now I’ve got somebody else’s mum acting like she’s my mother, too.
‘Come on. Just a few mouthfuls.’
‘I. Don’t. Want. It.’ I don’t look at her and she whisks the tray away.
‘You know, you have got quite grumpy spending so much time alone,’ she teases me. ‘Luckily, you have us now, to keep you company.’
Angie goes to work and Sergei sidles back into the living room.
I don’t know why, but I keep thinking about my mates. Linford, Jack and Harry – their faces shuffle in my mind like a pack of playing cards.
‘I could build my next model in here, next to your chair?’ Sergei offers. ‘Perhaps you would like to watch how it is done.’
I grit my teeth as another flash of agony shoots from my hip, all the way down into my foot.
‘Or perhaps we could—’
‘Can’t you just leave me alone?’ I snap. ‘I’m tired and I need these painkillers to start working. I can’t even think straight with all this pain, never mind watch you play with building kits, like a big kid.’
‘Of course.’ Sergei walks backwards a few paces. ‘You know, you are not the only one hurting, Calum. Do you ever think of anyone except yourself and how you are feeling?’
I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him, but his words echo in my ears like they want to be heard.
By mid-morning the sharpness of the pain has dulled slightly.
My legs don’t feel like they’re being pummelled and jabbed with knives any more, but now the constant dull throbbing is back and I’m starting to worry I might have to put up with it forever.
I decide to compose a text to send to Jack and Harry.
Got knocked over on estate on Fri. Can’t walk, bored stiff. What you up to?
I delete the words ‘bored stiff’ as that makes me sound a bit sad.
Bad news spreads fast on the estate, so I know they’ll have all heard about the hit-and-run. Dad showed me a paragraph in Saturday’s Nottingham Post. It said the police were appealing for witnesses.
I purposely keep the text message simple, but hope they might be curious about what happened and want to know more. The two of them might come round later; they probably regret everything that’s happened between us now.
I replace ‘Can’t walk’ with ‘Pins in leg’. Sounds more impressive. And painful.
It’s best to let them know how serious it is. When bad stuff happens to people you care about, it makes you realize what’s important.
Got knocked over on estate on Fri. Pins in leg. What you up to?
I fire off the text and wait.
And wait.
I stare at my phone on the arm of the chair.
The screen remains blank and unlit. Nobody replies.
Sergei brings through his battered suitcase full of cardboard. He’s trying hard to entertain me, and although I find him irritating, I am also mildly curious.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, before I can think better of it. ‘For snapping at you earlier, I mean.’
‘It is OK, Calum, I did not notice.’ He looks at me. ‘After a while, you get used to it. Being an outsider, I mean.’
I don’t know what to say to that.
Sergei opens the suitcase on the floor next to me. He lifts pieces out and holds them up to the light, glancing at me to see if I’m still watching. I wonder how he creates those lifelike structures from something that looks so shabby and flat.
‘What do you think my next project should be, Calum?’ he says, even though I’ve got my eyes closed now, feigning sleep. ‘The Burj Khalifa or the Eiffel Tower?’
‘I don’t know.’ I open my eyes. ‘You choose.’
‘Yes, I think I shall.’ He smiles to himself. ‘I shall build what I want to build.’
He picks out several pieces of card and lays them aside, closing the suitcase again.
I close my eyes again, but every so often I open them so slightly it still appears as if I’m asleep.
An hour later, Sergei is still building.
He slots together the pieces of cardboard, making sure the base is sturdy and balanced before continuing.
I watch him through eyes narrowed into slits. His tongue sticks out and his brow is furrowed as he stares intently at the plan, his fingers working deftly to create something, to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
I think he’s forgotten I’m here. I think he’s forgotten everything apart from the task in hand. It’s the way I feel when I put together a screenplay: the outside world ceases to exist in my mind.
Two hours later I open my eyes and realize I actually have fallen asleep for a while. Sergei is no longer in the room.
I take in a sharp breath. There, right in front of me, is a towering black structure, glittering with tiny lights.
The Burj Khalifa.
If I was standing upright, the tip of the model would reach up to my shoulders.
‘The real thing is two thousand, seven hundred and seventeen feet tall.’ Sergei walks in carrying two plates stacked with sandwiches and crisps. ‘Twice as tall as the Empire State Building, and three times the height of the Eiffel Tower.’
‘Where did you get the fancy lights?’ I wonder aloud.
‘Oh, it i
s just one light inside the structure, see?’ He pulls out a cardboard compartment at the bottom where a small bulb is fitted. ‘It came with the kit. Two batteries run all of the lights. An optical illusion.’
They look like individual tiny lights, but close up I can see now that the whole structure is peppered with tiny round holes that let the light shine through.
‘Clever,’ I murmur.
My stomach growls at the sight of the food. Sergei puts one of the plates down on the arm of my chair.
I pick up a sandwich. ‘Thanks for making this.’
‘You are welcome, Calum. So, tell me, what do you think to my masterpiece?’
‘’S’all right,’ I say with my mouth full.
‘The Burj Khalifa has the most floors of any building on the planet,’ he continues, looking at the model in awe. ‘Did you know its design was inspired by a desert flower named Hymenocallis that has long petals extending down from its centre?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t. How come you know all this stuff, anyway?’
‘I am interested in the subject. Therefore, I find out the most interesting facts.’
Oh yeah, I forgot what a smart alec he can be.
‘You know lots of information about films, yes? This is because you are interested in them.’
‘I suppose so. But I don’t know how you can be bothered spending hours building this stuff.’ I cram a handful of crisps into my mouth. ‘Your Burj Khalifa looks great, but what’s the point, really? I mean, what you gonna actually do with it?’
‘I will put it on my shelf,’ he states simply.
‘Yes, but I mean, what’s it for?’
Still seems like a waste of time to me.
‘I don’t build the structures for any purpose,’ Sergei continues. ‘It is the process of getting there which I enjoy. That is what brings the real satisfaction.’
It sounds like a good way to write my screenplay. I resolve to concentrate on the process rather than the outcome. To work methodically through from the basic structure to the fancy pieces.
Then it won’t matter that I could never win the competition.
After lunch I have to suffer the embarrassment of Sergei helping me to the loo.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter when I finally sink back down into the chair. The thudding in my leg is getting worse and Sergei fetches me more painkillers and a glass of water.
‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’
I almost feel bad for being so moody with him. I’m about to say no when I remember.
‘My rucksack, please. It’s at the end of my bed.’
He brings it in and puts it next to my chair.
‘Calum, I have to go out,’ he says, ‘but it will not be for long. Will you be OK?’
‘Course I’ll be OK,’ I say. ‘I’m not a complete cripple, you know.’
Sergei looks at my useless leg but doesn’t say anything.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Just go.’
When I hear the back door close I pick up my phone again. There are still no replies to my text from the lads.
I hear a noise – a sort of shuffle – and then a bang outside. I put my phone back down on the arm of the chair and sit very still, listening. Maybe Sergei has forgotten something and come back.
But he doesn’t return.
Sergei has left the back door unlocked and I can barely move. If someone wanted to come in and steal from us or attack me, there’s nothing I could do about it. I should have told him to lock it on his way out.
I think about the other night and Linford’s furious expression when he stood outside, looking up at the window. Stories I’ve heard about gangs on the estate using baseball bats on people when they’ve got a grudge against someone . . . I think about that, too.
Then a door slams shut downstairs and all is quiet again. It’s probably just Mr Baxter taking out his rubbish. I smile at my own overactive imagination. I’ve got too much time on my hands and not enough to do.
I reach down and grab my rucksack. I plunge my hand in and feel around a bit until my fingers close on the notebook Freya gave me.
I turn to a clean page and pick up a pen.
I’ve got my idea and I’m going to build the structure with my words.
Since I put the outcome of the competition out of my mind, I feel free to just write what I want to without worrying whether or not the judges will like it, or if it holds up to the standard of the other entrants.
It doesn’t matter any more because, to adapt Sergei’s earlier phrase, ‘I shall write what I want to write.’
Sergei is gone for nearly three hours.
When he gets back, he pops his head in the door.
I tell him no thanks, I don’t want anything.
‘Where did you get to?’ I ask.
He mumbles something incoherent and disappears into my bedroom. He doesn’t come back come until Dad gets back at about four o’clock.
‘What you up to, son?’ Dad asks as I scribble away.
‘Just working on an idea I have for a screenplay,’ I say. ‘It’s just something I feel like doing.’
‘Good for you,’ Dad says, but I can see he looks a bit baffled.
Dad makes three mugs of strong tea and shouts Sergei through to join us. I wish he hadn’t. I can’t remember the last time we had any time on our own, just me and Dad.
‘I’ve got a few local jobs on this week, so I’ll be nearby if you need me,’ Dad says. ‘In fact I’ve got to pop out again after tea. There’s been more vandalism at the Expressions centre this afternoon. They’ve asked me to pop by and have a look what’s what.’
My ears prick up and I put down my pen.
‘Have they caught who’s doing it?’ I ask Dad. ‘The vandalism.’
‘No, but it must’ve happened in broad daylight this afternoon, as everything was apparently OK when Shaz locked up after lunch.’ Dad says. ‘She told me if they don’t catch the culprit, they’re in danger of losing their funding, and if that happens, they might even have to close down. Anyway, I’ll go and have a look at the damage.’
I look up to see Sergei standing in the doorway, listening.
‘Can I come with you?’ I say to Dad. ‘I haven’t been out of the house in my wheelchair yet.’
Dad looks at me.
‘I’m going to find it hard enough going back there, son,’ Dad says tightly. ‘Those – those cowards mowed you down in cold blood right outside the centre. It might bring it all back for you.’
I look at Dad’s hands, clenching and unclenching.
‘It might,’ I try to reason. ‘But Expressions is on our doorstep. It’s not as if I can avoid it forever.’
‘I know that.’ He sighs and rubs his forehead. ‘But it might be a bit soon. Once they’ve caught whoever did it, you might feel a bit safer. That’s all.’
‘I’ll feel safe if I’m with you.’
Dad shrugs. ‘Fine, then,’ he says. ‘If you really want to. Do you fancy tagging along, Sergei?’
‘No. No, thank you,’ Sergei says quickly and takes a step back. ‘I have some homework I must do, but thank you for asking, Pete.’
‘He’s been out all afternoon, Dad,’ I say. ‘Haven’t you, Sergei?’
‘Yes. I had some things to do for Mama. I will see you both later,’ he says, disappearing into my bedroom.
I’m perplexed why Sergei seems to have scuttled off so quickly when Dad mentioned going to the centre, but all thoughts of that disappear when I start to think about the accident. I don’t mention it to Dad, but I’m hoping it might jog my memory when I see the spot where it happened again.
The police don’t seem to have any leads yet, but surely someone’s got to know something. I can’t sleep or do anything at all without the pain intruding. Why should the culprits get away with that?
And someone has been vandalizing the centre. What if that’s somehow linked to the accident?
A flash of a memory, a voice, flits through my mind, but it�
�s gone as soon as it appears.
I look up to see Sergei in the doorway again, tapping his foot on the floor and watching me.
Finally Dad gets me out of the flat and into my wheelchair. Sergei helps but disappears again when we’re ready to leave.
‘I could’ve been there and back by now,’ Dad complains.
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry to put you out, but you’re not stuck in the flat day in, day out, are you?’ I frown. ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’
‘I know, lad, but it won’t be for long.’
No, just the whole flipping summer.
Something in my chest fizzes when I think what’s happened and how the person who drove into me is out there, living their life as normal. I grip the arms of the wheelchair, digging my fingertips deep into the shiny cushioned plastic.
Dad pushes me down the street, whistling.
‘I was wondering,’ I say. ‘What if whoever is vandalizing the centre knows something about who knocked me over?’
‘What makes you think that?’ Dad replies.
‘It’s just a thought,’ I say with a shrug. ‘But can you mention it to PC Bolton?’
Dad stops walking and comes round the front of my wheelchair.
‘Is anything coming back to you, son?’ Dad crouches down and studies my face. ‘Anything . . . anything at all we can tell the police might help. Even if you think it’s not—’
‘Dad.’ I sigh. ‘Chill out. I’m just suggesting something that might help.’
‘I know, but it’s driving me crazy.’ Dad thumps the arm of the chair as he stands up and it makes me jump. ‘Sorry, I’m really sorry, Calum. It’s just . . . the thought that the culprit is out there, laughing at us. I can’t stand it.’
Dad’s face looks lined and tired.
‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I know.’
‘This is Shazia Khan, the centre manager.’ Dad introduces me to a short, plump woman with a big smile but an anxious face. I realize she’s the woman I saw unlocking the centre gates before the recent meeting about the screenplay. ‘Shaz, this is my son, Calum.’
‘Please, call me Shaz. Your dad told me about the hit-and-run, Calum. It’s a terrible business and we’re speaking to the police about making it safer outside our gates.’ She holds out her hand and I shake it. ‘I think I’ve seen you down here before, haven’t I?’