His bones ached, an icy, needling pain too deep to reach. Scars from the crash. He didn’t like to think about that. It didn’t do any good thinking about that. When they lifted him out and he was yelping with the pain. The look in their eyes: he knew it was bad, he must be very bad. And one of the men turned away, Zak saw his nose redden and his mouth tremble and saw the man was crying. Then Zak had wanted to cry too but his tears didn’t work any more.
He closed his eyes and imagined the house on a summer’s day, a barbecue in the garden. Zak flipping burgers and Bess waiting for any crumbs. His mam at the table with all the others, catching his eye and smiling at him.
Zak drifted off to sleep. Met his dreams. Found himself running, darting, dodging. The mud sucking him under. Stones thudding into him. Twitching and jerking as he slept. His restless movements echoed by the dog at his side.
Fiona
Fiona was rarely ill and Owen didn’t know how to react. She’d taken sick leave and explained everything to Shelley, who stressed that she was to have as long as she needed and not try and rush back to work.
Over tea that same day she told Owen. ‘So, I’m going to be at home and I’ve got some tablets from the doctor. I’ll be seeing a therapist as well.’
His face, what she could see of it, froze. His eyes met hers. Dismay. A slight curl to his lip.
‘Lots of people do,’ she said amused, ‘you don’t have to be bonkers. Have you any plans for the weekend?’ She changed the conversation, letting him off the hook.
‘Maybe Central.’ The indoor skate park in town. Skateboarding was the only active thing Owen showed any interest in, and because it got him up and away from his video games she supported him to the hilt. That meant shelling out for all the gear as well as the boards and fittings. The bulky shoes with their lurid patterns (Etnies, Vans, DCs), the fluorescent belts and garish socks, the particular brands of hooded jackets.
And of course the hair, straight and dark. Owen’s natural colour was mid-brown but now he dyed it black with Fiona’s assistance. She helped him apply it, wiped the splodges from his neck and ears, reminded him when twenty-five minutes was up. How much longer would he let her help? ‘Have you got homework?’ she asked him.
Owen shrugged.
‘Well, you don’t go anywhere until you’ve checked and you’ve done it.’
Owen kept eating.
‘Did you hear me?’ She was irritated at how he ignored her.
‘I’m not deaf,’ Owen retorted and got to his feet, scraping the chair across the wood flooring.