Free Numbers 3: Infinity by Rachel Ward Page A

Mia peeks sideways at them for a moment, fascinated. Then she slithers down from my lap and kneels by the crayons. Without anyone showing her, she grabs a blue crayon, leans forward so her face is only a few centimetres from the paper, and starts scribbling. I say scribbling, but it’s only the first few movements that are uncontrolled. I didn’t want this, but I can’t help but watch. Marion looks over Mia’s shoulder intently.
    Within a minute or so, Mia’s making deliberate marks, shapes on the paper. She’s turned the crayon in her fingers so that instead of gripping it in her fist, she’s holding it between her thumb and index finger.
    ‘That’s remarkable,’ Marion says, ‘for a two-year-old. She must have got it from you.’
    ‘She’s never seen me draw,’ I say, and then I realise it’s true. For a moment I feel sad, for a part of me that’s been lost, and for the childhood that Mia hasn’t had.
    ‘It must be innate,’ Marion says. ‘From within. She’s got it, hasn’t she?’ She’s making notes in her file, then looking up and studying Mia again, desperate not to miss anything.
    I can’t tell what she’s drawing, but it’s definitely something – a shape like a potato with a couple of lines coming out of it. Then she does something else quite deliberate. She looks at the crayons in the plastic envelope, puts the blue one back and picks out a pink one. Then she traces round the outside of the blue. That crayon goes back and out comes a red one. She draws a similar shape next to the first one.
    I lower myself onto the floor next to her. I can’t help being fascinated.
    ‘That’s lovely, Mia,’ I say. ‘What are you drawing?’
    She’s hunched over the paper, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.
    ‘Drawin’,’ she says. ‘Me drawin’.’
    ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful. What is it?’
    She sits back up on her heels and points to her picture.
    ‘Mummy and Daddy,’ she says.
    I’m the blue and pink potato; Adam’s the red one.
    A shiver runs down my spine.
    She sees us as colours.
    Just like Adam’s nan.
    The first time I met her Val described my aura, the haze of colour I carried with me. I can hear her voice now, harsh and gravelly: Lavender, of course, but also dark blue. And all bathed in pink.
    I look at my daughter, and she turns and smiles at me, proud of what she’s done. I smile back at her.
    ‘What about Marty and Luke?’ As I say their names, a lump rises in my throat. In my head I’ve got images of Luke clutching his face, Marty with tears running down his face. Are they okay?
    Mia reaches for the crayons again and draws two more potatoes; one green and yellow, one orange.
    If Adam was here, he’d see her number, but I don’t need to see it. I know.
    2022054.
    And she’s not just got Val’s number.
    She’s got Val’s gift.

Chapter 18: Adam
    ‘F or the last time, what do you see when you look in my eyes?’
    I look at Newsome, his squashed face, the death in his eyes. Saul’s next to him. Don’t ask me what I see in Saul’s eyes – I don’t know if I could find the words.
    ‘I see a number.’ It’s the truth. It’s the answer to his question, but I feel uneasy saying it. 
    Don’t tell, Adam. Never tell.  
    ‘What does the number mean?’ 
    ‘It’s the date you’re going to die.’ 
    It’s true, but why does this feel so wrong? 
    ‘What’s my number?’ 
    I stop.
    ‘What’s my number?’ he repeats. 
    Don’t tell, Adam. Never tell.
    ‘I don’t tell people,’ I say, echoing the voice in my head. ‘It’s wrong.’
    ‘But I’m asking you to. What’s my number?’
    ‘I just said, didn’t I? I don’t tell.’
    Saul joins in now. ‘Adam, you’re doing this for Sarah, remember? It’s all right to tell. It’s the right thing to do.’
    Newsome starts again. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who can see them?’
    ‘No. I dunno. There might be other people but I don’t