Dad seems to have forgotten all about that big ‘surprise’ of his. I’ve been looking forward to it happening every day, longing for it, but each time Mum and Dad come to see me, they come in separately. Mum doesn’t talk about Dad. Dad doesn’t talk about Mum. Nothing changes. Dad’s always promising things. I don’t know why I ever believe him. Neither of them ever says a word about Lucky. But then if he’s dead, why would they? They’d know it would only upset me.
Ellie thinks I’m half-dead already. She keeps asking Mum if I’ll go to heaven when I’m dead. There’d better be football in heaven, that’s all I can say. If I’m going to be dead, I want there to be a heaven. But I don’t want to go there yet, or anywhere else. I want to stay here, and I want to stay alive. I know that if I want to stay alive, I’ve got to wake myself up. I must. I try really hard to break out, but my mind just won’t let me. It’s like it’s locked from the outside and I can’t find the key.
It’s funny. Before the accident I used to love dreaming. I can remember knowing I was in a dream and trying not to wake up from it, trying all I could to stay inside my dream to find out where it would take me, what would happen in the end. But I’d always wake up before I wanted to, so I’d never find out how my dream ended. Now, all I want is to get out of my dream – that’s what I’m in, a sort of dream-bubble that I know is real. I so want it to burst, for me to break free, live properly, be me again. Instead, I just lie here like a great vegetable, wired up to machines that keep me alive. All I do is exist.
There’s a strange sort of buzz about the hospital today. Everyone’s whispering instead of talking. It’s like they’re trying to keep something from me. Even Tracey’s gone all mysterious on me. She’s giving me an especially long bedbath. “I’m not saying a word, Robbie, not a word, not if you opened your eyes this minute. If you offered me a million quid, you wouldn’t get it out of me. No way José!” Now she’s singing that song again: “Days I’ll remember all my life…and this is your great day, Robbie. I want you to look your very best for your great day.” What great day? What is she going on about? Am I leaving hospital? What do they know that I don’t?
I can hear lots of giggling going on outside, then lots of shushing. Now the door’s opening. It squeaks and clunks, which is lucky for me because I can always tell when someone’s just come in or just gone out. That door’s been squeaking and clunking a lot more than usual in the last couple of hours.
“Hello Robbie. You all right, then?” Dad. Dad sounding excited, but trying to hide it. He’s coming nearer. “Robbie, you remember that surprise I told you about? Well, today’s the day. It’s here. Or rather he’s here. You’re not going to believe this, Robbie. But he’s come to see you specially, because he’s heard all about you and he wants to help you to get better. All the way from Chelsea Football Club, Robbie. It’s your hero. It’s Zola. Number 25. Gianfranco Zola.”
“Robbie?” It’s his voice. I recognise his Italian accent. I’ve heard it on TV. It’s him! It’s really him! It’s Gianfranco Zola, the coolest footballer in the world, and he’s come to see me! “Hey, Robbie. It’s me. It’s Gianfranco. It’s like your Papa says. I came to see you, because I want you to wake up. You want to wake up for your Mama and Papa, Robbie! You want to wake up for me? You want to do this for me?”
Do I? Do I? Of course I do. I’m screaming inside, screaming with excitement, screaming to wake up. Zola! No 25! God! Right here. So close I could reach out and touch him. I want to open my eyes and see him more than anything else in the whole world. And I should be able to do it, because this is a real surprise. So if the doctor’s right, I should be waking up. But I haven’t.
The truth is – and I can hardly believe I’m even thinking this – but the truth is I’m a little disappointed. I’m disappointed because this isn’t the surprise I’ve been expecting, or hoping for. I was hoping that Mum and Dad would be coming to see me together, that Dad had moved back home and that he’d be staying. This is just silly. I’ve got Gianfranco Zola in my room, my absolute hero of all time, and I’m feeling let down.
I hear the chair by my bed move nearer. He’s sitting down. He’s taking my hand. “Your Papa, he wrote to me, Robbie. He says, please come to see my boy. So I am here. Listen. If you don’t get better, you can’t come back to Chelsea and see us, can you? You want to see us again, eh? ‘Course you do. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep a seat, especially for you, in the Directors’ Box when you wake up. You like that? Next month, it’s the big match. We play Manchester United at home, at Stamford Bridge. You want to be there? We’ll wipe the floor with them. We’ll play them off the park. We’ll do it just for you. But first you’ve got to wake up. Do it for us, Robbie. You want us to beat Man U, OK? You’ve got to be there to help us. You hear me?” I hear you, Zola, I hear you. And I’m going to be there, I promise.
“And after we beat them out of sight, I tell you what we’ll do, Robbie. You and me, we’ll go out on the pitch and we’ll kick a ball about. And I’ll teach you a few tricks. How’s that?
“I’ve got to go now. I’ve got training. I never miss my training. But I think about you all the time, and you think about me. OK?” He’s getting up. He’s going. Wake up! Say thank you! Say goodbye! Don’t just lie there. “Oh, Robbie, I forgot something.” He’s coming back. “I’ve brought you a shirt. It’s not from the Megastore. Nothing like that. It’s my shirt, my Number 25 shirt. I wore it last week when we played West Ham. We should have won but we got lazy in the second half. Still, a draw is not too bad. And don’t you worry. It’s all washed nice and clean for you. Not smelly.”
He’s laying it over me. I can feel its softness. I can feel its blueness. I can feel the magic of it soaking into me. “It suits you just fine, Robbie. You and me, we’re both little people. But it’s not about size, is it? It’s about what goes on in your head. When I was a boy, maybe your age, I was always the smallest one. They told me: Gianfranco, you’ll never be a footballer. You’re too small, too weak. I thought inside my head, I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone. So. You show me, Robbie, you show everyone. You wake up. I’ll look for you in the stand when we play Man U. So you’d better be there, OK?”
Then he’s saying goodbye to Dad and this time he’s gone for good, and I’m filling up with sadness, overflowing, bursting with it. It’s like that song Mum’s always playing on her Buddy Holly CD at home. It’s raining, raining in my 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.