The Memory Game Read Online Free PDF Page B

was cosy in one of those houses I wouldn’t
come out, not for anything. And certainly not if I thought a dead kid was
stalking me.
     
    I gave up waiting for Bethany
and came to look at my grave instead.  I wish I could remember how long
I’ve been dead, but it’s hard to keep track of time when the days all feel the
same.  There’s nothing here yet to mark me, so maybe it’s not all that
long. Though, I suppose Mum hasn’t got enough money; I remember when Dad died
it took her ages to get the money together for a gravestone.  She told
Roger about it once too and he just tutted and looked like he cared but I know
he didn’t.  The graveyard looks different tonight than it did on the day
of my funeral, somehow barren and deserted, like all the people buried here
have been forgotten. In the summer it looks nicer, a warm green canopy
overhanging the crooked rows of stones and the lazy buzzing of insects filling
the air. I’ve even hung out here from time to time with Matt, sitting on the
ancient fallen stones by the wall and laughing at stupid jokes. Tonight the
bare branches look sort of mournful, at least they do
to me. Mum has put some new stuff on the mound of earth where I am, things that
had been in my bedroom, so I know it’s mine. I think some kids from school have
been here too, there are teddies and flowers and messages from them. I wonder
who left them, because I’m pretty sure nobody liked me
enough to buy teddies for me.  I bend down to have a look at a white
fluffy bear.  There’s a card attached to it and I reach for it but my hand
goes through, of course. Sometimes, I still forget that I’m made of nothing
now. I try to read the card, but in the dim light from the road, I can’t make
out the letters. Sitting on the ground, I huddle into my shirt and stare at the
pile of stuff.  I’m not cold, just my soul is, I think.  It’s funny
to think that underneath that plot is a pile of mashed up old meat that used to
be me. I wouldn’t want to see it, though, I think it
would be gross.  
    It’s so quiet
here that I start to hum, just to break it. The words of Lucky pop into
my head and I sing them.
    I’m on a
roll,
    I’m on a
roll, this time,
    I feel my
luck could change…
    It doesn’t matter, after all, nobody can hear me. It starts off sad, but
then I sort of like it.
    Pull me out
of the air crash
    Pull me out
of the lake
    ‘ Cause I’m your superhero…
    I don’t know
how long has passed in the graveyard.  I don’t feel like singing any more so
I curl up and lie next to the toys and gifts and things from my room and watch
the thinnest clouds race across the sky, flitting over the stars, swallowing
the moon and then spitting it out, over and over.  
    Now I’m sitting next to Dad. 
Or rather, what’s left of Dad.   His stone has
been here for three years. It’s not like the really old ones further over near
the church, where the letters have worn away, but moss is already growing
around the base.  His name still stands out in gold lettering on the black
stone – Sean David Cottle – I can see it
plainly in the moonlight.  I came to look at it on the day of my funeral,
but I hadn’t been for a long time before then.  Mum came down a lot,
before Roger.  I sort of thought that if I didn’t see the gravestone, then
it wouldn’t be true and my dad wouldn’t be dead. I suppose that’s pretty
stupid.
    ‘Hey, Dad.’
    I listen to the
silence that echoes back at me. I wonder where he is now.  I wonder if he
can hear me and see me like I can hear and see everyone else. Why can’t I hear
and see him if he’s dead too? What happened to make me different?
    ‘I’m fed up,
Dad. I’m sick of wandering around this village all the time like a shadow. I
don’t want to be here anymore. Please talk to me; please say that I get to go
where you are soon.’
    I close my eyes
tight and wait for him to reply.
    But nothing comes. 
    I’m outside Bethany’s
again this morning, waiting for