Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,102

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