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heart.
    I can feel somehow that there’s lots of people in the room now. I thought before that it was just Zola and Dad and me.
    “Don’t worry, Mr Ainsley. These things sometimes take time.” Dr Smellybreath is examining me as he talks. “His pulse is up. So is his blood pressure. He was listening. He was hearing. I’m sure he was. We just have to give him time.”
    “How much time, Doctor?” Dad’s saying. “How much time has he got?”
    “Who knows? I’ve known patients live for months like this.”
    “But some of them don’t come out of it, do they, Doctor?”
    “You mustn’t think like that, Mr Ainsley,” Tracey’s saying. “Robbie’s doing his best. So are you. So are we. If we don’t believe he’ll come out of it, then he’ll know it. If we give up on him, Mr Ainsley, he could give up on us.”
    “I don’t know what more I can do,” Dad says. “I really thought Zola would do the trick. I really did.” I think he’s sadder than I’ve ever known him.
    “Listen.” Tracey’s speaking almost in a whisper now. But I can hear. “If Zola can’t bring him back to us – and he still might –then there’ll be another way. We’ll just have to find it, that’s all.”
    “What d’you mean?”
    “Let’s talk about it outside, shall we? I don’t think we should be talking like this in front of Robbie. He could be hearing every word we say.”
    The room’s emptying. Everyone’s going out. “That Zola,” Tracey’s saying as she goes, “he’s dishy. He’s really dishy.” Then the door’s squeaking and clunking and I’m alone again.
    Dishy! Dishy! That man is only the best, only the coolest. And I’ve got his Number 25 shirt, his very own shirt. I wish Tracey would put it on me. I want to wear it. It’ll be the magic I need to bring me out of myself and back to the land of the living. I know it. It’s just got to be.

ZOLA IN MERCY DASH TO SAVE ROBBIE
    Lying in a coma, 10-year-old accident victim Robbie Ainsley had a visit today from his great hero, Chelsea and Italy superstar, Gianfranco Zola. Zola said afterwards: “When I heard about Robbie, that he might wake up from his coma if I came to see him, I didn’t have to think about it. I came to do what I can. I am a father too.”
    Sadly, the visit does not yet seem to have had any effect on Robbie Doctors at Wonford Hospital say that his condition remains unchanged.

5
    I t’s weird, but I think that maybe I’ve got a sort of mind-mail communication going with Tracey. Telepathy, I think it’s called. Anyway, whatever it’s called, it works. I’ve done it a few times now and I think it’s really working. One moment I’m thinking something, and the next she’s talking about it. It’s like I can almost make her think things. Is that cool or what?
    This morning I had definite proof of it. After Dr Smellybreath had examined me – again – he said something to Tracey over by the door, where he thought I couldn’t hear, something I can’t put out of mymind. He said: “Robbie’s not looking good this morning, Tracey, not good at all. I’m beginning to think we may lose him.” Lose me? Lose me? I was thinking…Who does old Smellybreath think he is? I’m not going to die. I’ll show him. Like Zola said, I’ll show him. I’ll show all of them. The doctor was feeling my forehead. “How long is it exactly?” he said. “How long’s he been with us?”
    “Six weeks tomorrow,” said Tracey. “But he’s still fighting, Doctor. I know he is. He wants to come out of it so badly. And he will. I know he will. It’s funny, doctor – of course he’s never spoken a word to me – but sometimes I feel I really know Robbie, know what he’s thinking. And I just know he’s determined to live.”
    “Well, I’ll be back to see him later,” saidDr Smellybreath as he went out, leaving the door squeaking and clunking behind him.
    “Bed bath for you, Robbie,” said Tracey.
    I was almost sure this mind-mail communication