Toward the end, we had some very bad days. The thing was, although I couldn’t see the numbers anymore, I could remember them. They disappeared while I was pregnant — when I was in and out of the psychiatric ward, drugged up, sedated. I can’t remember exactly when — just that, one day, I realized I couldn’t see them. They were gone. I felt sad to lose something that had been a part of me for so long. But I felt relieved, too. It took away something that I’d been dreading — the moment I would have to look in my newborn baby’s eyes and see his death date. That day, I realized that I could face the future, whatever it would bring. I could have Spider’s child, and we could have a life together.
Anyway, I didn’t forget the numbers that I’d already seen. So I knew when Karen was due to check out. She didn’t know, though, obviously, and her illness, her disability, really got to her. The last few weeks, she was really depressed. I mean, desperate. She kept having more strokes. Every time she got a little bit better, another one would come along and wipe out the progress. It was frightening for her, I know it was.
She begged me to help her end it, exhausting herself, forcing the words out. “Please, Jem. I’ve had enough.” Pleading with her eyes. I told her not to be so daft. What would we do without her? Adam loved his nana. Her eyes brimmed over. She loved him, too, loved him to pieces, but she’d gone past logic — she was in a dark and lonely place.
I guess the strain of caring for her really got to me. I used to lie awake at night, torturing myself with these awful thoughts. What if that’s what was meant to happen? What if I was meant to help her end it?
As the day got nearer, I got more and more on edge. She kept going on — wouldn’t talk about anything else. The last time I took her to the toilet, we had a dreadful time getting her settled. Finally installed on the seat, she just slumped there, crying her eyes out with the humiliation of it all. Perhaps I let it all go on too long. Maybe I should have asked Social Services for help. Looking back now, I can see that it had got to be too much for both of us.
I got her back to bed. She was still upset. We both were. She tried to twist ’round, managed to get hold of one of her pillows. “Just hold it, Jem.” She tried moving it up to her face, but she couldn’t manage.
“No, Karen. Stop it.”
“Please, Jem. I’m tired.”
I took the pillow out of her hands. It would be so easy to do it, press it up against her, lean my weight in. It was what she wanted.
Then Adam came into the room.
“Mum, I’m thirsty. I want a drink.”
That snapped me out of it. I helped Karen to lean forward and propped the pillow firmly behind her back.
“I think we all do, darlin’,” I said. “Let’s make a cup of tea.”
I put some juice in a bottle for Adam and some tea in another one for Karen — like I said, it was like having two kids. I sat with her and held the bottle up to her mouth.
“That’s it,” I said, “everything seems better with a nice cup of tea.” She managed half a smile with the bit of her face that still moved.
“Do you want some biscuit?” She nodded, and I dipped a biscuit into my tea so it was nice and soggy, and fed her. And then it happened. She started choking. I put everything down and slapped her on the back. She was gasping, fighting for breath. I couldn’t do nothing to help. I ran into the hall and grabbed the phone. The ambulance was there within ten minutes, but it was too late. She’d gone.
Adam had seen it all. I should’ve kept him out of the way, but I was so busy trying to help Karen.
“What’s wrong with Nana?” he asked. I took him into the front room, and sat him on my lap.
“She’s gone, darlin’. She’s died.”
“Like Daddy?” I was always telling Adam about his dad. I wanted him to know about him, how special he was.
“Yes, just like Daddy.”
That was the other thing I’ve been doing, you see. I’ve brought Adam up, been a mum and a dad to him. I know I’m not unique doing this. There’s thousands, millions of single parents, but when it’s you, and your own childhood wasn’t exactly rosy, it feels like a big deal to look at your five-year-old son and know that he’s healthy and happy. If you’d asked me five years ago if I thought I could be someone’s mum, and be a good one at that, I’d have laughed in your face. But do you know what? It’s something that I can really do. I’m a mum. I’m Adam’s mum, and it’s something I’m proud of.
I suppose everyone thinks that their child is special. But I know that Adam really is. He’s a lot like his dad. Val says he’s the spitting image of him when he was little, and I can believe it. He’s tall, for a start, all arms and legs, even when he was a baby. And he’s always busy. You can’t keep your eyes off him for a minute — he’s into everything. That’s why I take him out so much. He’d drive me mad, cooped up inside all day. He’s the kind of boy that needs to burn off some energy on the swings or running ’round the park. That’s one of the reasons we moved out here to Weston after Karen died. Spider was right: There’s so much space here. We can spend an afternoon on the beach, and by the end of it we’ve walked for miles and miles, and Adam’s tired and ready for bed like a good boy.
He finds it difficult to sit still, not got much concentration. The teachers at school have said that, too. He’d rather be climbing something or kicking a ball than sitting looking at a book. He’s a bit behind with all that stuff, not that that bothers me — I know he’ll get there in the end. He’s not stupid.
They’ve been learning the alphabet and counting, one to ten, over and over at school. I don’t think anyone thought he was taking it all in. But just last week, we had a bit of a breakthrough. He came out of school and said his teacher wanted to see me. I thought, Oh, no, what’s he done now? but it wasn’t bad, at least not the way I was expecting: getting in a fight or being cheeky or whatever.
We went into the classroom and his teacher showed me a drawing he’d done. Beautiful, it was, in bright crayons — the colors of summer. There were two people holding hands, a big one and a little one. They were on a strip of yellow sand, with the sun in the sky above them, and big smiles on their faces.
“We’ve talked about this, haven’t we, Adam, this lovely picture?” she said.
He nodded solemnly.
“It’s you and Mummy, isn’t it?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “Me and Mummy at the beach.”
“I think he’s got his numbers and letters a bit confused,” she said, “but I’m very pleased with his pencil control.” For there, above the head of the taller figure, arching over like a rainbow, was some writing. “I think you meant to write Mummy, didn’t you, Adam?”
He shook his head and frowned.
“No, Miss,” he said. “I told you. It’s not her name. It’s her number. It’s Mummy’s special number.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank all friends, family, and colleagues who have taken a kindly interest in my writing: Jonathan for his encouragement and comments on the first draft; Dylan and Sparky for getting me up in the morning to write; Charles for showing me ’round Bath Abbey; all the lovely literary people at the Frome Festival; and, of course, Barry, Imogen, and all staff at the Chicken House.
About the Author
RACHEL WARD first won a writer’s award at a regional arts festival, and her prizewinning short story turned into the opening chapter of Numbers, which is her debut novel. She lives in Bath, England, with her husband and their two sons. Visit her at www.rachelwardbooks.com.
Special Sneak Preview of
Coming Soon!
When he was just a little boy, Adam learned about the numbers. The first ones he saw were Jem’s. That was how he knew she was going to die.
Now Adam is fifteen. Orphaned, he’s living with his great–grandmother, Val, in London. The city is an alien, anarchic place. Most disturbing of all, Adam can’t help but clock how many people’s numbers are in January 2027; how many are on New Year’s
Day.
What CHA0S awaits the world? Can Adam and his damaged friend Sarah stop a catastrophe? Or are they, too, counted among the “twenty-sevens”?
ADAM
“Get on alright?”
Nan’s on her stool in the kitchen when I get home, where I expect her to be. Wherever she is — here, Weston — she finds somewhere to perch, somewhere that’s hers, and sticks to it, drinking tea and chain-smoking her way through the day.
I shrug. “S’pose.”
Even though she never seems to move, she don’t miss a bloody thing, Nan, but I’m not ready to tell her everything about school. Not yet. She don’t need to know I’ve made an enemy and met a girl.
Junior don’t bother me, not his threats, anyway. I’ve had knuckleheads like him saying things like that to me my whole life. If he wants me to give him another pasting I will. I’m not scared of him. His number, though, that’s something else. I wrote it down at break time, but I still can’t get it out of my head. It’s a nasty death, and soon. And the feelings are so strong; they make me think things I don’t want to. Like maybe I’m there when it happens. Maybe I’m the one holding the knife.…
Even now, standing in the kitchen, leaning up against the bench, the sweat’s breaking out on my skin, and I think I’m going to pass out. What if my number’s the same as his? What if it wasn’t his death I was feeling, it was mine? Not knowing my own number bothers me, more than anything. I’ve tried to see it. Done all the obvious things — looking in mirrors, reflections in windows, even in water. But nothing works. It has to be eye to eye and the only person in the world I can’t look at…is me.
S’pose that’s what really worries me about the twenty-sevens. There are so many of them, the chances are pretty high I’m one of them, too. There are hundreds at school. There are thirteen in my tutor group.
“Wake up, Adam, I asked you a question.”
Nan’s voice breaks through my thoughts and my mouth goes into action before my brain has time to stop it.
“Thirteen.”
Shit! Have I really said it out loud?
“Thirteen what, love?” Nan asks.
“Nothing. I was just thinking about something…from math.”
She narrows her eyes, and blows a plume of smoke up toward the ceiling. I’ve got to distract her, so I ferret in my bag and whip out the palm-net they gave me when I finally registered. I’ve been trying to use it in lessons, but I’ve never had my own computer before, Mum wouldn’t let them in the house, so I’m way slower than everyone else. I could see people watching me, snickering — a hick from the sticks.
Nan glances at it, but she don’t seem interested. She’s locked in on me and it’ll take more than somefreebie IT to knock her off target.
“You like math, do you?” she says. “Like numbers?”
Do I like numbers? Like them? She’s watching me now, and all of a sudden, I’m not sure what she’s asking me. I’ve never told anyone about the numbers except Mum, and one teacher at school when I was little, before I knew what they were. Mum always said they were our secret, something special between me and her. And I kept it like that. I didn’t tell. When she died, I thought that left just me knowing. I was on my own. Now I’m not so sure.
“I don’t think I like numbers,” I say carefully. “I think they’re important.”
“Yeah,” Nan says. “Yeah, they are important.”
We look at each other for a minute and neither of us speaks. The radio’s on — some news report about the government coming clean over the Kyoto targets being missed by miles — and next-door’s dog is yapping away as usual, but the silence between us is electric.
“I know you’re special, Adam,” she says finally, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I seen it in you, the day you were born.”
“What?”
“I saw, I see, a beautiful boy. They’re there in you, your mum and your dad. Oh God, there’s so much of my Terry in you. Sometimes, I swear I think he’s here again…it’s like he never…” She trails off. There’s an extra shine to her eyes, and the rims are pink.
“What else, Nan?” I know there’s something. She swallows hard, and looks deep into my eyes.
“Your aura, I’ve never seen nothing like it. Red and gold. My God, you’re special. You’re a leader. A survivor. There’s courage, right through you. You’re strong, you have spiritual strength. You’ve been put here for a reason, I swear it.”
I take a risk. I have to know.
“What about my number?”
She frowns.
“I don’t see numbers, son. I’m not like you and your mum.”
So she does know.
“How do you know about them?”
“Your mum told me. I knew about her years ago, and then when she found out about you, she rang me up.”
Suddenly, I’ve got to tell her, tell her the thing I’ve been bottling up all summer.
“Nan — half the people in London are going to die next year. I’m not making it up. I’ve seen their numbers.”
She nods.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah, Jem told me about 2027. Warned me.”
My hands go up to the sides of my head. Nan knew! Mum knew! I’m shaking, but I’m not scared, I’m angry. How dare they keep this from me? Why leave me on my own with it?
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t she?”
The anger’s fizzing through me now, in my arms and legs. I kick at the board under the kitchen cupboards.
“Don’t do that!”
I want to smash something. I kick out again, and this time the board thunks down onto the floor.
“Adam! Stop it!”
Nan’s on her feet now, coming toward me. She makes a grab for my arms. I try to shrug her off, but she’s strong, much stronger than you’d think to look at her. We stand wrestling with each other for a few seconds. Then, quick as a flash, she lets go of one of my arms and slaps me across the face.
“Not here!” she shouts. “Not in my house! I won’t have it!”
I come back to myself then, I see things like they’re happening to someone else, a teenage boy grappling with an old woman in her kitchen, and I feel the shame spreading through me like a blush.
“I’m sorry, Nan,” I say. I rub my cheek where she got me. I don’t know where to look, what to do with myself.
“Should think so,” she says, and she turns to put the kettle on. “If you’ve calmed down, if you’ll listen, then we can talk about it.”
“OK,” I say.
“In fact, you make the tea. I need a smoke.”
She sits down and reaches for her packet, and her hand is shaking, just a little, as she draws a cigarette out and lights it.
When the tea’s ready, I sit down opposite her.
“Tell me, Nan,” I say. “Tell me everything you know. About me and Mum and Dad. I’ve got a right”
She’s studying the tabletop, or pretending to. She brushes a little bit of ash onto the floor, and then she looks up at me, blows a long trail of smoke out of the corner of her mouth, and says, “Yeah, you do have a right, and I s’pose now’s the time.”
And she tells me.
SARAH
He’s trying the door.
I hold my breath.
In the darkness, I can hear the handle turn, the scraping of metal on wood as the door pushes against the chair I left tipped up against it. There’s a scuffling sound as He moves the door backward and forward, gently at first, then with more force. I can picture His face — confusion turning to anger — and I hunch up farther on the bed, sitting upright, knees up to my chin, and I cross both sets of fingers.
The room falls quiet for a few seconds, and then He’s there again. He can t believe it. He needs to check.
Then footsteps, and silence.
It worked! It fucking worked!
I hug my knees in closer and rock from side to side. I want to shout out, scream, dance, but I can’t break th
e silence. I can t wake the others: Marty and Luke in the room next door, my mum farther down the landing.
I should sleep now. It’s safe to sleep. I uncurl my legs and slide them down under the duvet. I’m tired, but not sleepy, and I lie there for ages, triumphant and scared at the same time. I’ve won a battle, but the war’s not over yet. Rain starts battering against the window.
I ache for sleep, eight hours of dreamless blankness, but when I do drift off, there’s no rest. I’m back in the nightmare that waits for me every night.
The flames are orange.
I’m being burned alive. I’m trapped, penned in by rubble.
The flames are yellow.
The baby’s screaming. We’ll die here, me and her. The boy with the scarred face is here, too. He’s fire and flame himself, scarred, burned, a dark shape in the thundering, crackling, spitting heat.
The flames are white.
And he grabs the baby, my baby, and he walks away and is consumed.
The room’s still dark when I force myself awake. The back of my T-shirt and my sheets are drenched. There’s a date in my head, neon-bright, dazzling my eyes from the inside. The first of January 2027. I’ve never dreamt that before. It’s new. He’s brought it to me. The boy.
The boy at school is the boy in my nightmare. It’s him. I know it is. He’s found his way out of my head and into my life. How? How has he done that? It’s bullshit. It’s not real. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.
I reach out next to me and switch on the light. I squint until my eyes adjust and then I see the chair wedged up against the door handle.
Of course stuff happens, I think dully. Stuff happens all the time.
ADAM
They were famous! My mum and dad. I never knew they were famous. For a couple of weeks in 2010, everyone in the country knew about them, was looking for them. “Most Wanted.” For something they didn’t do — just wrong place, wrong time. And all because Mum could see the numbers, like me.