Walls Are Made of Brick is the story of an eleven-year-old boy who lost his dad in the Iraq war. In his sadness, he falls into the books his dad used to read him, ‘The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe’, ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone’, etc. and becomes convinced that children who lose a parent, as he has, should expect to receive a consolation prize before too long. Something amazing always seems to happen to children who’ve been through a traumatic experience. If Adam can trust his imagination and believe in things that would seem impossible to others, he’ll be rewarded with a magical experience to challenge that of the Pevensie children or Harry Potter.

He takes things way beyond the limits of most children’s stamina and imagination, throwing himself at the walls of his local train station, smashing up his gran’s wardrobe and planting tins of baked beans in the back garden in his quest for an adventure to lend some meaning to the death of his dad. But try as he might, he can’t make anything magical happen to him. Then, when he least expects it, something amazing literally falls into his lap…

‘Adam Hanley to see doctor Burch?’ The voice rang out across the waiting room of Adam’s local medical centre from the dusty tannoy system over the ‘Prescriptions’ window. Adam’s mum stood up and led him to the doctor’s office. Adam was shorter than most kids his age. He couldn’t see the chemist on duty behind the prescriptions counter. But he could feel her eyes on him as his trainers squeaked over the polished, cream floor.

His mum knocked tentatively on the door, as though she were embarrassed to be there. She showed Adam through only when she heard a grunt from inside. ‘Mrs. Hanley… Adam…’ Doctor Burch greeted them with a cough and a shallow nod. ‘Do I need to ask?’

Doctor Burch looked like a bloated raisin on a cocktail stick. He had a fat, swollen head and skinny limbs that looked like they couldn’t take the weight. He glanced at the dried blood in Adam’s hair and the ugly bruise over his left eye. He was the sort of boy who struggled to look smart at the best of times. Today he looked like he’d been caught in the crossfire of a hostage siege.

‘I thought about taking him straight to A&E,’ Mrs. Hanley said apologetically, ‘but he kept insisting he was fine. He seemed to be too, for a while. Then he started complaining of headaches and a sort of woozy feeling in his tummy. I thought you’d best check him out, just in case.’ She signalled with her eyes for Adam to explain his symptoms.

‘I’m fine,’ Adam said simply. He combed brick dust out of his fringe with his fingers and sniffed a trickle of blood back up his nose.
Doctor Burch asked him to sit beside him. ‘Let’s have a look at you,’ he said. He peered, somewhat inexplicably, into Adam’s left ear. Adam fidgeted on his cold, wooden chair. ‘What was it this time?’ Doctor Burch asked casually. ‘Another mirror?’

Adam mumbled something under his breath.
‘He’s not concussed or anything?’ his mum looked concerned but Doctor Burch was already shaking his head.
‘He’s got a nasty cut just above his fringe, that’s all,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s going to need stitches. Better keep an eye on him though, just in case. Make sure he stays clean and gets plenty of rest. Apply a dab of antiseptic cream to his wounds a couple of times a day, ‘til they’re properly healed.’

Adam thought Doctor Burch looked rather bored all of a sudden. It was as if he’d been hoping Adam had fractured his skull or something and was disappointed to find his injuries were only superficial. Turning back to his desk, he typed up the details of their five-minute consultation on his computer.

Adam let his bum slip forward in his seat until his head was resting on its high back. He looked bored too. He’d been hoping Doctor Burch would find some peculiar aneurysm in his brain, the sort of thing that could only be cured by a world famous clinic in Switzerland. Or perhaps he could have discovered the sort of rare condition that required prolonged exposure to an intense, electro-magnetic field. At the very least, the sort of thing that could earn you a couple of days off school.

Only Mrs. Hanley looked relieved. ‘Thank you Doctor,’ she said quietly. She didn’t look cross with her son but instead, seemed sad for him. ‘No more story books,’ she chastised him. ‘I’m not daft. I know where you get your ideas from.’
Adam sighed and frowned.
‘Ibuprofen,’ Doctor Burch sniffed, ‘for the pain. If he’s no better in the morning, bring him back.’

Adam shuffled out of the room in front of his mum, sulkily staring at his feet as they left the building. By the car, she finally gave him the look he’d been dreading. It was the one look he couldn’t shrug off, the look she gave him when she was too knotted up inside to say what she really felt. It was the look that said ‘Stop. Stop what you’re doing. Stop hurting yourself, running into things, tripping over things and rolling under things. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.’

That look drained Adam Hanley. It made him feel weary and old. And that was unfair because Adam Hanley wasn’t old. In fact, he’d only just turned eleven. That seemed to him no age at all. It certainly didn’t seem old enough to do most of the things he wanted to do! He’d much rather have been thirteen or fourteen. Then he could have travelled further from home on his own, stayed out later in the evenings and above all, visited at least a dozen more train stations.

Never mind, sooner or later, he’d get the break he’d been looking for, he was certain of it. Sooner or later, his commitment and dedication would pay dividends. Adam Hanley was sure if he just kept believing, he’d surprise everyone, one day…

‘Seatbelt,’ said his mum, turning the keys in the ignition.

Adam gazed out the window at the clogged streets of Hampstead as they drove out of the Medical Centre’s puddle-filled car park. The cut on his head was nothing. The bruises on his face and shoulders would soon fade. He had to focus on the rewards that waited for him at the finish line. Imagine the pride on his mother’s face when she eventually realised just what he’d achieved.

He looked at the bags under her eyes. Sure, she was a bit upset now. And that was a shame. But she’d get over it. Adam knew that his exceptional fate was waiting for him around the next bend (or possibly the one after that) and nothing but nothing was going to stop him finding it.

It began to rain. The dirty brick entrance to Hampstead Underground Station came into view.  There was graffiti on the sign and a tramp ouside. Adam looked straight past him. The sign held his attention. The symbol of the red circle with a blue rectangle across it made his heart leap. Certain his mum’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead , he saluted it. ‘You’re next,’ he whispered under his breath. Sitting back, he allowed a broad grin to creep slowly across his face. The rest of the journey was a blur.

 ~

The next day dawned bright and breezy. Adam set off for school, following his normal route through the tennis courts behind Aspern Grove, across the main road at the bottom of Rosslyn Hill and on, up the High Street. He caught the tube from Belsize Park but hopped off again after just one stop. He should have carried on to Golders Green but he had business to attend to in the bowels of West Hampstead Station.

It was part of his new daily routine, to test the walls between train platforms all over London. Today he was planning to investigate the brickwork dividing platforms three and four of the stop on the Jubilee line between his home and his school.

‘Mornin’,’ said the platform attendant guarding the ticket machines.
‘Mornin’,’ replied Adam cheerily. He often came through Hampstead Station, especially on the weekend, but didn’t recognise the man. ‘New here are you?’ he asked.
He slotted his pass through the gates and forced his way past the sluggish barrier. He was heading for the southbound trains.

‘I am,’ replied the attendant with a wink. ‘First day as a matter of fact. I take it you’re a regular, a face I’ll get to know?’
‘Oh, I should think so,’ Adam said over his shoulder. He trotted past the legions of commuters heading in the opposite direction and followed the small but steady stream of young mums, O.A.P.s and school kids walking away from the centre of the capital. A steep flight of stairs took him down nearly thirty feet. 
‘Here we are,’ he said to himself. He set his school bag down and stared hungrily at the four-foot span of wall dividing the train lines to his left and right. ‘Stand by your beds men,’ he said to some phantom audience only he could see. ‘We’re going in!’

He took a step backwards. An engine was just pulling out of the station behind him. The doors were closing on a local shuttle opposite. He rocked to and fro on his heels, as though he were preparing for the biggest, longest jump of his life. He crossed himself for luck, tracing the pattern of a crucifix on his chest.

The train behind departed with a squeal of brakes and a thunderous burst of diesel fumes. Adam supposed it was bound for some far distant suburb. Someone in a rear carriage waved. They looked confused. It seemed the boy on the platform was thinking of throwing himself at the solid brick wall in front of him. Thank God, at the very last minute, he must have thought better of it. Adam sauntered over to feel the sandy mortar with his fingers instead. The rail passenger slipped into the morning mist, content he was safe from harm. All was peaceful again.

Then, in a flash it happened. Adam backtracked a good six or seven yards, squatted, sprang upright like a trained athlete, and rushed forward. It was an absolutely insane spectacle to watch. There seemed no sense in it whatsoever. He hurled his shoulder at the masonry that stood, stubbornly in his way and…

…crumpled into a pathetic heap on impact. His head bounced off the bricks like a ping-pong ball. His arms went limp like twigs snapped in a hurricane. And his legs buckled underneath him in agony. Just moments earlier, this uniformed boy with mousy hair and freckles had looked as healthy and intelligent as the next man. Now he looked half dead and dumber than a dustcart. What on earth had he been thinking?

‘What on earth were you thinking?’ a platform attendant, rushing over to offer help asked. He’d seen the whole thing from the top of the stairs. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in stunned surprise. As he neared Adam, he called for assistance on his two-way radio.
Adam’s eyes slipped out of focus for a moment. Despite this, he knew he was in the presence of the same guard who’d spoken to him at the ticket barrier earlier; the one struggling through his very first morning at West Hampstead Station.

‘Who do you think you are, Harry bleeding Potter?’ the guard snapped. He seemed almost angry with Adam though that was obviously unfair. After all, Adam hadn’t endangered anyone else with his little stunt.
Adam groaned. He did not, in fact, think he was Harry Potter. He was sure he was quite unlike Harry Potter in several ways. For a start, he didn’t have a pet owl, or a best friend called Ron. He didn’t have a cousin called Dudley either or a permanent place on his local Quidditch team.

‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Not Harry Potter. Adam Hanley.’
The guard put his arm round Adam and helped him to his feet. ‘I’ve got an Adam Hanley here,’ he relayed the boy’s name into his spluttering radio. ‘Could have broken his arm. Get a medical team down here can you?’
CRRRHHH… Adam heard the static on the radio hiss back. CRRRHHH… ‘Adam Hanley?’ it said at last. ‘Did you say Adam Hanley?’

The guard looked at Adam for support. ‘That’s right isn’t it? I got it right? Adam Hanley?’
Adam nodded weakly.
‘What’s he done this time?’ hissed the radio. ‘No, let me guess,’ it went on. ‘He’s thrown himself at a wall?’
The guard looked at Adam in stony silence. Despite his torn clothes and grazed limbs, he looked like a respectable sort of boy.
‘A wall between two platforms?’ It was the radio again. ‘If I were a bettin’ man… I’d say, between platforms three and four today. How’m I doing? Am I close?’

The guard studied Adam’s face. He thought he noticed a sort of disappointed look behind his eyes. ‘Just get someone down here with a stretcher,’ he spoke quickly into his walky-talky. ‘I don’t want to move him on my own.’ Then he gave Adam another look, one of profound confusion tinged with, was it admiration or pity? Even he wasn’t sure. Adam certainly couldn’t tell.

 ~

It seemed like an awful lot of fuss to make over a few scratches and a little light bleeding. Nevertheless, by the time the medics had finished with him, Adam could have passed for an Egyptian mummy. His head was bandaged, his left arm was in a sling and he was wearing one of those ridiculous foam collars, the ones they make you wear if you’ve been in a car crash. An ambulance had been despatched from the nearby Royal Free Hospital, but the driver and his team didn’t think it was worth taking Adam back with them.

‘We’ll drop you home instead,’ they said. ‘You should get some rest, your body’s had a shock.’
Adam gave them his address. Soon, he was being whisked through the streets, lying on his back, with a load of high-tech medical gear swaying about above his head. He sensed the ambulance was slowing down when the clear, plastic tubes and saline bags hung vertically from their supports again.

Despite the rain and the heavy traffic, they had made good time. They were crawling along the kerb outside his home, number 36b Daffodil Drive, already. They stopped. The siren wasn’t on but somehow Adam’s mum sensed his arrival. She was already on the doorstep, waiting for him. The paramedics eased him carefully from the back of their van and walked him over to her.

‘What’s he done now?’ she fretted. ‘Is he hurt? Of course he’s hurt, why else would he be lain in the back of an ambulance. Is it serious?’
Adam forced himself to smile. ‘Not really,’ he said sheepishly. ‘No worse than yesterday anyway.’
The ambulance men exchanged glances. ‘Brian Hughes,’ one of them introduced himself. Brian was short and old, over fifty Adam thought, with a potbelly and not much hair. ‘Does this sort of thing happen often?’ he sounded concerned.

Adam’s mum scowled at her son, then addressed the ambulance man politely. ‘He has a little problem with his imagination at the minute,’ she said, stepping forward and cradling Adam’s head in her arms. ‘It’s something we’re slowly working our way through, together.’
‘You know there are people who can help,’ Brian’s colleague suggested. ‘If it’s a matter of finding the right professional to talk to, I could give you some numbers, put you in touch with someone.’

Karen Hanley smiled a cast iron smile and shook her head brusquely. ‘He’s plenty of people he can talk to,’ she said. ‘He just needs to come to terms with things, in his own time.’
The medic said nothing but his eyes gave away his true feelings. Adam’s mum felt obliged to explain herself. She shot her son another dirty look.

Adam went to stand by himself, leaning against the tired, garden gatepost on the edge of their front lawn. His mum lent forward and whispered something in the medic’s ear. Adam couldn’t hear what she was saying but he could guess. ‘His dad died you see,’ she’d begin, ‘twelve months ago. He thought the world of him. He’s struggling to cope with the loss but… you know… he’ll get there, in the end.’

She brushed away a tear, then glanced at Adam hoping he hadn’t seen. He pretended he hadn’t.
The ambulance man’s manner changed. ‘Quite all right,’ he said. ‘I understand. No need to take things any further. We’ll be off then. You two take care. Good luck son!’ he called to Adam.
Adam waved goodbye, the ambulance pulled away and he followed his mum quietly indoors.

‘Nice bloke,’ he said to her as they made drinks in the kitchen. ‘Got a boy the same age as me apparently. Doesn’t see him much during the week. Loves to take him fishing on the weekends though.’
‘What am I going to do with you?’ his mum wrung out her stewed teabag over the sink and dropped it in the bin. ‘I can’t even trust you to get yourself to school on time and in one piece.’

For his mum’s benefit, Adam tried to feel guilty and ashamed. He contorted his face into an appropriate expression of sombre remorse. It looked like he was really, really sorry for what he’d done. And she forgave him almost immediately. He could see the anger leave her.
He accepted she still had to say a few harsh words, on behalf of stuffy adults everywhere. There was that need to drive home the seriousness of the situation. But there was no malice in her voice. She made herself feel better; yelling for a few minutes and then it was over. She’d always been a bit of a soft touch.

Adam wasn’t actually sorry of course. He was bursting with pride inside. He wanted to shout and whoop and jump for joy. He had done it again. Adam Hanley was - the boy who knew no fear. Adam Hanley – the boy who believed. Adam Hanley - the boy who dared to try.

 ~

‘You can take the day off tomorrow and visit your Grandma,’ his mum told him later. ‘Even you can’t get into trouble out there.’
Adam was sure she was right. His gran lived in an old farmhouse in the country about an hour’s drive away.  It was deceptively remote. It seemed to be a million miles from anywhere, on a large plot of land at the end of a rutted track.

Under his mum’s careful supervision, he packed an overnight bag. A spare pair of jeans, a T-shirt, some trainers and a pair of pyjamas were stuffed inside. When she’d gone, he added a few more items; a torch, a Swiss-army knife, a set of binoculars and his mobile phone. Well, even in the middle of nowhere, you couldn’t absolutely rule out a bit of action!

Hailstones were bouncing off the car bonnet when they finally pulled off their pitted drive into the choked streets. The forecast was for more of the same. ‘Never mind,’ Adam consoled himself. ‘The forecast was often wrong. Besides, there was nothing to do at his gran’s, come rain or shine.’

They queued all the way to the motorway, then left the city and its crowds far behind driving out into the wilds of Suffolk. 

 ~

Thick forestry plantations hemmed in the lane to Adam’s grans. On either side of the road, spruce trees reared up like angry birds behind the hedge, threatening to peck their car to pieces. The trees were a big part of why it felt so isolated and alone down here. It wasn’t until Adam and his mum were almost on top of the cottage, that they finally saw it, its scattered chimney-pots and over-arching eaves struggling for light in the shaded valley.

They drew up outside. ‘He’s bought a few things,’ his mum said, switching off the engine and releasing the boot. ‘He’ll be staying tonight and tomorrow night if that’s OK? I’ll drop back for him early Sunday afternoon, after I’ve made all the arrangements.’
‘Fine dear,’ replied Adam’s gran. She was wearing a waterproof mach even though it was only spitting now. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t worry. Will you be all right on your own though? I worry about you, in that big soulless city, all by yourself. It’s not safe. I’ve always said…’

‘Mum,’ Karen Hanley hated her mother fussing over her. She fixed her with an icy stare. ‘Don’t start. Hampstead is a lovely place to live. You know I don’t feel safe unless I’m surrounded with people and traffic. I like to be in the thick of things. I don’t know how you relax out here, in the sticks, exposed and vulnerable.’

Her mum straightened. ‘If it’s so exposed and vulnerable, you ought to think twice about leaving your son here.’
‘Just keep him busy,’ he heard his mum say. ‘Don’t let his mind wander. That’s when the problems start.’
‘I’ve had three of my own you know dear,’ Adam’s gran scoffed. She turned her back on her daughter and carried Adam’s bag indoors. Adam followed.

‘Look after him,’ his mum called. The car door slammed shut and the engine started. The horn peeped twice.
‘Sunday’s the anniversary of my dad’s death,’ Adam told his gran. ‘That what she meant when she said after I’ve made all the arrangements. We’ve got to visit his graveside, leave flowers, all that.’
His gran nodded.

Karen Hanley shifted through the gears in her car. Her mind was overflowing with ideas of what to do on Sunday. Sunday the 21^st May. The first anniversary of her husband’s death. She pictured his gravestone, simple and inadequate. Like marking the spot where the Titanic sank with a rubber duck.

Poor Adam. There was nothing she could do to make it up to him. She put her foot down and sped on, into the grey morning.