dribbles and flicks. I skipped over tackles, back-heeled the ball to my teammates, scored with diving headers and with long shots curled into the corners of the net.
After the bell rang and we were trailing back to the school across the field, Leakey ran after me.
“Lucky dog,” he said. “You’ll never play like that again.”
I laughed.
“Luck? What about this, then?”
I dropped the ball and dribbled it round him. I flicked it between his legs and ran on with it. Then he got me with a thumping tackle into the back of my legs that sent us both sprawling.
“Foul!” I shouted. “Foul!”
We started wrestling, rolling over and over on the grass. He was bigger than me and he pinned me down, sat over me, pressed my shoulders into the ground.
He was grinning.
“Say it again,” he said.
“Foul! Bloody foul!”
He lifted his fist like he was going to smash me in the face but then he just laughed and flopped down and lay beside me.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “You were brilliant.”
We lay there laughing; then Mrs. Dando started yelling.
“Get in, you two! You’re going to be late!”
We walked together toward school.
“It’s like you’ve been miles and miles away,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“Would you tell me about it?” he said.
We paused and I looked at him and I knew he really wanted to know.
“Someday I’ll tell you everything,” I said.
We saw Coot in the school doorway waiting for us.
“Might even tell that crazy nut,” I said. “If I think he might believe it.”
Then Mrs. Dando was yelling again.
“Come on, you two! Come on! Get in!”
Chapter 44
THAT EVENING AND THE EVENINGS that followed, I helped Dad in the house. I mixed wallpaper paste for him and carefully painted door frames and window frames with him. We went to see Mum and the baby in the hospital. The baby soon came out of her long sleep and she got stronger and stronger. They took the wires and tubes out of her and they switched off the machine. The bandages on her chest were smaller and smaller. Every evening she sat in my lap, twisting and turning and gurgling. She learned how to stick out her tongue at us, and her mouth and eyes started to smile.
“Look at her,” we’d say. “Little devil.”
And Mum would laugh and say, “Watch out. We’re coming home soon.”
I used to look for Dr. MacNabola, but I never saw him again.
We had lots of Chinese take-out. Dad winked and said we had to keep it quiet or Mum would have us on salad for a month. I poked his stomach.
“Mightn’t be a bad idea, Fatso.”
“You don’t want them, then?” he said. “No more 27 and 53, then?”
“That’s right, Fatso,” I said. “I’ll have … 19 and 42 instead.”
“Ha! A bit of imagination, eh?”
After we’d eaten, I’d go to Mina’s. We drew and painted on her kitchen table. We read William Blake and we wrote stories about adventures in old houses and journeys to far-off imaginary places.
Each evening, Mina used to ask, “When’s she coming home, Michael? I can hardly wait. I haven’t even seen her yet.”
We went one more time to the attic before the baby came home. The sun was still shining. It hung low and red and huge over the city.
The attic was empty and silent. She pointed to the heap of owl pellets beneath the nest.
“Don’t go near,” she said. “They’ll defend their chicks to the death.”
We stood at the center, remembering Skellig.
“Someone else might find him now,” said Mina.
“Yes,” I said. “I hope they do.”
Then we saw the outline of a heart scratched into the floorboards beneath the arched window. Just outside the heart was scratched,
We picked up the feathers and smiled.
“Three,” said Mina.
“One for the baby as well,” I said.
As we crouched there, the owls flew out into the room and perched on the frame above us. Then two fledglings appeared, tottering in the shadows by the far wall. They were round and almost naked. Little cheeps came from their wide open beaks. We gasped at how beautiful they were, how delicate. Then the owls went out hunting. We stayed for a while. We watched the owls flying back in with the meat from tiny animals they’d killed. We watched the fledglings gorge themselves.
“Little savages,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Mina. “Beautiful tender savages.”
We smiled and prepared to tiptoe away. Then the owls flew back in and came to us. They laid something on the floor in front of us. A dead mouse, a tiny dead baby bird. Blood was still trickling through the ripped fur, through the young feathers. The owls flew quickly away again, and we heard them hooting in the thickening night.
“Savages,” I whispered.
“Killers,” said Mina. “Extraordinary presents, eh?”
“They think we’re something like them,” I said.
“Perhaps we are,” said Mina.
We lifted the creatures and tiptoed out.
“Goodnight, little chicks,” we whispered.
Outside, we buried the mouse and the fledgling in a border in the garden. We stared up toward the attic and saw the owls, lit by moonlight now, flying in with more meat for their young.
“The builders’ll be coming soon,” said Mina. “I’ll make sure they do nothing until the chicks have flown.”
Chapter 45
THAT SATURDAY THE BUILDERS CAME to sort the garage out. There were three of them, an old man in a cap, Mr. Batley, and his two sons, Nick and Gus. They thumped the walls and watched them sway and tremble. They heard the roof creaking and sagging. They scratched the bricks and watched them flake easily away. They yanked Dad’s planks off and peered inside.
Mr. Batley took his cap off and scratched his bald head.
“Wouldn’t get me in there even for extra money,” he said.
