The Bubble Boy Read online

  For me!

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2016 Stewart Foster

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Stewart Foster to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  London

  WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN 978-1-4711-4540-7

  eBook ISBN 978-1-4711-4541-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in the UK by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd are committed to sourcing paper that is made from wood grown in sustainable forests and supports the Forest Stewardship Council, the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books displaying the FSC logo are printed on FSC certified paper.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  11 years, 2 months and 21 days

  ‘I’ve got a tattoo. Guess what it is?’

  ‘A giraffe?’

  ‘On my ankle?’

  ‘Okay, an elephant.’

  Beth touches me on my arm.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ she says. ‘You’re not even trying.’

  ‘Sorry. Show me it?’

  She smiles then pulls up the right trouser of the overalls that all visitors have to wear, even family.

  ‘Last guess?’

  ‘Spider-Man?’

  ‘No.’ She laughs. ‘You can get that one when you’re older.’

  We look at each other and say nothing.

  She used to say she was sorry. I used to tell her it was okay, that it didn’t matter. Now we just look at each other then look away, pretending nothing’s happened.

  She pulls down her sock and I look at the tattoo which is grey and red with a bit of blue in the middle.

  ‘Looks like a smudge.’

  ‘It’s a turtle dove! . . . And it itches.’ She scratches the turtle dove so hard that I think it might come off. I shake my head at my sister. Beth covers her tattoo, gets up and we stand side by side with the monitor beeping every thirty seconds beside us. We look out at the big grey building opposite with the sun shining on its windows and all the people inside sitting at their desks, staring at their computers. I see them come in and I see them leave, and during the nights and over the weekends I see the empty seats and the lights on dim until Monday morning when all the people come back again.

  The air-con clicks, pushes cold air around the room and makes me shiver. Beth asks me if I’m okay and I nod.

  ‘It’s too hot outside, but it feels cold in here.’

  ‘Is it hot enough to make tarmac melt?’ I ask.

  ‘No, not that hot.’ She smiles then puts her arm round me and we stand looking out of the window, watching the planes as they fly above the tall buildings on the flight path in and out of Heathrow. It’s the only window I can look out of, now. There used to be one that let me see into the corridor, and watch the doctors and nurses walk by. But one day the maintenance man came to cover it up with a special white paint that stuck to glass. I asked them why they did it and they said it was for privacy. I told them I couldn’t hear what they were saying. They smiled, said that’s not what they meant. I don’t want any more privacy, though. I have too much of it already.

  Beth squeezes me very gently – any tighter and she would bruise me. I’m glad that she’s not afraid to touch me. Whenever the doctors have to touch me because they’re doing an examination or helping me, they hold me like I’m glass. That’s why I’m so lucky to have Beth. She says she’s lucky to have me too; that she wouldn’t know what to do without me. Sometimes, just after she’s left, I wonder what that would be like. She’d be able to get a boyfriend and stay with him, or she could go out more with her friends. She wouldn’t have to worry when she’s in her lectures at university. But she says she’s happy spending her time in here with me.

  Outside, a man in a grey boiler suit walks across the roof of the office building with a brown bag in his hand. He walks between the black poles and silver tubes, checking the pigeon traps in the gullies, then he takes a knife out of his bag, bends down, opens a cage, grabs a pigeon and slits its throat.

  Beth turns away.

  ‘I don’t know how you can watch,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  We turn away and walk back to the bed, past the emergency oxygen tanks and the grey monitors with their flashing red lights and green numbers.

  Heart rate: 79

  Body temp.: 37.4C

  Room temp.: 18C

  Humidity: 7%

  Air purity: 98.5%.

  The drop in air purity is because she’s in the room.

  I lie down, Beth squeezes onto my bed and we watch TV while the monitors beep and the sensors in the corners of the room flash every second, my heart rate and body temperature transmitted from sensors on my body by Bluetooth. Footsteps pass faintly by outside and I smell coffee I can’t drink and food I can’t eat. Me and Beth get tired of watching TV so I flick through my iPad for books and magazines I can’t have printed copies of, and she listens to music until my food comes through the hatch at five. It’s my superhero power-up food, vacuum-sealed in silver foil. It doesn’t taste very nice but it gives me energy. Most importantly, it keeps me alive. I open the foil and eat dried beef and rice while the sky turns from blue to grey outside.

  At 7 o’clock Beth gets up, kisses me on the forehead, then walks past my poster of Theo Walcott towards the door. Her white suit makes her invisible against the wall, kind of like Sue Storm from the Fantastic Four. She presses the call button and waits. I don’t want her to go. The nights feel so long after she’s been here. The door opens and she looks back.

  ‘I’m not sure when I’m here again,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a dissertation to write.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Maybe the day after tomorrow.’

  She smiles again then slides between the door and the frame, as though not opening the door too wide will stop the germs from getting in. I look at the white door and imagine her on the other side, taking her suit off in the transition zone. She’ll be putting her street clothes back on and pulling the elastic bands out of her hair. Then she’ll talk to the nurses and check my graphs. She says she likes looking at them, not just because they’re about me, but b
ecause they’ll help her at university where she’s studying to be a doctor. She’s got to do a placement year soon. She says she doesn’t where or exactly when she will go, only that she won’t be going yet.

  I walk over to the window and look down as she crosses the road between the cars and buses stuck in traffic. When she reaches the other side, she turns and looks up at me. I smile and wave, and she waves back at me then leans against the wall and looks at her phone. Every so often she looks up, sees I’m still looking and shakes her head, laughing. I rest my head against the glass, feel it cold on my skin.

  My head starts to spin. I swallow and taste metal on my tongue as blood trickles out of my nose and over my lip. At first it spots on the window sill, then it begins to splatter. I hold my nose with my finger to stop the flow. Beth waves as a bus arrives and blocks her out. I want to stay and watch her go but my legs are wobbling, going numb. I put both hands on the sill. Blood pools in the palm of my hand and drips down onto my t-shirt, my trousers, the radiator and then the floor. The grey building is a fog, the traffic is a blur. I need to make it to my bed . . . I need to make it to my bed. The monitor is closer. I fall against it and press the red button.

  I’m on my bed, on my side. Greg is holding my nose with a gloved hand.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re doing okay.’

  I try to smile. He smiles back, then gently lets go of my nose and presses the button to bring my bed upright.

  ‘Here.’ He gives me a swab and lifts my hand up to my nose. ‘Hold it, there.’

  My head begins to clear. I look around the room.

  ‘Sorry about the mess.’

  He smiles. ‘It’s okay, mate, just tilt your head forward.’

  He checks my pulse and my temperature while another nurse I don’t know checks the monitors. She clicks a button – there’s a hum of a motor, the rush of air and I’m cold again. Greg comes back to me.

  ‘Let me look,’ he says. He lifts my hand away from my nose, mops my blood off my face and gives me a clean swab so I can do it myself.

  ‘You’ve been doing too much,’ he says.

  ‘Too much talking?’ My voice sounds funny because I’m pinching my nose.

  Greg smiles and I want to smile too but I’m scared that if I do the blood will come again.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I look down at the red stains on my t-shirt, on my trousers, on the bed, at the spotted trail that goes back to the window. There’s a red smudge on the glass. Greg mops my forehead.

  ‘I told you, I’m not worried about the mess, Joe. But this should be round your neck and not on the bed.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I take the panic button. The nurse asks Greg if he can manage. Greg nods and the nurse smiles at me as she leaves. I lie back a bit while Greg goes into my bathroom and comes back out with a pair of pyjamas. I take my hand away from my nose.

  ‘Yeah, it’s good, mate,’ he says. ‘Change into these when you’re ready.’ He puts my pyjamas down then goes back to the bathroom. I hear the sound of running water and smell disinfectant. Greg comes back out with a bucket. I swing my legs over the bed and take off my t-shirt as he wipes my blood from the window.

  ‘Maybe you should take it easy tonight, maybe just rest, no laptop or anything.’

  I put my pyjama top on and look down as I do up the buttons. There’s a red mark on my white body where the blood has seeped through. I don’t want to shower tonight, though – I’m too wobbly. Greg shakes his head, he knows I hate showers.

  ‘I saw nothing,’ he says.

  I smile, and do up the last two buttons and change my bottoms while Greg mops the floor.

  After he’s done he comes back and checks on me again, then watches the machine for a few moments before lowering the blinds and dimming the lights.

  ‘You want some music, mate?’ he asks.

  I nod and he walks over to my laptop and he clicks on Spotify, but it plays so low I can hardly hear. I ask him to turn it up but he says it’s loud enough, then he walks towards the door.

  ‘I’ll check back in an hour, maybe sit with you for a bit,’ he says.

  ‘You could stay now if you like.’

  He looks at me like he wants to but it’s like someone has got hold of his arm and is pulling him outside.

  ‘In an hour, mate,’ he says, ‘if you’re still awake.’

  I reach down by my side for the TV remote. Greg shakes his head and leaves me alone. Then I hear a buzz from my phone on the side table.

  Joe, keep . I’ll be back tomorrow.

  I smile. She said she’d be back the day after.

  I turn on the TV, flick through the channels for five minutes then turn it off. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. The hiss of the air mixes with the music and with the footsteps and the whispers as people walk the corridors while the lights on my monitors flash like aeroplanes in the night. I wonder what Beth is doing and who she’s with. I wish she was with me but most of all I wish I could be with her in her flat. We could eat crisps, drink Coke and watch superhero films on TV. But I can’t go there, I can’t even walk outside onto the street, because if I step outside of my room I could catch any disease in the world and die.

  11 years, 2 months and 22 days

  Greg is standing by the monitors when I wake up the next morning.

  Heart rate: 79

  Body temp.: 37.3C

  Room temp.: 18C

  Humidity: 7%

  Air purity: 98.0%

  ‘All right, mate,’ he says. ‘Let’s get this done.’ He leans over me and wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm.‘Okay?’

  I nod. He presses a button and the cuff inflates like a balloon. My arm throbs like it’s being blown up too.

  Greg looks at the reading. ‘130 over 85,’ he says.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Well, it’s not too bad,’ he says. ‘Maybe a little bit high. We’ll just keep an eye on it.’ He types all the readings into his tablet while I check my pyjamas to see if any more blood came in the night. I’m clean except for some dried blood on my fingers and a watery red stain on my sleeve. Greg slowly raises the blinds and for a moment he stands there with his head tilted like he’s spotted something interesting on the street below. I ask him what he can see.

  ‘Nothing much, mate,’ he says. ‘Just some workmen getting ready to dig up the road.’

  I lift my legs off my bed.

  ‘You don’t have to get up yet, mate.’

  ‘I want to,’ I say. ‘It feels like I’ve been lying here for ages!’ I put my hand on my bed to help me keep my balance then walk over to the window.

  ‘There’s not much to see, mate. But they’re right down there.’ Greg points to the end of the street. I see two blue vans and four men wearing orange jackets. Two of them are setting up traffic lights; the other two are getting shovels and drills out of the van. I’d like to stay and watch for a while but my legs are beginning to ache. I turn and walk towards the bathroom, past my poster of Thor holding up a bridge with one hand. I wish I was as strong as him today, but superheroes have to rest, Greg says. Even Spider-Man can’t be out saving the world all the time.

  I take off my pyjamas and get in the shower. I hear Greg sliding a chair across the floor – he’ll sit outside and check I’m okay. I press the water button, then another for soap. The water is thirty-four degrees. The soap smells of nothing. While I wash, Greg shouts to me. He tells me about his girlfriend, Katie, that she’s been working late every night this week and he’s looking forward to seeing her. There’s football on TV tonight but he doesn’t think he should watch it.

  ‘But it’s Man United!’ I shout back.

  ‘And she’s my girlfriend.’ He laughs and starts talking again as I put soap on my arms and my legs, then wash it off. I stop the water, check my skin for new bruises but I only find old ones – two on my left shin from where I knocked against the radiator last week. I wish they would wash away like dirt. Greg’s still talking about football. I lift up
my arm, wash underneath and then the side of my body. I lift up my other arm and do the same. I feel a bump halfway down my ribs. I run my hand over it again. It doesn’t hurt but I just know that it’s there. I turn the water off, check again, shout to Greg. He comes in, opens the shower door.

  ‘You okay?’ He hands me a towel. I wrap it around my waist.

  ‘I’ve found one,’ I say.

  ‘Have you? Show me.’

  I lift my arm. Greg narrows his eyes, bends down, then gently presses his fingers against my ribs.

  ‘Must have got it when you fell yesterday.’

  ‘Against the monitor?’

  Greg nods and presses the bruise again.

  ‘Do you think it’s okay?’

  Greg makes an umm sound. ‘Yeah’ he says. ‘Pretty sure, it’s more brown than purple.’

  I look again, count how many ribs the bruise covers. Greg looks up at me and ruffles my hair.

  ‘Hey, mate, it’ll be fine.’

  I smile but I know that the doctors will want to check.

  He leaves me to get dressed.

  When I’m done, I find Greg standing in my room, checking the monitors and making notes. I sit in my chair with my laptop, look for messages on Facebook and Skype and wait for the doctors to come in.

  It’s 9.32 a.m. when they arrive – Dr Moore and Dr Hussein. They say good morning, ask me how I’m feeling and I tell them I feel okay and they check the charts. Dr Moore points and traces the line across the graph with his finger. Dr Hussein nods and they whisper something I can’t quite hear. Dr Moore looks over the top of his glasses.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. But then Greg gives me a look, so I tell them about my nosebleed and the bruise under my arm. They look at Greg’s notes, then up my nose and I wince when Dr Hussein looks at my bruise and presses too hard.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘It’s just a mild contusion,’ I say. ‘The type you can get from falling off a ladder, or off a kerb, but not the type you get from getting hit by a car.’

  Dr Moore smiles and shakes his head. ‘A mild contusion, Dr Hussein?’

  Dr Hussein nods.

  ‘Then a mild contusion it is, young man.’ Dr Moore ruffles my hair. ‘Maybe we should all just read Wikipedia instead of studying at university for half our lives.’ He grins then he walks to the monitor and tells Greg to keep the temperature constant. Greg points to the air purity figure. It’s gone down to 97.5. They talk about filters and particles, that maybe they should increase the cleaning or reduce the number of visitors.