Authors: Laura Summers
Heartbeat Away
Laura Summers grew up in South London and was a teacher before becoming a scriptwriter for many popular children's TV series.
Her first novel,
Desperate Measures
, won the AMI Literature Award and was nominated for the Carnegie Medal and shortlisted for the Waterstone's Children's Book Prize.
Praise for
Desperate Measures
:
âAn exciting adventure with plenty of drama and humour . . . Thought-provoking and moving.'
Books for Keeps
âA fabulous book . . . incredibly poignant.'
Birmingham Post
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Text copyright © Laura Summers, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Laura Summers to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 84812 109 6 (paperback)
eBook ISBN: 978 1 84812 193 5
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustration by Sarah Kelly
Table of Contents
Waiting
Everyone dreams of something incredible happening to them. Something that'll completely change their life, for ever. Take Leah, my best friend: she's desperate to wave goodbye to the estate and live happily ever after on some sun-drenched tropical island, feasting on coconuts and barbecued fish. My stepbrother, Danny, on the other hand, has set his heart on playing for Man United in the Cup Final, scoring the winning goal. And I know at least three tone-deaf wannabes who are going to win some big TV talent competition and instantly become rich and famous.
I'm no different. I've been waiting two years now for the big thing that's going to change my life, but, unlike most people, I don't really like telling anyone what I'm waiting for, in case they get the wrong idea.
You see, I'm waiting for someone to die. Not any old person, you understand; not Mr MacNamara my maths teacher or Shannon Walters or Masher Crombie, or anyone else I know for that matter. This special person will be a
complete stranger. They'll never meet me â in fact, they won't even know I exist. And, although I now spend most of my days wondering and imagining who they are and what they're like, I'm never really going to know anything about them â they might as well belong in a parallel universe.
So, as I lie here, too exhausted to move, they'll be going about their life, rushing around doing whatever it is that they do all day, then falling asleep at night, totally unaware that I exist â terrified, but waiting.
Waiting for them to die so that I can live.
âBecky . . . Becky . . . come on, love, wake up.'
I slowly open my eyes. Mum's standing over the sofa in her dressing gown. I've been sleeping down here in the sitting room because I can't manage the stairs to my bedroom any more. It's like hiking up Mount Everest in my slippers.
She reaches across to the sideboard with all my cross- country trophies, and switches on the little table lamp. Her face is creased with sleep and her short hair's sticking up all over the place. I glance at the clock on the mantlepiece. Twenty to two.
âWhat's happened?'
My stepdad, Joe, is in the hall, talking on the phone in low tones.
âIs it Gran?' I ask. âIs she OK?'
âShe's fine. It's the hospital. They want you in right away.'
âNow?'
Mum nods and looks at me warily.
âBut it's the middle of the night!'
âThey think they might have a new heart for you.'
My clapped-out old one misses a beat. âBut . . .'
âWe've got to get going right now. Gran'll be here for Danny.'
Mum's holding a blue backpack. It's the one we bought when I first went on the transplant list. I stare at it blankly. It's so long ago, I no longer have any idea what I carefully packed inside.
âMum . . .'
âWhat, sweetheart?'
âI . . . I can't go.'
âWhat d'you mean?'
âI can't go,' I say more firmly. Mum looks at me anxiously. âI'm not ready,' I tell her.
âNot ready?' She looks at me aghast. âBecky, we've waited months for this!'
âIt's night-time . . .' I'm clutching at straws now. âI haven't washed my hair.' I burst into tears. Mum hugs me like I'm four years old, instead of fourteen. Every night for the past few months, I've been having the same nightmare. And each night it's become scarier. I'm being chased by a pack of red- eyed wolves. Totally exhausted, I stagger down to a river, but something's in there, something that churns the water in its excitement to be fed. On the opposite bank, everyone is shouting and yelling at me to get across because it's my only chance, but I never find out if I make it, because every night I wake to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I'm drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
âIt'll be all right, Becky,' says Mum.
âAre you sure?' I look at her long and hard. She doesn't answer.
âI'm frightened,' I say.
âYou'd be silly if you weren't,' she whispers, her voice shaking, as she hugs me tighter and strokes my unwashed hair.
I think about my nightmare and realise I have a choice. I can stay at home, wash my hair and slowly die over the next few months, or I can go to the hospital, let someone cut out my heart, sew a dead person's heart in its place and then, just maybe, make it safely to the other side.
Wherever that may be.
Joe drives us through the rain to the hospital. He and Mum start by chatting brightly, but after a while they run out of steam and fall silent, so he puts the radio on. A cheesy pop song blares out about someone giving someone else their heart. Mum glares at him, he catches on and quickly changes stations, tuning into a late night phone-in âfor all those broken-hearted souls out there'.
âOh, for goodness' sake!' she hisses.
Slumped in the back of the car under a fleecy blanket, I watch a large drop of rain slowly trickle down the window.
âIt's all right, Mum,' I whisper breathlessly, âit doesn't matter,' but she flicks the radio off and we drive on in silence for the rest of the journey. There isn't much traffic and most of the shop-fronts have their metal shutters rolled down. We pass a group of people making their way home after a night out, laughing and joshing each other without a care in the world.
There is a girl, much older than me but with long dark
hair, just like mine used to be before it was all cut off because it's easier to manage. She has her arm round her friend's shoulder and they're dancing along the wet pavement, singing in the rain. I catch her eye as we drive past and she impulsively smiles and waves. I slowly wave back, but instantly feel mean. She has no idea that I'm desperately wishing I could swap places with her, right now.
It's nearly three o'clock when we get to the hospital. Even though it's the middle of the night, the place is bustling with people. Joe goes off to find me a wheelchair, then we check in at the reception before they wheel me up to the Cardiac Unit.
I'm glad Mum is allowed to stay because about an hour later, when the nurse puts the clear plastic mask over my face, I suddenly panic. I'm expecting to smell gas or something, but there's nothing. I have a terrible thought. What if the anaesthetic doesn't work and I'm still awake while they operate?
âIt's all over now, Becky . . . Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.'
I don't have the faintest idea who's talking to me, or what is all over, but my throat feels sore and my mouth is as dry as a pre-school sandpit.