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Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Title Page
  5. Intoroduction
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EITHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. SIXTEEN
  22. SEVENTEEN
  23. EIGHTEEN
  24. NINETEEN
  25. TWENTY
  26. TWENTY-ONE
  27. TWENTY-TWO
  28. TWENTY-THREE
  29. TWENTY-FOUR
  30. TWENTY-FIVE
  31. TWENTY-SIX
  32. TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. TWENTY-EIGHT
  34. TWENTY-NINE
  35. THIRTY
  36. THIRTY-ONE
  37. THIRTY-TWO
  38. THIRTY-THREE
  39. THIRTY-FOUR
  40. THIRTY-FIVE
  41. THIRTY-SIX
  42. THIRTY-SEVEN
  43. THIRTY-EIGHT
  44. THIRTY-NINE
  45. FORTY
  46. FORTY-ONE
  47. FORTY-TWO
  48. FORTY-THREE
  49. FORTY-FOUR
  50. FORTY-FIVE
  51. FORTY-SIX
  52. FORTY-SEVEN
  53. FORTY-EIGHT
  54. FORTY-NINE
  55. FIFTY
  56. FIFTY-ONE
  57. FIFTY-TWO
  58. FIFTY-THREE
  59. FIFTY-FOUR
  60. FIFTY-FIVE
  61. FIFTY-SIX
  62. FIFTY-SEVEN
  63. FIFTY-EIGHT
  64. FIFTY-NINE
  65. SIXTY
  66. SIXTY-ONE
  67. SIXTY-TWO
  68. SIXTY-THREE
  69. SIXTY-FOUR
  70. SIXTY-FIVE
  71. SIXTY-SIX
  72. SIXTY-SEVEN
  73. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  74. CLIMATE EMERGENCY
  75. Copyright

More silence, me dumbstruck. I know that feeling, how every direction you’ve ever known is suddenly taken away from you and you don’t even know up from down. I can’t imagine trying to get somewhere, to save yourselves, whilst carrying that grief.

Jamie’s picking at the top of his cast. ‘They still don’t know where Ahmed’s dad is.’

I think about that for a moment. No one to bury. No body to mourn.

We look again at the screen, the camera panning across the skyline of what used to be a modern city. People used to go there on holiday. Now it’s just piles of rubble and burnt-out cars where the parks and plazas used to be. So much destruction. So much ruin. So many images to zoom in on, looking for a single pixel.

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY FIVE

The next time Mum talks to me, it’s Thursday.

She asks me to pass the salt.

We’re sitting around the kitchen table. Me. Mum.

And Mr Walters.

They’d bumped into each other in the supermarket again, and this time she’d asked him if he wanted to stay for tea.

I can barely breathe.

After Mum, Mr Walters and I had put the shopping away in silence, Mum pulled a lasagne out of the fridge. Not a shop one, but one she’d made that day. ‘Oh, this? No, nothing special at all. Just knocked it up this morning!’ she’d said, like it was normal. It’s not as if Mum doesn’t cook anymore, but the last time she did lasagne was a long time ago. Over two years ago.

There’s a strange, unfamiliar smell mixed in with the cheese sauce and minced beef. I think Mum’s wearing perfume.

Conversation is hardly free flowing. Mr Walters keeps trying to include me, asking me about my other subjects, how I’m feeling about the new year and my exams. He keeps asking me things when I’ve just put a fork-load of food in my mouth. I almost choke a few times.

And Mum keeps apologising for how quiet I’m being, thrusting glances my way that demand I do better. And Mr Walters replies that it’s all OK, that most kids nowadays are the same, and that Josh is probably a bit put out, having his teacher in his house.

After dinner, Mr Walters makes his excuses and leaves. This time, Mum puts her hand on his arm after he’s put his coat on. She leaves it there for a full three seconds.

I go upstairs to my room.

*

The next time she speaks to me is on Sunday night. She’s later home than usual. Again, she brings a waft of perfume into the house as she enters. And I think she’s wearing make-up.

‘Are you going to ask me where I’ve been?’