Since You've Been Gone (12 page)

M
ost
people run away from random screaming. Visions of out-of-control gunmen, raging fire, or other kinds of danger usually spring to mind and most people's instinct for self-preservation kicks in. Jermaine, on the other hand, begins running toward the screams. I don't know what he's thinking, but I follow him anyway, not wanting to be left alone.

We're right by a chicken restaurant when we hear the woman's cries for help. As her shrieks cut through the air like a razor, people sitting outside the restaurant, chicken wings and chicken wraps halfway to their mouths, just sit, kind of frozen.

“What the —” I say, but Jermaine is already running toward an elevated patio filled with umbrella-topped tables. A black metal railing separates the patio from the river. And there, at the railing, a woman stands screaming in despair. A fair-haired toddler in a pushchair beside her begins wailing in unison.

Jermaine is beside the woman in seconds.

“My son!” the woman screams, her arms flailing crazily in the air above her head. “He's fallen in! Call 999!”

A couple of people now begin to crowd around. Some pull out phones. I run toward the commotion, thinking we should get out of here. We'll never find Dad if we get involved.

But before I can reach Jermaine he scrambles over the railing and jumps into the water below. My mouth drops open. What's he thinking?

I join the others at the railing, including the woman, who is leaning dangerously over, straining to see what's happening. She's still screaming, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion.

I look over the railing at the murky water below. It laps and whirls hungrily around both of them. Jermaine has the boy, who is as limp as a rag doll, in a loose headlock and is paddling with his other arm toward us.

“Look out!” a deep voice shouts from behind me. A short, square-shouldered man in a white button-down shirt and black trousers pushes past. He's holding an orange flotation ring in his hands.

“I was just setting up bar in the pub when I heard all the screaming. Took me a minute to realize it wasn't just some kids messing about,” he says.

“A little boy fell in,” I say. “My friend's gone after him. They're right there.” I lean over the railing and point.

“Hang on, lads!” the bartender shouts. “Grab hold of this and I'll haul you up!” He tosses the orange ring into the water and I can't help but notice how his biceps strain against the cotton of his shirtsleeves.

The ring hits the water with a slapping sound, the wind grabbing it and causing it to land several feet away from Jermaine and the boy. Jermaine paddles slowly toward it. It looks like he's struggling to keep the boy's head above the water now.

Suddenly the boy becomes more alert. His eyes fly open, panic sweeps across his face, and he begins thrashing about, pulling both himself and Jermaine under the water.

The woman begins screaming again. I watch in horror as Jermaine slips under the water. I desperately want to do something. It's such a horrible feeling just standing there, unable to help. First I lose Mom, and now I might lose Jermaine.

Realizing that time is quickly running out, the bartender hurriedly pulls the flotation device back out of the water, tucks it under his arm and slips off his shoes. Then he hops the fence and dives into the water with surprising grace considering his size.

I hear the faint cry of sirens in the distance. Help is on the way, but will it arrive too late? People continue to crowd the railing, watching as the bartender swims toward the spot where Jermaine and the little boy went under.

Suddenly, the crown of Jermaine's head breaks the surface of the water, followed a moment later by the boy's. Both of them are coughing and gasping for breath. Pulling the boy close to his side, Jermaine struggles to stay afloat. The weight of the boy is clearly too much; he looks exhausted.

The bartender tosses the flotation device at Jermaine. It narrowly misses his head and then lands just inches behind him.

“Come on! Grab hold of it, lad!” he shouts.

Jermaine nods weakly. The water is rising around his mouth again. He's sinking.

Nausea sweeps over me. I'm going to vomit.

“Grab it, Jermaine!” I cry. My voice sounds far away, as though I'm screaming down a tunnel.

Jermaine's arm shoots out of the water. He slowly paddles sideways toward the orange ring, which is drifting farther away, pulled by current. The crowd claps in response to his efforts.

The sirens are growing closer, the sound reverberating in my chest.

“You can do it!” the bartender yells as he swims toward Jermaine and the boy.

The encouragement appears to help. Jermaine is suddenly stronger. He reaches the device and tightly grabs hold of it. The crowd begins applauding again, this time the clapping is more frenzied. A woman somewhere behind me begins sobbing.

Fire engines and a white-and-green ambulance pull up alongside the pub. Doors fly open and firefighters and paramedics emerge.

And, as I turn back around, it happens. Jermaine reaches the orange ring and hooks his arm over it so that the crook of his elbow is firmly locked onto the inside of the circle.

“That's the way!” the bartender cries, his voice cracking with emotion. He begins pulling the rope back, tugging Jermaine and the boy closer to him.

“Clear the way!” a paramedic shouts as he rushes by me. The rescue workers jostle me backward, away from the railing, and into the crowd. There's a flurry of activity. I'm desperate to see what's going on.

Triumphant shouting causes me to push my way through again. Jermaine and the boy are being pulled over the railings by some firefighters. Just the sight of his wet, dark curls makes me start to cry. He looks over, gives me a tired grin and a thumbs-up. One of the paramedics wraps him up in what looks like a huge piece of aluminum foil and sits him down on one of the patio chairs.

The focus of everyone's attention is now on the little boy and his mother, who is near hysterics. A man holds the mother in a tight embrace as she sobs uncontrollably against his chest. The paramedics have the little boy on a stretcher with one of the aluminum foil blankets around him, but they seem to be doing something more. One of the firefighters shouts at the crowd to move back and away.

“Nothing to see. Time to move along,” he says.

I catch a glimpse of the little boy and immediately realize something is wrong. His head lolls on his neck like a rag doll's and his face is the colour of campfire ashes. Several firefighters create a barrier with their backs so that the crowd can no longer see what's happening.

“Edie!”

It's Jermaine. He's waving me over. The paramedic attending to him is leading him away toward one of the fire trucks. The bartender is with them. I run over.

“We're taking the little boy to hospital straightaway,” the paramedic says. “And I think you two should also go to be checked out. Especially you,” he adds, looking at Jermaine. “I know you say you feel fine, but you're a prime candidate for hypothermia and shock.”

“I'll go over with him in a cab,” the bartender offers. “We've other staff on.”

The paramedic smiles gratefully at the man and I wonder if Jermaine is being difficult about the whole hospital thing. “No can do. We'll take you in the other ambulance,” the paramedic says. “You know, legalities.” He turns to me. “Are you together?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Then we're off,” he says.

As we get into the ambulance, I look back toward the little boy. I can just catch a glimpse of him. He's so still and pale, he looks like one of the little plastic action figures I used to play with as a kid. Shivering, I divert my gaze over the river. Under the grey winter sky, the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral sits elevated like a stern old man in the middle of newer buildings surrounding it.

I wonder if Dad is still out there looking for me.

“J
ames
, by the way,” the bartender says. He takes a seat opposite us in the back of the ambulance.

“I'm Edie,” I say.

“Jermaine,” Jermaine says. “Thanks. You know, for everything back there.”

“No need to thank me. Though I really did think we were going to lose you a couple of times,” James replies. He locks his hands together behind his head and leans back against the wall of the van. “What you did for that little boy today was extraordinary. I hope he's going to be okay.”

Jermaine shrugs his shoulders and looks out the back window. “Wasn't anything, really.” He pauses for a moment. “But I hope he's okay, too.”

“What do you mean it wasn't anything? Didn't you see all those other tossers just standing around doing absolutely nothing? You're a hero. People should know about what you did.”

Jermaine arches an eyebrow at James. “No one needs to know.”

I can't be sure, but Jermaine's reply seems to make James nervous. He starts rubbing his hands together. Silence fills the van. I agree with James; what Jermaine did back there was nothing short of amazing.

I look out the window and immediately feel ill. Motion sickness is something I've suffered with on and off since I was a little kid and watching London's streets whizzing backwards away from us is too much. Everything outside the ambulance looks washed-out and grey. It's as if the entire city has been put into a washer and dryer too many times, fading all its vibrant colours.

The ambulance slows and comes to a stop outside the hospital's entrance. We hop out and stand waiting for the paramedic, not sure what we we're supposed to do next. Fat drops of rain begin to fall, creating a polka-dot pattern on the concrete at my feet.

“You okay?” I ask Jermaine.

He nods. “Just a bit tired. What happened back there is starting to sink in.”

“Here we are,” James interrupts. “Tallest hospital in Europe, Guy's is.” He motions toward the building with a wave of his hand.

I look up and stared at the gloomy brown building. Hopefully someone put more effort into making the inside more cheerful.

“Has to be the ugliest as well,” Jermaine mumbles, as though having read my mind. I smile at him.

Once inside, James goes to make a quick phone call while Jermaine and I register with the paramedic at the front desk.

“Have a seat,” the receptionist says after taking our information. She shoos us toward some uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs with a dismissive wave. Over a dozen other people are already waiting. A bald, middle-aged man sits and moans softly, clutching his stomach, which hangs over the waistband of his pants like an over-inflated beach ball.

“This should be fun,” Jermaine says, his voice thick with sarcasm.

James comes back and rejoins us. He seems much quieter, picking up a tattered section of newspaper from one of the empty chairs beside him to read rather than engaging in conversation. Maybe everything that happened earlier is beginning to sink in for him as well.

I sit back and aimlessly watch scenes from a car bombing somewhere in a Middle Eastern country flash across the screen of a bulky television set that is bolted to the waiting-room wall. The camera pans over to a sweaty reporter standing in front of a crowd of angry young men.

“Excuse me, is your name Jermaine? Are you the boy who was involved in the rescue at Bankside today?”

I look up, startled, as a bright light is suddenly shone on Jermaine. Two men are standing in front of us. The one holding a microphone in Jermaine's face is well-dressed with short, spiky hair and speaks with a clipped accent. Standing beside him is a burly man balancing a television camera on his shoulder.

Jermaine swings around to face James. “What the bloody hell is all this?” he asks. “Is this why you were so desperate to make a call when we first came in?”

James looks taken aback. “What you did was brilliant. God knows we need more feel-good stories in London. Would you rather the news was only filled with images of war and little old ladies being mugged for their pension cheques?”

The reporter nods at the cameraman. The bright light now shines on him, revealing a mask of caked-on makeup, which cracks and creases as he broadens his grin for the camera.

“Hello, London! Welcome to the ITD evening news. I'm Trevor Watson here at Guy's Hospital with the capital's newest hero,” he says. “That's right, in this day and age of Asbos and endless stories of hoodie-wearing youths terrorizing our streets, we bring you a good news story about the city's youth.”

Every eye in the room is now on Jermaine. Even the bald man has stopped moaning and is intently watching.

The reporter swings around and sticks the microphone in Jermaine's face again.

“Can you tell us exactly what happened in the moments leading up to your daring rescue of that young boy in the Thames at Bankside today, Jermaine …?” the reporter asks.

“Lewis,” Jermaine says, finishing the reporter's sentence for him.

“Lewis. Right.” A flicker of annoyance momentarily crosses the reporter's face. Then his blinding white smile is back. “So, Jermaine, I think it's fair to say that your Sunday was more than a little out of the ordinary. Wouldn't you agree?”

The camera pans to Jermaine and zooms in for a close-up. He shrugs. “Yeah, I suppose …”

“Can you tell our viewers how you ended up diving into the River Thames this morning, risking your own life to selflessly save that of someone else?” the reporter asks, his face a mask of contrived concern.

“The kid was playing around and fell into the water,” Jermaine says. “We heard his mum screaming. I'd have been a twat not to try to save him.”

The reporter frowns at Jermaine's use of the word
twat
, which makes me smile. That's what you get for filming this live.

“Do you believe the mother was negligent in allowing her son to play, unsupervised, so close to the water's edge?”

“What?” Jermaine asks. “No, of course not. The kid just fell in. Accidents happen.” His face suddenly looks sad. I wonder if he's thinking about what happened to his brother and their friends.

The reporter turns his attention to me.

“And you were with Jermaine when all of this happened? What were your thoughts when you saw him jump in the water to rescue the boy?”

I sit silent for a moment, unable to speak. The light from the camera makes me squint.

“We were looking for my mom,” I say. I pause, feeling Jermaine's eyes on me.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, leaning over to me.

“It's okay,” I say. “I want to do this. I need to.”

I look back at the camera, my eyes adjusting to the brightness. “She's been missing for four days now,” I continue, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the photograph. The cameraman zooms in on it. “Her name is Sydney Fraser. I don't know where she is and I'm …” my voice cracks. “I'm so worried.”

The reporter leans in closer. “So, you're telling us your mother has disappeared somewhere on the streets of London?”

I nod. “She was last seen in Camden.”

Turning back to the camera, the reporter shares this new bit of news. I hate the way he seems so eager.

“You've heard this breaking news first here on ITD. Sydney Fraser, a Caucasian woman in her …”

“She's forty-nine,” I say.

“In her late forties has gone missing. She was last spotted in the London borough of Camden. If anyone has seen this woman, or has any information on her whereabouts, please contact ITD news or the Metropolitan Police.”

Jermaine leans over. “There's no turning back now, Edie,” he whispers. He sounds worried.

“I know,” I reply. “But I can't do this on my own anymore and I need to know what's happened. Even if it's something terrible.”

“This is Trevor Watson reporting from Guy's Hospital. Good night, London!” As the light on top of the camera fades, the reporter turns to us. He extends his hand to me. His grin is wider than ever, making the pancake makeup on his face crack in places like an Egyptian mummy.

“Brilliant! That was just brilliant!” he gushes. “Viewers will be absolutely glued to their screens for updates.” He turns to the cameraman. “Brilliant for the ratings,” he says.

The words are barely out of his mouth when Jermaine's fist slams into the reporter's carefully powdered chin.