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Four

Erm...

"Erm..." I stuttered.

Tell her? Don't? No. Don't. Act as if nothing had happened. I really would be suffocated with attention then. I'd not be let out of her sight. Or she'd take me to the doctor. Or the hospital. Or the Looney Bin. It was fine. It was a dream. Just a nightmare – or daymare. Obviously I wasn't well or I wouldn't be fainting.

"Could I have a drink, please mum?"

"Of course baby. I'll be right back!"

She hustled out of the room and I heard cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen and the running of a tap. She returned moments later with a glass of juice, checking my temperature with her hand on my forehead as she put it down beside me. I smiled weakly, hoping she'd think I needed a bit of solitude to rest. She did and left, telling me to take it easy, sip not gulp, and shout if I needed her.

She didn't once look at the television or the fading dark blemish on the carpet.

I couldn't watch television after that. I couldn't sleep. Either undertaking seemed to open a trapdoor for my imagination to jump through, with no notion as to what it might land in.

I picked up my book, The Belgariad by David Eddings. Fantasy was my escape recently. I'd moved on from the likes of Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov and their future worlds. I still delved, but my interest in science fiction (bookwise – I'd still devour the films) had morphed into my wandering with wizards and elves. I'd already travelled through the series of books once, and was on my second run through. I suddenly felt like the boy Garion, being pulled into a world he didn't recognise. I had no all-knowing Aunt Pol to guide me. My mother was my only companion, and she was oblivious to anything out of the ordinary and if I'd confided in her she'd only fret and fuss.

I heard the telephone ring.

"Hello?"

Pause.

"Seriously?"

Pause.

"When?"

Pause.

"How...?"

Longer pause.

"OK. Thank you. Goodbye."

The phone was returned to its cradle. My mother came into the living room and I expected her to ask how I was, even though she'd only just left. She didn't. She was staring at the floor. I asked if anything was wrong, but she couldn't have heard me.

"Baby," she said. Then she stopped. I could see tears in her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks, dragging smokey trails of mascara with them.

"Yes...?" Was it dad? Had he had an accident at work? Nanna? Had the cigarettes finally got to her like mum always said they would?

"It's... I mean..." She slumped into the chair by the television. I almost cried out telling her to move, to be careful, but held back. She wouldn't understand. Besides, there was clearly something wrong.

She wiped her eyes, smearing the makeup across her cheek, and took a deep breath.

"It's Ian. He's... He's..." she began to cry, short hiccups of breath with moans sandwiched between. She always cried like that, not that she did often. Dad told her she sounded like a walrus giving birth. I think he was about right.

"He's dead."

The only sound in the room was the roaring of blood in my ears. The television and my mother's sobs were suddenly muted and I could only hear the river of blood gushing around my head. The word spun in the current, occasionally being dragged under only to surface again darker, wetter... bloodier.