The Astounding Broccoli Boy

  ‘Presenting a new symptom: green discoloration. Is that in the eyes, the extremities . . . ? Where is it?’ She was still head down, typing.

  ‘It’s all over. It’s absolutely all over. Just look at him.’

  ‘And how green exactly is he, would you say?’

  ‘We don’t have a colour chart with us. But I’d say a Light Broccoli.’

  Now the nurse put on her glasses and looked up from her keyboard. She managed an ‘Oh’ and then she had to take a breath. ‘And is –’ she took a sneaky peek at her monitor – ‘Rory . . . is Rory not normally that colour?’

  ‘As I already explained, no one is normally that colour, love. That is not a normal colour.’

  ‘What is his normal colour?’

  ‘Well, he’s normally a mixture of me and his dad,’ said Mum.

  Mum is sort of pale and freckly and Dad is sort of dark.

  ‘My mother is from Guyana,’ explained Dad. ‘It’s on the north coast of South America, at the southern tip of the Gulf of Mexico, just next door to—’

  ‘Ciara, come here,’ snapped Mum.

  Ciara stood next to me.

  ‘That’s his sister. That’s his normal colour,’ said Mum.

  The nurse’s eyes didn’t leave my face, but her hands were rooting around in her drawer. She pulled out a white face mask and came scurrying out from behind her desk, pulling on some rubber gloves. ‘I’ll get the mmmmmm weeehhhh,’ she said, and tied the mask on.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mum, taking a step towards the seats. Everyone on the seats leaned away, scared that we might sit too close to them.

  The nurse said, ‘Not there. Come with me.’

  She showed us to a kind of alcove with plastic curtains across it. ‘You should be comfortable back here.’ She twitched the curtain open for us and we crowded in.

  ‘She thinks you’re contagious,’ said Mum. ‘I’m sure you’re not though.’

  She says it as if, if I am contagious, that will be letting her down.

  ‘Nice curtains,’ says Dad. They were covered in pictures of fun things to do on the beach – donkey rides, sandcastles, beach huts. ‘Probably meant to be Norfolk, what with the beach huts. Could be Cromer or Wells. What do you think?’

  We could hear the nurse coming back, explaining to someone that she’d put us behind the curtain because she was worried that I might be infectious.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said a big, cheery voice. ‘Some of my best friends are infectious.’ The curtains were pulled back and there was a tiny woman with short blonde hair and a diamondy stud in her nose. She looked like I imagined a top-secret government scientist would look. ‘All right, Nurse,’ she said. ‘You get on with your accidents. And your emergencies. This one is mine.’

  Rory Rooney, We’ve Been Expecting You . . .

  She said a few polite things to me, such as, ‘How did you like the helicopter?’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  But she didn’t really want to talk. She wanted to look. Her eyes flickered all over the place, like swivelly scanners, checking my fingers, my eyes, my ears. She looked at me as though I was her best-ever Christmas present. ‘Brightside, by the way.’ She shook hands with Mum and Dad. ‘Bernadette Brightside. I’m a specialist in this field.’

  ‘There’s a field?’ said Mum. ‘People turning green is a field?’

  ‘Not yet. But it’s getting that way. Oh, I’ve got so many questions for you, Rory Rooney. First the obvious, boring ones. Do you have a temperature?’

  ‘Errrm . . . I don’t think so.’

  Mum went to feel my forehead, but then pulled her hand away at the last minute and asked me if I felt hot.

  ‘Eaten anything unusual? Could this be a reaction?’

  ‘Not unless cheese and tomato is unusual. And I haven’t drunk any alcohol.’

  ‘I should think not.’

  ‘What made you say that?’ asked Mum. ‘Have you been drinking alcohol?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you talking about alcohol?’

  ‘The doctor at the centre asked me about it. I thought it might be medically relevant.’

  ‘Follow me,’ said Dr Brightside, ‘to HQ.’

  HQ!!

  She pushed the curtains aside so hard and fast that the curtain rings tinkled like bells. Everyone in A & E looked at us.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen –’ the doctor smiled – ‘I’d like to assure you that there is no need to panic . . .’

  The moment she said that, everyone panicked. People shuffled, limped and sidled towards the exit. Chairs were knocked over. The kid with the potty on her head kept asking, ‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ We were emitting some kind of Fear Forcefield.

  ‘Whenever I say don’t panic,’ the doctor whispered in my ear, ‘people panic. I love that.’

  Dr Brightside took us up to the twelfth floor in a lift and then along a corridor with about a million doors, all locked with codes that she had to punch into their keypads.

  ‘Makes you wonder . . .’ whispered Ciara.

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘If you have to lock something up behind a million electronically coded doors, it must be something dangerous. There’s got to be at least Dementors in here.’

  The doctor asked if any other family members had ever turned green. Mum said no, right away. But Dad said, ‘Actually, sweetheart, you went a bit green on the ferry once.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said the doctor. She muttered a voice memo into her phone. ‘Possible genetic component. Mother has experienced similar—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ wailed Mum.

  ‘You were seasick and you turned green. You even said, “I’ve gone green.”’

  ‘I was a bit off-colour on the Dublin Boat. I did not suddenly turn into the Incredible Hulk’s little brother.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Dr Brightside, ‘Rory has not turned into either the Incredible Hulk or his little brother. I can be certain of that.’

  By now we were in front of a blue door with a singing duck painted on it. The duck was wearing wellies and carrying a sign that said ‘Junior Isolation – Absolutely No Admittance’.

  ‘Except for very special people.’ The doctor smiled. ‘If you all wait here, Rory and I will go through and do some tests. Wipe your feet, Rory.’

  There was one of those disinfectant mats in front of the door. Also an antiseptic gel dispenser with ‘Fight the Kittens!’ written on it.

  There were some chairs and a drinks machine in the corridor outside. Mum, Dad and Ciara settled down and I went with the doctor.

  I heard the Singing Duck door click shut behind me.

  I looked back.

  I could see the door with its two portholes – Mum looking through one, Dad looking through the other. They’re not smiling.

  But maybe they couldn’t see me because of the reflection. Maybe it was one-way glass and they couldn’t see at all.

  Junior Isolation is a big white room with a desk in the middle and four or five doors leading off into minirooms. Each door had a window next to it. Each room had a couple of beds, a sink, some cupboards and a telly. No windows to the outside. The only way you’d know if it was day or night would be by looking at what was on telly.

  That day, the rooms were mostly empty except one where the duvet was piled up in the corner of the bed as though someone was hiding, like in an aquarium when you tap on the glass to try and get the fish to move about. I almost tapped on the glass to wake the sleeping kid, but Dr Brightside saw me and stopped me.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘We’re . . . not sure yet. But we will be soon.’ The doctor smiled reassuringly. ‘In fact I’m going to look at his lab results right now. Nurse will look after you.’

  I turned round and almost jumped out of my skin. Standing right behind me was the tallest nurse in the history of the world. At first I thought she was a statue or some kind of landmark. But then she looked down at me. You
could tell that it was hurting her neck just to get me in focus.

  ‘I’m Nurse Rock,’ she said in a voice like gravestones falling over. She pointed to the lab door.

  The lab was full of test tubes and charts and a big white machine with flashing lights.

  I looked back towards the Singing Duck door. Mum’s face was still there. It looked so far away though.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to dissect you.’

  I hadn’t thought about being dissected until she mentioned it.

  She measured my height and my weight. She made me breathe in, breathe out, reach up, reach down, blow into a metal tube. The thing with the flashing lights turned out to be a running machine. She fitted electrodes to my chest and made me run on it.

  Dr Brightside swept in waving a clipboard and started taking notes. She was really impressed by everything I did. Everything I did was either great or brilliant. Normally when older people talk to me they’re saying stuff like, ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ or, ‘Just try,’ but she was all like, ‘Your blood pressure is perfect,’ and, ‘Wow, great lungs!’ and, ‘Brilliant stretching.’ She asked me to go to the toilet and wee in a bottle, which was a bit embarrassing, especially when she was so enthusiastic about it. ‘Your wee is green!’ she whooped. ‘Want to look at it under a microscope?’

  ‘I’m not even that keen on looking at it normal size, so I definitely don’t want to see it magnified 10,000 times.’

  ‘Very funny. You should look at it though. Honestly, this wee is outstanding.’ Then, ‘This won’t hurt,’ she said, grabbing my thumb and jabbing it with a needle. She squeezed blood out into a test tube. It really, really hurt. ‘I lie –’ she smiled – ‘a lot. But always for your own good. Here.’ She gave me a certificate that said ‘I’ve Been Brave’.

  I have outstanding wee.

  I am officially Brave.

  I felt that Spider-Man would be impressed.

  After the tests she took me to the room with the piled-up duvet. The duvet grunted and then curled itself into an even tighter ball. ‘Maybe you can cheer him up,’ said Dr Brightside. ‘I’ll go and let your mum and dad on to the ward.’ She left, closing the Fish Tank door behind her. Then she opened the Singing Duck door. Mum and Dad came to the Fish Tank window and peered in at me, waving. Ciara had a packet of crisps. Dad had a canned drink. They each gave me a thumbs-up. I really was in the aquarium now.

  Dr Brightside was saying, ‘. . . all normal – haemoglobin, proteins, physical tests. Not even normal, they’re great. I mean, they’re terrific. He is really very well indeed. You are obviously doing everything right.’

  ‘We do our best,’ said Mum. She was trying to sound proud but it came out annoyed. ‘We have always tried to do our best. And then he goes and turns himself green.’ She was still convinced I’d done it on purpose.

  I said, ‘I didn’t turn myself green!’ None of them even looked at me. They couldn’t hear me. Their voices weren’t coming through the glass but from behind me, from a little blue intercom on the wall. I thought I might be able to use it to make them hear me, but it didn’t seem to have any buttons.

  ‘. . . whatever is wrong seems to be asymptomatic,’ said the doctor’s voice.

  ‘Is that really bad?’ asked Dad. Ciara explained that ‘asymptomatic’ meant that I didn’t have any symptoms.

  ‘That’s right. He’s completely normal.’

  ‘But green.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Broccoli green.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be picky,’ said Dad, ‘but isn’t being broccoli green a symptom?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, yes, it is,’ agreed Dr Brightside. ‘But you wouldn’t say he was suffering from it. In fact, it looks quite groovy, don’t you think? Sort of like Mystique in the X-Men, but green instead of blue. And male instead of female.’

  Dad pointed out that the X-Men are mutants.

  ‘I believe in being honest,’ said Dr Brightside. ‘And the truth is, I have never examined an X-Man.’

  ‘We thought you were going to fix him. We thought we’d bring him in here, you’d fix him and we’d take him home.’ That was Dad.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You mean he might be green forever?’ That was Ciara. She did not sound strictly unhappy about this possibility.

  ‘Has he gone a bit greener, d’you think?’ asked Mum. ‘Is he going a bit spinachy?’

  ‘No, it’s definitely broccoli,’ said the doctor. ‘I was thinking of calling it Broccolitis, in fact. As it’s a totally new medical condition, I get to name it. How exciting is that?! Broccoli Syndrome or Broccolitis – which do you think?’

  ‘Emerald,’ said Ciara suddenly. ‘What about Emeralditis?’

  ‘Oh, now I do like that,’ said the doctor. ‘Lovely.’

  Emerald – I liked that too. You could imagine an X-Man called Emerald. Then Ciara said, ‘But if you think he’s contagious and he might be green forever . . . will he have to stay in that fish tank forever?’

  It gave me a funny feeling that Ciara had decided to call it a fish tank too, without even talking to me. Like we both saw everything the same. I shouted, ‘I can hear you! I can hear what you’re saying!’

  ‘And how do you know,’ went on Ciara, ‘that it’s not going to get worse? What if he gets greener? Or starts to grow gills or webbed feet like a giant frog?’

  ‘I think gills are unlikely. But I believe in being honest . . .’ Dr Brightside glanced at me through the glass. ‘So, I’ll say yes to your first point. Yes, Rory could be green forever.’

  ‘Couldn’t we take him home and keep him in isolation there? He’s got his own room, and we could take precautions,’ said Mum.

  Dad explained that Mum was worried about the possibility of a total breakdown of law and order. Dr Brightside looked a bit confused.

  ‘Killer Kittens,’ said Mum. ‘At home we’re completely prepared for any crisis, but here we’ve got nothing except a few sandwiches.’

  ‘All the same,’ said the doctor, ‘I can’t let him out until we know more.’

  ‘I CAN HEAR YOU . . .’

  Nothing.

  ‘I CAN HEAR YOU!!!!’

  ‘Aahh, look at him,’ sighed Mum. ‘It’s like he trying to tell us something.’

  ‘I think he is trying to tell us something,’ said the doctor. She flicked a button and I could hear my own voice coming back at me, yelling, ‘I can hear you.’

  They were all quiet for a bit.

  ‘How long have you been listening?’

  ‘The whole time.’

  ‘It’s good that you can hear us,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s right that you’re part of the conversation. Say hi to Rory, everyone.’

  Everyone said hi and waved at me. It made me feel weird. I said, ‘Don’t do that. It makes me feel weird.’

  ‘You do look weird,’ said Ciara.

  ‘I’ve changed colour, not species. I’m not a leprechaun.’

  The moment I said ‘leprechaun’ the hunched-up duvet began to rumble like an unextinct volcano.

  Dad said, ‘The doctor says you’re going to be all right. Isn’t that right, Doctor?’

  ‘I’m a great believer in honesty, so I’m going to be honest with you . . .’

  No, don’t, I thought.

  ‘. . . so I’ll say . . . I have no idea. Rory is a medical mystery. No one knows what’s causing this or how dangerous it is. But I’m determined to find out what it is.’

  ‘Is he going to die?’ asked Ciara, sounding more interested than worried.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Well, yes he is. We all are. But he’s not going to die from this. He’s really healthy. His scores are terrific. He’s a very, very well young man. Amazingly well. Though his wee is bright green.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Ciara. ‘Too much information.’

  ‘If you’ll come with me, there are some forms you need to fill in.’

  They moved away from the window. br />
  There was a soft click and Dad’s face was peeping in at me around the Fish Tank door. ‘Son,’ he whispered, ‘I’m not sure I’m supposed to be in here.’

  ‘I think you’re probably not.’

  He looked at the rumbling duvet on the other bed. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Rory, I don’t know why this has happened to you, but I know this: everyone is good for something. Really tall people make great basketball players. Unusually small people make good jockeys. Really, really fat people can be sumo wrestlers—’

  ‘Only if they’re Japanese.’

  ‘Everyone is good for something, Rory. Everyone has their purpose. If you’re green for life, then I’m sure it must be good for something. All you have to do is find out what.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And you know I’ve been thinking? When you look at all the people in history who have turned green—’

  ‘Other people have turned green?’

  He listed them. ‘The Incredible Hulk, Swamp Thing, the Green Hornet, the Green Goblin . . . what do they all have in common?’

  ‘They’re all not real people?’

  ‘They’re all superheroes. All green and all superheroes. It seems to me that if you turn green, there’s only one possible diagnosis. Namely – Super.’

  When he turned to go, the big tall nurse was standing in the doorway, giving him the bad look. ‘Sorry,’ said Dad, and dodged past her. But just as he was leaving he said, ‘Scampi. He really likes scampi. I know you probably don’t have any control over the menu but if you can manage it every now and then, he really likes scampi.’ And he went.

  That was the last time I saw my dad, by the way.

  Enter the Bogeyman . . .

  I contemplated my fate in the mirror, partly because I couldn’t take my eyes off myself. My face was so familiar and so strange at the same time. I thought about what Dad had said about superheroes. In a mad way it made a lot of sense. The things that had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours were more like things out of a comic than things in real life. Being pushed into a mountain stream and coming out a different colour. Being taken away by a possibly robot pilot to a high-security installation. Having scientifically outstanding wee.