Flyaway (13 page)

She hands out copies of the sketches so we can look at them more closely. I skip over the hang-glider and parachute, but look carefully at his sketches of birds' wings.

I hear Sophie sigh beside me. I guess art isn't really her thing.

‘What are you going to study?' she whispers.

She looks away quickly, her eyes darting over everyone else in the room then back to me. She's shy, really shy, even more shy than me. Suddenly I feel sorry for her. I look down at the blue sheet on my desk.
Choose something that flies and study its movement
it says.

‘I could do swans,' I say.

I wonder about the swan on the lake, whether she's still there. I could study her and sketch her wings easily. Perhaps I could make a flying machine like da Vinci did, but based on swans' wings. Dad would love to have the pictures and the
model afterwards. They may even lift his spirits.

‘How will you find a swan to study?' Sophie's leaning over my shoulder.

‘Easy.'

I explain that Dad's a birdwatcher and he's told me where to find them. I don't tell her about the swan on the lake, though. She goes back to reading the sheet.

Mrs Diver starts talking about things we could base our studies on: bats, helicopters, butterflies . . . I start sketching the outline of a swan. I can't make it look like the swan on the lake, though. I draw her with her wings stretched out, as if she's flying. But that doesn't look right, either. After a while, I realise that Sophie's staring at me. She's holding her chin up with her hand, just watching me draw.

‘You know, back home, the swans are black not white,' she says. She sighs again, quickly, as she turns back to the sheet in front of her. ‘Everything's different here, kind of the opposite . . . even the birds.'

I can sort of understand what she means. Right now it feels like my life has been turned upside down, too.

CHAPTER 26

I
take my sketchbook when we go to the hospital after school.

‘I want to draw that swan for my school project,' I tell Mum, ‘then I can tell Dad about it later.'

She lets me go. I think she's so worried about Dad right now, that she doesn't even really register what I'm doing.

‘Meet you in Dad's ward in about an hour,' she murmurs.

I jog around the edge of the car park. I find the wooden shed and the hole in the fence. I duck through, walk quickly. There's a dampness in the air, and the smell of earthy, straggly winter trees. The days are getting shorter and it's going to be dark soon.

The swan is still there. She's floating in and out of the reeds, watching me; exactly as I hoped she would be. It's almost as if she's been waiting for me. She skims her beak
across the water then points it skywards, swallowing. I tense as I remember my dream, the feel of her beak going into me. But I'm not scared of her now. I run my eyes down to her wings. They don't look broken or damaged. I'm sure she could fly if she wanted to.

‘What's your story?' I murmur. ‘Why are you still here?'

I find a tree stump to sit on, then take the sketchbook from my bag and start drawing. I want her to open her wings wide like she did last time so I can draw them for my project, but she keeps them folded on her back. I draw her anyway. The feathers are so neat across her body, each one stacked in exactly the right place beside the next. Some of them ruffle with the breeze. I try to sketch the feathers on my page so it looks as though they're ruffling too. She keeps feeding, not bothered by me at all. She's ordinary today, just like all the other swans I've ever seen.

The day fades into dusk. I drop my sketchbook back in my bag and clasp my arms tight around me. Stupidly, I left my coat in the car. I hold myself tighter and try to get warm. I breathe out and my breath hangs in the air like a cobweb. I have to stand and move, or risk turning into a human icicle. I jiggle my legs and take a couple of steps.

‘Will you follow me this time?' I say.

The swan cocks her head to the side as if listening. I clap my hands suddenly and loudly; she flinches but doesn't back off. A couple of mallards take off immediately. I start walking around the track. As soon as I set off, she does too. She glides across the water, towards me. I shake my head, laugh at her.

‘You're weird,' I say. ‘What about if I do this?'

I break into a slow jog. The movement feels good straightaway, and my body begins to thaw. I look across at the swan. She starts to beat her wings against the surface of the lake, lifting herself up. She gets faster. Her feet slap on the water until she catches up with me. Her wings are beating slowly, holding her there. She doesn't take off. It doesn't even look as though she wants to. Instead, she watches me.

‘Come on then,' I murmur. ‘Fly!'

Her head is parallel to the water's surface, her neck moving like a snake. Drops of water spin out to me as she edges past. I don't stop this time. I want to know how fast she will go. I want to know if she will take off.

I look at her wings, outstretched now, beating the surface of the water and creating ripples. They're so strong and strange and intricate. A perfect work of art. While the part of the wing nearest the body keeps still and firm, it's the outer half that beats downwards. They look impossible to copy, impossible to make a model of.

She starts to edge ahead. I lengthen my stride, go faster. This time it's me keeping up with her. She doesn't look it, but she's really quick. It feels as if my feet are whirring beneath me as I try to keep pace. I don't know how much longer I can keep going. I look back to her face and her eyes lock mine. I stumble a little as I try to keep straight. I gasp for air. Keep running. I'm still looking at her eyes when my feet hit something. My body jerks forward, my legs tangling.

I hit the track, still moving, and slide along. I'm almost at
the edge of the lake before I stop. Air wheezes out of me and there's mud on my teeth. There are reeds near my eyes. I wipe the back of my hand across my face. There's blood, a small smear on my skin . . . a trickle running down my cheek.

The swan is still on the lake. She circles back towards me and approaches the bank. I don't move. Her eyes are like dark pools of deep water, keeping me still. I get colder as I watch. She stands in the shallows and flaps her wings, sending a stench of mouldy water to my nostrils. She nudges her large, round body towards me.

My breath comes back in a rush as she gets closer. She looks at me so intensely. It's not the way a normal bird looks at humans, all jerky and quick and scared. She's not nervous at all. Her eyes roll up to meet mine. She moves her beak until it stops a few centimetres from my nose, and I think she's going to peck me. I'm hardly breathing now. My whole body is still and stiff, waiting to see what she'll do. I just hope Harry is watching this. I need someone else to know it's real.

Her beak touches my cheek. I flinch, expecting it to hurt. Instead, a bead of cool water drips from her feathers onto my skin. I feel her breath, light and cool. She smells like damp feathers and reeds. I stay stiller than a stone.

She moves her beak to my neck, touches there too. I remember my dream, and half expect to feel a feather growing beneath my skin. I'm waiting for the pain. But instead, I go cold. Really cold. A shiver shoots down my spine. Even my fingers go tingly. I keep looking at her dark eyes. It's as if she wants me to understand something.

‘I'm imagining this,' I say, louder now, so I can hear it and take it in. ‘This isn't happening.'

She moves her head quickly as she hears me. I frown at her, and for a second I think I see a glimmer of confusion in her eyes. Then she lifts her wings. Without thinking, I cower, raising my arms to protect myself. But the wings don't come crashing down. She holds them there, centimetres from my face, their ends brushing my hair. I glance over them quickly, checking for damage. There are no jagged bones pushing through and no ruffled feathers. They're perfect. Her head moves into a kind of nod, as if she agrees.

‘Your wings don't seem to be the problem,' I say, quietly, as if she could understand.

She folds them slowly, moving away. She lowers her head in submission. Whatever this swan is, she's not angry at me. I stare after her as she slips into the water. She doesn't look back.

I almost don't notice the rain. It's not until the drops soak into my hair and drip down my neck that I remember how cold it is. I know, even as I'm jogging back to the trees, that I'm going to come back here.

CHAPTER 27

I
pause under the branches to shake the water from my hair. Strands of it stick across my face. I pull up my trousers to see how grazed my legs are, and roll up my shirt sleeves too. Everything stings worse than it looks. I unpick tiny stones from the cuts then roll my clothes back down over them. I dab at my face until it stops bleeding. Then I dash through the rain.

I go through one of the hospital side entrances and get lucky. There's a trolley of freshly laundered hospital sheets. My trainers squeak and slip on the floor as I hurry towards it. I look around to check no one's watching, then pull a stiff folded sheet from a pile and wipe it quickly over my hair and face, then dab it against my jumper. I carry it with me as I go up the stairs. I'm still trying to shake water from my hair as I turn into Dad's corridor. I just hope the nurses won't notice
how dirty I am. I press my hand to my cheek, but there's no blood there now.

Harry is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall near Dad's ward.

I stop, gape at him. ‘How did you know I was coming?'

‘I was watching.' He glances over my muddy clothes. ‘You can't visit your dad like that.' He walks down the corridor, away from Dad's ward, then turns to wait for me. ‘I'm serious.'

I hesitate. I really want to see Dad, I need to tell him about the swan. But Harry's waiting for me, calling back. ‘Really, they won't let you in; not the way you look. No chance. They're pretty paranoid about infections here.'

I look down at the mud on my hands.

‘Come on, I'll help you clean up,' Harry says. ‘Then you can go back.'

I trail reluctantly. He stops by the entrance to his ward and looks through the glass section. ‘Quick,' he calls. ‘There's no one on the desk. We can sneak past.'

He keys in the numbers on the pad and beckons to me. I jog up to him, and he pushes me ahead through the door. We half run, half walk to his room, Harry's hand firm on my back. It feels wrong to be in here, looking the way I do, but it's kind of exciting. Harry shoves me into his room and shuts the door behind us. Then he digs under his bed and finds two towels. He chucks one at me, and keeps hold of the other. He opens the door a crack then goes out with the towel. When he returns, he's smiling.

‘No puddles on the floor now,' he says. ‘We're safe. I don't
think anyone even took any notice of us, they're probably off getting dinner for the younger kids.'

I stand there, shivering. I rub the towel over my jumper and trousers, and squeeze water from my hair. Harry's room is hot as an airing cupboard and, strangely, it makes me shiver even more. I clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering. I go over to the window. It's getting darker now, but I think I can still see her there, on the lake. For a second I imagine she might be looking up here, finding me. Harry comes over with a white shirt, not too different from the school shirt I've got on.

‘Put this on,' he says.

I stare at him. ‘I'm not wearing your clothes.'

He forces it into my hands. ‘It's dry at least.' He turns away from me, hops back into bed and pulls the covers over his head. ‘I'm not looking.'

‘But it's yours.'

‘Just put it on, will you? Or you won't get to see your dad today.' His voice sounds muffled from under the duvet. ‘Anyway, I told you before, you can't catch what I've got.'

I'm not worried about that.

I glance back at the small window in his door to check that no one's about to come in. Then I go to a corner of the room. I keep my eyes on Harry's bed to check that he's not peeking. As quickly as I can, I peel my wet jumper over my head and unbutton my shirt. I let them fall on the floor. I stick my arms through Harry's shirt. It's deliciously dry, like getting into clean bed sheets. My cold, clumsy fingers fumble
with the buttons. It's a bit big for me, but when I tuck it into my trousers it doesn't look too bad. It smells of pine needles.