Page 1

Sophie

Numbers are everywhere.

Today will be different from all those other times. I won’t let my lovely friend die.

Her neighbour’s front door slams shut, making the glass ornaments shudder.

One falls off the tree, smashing. Has the vibration set off a fatal chain of events elsewhere in the semi?

Could something seriously injure Joan while she makes hot drinks?

I’ve secretly removed the sharp knives from her drawer in case she’s destined to suffer a freak accident.

But she could spill boiling water and go into shock if her hand jolts while pouring the kettle. ..

I stand too quickly, steadying myself on the settee arm as blood rushes to my head.

‘Joan? Do you need a hand making the tea?’

Panic flutters in my chest when she doesn’t reply and I dart into the hall, stopping when her voice echoes from the kitchen. She’s chatting to Trevor on the phone.

‘It will be fine, love,’ she says. ‘I’ll let you know later what I decide.’

Exhaling deeply, I return to the sitting room and peer out of the rain-spattered window.

Wan headlights penetrate the darkness shortly before a car pulls away from outside next-door’s house, windscreen wipers flapping.

Earlier, I’d spotted Joan’s thirty-something neighbour clutching a bunch of red roses.

Steve has dark-brown hair, a patchy goatee and a whopping 21,917 days left to live.

He might be soaking wet and late for his night out, but he doesn’t have anything critical to worry about for another six decades.

Joan isn’t as fortunate. I sit down, chewing my nails.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks unbearably loudly.

It’s 6.24 p.m. I focus on the numbers in Joan’s patchwork quilt to distract me from her horribly low digit.

She made the cover from Nadia’s and Mikey’s old babygrows and toddler clothes.

It contains 40 tulips – her favourite flower – made from 120 geometric shapes.

Her sewing basket has 15 cotton reels and she’s made 16 neat stitches on the elbow of her threadbare cardigan.

Despite sounding like a massive maths geek, I gained a D in the subject at GCSE – that was when I used to see the world like everyone else.

But ever since my brain injury after prom last summer, I see statistics for every object and person.

They appear above them as if on an invisible screen.

But even if I could stretch out and touch the digits, my ability doesn’t come with an on/off button.

When I described the figures to my consultants after the car crash, they claimed meds would clear my ‘floaters’.

They didn’t. The only neurosurgeon who believed I could see things others couldn’t said the tissue damage was irreversible.

That was medical language for saying I was totally screwed.

‘Here we go, love.’

Joan’s pale-blue eyes narrow with concentration as she shuffles into the room with the tea tray. I flinch when I see her dismal figure – 1 – even though it’s been present all day, along with her hand-knitted Christmas pudding jumper.

‘Let me get that for you.’

My hands tremble as I take the tray and place it on the table, making the china clink and a spoon shiver. Joan sits down heavily next to me, pulling the cover over her knees.

‘Ooh, it feels good to take the weight off my feet. I’m weary but you’ve spoilt me rotten today, Sophie. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it!’

Shakily, I pour the tea and grab a tissue to mop the spilt liquid in the saucers.

I’d saved up from my cleaning and house-sitting jobs to treat Joan to a shopping trip in Plymouth city centre, followed by dinner at Nando’s, to disrupt her normal routine.

Usually on Saturdays, she walks past a building site on the way to local stores, as well as the homes of a pit bull owner and a drug dealer.

I needed her to avoid these hazards since she’s in good health and I’ve ruled out a heart attack or stroke causing her death today, aged 73 years, 2 months and 9 days.

‘It’s an early Christmas present to say thank you for your friendship. It means a lot to me. I always look forward to our sewing lessons.’

Joan smiles broadly, patting my hand. ‘It’s a pleasure, dear. I enjoy our chats and it’s lovely to share my hobby with someone. My grandchildren have never been interested in quilting, but you have quite the eye for it. Fate must have brought us together that day!’

Did it?

I was crying on a bench in the rain outside the local library, overwhelmed with loneliness and grief, completely on my own after Mum’s accident a month earlier.

I was still mourning the loss of my best friend, Lily Palmer, last summer and the split from my boyfriend, Adam Bailey, when Mum drowned in Bali.

Joan had stopped and asked if I was okay.

My vision was blurry with tears, but her figure was visible – a miserably low 112 days.

I stood up to leave, claiming ‘boy trouble’, but Joan had pulled me in for a hug, saying I looked like I needed one.

I’d cried harder then, her embrace reminding me of the ‘famous’ hugs Adam used to give.

They came with a ‘100 per cent guarantee’ to make me feel better.

That bleak August afternoon, Joan’s cuddle had a similar effect – it was the first human touch I’d experienced in months.

Afterwards, she’d mopped my tears and suggested we went for a cuppa to talk things through.

We’ve met a couple of times a week ever since and she’s taught me how to sew – and laugh again.

Changing her fate is my way of giving something back.

Admittedly, nothing I’ve tried before has altered anyone’s digits.

I’d pushed a man away from collapsing scaffolding on his last day, but he was struck by a car as he waved to me while crossing the road immediately afterwards.

Mrs Berg had employed me to house-sit while visiting relatives in Stockholm with her husband and two young children.

I’d hidden their passports because their numbers ran out on the day of their flight.

But later, I discovered her husband had driven them to the Swedish Embassy in London to apply for emergency travel documents and they all died in a head-on crash with a lorry.

Next, I distracted a drunk homeless man and prevented him from taking a dip at Bovisand beach, only to watch from a distance as he argued with a friend, who killed him with a single punch minutes later.

My catalogue of failures goes on and on. ..

Could I have been defeated previously because I didn’t know any of these people well?

There was nothing I could do for Lily after the crash and Mum didn’t hang around long enough for me to try, but I have a greater understanding of my ability now.

Hopefully, being closely involved in Joan’s life over the last 3 months and 21 days has given me an advantage.

I’ve researched her habits and made a list of all the potential risks.

Joan takes a gulp of tea and glances at the clock above the fireplace. ‘I don’t mean to hurry you, love, but it’s bingo tonight. I’ll need to leave in ten minutes.’

I grip the edge of the sofa as the room swims. The ticking sound is deafening.

Aside from her twinkling Christmas lights, which could malfunction and burst into flames, this trip is one of the main hazards.

The branch of a large tree on her route to the social club has shifted by 5 degrees in the last month.

This, combined with the wind and driving rain, could increase the weight of the wood and bring it crashing on to the pavement.

‘No! You mustn’t go out in this weather. It’s not a good idea.’

‘You sound like Trevor!’ Joan says with a laugh. ‘He wanted me to call a taxi, but I told him a little rain never did me any harm. It’ll only take a quarter of an hour to walk.’

‘You shouldn’t get a cab either. Stay inside where it’s safe. Please. ’

The lines between Joan’s eyes deepen. ‘What is it, love? You’re trembling like a leaf.’

I shake my head.

‘You can tell me anything.’

‘I know. You’ve been like a surrogate gran, the only person who’s cared about me in a long time.’ I take another breath. ‘I know this sounds crazy and melodramatic, but I’m worried something terrible will happen tonight and I’ll lose you.’

Joan reaches out and takes my hand. ‘I’m touched you’re trying to protect me, Sophie. I know you’ve been struggling since your mum’s accident, but you mustn’t worry. I’m wearing my lucky jumper and have no intention of dying!’

She pulls me in for a hug, the way she did when we met.

I bury my head into her jumper and sob over my losses, still so raw it feels as though I was bereaved yesterday.

After working out what the dwindling numbers meant, I’d warned Mum last Christmas that she had 7 months to live.

Instead of bringing us closer, she turned our house into an Airbnb and left in early March on a one-way plane ticket ‘to make the most of seeing the world while she could’.

Wrapped in Joan’s arms now, I cry for Lily and the life I left behind in south Devon: I can never see Adam, Lily’s boyfriend Tom, or her parents again.

They were my ‘real’ family back home in Modbury, but I’ve lost everyone that mattered.

Pain and grief sever my heart in two. It makes no difference how many numbers I see, I’ll never find the right sequence to mend it.

‘There, there. Let it out, love. You’ve had a rough time. But things will get better, I promise.’ Joan strokes my hair gently. ‘Will it help if I give bingo a miss?’

The knot in my chest loosens and I brush away my tears. ‘You’d do that for me?’