We Can Be Heroes (9 page)

‘What?'

‘The babies on their way down to earth and the
dads on their way up to heaven. Maybe they crossed on the way.'

‘I don't think it works like that,' I say.

‘How do you know?'

‘I don't – obviously!'

‘Well, there you are then.'

I don't bother to argue as Priti carries on reading from the screen. I've got to admit – but not to her of course – I'm impressed at what she can read for a kid her age. ‘
A recent study showed the rate of psychi
–' she hesitates – ‘
psychi-atric disorders is more than double the norm among children who lost loved ones in the 2001 terrorist attacks
,' she goes on. ‘Psychic-hat-trick means mental cases. Nutjobs. The sort of people my mum deals with. Right?' she says, glancing at me like she's looking for signs I'm going mental.

There must be a better word for it, but I can't think of one, so I just nod.

‘Wow, you're screwed then.'

‘What else does it say?' I ask, ignoring the loony tunes face she's pulling at me.

‘
Researchers found that more than 50 per cent were
displaying signs of an anxiety disorder, while a third had symptoms of post-trau
–' She pauses and, for a moment, I think she may finally have come across a word she can't read, but then she continues, ‘
Post trau-mat-ic stress disorder
.'

‘I don't even know what that means,' I say.

‘Nor do I,' says Priti. ‘D'you reckon you've got it?'

‘How should I know?'

‘Well, if you've got it without realising it, it can't be that bad, can it?'

‘I suppose not,' I say.

Priti turns back to the screen. ‘
More than 27 per cent of the bereaved children showed symptoms of separation anxiety, while 14 per cent had a major depress-ive disorder
,' she reads, spelling out the longer words carefully. ‘
The rate of simple pho-bia in bereaved children was also double that of non-bereaved children
.'

‘Well, there you are then,' says Priti. ‘That explains why you look so miserable a lot of the time.'

‘I do not!'

‘And you get well scared about stuff.'

‘That's not true!'

‘When Tyreese and his gang were yelling, you were bricking it.'

‘So would any normal person!' I say. ‘Just because you get a weird kick out of that kind of thing doesn't mean I have an anxiety disorder or whatever they called it.'

Priti sighs. ‘Have you got any phobias then?' she asks in a sort of I'm-trying-to-be-patient voice, which makes me want to lamp her one.

‘I don't like spiders much,' I say.

‘Nor do I,' says Priti, shivering. ‘So I suppose that doesn't count. What about “separation anxiety” or whatever it is? Do you miss your mum?'

‘Course I do.'

‘Jed doesn't.'

‘That's different.'

‘You're right. He's weird,' says Priti. ‘So where does this leave us with you?'

‘None of that stuff applies to me because I don't remember my dad,' I say, not looking at her as I say it. ‘Which means I can't be “bereaved” or whatever your mum called it.'

I sometimes wonder if I should be feeling all those things the other bereaved kids are feeling. Should I be terrified of snakes or heights or shaking like a bag of nerves or being carted off to the loony bin? And if I'm not, what does that say about me?

‘My mum reckons you're never too young to feel the pain of loss.'

‘I might be bereaved, but I'm not bonkers,' I say.

‘You're obviously getting upset,' says Priti. ‘Perhaps we should leave it for now.'

‘I am not getting upset!' I say, annoyed at her for acting like she knows it all, when she doesn't.

‘Whatever you say,' she replies, sounding just like my mum.

In my head, I draw her being attacked by a giant, hairy, goggly-eyed black spider, which sucks all her blood. And a speech bubble saying, ‘
Yum! Yum!
'

My school once suggested to my mum that I see a counsellor. The pastoral head rang her up one day when I was in Year 7 and said perhaps I'd like to talk to someone about 9/11. They didn't tell me they
were going to call her. And if they had, I'd have asked them not to because I knew it would only upset her, and she'd been so happy since she started seeing Gary.

So the first I knew about it was when I came home to find Mum crying in the kitchen. ‘Why didn't you tell me you were finding things hard?' she said.

‘I'm not,' I replied.

‘You could have talked to me.'

‘But I'm OK, Mum.'

‘You know I'm always here if you need to talk, don't you?'

‘Course I do,' I said.

She sighed and looked like she was going to cry again. ‘I've let you down.'

‘You haven't, Mum.'

She started crying properly then. I put down my schoolbag and went to sit next to her.

‘I've tried to give you a normal life,' she said.

‘You've been brilliant. The best mum in the world.'

‘I didn't think you wanted to go raking over the past.'

‘I don't, honest.'

‘Because if you want to see this counsellor then of course you can.'

‘I don't, Mum. I don't even know why the school said that.'

‘Maybe you said something to one of the teachers? Or maybe this is to do with Gary?' she asks. ‘Because I'd understand if you were finding it hard.'

‘I'm really not. I like Gary,' I said. ‘Everything's OK, honestly.'

‘I thought we were doing so well. I just don't know if I can –' and then she started to cry again.

And she just went on crying like that for what seemed like hours. I kept trying to tell her nothing was wrong, but she just cried and cried until I thought she'd never stop.

I wanted to call Gary, but she wouldn't let me. ‘I don't want him seeing me like this,' she said.

‘But he'd want to help.'

‘No, this is just us,' she said. ‘You and me. We can deal with it, can't we?'

‘Course, Mum,' I said.

But she didn't stop crying. Then, or for about a
week afterwards. And pretty soon after that, she started doing her stuff again. The stuff which meant she wasn't OK. And I wasn't sure we could cope with it on our own. Not really.

I finally persuade Priti to take a break from the 9/11 research and she persuades me that Granny won't mind us raiding the biscuit barrel. So we sit eating biscuits in the kitchen.

‘Jed reckons Shakeel's going to blow loads of white people up,' I say.

‘What?' Priti looks up from licking the sticky middle bit out of her custard cream.

‘He reckons Shakeel is making a bomb not a radio and that he's actually a suicide bomber.'

‘Why would he want to do something stupid like that?'

‘He reckons all Muslims see Britain and America as the enemies of Islam,' I say, repeating something he'd said last night.

‘Yeah, I get all that stuff about Holy War. But why would
Shakeel
want to do it?'

‘You said he was religious,' I suggest.

‘Yeah, he's well into the mosque and that. But he wouldn't kill anyone. He's too much of a wimp.'

‘He's got all that electrical equipment up there. I suppose it could be for building a bomb.'

‘No, Shakeel is way too boring to be a terrorist.' She goes back to licking her biscuit, lapping up the cream filling like a cat.

‘Jed says it's the quiet ones you have to watch,' I say. ‘His dad knows all about it apparently.'

‘Oh, yeah? How?'

I hesitate. ‘I suppose because he used to be in the army.'

‘Yeah, and what does he do now?'

‘He's a mechanic.'

Priti laughs. ‘I knew he was blagging.'

‘Yeah, but Jed reckons that's just a cover and he's really still working for army intelligence.'

‘Undercover?'

‘I guess so.'

Priti looks vaguely impressed.

‘Jed says the army only pretended to sack him so
no one would know he had gone underground.' Then I add, ‘But you know what Jed's like. He might just be making it up.'

Priti ignores the last bit. ‘So he's, like, bomb squad or something?' she says, perking up suddenly.

‘Maybe. But only if you believe Jed.'

‘And he's on to Shakeel?'

‘Jed didn't say that exactly.'

‘Cos if the bomb squad is on to him, he must be up to something.' She wriggles excitedly on her chair.

‘I don't think Jed said the bomb squad exactly.'

But Priti is clearly no longer listening. ‘I reckon it'd be pretty cool if Shakeel was building a bomb!' she says with a big grin on her face.

‘It was just something Jed said.'

‘I wonder if he'd let us help,' she says excitedly. ‘It'd be so cool!'

‘Yeah, right,' I say.

‘Of course, we can't let him actually blow himself up. I'm not having him do a Twin Towers on me,' she adds, glancing at me. ‘I mean, he's the only half decent sibling I've got. We have to keep an eye on him.'

‘How are we meant to do that exactly?'

‘We'll go undercover too: spy on him, find out what he's up to.'

I have an image of us both in trench coats peering through giant magnifying glasses.

‘We can pass on all the information to Jed's dad in the bomb squad, then when they catch him, we'll get medals,' says Priti happily. ‘We can be heroes!'

‘We're not even sure Uncle Ian is in the bomb squad. He could be doing something else.'

‘Like what?'

‘I dunno.' I shrug. ‘Mending cars, like he says he is?'

‘Whatever,' says Priti who has now licked off all the cream filling and is eating the rest of her biscuit in little tiny bites all round the edge. ‘We can be the moles – and turn Shakeel in before he does anything stupid.'

‘And what happens if the bomb squad or the police or whoever actually catch him? He'll be in massive trouble.'

‘If he hasn't actually blown anything up, they can't be that mad at him, can they?'

‘My mum says it's the thought that counts.' An image of my mum pops into my brain and I can't make it go away.

‘Thinking about bombs isn't going to do anyone any harm, is it?' says Priti. ‘It's only if you actually press the button that things go
boom
, innit?' I've noticed that when Priti gets excited, she sometimes starts speaking like a gangsta rapper.

‘I don't think that's how it works. We could get him in loads of trouble,' I say. ‘And us too!'

‘Then we'll get him a fake passport and he can escape somewhere far away. We'll still get medals because of all the people we'll save, and Shakeel will be sunning it on a beach with loads of ladyboys.'

I want to ask her what ladyboys are, but I know if I do, we'll never finish the conversation.

‘Wouldn't it be easier to just ask him if he's building a bomb?' I say.

‘He'll just go underground if we blow his cover,' says Priti, like she does this sort of thing all the time. ‘Besides, it'll be no fun! And I've always wanted to be a spy!'

And I know it's probably a load of rubbish, but when Priti gets excited about something, it's hard not to get carried along too. And I have this picture in my head of Shakeel dressed in white robes, riding a paper aeroplane with a bomb strapped to his torso. And laughing.

So I go along with it. Because it's only a game, so what harm can it do?

When Jed comes back, he's wearing a new Liverpool football top and is in a weird mood.

‘Nice top,' I say. ‘Did Granny get it for you?'

‘Of course, dumbo! Who else would it be?' he replies quickly.

I ask him if his appointment was OK and he tells me to mind my own business. Then he flops on to the sofa and pretends to be watching the TV, but I can tell he isn't really.

When Granny comes in a minute or two later, Grandad asks her, ‘Good?'

‘Oh, yes, very,' she replies in an ultra-cheerful voice.

‘The usual NHS fob-off then!' says Grandad.

‘No, no,' says Granny. ‘He was very good. Very helpful. We have another appointment to see him up at the hospital again, don't we, Jed?'

Jed just grunts.

‘In about six months' time, I'll bet,' says Grandad.

‘Next week,' says Granny, blushing slightly as she says it.

‘Fine,' says Grandad. He seems almost disappointed at not having something to moan about. After that, he gets back on with watching his daytime quiz show.

As I help Granny with her coat and bag, I ask if she has any binoculars. She looks a bit flustered, like she hasn't heard me at first, so I say it again.

‘Sorry, dear,' she says. ‘I was miles away. I think I've got a pair that used to belong to your dad.'

‘Oh,' I say. Then, ‘That'd be good.'

So she goes off and gets them. It's a nice pair, in a leather case with my dad's name written inside the flap. I try to imagine him using them, but no image comes into my head.

‘He used to take them to the cricket,' she says. ‘He'd be happy for you to have them.'

She gives a sad smile and I don't really know what to say, so I just take them and say, ‘Thanks, Granny.'

Then I go up to my room – or Jed's room with a spare bed for me, which is what it feels like these days – and sit on the windowsill to try them out. I twiddle with the focus a bit until I can see clearly then look out at the cul-de-sac. It's a bit weird holding them, knowing the last person to use them was my dad. Weird, but sort of nice.

Little Stevie from next door is out on her bike again, going round and round in circles. She always seems to be out playing on her own, while her mum sits and smokes in front of the TV by the window. Like my grandad, except for the smoking bit.