The lower-sixth corridor is completely silent. Mr.Acevedo’s room is indeed dark. But I still try to keep quiet as I walk to the end. I reach Henry’s room, and the door’s open a tiny crack. I silently thank Sinclair, because he must have been the last person there with him and deliberately didn’t quite shut it.
It’s dark in there, but the moonlight outside is enough for me to make out Henry’s silhouette. He’s curled up on his side in bed, and his head jerks up as I shut the door behind me. I put my finger to my lips as I come closer. Suddenly, I remember the way he came into my room like this at the start of term. That all seems so far away now.
Henry doesn’t put the light on, just sinks back onto the mattress. I slip off my shoes and nudge up next to him. His body is warm, but I can feel a suppressed trembling as I pull the duvet over us. We don’t speak, don’t say a word. I just put my arms around him and press my face gently into his shoulder blade.
I don’t know exactly when Henry starts crying. I only know that once I’ve noticed it, it makes it hard to breathe. He’s crying almost without a sound. His shoulders are shaking, and his pain becomes mine, because, eventually, he bursts into hoarse sobbing.
He’s never cried in front of me. And I’ve never felt anything like this before. I never knew that anything could hurt as much as someone else’s pain when all you wish for in the whole world is for them not to have to experience anything like it. And I can’t make it better. I can only lie next to Henry and hold him tightly, stroke his face, and keep whispering to him that I’m here. Hemay not even be able to hear me, but I can’t help thinking about the time he lay next to me like this and him just being there was enough to make everything a tiny bit more bearable. But I also know that the reason I was crying then isn’t remotely comparable to why he is now.
I don’t know how long it takes Henry to calm himself. Thirty minutes, an hour, three? I only know that my heart is still hurting as his hoarse sobs dry and he is lying in silence beside me. My shoulder aches, and I’d like to roll over, but I can’t. Instead, I go on stroking Henry’s arm, his wrist. When I push my fingers between his, and he doesn’t respond, I know he’s asleep.
I shut my eyes, listening in the darkness. My heart is heavy with an overloaded feeling and pain. But I’m here with him, and I hope he knows he doesn’t have to cope with all this alone. I press my nose gently into his shoulder blade. His scent hasn’t changed. Perhaps that’s the only thing that’s remained the same.
I don’t let him go. Not even when I feel he’s deeply asleep. Crying the way Henry cried is tiring. It’s late, I can feel his exhaustion, and I want to stay awake, to keep watch in case he has a bad dream, so that I can wake him in time, but I can’t. I fall asleep. I’m scared.
27
Henry
Maeve has been dead for four weeks, and I still can’t take it in. Time stopped the moment I walked into the head’s office and saw Theo. And since then, it’s never really got going again.
I’ve missed three weeks of school. And I don’t give a damn. I can’t even think about it: There’s too much other stuff filling my head.
There’s an impenetrable veil over the days in Nairobi before Maeve’s funeral. It feels like I wasn’t even really there. It’s scary how little of it I can remember. The return flight, our time with Gran and Gramp in Cheshire, it’s all fuzzy and out of focus. I felt like I’d lost all contact with the real world, and if it hadn’t been for Emma, who texted or called every day, I’m certain that that would have been the case.
She and the others have made it as easy as possible for me to come back to school. They’re there around the clock. They listen to me, they sit in silence with me or take my mind off things, whichever I need at the time.
When I walk into the dining room between Emma and Torion Monday morning, I feel all eyes on me. Of course, everyone knows what’s happened.
As I follow Emma to our table, voices hush, conversations trail off. It’s unbearable. Emma turns to me as I stop halfway. I don’t have to explain. I just barely perceptibly shake my head, mumble, “Sorry,” turn and leave the room.
Emma comes to stand beside me in the small inner courtyard. The sky is almost ridiculously blue. It makes me angry. I feel an overwhelming urge to kick one of the huge planters, but I pull myself together because that would be silly. Instead, I clench my fists, then walk on.
Emma stays with me. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask me where I’m going, just walks beside me.
“Sorry for being like this,” I say at some point, coming to a stop.
“Listen, Henry,” she replies at once. “You can be however you like. You can cry, be angry, irritated, I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you genuinely want to be on your own... Do you want to be on your own?”
My throat is tight. “No.”
“OK, then.” She lowers her gaze, straightens her skirt, and looks up to the sky. She’s not even trying to get me to talk. She’s just there.
What did I do to deserve you?
I shut my eyes for a moment, seriously asking myself that question. And I’d like to say something, but it’s not possible. It’s too exhausting. The journey here was exhausting, last night was exhausting. The conversation with Mrs.Sinclair and Mr.Ward,who told me not to worry about schoolwork or grades, that they’d be glad to see me back in lessons, but that if I give any teacher a signal, I can just leave the class at any time without explanation. That I don’t have to do the next lot of tests if I don’t feel up to it. That I can speak to Ms.Vail, the school psychologist, any time I want to. I guess I ought to have cried because everyone is so concerned for me, but the truth is that I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t feel touched or grateful. I sat facing Mrs.Sinclair’s desk and nodded silently. None of it is any use. Maeve won’t come back if I walk out of lessons or dodge the tests. She’s never coming back because her dead body is in a wooden box five feet underground, and I just can’t take it in.
My only goal is to make it through the day. Every day, that’s my goal. To hang in there when the darkness won’t let me out of its clutches. Even making it through the day is too much sometimes. At those times, it’s just about getting through the next hour, the next minute, even just the next breath.
I know why I can’t talk. Because I’d go mad and find myself pleading with heaven just to let me through to Maeve. I suppose it’s despair, grief, this overwhelming dark emotion. The kind of pain that nobody prepares you for.
They say it’ll get more bearable eventually. But I’m not convinced of that right now.
Emma
Henry’s been back at school for almost two weeks. He’s struggling, and every day, I’m waiting to see if things are going to be any better. But they aren’t. I keep glancing at him during our English test. He looks so desperately tired, can hardly keep his eyes open. I’m not sure if he’s showered. He’s sitting motionless over his paper, pen in hand, but I don’t see him write anything.
“Keep your eyes on your own work,” Mr.Ward warns.
