I sat at the end of the table in Dad's seat. It had been laid out especially for me. Rebecca sat to my side. Ollie came in and, without any instructions, began to help Mum lay out the remainder of the food, the plates, the glasses and the cutlery. He seemed to be becoming accustomed to his new position. When the task was done, he took a seat beside Rebecca. They nodded at each other.

  'Right,' Mum said. 'Ollie, go knock on your father's shed.'

  I gave Ollie a glance as he got up, put on wellies and went out to the garden. A few moments later he came back in with Dad. Dad was carrying a leather jacket.

  'Sorry, I was just giving this a clean.'

  Dad seemed perfectly normal, and in fact he and Mum had been painfully polite to each other over the last few days as they went through the process of deciding if a celebration was in order to mark my final treatment. There was some talk that any celebration should wait until the results of how I'd responded to the treatment were revealed, but it was felt in the end that the occasion should be marked in some way. My final session was three days ago. The nurses and technicians had all hugged me when it was over, before handing over my plastic mask – it was mine to keep. Mum and Dad had asked me if I wanted to invite anyone over for the small celebration that was delayed until tonight so that I didn't feel too sick to eat, but Rebecca was the only person I could think of to include.

  'Here, try this on, Jacob,' Dad said. 'It'll be far too big, but give it a go.'

  I got up and Dad helped me on with the lightweight brown leather jacket. The leather was incredibly soft and the lining was silk and lime green. It was only a small summer jacket but it still swamped me.

  'This was the first real luxury item I bought when I started to earn a bit of money. It'll be a long time before you'll be able to wear it properly, but I wanted you to have it.'

  He stood back and looked at me.

  'A little big,' he said with a smile. 'I'll hang it up for you.'

  'No,' I said quickly. 'I'll keep it on. I like it.'

  'OK,' Dad said a little reluctantly. 'But be careful. It's expensive.'

  I nodded and got back in my chair. Rebecca rubbed the leather sleeve.

  'Wow, it's so soft,' she said, smiling.

  Ollie looked at me with his hooded eyes. He didn't look particularly pleased. He looked a little envious if anything. I smiled but then realised, as the older brother, this garment was probably originally lined up for him to inherit before my little problem intervened. Still, I'm sure he wouldn't want to swap my position for his.

  'You want to try it on?' I asked.

  'Yeah, let's see how it fits you,' Rebecca said enthusiastically.

  'No, thanks,' Ollie said flatly.

  'Hey, don't worry about it, you can have it when I'm gone,' I said as a joke, but it didn't come out quite as it should have done, and I think all three of us felt a little uncomfortable.

  I felt tired before the end of the meal and went up to bed early, before Rebecca had left. Ollie came in a little while later. I hadn't really had the time or space to examine how I felt about the end of my treatment yet, I still felt so tired and sick, and Mum and Dad had been doing all the talking. It all felt very matter-of-fact. When the cure makes you feel so bad, it's hard to keep telling yourself that it's working. And what of the other things I had experienced? It was getting harder and harder not to think that I had more than one nightmarish thing to worry about. But perhaps that's exactly what this deceptive thing in my brain wanted me to think. Maybe that was how it would defeat me. It wanted me to become distracted, to doubt myself, for it all to become muddled – that was how it would kill me. Besides, now that the treatment had stopped, maybe all this other stuff would stop too.

  I was staring at the ceiling and hadn't heard Ollie approach. Suddenly, he grabbed me by the shoulder. He was crouched down in his pyjamas, leaning on me.

  'I don't believe you, Jacob.'

  'What? What is it?'

  'You know what I mean. Don't lie to me. Do something about it. Before it's too late. Stop messing around and get on with it.'

  He pushed down on me forcibly, then went back to his bed. Whatever his message was, he obviously meant it.

  * * *

  I woke in the middle of the night. It was the third time. Tomorrow was my appointment with the doctor. Tomorrow I would find out how I'd responded to the treatment.

  I needed the toilet. I took my empty glass with me from my bedside table. It was quiet in the house, and the flushing noise of the toilet seemed loud and incredibly long-lasting as I washed my hands. I didn't fill my glass in the bathroom; I preferred my water from the filtered tap in the kitchen. I flicked off the light and moved out onto the dark landing. The hiss of the pipes was still petering out. It seemed to last forever. I stood, waiting for the noise to fade. It seemed like it would never stop when it began to change ever so slightly. It mixed with a sound more like the hiss of the wind. It sounded like it was coming from downstairs. I thought I heard a word on it. I thought I heard my name, whispered with a hiss from below, soft but clear, my name drifting through the house. I stood for a moment. I thought about returning to my room. But I didn't.

  I stepped lightly down the stairs, keeping an eye on the passage leading to the kitchen. There was no light, but I could see just enough to go by. I came to the foot of the stairs and looked left into the dark opening of the living room. Nothing moved and I heard no noise, the sound from the pipes and the strange hiss having finally faded. Everything was silent. I paused for a moment then headed on to the kitchen.

  I looked around briefly, leaving the light off, waiting for any unusual sounds. But there was nothing I could detect. I went to the sink and filled my glass from the filtered tap. I couldn't see much out of the window, just the difference between the blackness of the lawn and the blackness of the trees and the blackness of the sky. I flicked off the tap. Suddenly, I heard my name again, hissed from somewhere beyond the kitchen. I turned around. It was hard to tell where the sound had come from; it was too low, too whispered to be sure. Then I heard a creaking and a scraping. It was coming from behind a door, either the cellar door or the front door – it was hard to tell which. I set the glass down on the counter, unsure of what I should do. But I would not be able to sleep if I ran away. That was not an option. There was only one thing to do.

  I moved to the cellar door and softly pulled it open. There was a gentle creak as I revealed the darkness below. There was no light, it was as black as black can get, and there was no sound either. I listened intently, but there was nothing, just silence and darkness. Then I heard the creak again. It was coming from behind me, from the direction of the front door. I went across to it, listening close. I couldn't hear anything on the other side. I thought for a moment then decided to open it.

  The door creaked gently open. The air was crisp and still outside, cold on my face. I could see my breath as I moved a few steps forward into the night. I looked around; the drive led into darkness. I began to feel something in the air – then I saw it – coming straight towards me. A huge black shadow. I took a step back, unsure of myself, unsure of anything, but it was there, it was coming towards me and there were eyes in it. I could see eyes! They looked at me, hollow, pale, pus-white holes, hanging in the night, fixed in my direction. I backed away, tripping backwards over the step. I fell into the kitchen and scrambled back under the table, unable to comprehend, my heart racing and my breath heavy.

  For a moment there was no sound, and in the silence, it was as if I had run from nothing. But then I heard the noise again. The scraping against the doorframe. It sounded like bamboo cane against wood. I pulled back further under the table. I could only see the first few feet of kitchen floor. For a few seconds, there was nothing, but then the air changed and, slowly, the black shape appeared, moving steadily across the kitchen in the darkness. The slow scrape moving with it. The air buzzed with a sickly electricity. I didn't dare breathe. It couldn't be real. I couldn't be seeing this, but what else could this be? I put my hands over my mouth, trying not to make a sound, trying not to move a muscle. The black shadow moved towards the open cellar door. It didn't stop as it reached the opening and squeezed through, the slow scrape moving with it once more. I heard no other sound as it disappeared out of sight, just the scraping moving down the stairs, and soon I could not hear that either. I was frozen, unable to believe what I had seen the moment it was gone. But those eyes, the pale hollow eyes, two dirty white holes in the dark, the vision of them stuck with me. I had seen them coming towards me in the night. There was no doubt. But I couldn't have seen it. I couldn't have. None of this could be real.

  I was terrified, but I had to find out more. I had to touch something concrete. I had to know. I needed more proof. I moved to come out from under the table – then I heard something or someone coming up from the cellar. There were slow methodical footsteps on the stairs. They got closer and closer until legs appeared in the cellar doorway. It was dark and they were all I could see from my hiding spot under the table, but I knew it was Dad. The legs stood for a moment then came over towards me. A chair was pulled out and they sat. For a while there was no noise, but then I began to hear quiet, muffled crying. It was shocking to hear. I had never heard it before. Not from Dad. It went on for about thirty seconds before it slowed to a stop. Suddenly, there was a single thump on the table that made me jump, and Dad got up and left the kitchen. I heard him go up the stairs to the floor above.

  I sat and thought for a moment. I wanted to go over to the cellar. I wanted to go down and see what there was to see. To get proof of something more. But I didn't. I waited until everything was quiet and then slipped out from under the table. I grabbed my glass of water and hurried up to bed.

  * * *

  Doctor Shepherd's three kids smiled at me from her desk. While the older two were staring straight down the lens, the girl on the left, who seemed about my age, was looking very slightly out of frame, and it had annoyed me from my very first visit. It was subtle enough that Doctor Shepherd must not have realised when the picture was taken, or perhaps she just didn't care. I cared though. There was something unnerving and melancholy about the girl's look. It made you want to know what she was thinking. It annoyed me.

  'How are you feeling, Jacob?' Doctor Shepherd asked in a straightforward manner.

  'Tired,' I replied, looking up from the picture.

  She smiled, but I saw her swallow as she turned to Mum and Dad.

  'We have the results.'

  She looked at Mum and Dad in turn.

  'We can see how the tumour has responded to the treatment, and it's not the news we were hoping for, I'm afraid.'

  She tried to smile sympathetically as she gave all three of us a moment to digest.

  'The tumour hasn't increased in size, not noticeably,' she continued eventually. 'Which is something, but it hasn't shrunk either, and we really needed to see some reduction of the mass. We really needed to see that. I'm sorry to say there seems to have been very little response at all. The tumour appears denser than before, you can see it on the scans, but that is about the only change we can detect.'

  It was odd, and I couldn't quite put my finger on why, but this didn't feel like a dramatic reveal. I didn't feel shocked. I must have expected this in some way. Or perhaps I was blocked up, unable to process, unable to take it in. All I felt was impassive.

  'What does that mean?' Mum said, looking at me, then back to the doctor.

  The doctor looked sympathetically at us, trying to think of the right words. I knew what this meant though. I didn't need to be told.

  'It's not good news, I'm afraid.'

  'OK, so what do we do now? What's next?' Mum said, a little confused.

  'I'm sorry. There's nothing else we can do,' doctor Shepherd said flatly.

  'What do you mean? I'm not following you. What do you mean nothing else we can do?' Mum said, almost sounding offended. 'I don't understand.'

  Dad was sitting in silence.

  'I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do.'

  'I don't understand,' Mum said, looking firmly at the doctor.

  'Katherine. I'm sorry. This was all we had. Things were always against us. This was a difficult situation. I'm sorry.'

  Using Mum's first name had an effect on her – I could see her face changing, reality starting to kick in.

  'That's just... I just don't accept that. How can you say that?' she said, but you could hear she was wavering.

  Dad suddenly got up and went to the back of the room.

  Doctor Shepherd looked at me.

  'Are you OK, Jacob?'

  Both Mum and Dad turned to me as if remembering I was there, as if they'd briefly forgotten, and I could see a tiny but unnecessary flash of guilt come over them. Mum leaned over and pulled me close to her.

  'What does this mean exactly?' she said, trying to sound brave. 'What are we actually saying here?'

  'We're saying that Jacob's condition is terminal.'

  Mum looked back at me then stared out of the window for a moment.

  'How long do we have?' she said eventually.

  'It's hard to say. This is an unusual case.'

  'Jane, how long?'

  The doctor thought for a while.

  'A year perhaps, that's a middling estimate.'

  Dad stopped pacing. Mum made a short, odd noise.

  I looked again at the girl in the photograph looking just off camera. It irritated me.

  * * *

  Ollie was supposed to have gone home from school with Simon, but he came out from the house to meet us as we pulled into the drive.

  'What did they say?' he asked. 'What happened?'

  'We'll talk about it later,' Mum said eventually, as she shut the passenger door and started walking up the drive.

  Dad got out of the car and headed straight for his shed. Ollie and I watched him go. When Mum noticed this was where he was going, she stopped her trudge towards the kitchen door. Dad didn't look back at any of us. The shed door closed with a firm pull. Ollie looked at me.

  'What happened?' he asked again.

  'The treatment didn't work,' I said. 'It didn't do anything.'

  'What does that mean? What happens now?'

  I didn't know how to reply. Ollie studied me for a while. He looked at Mum then looked over at Dad's shed. Mum and I watched him as he walked over and tried the door. It was locked.

  'Ollie,' Mum called.

  Ollie knocked on the door. 'Dad?'

  There was no reply. Mum glanced at me.

  Ollie banged again. 'Dad? What are you doing?' He banged again. 'What are you doing? What's happening?'

  'Ollie,' Mum called again, but it was half-hearted this time.

  'What are you doing?' Ollie repeated again, starting to hit the door with more force, but there was still no response from inside. He started to sound distressed and angry. 'What are you doing?! What are you doing?!'

  Mum darted past me and got in the car. She sat in the driver's seat for a few moments, started the engine then pulled out of the drive.

  'What are you doing?' Ollie said again. 'What are you doing?' His face was set with grim determination like it had been the day Simon and Darren's dads had confronted our father. His jaw locked against emotion. 'What are you doing?!'

  I looked up at the sky. It was grey and uniform. A crow circled off to the left. I shut my eyes. There was a gentle breeze on my face. It was crisp and good.

  This didn't feel real. None of this felt real. I looked at Ollie. I looked at the house. I suddenly had a strange feeling like it knew what I was thinking, like it knew me inside. Had I done this on purpose? Was this what I wanted?

  As I looked at the house, all these thoughts suddenly felt exposed and very real, and I was frightened.

  'What are you doing? What are you doing?' was all I could hear as I stared at the lifeless windows. I tried to hold back the dark thoughts, but they would not go away.

  * * *

  Mum came back about three hours later, and I heard her use the shower. She came downstairs in fresh evening wear. She went outside then came back in a few minutes later. Dad followed soon after looking preoccupied. He didn't look at me or Ollie or Mum. She told everyone to sit at the dinner table.

  'We are all going to have to cope with a lot,' she said. 'We'll all experience many emotions – anxiety, fear, anger. These are normal. They are part of the process. Everybody has their own way of coping with difficult situations. There is no right or wrong way. But we are going to cope with it together. OK. It could be years. No one knows anything for certain, no one knows what will happen, but we're going to live life together for as long as we have. We're going to be a family.'

  Mum looked around at each of us. I looked at Ollie. He stared at me for a moment then looked back at Mum and Dad.

  'That is bullshit. Total bullshit,' he said defiantly. 'This is all bullshit!'

  'Ollie!' Mum said in shock.

  Ollie got up and left, his face like thunder. Mum got up to go after him, but Dad grabbed her arm. It took a moment for her to register what it was – Dad's hand on her arm. They looked at each other oddly then she shook it off, but she didn't go after Ollie. Dad didn't either.

  I came into the bedroom and Ollie was lying down on his duvet. I went over to the Golden Cupboard sitting in its usual spot on my desk. I smoothed my palms over the antique surface patinated by the oil of many hands over many years.

  'I still don't know how you did it. It was a trick. I know that. It must have been. But the thing is, if you got me to say what you wanted me to say, just with psychology, even though I tried really hard not to, that means you're a lot smarter than me.'

  Ollie was looking at me now.

  'There was no trick,' he said.

  I thought for a moment. 'I'm sorry,' I said.

  'For what?'

  'For not trying harder. You were right. I wasn't trying hard enough. Fighting hard enough. Maybe I thought this would never really happen. I don't know what I thought. Maybe I didn't take this seriously enough.'

  I looked around at the beams, the doorframe, the shape of the room.

 

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