Where the Moon Isn't by Nathan Filer Page A

Someone else was bored and angry. Someone else was somewhere else, and Mr Philips was saying, ‘This is more than every single grain of sand on every single beach.’

    These are the things we learnt.
    My illness and I.
    ‘Billions of years ago exploding stars sent atoms hurtling through space and we’ve been recycling them on Earth ever since. Except for the occasional comet, meteor, some interstellar dust, we’ve used exactly the same atoms over and over since the Earth was formed. We eat them, we drink them, we breathe them, we are made of them. At this precise moment each of us is exchanging our atoms with everyone else, and not just with each other, but with other animals, trees, fungi, moulds—’
    Mr Philips glanced at the clock, it was nearly break time, and already people had started to pack away their books and begin conversations.
    ‘Quiet please. We’re nearly done. So what do you have in common with Einstein? One. Are you made out of similar kinds of atoms? Yes, I suppose, and aside from the most minute variations all humans are made of the same basic ingredients, Oxygen (sixty-five per cent), Carbon (eighteen per cent), Hydrogen (ten per cent) etc. So number two is also correct, but what about number three? Is there any part of the world’s greatest ever physicist sitting amongst us now?’
    He looked around the room, pausing for effect. ‘Sadly, not enough it seems. For those who are interested, the answer is yes, and not just one or two atoms, but probably many many many atoms that were once part of Einstein, are currently, for a while at least, part of you. Right now. And not just Einstein, but Julius Caesar, Hitler, the cavemen, dinosaurs—’
    The bell rang, cutting his list short.
    I added someone else though.
    Jacob rushed into the classroom, grabbed his bag, and left, ignoring Mr Philips’ request for him to stay. I don’t know why it was this day I decided to follow him. Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was another day.
    Maybe I waited in the rain, hidden beside the bike sheds – which aren’t really sheds, but more like a cage – and after he ran through the gates, gasping at air, I ran after him. It wasn’t so far; a few streets onto the estate with the small bungalows and little squares of perfectly kept green lawn.
    It was just a thing to do, I suppose – to see where he lived. Probably I’d turn around and head back as soon as he went inside.
    ‘Jacob!’
    Except I didn’t head back.
    I called out.
    More and more these days I only knew what I was going to do as I actually did it. He was inside the porch. ‘Jacob!’ My voice was lost in the wind. He closed the door, and I stood on the front grass for a while, catching my breath.
    The rain fell harder. I pulled up my hood and moved around the side of the bungalow. It was small, like a Doll’s House. I don’t mean it wasn’t nice, that isn’t what I’m saying. Anyway, not everything has to mean something.
    I carefully stepped over a few empty plant pots and a garden gnome holding a fishing rod. This wasn’t sneaking. You couldn’t say I was sneaking, because I had tried to get his attention.
    I had called out his name.
    I think.
    Around the back I arrived at the single large window, with its slatted blinds. I crouched down low, gripping the wet ledge with my fingers.
    The electric wheelchair was the first thing I saw, but she wasn’t in it. She was in bed, and now Jacob was beside her, leaning over her, attaching clips to a kind of metal crane. He stood back, holding a remote control. Slowly, she started to lift away from her mattress, hoisted in a huge sling. Jacob’s movements were precise, efficient. Holding the top of the crane with both hands he swivelled her away from the bed, pulled away dirty sheets, put fresh ones in their place. I stopped watching him, because I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The way he’d turned her, she was suspended facing the window, facing me, with her bloated arms flopped to her sides,