Heartbeat Away (7 page)

I nip back into the kitchen and hover in the doorway for a moment, almost wishing Danny was coming with me.

‘We can make a den when you come back,' he says.

‘OK . . . if you like.'

‘See you later then,' says Joe, glancing up from his newspaper. ‘Take care.'

It's still early and there aren't many people about, just a few dog owners muffled up in warm coats, walking their dogs, or lone joggers pounding the pavements. I walk briskly, purposefully, determined to find some answers. I need to know whether I've been imagining everything that has happened to me recently, or if it's real. And the only way I can find out is by going back to that park.

After walking for an hour, I'm starting to feel tired, so I sit down on a bench by a bus stop and check my map. The streets around me are less familiar now. As I flick through the map pages, I can't believe the park still looks miles away.

A woman with two small children sits down beside me on one side of the bench. The youngest child, a little girl of about two, nestles her sticky face against my shoulder, then shakes her well-chewed bottle in the air, sprinkling droplets of warm milk over my tracksuit. As I try to edge away from her, an elderly man plonks himself down on the other side of me. I'm squashed between them.

I look round uncomfortably. The city's waking up and the street's starting to bustle with people. I suddenly wonder if I'm doing the right thing and I'm seriously thinking about heading back home when a bus draws up. I glance at the sign at the front. It's heading the way I need to go and it looks almost empty. Its doors fling open and I step on.

As it lurches away from the bus stop, I make my way right to the back and dive onto a seat in the far corner, well away from the few other passengers. I take care not to touch any of the rails.

I check the map again then force myself to try and relax, knowing this bus will take me almost to the park. We travel further into the city, but the bus slows as the traffic builds. As we crawl forwards, the driver rests one fist on his cheek. Most of the seats are filled now. I squeeze as far back as I can into mine, taking care not to let my hands, hair or bare neck come into contact with the grubby speckled fabric I'm sitting on.

Suddenly I feel overwhelmingly hot and uncomfortable. I reach into my bag, pull out an anti-bacterial wipe and, using it to protect my fingers, try to yank open the little window above me. It's jammed shut. I take a deep breath, telling myself to be calm, as we draw up near a large museum, and a whole crowd of people surge on, filling the bus as they stand cheek to jowl, breathing each other's air. After a couple of minutes, I can't stand it any longer.

I leap up and make my way through the sea of bodies until I reach the exit doors. I frantically push the bell as other passengers eye me warily. I don't care what people are
thinking, I just have to get out of here. As the bus finally comes to a halt, the doors swish open and I leap out into the cold fresh air.

I have absolutely no idea where I am. I spin around, trying to get my bearings. The street is crowded with people who stream past me as if I am invisible. Breathing hard and fast, I reel back into a shop doorway, pull out my A to Z and flick through the pages, trying to calm down and make sense of all the lines and marks. Eventually, I find the park on the map, and, fighting away thoughts of running back home, head off in what I hope is the right direction.

Twenty minutes later, I stand in front of a pair of tall iron gates, staring at the view through their bars, with the bells of the church behind me ringing in my ears.

At the end of the tarmac path ahead of me is the bandstand. There are no deckchairs surrounding it now. I summon my courage and step through the park gates, half expecting the path to magically dissolve under my feet. But it remains as firm and bumpy as a tarmac path should on a cold February morning. Even the potholes are in the right places, I notice. The bandstand is littered with takeaway
cartons. I step up onto the wooden platform and pace around its circumference. Gently touching the back of a pillar with my hand, I feel a shiver of excitement as my fingers trace over what I already know is there. And I'm right. Scratched into the paint are the words
Mickey Sprucket luvs Shona 4eva
. I wonder who Mickey Sprucket is and hope he still loves Shona.

I step off the bandstand and slowly make my way down the opposite path towards the skateboard area. Across the other side of the park, on the muddy fringes of the boating lake, hordes of ducks, quacking greedily, are hoovering up chunks of stale bread tossed at them by old ladies and small children. On the horseshoe island in the middle of the lake sit five prehistoric-looking herons' nests.

I feel as if I've stepped inside the screen of some surreal film as I walk on through the park, my skin prickling with goosebumps.

Down at the skateboard area, a few lads are practising, their faces set with concentration as they show off their skills to their friends and anyone who happens to glance over as they pass by. Apart from the occasional whoop or yell, the only sounds come from the wheels of their skateboards rattling as they jump and skim and trundle up and down the graffiti-covered ramps.

Immediately, I realise I know the curve and angle of every ramp and slope and also recognise the beaten-up old van selling coffee and snacks parked a few metres away. A faint whiff of frying burgers reaches my nostrils, creeping up my nose and down the back of my throat, making me gag slightly.

Everything is as it should be. And it's as if it's all been waiting patiently for me to re-discover it. Feeling strangely happy and calm, I sit down on a bench, carefully avoiding the end with the broken strut that isn't visible but I know is there, and watch the skateboarders. After a while, the sky starts to cloud over and the sun disappears, making the cold day feel even chillier. I shiver and glance at my watch. I'm shocked at the time. I left home ages ago.

Knowing Mum will be worrying where I am, I guiltily take out my mobile from my pocket to text and let her know I'm OK. Nothing happens when I try to turn it on. I curse myself, realising I forgot to charge the battery last night. Mum'll kill me. She's always going on at me about keeping my phone charged so I can text her from school if I feel ill. ‘You never know when you might really need it,' she says, cryptically.

Reluctantly deciding I'd better head back home straight away, I tuck my phone in my rucksack, but suddenly, for no reason, my heart misses a beat then starts to pump faster. Seconds later, it's pounding like a hammer and I don't know why. Frightened I might be ill, I look round, ready to call for help but see someone already coming towards me. I freeze in terror as I realise who it is. Same height, same build, same face, same hair. It's him. The angry boy from my visions.

I leap up off the bench but, in my blind panic, drop my bag. I curse under my breath as most of the contents fall out, scattering everywhere. My purse flies open and coins spray and bounce onto the grass. Tablet containers roll down the tarmac path. I scrabble about, clumsily trying to gather everything up, as an arm reaches across mine and picks up my phone.

‘I had one just like this once,' says the boy coldly, turning my mobile in his hand as he tries to switch it on. ‘Looks like you've killed it.'

‘The battery's just flat . . .' I hear myself reply, desperate to disguise the fear in my voice but failing miserably. I keep my head down, only once daring to sneak a quick sideways glance from the corner of my eye. Is this really the boy from my visions? Close up, I'm not so sure. His dark curly hair falls untidily across his forehead, masking his eyes. Impatiently, he brushes it from his face, then stares back at me with coal-black eyes. Remembering that terrifying night
when I saw his angry face at the top of our stairs, I wait for the worst, wishing I was a million miles away and trying to calculate whether there's the slightest possibility of out- running him if I make a dash for it.

‘My sister dropped mine in my tea,' he says with a shrug. His voice is warm and friendly.

I stare up at him in complete surprise as a slightly lop- sided smile lights up his face, revealing white, even teeth. He holds out the phone and looks me straight in the eye.

‘Accidentally . . .' he adds, as he registers what must be the most stupid, dumbstruck expression my face has ever worn. ‘Offered to lend me hers. But it's pink, so I gave it a miss.'

I don't move.

‘Something wrong?' he asks, obviously unnerved.

I take my mobile and put it in my bag. ‘Sorry . . . I . . . I . . . thought I knew you . . . but . . .' I must sound like a loony now, as well as look like one. If Jodie were a fly on a tree, she would be in stitches.

‘Yeah, you look familiar too . . .' he says slowly.

I freeze. What does he know about me? He looks thoughtful, then shrugs, puzzled. ‘You're at The Academy . . . yeah? It's pretty massive.'

‘No . . . don't live round here . . . I just . . .' I trail off.

He stares at me curiously as I snatch up a packet of antiseptic wipes and shove them back in my bag.

‘I'd better get home,' I say.

He starts helping me to pick up the rest of my stuff. My head's spinning, I'm completely confused. If this is the same boy I saw in my visions, he can't possibly be my donor. This
boy is definitely alive. There's nothing ghostly about him at all. So who is he? Here in the flesh, he's a completely different person. There's no anger. No fierce expression. No threat. His eyes have a faintly sad look to them. But I stay on my guard, I've screamed my way through far too many horror films not to know that the baddie always turns out to be the nice normal looking guy, the guy that no one ever suspects . . .

With everything back in my bag, I get to my feet. Thanks,' I say, summoning up a nervous chirpiness as I back away as speedily as I can. But three steps later I start to feel dizzy.

‘You OK?' The boy is at my side, his arm supporting mine, his face all concern.

‘Yeah. I'm great. Fine . . . Thank you. Must have got up too quickly. Don't worry . . . I'll —'

‘You better sit down for a minute,' he says as he guides me back towards the bench. I do as he says then take a few deep breaths.

‘Maybe I should come with you,' he says, picking up and handing me a foil blister-pack of steroid tablets that I've some how missed. ‘You don't look very well.'

I tuck the tablets in my bag and glance sideways at him. Can I trust him or not?

‘No. It's OK, really,' I tell him. ‘I'm fine. Honestly.'

‘Yeah. Sure. But I'll be coming with you, just in case.'

His name's Sam, he's fifteen and he lives with his family in a flat on the other side of the park. I tell him where I live and he's surprised.

‘So why come here if you live miles away?' he asks, looking at me curiously as we sit side by side on the bench.

I shrug and avoid his eye.

‘We drove past the other day. Mum and I,' I say finally. ‘Thought I'd find out what it was like.'

‘Long way to come, though,' he says.

‘There's something special about this place.' I reply.

He's completely still, staring down at the lake, watching as a heron swoops low over the water. ‘I come here all the time,' he says quietly. ‘We used to —' He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, then, forcing a small lopsided smile, begins again. ‘They say there's a fish that's been in this lake over fifty years.'

‘Fifty?'

‘Maybe longer.'

‘No way.'

He gives a small shrug. ‘I didn't believe it either . . . so last summer we sneaked in after the park was shut. Middle of the night, dead quiet . . . no one around. We threw sweetcorn and a mashed-up dog biscuit onto the water and waited and waited. I was so tired I fell asleep. When I woke up it was cold and my friend looked at me and smiled. He'd seen the fish, all six foot of him, gobbling everything in sight, then slinking back under the surface again.'

‘Why didn't he wake you up?' I ask.

‘He said the fish would be under there another fifty years, so what was the rush?' replies Sam.

I look at the people in little boats rowing on the lake and wonder if they know about the monster lurking beneath them. I shiver slightly.

Sam turns to me. ‘You're cold. Come on.'

As we get up, he looks around slowly, as if he's waiting for someone, but all the skateboarders have long since packed up and gone.

‘Sam?'

‘Sorry . . . I was just . . .' He picks up my bag. ‘Let's go. ‘

We head back down the tarmac path to the park entrance.

‘I'll be OK on my own,' I insist, as we walk through the tall iron gates into the street. ‘You don't have to come with me.'

‘I know.'

We exchange smiles. And for the first time, the sadness in his eyes melts away and I can't help noticing how good- looking he is.

We talk all the way home, but I say nothing about my illness or heart transplant – they aren't the sorts of things I can easily slip into a conversation without killing it completely. Besides, I don't want Sam to know.

When we reach the end of my road, I know that in a couple of minutes he'll turn round, wave goodbye and walk out of my life, probably for good. I'm not ready for that either. Usually the only boys who talk to me are those who want Alesha's mobile number. But, besides being flattered by the attention, there is so much more I need to find out.

I know now that what I've seen in my visions really exists. They can't be a product of my over-active imagination or the side effects of all the strong tablets I have to take. I've met Sam for real and physically walked through that park. I can't be going mad. My visions must mean something. But what?

‘I can't work you out, Becky,' Sam says as we walk up my road.