The Shock of the Fall. Nathan Filer

stepped into my room and opened the curtains, so that for a moment, standing in front of the window, she became nothing but a faceless silhouette. Then she said it again. Just like before. ‘Sweetheart, you look pale.’

       school runs

      I think of Mum zipping closed my orange winter coat again, and pulling up the hood again so the grey fur lining clings to the sweat on my forehead and brushes at my ears. I think of it, and it is happening. Hot honey and lemon drunk down in gulps from the mug I once gave to her – no longer special – and a bitter chalky after-taste of ground-up paracetamol.

      ‘I’m sorry about the other day, sweetheart.’

      ‘Sorry for what, Mummy?’

      ‘For dragging you past the playground, with the other children staring.’

      ‘Were you punishing me?’

      ‘I don’t know. I might have been. I’m not sure.’

      ‘Do we have to do it again?’

      ‘I think so, yes. You have your coat on.’

      ‘You put it on me. You zipped it up.’

      ‘Did I?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then we should go.’

      ‘I don’t want to.’

      ‘I know that, Matthew. But you’re unwell, and you might need antibiotics. We need to get you seen. Did I really zip your coat up?’

      ‘But why now? Why can’t we wait until after playtime has finished?’

      ‘I don’t know. I haven’t worked that out yet.’

      I pass her back the empty mug, World’s Greatest Mum. I think of this and I am there again. She’s opening the door, reaching out her hand. I take it, and I am there.

      ‘No!’

      ‘Matthew, don’t answer me back. We need to go. We need to get you seen.’

      ‘No. I want Dad.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, he’s at work. Now you’re letting all the cold air inside. Stop it. We need to go.’

      Her grip is tight, but I’m stronger than she thinks. I pull back hard, and snag at her charm bracelet with the hook of my finger.

      ‘Now look what you’ve done. It’s broken.’ She bends over to pick up the fallen chain, with its tiny silver charms littering the ground. I push past her. I push her harder than I should. She loses balance, arms flapping like pigeon wings before she falls. ‘Matthew! Wait! What is it?’

      In a few strides I’m through the gate, slamming it behind me. I run as fast as I can, but she’s catching up. My foot skids off the pavement, I’m startled by the urgent blast from a speeding van.

      ‘Baby, wait. Please.’

      ‘No.’

      I take my chance, running across the main road, cutting between a line of cars, causing one to swerve. She’s forced to wait. I round the corner, and the next, and am at my school. ‘Is that you again, Matthew? Hey, it’s Matthew again. Look, his mum’s chasing him. His mum’s chasing him. Look! His mum’s chasing him!’

      I am ahead, and she is chasing. She’s crying out for me to stop. She’s calling me her baby. She’s calling me her baby boy. I stop. Turn around. Then fall into her arms.

      ‘Look at them. Look at them. Get a teacher, someone. Look at them.’ I am lifted from the ground, held by her. She is kissing my forehead and telling me that it will be okay. She’s carrying me, and I can feel her heartbeat through my stupid hood.

      ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘It’s okay baby boy.’

      ‘I miss him so much, Mum.’

      ‘I know you do. Oh, my baby. I know you do.’ She’s carrying me, and I can feel her heartbeat through my stupid hood.

      Children must be accompanied by an adult

       AT ALL TIMES

      In Bristol there is a famous bridge called the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It’s a popular hangout for the suicidal. There is even a notice on it with a telephone number for the Samaritans.

      When my mum first left school, before she met Dad, she worked doing paper filing at Rolls-Royce.

      It wasn’t a happy time because her boss was a horrible man who made her feel stupid and worthless. She wanted to quit, but was too worried to tell Granddad because he had wanted her to stay at school, and having a job was a condition of her leaving.

      She was riding back on her moped one evening, but when she reached home she didn’t stop.

      ‘I kept going,’ she told me. She perched on the edge of my bed in her nightgown, having woken me in the middle of the night to climb in beside me. She did that a lot.

      ‘I had nothing to live for,’ she whispered.

      ‘Are you okay, Mummy?’

      She didn’t know that she was going to the suspension bridge, but she was. She only realized, when she couldn’t find it.

      ‘I was lost.’

      ‘Should I get Dad?’

      ‘Let’s go to sleep.’

      ‘Are you sleeping here tonight?’

      ‘Am I allowed?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘I was lost,’ she whispered into the pillow. ‘I couldn’t even get that right.’

       dead people still have birthdays

      The night before my dead brother should have turned thirteen years old I was woken by the sound of him playing in his bedroom.

      I was getting better at picturing him in my mind. So I kept my eyes closed and watched as he reached beneath his bed and pulled out the painted cardboard box.

      These were his keepsakes, but if you’re like Simon, and the whole world is a place of wonder, everything is a keepsake. There were countless small plastic toys from Christmas crackers and McDonald’s Happy Meals. There were stickers from the dentist saying, I was brave, and stickers from the speech therapist saying, Well Done, or You are a Star! There were postcards from Granddad and Nanny Noo – if his name was on it, it was going in his box. There were swimming badges, certificates, a fossil from Chesil Beach, good pebbles, paintings, pictures, birthday cards, a broken watch – so much crap he could hardly close the lid.

      Simon kept every single day of his life.

      It was strange to think of it all still there. In some ways it was strange even to think of his room being there. I remember when we first got home from Ocean Cove, the three of us stood in the driveway, listening to the little clicking sounds as the car’s engine cooled. We stared at the house. His room had stayed put, the first-floor window, with his yellow Pokémon curtains. It hadn’t the courtesy to up and leave. It stayed right where we’d left it, at the top of the stairs, the room next to mine.

      Hugging a pillow to my chest and keeping my eyes shut tight, I could see him searching through his memories to find the most important one – a scrap of yellow cotton. It was this he was first wrapped in as a tiny bundle of joy and fear, and it became his comfort blanket. At seven, eight, nine years of age – he always had it with him, forever carrying it around. Until the