Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,24

all this time — I’d kept my eyes on the ground as the words came out of me. It was so unreal, like someone else was talking.

He’d been sitting, bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, listening. It was probably the stillest he’d been since I’d met him. Finally, he breathed out, a long breath through pursed lips.

“No way, man, no way.” He sounded confused, scared almost.

“It’s true, Spider. It’s all true. I knew something was going to happen because their numbers were all the same. And it did.”

“Ah, this is way too weird. You’re freaking me out.”

“I know. I’ve had to live with this for fifteen years.” Those stupid tears weren’t far away again.

He suddenly slapped his forehead.

“That old bloke, the one that was run over, you saw his number, didn’t you? That’s why you wanted to follow him.”

I nodded. There was silence again for a while.

“My nan knows about you, doesn’t she? You and her, you’re the same, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “All this time, I just thought she talked a load of bollocks, like, it was funny, really. But she knew there was something different about you. You’re a pair of witches! Shit!”

I sat up a bit, tried to breathe more evenly. There were a couple of ducks paddling along the canal, little brown things, oblivious. I watched them making steady progress upstream. How easy to be a bird or an animal, living from day to day, unaware that you’re alive, unaware that one day you’ll die.

Spider had got up, was pacing around again, up and down on the flat stones edging the canal. He was muttering under his breath — I couldn’t catch the words — just trying to get his head ’round what I’d said, I suppose. He scooped up a handful of gravel, started chucking it at the ducks. Must have hit one, because they suddenly took off, little brown wings going like the clappers.

He swiveled ’round. “Do you see everyone’s numbers?”

I looked back down at the ground. I knew what was coming next. “Yeah, if I see their eyes.”

“You know mine, then,” he said quietly. I didn’t say anything. “You know mine,” he said, more insistently.

“Yeah.”

“Shit, man, I dunno if I want to know or not.” He sank down to the ground, crouching, holding his head.

Don’t ask me, I thought. Never ask me that, Spider. “I won’t tell you,” I said quickly. “I couldn’t. It’s not right. I’ll never tell no one.”

“What d’you mean?” He was looking at me now. As our eyes met, that bloody number was there again. 12152010. I wanted to rip it out of my head, blank it out like I’d never seen it.

“It would do your head in if I told you, freak you out. It’s just not right.”

“What if someone hadn’t got long to go? If they knew, they’d have a chance to do stuff they’ve always wanted.”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah, but it’d be like living on Death Row, wouldn’t it? Each day, one step closer. No way, man. No one should have to live with that.” Except, of course, that we all do. We all know we’re one day closer to the end when we wake up in the morning. Just kid ourselves that it’s not happening.

Spider stood up, scratched his head, and kicked some more gravel into the water. “I need to think about this. You’ve done my head in today.” A siren started up from a street nearby. “Let’s get out of here.”

I handed his hoodie back to him, and we set off down the canal path. The gravel crunched under our feet as we walked past the graffiti-daubed walls lining the path. A lot of the buildings were derelict, but here and there some had been tarted up, turned into posh offices or restaurants or wine bars, shiny islands in a sea of grime. The sirens faded as we got farther away, and there was an odd quietness about the place, like everything had ground to a halt.

When we got near the projects, we cut up to the main road. A couple of people had stopped outside the electronics shop’s window, and we joined them. A dozen TV screens, all the same. The London Eye wasn’t turning anymore. There was a bit missing, like someone had taken a big bite out of it: one pod gone, the ones near it twisted and wrecked, trash all over the ground. Only it wasn’t trash, it was bits of people and people’s things.