Fireball (38 page)

Julian is filming.

Chris says, ‘Here they come.'

I added some siren sound effects, and cars screeching to a halt.

‘This is it, man,' I say. ‘I'm going to miss planning heists with you.'

‘Same here. You're like a brother to me.'

Right then, somebody bangs on the door. Really it's Jules banging on the table with one hand while he holds the camera with the other – but basically, it sounds like somebody banging on the door. Also, he muffles his voice and pretends to be a cop shouting off-screen.

‘This is the police! Come out with your hands up!'

Chris tosses back his whiskey and I do the same.

‘You ready to die, man?' I ask.

The camera zooms in on Chris, until only his face fills the frame.

He sort of laughs and says, ‘As ready as I'll ever be.'

66

‘Why did they give us these, anyway?' I asked.

We were standing on the beach at Cates, staring across the plain of burning water. Chris lifted his medal, dangling it by the ribbon like a hypnotist holding up his watch.

‘Because they didn't know any better,' he said.

It seemed as good an explanation as any. I stared at my own medal, rubbing my thumb over the engraving.
Hero of the Week.
The funny thing is, for about a week, we really had been heroes. Then she'd died and everything had gotten super screwed up.

‘Fuck it,' Chris said. ‘Ready?'

‘Yeah.'

Together, we stepped back and threw them out over the waves – as hard as we could.

After everything, I went back to Cates and tried to find them.

Nothing had changed down there. It was still super hot, people were still playing on the public beach, and the water still flashed and dazzled like a mirror that the sun had shattered into about a hundred thousand pieces. By then it was supposed to be autumn but it didn't feel like autumn at all. Everything was exactly the same as on the day we'd thrown away those medals. Except Chris was dead, of course. That was different.

But then, that's always going to be different.

I spent the whole morning diving. I even had a pair of old swimming goggles that I'd brought along. I developed this super professional routine. I'd fill my lungs with air and kick down to the bottom, then sift around in the gravel and sand. The only problem was the goggles. The seals kept leaking water, which made it impossible to see anything. By lunchtime I started freaking out. My arms felt weak and rubbery, my eyes stung with saltwater, the heat was boiling my brain, and I still hadn't found those shitty medals.

It made me go a little insane.

I picked up this giant rock – a rock so big I had to cradle it in my arms like a baby – and walked straight into the ocean. When the water reached my head I took a breath and kept going. I wasn't even looking for the medals any more. I just slogged along through the murk until my lungs were burning and my ears were aching, and then I sat down on the sea floor with the rock in my lap. The water at the bottom was cool and quiet and comforting. Overhead, I could see sunlight flickering on the surface. I didn't want to go back up. I wanted to sit like that until the pain went away. I'd never have to face the heat again. I'd never have to think about anything, or do anything.

I'd just be this piece of seaweed in a dark well.

As an experiment, I let a little bit of water in my mouth and tried to inhale. That was a huge mistake. I started choking, obviously. I coughed all the air out of my lungs, dropped the rock, and kicked off the bottom. It was nuts. The surface was miles away, shifting and shimmering. I pawed through the water like a frantic little squirrel. My chest felt as if it was splitting open and white blotches appeared at the edge of my vision. Other than that, though, nothing very abnormal happened. I mean, I didn't have hallucinations about Chris or my mom, or flashbacks to important parts of my life. All I could think about was getting one breath of air. That's all I wanted. Just one.

And I got it.

When I broke the surface, I shot straight up and nearly cleared the water – like some kind of giant man-fish. Then I thrashed around in a panic, heaving and gagging up foam. I don't even know how I made it to shore. I just remember the feeling of sharp shells beneath my knees and palms as I crawled up the beach. When I tried to stand, my legs gave out and I collapsed back into the sand, shuddering and gasping and retching and crying. I cried so hard it was like my entire face was melting. Luckily nobody saw me. I mean, when you almost die like that the last thing you want is for some joker to come up and ask if you're okay.

I lay there for at least fifteen minutes, maybe longer. It's hard to say. But once the shock wore off, the first thing I noticed was how uncomfortable I felt. I had sand in my hair and on my face and all over my chest and forearms. I think I even had sand up my nose. Plus, a sticky layer of brine coated my entire body. The sun latched onto me and started sucking sweat from my back and shoulders. It was terrible. I felt like a shipwreck victim washed up on some super shitty island – an island as big and empty as the entire world.

But I was alive, at least.

Acknowledgements

This manuscript passed through several sets of hands before going to press, and I'm grateful for the feedback and advice of all those readers: Nai, Dave, Emma, Rupert, Matthew, and Lucy. Without you this wouldn't have been the same novel. I also owe props to the boys back home for the memories, fact checks, and permissions: R.A., P.C., S.C., R.C., R.G., L.M., M.M., C.O., E.R., P.S., and J.W., among others. Additionally, I'm indebted to those teachers who showed me the way, even if they didn't know it at the time – Mrs Sandberg, Mrs Cook, and my profs at both UBC and Aber – and to my family for their support over the years: Pops for those trips to the Wee Book Inn, Mom for always being impressed, sis for showing me what it takes, and J-hawker for sharpening my edge. Thanks as well to the many editors who've published my stories, both over here and back home. Lastly, I've got to tip my hat to all of Razor's literary predecessors: The Underground Man, Meursault, Holden, Chief Bromden, Ponyboy, Maddy-Monkey and Shrimp. And my apologies to all those frisbee fans out there.

Parthian, Cardigan SA43 1ED

www.parthianbooks.com

First published in 2010

© Tyler Keevil 2010

All Rights Reserved

This edition published in 2012

ISBN epub 9781910901106

ISBN mobi 9781910901113

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