Better Off Dead

Disclaimer: Alex Rider is the property of Anthony Horowitz

Warnings: Some strong language

Rating: T

Tom flicks the indicator and waits for a break in the traffic before swinging his car off the main road. The fluffy dice hanging from the rear view mirror, an end of year gift from one of his favourite students ("Your car's so boring, sir!"), bounce merrily from side to side. They always get in the way and annoy him incessantly but he doesn't have the heart to take them down; on any normal day, they never fail to make him smile. As if on cue, the depressing ballad on the radio ends and is replaced by the upbeat track 'walking on sunshine'. However, today is not a normal day and Tom quickly turns the thing off, not wanting to have to listen to anything so happy. Today isn't a good day for happy at all.

He's mildly surprised when the wheels of his car hit smooth tarmac. He must have driven this way hundreds of times and, up until now, he's never yet missed the huge pothole at the side of the road. He wonders when it could have been filled in – it had certainly been here the last time he visited – then feels incredibly guilty as he realises that he hasn't called in since Christmas. Nearly two months ago now. He sighs, and vows to do better.

He rounds the corner and the home comes into view. It's a single story building with large windows and whitewashed walls. There is an expansive garden off to the side and he can just about make out a figure pushing a wheelchair towards the smoking shelter at the far side. Tom swings into the car park and frowns at the fact that all the visitor spaces are occupied. He shrugs and pulls instead into the space apparently reserved for Dr A H Farthing. It's not a name he's familiar with (and he knows the majority of the people working here) so he doesn't feel at all guilty as he pulls up the handbrake and kills the ignition. At this moment he needs the parking space more than Dr A H Farthing does.

He shivers as he grabs the carrier bag from the passenger seat and steps out of the car. The winter has been blessedly snow-free (the previous year he'd written off his old car thanks to the snow and ice, hence the need to purchase the new, boring one) but there is still a biting chill in the air that seems to have no problem sneaking through his coat and under his scarf. He quickly locks up the car and ascends the ramp (there are no stairs at all in this building) that takes him to the main entrance.

The reception area inside is wonderfully warm and cheerfully decorated; the walls are a pastel yellow and a large bunch of flowers (Tom can't tell if they're fake or not) sits in a glass vase on the main desk. The receptionist, Abigail, is wrestling with the middle drawer of the filing cabinet but turns when she hears Tom's footsteps.

"Tom!" she exclaims, obviously surprised, "It's midweek, we weren't expecting you."

Tom smiles sadly. "It's the thirteenth." He gestures to the filing cabinet as a look of sorrowful understanding appears on Abigail's face. "Need help with that?"

She shoots him a grateful look. "If you don't mind, I've been telling them for weeks we need a new one but you know how it is. Budget cuts."

He nods in understanding and rounds the desk. He manages to wrench the drawer open with a single sharp yank, earning himself an appreciative squeeze on the shoulder.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver. Don't know what I'd do without you!"

Tom feels his cheeks flush a little. Abigail is definitely pretty and around his age, but at the same time he knows nothing can happen. He's still too damaged inside for her to fix. He skirts the desk again and heads for the corridor, only to be called back a second later.

"Wait a sec, you forgot to sign in!" Abigail reprimands him. He scratches his neck sheepishly as he returns to the desk; he's been here enough times that he shouldn't have forgotten standard protocol like this. He picks up the pen, prints his name and car registration number then rolls back his sleeve to check his watch.

1.23 pm.

His breath catches in his throat and he has to lock his knees to stop his legs from giving way. It is so long ago, yet the events of that day, that hour, that very minute, are permanently etched in Tom's memory. He swipes his forearm roughly across his eyes to wipe away the moisture threatening to pool there, but it does no good. The tears build, and Tom remembers.

Brookland Comprehensive was by no means an overly large school (it had about 200 pupils per year) but it did suffer from being squashed onto a campus far too small. The school hall was nowhere near big enough to hold the entire student body so, as a result, the school held two assemblies each day with years 7 to 9 attending the one at 9 am and years 10 and 11 having theirs at 1.15 pm. The arrangement caused a fair few grumbles among the staff but Tom wasn't overly bothered. Yes it cut into their lunch break by 15 minutes but they were always allowed into the lunch hall first to compensate (and hence got food that was nice and hot rather than lukewarm), plus they got an extra 15 minutes in bed in the mornings. As far as he was concerned, it was a win-win situation.

On this particular day, as per usual, they filed into the hall a few minutes before quarter past. Tom ended up about halfway back and was sat next to his best friend, Alex Rider. Like the majority of the students, Alex appeared bored. Unlike the majority of students, Alex was not alleviating his boredom by holding whispered conversations with his neighbours about the football match coming up at the weekend, or whether rugby that afternoon would be rained off in favour of badminton in the gym. Instead, Alex looked like he always did. Blank. Distant. The last way anyone should look on their sixteenth birthday.

Quite frankly, it worried Tom. He had known since the day Alex had confessed his unusual 'extracurricular activities' that they were generally involuntary and each one seemed to drain just that little bit more from him. Tom had quickly revised his original opinion that being a spy would be rather cool; looking into Alex's haunted eyes and imagining what he must have seen and done to look like that was enough to put Tom off for life.

The news that Alex had emigrated to America had been bittersweet for Tom. He was happy that his friend was finally free of the bastards who had held him under their thumb for so long, but at the same time he missed Alex terribly. Tom had other friends, of course, but Alex had held the title of 'best friend' for as long as Tom could remember. Alex was the only one he had talked to in length about his disastrous home life and who could actually make him feel better when he was at his lowest. However, if moving to America would make Alex happy then Tom couldn't complain.

He had therefore been astounded when Alex had walked nonchalantly into form period on the first day back after the Christmas holidays, appearing completely out of the blue. The rumour mill sprung into action once more and it was morning break before Tom managed to talk to Alex privately.

"Thought you'd gone for good," he'd said.

Alex had shrugged. "Apparently not." Tom waited for elaboration but all he got was "Visa problems."

"So, are you back for good then? Or is this a flying visit? Did Jack come back with you?"

A look of pain so raw it made Tom's gut clench flashed across Alex's face. "Jack's dead. My last mission. My fault."

Horror struck, Tom had been unable to do anything as Alex withdrew into his shell once more and left their meeting place behind the bike shed. Jack was dead? But how? Jack never got involved in Alex's missions; the closest the teenage spy's work and private lives had ever come was when Tom himself had been shot in the arm the previous year. He had assumed that Alex had gone to America to live with Jack, what else was there for him out there? More confused than ever, Tom had tried to get Alex to open up but all his efforts failed. Alex just wasn't interested in talking and every day he withdrew further, becoming more and more distant until Tom was lucky if he got just a polite nod of the head in the morning. Alex was a shell of the boy – young man – he had been. Nothing more.

Tom shook his head slightly and reclined in his seat as the assembly started bang on time at 1.15 pm. Mrs Withers, the head of year eleven, was speaking about graffiti in the common room and Tom tuned out, his thoughts drifting to the neatly wrapped presents stacked on his desk at home. He hadn't brought them into school – he knew Alex wouldn't have liked to make a fuss – and was just contemplating whether to invite Alex round to his house or whether to invite himself to Alex's when the lights went out.

A few girls shrieked and Mrs Withers' voice trailed off as confused whispering broke out among staff and students alike. Tom sighed and fidgeted, getting himself comfy as he waited for someone to go and flick the switch. When he shifted to his right his hand bumped against Alex's, and he was alarmed to realise that his best friend's hand was tightly gripping the base of his seat. Tom trusted Alex's instinct. Something wasn't right.

The lights abruptly came back on and Tom squinted against the sudden glare, just before people started screaming. He forced his eyes open and saw Mrs Withers shaking on the stage, a gun pressed against her temple. The masked man holding it there was not alone; there were about a dozen on the stage and each had a weapon of some sort aimed towards the students. Tom felt Alex tense next to him and he groaned inwardly. His arm throbbed underneath the bullet scar, as if warning him not to get shot again. The digital numbers on Tom's watch changed to 1.20 pm.

"Good afternoon," said the man holding the gun to Mrs Withers' head, his voice soft but carrying easily through the suddenly quiet hall, "I would like to assure you that none of you will be hurt if our orders are complied with. What we want is quite simple. There is someone here today who has killed a great many of my colleagues and destroyed our business and reputation. We are here for justice. This person knows who they are and we would like them to join is up on stage. If you do not," he flicked off the safety, "This nice lady dies. Then we get someone new up here with us and start again. We will keep going until you comply. Thank you."

The hall broke out into terrified whispers and mutterings, but Tom didn't hear. His heart was pounding and his throat was dry. He knew who they were looking for, of course, but he wasn't going to do anything stupid like give away Alex's position and ruin the element of surprise. He just wondered what Alex's plan to get out of this was. He glanced sideways, hoping for some sort of clue, but froze at the look in Alex's eyes. For so long now those dark eyes had been dead to the world, reflecting inward the horrors that Alex had witnessed during his short life. Now, though, there was life in them again, but not the fiery determination that Tom would have expected. Instead, Alex looked sad, resigned, and Tom suddenly felt cold as he realised just what Alex's plan was.

The digital numbers on Tom's watch changed to 1.21 pm

"No," he breathed, but Alex was already moving. He rose gracefully from his seat, back straight, and stepped into the aisle. Suddenly the eyes of everyone in the room were on him but, even though he hated being the centre of attention, he didn't seem to notice. Tom watched despairingly as Alex calmly walked up towards the stage, never taking his eyes of the masked man in the centre. Head held high Alex ascended the steps as if he was approaching his own coronation rather than his own execution. As he took the last step onto the stage Mrs Withers was abruptly pushed off to the side and, within a second, the gun was pressed against Alex's temple. Tom couldn't take it any longer.

"No!" he yelled, launching himself out of his seat and sprinting down the aisle. Alex's eyes widened a fraction, a shocking display of emotion on his otherwise stoic face. Tom sucked in a deep breath, about to launch himself up the stairs when a strong pair of arms grabbed him from behind, pulling him back. The digital numbers on Tom's watch changed to 1.22 pm.

"Don't!" Mr Bray whispered harshly in his ear, but Tom couldn't stop struggling.

"Why does nobody care? Someone fucking do something!" he yelled, much to the obvious amusement of the masked men.

"Stop, Tom."

Alex's voice was quiet, but everyone heard him. Tom froze, staring helplessly at his best friend. Don't do this, Alex, don't do this. Fight back! FIGHT BACK!

Alex, to Tom's horror, smiled. "It's okay, Tom, it really is. It doesn't scare me. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and I'd rather not spend my life running."

"You don't know that!" Tom shouted desperately.

"Yes I do. It's better this way."

Tom shook his head despairingly, tears running down his face as he thought of the neat pile of presents sitting on his desk.

"He's sixteen!" he yelled at the intruders, "He's only sixteen! Just let him go!"

Two looked away, their weapons lowering slightly. The rest didn't react at all.

"Bye, Tom," Alex whispered, and closed his eyes. He looked peaceful.

The digital numbers on Tom's watch changed to 1.23 pm.

The single shot echoed for only a single moment in the hall before it was overpowered by the sound of screaming. Alex slumped to the floor as people sat in the front row were sprayed with blood. Tom let out a primal scream and rammed his elbow back, catching a stunned and horrified Mr Bray in the nose. Within seconds Tom was on the stage, shaking and crying helplessly as he pressed his wadded up jumper against the gaping hole in Alex's head. The assassin and his comrades had already disappeared.

Tom had never been religious but, as Alex's blood soaked the jumper and ran in little red rivers over his hands, he prayed. He thought of the stack of birthday presents Alex had yet to open, the wonders of the world Alex had yet to see, the life Alex had yet to live, and he prayed. Please don't let him die. He doesn't deserve it. For fuck's sake, don't let him die!

When the emergency services arrived a few minutes later in a tidal wave of flashing blue lights they found a half naked boy surrounded by blood-soaked garments clinging onto the other dying teen for dear life, whispering his words over and over again as if they were his last link to sanity. Don't die, don't die, don't die...

Tom swallows heavily, wipes his eyes again and dutifully records the time on the visitor's log. As he sets down the pen a small hand covers his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He shoots Abigail a small smile before pulling away and heading down the corridor labelled 'rooms 015-029'. The floor is tiled rather than carpeted and his footsteps echo, the sound ringing in his ears. He can't stop replaying those fateful few minutes over and over in his head, wondering whether there was anything more he could have done, anything he could have done differently. He doesn't think there is, but he wonders all the same.

He passes two nurses and nods cordially, before stopping outside room 024. He can make out blurry shapes through the frosted glass set in the door, nothing distinct but enough to let him know that he can go in. He knocks, purely out of habit, and pushes open the door.

Alex is sitting up in bed, propped upright by a pile of pillows behind his back. He's dressed in blue striped pyjamas with numerous stains, most from orange juice, and frayed cuffs. He turns his head when he hears the door open and he opens his mouth in a parody of a smile, drooling slightly. He grunts several times in succession, almost like a giggle. It breaks Tom's heart.

This is the part he struggles to deal with most. He long ago accepted that Alex is severely brain damaged – how could he not be, after being shot in the head at point blank range – but the fact that he is still at least partially aware, that he recognises his friend and that Tom's visits make him happy (for that is what the drooling smile and grunting laugh means) is heartbreaking. In a way, it would be easier if Alex was completely unresponsive ("like a vegetable", as Tom's dad had once bluntly put it) because that would mean that he was truly gone and Tom could have fully mourned his friend's passing. As it is, he mourns the part that has been lost whilst still being unsure of how much of his old friend is left. Tom knows the Alex of old would be horrified if he could see what he has become, and Tom hopes desperately that Alex isn't coherent enough to understand what has happened to him.

But what is, is. Tom forces himself to smile and crosses over to the bed, leaning over to smooth Alex's hair back and dropping a kiss onto his friend's forehead. Alex grunts like crazy and thumps his right fist on the bed, drooling all the while. Tom sighs and sets down the carrier bag, leaning over to grab a tissue. He wipes Alex's chin, by now used to the fact that Alex's bright eyes will follow his every movement during his visit. At least someone has taken the time to shave Alex today; had they not, his beard would be matted and clumped together by now. Tom throws the used tissue in the bin and takes the seat set up next to the bed, continuing to stroke Alex's hair. He knows his friend likes it, for some reason, and it gives Tom something to do with his hand rather than just twiddling his thumbs awkwardly.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Tom says conversationally. He knows from experience that Alex likes the sound of his voice, and sure enough, Alex opens his mouth wider and grunts in reply. Tom smiles sadly and picks up Alex's left hand, rubbing the knuckles gently. He doesn't know if Alex can feel it – he only ever moves his right hand – but Alex continues to grin all the same so Tom keeps it up. Besides, he hasn't been in nearly two months and he usually tries to visit at least once a fortnight, so he's determined to spoil Alex whilst he's here.

"So, it's been a busy term. The year elevens are stressing, as they usually do, and the year nines are choosing GCSE options soon. Harvey Kingston apparently wants to carry on with Chemistry, God help me..."

He talks without restraint, bringing Alex up to speed on all the goings on in the life of a high school science teacher. Alex listens intently, enraptured, adding a grunt every now and then for good measure. When Tom pauses slightly Alex thumps the bed again, demanding more, and Tom obligingly continues. Throughout it all Tom continues petting Alex's hair and hand, heart clenching at the realisation that Alex behaves exactly like his old pet dog. Tom shifts slightly then winces as his fingertips brush over the huge scar on Alex's head that is covered by his shaggy mop of dirty blonde hair. Alex doesn't seem to mind, but Tom feels slightly sick.

He sighs and removes both his hands. Alex makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine, although it's not a sound Tom has ever heard him make before. He picks up the carrier bag off the floor and withdraws a parcel neatly wrapped with bright red paper, which instantly catches Alex's attention. Tom knew it would when he picked out the paper a few weeks ago; the walls of Alex's room are white and all the furniture is pale pine, so he always gets excited by bright colours. Tom places the parcel in Alex's lap where it is instantly investigated by Alex's right hand.

Happy that Alex is distracted for the moment, Tom picks up the cards from the bedside table and opens them. The first is from Mrs Jones, and Tom has to resist the strong temptation to tear the card into little shreds and scatter them on the wind. He knows he probably shouldn't be as angry as he is – MI6 pay for this private room in this private home with round the clock, specialist care – but that doesn't change the fact that Alex shouldn't be here in the first place. He should have been left alone to live his life as he wanted, in which case Tom may well have been looking forward to an evening in the pub to celebrate. Failing that they should have worked harder to let him stay in America; it was the least they could have done after everything Alex had done for them. Instead they abandoned him as soon as he outlived his usefulness, leaving him to the mercy of all those he'd harmed on their orders. They probably think they are making it up to him by paying for his care now, but if they'd protected him in the first place he wouldn't need looking after like this. Tom grits his teeth and puts that card right at the back of the table, out of sight behind the potted fern.

The other three are all signed by men; Ben, Steven and Chris. Tom has only met these men once, just after Alex was discharged from hospital and moved here. Tom had been sitting forlornly in this very chair, uncomfortable with Alex's piercing stare and drooling smile, when he heard gasps of horror from the doorway. Turning he had seen four men, three in army fatigues and one in a suit, and he had instantly known who they were from Alex's stories. He glared at them but none of them noticed, unable to take their eyes off the drooling teenager on the bed. It had been silent for a long moment until Alex grunted, demanding attention. Tom had turned around, expecting the men to leave and abandon Alex just like MI6 had, so he was shocked when he realised that one of the men had approached and was stood next to him. It was the one in a suit and Tom was amazed to see tears in his eyes and a look of absolute sorrow and despair on his face. He'd spoken, calling Alex by his name, but got no response. Alex only had eyes for Tom. Eventually the other three men had joined them and although no words were spoken, they were all united by shock and grief. Tom never saw them again, but every year four cards appeared on the table at Christmas and on February 13th. Three years ago the cards from Evan stopped arriving, and Tom wonders whether he is now at the peace which Alex has been cruelly denied.

Tom is drawn out of his memories by Gina, one of the nurses, asking if he wants anything. He shakes his head and returns his attention to Alex, who is still besotted with the red wrapping paper. Deciding to help him out, Tom reaches over and makes a small tear in the paper. Alex grunts in delight and attacks the small hole with vigour, although he struggles with his clumsy, uncoordinated hand. Eventually the last of the wrapping falls away to reveal a large stuffed creature. Tom himself isn't sure what it is supposed to be, but he is sure that it won't matter to Alex.

"I got this for you at the Olympics last year," he says and Alex's attention instantly snaps back to Tom's face, "I think its name is Wedlock or something equally stupid, but feel free to name it what you want."

Alex returns his attention to the one-eyed monstrosity, waving it up and down and grunting happily. Tom smiles slightly at the sight. Alex loves the gift, he can tell, but then again, Alex loves all his gifts from Tom. Take the frayed, stained pyjamas he's currently wearing, for example. They are now two years old and more than a little bit tatty, but Alex won't wear anything else. The pyjamas have to be washed whilst Alex himself is being bathed, otherwise he throws a tantrum and thumps anything within reach. Tom makes a mental note to buy new pyjamas next December. Again, Tom wonders just what mental capacity Alex possesses and is saddened to realise he wishes it was less.

Tom stays with Alex well into the afternoon, talking about current affairs, Chelsea football team and his suspicion that his next door neighbour is growing cannabis in the greenhouse. Alex listens intently to every word Tom says, far more attentive than even his most eager students. Eventually, though, Tom sighs and stands up, prompting Alex to snap his mouth shut and groan. Tom's gut clenches; he has forgotten how horrible this sight is. It makes sense, though, that if Alex can understand and experience happiness he can also feel sadness. Tom leans over and kisses Alex's brow again, tucking the Wedlock toy securely under Alex's bedcovers.

"I won't leave it this long again, I promise. Be good. I'll see you again soon."

He knows he's crying, he always does, and he turns and leaves the room without looking back. Another long moan follows him out and he leans against the wall in the corridor and allows himself to weep. At the end of the day he's no better than MI-fucking-6, is he, because he still abandons his best friend each and every time. He thinks back to that fateful day, ten years ago today, and recalls the prayer he sent up to a deity he didn't believe in.

Please don't let him die.

Well, his prayers were answered, weren't they. Alex lived, which was a modern day miracle according to his doctors. But in all honesty, what kind of life has he had since? What person would choose to spend their days lying in bed, unable to control their own body and take care of themselves, with nothing to look forward to except a fortnightly visit from an old friend? Tom continues to sob and wonders if maybe it would have been better if his prayers hadn't been answered that day. Maybe, Alex would have been better off dead.

Tom is long gone by the time Gina enters room 024 armed with a bowl of soup and an adult sized bib. Alex is still lying in the bed, although he is no longer smiling his drooly smile or grunting. Instead, he is moaning and gazing out of the window as if the patch of darkening blue sky that is visible through the gathering storm clouds is the most interesting thing he's ever seen, a strange-looking stuffed toy clasped firmly in his good arm.