Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,90

I saw his number as he came staggering up toward me. He had four weeks.

I knew from the look on his face, it was obvious what he wanted from me. A date, the truth. And I knew I couldn’t give it to him, so before he could say anything I turned quickly away and walked back into the vestry. As I reached the door I heard a voice.

“Let us help you, sir. Come and sit over here. Would you like a drink of water?” Simon and one of the ushers had swooped in, gently coaxing the old man to sit in a pew.

Relieved, I slammed the door behind me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I think the ushers, maybe the police, kept everyone else away that day. And people brought me food and tried to talk to me. I allowed them to take off my sneakers, put a blanket over me, but I stayed curled up all afternoon, locked in a silent circle, and eventually, long after it had grown dark, they left me. All except Anne, who volunteered to stay with me for the night.

Just after the abbey bells had chimed eight, I heard her pottering about. I turned over on my makeshift mattress.

“I brought some soup in a flask. Do you want some?”

I felt queasy, disoriented. I sat up slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll pour some out, anyway — see if you fancy it in a bit.”

She sat at the table, with her bowl in front of her. I got up slowly and joined her. I wasn’t really hungry, but I tried just a little of the soup. It was delicious, homemade. I steadily worked my way through it.

“Nice to see you eat,” she said when I’d finished. “You’re carrying a great burden, aren’t you? It must be dreadful for you.”

I nodded. “I wish it didn’t happen. I wish I didn’t see the numbers.”

“It’s hard, isn’t it? But perhaps you should view it as a gift.”

I snorted. “You mean someone has given me this. I must have done something bloody awful to deserve it.”

“God may have given it to you. Maybe it’s not so much a gift to you, but a gift to all of us.” She’d lost me now.

“I don’t get it.”

“You’re a witness, Jem. You bear witness to the fact that we’re all mortal. That our days here are numbered, that there’s so little time.”

“But everyone knows that anyway.”

“We know, but choose to forget — it’s too difficult to deal with. That’s what you made me realize earlier. We choose to forget.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me. I can’t go anywhere, look at anyone, do anything, without being reminded. It’s doing a number on me. I can’t deal with it anymore.”

“God loves you, Jem. He’ll give you the strength.”

Oh, enough already. I might have mellowed over the past week or so, but the old Jem wasn’t far beneath the surface.

“What are you talking about? If God loves me so much, why did He let my mum die of an overdose, why did He give me to a string of people who didn’t care about me, why did He make me twist my ankle, or put my hand on some bird shit, or give me a big zit on my chin?”

“He gave you the gift of life.”

There was no answer to that one.

I managed to stop myself from saying that actually that was my mum and one of any number of punters, paying her twenty quid to feed her habit. I was the result of a quick shag in a dingy flat; a business transaction. It wasn’t what Anne wanted to hear, and I didn’t want to upset her. So I just grunted and shut up.

We had another bowl of soup each and then tucked into bed. My mind kept going back to the two people in the abbey, and to Anne herself. If I had the chance to find out when I was going to die, would I take it? The answer had to be no, didn’t it? Why would you want to carry that around with you? And surely knowing about it would change the whole thing anyway. What if that knowledge, knowing your own death date, drove you to despair, and you killed yourself before then? Could that happen? Could you cheat the numbers by choosing to go early? Perhaps Spider was right, maybe they could change.

Whichever way I thought about it, it would never be right to tell someone their number. I’d known that instinctively all along, and now, with my secret