By Martin Bedford
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Additional info for Flip
No hi, no turn of the head to see who it was. Just the jerking of his elbows as his 46 car screeched into a chicane. At one of Sam’s birthday parties—the fifth or the sixth—the balloon man (Uncle Pete) asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. “A Jedi warrior,” Sam said, deadly serious. They mightn’t have been brothers at all, their personalities were so dissimilar; but they were brothers, and Alex longed for Sam to turn round. To look at him. Just so he could see Sam’s freckly face again.
Unsure how to stand or hold the bat properly. The last time he’d swung a cricket bat, he’d have been about nine or ten, on the beach at Porthleven. The ball was a tennis ball. The bowler would’ve been Dad, or Mum, or Sam. Bowling underarm. Alex remembered being rubbish even then. Maybe Flip’s body would take over. These muscles, these limbs, functioning on reflex, regardless of any signals from Alex’s brain. Or maybe not. Didn’t batsmen wear helmets? Not at Year Nine nets, apparently. The bowler was a lanky ginger lad with arms like an ape.
The rest were spam. Alex opened up the “sent,” “trash” and “archive” folders but there was nothing out of the ordinary in the days prior to Flip’s last night as Flip. The Web settings drew a blank, too. The “favorites” and history cache were predictable: YouTube, sport, porn, music, games. No sign of Flip being on Facebook or the like. Alex stared at the screen, dejected. He hadn’t known what he’d expected to find, but after he’d at last broken into Flip’s virtual locker, his raised hopes had been lowered with a thud.
Flip by Martin Bedford