First published in Great Britain 2019

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2019 Aisha Bushby

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9319 8

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9320 4

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

For Alfie,

Thank you for braving the world with me -- both real and imaginary.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Some days later

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Mum always turns everything into a game. Even boring days out to the theatre.

‘When the play starts,’ Mum says, ‘count the number of times the cast say Rapunzel’s name. Apparently they say it seven times in the first seven minutes!’ She pauses, looking between me and my best friend Elle. We glance at each other and frown. ‘Seven!’ Mum repeats, like this should mean something to us. ‘The witching number?’ She looks disappointed. ‘Oh, never mind.’

I can’t help but laugh. Mum’s games don’t always make sense, because her brain works in mysterious ways.

We’re at a coffee shop next door to the theatre, having cake and hot chocolate while we wait to watch an afternoon performance of Rapunzel.

‘Fine, you think of a better game to play while we watch,’ she says, chucking her napkin at me, grinning.

‘We could just watch the play?’ I offer.

Mum snorts, shaking her head. ‘Boring.’

‘OK, fine.’ I think for a moment. ‘How about we count the number of times the cast says “hair”?’ I suggest. ‘Isn’t that what the story is about?’

It’s Mum’s turn to laugh. ‘Rapunzel isn’t about hair!’ she says. ‘I’ve never heard something so ridiculous. It’s about freedom, and independence, and exploring the world.’

While Mum talks, I look up a line from the story on my phone and read it out, smirking. ‘“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy hair.” You have to admit, Mum, it does seem to be about hair . . .’

‘Cheeky,’ Mum says, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘Anyway, what about you, Elle, what do you think we should count?’

Elle, who’s been watching us talk back and forth like a referee at a tennis match, chimes in. ‘We’ve been doing Shakespeare at school this year, and apparently whenever anyone performs Macbeth, it’s bad luck to say his name in the theatre before the play!’

Mum looks genuinely interested. ‘Yes, I have heard this! But also, did you know . . .’ And soon enough Mum and Elle have launched into a conversation about different traditions in the theatre – something I could never talk about.

Elle’s like a chameleon, she always knows what to say. She changes personalities depending on who she’s around and can talk to just about anyone, like Mum. I’m just a plain old lizard, darting into the corner of every room I enter.

While they talk, I get distracted by the countdown on my phone. Fifteen minutes.

That’s when tickets to the biggest video gaming convention of the year are released. Dad promised he would go with me if I could get us both tickets. I’ve been saving up my birthday money for it.

The thing is, they can sometimes sell out in minutes, so you have to be quick.

‘Hurry up, Safiya!’ Mum calls. I look up and find her at the door of the coffee shop tapping her feet, impatient to leave.

Mum and I look so similar we could almost be twins, apart from our hair and my glasses. We both have olive skin and brown eyes. Except Mum has black curls that float down her back, whereas my hair hangs by my waist in limp waves.

‘Mum, the play doesn’t start for another half-hour,’ I protest. Secretly I want to stay here long enough to buy the tickets before we go inside. But if I tell Mum that she won’t understand.

‘I want to find our seats early, get comfortable!’

‘And that takes half an hour?’

Mum sighs, opens her mouth to retort, and then storms out of the coffee shop.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. Mum can be so hot and cold sometimes, like a sunny winter’s day. Things can be going really well, then suddenly everything changes.

The truth is, even though Mum and I look alike, we’re not very similar in other ways. Often it’s like we’re on different pages of the same book, always just missing each other as the page turns.

‘Come on, Saff,’ Elle says, reaching for my hand. She’s used to mine and Mum’s bickering now.

When we get into the theatre foyer it’s packed, and I walk with Elle until we find Mum outside the hall, tickets in hand. She hasn’t seen us yet.

Elle says she’s going to pop to the toilets quickly so I stop, for a moment, and watch Mum standing there alone. Her eyes are far away, like they’re in a different world entirely. Mum’s been so intense about this show, more than I’ve ever seen her before. You’d think we were going to the West End, not the local theatre in our tiny town.

A member of staff approaches her and Mum’s eyes focus again. ‘No thank you,’ she says when the woman asks if she needs any help. ‘I’m just waiting for my daughter and her friend.’ Then she comments on how lovely the woman’s earrings are and her face lights up as she tells Mum that she made them herself. Soon enough they’re in a full-blown conversation about jewellery-making, even though Mum knows nothing about it.

Mum’s good at talking to people, being a lawyer. She knows exactly what to say at all times. I’m different. I only know how to express myself in video games. Instead of words, I use spells and incantations.

Once the woman leaves, Mum’s face falls into a frown. She checks her watch and glances anxiously across the foyer, just as Elle taps me on the shoulder. Then Mum sees us. Except she sees Elle before me, because she stands out way more than I do, with her bright red mane like a beacon of light.

‘There you are!’ Mum says, relieved, but I can hear the annoyance in her voice too.

I check the time. Five minutes until the convention tickets are released.

‘I’m just going to the toilet!’ I say. ‘Be back in a second.’

Mum lets out a noise that sounds like a monster is living inside her. She hands me my ticket, barely looking at me now. ‘You’ll have to find your seat alone,’ she warns, like I’m five years old, and not thirteen.

Once Mum and Elle have disappeared inside the hall I run back outside the theatre and into the coffee shop again, where they have Wi-Fi. I log in to my account and watch the countdown.

Two minutes.

‘Did you want a drink?’ the person behind the counter asks.

I stare at him blankly.

‘You’re not really supposed to be in here without a drink,’ he clarifies, a little more sternly.

I hate being told off.

My eyes dart between the coffee-shop guy and the countdown on my phone, and I panic, frozen. I try to open my mouth but it’s like it’s glued shut. I am not good under pressure with strangers. So I just shake my head and run back out on to the street.

Stupid, Saff, I think, feeling embarrassed. If Mum or Elle were here they would have been able to talk to him and say, ‘Yes, just an orange juice please,’ and buy the tickets to the gaming convention, and everything would be fine.

Instead I stand on the street for fifteen minutes, where the Wi-Fi doesn’t work, and there’s hardly any signal. I try to load the page over and over, until all the tickets have sold out and the page shows a big sad smiley face with a pop-up bubble that says ‘Maybe next year’.

To make everything worse, by the time I get back to the theatre the play’s already started. Mum’s going to be furious!

I slip into my seat after stepping on about five people’s toes, almost knocking a drink out of someone’s hand, and getting a few tuts from older men and women. And when I’m finally in my seat I shrink so low I’m surprised I haven’t morphed into a turtle, hiding inside its shell.

I look over at Elle and she gives me a small thumbs up, before turning back to the play. Mum’s next to her on the other side, ignoring me. I watch the two of them whisper to each other during the play like best friends.

At the interval Mum goes and grabs her and Elle an ice cream – vanilla for Mum, strawberry for Elle. She doesn’t ask me, even though she knows chocolate is my favourite.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realize you wanted one. We both said we would get them before the play started, but you weren’t here.’

Mum’s all smiles and warmth, but her eyes are a warning, like a lioness ready to pounce.

‘Anyway, did you count?’ Mum asks, turning to Elle.

‘Yes!’ Elle says. ‘You were right.’

Mum nods, satisfied.

When the play is over I’m the first out. I wait for Mum and Elle, but they take ages.

‘Saff, your mum said I could come round tonight for dinner,’ Elle says when she finally catches up with me.

‘We’re going to watch The Wizard of Oz,’ Mum chimes in. ‘It’s my favourite, Elle. You’ll like it, I think. I’d love to see the theatre performance of Wicked one day . . .’

Elle and Mum walk off, talking about the rest of the play, heads bobbing enthusiastically. I hang back a step or two. They’re both confident, so it makes sense that they get along, that their relationship is easy. I should be glad, but it’s a bit like playing my favourite video game, Fairy Hunters, and my team wins even though I didn’t cast a single good spell. I want to be happy, but then I feel like I don’t belong, like I’m not good enough. And the bad feeling takes over the good.

I know it’s weird not wanting Elle to come round, because she’s my best friend. But Saturday nights are supposed to be our night. Mum and me.

Ever since Mum and Dad divorced, and I decided to live with Dad, they set up these Saturday visits as part of the custody agreement. Mum and I hang out in the afternoon, and then we have dinner together and a sleepover. Usually Mum cooks, sometimes it’s a takeaway, but it’s always just been the two of us.

Until today.

I can’t help but think that maybe Elle’s the daughter Mum should’ve had, the daughter she would’ve wanted.

But instead she ended up with me.

‘Roar!’ I growl, leaping out from behind a mirror.

Elle squeals and giggles and then she hides behind a rail of clothes.

We’re shopping in London today, using vouchers from our Christmas presents. I found a big fur coat so, naturally, I put it on and pretended to be a bear.

Abir and Izzy widen their eyes at one another, as if to say ‘how immature’, but I catch Izzy grinning at me.

‘You’re so funny, Saff,’ Abir says a little flatly, in a way that suggests the exact opposite.

I ignore her. She takes herself a bit too seriously sometimes.

‘Hey, Saff !’ Elle calls from across the shop. A couple of older shoppers look on disapprovingly as Elle gallops across in a zebra jacket, and suddenly I feel like shy Saff again, worried they’ll tell us off the way that man did at the coffee shop last week.

The truth is, I’ve been trying to distract myself from everything going on today. This is the first Saturday in ages that I haven’t seen Mum. Last week, after we got back from the theatre and Elle had gone home, we had an argument – a horrid argument – and I stormed out of Mum’s flat. She never called or texted afterwards, and I didn’t text her either, so I assumed I wasn’t going round today.

I glance at my phone. Nothing. And somehow that hurts more than Mum’s angry words. Suddenly I feel annoyed all over again. I switch off my phone, as if to get back at her for ignoring me.

‘OK, let’s be serious now,’ Abir says, like we’re running some sort of covert operation. ‘Meet at the changing rooms in half an hour, yeah?’

‘Come on, Saff,’ Elle says, grabbing my hand and leading the way. ‘I need your help.’

I follow Elle obediently, just as I followed her on the second day of primary school. She decided we were going to be a snake, right in the middle of the playground. Elle, of course, was the snake’s head. I was behind her, hands on her shoulders. I felt silly and embarrassed at the time. Everyone was going to laugh at us, I was sure. But Elle was confident. She hissed and ran and giggled, and soon half of the playground joined us. Elle at the front, me following right behind. And that’s how it’s been ever since.

When we’re alone again we fall into that easy sort of conversation we have when it’s just the two of us. Sometimes we even forget where we are because the Saff and Elle bubble is indestructible – even an army of goblins couldn’t break through it.

I ask Elle what she’s been reading, and she asks me about gaming. I tell her that I just ranked up on Fairy Hunters, and she describes a series of books about an undercover alchemist. It’s set in a boarding school, like Harry Potter, and sounds really cool. We agree to have a three-day sleepover, where we binge on our favourite TV shows and films over half-term, and never change out of our pyjamas.

Later, when we stop for some food, Elle gets a message. ‘It’s your dad,’ she says, frowning, showing me her screen. ‘He wants you to look at your phone.’

That’s weird. Why would Dad message Elle? As soon as I see the stream of missed calls, voice messages and texts I know something’s wrong.

Dad: [Missed Call]

Dad: Saff, can you call me as soon as you get this?

Dad: [Missed Call]

Dad: [Missed Call]

Dad: Can you catch the next train home?

I know something big has happened, and I know when I find out that everything will be different.

I grab Elle’s hand and squeeze, like maybe it’ll stop time. She squeezes back. I wordlessly hand her my phone and wait for her to tell me what to do.

‘We’ll go now, OK?’ she says, before turning to the others to explain. ‘See you later, yeah?’

Abir and Izzy nod solemnly. I hear them whisper to Elle and ask her what’s going on, but I don’t hear her response. I don’t even say goodbye.

We leave in a rush, our food half eaten, and head to the Tube station.

I quickly text Dad before we go on the Underground. My hands are shaking.

‘Shall we ring your dad first?’ Elle asks.

I shake my head. I can’t here. Not now. I need everything to stop, just for a little while. Because the truth is, I don’t want to know what Dad has to say.

Saff: Getting on the Tube. I’ll ring you from the train. Be about 20 mins.

Elle holds my hand the whole way down, even as we go through the barriers.

Four stops to King’s Cross. Four stops for me to imagine the worst. Dad must be OK. I don’t have any grandparents, or aunts and uncles, apart from Mum’s sister . . . Is it Mum?

One. Mum cycles everywhere. Did she get hit by a car? Does she wear a helmet? I can’t remember.

Elle and I don’t speak. She just squeezes my arm every few moments. I don’t cry, but my heart is beating so fast I feel like I can’t breathe.

The Tube is too hot. I might pass out.

Two. Maybe she just tripped and broke a leg, and I’m overthinking it all? Dad’s just ringing to make sure I don’t go straight to her flat. Right?

But why is he telling me to get the next train?

Someone gets up and Elle wrestles me a seat.

Three. And why would he ring Elle too?

I bury my head in my hands. Elle is stroking my hair. It helps.

Four. I’m sorry for yelling at you, Mum. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.

‘When’s our train?’ I ask as we step off the Tube.

‘Ten minutes. We’ll make it.’

But I’m not so sure we will. I feel like a broken puppet, my strings hanging uselessly by my side, with no control over my legs or arms. As we make our way up the escalators I walk around in a daze. Eventually Elle picks up my strings and leads me, like all those years ago.

I don’t recall going through the ticket barrier, searching for our platform, or making my way on to the train.

But suddenly I’m in my seat and my phone is in my hand. Dad’s contact details are up on my screen.

‘You can do this,’ Elle says, squeezing my hand. And it’s like time has started all over again.

I call Dad.

The phone rings.

And rings.

He doesn’t answer.

The train is filled with excitable children, fuelled by sweets and fizzy drinks. They laugh and it sounds weird. Wrong. I want to switch places with them, to pretend everything’s OK. How are they so happy, so full of life when mine feels like it’s about to end? I watch two of them chase each other, giggling uncontrollably. But then one of them accidentally trips the other and suddenly both of them are in tears, each of their parents cuddling them for comfort.

Elle and I find a quiet corner and watch the world go by as the train pulls away from the station.

My phone vibrates in my hand moments into the journey. My fingers ache from squeezing it so tightly. ‘Hello?’ I say, my voice shaky.

‘Safiya?’

‘Dad, what’s happened?’ I ask. There are already tears in my eyes ready to fall. I take a deep breath, and then another.

‘It’s your mum,’ he says, and it’s like a lead brick slams hard against my abdomen. ‘She’s . . .’

Dead, I think. Just say it. Just tell me. But I can’t speak.

‘ . . . in a coma.’

‘But she’s alive?’ I wipe my eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of my coat.

I can sense Elle’s body stiffen, as she connects the dots of the one-sided conversation she’s hearing.

‘Yes.’ Dad exhales as he speaks. ‘Where are you now?’

‘On the train. I’ll be at the station soon.’

‘OK. I’ll pick you up. I tried to see her but it’s too soon for visitors.’

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, Saff?’

‘H-how . . . What happened?’

‘They think it was a stroke,’ Dad admits, his voice shaky. ‘I don’t know anything more just yet.’

I nod, and then realize he can’t see me. ‘OK,’ I say. It comes out strangled, more a wail than a word. More tears follow. They fall easily now.

The ticket lady starts to make her way down the carriage. ‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’

‘I have to go now,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll speak to the doctor, then head straight to the train station. Are you with Elle?’

I swallow before replying; it’s like gulping down a stone.

‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’

‘Saff?’

‘Yes, I’m with her.’ I wipe snot on my sleeve.

‘Good. Not long now, I promise.’

I put the phone down and stare ahead at the chair in front of me. A piece of mint-green chewing gum is lodged between the back of the seat and the tray.

‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’ the woman repeats, marching down the aisle with purpose. When she reaches us Elle whispers something to her.

She glances at me before nodding at Elle.

‘Come on,’ Elle says, grabbing my arm and my things. We crawl to the back of the train, my vision blurred from the tears. She slides a door open, and it’s only when I walk through and feel the heat that I realize she’s lead me to the posh carriage.

No one’s in here, just us.

‘Is your mum . . . ?’ she asks, trailing off. ‘Is she . . . ?’

‘She’s in a coma.’ I whisper the words, testing them out on my tongue.

And that’s when I know things will never be the same again.

The next day we’re at the hospital I was born in. We couldn’t see Mum last night because the doctors were busy operating on her brain. For some reason, when I imagine it happening, all I can think of is that old-school game, Operation, where you have to remove different body parts without setting off the buzzer.

They called Dad this morning to let him know how it went, and to say that we would be able to visit Mum in the afternoon. So, I guess, the buzzer never went off. It’s not GAME OVER.

‘She’s in the intensive care unit,’ Dad explains, leading the way.

We follow the yellow line on the wall like Dorothy and the Scarecrow on their way to Oz. Except, instead of the Wizard, we’re going to see Mum.

My mouth is all dry and I feel sick. It doesn’t help that everything smells like antiseptic.

Still, we walk and walk and walk, until we turn a corner where a reception desk sits in the semi-darkness, surrounded by rooms.

‘James and Safiya Fisher to see Aminah Al-Adwani,’ Dad says.

Aminah. I forget that’s her name sometimes. I’m so used to her being Mum.

‘Are you a relation?’ the nurse asks. I look down at his badge and read the name Edward Hussein.

‘I’m her ex-husband, but I’m still her emergency contact. I was, uh, I was here yesterday.’

Edward nods at Dad before turning to me, a sad smile on his face. ‘And you must be her daughter?’

I swallow, and it’s like a great big stone is sliding down my throat landing, thud, in my chest. I can feel it right next to my heart.

‘If you could both take a seat, I’ll call you when she’s ready,’ he says, like Mum’s just in a meeting.

I don’t want to speak, so I play on my phone to distract myself.

Elle messages me just as I’m feeding my pets on this new app I downloaded. Lady, our Cavalier King Charles spaniel, would be horrified if she knew about my virtual cat. She gets jealous pretty easily. Once I had to look after our class hamster for the weekend, and I swear Lady wouldn’t look me in the eye for days after.

Elle: Hope you’re OK xxxxxx

Safiya: Going to see her in a minute. I’m scared. Xxxx

Elle’s message makes it all real again, and suddenly I can’t play the game any more.

In the next room there’s an old man lying in one of the hospital beds alone. He stares at the same spot on the ceiling for ages, and all I can think about is how no one is there to see him. And then I think about how I wasn’t there to see Mum yesterday at her flat, before she was called into hospital – all because of our argument.

‘That’s so silly, Safiya,’ Mum had said when I explained that I didn’t want to join the local theatre group. ‘Gaming isn’t a hobby . . . Hobbies require you to leave the comfort of your own room.’ She laughed, even though it wasn’t funny. ‘I would understand all this if you were a bit younger, but you’re in Year Eight now.’

‘James? Safiya?’ Edward calls for us. I jump, but I don’t stand. I can’t. For a moment my body doesn’t respond to my brain.

I turn to Dad, who is about to stand up.

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Is it OK if I go alone?’

I’ve been so used to it just being Mum and me, without Dad, that it would be weird to be the three of us again.

Dad frowns at me for a moment, and I think he’s going to say no, but then his face softens and he squeezes me back. I turn round, take a deep breath, and follow Edward.

He leads me to the entrance and uses a special key card to open the doors. Then he gives me some quick instructions: walk straight to the end and turn right.

It makes me think of Peter Pan and how they all get to Neverland. ‘Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.’

Except, instead of going to Neverland, I’m going to see Mum.

‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Edward asks.

I shake my head. Adults can’t go to Neverland.

I walk through and it’s like everything is happening in slow motion.

Doctors and nurses walk past me, barely glancing in my direction. I turn back and see Dad’s face as the doors close behind me. He gives me a small smile, which makes me feel a little bit stronger.

I rolled my eyes. ‘I knew you would say this,’ I countered. ‘Because you just don’t get it, do you?’

Mum crossed her arms. ‘Grow up, Safiya,’ she said. ‘You aren’t some mystery to me, you know. I know what it’s like to be your age. When I was younger I –’

I didn’t let her finish her sentence. Instead it was my turn to laugh. ‘Were you ever my age?’ I said. ‘Sometimes I just imagine you were always old with your boring job and your boring life.’

That stopped Mum in her tracks. Then she started again, and suddenly she was a moving train, picking up momentum.

‘You have no idea what I’ve had to do to get this job. I left home when I wasn’t much older than you, studied hard . . .’

What else did she say? I can’t remember, because I wasn’t listening.

The walk along the hospital corridor takes a million years. I have to remind myself how to move my feet.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

I pause at the halfway point. I can see Mum’s room now at the end. Sometimes, when I play an especially scary game, I save it just before something really bad happens, and do something else for a while, until I have the courage to face it. If this were a game I would click save and take Lady for a walk instead. But I can’t, so I just lean against the hospital wall. It’s cracked, the paint chipped and worn. It feels as if the whole building might tumble down, down, down and take me with it.

Mum sank down on to the sofa, her head in her hands. I thought for a moment that she was crying.

‘I’ve got a splitting headache . . .’ she said, rubbing her temples.

I thought it was an excuse, a way to stop us fighting.

So instead of backing down, I kept pushing; maybe this time I could win. And I picked the button I knew would hurt most.

‘Dad gets it,’ I said, relishing the way my words made Mum flinch. ‘He was going to take me to a gaming convention this summer. But then you took us to that stupid play, and I missed out on tickets.’

‘Oh, Safiya,’ Mum said, sounding annoyed now. She was still massaging her head. ‘Why did you come then if you hated it so much? Elle seemed to enjoy herself . . .’

I shrugged. ‘Because I had to.’

I could tell that upset Mum, but she swallowed down the hurt and carried on.

‘Look, I know you get along better with your father.’ I could taste the bitterness in her voice. ‘You don’t half remind me of it every day. But maybe you could just push yourself a little and –’

‘Just stop it, Mum!’ I interrupted. ‘I’m not going to the theatre group,’ I said with finality. ‘I don’t want to.’

Was it my fault? Did this happen because I upset her?

I want to ask the doctors these questions, but I’m too afraid of the answers.

I’m now right in front of the door to Mum’s hospital room. It’s open, just a crack. And then I see her face. My heart jolts and I turn away. I sit on an abandoned chair outside, head in my hands, blocking out the rest of the argument.

I shut my eyes, take my glasses off, and press the palms of my hands hard against my eyelids, until white spots form against the black. I try to erase the picture of Mum in her hospital bed, to go back to a point before all this happened. I imagine that I’m staring at the solar system, and I try to believe – really believe – that I’m somewhere far away.

A while later I’m still sitting there, eyes trained on the floor now, avoiding the door. A nurse walks out, letting out a startled ‘Oh!’ It’s almost comical, the way she jumps back. All I see are her white shoes acting out her surprise.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, wiping the tears that now fall freely down my face. ‘My m-mum is in there and I c-c-c–’ I break into sobs, barely able to breathe.

The nurse kneels in front of me, but I don’t look her in the eye. Instead I stare at her name badge, which says ‘Amanda’ on it.

‘Deep breaths,’ Amanda says. ‘Come on, darling, you can do this. Breathe with me.’

She inhales, holding her hand to her chest, and I copy her. She exhales and I follow.

After a few moments I’m breathing normally again. Someone else comes to bring me a cup of water. It tastes metallic and I only sip enough to wet my lips.

I put my glasses back on, stand up and turn back to the door, making sure to keep focused on the wheels of Mum’s bed, and not her face.

‘Are you sure?’ Amanda asks.

I nod.

‘OK.’ She leads me in and guides me to Mum’s bed. ‘I’m going to slide the curtains shut, give you some privacy, but I’ll be on the other side if you need me. All right?’

‘Thank you,’ I mumble.

Amanda looks at me for a moment, before shutting the curtains behind her.

It takes me a full minute to look up at Mum once we’re alone.

Slowly I move my eyes up from the base of her bed, across the thin sheets that cover her legs, all the way up to her hands and the tubes attached to the back of them, and finally to her face.

The first thing I think is how great she looks. It sounds odd, but she does. Her skin is almost glowing. Right now, there aren’t any dark circles to show the hours of staying up late working at her computer, no frown lines to shape her concentration, and her mouth isn’t downturned in disappointment, the way it often is when we speak.

I’m sorry I was so horrible, I think, but I can’t say it aloud.

Every time Mum and I argue about one thing, three or four previous arguments get dragged into it. We’ve now battled out each of our issues so many times that they no longer make sense. We’ve never managed to resolve anything either, so our problems just grow and grow, like a monster that feeds off our frustration with one another.

It wasn’t like this before secondary school. Saturdays used to be fun. We would play and laugh, and Mum liked me for me. But then it changed, and now it’s like I can’t do anything right.

Our last argument felt like it grew so big that the monster had taken over Mum’s flat entirely, suffocating us both.

Mum looks relaxed now, almost like she’s smiling. Like she has a secret.

Her long, brown hair is fanned out across the pillow, her curls perfectly placed. She looks like Sleeping Beauty, hands clasped over her chest, waiting for the kiss of life.

Without thinking, I stand up, lean over her, and stroke strands of hair away from her face. The smell of her musky perfume has somehow managed to linger on her skin, even after everything that’s happened. It makes my chest tighten.

Mum’s had the same perfume since I can remember. It’s surrounded every hug she’s given me. But we don’t hug much any more and I’d forgotten how much I missed it.

I kiss her on her forehead and my tears sink into her skin.

I sit back and wait for the magic to happen.

But this isn’t a fairy tale, and princesses don’t wake up after kisses.

‘Wake up,’ something whispers into the darkness. ‘Safiya, wake up.’

When I next open my eyes I’m lying on my back staring up at the sky. The stars wink at me, brighter than I’ve seen them before. There are thousands of them, millions, coating the land like a great big blanket. The moon greets me shyly in a crescent wave.

I sit up. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, for me to get my bearings. I’m in some sort of courtyard.

It’s hot, hotter than I’ve ever known it. Like opening the oven door just after you’ve baked something delicious. I almost expect my glasses to fog. The smells are wild and sweet.

Wood. Rose, maybe? And orange.

I look up to see an enormous house staring back at me.

Where am I?

Silver branches scale the house walls, covering almost every inch of it. They bleed into the windows and out of the doors.

They sway, like blades of grass in the breeze, and tap at the glass of the windows, as if asking to be let in. Except there is no wind. The night is as dry as lavender sprigs. Looking closer I can see the branches are as thick as a snake, with leaves like gnarled fingers protruding from them.

They reach out for me, and that’s when I see they’re not swaying at all, but wriggling like little worms.

I swear I can hear them whisper my name. ‘Safiya,’ they hiss. ‘Safiya, welcome.’

I shudder, step back, and look around me.

This is the biggest house I’ve ever seen, about the size of the block of flats Mum lives in.

There’s a set of swings to the right of me, a couple of cars parked in front of it, and a great big iron gate to my left leading out on to the road.

How did I get here?

I try to think back to the last thing I was doing. But it’s as if the memory is just out of reach. My brain feels foggy, like I’ve just woken up. Moving around is strange too, like when I step I’m floating, instead of walking. I wave my hand in front of my face and I can see it blur a little.

That’s when I remember what I was doing, and the realization comes crashing down like hailstones. I was sitting by Mum’s hospital bed. But then how did I get here? And where am I? I need to leave this place. I’m trespassing after all, I think, looking at the big iron gate.

Once, when Elle and I were little, we snuck into her neighbour’s garden. It wasn’t exactly our fault.

We were playing Frisbee and it flew into the vegetable patch next door. It started off with us jumping over the fence to go and get it, but then Elle turned to me.

‘It’s like being in The Secret Garden, isn’t it?’

She was right. This wasn’t like any normal vegetable patch. It was huge, taller than both of us. We played hide-and-seek, and pretended we were Jack, climbing up the beanstalk into giant territory. Except a very real giant – or so we imagined at the time – in the form of Elle’s neighbour threatened to call the police when he saw us there.

‘I was just getting my Frisbee,’ Elle said sweetly.

It worked, and we didn’t even get in trouble.

Still, Elle’s not here right now, even though I wish she was.

She would know what to do.

I rush towards the gate and pull it open with a great big creak. But it’s almost as if something is trying to pull me back, like an elastic band stretching as far as it can go.

And I swear I hear a voice whisper, ‘Come back, Safiya.’

But when I turn round to see who spoke, no one’s there.

I’m not sure what to do with myself once I’m away from the house. There are rows of equally giant houses to my left and right, a park across the street framed with palm trees, and a corner shop that sits on the other side of it.

It seems to be open. Maybe I can ask them to tell me where I am. Maybe they can explain why it’s so hot, why there are trees I’ve never seen in England before, and why I keep hearing someone call my name.

I don’t seem to have anything on me, even though I could swear my phone was in my pocket when I got to the hospital.

I run across the street, eyes darting left and right, looking out for people and cars. But as my foot hits the pavement on the other side of the road, the corner shop starts to shake and crumble. The roof sinks in and the walls tumble down, down, down, like a sandcastle washed away by the ocean.

The park turns to ash. Replacing it is a barren wasteland of sand for miles, mounds of it everywhere.

I turn round, but the house has disappeared too.

Before I have the chance to panic I hear another voice, a different one this time.

‘Visiting hours are over, love,’ someone says from a distance.

I whip my head up. I had been sitting next to Mum’s hospital bed, my head resting just next to her right arm.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ the nurse, Amanda, adds. I try to make sense of my surroundings again. ‘I’ll give you five minutes,’ she says, before retreating behind the curtain.

What a strange dream, I think as I try to reorient myself. It felt so real – like a hallucination, or something. Every time I blink it feels like I’m still in it, like my body and mind has been split into two. It was warm there, and I feel hot in my coat, even though it’s freezing outside.

From the corner of my eye I see silver branches crawling up the wall and along the floor, reaching for me. I look down and see sand. But then I blink and I see the branches are only wires from Mum’s monitor, and the sand is the shine from the fluorescent lighting.

I try to shake off my sense of panic, but it feels as if there are party poppers going off in my chest. I check my phone. It’s been twenty minutes since Elle texted me. How did so much happen in that time?

A violent shiver passes through me as I make to leave, and suddenly I can feel the midwinter chill again. It’s like I’ve been dunked in ice-cold water. It slams against my chest and for a second I can’t breathe.

I lean against the curtain rail next to Mum’s bed. My limbs feel tingly, like they’re not quite attached to me, and my head is swirling with the dream.

Eventually, after I say goodbye to Mum, I make my way back to the reception desk, where I find Dad, and notice again the room with the old man in it. It feels like a lifetime since I first saw him. A young woman and two children surround him now. He’s chatting and smiling with her while they play with the settings on his bed. He has a pile of books on his bedside and a tartan blanket by his feet. They make the room look alive.

I’ll bring some of Mum’s things next time, I think.

When we get home I still feel a little strange. I wave my hand in front of my face and I swear it blurs, just like in the dream. It makes me wonder if I’m still asleep. I blink once, then twice, and hope that everything becomes normal again. But nothing’s normal any more, is it?

I want so much to go back to last week, before everything went wrong. We’re going to see Mum again tomorrow after school, but what am I supposed to do until then?

My feet tread the familiar path up to my room, and I automatically jump on to my computer, without really meaning to. But as soon as my headphones are on, it feels like the rest of the world disappears.

I click on the button, which resembles an old scroll, and wait for the screen to load.

My bedroom walls pull apart brick by brick, and in their place sprouts an ancient fairy palace; my bed folds up into a giant nest; and, instead of street lamps and terraced houses, my windows show me a dense forest as tall as the eye can see. And, all at once, I feel calm.

The world of Fairy Hunters unfolds around me. I’ve been playing it since I was ten, and I’m getting pretty good at it now. It’s an online game where you’re put into teams to battle it out – fairies against wizards. I always choose Team Fairy. The aim of the game is to protect our nest of eggs from the wizards, who try to steal them to make potions.

There are four kinds of fairy on each team – earth, fire, water and wind. Earth fairies are the protectors; they go in first as they have the best defensive spells to protect their team. Then come the fire fairies – the close-range spellcasters. They need to cast quickly and attack the wizards before they have the chance to defend themselves. Next are the water fairies, the long-range spellcasters. Their job is to cast spells that take more time to conjure but are more powerful. They usually hang back. Then there are the wind fairies. I’m one of them. Our job is to help the rest of the team. Most people don’t like playing as wind fairies, because they think we’re useless.

We’re not. A lot of the time we’re the difference between winning and losing the game.

As I walk through the map and see the ruined palace in the distance – ivy growing all over it, walls cracked – I can’t help but remember the house from my dream with the silver branches. The park, too, looks similar. Except, instead of palm trees, in Fairy Hunters, the trees are oak; and, instead of a corner shop, there’s the Wicked Woodlands where the wizards live.

Almost an hour later I’m just about to be crowned most valuable player when Dad’s voice floats up from the living room beneath me. ‘Safiya!’ he calls, piercing the bubble that my headphones have formed. ‘Dinner!’

And, just like that, the spell is broken.

The next day at school everything’s a little strange. The teachers keep talking to me in really high-pitched voices, eyes creased with sympathy. It’s the way strangers talk to Lady in the street. Usually she wees on them in response. She does that a lot when people are nice to her.

As I was getting ready to leave Maths for lunch Ms Belgrave called me over, handed me a pack of sweets and winked, like it was a secret. Except, instead of winking she kind of just twitched her eye. I didn’t wee on her, the way Lady would, I just took the sweets and said thank you.

I suppose Dad will have told the teachers about Mum, but that doesn’t explain why everyone else is staring at me. I keep checking to see if I have toilet roll on my shoe or a giant spot in the middle of my nose.

‘What do you think, Saff?’ Elle asks halfway through lunch.

I turn to her, eyes wide. I realize I haven’t been listening. I’d been thinking about the strange dream I had at the hospital yesterday.

Izzy saves me. ‘I think he’s cool,’ she says.

That’s when I realize they’re talking about Matty Chung, Elle’s latest crush. I glance over at him, where he sits with his best friends Jonnie and David.

I don’t know how to respond because I don’t really think anything of him, or any boys, for that matter.

I remember when we were in Year Seven and no one else talked to us. Sounds weird, but I preferred it. We used to have a sleepover at Elle’s house every Friday night. We would do our homework first while Elle’s mum baked. It was usually cookies or a cake that she would let us have as a treat before dinner. Afterwards we always watched a film and then stayed up late chatting or playing silly games in bed when we were supposed to be sleeping.

But then Year Eight happened, and we made more friends, and now everyone wants to hang out at Maccies after school or go to the cinema with boys. Everything’s changing so quickly that it feels like my world is crumbling, just like in the dream. Like everything I’ve ever known is made of sand; one big wave could wash it away into the ocean.

‘Saff !’ Elle whispers furiously. ‘Don’t stare at him. He’ll know we’re talking about him.’

‘Sorry.’ I smile sheepishly and turn back to my lasagne.

‘What’s the latest anyway?’ Elle asks. ‘How’s your mum?’

Three pairs of eyes turn to me just then, and I want to shrink away from their sympathy, hide from their curiosity.

‘I don’t really know,’ I admit, playing with my food. ‘Mum’s in a coma still. Apparently she had some sort of stroke. There’s a fancy name for it, but I can’t really remember it now.’

What I do know is that being in a coma is kind of like you’re asleep, except you can’t be woken up by loud noises or dogs licking your face in the morning.

Often the patient – which is how they keep referring to Mum – wakes up after a few weeks, once their body has recovered from the trauma. I don’t think about the other outcome, which is that some patients never wake up.

The doctors asked Dad and me if Mum had any symptoms in the weeks leading up to the stroke. The main symptom, they explained, was a headache about a week or two before.

My heart dropped when they said that, because Mum had complained about a headache during our argument. And then I’d . . .

I didn’t tell the doctors about it, though, because that would mean I would have to tell them about the argument, and I don’t know if I could bear to find out that it was all my fault.

‘She had an operation on the first night, so now all we can do is . . . wait,’ I finish lamely.

Waiting feels so . . . wrong. I want to do something, to help. But instead I just have to live life like normal.

Dad said it was important to maintain my routine, whatever that means, and carry on with school and friends. But why pretend everything’s fine when it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong?

Suddenly tears well up in my eyes.

‘D-does anyone want some sweets?’ I ask to avoid the embarrassment of crying. ‘Ms Belgrave gave them to me,’ I add, accidentally spilling the contents all over the table.

‘Oh, Saff !’ Elle says, grabbing my hand. Izzy goes to get a tissue, while Abir strokes my shoulder. ‘We’re here for you. Anything you need . . .’

I nod. ‘Thank you.’ I smile back at them, even though I want to keep crying.

I try to focus on doing something, instead of sitting here and moping. That’s when I get an idea.

‘Actually . . .’ I say. ‘There is something you could do for me . . .’

A little while later I leave school just before the bell rings for the end of lunch. I asked Elle and the others to let our form tutor know I’ve gone home.

Except that’s not really where I’m going.

With shaking hands I put the key in the lock and let myself inside. My first thought is that it’s really quiet. Usually the TV is on, or some music. I switch on the lights, take off my coat, and turn on the TV for background noise. My second thought is that it smells like her – Mum’s flat.

It’s a full minute, maybe more, before I can bear to step inside any further. It’s as if I’m glued to the door, paralysed, like a wizard has trapped me in a snare. My blood is pumping around my body too quickly and I feel my limbs tingling, too heavy to lift. I crouch down at the threshold for a moment until the feeling passes.

The living room’s a bit of a mess. The house phone is on the floor. Dad said Mum called the ambulance herself. She could tell something was happening to her. The coffee table has been shoved aside – that must have been the paramedics. Then there’s papers scattered all over, and a big beige stain has ruined the white carpet. Coffee. Mum never drank anything else. Her mug – the posh floral one I got her for her birthday – stands upright on the table.

The papers look like a report from one of Mum’s cases. I gather them up, careful to make sure they’re stacked in order. If Mum gets home she’ll . . .

When . . . I think instead. Because Mum’s going to be OK. I know she is.

There’s a bunch of post by the door that must’ve been delivered after Mum went into hospital: some letters and a delivery card. I put them on the table too.

Next, I make my way to the kitchen.

I almost can’t go inside when I see the table set for two, and the remnants of the meal Mum was cooking laid out on the counter. My heart lurches. I should’ve been there. She thought I was still going to come over. Or maybe she hoped.

Some of it has been put away, like someone’s tried to tidy after her, but they didn’t do it properly, and the smell of herbs still lingers.

Mum’s always been a messy cook; it drove Dad up the wall. He usually did all the cooking, and he could never quite handle it whenever she insisted that it was her turn. He would hover, cleaning up behind her. Dad is all about order. Mum was . . . is . . . free.

I decide to finish the tidying. When I’m done and everything looks normal again I stand and look around, feeling a little strange, like I’m trespassing.

Like in the dream.

What have I come here to do?

I think back to the man at the hospital with his tartan blanket and his books, and then stare around Mum’s flat. What shall I take in for her?

I think of the mug on the table, but she can’t exactly use it, can she?

In the end I settle for a throw she always keeps on the sofa, covered in yellow flowers, and a worn-out cushion that’s shaped like a fox. That’ll make her hospital room prettier, won’t it?

I decide to try her bedroom next. As soon as I walk in her signature perfume envelops me. It’s musky: some sort of wood, rose and maybe orange? It smells like comfort and childhood and home. But I daren’t touch it. It’s too special.

Instead I reach for her hand cream. Mum was always moisturizing her hands. She would offer me some every time, but I always refused.

‘They make my fingers greasy,’ I once moaned.

‘Oh, don’t be so silly!’ she said, chasing me around the room. Eventually Mum caught me and slathered my palms in lotion. ‘You’ll thank me when you’re my age and have the hands of a toddler.’

‘That sounds so weird,’ I said, grinning. At the time I imagined grown-up Mum walking around with tiny hands.

I still remember the way Mum laughed at that. Each note of it floated up, up, up, filling the room with joy, like birds singing on the first day of spring.

I put a pea-sized amount of hand cream on my palms, and rub it in carefully, the way Mum always does.

As I leave Mum’s room I notice a photo by her bed. It’s of my grandmother standing in front of a great big house. I’ve never met her, only seen photos. She died before I was born, but Mum used to say her soul went into my body, so it’s like she’s still here. Toddler Mum stands next to my grandmother, clinging to her skirt.

I’m so focused on my mother and grandmother that I barely notice the house. But when I do I almost gasp. Apart from the silver branches it looks exactly like the one in . . .

‘My dream,’ I say aloud.

When Dad and I get to the hospital in the evening Edward waves me through right away. ‘Your mum’s doing well today,’ he says with a smile, though I’m not exactly sure what that means. She’s still in a coma after all.

When I walk into Mum’s room I see it as if for the first time. Yesterday I was too focused on Mum to notice anything else. There are two other beds in the room, alongside Mum’s, and the patients in them are asleep. I wonder what their stories are, what happened to them. I can hear their machines humming in unison, pumping air through their bodies like an orchestra. Then there’s Mum’s, just out of time with the others.

I walk over to her curtain and seeing her again sends a wave of something through me. Shock? Fear?

It’s something else, something I can’t quite pinpoint.

‘Hello, lovely.’ It’s Amanda, the nurse who helped me yesterday. She’s peering round the curtain now. I feel embarrassed to see her. ‘How are you doing today?’

‘Good, thanks.’ I smile awkwardly. I can’t stop thinking about how I cried in front of her. ‘I . . . uh . . . brought some stuff in for Mum.’ Suddenly I feel all shy again. ‘Is it OK if . . .’ My sentence fizzles out into nothing.

Amanda beams, peering into my bag. ‘Let me help you with that.’

Instead of saying thanks like a normal person, I make an indiscernible noise that sounds a bit like a cow trying to sing.

Stop being weird, Saff.

The thing is, sometimes my brain just goes blank. It’s like standing in a dark room where I try to reach for words, any words, but there’s nothing there.

Amanda picks up the throw and places it over Mum’s blanket, while I position the fox cushion at the top of her bed.

‘Well then, you look much better today,’ Amanda says when we’re done, glancing in my direction. ‘School went well?’ She eyes up my snot-green uniform.

‘Yeah!’ I answer a little too enthusiastically.

She nods. ‘Anyway, these are lovely!’ she says, pointing at the blanket and cushion. She fluffs the cushion up and places it next to Mum’s head, and speaks again before I have to think up a response.

‘It’ll be really good for your mum to have familiar things around her. Home comforts.’ She smiles.

‘Yeah,’ I say again, grinning at her like a maniac.

Say something else, Saff.

But I can’t. It feels weird to be making small talk with a virtual stranger across the bed of my unconscious mother.

‘All right,’ Amanda sings, unfazed. ‘I’ll leave you to it!’ She pulls the curtains shut with finality, and I’m left alone with Mum again. The sudden silence is jarring.

I try to hold Mum’s hand, but it’s cold, like a corpse’s, and I pull back. I try again. I wrap my fingers round hers, avoiding the tube protruding from her wrist that is keeping her body nourished. I want to warm her skin. I want her to feel my touch.

I reach into my bag and pull out Mum’s hand cream. I put a little in my palms and rub them together. Then I rub it on her hands, one at a time. When I’m done I look up at Mum again. I imagine her brown eyes creasing up as she smiles, sparkling with life. I want to see them now. I want her to look at me. Even if it is one of her angry looks. Right now I’d take anything.

Open your eyes, Mum. ‘Open your eyes.’ I say it aloud without meaning to and cover my mouth with my hand, the other still clinging to hers, my grip firm, desperate. ‘Please,’ I add quietly.

She doesn’t of course, because Mum’s always been stubborn.

I notice the perfume still lingering on her skin. It wafts towards me as the heater blasts it in my direction.

I lean over to cover Mum with the flower-covered throw. The smell is overpowering now; I close my eyes and take it in. But my legs start to wobble, and I almost fall into the chair.

When I next open my eyes I’m back in front of the house again.

It’s night-time. The stars wave hello, like they’ve been expecting me.

The door of the house is wide open, like it expects me too. I’m certain it’s the one from the photo. Does that mean I’m in Kuwait? As soon as I think it I know I’m right.

I look to my left, where the great big iron gates stand, and to the right where an old set of swings sway in the warm breeze, and finally back at the house again.

It stands there, like the ruined palace from Fairy Hunters, where you collect your quests. And this time I go inside.

A tunnel of green greets me as I step through the door. Plants hang from the ceiling, their leaves skating down the walls and on to the purple-and-pink marbled floor. I sweep my hand along the wall, gathering leaves. As I pass through I think of Mum growing up here in this house. I think of her as a little child, holding on to her mother’s skirt like she did in that photo. I want to swoop her up in my arms and tell her everything is going to be OK. Because that’s what I need someone to tell me.

Soon I find myself in a foyer with a round table in the middle of it. Windows line one entire side of the wall, their blinds, like the house’s eyelids, are pulled down, like it’s asleep. The pearlescent walls sparkle in the light, and an enormous canvas of the sky stands at the furthest end of the room. This is how I imagine the fairy palace would have looked before it turned to ruin. Red and gold furniture, rich colours and patterned curtains. It’s like stepping into a dream.

As I walk across the room it’s as if I can feel the house breathe beneath my feet.

Whish, whoosh. Pause. Whish, whoosh. Pause. Its steady heartbeat drumming through the floors.

Another leaf-lined hallway leads to a different part of the house, and a staircase winds upwards just next to it.

I’m about to try the other rooms, to explore more, when I see it.

A bracelet.

It’s the only thing on the glass-topped table, and it sparkles and glints at me.

Like it wants me to pick it up. In Fairy Hunters you always know when to collect objects, because they glow just a little brighter than everything else. That’s what this reminds me of.

I see something inscribed on the bracelet, but it’s in Arabic. Mum taught me it when I was younger, though we haven’t had lessons in a while. I understand Arabic much better than I can read it. Mum eventually gave up trying to teach me all the letters and how to join them together, but I think I can still read some of them.

I pick the bracelet up and try to make out what it says. Slowly.

I get as far as ‘am’ before I hear it.

Laughter. Coming from the front door.

Then I see it. Something shoots across the room, like a star.

I realize it’s a young girl, followed by another.

They pass by me so quickly I don’t see their faces – just a blur of long curly hair as they bolt up the stairs.

I jump and drop the bracelet, my heart pounding.

It clatters on the table, startling me.

When I next look up I’m back at the hospital by Mum’s bedside. My glasses have fallen from my face and on to the floor while I was sleeping.

As I put them on and look around the same thing happens as before.

The heat.

The sand.

Except this time, instead of silver branches I see leaves everywhere, crawling up Mum’s bed, reaching for her.

I rub my eyes and after that they’re gone. I wave my hand in front of my face like before and it blurs, making me feel dizzy.

I wait until the feeling passes, and then I rush out of the room without saying goodbye.

Another strange dream, I think.

Those girls . . . The curly hair. It can’t be, can it?

Then I wonder, almost hope, will it happen again?

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