Cool!

“Why’s he tired?”

Mum doesn’t answer, because she can’t.

There are so many questions I want to ask them. I want to ask what all my tubes are for. I’m full of horrible tubes going into me and out of me. I want to ask about Lucky. Is he really dead? Tell me. I have to know for sure, one way or the other. And also, I want to know if Chelsea won on Saturday. Did Zola score? I bet he did. Coolest player in the whole world. The best.

And another thing. How long have I been lying here in this bed? The trouble is there’s no night or day for me, no yesterday, no today, no tomorrow; so it’s difficult to know how long I’ve been here. I’m guessing it’s about three days, maybe four. But I can’t really be sure.

I doze a lot, but I never know for how long. I feel like dozing off right now. I ’m so sleepy. When I wake up Mum’ll still be here, with Ellie, and with Gran probably – Gran’s just gone off shopping. Or maybe Dad’ll be here instead, or Doctor Smellybreath will be sticking something into me or pulling something out of me. Or Tracey will be with me again, making me comfortable. She’s my nurse and she’s really cool. She smells nice too. She smells of flowers. Not like Doctor Smellybreath. He smells of garlic.

Tracey often sings as she works. She’s got favourite songs and favourite singers – John Lennon and Kirsty MacColl. She says Kirsty MacColl is just the best. She plays me the CD sometimes. Tracey tells me secrets, too. That’s one really good thing I’ve discovered about being in a coma; sometimes people tell me secret things. Maybe it’s because they don’t really believe I can hear them, that I’ll ever wake up. But I can and I will. Tracey’s always going on about her boyfriend, Trevor, where they went last night, what he said to her when he said goodnight. Trevor! What a name!

She was angry with him again this morning, because he forgot her birthday. Either she’s furious with him or she loves him to bits. Can’t make up her mind. I reckon Trevor must be a nerd, a right nerd. I’ll tell her so when I wake up.

I’m dozing off now, drifting away. But Mum won’t let me. She’s bending over me. She’s still here. She’s close to me. I can feel her warmth, feel her hair falling on my face as she kisses me. “Your dad’ll be in to see you later, Robbie. And I’ll be in again tomorrow.” Now she’s crying. “Please wake up, Robbie, please.”

I’m trying, Mum, I’m trying. And Ellie’s kissing me too. I’ve got a wet ear now.

“I brought you Pongo,” she says. “He’ll look after you. He’ll help you wake up.” Pongo is her flop-eared, cuddly rabbit, pale blue with pink eyes. He’s her absolute favourite cuddly toy. She hates being without him. I want to hug her. I want to say thank you. I want to tell her that Pongo’s cool, really cool. But they’ve gone, and I’m alone.

PRAYERS AT SCHOOL FOR COMA BOY (#ulink_994222d8-c5fa-5301-9cd4-3c5a4e5661ee)

Prayers were said this morning at the primary school in Tiverton for Robbie Ainsley who was knocked down by a car last week. Headteacher Mrs Tinley said: “Robbie is a very popular boy at school with children and teachers alike. He plays centre forward in the school football team, sings in the choir, and only recently played Oliver Twist in our school production of Oliver.”

Robbie Ainsley remains in a coma and on a life support system in Wonford Hospital where doctors say his condition is unchanged.

2 (#ulink_dc385917-25d5-50ab-8bd9-df6101d8ed31)

Dad’s here. He comes most days, but never with Mum. They don’t do anything together any more, not since he moved out. He’s reading to me. The BFG again. It’s always The BFG. I like it, but not that much. I know why he’s doing it, though. Doctor Smellybreath’s always saying it, to everyone who comes to visit me. He says anything could wake me up at any time – a voice I recognise, a book I know, a song I like, or some big surprise. He says everyone’s got to try to find a way through to me, and one of the best ways is by jogging my memory.

So Dad sits here reading The BFG. I know it by heart, Dad, and it’s not waking me up. Talk to me, Dad. I just want you to talk to me, like you used to. But he doesn’t. He always says exactly the same thing when he first comes in to see me. “Hello, Robbie. You all right then?” Silly question, Dad. Then he gives me a kiss on my forehead, pats my hand, sits down and starts to read. He doesn’t even tell me who won the football.

Sometimes he stops reading for a while and I hear him breathing, and I feel him just sitting there looking at me. He’s doing that now. I know he is. He’s moving his chair closer. He’s going to talk to me. He’s going to say something.

“Robbie? Robbie? Are you there?” Of course I am, Dad. Where else would I be? My nose is itching, Dad. I wish you would scratch it for me. I wish I could scratch it for me.

“Say something to me, Robbie. Move a finger, or anything. Please.” I can’t, Dad. Don’t you think I would if I could?

“I’ll finish the chapter then, shall I?” He’s closer still now, so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “It’s The BFG, Robbie. Your favourite.” I know it is, Dad. Please don’t read to me, Dad. Just talk to me. But I hear him turning the page. On he goes. I shouldn’t complain. He reads it brilliantly. Well, he should. He is an actor after all. His BFG voice is really cool, all booming and funny, like laughing thunder.

Great! Tracey’s come in again. She’s singing. I love to hear her singing. Days I’ll remember all my life. Kirsty MacColl. It makes me feel all happy and warm inside. “Hello, Mr Ainsley,” she chirps. “How are we today? How’s Robbie doing?”

“The same,” Dad says. “Much the same. Sometimes I don’t see any point in this. I don’t think he knows I’m even here.” I wish he wouldn’t sound so gloomy.

“Don’t you believe it,” says Tracey. “He knows, don’t you, Robbie? I know he knows, Mr Ainsley.” She’s changing the dressing on my head. “He knows a lot more than you think, I’m sure of it. He’s doing just fine, Mr Ainsley. What he doesn’t need is people around him who are worrying themselves silly about him.” You tell him, Tracey. I can feel the warmth of her hands on my head. “Well, the bump on his head is going down very nicely, and that’s just what we want. But it’s swollen on the inside, Mr Ainsley. That’s the big problem. All we need is for that swelling to go down too, and with a little bit of luck, and with a lot of encouragement, he’ll come out of his coma.”

“Mrs Tinley – she’s Robbie’s Headteacher,” Dad’s saying, “she gave me this tape to play for Robbie. The kids in his class have sent messages to him – you know, get-well messages. She thought it might help, help him to wake up. What d’you think?”

“I think that’s really sweet,” Tracey says. “And what’s more it’s a great idea. I’ll go and find the cassette machine. We’ve got one somewhere, I know we have.” And she goes out, leaving Dad and me alone again.

There’s a bit of a silence, and then suddenly Dad starts to talk. For the first time he’s actually talking as if he really believes I might be able to hear him. “Robbie, it’s about your mum and me. We both feel really bad about this. She thinks that if she hadn’t sent you off to walk Lucky in the park, then none of this would have happened. And I know that if I’d been at home, then I’d have been there to take you and Lucky to the park myself. I’d have been there to look after you.

And there’s something else, Robbie. About your mum and me splitting up. I should have said something before, I should have explained. It was my fault, not Mum’s – mostly anyway. I couldn’t get work, Robbie, and I got all down in the dumps, and fed up and depressed. I thought I wasn’t any use to anyone – not her, not you, not Ellie. She had enough of me moping about the place, feeling all sorry for myself. I don’t blame Mum. We both said things we shouldn’t have said. Now I’m upset and she’s upset.”

Dad never ever talks to me like this. He isn’t talking to me as if I’m a kid at all. I like that. I like that a lot. “I’ve got a job now, Robbie. It’s not much, just a little part on TV, in The Bill. But it’s something, a start. I’m getting back on my feet. I’d come home like a shot, but I think I’ve blown it and I don’t know if Mum’ll have me back.”

Course she would, Dad. Ask her. She misses you like anything. We all do. Ask her, Dad. Just ask her! I want to shout it out loud. But I can’t even open my mouth to talk.

Tracey’s back. “Here it is,” she says. “I’ll plug it in, shall I? Not too loud now. Good luck.” And she’s gone again.

“It’s your friends from school, Robbie. They all wanted to say hi. That’s nice, isn’t it?” All of them? I don’t think so, Dad. Certainly not Barry Bolshaw, him with the big mouth, who has a go at me whenever he can, just for the fun of it. I hate his guts, and he hates mine. I can’t say my ‘r’s very well, so he calls me ‘Wobbie’ or ‘weedy Wobbie’, just because I’m a bit on the small side.