The Bubble Boy (22 page)

Heart rate
: 96

My phone buzzes again.

11 years, 3 months and 12 days

It’s 2:15 a.m. The room temperature is stuck on eleven. Three workmen are outside digging under the lights. Another man is warming his hands over a big barrel of tar. I
wish I could stand there with him because I’m so cold that I can’t stop my jaw from shaking. I wrap my duvet around me but it doesn’t matter how tightly I pull it, I can’t
get warm. I step away from the window and look at the screens. It’s been over an hour since Amir said he was coming but he still isn’t here. The service alley is dark and empty. Jim is
at the reception desk reading a book under a light. Shadows pass in front of the hospital doors as car lights pass by. Jim glances up but I can’t see what he’s looking at. Amir
wouldn’t come through the front door, would he? I switch cameras. A fox limps along the pavement. Jim looks down at his book and starts reading again.

A door clicks open in the transition zone. I walk over to my bed and pull the duvet up to my chin. The door slides back and Amir comes in. He’s got a rucksack over his shoulder and
he’s pulling a metal suitcase on wheels.

‘I didn’t think you were coming!’

‘Of course I come.’ He slips the rucksack off his shoulder and puts the suitcase down on my bed. ‘I had to get parked.’ He nods at screen 6. A car is parked in the
service alley in the shadows of the building.

‘But I didn’t see you arrive.’

‘I turn out the lights.’

I try to smile but my jaw is still like ice. ‘Amir, I don’t think I can do it.’

‘You be fine,’ he says. ‘Once you put this on.’ He nods at the case.

‘What, everything I need is in there?’

Amir puts his thumbs on the silver catches. ‘I know what you thinking but you be surprised.’

The catches spring up. Amir lifts up the lid.

A blue suit is neatly folded inside.

‘Have you brought the wrong case?’

‘No, this is it.’ He lifts the suit out of the case and holds it up.

‘But I can’t just wear that. It’s too thin . . .’ I look back in the case. ‘And there’s no helmet or oxygen tanks.’

‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘They too big to get past security. This is until I get you outside.’

‘But it’s the same as the one the maintenance man wears.’

‘No, it not. I show you.’ He rolls back the sleeves, ‘Cotton and rubber with malleable titanium. Put it on.’

I swing my legs over the side of my bed and Amir helps my feet into the suit. I try to pull it up but the rubber sticks to my skin. I pull harder but I can’t get it above my knees.

Amir puts his hand in his pocket. ‘Use this. Gymnasts use it on their hands to stop them sticking to the bars.’

He sprinkles white chalk on my legs. I pull the suit up and it seals me in around my waist, then I put my arms in and pull it up over my shoulders.

‘Perfect!’ Amir pulls a zip up my body and the suit seals against my skin. It’s tight like the wet-suits I’ve seen divers wear on TV.

I put my fingers under the collar.

‘It’s a bit tight.’

‘It has to be. But you get used to it. Shukra tested it. He sat on the sofa and watched TV for two days. Then I sterilize. Here.’ He hands me rubber socks and rubber gloves. I put
them on, look at my hands and flex them.

Amir steps back.

‘You like it?’

I see my reflection in the window. On the outside I look like the maintenance guy, but I feel like Spider-Man underneath.

‘Now all you need is this.’ Amir passes me a metal hoop. ‘It’s how you breathe,’ he says.

‘But it looks like a Frisbee!’

‘It’s a vortex fan with a lithium battery.’ He points at tiny holes in the metal. ‘See these? When we turn it on it powers up a shield of pure air. I show you.’ He
connects a rubber lead to an oxygen supply the size of a small fire extinguisher. It looks like it would only last me ten breaths.

Amir sees the worried look on my face. ‘It alright. I got two big bottles and a proper helmet by the car.’

‘Okay.’

Amir takes the hoop and puts it over my head like he’s presenting me with a medal. I look down at it. Amir pulls a tube out of the rucksack and plugs it into the hoop.
‘Ready?’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

He clicks a button. ‘Amir!’ I gulp for breath as cold air rushes out of the oxygen tank and up my nose.

‘Oops, sorry.’ He reaches out. ‘A minor adjustment.’ He pulls the hoop forward, fastens it down with a strap and I can breathe again. ‘That better?’

‘Yes . . . I think so.’

Amir picks up the TV remote.

‘Amir, I thought we were going!’

‘We are. I just check on Jim.’

The screens flicker on. Jim is in reception reading his book. ‘Umm, he still there.’

‘He goes to toilet at 3 o’clock.’

‘That good . . . And Phil?’

‘He’ll be on the twentieth floor.’

Amir pats me gently on the back. ‘Great,’ he says. ‘That why I make you head of security.’

‘Did you?’

‘Of course. I ask you to watch them.’

‘I didn’t know that was why.’

‘Top secret,’ he says. ‘Less you know, less you tell. Like spies.’

‘But I wouldn’t have told anyone.’

‘I know. I trust you. But sometimes you speak in your dreams.’ He picks up the rucksack. I put my arms through the loops and Amir fastens the clasps at the front.

‘You ready?’ He swings the rucksack over his shoulder.

I nod, but I don’t know if I am. After waiting for so long, it’s all happened so quickly – suitcase, suit, oxygen, go – I thought I’d take as long as Henry did. He
took hours to get ready and that was just for a walk in the car park. I’ve got nothing. It’s just me and Amir. Has he checked
everything
? What about the air temperature? What
about the air quality? If it’s too pure then all it takes is for someone to be smoking a cigarette next to me and I could catch fire.

‘Amir, the air quality, should we check it?’

He reaches into his pocket. ‘I check everything.’ He shows me his phone.

Outside temp.
: 11C

Body temp.
: 37.3C

Heart rate
: 119

Air remaining
: 3 litres

Air purity
: 97.5%.

‘So I won’t catch fire?’

He presses on the air purity icon. Air – 80.5% nitrogen. 19.5% pure oxygen.

‘No. You won’t catch fire but I bring extinguisher just in case.’ He smiles. I’m not sure if he’s joking.

Amir grabs my arm. ‘Come on. We go now.’

I take a deep breath and look around the room – the monitors, the window, my bed, Theo Walcott – I’ve lived here all my life, had every Christmas here and every birthday. Now
that I’m about to go outside, it suddenly looks smaller than it ever did before. I put my hand on my chest. After all this time I don’t want to leave my room behind. All my memories are
here and so are all my friends.

I want to speak to Henry.

I want to speak to Greg.

I want to stay.

I want to pee.

Amir touches my elbow. ‘It okay, we coming back. Now you help us find the way out.’

The door slides open. I think of going back to my bed and pulling the sheets over my head but before I’ve had time, Amir has grabbed my hand and pulled me through. He leads me through the
transition zone, past a row of plastic seats, a shower, canisters of sterilizing fluid and tiny boxes of pills and bottles of medicine on a shelf. Then I see white coats hanging on hooks. This is
where Beth gets changed. This is where all the nurses and doctors wash. I didn’t know the room was so big. From what Beth told me, I thought it was a cupboard. In the corner are a pile of
magazines and boxes of toys and I think that maybe they are things that people have brought in but weren’t allowed to give to me.

Amir pulls me on.

‘If you stop all the time, we never get out.’

We walk past oxygen bottles and stop by the door. Footsteps echo down the corridor. They get closer, get louder. We hold our breaths. They reach us, then fade away. Amir holds up three fingers.
‘On three,’ he mouths. He nods twice. On the third one he opens the door. My heart beats like it’s trapped under my suit. A strange feeling goes through me. I know I
shouldn’t be doing this but I can’t stop it.

I follow Amir out into the corridor. It’s long and narrow with dim yellow lights that stretch as far as I can see. We start to walk. Amir suddenly stops, listening as though he can hear
someone coming again.

‘It’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘Phil only comes up here to check on the cleaners in the morning.’

Amir holds up his thumb and smiles. All the time I’ve been watching the screens I didn’t know he was getting me ready for this. He’s trained me to be a maze runner. I know all
of the corridors. I know all the doors. I know the way out and I know the way back. It’s like Amir has planted a map of the hospital in my brain.

We creep down the corridor past pictures of elephants, monkeys and giraffes and doorways that lead off into the wards where the others are – the girl who pretends she’s a horse, the
boy who reads
The Hunger Games
. For a moment I think we should stop and talk to them. They could tell me their own stories. I wouldn’t have to hear them from a doctor or a nurse. If I
stop I might get caught, or they might talk me out of going. But I have to go. They can go home when they are better. I might be like the snooker-ball kid and never get better. I can’t stay
here.

‘We go?’ Amir whispers.

I nod.

Amir walks on and we slide our backs along the wall like police on a raid. It doesn’t feel real. It’s like I’ve woken up on a film set, with bright lights on the ceiling
showing us the way. We keep walking until we reach a junction:
Left
for visitor’s toilets.
Right
for exits and wards. I look up and see a camera on the wall. I tell Amir that we
have thirty seconds for it to sweep the corridor before it comes back again.

Amir nods. We jump back as the camera passes us, then we’re off down the corridor again. My rucksack scrapes against the wall as we pass more doors and the corridor that leads to one of
the operating theatres. Amir grabs a wheelchair parked underneath a fire alarm. He tells me to get in. I’m glad, because my legs already feel tired, even though I can feel all the adrenalin
in my body like sparks. I’ve never walked this far, except on the exercise machines.

Amir pushes me towards a lift. I press the call button while he checks my readings on his phone.

‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Yes, it fine. Maybe we just increase the vortex.’ He reaches into my rucksack, turns a switch and air hisses past my ears. I feel like Superman must do when he flies across the
sky.

Amir presses the button again but the lift is already on its way. I hear a clang of metal and watch the number change above the lift doors – 4-5-6 – I feel sick and I want to pee
again. Amir puts his hand on my shoulder.

‘You okay, Joe? You shake.’

‘I know. I can’t stop it.’

Amir’s eyes flit from side to side like he’s a scientist trying to work out an equation. He places both hands on my shoulders.

‘Joe,’ he says. ‘It not too late. We turn back if you like.’

‘No, it’s okay. It’s because I’m excited . . . not scared.’

‘Ha. Me too!’

The lift cables whirr as the lift gets closer to us: 9 – 10 – 11 – 12 – it stops on 13. Another four floors and it’ll be here. Amir starts to pull me backwards.

‘No, I just hiding you. We not know if someone get in or out.’

He parks me tight against the wall. We hold our breaths as the number 17 lights up.

A bell dings and the doors slide open. Amir creeps away from the wall and peers inside.

‘Yes, it’s okay.’ He backs me into the lift and the doors close. Then he tap-tap-taps the ground floor button rapidly like he’s firing punches on Tekken.

‘It overrides the sensor,’ he says.

I don’t know if it does or not, but the lift doesn’t stop until the doors open when we get to the bottom.

The clock on the corridor wall says 03:10.

I tell Amir that Jim should still be in the toilet. He wheels me out and we head towards the reception. Halfway along the corridor we suddenly turn down a smaller corridor signposted FIRE EXIT
ONLY. There’s a glass door at the end with a bar across it and there’s an oxygen bottle on a trolley leant against the wall. Amir slides his rucksack off his shoulder.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘You put this on now.’ He pulls out a white helmet.

‘But—’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You just hold your breath. I swap it over faster than Ferrari change a wheel.’

I look back up the corridor. I’ve got no time to think about it. Jim’s going to be coming out of the toilet soon.

‘I count to three,’ says Amir, ‘Okay? One . . . two . . . three.’

I take a deep breath. Amir slides the hoop up my neck and disconnects the air supply. I put the helmet over my head. Amir clicks the air-line in, attaches a new tube to the oxygen bottle and
clicks the other end into my helmet – then he runs his fingers along the rubber seal, and smoothes it tight to my neck. I hear a hiss as he turns a valve and the air rushes in.