Authors: Chris Cleave
The walls of her room were lined with Star Wars posters. The lamp shade hanging from the ceiling was the Death Star under construction. On the floor beside her bed was her most precious thing, a perfect model of Han Solo’s ship, the
Millennium Falcon
. It was two feet long and open to reveal the interior. There were the twin Girodyne SRB42 sublight engines, the Isu-Sim SSP05 hyperdrive generator, and the Novaldex stasis-type shield generator. Something she worried about was that the ship didn’t have a toilet. There were Corellian Engineering Corporation AG-2G quad lasers, both dorsally and ventrally mounted, there was a complex network of underfloor smuggling compartments, but there was nowhere to go for a wee. Even when time and space meant nothing to you, a trip across the universe was a long time to hold it in.
From the street outside, the noise of the kids shouting was getting louder. Singing in the shower next door, Dad was misremembering “Over the Rainbow.”
Sophie decided to review all the footage again, to see what could be learned. She watched the whole of
A New Hope
and
The Empire Strikes Back
on super-fast-forward, slowing down whenever she got to a scene with the
Millennium Falcon
in it. Still nothing about any loo.
She’d been feeling pretty sick already, and the super-fast-forward made it worse. Her stomach cramped and her saliva ducts produced a sweet, metallic water. She ignored it and switched to
Return of the Jedi.
There wasn’t much of the
Falcon
in this footage, and pretty soon she was back to the scene in
The Empire Strikes Back
where Skywalker finally confronts Vader.
She slowed it down, watching herself getting zapped by the powers that radiated from the Emperor’s fingers.
“Feel the power of the dark side.” This is what the Emperor was saying.
All she really felt was sick.
“Luke,” said Vader. “I am your father.”
In the bathroom, Dad was singing, “Lemon drops, in some kind of lullaby with chimney pots.”
Her concentration wavered. It was getting hard to block out her life on Earth. Outside her window, the children were screaming and giggling. She kept the earphones in and stood on her bed to see what was happening. Through the window she saw Zoe arriving on a bike. The kids in the street had fallen in line. They were riding behind her down the street. Zoe was laughing and playing up to it, weaving along the road, leading them all in looping patterns.
Next door, Dad sang, “If jolly little rainbows fly above the bluebirds, why, precisely, can’t I do that kind of stuff, too?”
“Search your feelings,” said Vader. “You know it to be true.”
She watched Zoe stop outside the house. Now that Sophie was standing up, the nausea was worse. She felt the sick trying to come up, and she took sharp breaths to force it down again.
“Noooooo!” screamed Luke in her earphones.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang and she heard the front door opening.
The vomit tried to come up again. Her concentration was gone. She took out her earphones and she was Sophie again, suddenly spent, in her upstairs bedroom on Earth. She hurried to the door, then stopped, sweating and jiggling from one foot to another. Dad was in the bathroom—she couldn’t be sick in there. And Mum and Zoe were downstairs, so she couldn’t run down and use the toilet under the stairs. She held her hands over her mouth as the nausea came in waves that rose higher and higher. She looked around the room, in panic, for something to be sick in. The wastepaper basket was wicker. Her pencil case was
too small. She climbed on her bed and tried to unscrew the Death Star lamp shade, but she was too small to reach it properly, and the sick was coming now, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
She stepped off the bed, knelt on the floor, and threw up into the
Millennium Falcon
. Hot sick flooded the underfloor smuggling compartments. It shorted out the Koensayr TLB power converter and rose to the waists of the action figurines of Skywalker, Kenobi, Solo, and Chewbacca. They said nothing, just stared at her in disgust. When it was finished, Sophie was so tired that she could hardly wipe away the long strand of mucus that trailed from her mouth.
Her head throbbed. She didn’t know what to do. Downstairs, Zoe and Mum were talking. She heard their voices getting louder.
Mum said, “I’ll just go up and see if she’s okay to leave.”
Sophie’s heart hammered. She grabbed the top section of the
Millennium Falcon
, snapped it onto the base, and shoved the model under her bed. The sick sloshed inside it, but it was contained. She jumped back into bed, pulled the covers over herself, and plugged her earphones back in.
“I will not fight you, Father,” said Luke.
Mum appeared in the doorway. She smiled at Sophie. “How are you feeling, darling?”
Sophie looked up from the screen. She shrugged. “Fine.”
“Need a hug?”
Sophie shook her head. She couldn’t let Mum come into the room and smell the sick. Sophie saw the hurt in Mum’s face. It was okay. Hurt was better than worried.
She pointed at the screen. “This is an important bit.”
Mum nodded. “Okay. I just came to see if you’re good for a while. Zoe wants me to go round to Tom’s with her.”
Sophie shrugged and looked at the screen.
“Look,” Mum said, “I can say no to her, if you need me.”
Sophie shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll just watch this.”
Mum sighed. “Well, if you’re sure. Dad’s just in the bathroom if you need him.”
Sophie felt the sick rising again. Under the duvet, she clenched her fists to keep it down.
She said, “Just
go
, will you? You’re making me miss the best part.”
Mum looked at her for a moment, then turned and closed the door behind her. Sophie rolled out of bed, took the top off the
Millennium Falcon
, and threw up again. The sick rose to the middle of Skywalker’s chest. Sophie knelt on the floor, panting.
Remembering the look on her mum’s face made her want to cry, so she put the earphones back in.
“If you will not be turned, you will be destroyed!” said the Galactic Emperor.
She turned the DVD off.
The front door slammed, and from outside in the street she heard the snapping sounds of Mum and Zoe clipping into their pedals.
“Is she okay?” Zoe said.
“She’s just off in her own world these days,” Mum said. “It’s like she doesn’t want to connect with me at all.”
Their voices faded as they rode off down the street.
Sophie knelt with her arms crossed over her stomach. She watched Chewbacca, now up to his armpits in sick, looking at her accusingly.
If she hadn’t felt so bad, she’d have laughed. She could actually hear the Wookiee’s mournful cry.
Tom tried again but he still couldn’t get out of the bath. He needed warmth to get the necessary strength, and he needed strength to get out and get warm. It was like a shitty version of
Catch-22
where you were stuck in a bath instead of a bomber squadron. It was too bloody realistic, was what it was, plus Zoe was going to show up in five minutes.
Say what you liked about the girl, she was never late. As someone who made her living by arriving milliseconds ahead of the quickest people on Earth, Zoe seemed to find punctuality less challenging than civilians did.
He heaved up again on the edge of the tub, using all his upper body strength. A cold muscle tore in his shoulder and he splashed back down into the bath.
“Oh you treacherous little bastards,” he said to his left deltoid group.
He shivered, massaged the shoulder, and thought about the situation. When you analyzed it, his best-case now would be to die of hypothermia, nice and quick, before Zoe got here.
The doorbell went. He sighed, picked up his phone, and dialed Zoe. She answered after a couple of rings.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I might as well be up-front about this. I’m stuck in the bath. My knees are locked.”
“Shit. I mean, okay. Has someone got the key?”
“Christ, Zo. Who would I give a key to?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t, and that’s because you have a basic lack of curiosity about other people’s lives. Now Kate, on the other hand—”
“She’s with me.”
“What?”
“I thought if I brought her, you wouldn’t tell me off so much. Do you want us to break the door down?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Can you?”
“Hang on…”
He heard a splintering, then the sound of his front door slamming back against the doorstop.
“Yeah,” said Zoe. “That’ll be all the gym work you make us do.”
“Wait there,” said Tom. “Okay? Don’t come in yet.”
The only thing he could reach was the bubble bath, and he emptied out a third of the bottle and whipped up a froth so they wouldn’t see his
bony body with his skin hanging loose from the depleted muscles, and his cock hiding from the cold.
He forced himself to relax. This was just a bad situation, that’s all. He could get them to pass him a towel, or something. A way could somehow be found to preserve everyone’s dignity as the girls helped him out of the bath. This was just one of those unfortunate moments in life, like going to dinner parties. You didn’t need to enjoy it to survive it.
They’d get it over with, him and the girls, and then they’d laugh about it afterwards over coffee. It wasn’t as if he was asking to have his arse wiped or anything. In fact that was exactly the line he would use to make the situation okay.
“You’d better come in,” he shouted.
He heard their footsteps in the hall and he looked towards the bathroom door, preparing the wry grin he was going to use when they entered. Then, on the far side of the bathroom, he saw his partial denture standing in three inches of Listerine in its glass on the side of the basin; the six front upper teeth, molded in acrylic and stained progressively over the years to match his real teeth. His stomach lurched. He pushed his tongue to the front of his palate and found the concavity there, with its twin surgical steel pegs that docked with the denture. He didn’t know what he’d been hoping for—that his teeth might be in two places at once, simultaneously there in the glass and here in his mouth. Somewhere in his mind his front teeth were scattered white seeds on the boards of a velodrome track. But Christ, he didn’t want that memory.
Seeing his falsies in the glass gave him a desperate strength, and he hauled up again on the sides of the bath. This time he was able to heave himself over the rim. He collapsed on the floor like wet meat and dragged himself to the basin, racing the girls’ footfalls as they came up the hallway. The gap in his teeth was a nakedness worse than nudity. He went faster, dragging his useless legs across the lines in the linoleum, and he felt every tenth of every second cutting into him.
He heard the bathroom door opening just as his hand reached up
and found his denture. He grabbed it, brought it up to his mouth, and fumbled it with his freezing hands. It bounced off the rim of the sink and spun through the air. It sank, with the discreet splash of a near-perfect dive, into the toilet bowl.
He said, “Oh… fuck
you
, life.”
Kate and Zoe found him collapsed on the blue linoleum floor, a slug trail of water stretching from the bath to his feet, his skin wrinkled from prolonged immersion and goose-bumped with cold, twisting his neck to look up at them, and wearing nothing but a toothless grin.
“You should see the state of the other guy,” he said. It was the best he could do in the circumstances.
Zoe put her hand to her mouth, between laughter and shock. Kate blinked at him over Zoe’s shoulder.
Tom sighed. “Well don’t just bloody stand there, admiring my birthday suit.”
Zoe took down his dressing gown from the peg on the back of the door and wrapped him in it. She knelt beside him and took his hand. Her eyes flicked around the room, looking for an explanation.
“Knees completely locked,” he said. “Trouble exiting the watery grave.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
He grimaced. “Call the vet. Have me put down.”
The girls were shaken, he could see. He was a fixed point in their lives, and God knew they needed fixed points. He’d better get back to being one, but he was shivering so hard his legs were banging on the lino. He was flapping like a landed fish.
“Let’s all just relax,” he said. His mouth was John Wayne and his body was Flipper the dolphin.
Kate said, “Can I get you some blankets or something?”
He waved the idea away. You got to a certain age and kindnesses became these invisible flies to be swatted.
“What can we do?” Zoe said.
“You, sweetheart, can sell your luxury apartment. It’s not good for you. Come and live in my spare room, I’ll cook you three meals a day and keep you out of mischief.”