A Fairy Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

forehead, my fingers catch in his hair and yet he doesn’t wake up. He never wakes up. I could scream right into his face and his eyes would still stay closed.
    My dad sobs in his sleep, too. But less now; he can feel he isn’t alone.
    â€œWe’ll be all right,” I whisper to him. It’s what he says to me when things are tough. We’ll be all right, you and me.

W hen we’ve finished our breakfast, my dad wipes the table with a damp cloth. He takes great care to catch every little poppy seed and crumb. Today I’m going to school for the first time. When the table has dried, he puts an exercise book in front of me. Then he finds a pencil. A brand new red pencil with a gold stripe down the side. He presses the point against his thumb, nods contentedly, and places it beside the exercise book. The eraser follows next. When we were in the shop, he held it up and asked, “Are you thinking of making any mistakes? No?” Then he laughed. I also got a book about dinosaurs which I’d spent ages looking at, a lunchbox with a picture of a smiling tractor, and a water bottle with no pictures on it.
    We bought all the items last Saturday in a big bookshop in the city centre. We bought them, but my dad never took his wallet out of his pocket. He has already explained this to me: how it might look as if we’re stealing, but that there’s nothing wrong with taking what you need. And that way, you never have to line up.
    Before we went home, we went to a small cinema. My dad told me to wait while he spoke to the girl at the box office. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I could see him pointing at me. The girl smiled and I smiled back. We got the tickets and again he didn’t take his wallet out of his pocket.
    I was hoping it would be the robot film. I’ve seen posters all over town, a picture of a robot and a boy my age. They look like they’re friends. But the film turned out to be in black and white and there was no sound. When they were about to burn the girl, I started crying.
    My dad sits down at the table opposite me. He lights a rollup, drinks coffee, and looks at me.
    â€œWhat would you like to learn?”
    â€œNumbers,” I say.
    My dad teaches me one number a day. I can count to ten easily, to one hundred, even, but he says that’s not enough. We start with the number one.
    â€œThe smallest number,” my dad says. “And possibly the greatest. In the old days that number was associated with God. One God. A holy number. Today people have forgotten its original meaning. That’s why you don’t go to school with all the other children. Because they’ve forgotten what everything means. They see an apple. A bicycle. And nothing’s that important anymore.”

S omething’s knocking on the door. A small bird eating seeds, tap, tap, tap. The tapping gets louder, like a landlord wanting his rent. I must never open the door if I don’t know who is outside.
    â€œWhy isn’t your name on the door?” I recognize the boy’s voice, the boy with the dark hair. “Everyone’s got a sign with their name, why don’t you?”
    The stairwell falls silent again. I hope he has left, but I haven’t heard his footsteps going down the stairs. I hold my breath, then I hear a strange sound coming from the other side, a scraping as if he’s dragging his fingernails down the door.
    â€œI think I’ll have to talk to someone about it, maybe ask my parents. Ask them why there’s no sign on your door.”
    I crawl out from under the table, unlock the door, and follow him down the stairs. He holds my hand while we cross the courtyard and go out through the archway.
    The boy dips a stick in dog poo. Something that looks like a sweet corn kernel sticks to the end. We’re outside the neighbouring block.
    â€œI don’t know what the boys’ surnames are,” he says, smearing poo on the buttons for