It was the next Saturday afternoon and I was sat in the kitchen with Jon. We were talking about Doug Bannister and what a horrible way it was to die, puncturing your heart on a tree stump alone in a wood. We wondered if he would have died instantly or if he slowly bled to death shouting out for help. I wondered if there was a moment when he realised that was it: he really was dying and he’d lived all the life he was going to live. I tried to imagine how that would feel but it’s impossible. How can you know how you will feel seconds before you die? You hear that a peace descends and there is a light at the end of a tunnel and heavenly music playing and crap like that. I think that’s a trick. A lie spread to keep people calm. Like when the doctor says it won’t hurt, so you relax, and then he jams the massive needle into your arm and you aren’t struggling because the pain takes you by surprise. I think watching death coming to get you must be the most terrifying thing in the world. You are about to come to a stop and everything else around you is going to carry on. And let’s be honest, all these people who talk about the beautiful experience and the twinkling lights, well they don’t actually die in the end do they, so why would anyone listen to them? Give me a dead man’s account and then I’ll start to take notice. I thought of my mum, one second singing along to the radio and the next gone. If it did happen like that, in a split second, like they said at the inquest, then that was a good thing. No terror, no pain, just driving along and then nothing. Blam. It should just have been a split second sixty years later that’s all.
We’d been sat quietly for a few minutes when Jon broke the silence. He pointed at the open shoebox sat in the middle of the table and said, ‘New trainers.’ My dad had bought me them in town that morning and they were in their box, on the kitchen table. They were a bright white with green soles and green trims. They looked good. I wasn’t sure if he could really afford them but he’d got the idea into his head that he wanted to buy me something and he’d almost dragged me into town and made me choose. ‘Anything you want, what do you need? Music? Paint? Clothes?’ I didn’t need anything but he seemed excited to be treating me and we were stood outside the sports shop so trainers seemed the obvious solution. I tried to find a cheap pair but he kept steering me towards the new ranges. He asked which I would choose if money were no object, if we’d won the lottery. So I thought sod it and was honest and pointed to the white and green trainers sat in the middle of the display in the window. They were too expensive but he made me try them on anyway, squeezed my big toes to check they fitted, and told the shop assistant we would take them.
Jon reached across and took one of the shoes from the box and passed it from hand to hand. ‘Light, aren’t they?’ he said. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled. ‘Smells good.’ He tucked it back in the box carefully. I told him to try them on. He shook his head. He didn’t want to, he said; they were brand new. I shrugged and told him that I wasn’t bothered. After a bit more persuading he pulled off his old, battered, brown shoes and slipped his feet into the trainers, carefully threaded the laces and tied them up. He tied each foot firmly, straightened the tongues and looked up at me, unsure what to do next. I told him to give them a run around. He stood up and walked a few stiff steps towards the kitchen door. He stopped, turned around, looked at me and said, ‘It’s like wearing moon boots!’ He walked around the kitchen table a couple of times, getting used to the feel of the trainers on his feet. They were two sizes too big for him but it didn’t matter. He broke into big, bounding strides, like he was jumping from dry land to dry land. Then he hopped on his left foot in a clockwise direction around the table, and swapped to his right and came back the other way. He looked at me with a wide grin and said, ‘These are brilliant!’
At that moment the neurons fizzed and popped in my brain and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I told Jon to follow me upstairs. I rummaged through my wardrobe, chucking jeans, T-shirts, shirts and jumpers onto the bed. I even found a pair of trainers and put them on the pile. Everything was in pretty good condition; I’d had a growth spurt shortly after me and Mum had bought most of this stuff and none of it had been worn much at all. Jon sat on the bed, mainly ignoring me, his focus still on the green and white trainers on his feet. When I found everything I thought was too small for me but not too big for Jon I pushed the pile over to him and told him he could have them, that they were no good to me any more. He looked at me like I was insane and shook his head and said no, he couldn’t have them. I told him that it wasn’t a big deal, that it was just old clothes. It took a while to convince him that I was sure, and no, my dad really wouldn’t mind, that he wouldn’t even notice. And then Jon began to relax. He spent the rest of the afternoon trying the clothes on in different combinations and grinning at himself in the mirror.