THINGS I ONCE BELIEVED

Here’s a short story about something that I absolutely believed in when I was a child.

THE SPLINTER

I am nine years old and recently moved from London to Derbyshire. The ways of the countryside are new to me.

I’m playing with friends along the bank of the stream and find a stick which will make a brilliant sword. I pick it up before anyone else can do so.

‘Ouch.’ I examine my thumb. A long, sharp splinter is sticking into my flesh. ‘Ooh.’

Alan comes over and says, ‘You’d better pull that out and quick.’

‘Why?’

He exhales like a horse. ‘If you don’t, it will burrow under your skin and work its way to your heart.’

‘And then what?’

‘You’ll die.’

My other friends gather around. ‘Alan’s right,’ they say. ‘Dead right.’

I gulp and take hold of the piece of splinter. My hand is wet with sweat.

‘One quick yank,’ says Alan.

I do as he says and – what a relief – manage to pluck it out.

Alan bends close to examine it. ‘There’s still a bit left in.’

The others gasp and step back from me, their eyes bright with fear. ‘You’ve gotta get it out now,’ they cry. ‘It will work its way in and then the skin will grow over it and it will be too late.’

I scrabble frantically at the tiny bit of splinter but only succeed in pushing it in deeper.

‘Bite it,’ says someone.

I bite and it goes in still further.

‘Got your knife?’ another asks.

I shake my head. ‘Mum won’t let me have one.’

Fortunately, Alan has a penknife and gives it to me. I take a deep breath and gouge at the piece of splinter. A bit breaks away. Blood seeps over the skin. I wipe it away in a frenzy and narrow my eyes to examine the wound.

‘Oh no,’ Alan says, ‘there’s a little bit left.’

I strain my eyes to see it. It’s no more than a speck. It must be burrowing its way in already. How long will it take to reach my heart? How long before it kills me?

I trudge home with heavy heart. The heart that will soon be pierced by the splinter. I can’t make up my mind if I should tell mum or not. I don’t have to. The moment I walk into the kitchen she asks, ‘What’s the matter?’

I hold up my thumb. ‘I’ve got a splinter. It’s burrowing its way into my body. When it reaches my heart, I’ll die.’

She takes hold of the thumb. ‘I can’t see any splinter.’

‘That’s because it’s burrowing already. And the skin has grown over it.’

She licks her finger and wipes the blood away. ‘I’ll put a plaster on it to make it better. Don’t worry Martin, you won’t die.’

I look at her terror stricken. Oh yes I will. I know I will.

I sneak a sharp knife from the kitchen and spend the rest of the day in my bedroom gouging into my flesh, probing for the assassin, desperate to pluck it out. I fail, miserably. I go to bed that night and wonder if I will wake up tomorrow.

Strangely enough, I do.

It must be moving slowly, I say to myself. How long have I got?

I spend the next week staring at my thumb and imagining the splinter journeying on implacably. In the end, my mum cries, ‘For goodness’ sake Martin, the splinter won’t hurt you.’

Why are you lying, I wonder. It must be because she doesn’t want me to know that yes, I certainly will die. Any day soon. Any day.

This is one of the stories in my newest collection, Portrait of the Writer. It’s in praise of Mr Joyce.

You can find it and my other books by clicking or tapping on the link below -

https://viewauthor.at/MartinLake