‘See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you,’ she says. ‘I’m not ashamed of having CF. I’m not hiding it. But it’s not the most important thing about me. It’s not me.’
‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘I totally get that.’
‘Sometimes I just don’t want to think about it, you know? No one ever, ever lets me forget about it. Every time I plan to do something, it’s, “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” or, “You won’t forget your meds, will you?” If it’s not my mum and dad, it’s Calum, or teachers at school, or even my friends. To everybody else in the world, I’m Allie-the-girl-with-CF.’ She traces the pattern of an elephant on one of Shona’s pillows. ‘It was nice to hang out with someone who just saw me as a regular person, even if it was only for a few days.’
‘I still see you as a regular person,’ I say. Behind her, Teacake shuffles towards us. Her lips open and close quickly and soundlessly, like a muted movie scene. ‘You really don’t need to apologize for not telling me. It’s not my business, anyway. It’s totally fine.’
Allie raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Really? Cos you look like you’re about to overdose on awkward right now.’
‘Do I? Sorry. I’m really sorry.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘I just – I don’t know how to act around sick people. Not that you seem sick! You seem . . .’
‘What? Normal? I am normal,’ Allie says fiercely. ‘It’s not like I’m an invalid, despite what everyone thinks. Mum wouldn’t even let me out today. She thinks I’m having a nap right now. Calum distracted her with some boring story about wildlife photography while I snuck out the back door. Hence the pyjamas; we were in a bit of a hurry.’
‘She’s going to kill me when she realizes you’re gone.’
Calum appears in the doorway, a plastic bag in one hand, and a packet of custard creams in the other. He rips it open and tosses a biscuit to Teacake. She gives a delighted yelp and scoffs it down in two bites.
‘Calm down, Calculus,’ Allie says, holding her hands out for the packet. ‘Mum won’t notice for at least another hour.’
‘You know that’s not true. I give it five minutes before she calls one of us. Me, probably.’
‘Calum, how often do you get to hang out with an angel?’ Allie bites angrily into her biscuit. ‘I’m not going to spend the whole summer sitting in bed. Besides, what’s Mum going to do? Stop your pocket money?’
They start a game of dirty-look ping pong, flinging scowls back and forth. I watch them, torn between laughing and making an excuse to leave.
And, right then, Teacake decides to speak.
‘And the moon shines bright, as I rove at night, to muse upon my charmer.’
My jaw drops. Calum jumps so high I’m surprised he doesn’t bash his head on the ceiling. Teacake blinks back at us, crumbs all over her lips.
‘What d-did you say?’ I can hardly get the words out.
‘Did you say the moon?’ Allie leans over the arm of the sofa, her face lit up. For a moment I can almost make out the little kid she used to be: climbing over furniture in Star Wars pyjamas, turning cardboard boxes into rocket ships. ‘Are you – no, you can’t – are you from the moon?’
Teacake looks confused. She rubs the crumbs from her mouth. ‘Gie fools their silk and knaves their wine, a man’s a man for a’ that.’
It sounds like a riddle, but there’s something familiar about the words – something that reminds me of school. After a second, it clicks: ‘That’s Burns! That’s by Robert Burns – we studied his songs in English. Teacake, are you . . . singing?’
Calum bursts out laughing. Allie laughs along, but her face has flooded with disappointment. It’s sort of heartbreaking.
I edge towards her on my knees. ‘She must have heard it on the radio,’ I say. ‘What else can you sing, Tea?’
Teacake chews on her lower lip, then responds with a line from another Burns song. ‘I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, nothing can resist my Nancy.’
This time, we all crack up – even Allie.
‘That’s unbelievable. For her to be able to produce sounds like that so soon . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘I mean, probably not the songs I would’ve picked for her introduction to modern civilization, but it’s a start.’
I try to give Teacake a high five, but she just holds my fingers and smiles, which sets us off again. While Allie finishes sorting out the feathers to repair her wing, I manage to coax a few more half-sung snippets out of her: a few lines of ‘Green Grow the Rushes’, and something unintelligible that I think might be Gaelic. Eventually, Calum gets up and goes to the radio.
‘Hilarious as this is, if we left it on another channel, she might actually learn something useful.’ He turns the knob until the music has been replaced with the voice of an older woman with a posh accent. ‘There, good old BBC Radio 4.’
Allie snorts. ‘Brilliant. She can learn to recite recipes and bits of The Archers.’
‘So what? It’s a good way to learn.’ His usual grumpy tone is gone: Calum’s eyes are bright, his face flushed with excitement. ‘We could be on the edge of something here, you know. She might actually be able to give us some answers.’
FIFTEEN
When I get back to our flat that night, I find Dad in some sort of frenzy, scurrying around the living room, snatching up papers or reading a few lines of a book before leaping on to his laptop to type up some notes. Newspaper clippings cover the carpet like fallen leaves, and the sofa is practically buried under library books. Rani watches him from the doorway, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Dunno.’ She looks a bit put out. ‘Can you make us some dinner? I’m starving.’
There’s nothing left in the kitchen, so I help myself to twenty quid from Dad’s wallet and head to the pizza place downstairs. Fifteen minutes later, Rani and I are sitting on our bedroom floor with two cans of Diet Coke and an extra-large Hawaiian pizza between us. Rani props her phone against the leg of the bunk beds and starts streaming a clip from an American news channel.
‘There was another Fall in Oman last night,’ she says. ‘Eighty-seven now.’
Eighty-eight, I think, with just a hint of guilt. Two photos flash on to the screen: one shows the scratched, silvery face of a Being, the other a smiling woman in an embroidered gold and green veil. An American woman talks over the images.
‘When Tariq Al-Farsi went online to check his emails yesterday afternoon, the last thing he expected to see was a photo of his late wife, Esraa, who died of ovarian cancer last year. On second glance, however, the pretty, dark-haired woman on-screen wasn’t Esraa at all . . . but a Being, the eighty-seventh to fall, landing outside a shopping mall just thirty miles from the couple’s home.’
The film cuts to a shot of a young man sitting at a computer, tears pouring down his cheeks. Tariq Al-Farsi talks to the interviewer in quick-fire Arabic; the news anchor reads out the English translation.
‘They’re telling me it’s a coincidence, or that I’m imagining things, but it’s her. This Being, this angel . . . she’s my wife, come back to me.’
He spins the computer towards the camera. Esraa on the beach, squinting in the bright sunlight. Esraa reading in the garden, a small smile on her lips. The resemblance to the Being really is astonishing: they have the same Roman noses, the same thick lips, matching dimples in their chins. Apart from the silvery skin tone, and the mangled wings, they could have been twins.
‘I don’t know what it means,’ Tariq sobs. ‘I don’t know what to think. I only just lost her, and now this . . . this is like losing her all over again.’
There’s a dull pang of pain in my chest. ‘Is that what Dad’s so excited about?’ I ask Rani.