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Lizzie

Come on. Answer the phone. Why is the doctors’ surgery so busy?

I’m worried.

Beyond worried, actually.

After Mum left, Tom’s hands felt cold. Now his eyes are glazed.

Answer the phone. Please.

This is my fifth call to the doctors’ surgery now, but the line just rings and rings.

I’m standing in the living room, my back to the chaos that is our kitchen. The living room is a mess too, of course, but the kitchen is worse.

I’ve tucked Tom up on the sofa under a teddy-bear-soft blanket with a bowl of Wotsits. Not the most nutritious choice of snack, but today I’m not winning any good-mother awards. I’ve been too busy considering how I can keep Tom off school tomorrow without social services finding out.

The phone clicks and finally a voice comes on the line. ‘London Road Surgery.’

‘It’s Lizzie Riley,’ I say. ‘I need an emergency appointment for Tom.’

‘Hello, Miss Riley.’ The receptionist sounds tired. She’s heard from me so often since we moved here.

‘I think Tom may be about to have another seizure,’ I say. ‘He’s gone very pale and cold. I’d just like to get him checked over, if that’s okay.’

‘If you’re quick, the doctor has a few spaces after five. Or you could take him straight to Accident and Emergency if you’re really worried.’

‘We’ll come in right now.’ I hang up the phone. ‘Tom. Let’s go. We’re off to see the doctor.’

‘Why?’

‘You look like a ghost. I’m worried you might have another seizure.’

‘I don’t want to go to the doctors again. I feel fine.’

Olly used to do that. Insist there was nothing wrong with him. That he could heal all by himself.

‘Now, Tom.’

‘Fine.’

Tom takes a last handful of crisps, then pushes off his blanket. He attempts to slide his shoes on his feet while eating crisps at the same time.

‘You should have a bit of juice before we leave,’ I say. ‘All those salty crisps.’

‘I don’t want to drink anything.’

‘Why are you being so difficult? Tom, this isn’tyou. You’re a good boy.’ I grab the juice from the fridge. ‘Drink some – come on. It’s good for you. Vitamin C.’

Eventually Tom takes it, glaring as he drinks.

On the walk to the doctors’ surgery, Tom kicks his shoes at the paving slabs.

‘Tom. Don’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

Because it’s what Pauly Neilson does …‘Just don’t.’