Adam Baron - You Won’t Believe This

He’s a RAT.

And he is epic .

Kit-Kat can shake hands with you. He can fetch things. He loves the piano, climbing up on to Veronique’s shoulder whenever she practises. He’s a great tightrope walker, and can do the high jump, put a ring on your finger, recognise people, and even untie your shoelaces! He can’t tie them yet (but Lance can barely do that) and Veronique’s training him – and I know who I’d bet on to get there first. Veronique’s trained Kit-Kat a lot in fact, but he was like that even before, because Veronique’s dad’s a scientist and Kit-Kat came from his lab. He is in fact the Veronique of the rat world.

I have another confession too. Kit-Kat being there made me forget about Mrs Martin. I’d planned on spending the whole night thinking about what had happened, but once we were in the house I pulled Veronique up the stairs.

‘Supper in an hour,’ Mum said. ‘What would you like to do, Veronique?’

‘Don’t worry, Mum, we’re going to play Subbuteo.’

Mum wondered whether that was something Veronique would really like to do, but I didn’t listen. I dragged Veronique up to my room and pulled the Subbuteo box out from under my bed.

Now Subbuteo, which is a game with little plastic footballers that you flick at a ball, is excellent normally, and I knew Veronique would have enjoyed it – but teaching Kit-Kat to play was going to be even better! And, as expected, he was ACE. His dribbling was as good as Mo Salah’s and somehow he knew to stay on the pitch (though he trod on the players’ heads until I gave him a yellow card). Soon he was taking the ball round the players instead of over them and then slipping it past the keeper, all for the reward of a dried pea, which Veronique had brought and which he’s obsessed with. It was great, but at 5–0 to Kit-Kat I put the pitch away. Mum had been right: Veronique didn’t seem to be into it. I turned to her.

‘Is it Mrs Martin? That was totally weird, wasn’t it? But you shouldn’t be upset about it. No one thinks it was you, do they?’

‘It isn’t that,’ Veronique said.

I slapped my forehead. I’d got carried away with the Subbuteo – it was Nanai of course.

‘But it’s just a precaution,’ I said. ‘Your dad did say that, didn’t he?’

Veronique looked down at her lap. ‘Yes, but …’

‘What?’

‘He’s an adult.’

‘So?’

‘You can’t believe them when they talk about things like this.’

‘ Can’t you?’

‘No,’ Veronique said, and I realised that she was right. There are pointless things that adults insist you DO know about (apostrophes, hello?) and then some really important stuff they keep from you, like news stories that make them dive forward and turn off the radio. Nanai was as bad. She refused to tell Veronique much about being on the boat from Vietnam. All Veronique knew was that Nanai’s family had been part of the Chinese Hoa people in Vietnam. When they had to leave Vietnam by boat, some of them ended up here. There had to be more to know than that, though. And now – was her dad doing the same thing? Was Nanai really ill?

I swallowed. I had an empty feeling in my stomach until I heard Mum climbing up the stairs. I got Kit-Kat back in his box in time but Mum still crouched down to him.

‘Let’s have a look, then,’ she said.

‘Sorry. It’s his bedtime.’

Mum frowned. ‘I thought gerbils slept in the daytime.’

‘Oh,’ said Veronique, ‘he’s not a gerbil. He’s a—’

‘HAMSTER!’ I shouted. ‘But he’s tired now, so …’

‘Oh, come on,’ Mum insisted. ‘Just a little peek.’ And I couldn’t stop her. She lifted the lid and I got my hands near my ears ready for the scream, shuffling aside so I didn’t get trampled on when Mum ran to the door. Fortunately, though, Kit-Kat was tucked up in his straw with just his little face poking out.

‘Sweet!’ Mum said as Kit-Kat gave her a nose twitch. And we went downstairs for supper.

Mum had made bacony pasta. I love it, and Veronique said she did too, though she didn’t eat much. If I left mine, Mum would have made me finish it, but she just smiled at Veronique and squeezed her elbow. Back upstairs we took it in turns getting ready for bed and when Veronique came out of the bathroom I blinked. I’d never seen her in pyjamas. These were Chinese ones that folded over in the middle. She looked really different and it made me think of the photos of Nanai, how she’d been rescued, how she’d come from another place, somewhere Veronique was linked to, though she’s so part of our school and Blackheath. It made me wonder if anyone in my past had run away from somewhere, though I didn’t get long to think about it. Veronique was pale. She was quiet as we blew her bed up, and through part of Narnia, which Mum read us. I don’t think it was because of the White Witch either because she was still like that as she climbed into her sleeping bag.

Mum kissed me goodnight and gave Veronique a hug. She put the light out and when we were on our own I stared down at Veronique through the faint blue glow from my ghostie light.

‘Is it still Nanai? Is that why you’re upset?’

Veronique didn’t answer.

I remembered what Mr Prentice said, the art therapy man I went to after Mum got ill before Christmas. You have to let it out. The thing you’re scared of. So I said, ‘Did something happen? Before the ambulance came, I mean?’

There was silence again but somehow I knew the answer was yes.

‘Did Nanai fall over?’

‘No.’

‘Or be sick?’

‘No,’ Veronique said, again.

‘Then what? What? ’

‘I went down to see her. Earlier.’

‘To play football?’

‘Just see her.’

‘And?’

‘She was sitting there, in her chair. She didn’t even …’

‘What?’

‘She didn’t even want to nibble my finger. She just looked weird. So I asked her what the matter was.’

‘And?’

‘She told me not to worry.’

‘Well, then. Phew.’

‘She was really definite about that. It was all very normal, she said. And natural.’

‘What was?’

Veronique was about to answer but she hesitated, fiddling with the sleeve of her pyjamas. I looked down at her but she wouldn’t look at me, just lay there in the faint blue light. There was silence until Mum started banging pots around in the kitchen, after which the silence came back again. It grew bigger, sort of heavy, and dark-seeming, so that for a second it was like everything in the whole world had stopped.

‘ What was?’ I insisted, and Veronique stopped fiddling with her sleeve.

‘She said she was going to die, Cymbeline.’

I had bad dreams. They seemed to last all night, though when I woke up they ran off like kids playing Grandmother’s Footsteps. Their place was taken by Veronique and I blinked at her. She was kneeling by my bed. With her face washed. And she was dressed. She even had her hair tied up.

‘Where’s your piano?’ she asked.

I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s next to the Ferrari.’

‘Where’s that, then?’

‘It was a joke,’ I said, which made Veronique sigh because jokes are the ONE thing she’s not good at. They’re like apostrophes are to me. Marcus Breen is always getting her. We were in the lunch queue on Friday and he poked her in the ribs.