Heartbeat Away Read online

  ‘Nope,’ she replies, ‘not at all. Why?’

  I start to explain what has been happening to me over the last couple of months since my operation.

  ‘Wow,’ she says when I finish. ‘I’ve never heard of that before. And I’ve met tons of people who’ve also had transplants. They’ve never said anything either.’

  ‘I wonder if I’m just imagining it all.’

  ‘Well, having a heart transplant isn’t exactly like getting your hair cut. I guess it could mess your mind up big time, if you let it. And all those drugs we have to take can make you feel pretty spaced out sometimes.’

  ‘Becky!’ A voice I know well calls from down the corridor. ‘Becky! You’re next for bloods!’

  It’s Natalie, one of my favourite nurses. I quickly turn to Alice. ‘See you later,’ I say before hurrying off down the corridor.

  22

  We’re a long time at the hospital. As usual, I have to have loads of blood taken, together with all the other tests and Sahasra wants to check my fitness level, which means walking and jogging on her treadmill while breathing into a mask, on and off for half an hour. I’m totally worn out by the time I’ve finished. When we get back to the waiting room, it’s empty. There’s no sign of Alice. I guess she’s had all her tests too and gone home.

  Mum and I head back to the car, but from the moment we drive out of the car park, the traffic’s terrible. We get stuck in a jam for ten minutes, then find ourselves being diverted from our normal route.

  ‘Oh great!’ sighs Mum as we’re forced to slowly follow the long queue of cars in front of us down a series of narrow side roads, which seem to be taking us further and further away from the direction we need to go. ‘At this rate we’ll be lucky if we get home by midnight,’ she groans. ‘Take my phone, Becky, and give Gran a quick ring. Ask her if she’ll please pick up Danny from school.’

  I do as she asks and I’m halfway through my conversation with Gran when I glance through the car window. I stop mid- sentence, open-mouthed. There, across the road, are the entrance gates to the park I keep seeing. That same park I’ve never been to but know like the back of my hand. It’s exactly how I’ve been seeing it, with a wide tarmac path leading up to the bandstand and another path which I know winds its way down to a skateboard area and the boating lake over the far side. Stunned, I stare out of the window in total disbelief.

  ‘Becky . . . Becky, are you still there?’ I can hear Gran asking through Mum’s mobile as we drive slowly past the park railings. I try to say something but the words won’t come out. My palms are sweating.

  ‘Sorry, Gran. Yes . . . everything’s OK. But we’re going to be late home . . .’ I look frantically round for other landmarks – I need to know exactly where we are.

  ‘I’ll collect Danny, shall I? From school?’ Gran is asking.

  Opposite the park, a large old church with a long, dusty stained-glass window squats between two smart office blocks. I strain to read its name on the weather-beaten noticeboard fixed outside. Saint Bar-something.

  ‘Becky? I said, shall I pick Danny up from school?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes please, Gran.’

  ‘See you later, dear, mind how you go.’

  I manage to say goodbye then catch a last glimpse of the park before we turn down a side street and it disappears from view.

  * * *

  When we finally get home, Gran has cooked sausages and mash for Danny.

  ‘There’s plenty left, Becky,’ she says.

  ‘I still don’t eat meat, but thanks anyway, Gran,’ I reply, trying not to pull a face as the smell of cooked sausages hits my nostrils.

  ‘I have to cook Becky all veggie stuff now,’ Mum adds with a small sigh as she starts to tell Gran about our long detour home.

  ‘That’s up near where I was born,’ Gran tells us. ‘Over the butcher’s shop in the High Street.’

  As I make myself a peanut butter sandwich, I pluck up courage to ask Gran about the park.

  ‘I know the one,’ she says with a nod. ‘Opposite St Bartholomew’s Church. Your Auntie Vi, Auntie Ruby and I used to go there every week for Sunday school when we were little. And in the summer, if the weather was fine and we’d been good, the vicar let us all carry rugs and cushions over the road to the park and we’d sing our hearts out up near the bandstand. There wasn’t one of them newfangled skateboard places though. But we used to rollerskate up and down all the paths and Ruby was always making little boats out of paper to float on the lake.’

  ‘Does it have an island shaped like a horseshoe?’

  ‘It does. With ducks nesting on it, and a couple of herons, if I remember rightly. Great big things they were.’ She gives me a confused glance. ‘You can’t see the lake from the entrance. So have you been there before, then?’

  My heart’s racing but I manage a shrug and force myself to sound calm. ‘Only in my dreams, Gran,’ I tell her.

  23

  Sunday morning. I wake early feeling relieved it’s not a school day. After that traumatic first day back, I survived the rest of the week. By Thursday morning Masher and Shannon lost interest in teasing me, and despite discovering I’m behind in every subject, it was good to be with my friends again.

  Although I don’t see that boy again, he’s constantly on my mind. Even now, as I peek reluctantly out of my bedroom window, I can’t stop wondering who he is.

  It looks chilly outside, but it’s sunny with just a few wispy clouds scudding across a bright blue sky. It would be so easy just to get back into my nice warm bed and drift off to sleep again but I know I can’t. I’ve been planning what I’m going to do today ever since we drove past those park gates, and as much as I really want to, there’s no way I’m going to bottle out now. I’m determined to pluck up courage from somewhere and see it through.

  I pull on my old running tracksuit. I haven’t worn it for over two years now but, being so ill, I’ve not grown much and it still fits. The elastic around the waistband’s tighter than I remember, but it’s the closest thing to a psychological suit of armour I can rustle up. The cuffs of the blue top are plenty long enough to stretch over my hands and scrunch reassuringly into my fists; it zips up snugly to my chin and the hood’s warm. I push my feet into my old comfy trainers, tie the frayed laces and hurry downstairs, scraping my hair back into a short ponytail to keep it out of my face.

  I glance in the hall mirror and do a double take. For a brief moment I almost fool myself. I could be three years younger, getting ready to go out cross-country training. It was just Mum and me in those days, but somehow she never missed a race. Looking closer at my reflection, I feel a faint sense of disappointment. The expression on my face is so wary, so unconfident. The stuffing’s been knocked out of me and the old Becky’s long gone. I’ve been changed by something undetectable to the human eye – a microscopic virus – just a few nasty germs which cause nothing but a runny nose and sneezes in most people. I turn away. I don’t want to look any more.

  ‘Going for a run, Becky?’ asks Joe in surprise as I go into the kitchen. He gave up nagging me to go out jogging long ago.

  ‘Probably just a walk,’ I reply as casually as I can, as I help myself to some cereal and lay out all my tablets. ‘But maybe . . . quite a long walk. I might be out for a while.’

  ‘Great – it’s a lovely day today.’

  Danny looks up. ‘I’ll come with you —’

  ‘No you won’t . . .’

  ‘It might be nice if your brother came.’

  ‘No, it would definitely not be nice. You’re not coming, Squirt.’

  ‘I was only joking,’ Danny mumbles, as he carries on spooning in his cereal. ‘I don’t really want to come anyway.’

  ‘Well, that’s OK then,’ I reply, glancing at his head bent so far over his cereal bowl that I can’t see his face. ‘Maybe we could play a game or something when I get back . . .’ I mutter guiltily.

  He looks up at me, and beams, which immediately makes me feel one hundred tim
es worse.

  After breakfast, I slip into the sitting room, take the old A to Z street map from the shelf and slide it into my rucksack with my purse. I give a nervous shiver. This is the first time I’ve been out alone since my transplant – Mum’s still driving me to school and back.

  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.’

  24

  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.

  25

  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.

  26

  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 w
as 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 . . .