Читать книгу What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible - Ross Welford, Ross Welford - Страница 23

‘Gram? Can you hear me? I’m invisible.’

I’m on my phone in the garage, sitting on the edge of the sunbed, and I was right. Before I had even tapped on Gram’s number, I was wondering if calling someone up and saying I was invisible would sound ridiculous.

It does. Very.

But still I try.

‘I’ve become invisible, Gram.’ Then I start sobbing again.

Long pause.

Really. Long. Pause.

There’s a buzz of conversation in the background.

‘I’m not sure I’m hearing you right, darling. I can’t really talk at the moment but I can hear that you’re upset. What’s wrong, darling?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I’m invisible. I’ve disappeared. I was on a sunbed and I fell asleep and now I’ve woken up and I can’t see myself.’

‘All right, my darling. Very funny. Thing is, it’s not a good time at the moment. Mrs Abercrombie is about to read the minutes of the last meeting so I have to go. There’s some cold ham in the fridge, and Lady needs her walk. Got to go. See you later.’

Click.

Gulping back more sobs, I quickly fling on my underwear, jeans and a T-shirt. I’m mesmerised into silence as I can see the clothes filling out with my invisible body as I put them on. Somehow, the mundane action of getting dressed is a little bit calming (only a little bit – I’m still bubbling inside, like a pan of milk boiling over), and I can breathe better, and at least I stop crying.

On the way to the kitchen I catch a glimpse of myself in the long hallway mirror. Well, I say ‘myself’. What I really see is a pair of jeans and my favourite red T-shirt walking all by themselves. It would be funny, like watching a special effect for real, if it wasn’t me inside the clothes, and I catch my breath again and swallow hard to stop myself from restarting the crying.

In the kitchen, Lady lifts her head from her basket. She pads over to where I am standing and sniffs at my feet, or at where my feet would be. I reach down and stroke her.

‘Hello, girl,’ I say, automatically, and she looks up.

I’m not sure if anyone can really read the expressions on a dog’s face, but I swear Lady looks scared and confused. I crouch down to reassure her, but it seems to have the opposite effect. I tickle her ears because I know she likes that, but instead of licking me and making me laugh, which is what always happens, her tail goes between her legs and, with a little whine, she heads straight out of the kitchen door into the backyard. I’m left looking at the door as it bangs shut behind her, and the corners of my mouth turn downwards.

I try Gram’s number again.

It goes to voicemail.

I don’t leave a message.

And now there’s this kind of continuous monologue going on in my head, running through various courses of action.

I still have not completely let go of the idea that I am dreaming. Perhaps this is just some especially persistent dream-state that the usual dream-checks don’t dislodge? I keep pinching myself, shaking my head – all that stuff.

Obviously, none of it works, so I decide on something a bit more extreme. Standing there in the kitchen, I slap myself on the cheek. Gently at first, then a bit harder, then really quite hard, and finally – to finish off – a powerful wallop with my right palm against my left cheek that is both noisy and very sore, and more tears prick my eyes.

I do a sort of checklist.

This much I know:

1 I am alone, and I am invisible.

2 I am definitely, definitely not dreaming. (Pinch, slap, ow! Check again.)

3 Gram is not picking up her phone, presumably because she thinks I’m messing about, or – just as likely – she has put it on silent so that it doesn’t ring during Mrs Abercrombie’s thing.

4 I could go round there. (Where? I’m not even sure where she is. The church hall, probably. Well, that’s in Culvercot, for a start, and what am I going to do? Just wander into the church hall and announce I am invisible? No.)

5 Is there a friend I trust? Once it would have been Kirsten Olen, but more recently? No: I no longer trust her enough.

6 I am so thirsty my throat actually hurts.

First I will deal with the easiest thing to put right. Besides, it gives me something else to think about.

I start to make tea. Tea is Gram’s response to pretty much everything. She told me once that the actual making of tea – waiting for the kettle to boil, putting the cups out and so on – was just as effective as drinking it for calming the nerves.

Then my phone rings.

It’s Gram. Yesss!

‘I’ve come out of the meeting, Ethel. I see you’ve called me again. What is it now?’ Her tone is brisk, no nonsense, which doesn’t bode well.

‘I told you, Gram: I’ve become invisible.’

And then I spill it all out: the acne, the ‘Pizza Face’ jibes, the sunbed, falling asleep, waking up ninety minutes later in a pool of my own sweat, looking in the mirror, screaming for help …

Everything up to now. Sitting here, drinking tea, telling Gram what happened.

It all comes out kind of garbled, I’m pretty sure, but not completely nonsensical.

I finish up by saying, ‘So that’s why I called you. You’ve got to help me.’

For a long time, Gram doesn’t say anything.