about,’ he whispers.
‘Do you?’ I wonder if he’s an insane genius who also has psychic powers.
He taps the side of his head. ‘Everything will be okay.’
‘Will it?’ It sounds true when he says it. Not like when the doctors say it.
Amir nods his head slowly. ‘Of course. My brother got long enough ladders to reach up here.’
His head has flicked us back to talking about the TV. He’s really weird but I’m starting to like him.
Amir smiles.
I smile.
We start to hum.
11 years, 2 months and 25 days
My eyes are blurry and my head is aching when I wake up the next morning. The sound of the drills is getting closer but I don’t think it’s that. It feels like
someone has taken off the top of my head and poured hot porridge inside. Sarah has been beeping on my laptop but I don’t feel like learning about sound waves today, especially when I know the
TV people are outside. I can hear the sound of laughter and I recognize Graham’s voice as he gets changed in the transition zone. He’s the one who makes the documentary. He made the
first one when I was two and we’ve done another nine since then. I can’t wait to see him – not because I want to be on TV, but because for once something different gets to happen
in my day.
I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I still feel dizzy. I shake my head and try and clear the porridge, but it doesn’t work. On the other side of the door the voices are
quieter. I stop by the door. Charlotte R is talking.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure. I was told you had to reschedule.’
I hear the sound of running water and a squirt of disinfectant. I press my ear up against the door.
‘Reschedule?’ says Graham. ‘No, we’ve not heard anything about that. It’s our last day. We want to spend it with Joe.’
‘But— Dr Moore said—’
‘Did you want to check, then?’
The door to the corridor clicks open. I hear footsteps. The door closes. Graham and someone I don’t recognize talk in the transition zone.
‘Spray everything,’ says Graham. ‘Camera, tripod, microphone.’
‘Everything?’
I hear the sound of metal scraping the floor, the hiss of the anti-bacterial fluid being sprayed.
‘What is she talking about, postponing? The whole point is that these programmes are about life and death.’
‘I know. I guess she’s just doing her job.’
‘David, they should know it’s not all about survival and recovery. We can’t stop filming just because somebody dies.’
They stop talking.
Die? They can’t mean me. Can they? Am I about to die? It’s so hard to tell, sometimes. My whites are back up. I might have a headache and I know I feel dizzy, but I’m feeling
better than I did three days ago, and I haven’t had a nosebleed since then. No, I don’t think it’s me. It could be anyone because kids die in here all the time. They might mean
the boy with the snooker-ball head. But I thought he was getting better. Maybe it’s the girl who chases him, pretending to be a horse, or it could be the boy who reads the
Hunger Games
all day. It could be any of them and I feel bad for whoever it is.
The corridor door clicks open.
‘Sorry,’ Charlotte R says, ‘he’s not answering his pager.’
‘How about we get started and see how we go?’
‘Okay, but I’ll sit in. Then if things get too much –’
‘We stop. Of course.’
‘Okay.’
‘. . . All set, David?’
I walk back to my bed.
My door slides open. Charlotte R walks in, followed by a young guy wearing white overalls. He’s got a camera in one hand, and a silver box hangs from the other. He nods at me, puts the box
gently on the ground and then looks slowly around the room like he’s landed on Mars. Charlotte R walks over to me.
‘I’ve told them I’ll sit in for a while. Okay?’
I smile.
‘But you tell me as soon as it gets too much.’
‘It won’t,’ I say.
Charlotte R shakes her head. ‘I know you want to do this, but
‘Do you?’ I wonder if he’s an insane genius who also has psychic powers.
He taps the side of his head. ‘Everything will be okay.’
‘Will it?’ It sounds true when he says it. Not like when the doctors say it.
Amir nods his head slowly. ‘Of course. My brother got long enough ladders to reach up here.’
His head has flicked us back to talking about the TV. He’s really weird but I’m starting to like him.
Amir smiles.
I smile.
We start to hum.
11 years, 2 months and 25 days
My eyes are blurry and my head is aching when I wake up the next morning. The sound of the drills is getting closer but I don’t think it’s that. It feels like
someone has taken off the top of my head and poured hot porridge inside. Sarah has been beeping on my laptop but I don’t feel like learning about sound waves today, especially when I know the
TV people are outside. I can hear the sound of laughter and I recognize Graham’s voice as he gets changed in the transition zone. He’s the one who makes the documentary. He made the
first one when I was two and we’ve done another nine since then. I can’t wait to see him – not because I want to be on TV, but because for once something different gets to happen
in my day.
I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I still feel dizzy. I shake my head and try and clear the porridge, but it doesn’t work. On the other side of the door the voices are
quieter. I stop by the door. Charlotte R is talking.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure. I was told you had to reschedule.’
I hear the sound of running water and a squirt of disinfectant. I press my ear up against the door.
‘Reschedule?’ says Graham. ‘No, we’ve not heard anything about that. It’s our last day. We want to spend it with Joe.’
‘But— Dr Moore said—’
‘Did you want to check, then?’
The door to the corridor clicks open. I hear footsteps. The door closes. Graham and someone I don’t recognize talk in the transition zone.
‘Spray everything,’ says Graham. ‘Camera, tripod, microphone.’
‘Everything?’
I hear the sound of metal scraping the floor, the hiss of the anti-bacterial fluid being sprayed.
‘What is she talking about, postponing? The whole point is that these programmes are about life and death.’
‘I know. I guess she’s just doing her job.’
‘David, they should know it’s not all about survival and recovery. We can’t stop filming just because somebody dies.’
They stop talking.
Die? They can’t mean me. Can they? Am I about to die? It’s so hard to tell, sometimes. My whites are back up. I might have a headache and I know I feel dizzy, but I’m feeling
better than I did three days ago, and I haven’t had a nosebleed since then. No, I don’t think it’s me. It could be anyone because kids die in here all the time. They might mean
the boy with the snooker-ball head. But I thought he was getting better. Maybe it’s the girl who chases him, pretending to be a horse, or it could be the boy who reads the
Hunger Games
all day. It could be any of them and I feel bad for whoever it is.
The corridor door clicks open.
‘Sorry,’ Charlotte R says, ‘he’s not answering his pager.’
‘How about we get started and see how we go?’
‘Okay, but I’ll sit in. Then if things get too much –’
‘We stop. Of course.’
‘Okay.’
‘. . . All set, David?’
I walk back to my bed.
My door slides open. Charlotte R walks in, followed by a young guy wearing white overalls. He’s got a camera in one hand, and a silver box hangs from the other. He nods at me, puts the box
gently on the ground and then looks slowly around the room like he’s landed on Mars. Charlotte R walks over to me.
‘I’ve told them I’ll sit in for a while. Okay?’
I smile.
‘But you tell me as soon as it gets too much.’
‘It won’t,’ I say.
Charlotte R shakes her head. ‘I know you want to do this, but
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