A to Z of You and Me by James Hannah

punctuated now by the sound of urgent footsteps.
    I see Sheila flash past my doorway and stop a short way along the corridor.
    Then a male voice, buried among the echoes. Jef, I think. I can’t make out the words.
    â€œNo,” replies Sheila. “Yes, but it’s been opened. Have you got the key?”
    Another Jefish sound from off down the corridor, and I see Sheila relax and stroll back up toward my room.
    She notices me and stops half in and half out of my doorway.
    â€œSorry about this,” she calls, keeping an eye up the corridor. “People are always pushing on the alarmed door. It says it right there : ‘Alarmed door.’ What do they think’s going to happen?”
    â€œI haven’t seen anyone around,” I say.
    â€œNo.” She sighs, without surprise. “It’s a bloody nuisance. Everything’s on electrics. They say to you, Oh, it’s going to be a big improvement on what you had before, and the next thing you know the whole bloody place has been improved out of all usefulness.”
    She keeps an eye out the door and rolls her eyes to Jef as he strides past, flipping a small bunch of keys in and out of his hand.
    The door is slammed shut, its echo rolling down the corridor, and the blare stops dead, leaving the ultrasonic imprint in my ears, and my heart racing.
    Was it you who sent a gust of wind to open the alarmed door and assault my ears?
    Sometimes I could be persuaded.
    Calm now, calm.
    Hzzzzzzzzz.
    Ah, there. Old Faithful.
    â€œThanks, lovey,” Sheila says to Jef as he comes back past.
    â€œAll right,” he says.
    â€œIt won’t be long before they’re putting the respirators on the same circuit as the coffee machine,” she says, coming fully into the room. “And we’ll have a double-shot latte and a side order of dead resident.”
    She dumps herself in the visitors’ seat and strains to lift her foot up to her other thigh, pushing her finger inside her shoe to ease an ache.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says wearily. “I probably shouldn’t be talking like that to you, should I?”
    I smile, more troubled by the presence of her foot. “Don’t worry about it. It’s good to see you care.”
    â€œWell, I do care. This is supposed to be a place of peace and tranquillity. But you still have to deal with all the efficiencies and management brainwaves like anywhere else. If you can’t escape the red tape here, you can’t escape it anywhere, can you?”

F
    Feet
    Lying on the sofa, I cannot bring myself to speak.
    Mum comes and lifts my legs and drops them back across her lap as she sits on the seat beside me.
    A cartoon is on TV with the sound down, but I’m not watching it.
    I can see she’s found my card. Or the rattly collection of macaroni, sugar paper, and glue that the stand-in teacher sent us all home with. Mum must have dug it out of the bin.
    Happy Father’s Day.
    Mum rubs my feet, carefully avoiding the ticklish areas. She looks sometimes across at my face.
    â€œTakeout tonight, kiddo?”
    I can’t answer.
    Looking down at my foot, she says, “Looks like it’s just you and me then, foot. How are you feeling? Are you feeling sad?”
    After a short pause, my foot nods sadly.
    â€œAnd how about you,” she says, collecting up my other foot, “are you sad too?”
    It too is sad.
    â€œOh dear,” she says. “Oh dear.” And she sits there, considering, while I clutch a cushion to my belly and look at the screen.
    Long silence. Long, long silence, full of cartoon noises. Bullets and boings.
    â€œI tell you what,” she says, addressing my big toe, “let’s have a talk about what you’ve done today. Let’s talk about your shoes. What shoes have you been in today?”
    My foot thinks for a while and looks across the room, toward the door.
    â€œYour Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?” she says. “Are