‘What’s she going to do when her leg heals?’ he asks.

  ‘Break the other one,’ I say.

  He laughs, then twitches, his shoulders moving in quick shudders, then one blink, two blinks. He throws his head back again and grunts. ‘Want to sit together for lunch?’

  Gospel tells me to meet him behind the pottery prefab. Ceramic-making is supposed to have a calming effect on the students; they stick a glob of clay on a spinning wheel and watch us transform into a zen-like state of focus, in the hope that a cognitive metamorphosis takes place. It doesn’t work for everyone. Not for Josh Dabrowski, who had a tantrum and threw his vase that looked like an ashtray at the window.

  No one ever comes here. They gather in plenty of places where they’re not supposed to, but this is just one of those places that’s ours. It looks out over a neighbouring field with cows, not owned by the school. Gospel, depending on his mood, tries to fire missiles at them and I ignore him because when he’s in that mood, there’s no getting him out of it. It’s also where he smokes weed – and it works, a green surrounds his other colours, calms him down, stops his tics.

  He makes his way across the playing fields, carrying a box. He has good energy and we became instant friends. Gospel is Irish-Zimbabwean from Tallaght. His dad is from Zimbabwe, and is a computer analyst. His mum is a nurse in Tallaght hospital. He loves his family, they sent him to Clearview to help him, he came here to be helped, which feels the opposite to my situation. I was sent away. I feel I was disposed of. I meet his parents on the weekends when they visit; they’ve even invited me out with them for meals at the local carvery. I like to listen to Gospel talk about his life rather than speak about my own, but he knows enough to know that, unlike him, I didn’t exactly come here of my own free will. And now that I’m here, I don’t want to go home.

  ‘Hey, sorry I’m late, I had to empty this box first and Nigel wouldn’t let me put my stuff on the desk because of his OCD, so I had to put it away in exactly the right place and in order of the visible light spectrum so he wouldn’t freak out. I thought cyan was like coral?’

  I laugh. ‘You brought comics,’ I say, reaching inside.

  ‘Don’t touch them; some of them are special limited editions. I will explain, but first I need this.’

  He puts the heavy box down, sits on the grass, and lights a spliff.

  I sit further away so the smoke doesn’t cling to my clothes, and I watch him. It’s hypnotising, watching his anxious yellows mellow as the CBD starts to take effect. He’s found the right balance now, Nigel his roommate supplies him. Agoraphobic, OCD Nigel, who will barely leave his room unless he’s had CBD. Even though Tourette’s is a part of who Gospel is, I can see who he is when he’s like this; the mellow Gospel who tics less, the one more in control of himself. Cannabis isn’t like the pills I’ve seen Lily on, or the other depression or anti-anxiety pills I’ve seen other students on. It doesn’t surround the mood with a relaxing haze, disguising it to trick the person; instead it removes the mood altogether, the anxieties literally fade away – for a short time at least, giving them just enough respite to catch their breath. I’ve never been tempted to try it because I need to be in control. I couldn’t imagine being so relaxed that I’d walk straight through colours that might cling to me and alter my state, but it’s relaxing to sit and watch a friend transform for the better.

  ‘It’s working,’ I say, smiling as he becomes a grounded, rooted earthy brown. I’ve always wondered why people say they’re getting high when in reality it looks like the opposite.

  He leans his head back against the cabin and closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being free, not a captive in a body that won’t obey him.

  ‘Okay, let’s get to work. I’m a comic fan, you learn something fascinating about me every day. X-Men, Spider-Man, Superman, Batman, the Avengers – all the obvious ones, and there’s lots there you don’t know. We won’t get into them all, but basically there’s a superhero logic, like an algorithm, and they all follow it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say slowly, confused as to why he’s telling me this but appreciating him sharing a secret part of himself with me.

  ‘What is a superhero?’ he asks, as though beginning a lecture. ‘It’s a character that possesses abilities beyond those of normal people. Just like you. Someone that uses their powers to help the world become a better place, to fight crime and protect the public. Just. Like. You.’

  ‘Gospel! I’m not a superhero.’

  ‘Did you or did you not, in the first month I met you, hit a paedophile in the cock with a bicycle helmet, at the playground.’

  I laugh. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well then.’ Blink, blink, twitch, throws his head back, and grunts. ‘We shall continue. Every superhero has three characteristics: their superpower, their weakness, and their nemesis.’

  ‘I can tell you who my nemesis is straight away: Mr Battersby.’

  I’m joking but he’s taking this so seriously. ‘Wait, we’re not there yet.’

  ‘So, the superpower. Spider-Man, well he has genius intellect, he’s a scientist and inventor, superhuman strength, speed, balance, endurance, precognitive spider-sense and webbing ability. His weakness is ethyl chloride pesticide and his nemesis is the Green Goblin.’

  I watch his face, so animated, as he launches into Superman’s traits. I thought his concentration face was the greatest, but perhaps it’s his enthusiasm, his passion. The honey-coloured energies flow like liquid around him, I picture a cartoon Winnie the Pooh with his pots of hunny.

  A bell rings for lunch, we ignore it.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’

  ‘Because I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.’

  My heart pounds, butterflies swirl in my stomach.

  ‘Your superpower is seeing people’s colours, reading energies and moods. You know if someone is lying or being truthful, if someone is,’ Blink, blink, twitch, throws his head back and grunts, ‘Sick, messed up in the head, pregnant or whatever – you know it. You might know it before even they do. You know people’s secrets. Everyone is completely transparent under your gaze.’

  ‘I don’t know how it’s a strength,’ I say.

  ‘It’s leverage, for a start. Your weakness is …’ He looks at me as if expecting me to know the answers.

  I shrug. ‘Seeing colours? They give me migraines, force me to wear glasses.’

  ‘No. Your weakness is being afraid of getting the energies on you. You won’t touch anyone, won’t let anyone touch you.’

  Those eyes again, that soothing honey voice.

  ‘Which leads us to the nemesis. A hero is only as good as the villains they face, so the greatest superhero in the world would have to have the greatest arch-nemesis. Lex Luthor is Superman’s mirror reflection and that’s what makes him one of the greatest villains. So I was thinking about your mirror reflection. You have empathy, you understand people, you feel what people feel, even when you don’t want to. The opposite of that are sociopaths, psychopaths. Somebody with no empathy, no compassion, no remorse, who manipulates and charms, and who uses others for themselves.’

  Despite my embarrassment, I’m all ears.

  ‘Superheroes are drawn to their arch-nemesis. The war is a lifelong one: they will continuously battle it out and the hero will win, but the nemesis is in their lives forever.’

  ‘Okay, I get it. So the academy is like the X-Mansion and all of us kids have special powers.’

  ‘I’m not a superhero. I have a chronic tic disorder. I’m not even here for that, I’m here because it makes me so angry I throw furniture against the wall.’

  ‘I meant your alarming good looks and football skills.’

  He smiles but is unaffected by my attempts to deflect.

  ‘You have to hear what I’m saying, Alice. I’m serious about this. If your nemesis is a mirror reflection of you, then in a way that makes them part of you. You’ll be pulled towards them for life, constantly facing the battle with them, maybe winning the battle but never finishing the war. They are charming and they are smart, they are master manipulators, and they will play with you time and time again, hoping that evil will triumph over good, never giving up until it does. They will be so clever that you may not even know that’s who they are. And right now you don’t care because you don’t even know the power you have. You hate your powers, you want them to be gone. And you’ll let a nemesis do that to you because you want to destroy your power and you want to self-destruct.’

  I’m not smiling anymore. Neither is he.

  He’s so concerned about me, he has barely ticced in that entire speech. He’s in his football gear, his legs are long and muscular, his shoulders are wide, his eyes are deep and dreamy. He genuinely cares about me, has carried a box of stuff that means something to him across the pitch because he thought of me. I move closer to him, breaking the natural distance I keep from people.

  Just sitting beside him feels intimate. I touch his face.

  The feel of someone’s skin beneath my touch is new and dangerous. But I trust him.

  I run my finger over his lips, he kisses my finger, then waits. Waits to know that it’s okay, and then we kiss.

  My heart pounds watching Gospel on the pitch. A striker for Crystal Palace. He’s done it. His parents must be so proud, I picture them in the crowd somewhere, cheering him on as they did on the sidelines for every match at the academy. His little mum, his tall dad, there every Sunday for him. He looks handsome, muscular, strong. Beautiful. Striking, as he always was.

  She’s looking at me.

  ‘What? What did you say?’ I’m back in this room, in this house, with her. In the wheelchair. With a dripping dying plant in my hand. The washing needs to be ironed and the bed linen needs to be changed. I need to call a plumber about the blocked toilet. Maybe she sees something in me die.

  She thinks about it, then says, ‘Nothing.’

  I buy another plant at Tesco. It’s an aloe vera. I’m determined not to kill this one. I don’t like floral bouquets; they look beautiful but as soon as the flowers are snipped, their nutrient supply is severed and they’re already dying. Their rotting energy hangs around the house like a bad smell. I’ve tried with them, but I cannot display and admire death in my home. Plants on the other hand are in soil and they’re alive, living and breathing.

  I place the new plant on the windowsill in the kitchen.

  ‘Hello. I’m Alice and I’m not going to kill you,’ I say, more of an affirmation to myself.

  An orange energy appears around the leaves, like a bud quickly opening then closing before fading completely.

  ‘Oh,’ I say in surprise. ‘You like me talking to you, don’t you?’

  The orange is stronger, larger, opens like a large flower then closes again.

  I try something else. ‘You’re a beautiful plant. Such lovely, um, leaves, what do we call these?’ I run my fingers gently down its long pointed leaves.

  More bursts of orange floral blooms. They open and close, a time-lapse of flowers blooming before disappearing again.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I whisper. I lean down to the plant’s level. ‘I’m going to call you Vera.’

  I try something later that day, a kind of experiment.

  Lily is watching TV. She hasn’t smoked since chemotherapy. She said it affected her taste buds and the smoke was disgusting.

  ‘How long without a cigarette now? Almost a year?’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’

  ‘That’s great. You must be proud of yourself.’

  She looks at me suspiciously.

  ‘I mean you’ve smoked all of my life, that I can remember, and now look: you’re cigarette free. Well done you.’

  I mean it, but it’s coming out robotically. We’re not used to speaking like that to each other.

  ‘Fuck off, Alice,’ she says, and turns back to the TV.

  I watch her colours for time-lapse flourishing blooms, for pops of pinks, for a grand firework display, for the fan of proud peacock feathers.

  Nothing.

  I laugh to myself and get back to the ironing. Cheered me up anyway.

  I learn how to keep Vera alive by listening to Vera. When I think it’s time to water her, it’s usually not. She’s a hardy plant, she enjoys her place in the sun and only seldom requires a drink, as if she’s too busy for such things, too busy looking out the window at our dingy garden. It doesn’t seem to put her off as it does me; she grows towards it, as if reaching her long leaves to paint, to touch the glass and say, look, look out there.

  She makes me look out there. At the patchy too-long grass, balding in some places. The weeds, the hedging growing over from the perfectly constructed Ganguly side. She points it out to me and I see it. Which makes me want the view for her to be better. So I start work on the garden. Lily watches me from the door, thinking I’ve lost it. She’s heard me talking to the plant, which I do now without embarrassment. Good morning in the mornings, comments on the weather, all kinds of chat directed at Vera while Lily rolls her eyes. Sometimes she includes Vera in her conversations to get at me, like: ‘Oh Vera, I think someone got out of the wrong side of bed today,’ or ‘See this, Vera, looks like we’re eating old leather boots instead of steak again today.’

  Gardening is expensive and it takes time and patience, none of which I have. I concentrate first on the grass, focus on bringing the soil back to its full health. We finally get the house modifications that we need. Lily hasn’t been in the back garden for over a year and even then I don’t know what she was outside for; smoking, probably, but she did most of that inside. The new ramp means she comes outside and watches, makes annoying comments mostly.

  At first I hated her company in the garden. I did this to get out of the house, to get away from her. Her presence is less than calming: shuddering at every breeze like it’s going to blow her over, swatting at every flying creature that comes near her as if they’re going to kill her. She wasn’t made for being outside. She points at things I’ve done wrong and at gaps I’ve missed.

  The birds eat the seeds for the new grass and it remains as bog-like as it was before, but I eventually get there, focusing on it with an almost obsessive amount of attention. By the end I have a vibrant lawn, greener than green, almost radioactive and unreal looking. Each blade is of perfect and equal length, as though I’d gotten down on my hands and knees and cut it with scissors. Even Vera, who has grown, touches the windowpane with the tip of her leaf and seems to say, ‘There.’

  Lily surveys the garden, her face scrunched up from the sun.

  ‘Well?’ I ask her. There is no fault in my lawn, she can’t pick at anything. There are no gaps, no bare spots, no bogs, nothing to pick at.

  ‘It needs flowers,’ she says.

  I see Dave around the place most days. The supermarket, in the park, at the bus stop. Sometimes it seems as if we’re the only people utilising public spaces while everybody is at work; the invisible daytime layer of society made up mostly of mothers with babies, the elderly and the unemployed. He’s a carer too and always with his brother Christopher who has severe autism and needs twenty-four/seven support and supervision. Dave is always so jolly it can’t be real and yet his colours don’t suggest otherwise. In fact his colours don’t suggest much, which makes him quite an enigmatic figure. He has mainly one colour, grey, but at least four shades. I’ve seen grey in people, positive and negative. The negative being depression or dishonesty. Grey is common but his shades are new to me. What I learn is that this positive grey that surrounds him is a kind of neutrality. He’s adaptable, he compromises, he’ll be whatever it is that you want him to be, he can blend into the environment and just be there without making a fuss.

  Dave’s dad passed away when he was young and his mother died very suddenly of cancer when he was eighteen and it fell to him to care for Christopher. There’s much I can relate to about Dave and yet that grey just hangs around him like a shield and he’s impenetrable. I can’t catch his eye and share a look over Lily and Christopher’s heads, I can’t bond with him in that way. He will never say how shit it is, how unfair it all is, if he’s had a bad day, if he ever resents Christopher. Instead it’s always positivity, which I should be grateful for, considering the atmosphere in my house, yet it feels like a blockade, a denial. But who am I to criticise a coping mechanism?

  ‘Sad,’ Lily says one day as we leave him and Christopher on the street after an awkward conversation about the weather that went on longer than any conversation about the weather should go.

  ‘What’s sad?’

  ‘For the young lad.’

  It’s an unusually empathetic comment from Lily and it surprises me. I wonder if she thinks it’s sad for me.

  ‘No more than it’s sad for me,’ I say, testing her.

  ‘I’m nothing like him,’ she says, insulted. ‘You get to stay home, you don’t have to work, you’re having a field day compared to that.’

  My anger at her inability to acknowledge my sacrifices for her is immediate but I chomp down hard on my lip. She can’t though; she has to keep going, snapping and snapping until it’s all out of her and uploaded to someone else. ‘I did sometimes wonder if you’d turn out a bit like that lad, Christopher.’

  I don’t speak to her for the rest of walk back to the house – or for the rest of the day for that matter. I stew in my rage. I pull her up from her wheelchair more roughly than I should, I throw the sponge at her with more strength than I should. She can wash her bits herself.

  For a woman like Lily, who has never seemed to want to work, has never seemed to have any ambition, then yes, it would seem as if I have won the jackpot. I’m not sure what I would be doing, if I wasn’t here with her. Maybe I chose to stay with her not because I was a saint but because I was afraid of all the things that Hugh said I should be doing, things I knew I couldn’t do. Maybe I’m more like her than I realise. Maybe she knows that, that this is helping me to hide away from the fact that, without being tethered to her, I have no idea where I would float. If I would float at all or if I would choose to stay, drowning with her.