‘Apparently you’ve been working extremely hard and all your teachers are very pleased with you,’ she says with a relieved smile as we’re having tea.
‘Sounds like things are getting back to normal,’ adds Joe.
If only they knew, I think. ‘Can I meet Sam tomorrow then?’ I ask. We’ve been texting each other all week.
Mum glances at Joe, who gives a small shrug. I force a smile to disguise my irritation at him being the one who decides.
‘OK,’ says Mum.
‘Tell him to call round here for you then I can ask him what his intentions are.’
‘Joe!’ Mum glances at my annoyed face.
‘Only joking,’ he says.
‘He’s just a friend, OK?’ I’m glaring at him now.
‘OK. Keep your wig on.’ He grins infuriatingly at Mum. ‘That’ll be the bathroom occupied all morning then . . .’
‘Mum! Tell him!’
‘Joe . . . Pack it in.’
But I don’t need to worry. On Saturday, both Mum and Joe are on their best non-embarrassing behaviour, and, far from interrogating Sam about ‘his intentions’ or any other such rubbish, Joe spends ten long and totally incomprehensible minutes in deep discussion with Sam about the highs and lows of the most recent Man United football game. I’m thinking that I’ll never get Sam out of the house, but eventually Mum steps in.
‘Joe,’ she says, darting a knowing glance at me, ‘I think that tap in the kitchen’s leaking again.’
‘Oh, not again . . .’ he groans.
‘Well. Nice to meet you, Sam,’ says Mum, flashing him a smile. I can tell she approves. Ushering us both towards the front door, she adds, ‘We’ll see you later, Becky. Take care.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Bye then.’
It’s good to be with Sam again and forget about everything that has happened at school recently, but, as we near the park, I begin to feel uneasy. No matter how much I try not to think about it, what I did to Shannon keeps running through my head. The feeling builds. Finally, as we walk through the park gates, I can stand it no longer.
‘Sam,’ I ask tentatively, ‘can I ask you something?’
‘I’m not explaining the off-side rule,’ he jokes.
‘I’m serious,’ I say.
‘OK, what is it?’ He’s looking disconcerted now.
I take a deep breath, desperately hoping I’m not going to upset him, then plunge straight in.
‘Your friend, Callum. What was he like?’
I glance over at Sam. He’s staring back at me. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Tell me about him.’
Sam hesitates for a second or two. ‘Full of life. Clever. Funny. Fearless.’ He shrugs. ‘He was my best mate . . . even though he’d always borrow my homework then start telling me what I’d got wrong.’ His face clouds. ‘He was the brother I never had.’
We walk up to the bandstand and sit down on the wooden steps. Sam is quiet now, deep in thought.
‘So, what was he into?’ I ask.
‘Usual boy stuff. He was annoyingly good at sport – even talent-spotted for a football academy once.’
‘Wow.’
‘He didn’t go, though.’
‘He didn’t go? Why not?’
‘Typical Callum. Said he liked hockey better.’
‘I guess he was brilliant at that too.’ I can hear my voice and know it sounds odd. I dart a look at Sam, relieved that he hasn’t noticed.
‘He was amazing. Used to play for county. Their top goal scorer.’
I turn away so Sam can’t see my face. ‘What else?’ I ask.
‘He was always going on about the environment. Wouldn’t eat meat.’ Sam gives a small laugh. ‘Used to survive on peanut butter sandwiches.’
I don’t move. I don’t say a word, but my mind’s spinning.
‘You OK?’ Sam asks a few moments later.
‘Um . . . yeah, course.’ I say, turning back to him and forcing what I hope is a calm smile.
Down at the boating lake the herons are nesting on the little horseshoe-shaped island. Two swans swim sedately past, trailing a V of fluffy cygnets and pointedly ignoring the children throwing chunks of bread to encourage them onto the path.
‘Did Callum like swans?’ I ask.
‘Swans?’
Perplexed, Sam thinks for a few seconds. ‘Not specially. He liked all animals. Went on marches against animal cruelty and stuff like that.’
‘He sounds pretty serious . . .’
‘No, he was really funny. We’d be laughing all the time, although to be honest, I never knew what he was going to get up to next.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Once we were in this really long, boring assembly, end of term thing. So, after ten minutes, before I could stop him, he sneaks out and no one sees him till we’re all let out at breaktime. We go onto the playing field and see he’s hauled all the desks out of our classroom and put them out on the grass in exactly the same positions.’
‘Did he get caught?’
‘Nah, he never did.’
I give a secret but huge sigh of relief. Callum sounds like he was an incredibly talented, caring but normal fifteen- year-old lad.
‘We’d been friends since primary school. We were going to go backpacking when we finished school – see the whole world. But . . .’ There’s a note of hesitation in his voice as it trails off.
I look at him. He’s frowning now.
‘He changed, though. The last month of his life he was different,’ he says finally.
‘How?’
‘Don’t know. He got angry a lot. Secretive. We started arguing.’
‘So what was going on?’ I feel the blood draining from my face as I dread Sam’s reply.
‘He wouldn’t tell me. I asked him. Kept asking him. But whatever it was that was eating him up, he wouldn’t share it. Kept it all inside.’ The bitterness in Sam’s voice is growing. As much as I know this is hurting him I have to find out the truth.
‘Then what happened?’
Sam shrugs and is silent for a moment. ‘He started skipping lessons, then some days he just didn’t turn up to school at all. The week before he died, he got suspended for fighting. That day was the last day I saw him.’
‘Who was he fighting with?’
There’s no answer.
‘Sam. Tell me. Who was it?’ I glance anxiously at him, his dark eyes fixed on the lake.
‘Me,’ he says finally. ‘He was fighting with me.’
44
As we wander back through the park, it’s as if a dark shadow has come between us. There are now three of us walking down this tarmac path. Sam, me and Callum. I fall silent, and it isn’t until we reach the boating lake that Sam finally speaks.
‘Becky, why d’you want to know about Callum?’ he asks bluntly.
I knew this was coming, but I still feel totally unready to answer him. ‘I . . . he . . . he was your friend . . .’ I mutter.
Sam turns and stares at me. I can feel myself blushing. From the way his dark eyes bore into me, I know he isn’t satisfied that this is the real reason. My mind is in turmoil. What should I say?
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
I start to explain how I caught a virus over two years ago and how I was going to die a few months back if I didn’t get a heart transplant. I tell him about the night we were summoned to the hospital, what happened before I’d gone under the anaesthetic, and how I woke up forty-eight hours later with a different heart beating inside me, and the chance of a new life ahead of me. I tell him all this and he listens without saying a single word.
When I finish, we stand side by side at the edge of the lake, staring at the still, calm surface of the water, neither one of us daring to say a thing.
And it’s stupid, because I can feel tears welling up, but I can’t stop them however hard I try to blink them away.
‘There’s more,’ I say, forcing my voice
to become steady. ‘I know this park. I knew every corner of it, even though I’ve never been here until that day I first met you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I also saw you several times before we met.’
‘What are you saying, Becky?’
‘I’m saying, and I know this doesn’t make any sense, but I’m saying, since my transplant – you . . . this park . . . other places . . . other people – I’ve seen them, known them, as if they’ve always been in my memory.’
‘But how? It’s not possible.’
I take another deep breath. ‘They’re Callum’s memories.’
‘Callum’s?’
‘I’ve got Callum’s heart inside me.’
‘Callum’s heart?’ Sam stares at me, dumbfounded. He shakes his head and gives a hollow laugh. ‘No. No way!’ He backs away from me slightly, his expression now wary.
‘Callum died on October the fifteenth, didn’t he?’ I ask.
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s the same night I had my transplant.’
Sam runs his fingers through his dark hair then shakes his head in disbelief. ‘No . . . this is just a coincidence. They happen all the time – they’ve done scientific studies. People think there’s something spooky going on, but there isn’t. The strange things that happen to them are literally just by chance.’ His voice trails off and he falls silent.
‘Sam, what’s happened – is happening – to me isn’t anything to do with coincidence,’ I say. ‘The first time I saw you was when I came round after my operation. I saw you twice more in the hospital, but I just thought you were another patient. Then, back home, I was going upstairs and there you were on the landing in front of me. You scared the pants off me. A few weeks later, I meet you in real life and find you were the best friend of a boy who died the same night I had my transplant. It’s not a coincidence. We’re connected by Callum.’
‘I need to sit down,’ Sam mutters as he sinks down onto a nearby bench. He exhales, long and deep, and then shakes his head.
‘But hang on,’ he says eventually, looking up at me with a troubled expression, ‘even if you did have Callum’s heart – and I suppose that could just be possible because he carried a donor card – how could you get his memories? A heart’s just a heart. What you’re telling me is impossible.’
I try to convince him. I can’t bring myself to tell him about how I hurt Shannon and my fear that I might be taking on Callum’s anger and aggression. So I tell him about me becoming a vegetarian and addicted to peanut butter sandwiches, painting my room and what happened when I played hockey for the first time last week. ‘Sam, I don’t understand it either, but this is the truth. Please believe me.’
He props his hands on his face and stares ahead, his expression darkening as he turns things over and over in his head. Finally, he looks up at me and says starkly, ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s got nothing to do with Callum. It can’t have and you’re mad to even think it!’
45
We walk out of the park, barely exchanging a word. Sam has made it plain he doesn’t believe me and I don’t know what else I can do to convince him, so we say polite but awkward goodbyes and go our separate ways.
Joe’s in the kitchen when I get in.
‘So where’s Sam the Man then?’ he asks with a grin.
‘Gone home,’ I reply, pasting on a fake smile.
‘Oh.’ He glances at me as I hurry towards the door to the hallway. I can feel my smile cracking on my face but I no longer care.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks casually.
‘I told you, we’re just friends.’ Or we were until today, I think bitterly.
‘Oh . . . yeah,’ he says gently. ‘Want a cup of tea?’
‘No . . . thanks.’
I run up to my room and lie down on my bed. I stare at the blue painted walls, trying to blink away the image of the house with green shutters. Finally it fades and I breathe an angry sigh of relief. I close my eyes. Although my legs ache and I feel incredibly tired, I can’t stop the thoughts racing round my mind. Mum calls me down for dinner but I’m not hungry. To keep her happy I eat something, anything, but as soon as I can, I make my excuses and head back to my room.
At eleven, I switch off my light, but I can’t sleep. No matter how hard I try to make sense of everything with logical, rational explanations, my thoughts twist and knot until I feel as if I am going mad.
It starts to get light and I’m still awake, listening to the birds singing outside. I glance round my room and see the sleeve of my tracksuit sticking out of my chest of drawers. Ten minutes later, I pad downstairs in my tracksuit and socks, pull on my trainers, tell Mum I’m just going for a run, then let myself out of the front door.
I first started running when I was nine, after that horrible Christmas when Dad left home and everything fell apart. I’d slip out and run and keep on running until my thoughts untangled and I felt calm again. It was worth the grief Mum gave me when I got back home. Each time, I’d run just a little further.
Then, one snowy February day, I was a couple of miles away from home, totally lost, but didn’t care. I was running across a road and nearly got knocked down. The driver called the police. A policewoman took me home and I got the biggest telling off of my life, but a week later, after Mum had been up to school, my teacher put me in for an under-elevens’ cross-country race. I still missed Dad, but from then on I started getting medals and trophies for running, instead of cross words.
I head down the road, walking briskly at first to warm up, then, when I reach the T- junction at the end, turn right and break into a slow jog. I’m trying hard to keep my mind off Callum, but my thoughts keep flying back to him. He’d been in trouble, truanting, fighting with Sam. My stomach churns and I feel a stab of panic. What else had he done?
I force myself to concentrate on my surroundings. Although it’s early, there’s plenty of traffic about. I count cars to distract myself, but it doesn’t work. I’m still thinking about Callum. I increase my pace, taking longer and faster strides, trying to convince myself that any moment I’ll begin to feel calm again. But instead of feeling better, I’m aware of a growing sensation of dread. Something horrible is going to happen and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
A woman passes me, staring warily as I suck in a lungful of air. I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe, my heart’s thumping like a hammer and I feel I’m wrapped in a tight bandage that’s being pulled tighter and tighter, squeezing every molecule of air from my lungs. My chest sears with a stabbing pain. My hands are sweaty and I’m dizzy.
The street, cars, people are becoming an unreal blur. I turn away from the road and start to stagger back along the pavement the way I came, my eyes fixed on a sign ahead. Its bright red lettering proclaims Open seven days a week. I’ve got to get home, I suddenly realise, because my heart’s going to stop working any minute and, if I don’t make it back, I’m going to die right here on the High Street outside Stacey’s Coin-operated Launderette.
46
Somehow I manage to keep going. I make it back along our street, through the garden gate and up the path. I bang on our front door until Mum opens it.
Alarmed, she helps me inside and sits me down.
I try to speak, but she’s grabbed the phone and is punching the keys. I can hear her voice trying to remain calm as she asks for an ambulance.
Three hours later, I’m sitting up on a trolley bed in the casualty department of our local hospital, wired up to a collection of monitors. Over the other side of the room, Mum is talking in hushed tones to one of the doctors who examined me. I strain to hear what they’re saying, but I can only pick up fragments. Finally, they both come over. Their expressions are serious and I brace myself for the worst.
‘You’re fine, Becky,’ says Mum, her whole body relaxing in pure relief as she reaches out and carefully hugs me through the tangle of wires.
I stare at her dumbly.
‘But – I don’t understand . . .’
‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your heart, Becky,’ says the doctor with a smile, as she starts to detach me from one of the monitors. ‘We’ve run the tests and all the results so far show it’s working perfectly. There’s no sign of rejection either.’
‘Then what happened?’
She pauses for a moment then shrugs. ‘We think maybe you had a panic attack. But you’ve no need to be anxious about your new heart. It’s extremely healthy.’
‘But things have been happening to me . . .’ I say.
‘What sort of things?’ asks the doctor, peering at me over her glasses.
‘I’ve seen things, places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met . . .’ I say.
‘Panic attacks are frightening. They can induce all sorts of strange symptoms. As well as the physical – your heart pounding, sweating, a choking feeling, chest pain – some people have dreamlike sensations. It’s called de-realisation. It’s like being in a trance; an altered state of consciousness.’
‘Don’t worry, Becky. You’re all right,’ says Mum, taking my hand in hers.
The doctor checks her notes. ‘Your immunosuppressant drugs might explain a great deal about how emotional you’re feeling,’ she says. ‘But I’m telling you again, Becky. Your heart is healthy.’
‘But is it . . . a good heart?’ I ask desperately.
‘A good heart?’ She stares at me curiously, as if the question is out of her remit. She shrugs. ‘It’s a very good heart. It’s strong and it’s pumping well. You’re incredibly lucky to have had a successful transplant. So many organs are needed and so few people sign up for the donor scheme. Every week I see people, just like you, dying for the want of a new heart. Go home, live your life and be grateful.’
Heartbeat Away Page 9