by Luan Goldie
‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Tristan feels he has to say it out loud to confirm the headline: Brave Elvis Saves Tower Teenager.
‘Crazy. I mean, what the hell was the plane doing flying so low?’
‘Plane?’ Tristan takes the paper and flicks through the pages, stopping on a photograph of the field in front of the estate. It’s covered with debris, ambulances and crowds. Behind it Nightingale Point burns. It was true, a plane had crashed into Nightingale Point.
But it makes no sense.
In Tristan’s head he had been trying to work it out. The fire and explosion, he knew it was because of something bigger than some guys attacking him for his trainers. He thought maybe a gas leak or something. But plane crash – well, he couldn’t quite piece that together.
‘I still can’t believe this happened,’ the biker says, then waits expectantly for some first-hand account of the sensational tragedy that, judging by the number of pages it occupies in the newspaper, has captured the public’s interest.
A plane crashed into the estate. But Tristan can’t remember this. This isn’t why he’s in hospital. It can’t be. It’s too farfetched and ridiculous.
‘It’s an amazing story,’ the biker says. ‘I heard there were loads of you in here at first, from the crash, but think you’re the last one now. You got it pretty bad, didn’t you? But still, you’re here, you’re still going.’ He slaps Tristan playfully on his upper back, in one of the rare spots that doesn’t tend to hurt or smart.
‘You finished with this paper?’
‘Course, it’s old. I only kept it to show you. Have it. Stick it on your bedroom wall.’
Tristan puts the paper on his lap and wheels himself out of the room into the hallway. It’s been days since he woke up, days and days of not knowing, of lying in the bed trying to work out what happened. All those blurry memories he’s been trying to make sense of, like the toilet bleach in the sink, Pamela crying on the other side of her security gate, the ear-splitting sound and chemical smell, and that retard looking scared in the stairwell. All of it. Tristan couldn’t fit any of these things together and no one told him. He looks again at the date on the newspaper. So people knew about this, everyone in the whole fucking country knew about this, except him. They’ve been tiptoeing around, keeping secrets, everyone: Olisa, Dr G, the other patients. Even Mal kept this all a secret. Why? Why didn’t Mal tell him? Why did he let Tristan believe that it was some random incident where he was the only one hurt? They didn’t keep secrets from each other, this was always the deal.
Tristan rolls his chair further into a corner, away from passing footfall. He already feels like an idiot, sitting battered and broken in a wheelchair, crying; the last thing he wants is an audience.
Maybe Mal was trying to protect him, doing that stupid thing he always does of playing ‘big brother’. But how could he? Tristan’s almost sixteen; he could have dealt with knowing the truth straight away. It would have helped him feel less confused. And now, well, now he’s got all the information in his hands. He works his way back to the front cover, putting a hand over the photograph of Nightingale Point, and begins reading the article. He’s ready to know the truth.
Authorities are still searching for up to 250 bodies as a result of Saturday’s plane crash, in which a Boeing 747 ploughed into a fourteen-storey London council block.
Reports from airline officials suggest that two of the aircraft’s engines caught fire shortly after take-off, causing the cargo plane to plummet into the tower, killing all five on-board.
Police said anyone in the block near the point of impact is presumed dead, while more may have been killed in the inferno that followed. Nightingale Point, part of the Morpeth Housing Estate, has 56 occupied flats.
The block’s caretaker, who has been a resident of the tower since it opened in 1969, described horrific scenes as he tried to help people to safety. Bob Ferris, who is in his last year before retirement, said, ‘It’s my home and I wasn’t going to leave anyone behind. I could see they weren’t all going to come out, but I had to try. I stayed helping till the fire brigade dragged me out.’
An emergency line has been set up for people concerned about relatives.
Tristan skim reads the rest, then goes back to the page the biker had the paper folded open on, the one with the photographs of himself and Elvis.
Elvis Watkins, a man with learning disabilities, has been hailed a hero after saving a teenager badly injured in Saturday’s plane crash.
Watkins moved to the ‘ill-fated block’ several months ago as part of the borough’s care-in-the-community initiative, which aims to prepare vulnerable adults to live independently.
Watkins was returning to his flat on the tenth floor, after a walk across the field, when the jet slammed into the side of the tower.
It was then that Watkins, who is currently the only known survivor from above the tenth floor, found the teenager semiconscious and badly injured in a corridor. Watkins carried the boy down the stairs, before leaving him on the ground floor and going off to get help.
George Barker, Elvis’s support worker, said, ‘Elvis is kind and caring, so it doesn’t surprise any of us here at the Waterside Centre that he put his own safety below saving another person’s life. We are all so proud of his bravery and heroism.’
Watkins, who received ear damage and a minor head injury in the crash, is back in supported accommodation while recovering.
The teenager is said to have been able to talk to the paramedics, telling them his name and address before going into shock. He was rushed to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, where he is still being treated for serious injuries, including extensive eye and leg injuries.
Elvis? Is that actually his name? Tristan remembers pushing him down the stairs, then seeing him again with Ben Munday. Tristan spat on Elvis, he called him a retard. And then Elvis saved him. His vision shakes and blurs, and he has to stop several times to look at something else, to wipe his streaming eyes.
So Elvis did more than simply help Tristan out of the block. He saved his life. Why? He should have left him to die. Why did he help? Tristan needs to find Elvis to check if he’s okay. It said head injury. What does that mean? Tristan can remember it now, the blood pouring down Elvis’s face. He needs to thank him, to try make it up to him somehow. But that’s impossible, he can never apologise for what he did and he can never thank him enough.
He turns the page and looks at the list of the dead, their photos and stories wrapped up into a sentence.
The victims of the tragedy have so far been confirmed as: Annhagrid Davies, 67, retired teaching assistant. Billy Eastern, 24, father of three, plumber. Jane Fisher, 40, mother of three, retail assistant. Lina Baxter, 21, care assistant. David Tuazon, 58, musician. Pamela Prudence Harrogate, 17, student.
Pamela and David are both dead. Shit. He wonders if he was the last person to see them both alive. He feels like some kind of jinx. Wonders who else may have passed by him that day and ended up disintegrating into ashes or having their bodies crushed under the weight of the plane.
Why hasn’t Malachi told him about David? Why hasn’t he said anything about Pamela?
He feels sick. Images of people from the estate start to run through his head. What happened to the nutty old woman on the third floor with all the plastic plants? He doesn’t even know her name. Or that little African kid from upstairs who always wanted to race him and talk about Gladiators. Tristan feels his scars weep, his bones ache.
There’s a double spread photo of pastel flowers in front of the estate. All those people. All those dead. It’s hard to believe it happened. Plane crashes weren’t the kind of tragedies that ever happened to anyone you know. They happened to other people around the world. People you would never meet. No one ever knew anyone that was in a plane crash. Tristan wasn’t meant to be that kind of victim. Getting hit by a bus while crossing the road with headphones on, maybe, or getting stabbed in a club for looking at someone else’s girl, a strong possibility –
but a plane crash?
Then a photo of a blue teddy propped among a sea of cards, flowers and football scarves. The plane’s youngest victim. The pages flutter against the opposite wall as Tristan throws the newspaper across the corridor. He leans forward in his chair and rests his head in his hands. His face hurts, his leg hurts, his ear buzzes. But he’s alive.
Though he’s not sure he deserves to be.
He hears Olisa call him. ‘What are you doing out here?’ The melody drops out of her voice. ‘Why are you reading this?’ He listens as she gathers the pages. ‘Well, when you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, your brother’s here to see you.’
‘Hey.’ Malachi empties a carrier bag of stuff on the bed: some sweets, a few GCSE textbooks, which are Harris’s influence, and some imported American magazines. ‘Some stuff to keep you going. Look.’ He holds up a copy of The Source magazine. Lil Kim is on the cover wearing fishnet tights and a lacy bra, but Tristan isn’t in the mood for it.
‘You all right?’
‘I’m always all right.’ Tristan wishes he could lay back in his bed, close his eyes and not have to see Mal right now. But he’s exhausted himself and doesn’t have the energy to get out of the wheelchair without someone’s support.
‘Tris? Talk to me,’ Malachi says.
‘No, you talk to me,’ he snaps.
How could Malachi keep so much stuff hidden? It goes against everything they’ve ever promised each other. Back when they were kids there were always adults whispering about them and passing looks, as if by keeping secrets they were protecting them from something. But they always knew when Mum’s sadness was overwhelming her, people whispering about it just made it worse. So how can Mal do the same thing now?
‘Why are you hiding so much stuff?’ Tristan asks.
Malachi’s face falls. He’s not used to being the one in the wrong. ‘What stuff?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Tell me what happened.’
‘About what?’
‘The fucking plane crash,’ Tristan spits.
Malachi shakes his head, walks to the end of the bed and picks up the clipboard of doctor’s notes, his back to Tristan. He flicks through a few pages, stops and raises a hand to his face. Finally, he slots it back and looks over, his eyes red, eyelashes wet. ‘I don’t know where to start. What do you want me to tell you?’
‘Everything,’ Tristan shouts. His voice attracts looks and Malachi draws the blue curtain around the bed. He pulls the plastic chair close and sits down.
‘You don’t talk to me properly anymore,’ Tristan says. ‘You can’t even look at me half the time.’ It hurts to say it, to acknowledge how messed up his face is that even his own brother sometimes flinches at the sight of the injuries.
‘I’m not keeping stuff from you. They told me it would be better if you remembered everything in your own time. Gradually. I didn’t want to hit you with the whole thing. Even Dr Gonsalkorale agreed.’
‘And why did you listen? Since when do we listen to other people? We don’t keep stuff from each other. It’s not what we do.’
Malachi rubs his face and stretches his legs out in front of him. His trousers are slightly too short, revealing his socks and a few inches of hairy legs.
‘Where d’you want me to start?’ he asks finally.
Tristan feels unsure of what he needs to know, where to direct his anger, if it’s even worth asking anything. He starts with what seems like the most unlikely thing to hurt: Nightingale Point.
‘Well, tell me what’s left?’
‘Of what?’
‘The block, man. What’s left?’
‘The actual building?’ Malachi looks up at him, confused by the question. ‘Not much,’ he answers quickly.
It’s hard to picture Nightingale Point, the only home they had ever known, gone. For some reason it makes Tristan think of the hurricane years ago, how trees were brought down and the next day all the local kids went climbing over them. He still remembers the feeling of Malachi pushing him up onto the enormous trunk of one. The exhilaration of seeing something so great toppled.
‘What about everything else? All our stuff?’
‘It’s gone. Everything’s gone.’
He runs through a mental list of all the things he owns: his clothes, his music, magazines, a few action dolls and Spiderman comics he’s long since too old for but has never wanted to get rid of. Surely something must have been saved? It can’t all have gone.
‘Everything?’ he asks.
‘There’s literally nothing left.’
Tristan pictures himself opening the cupboard under the sink and untying Mum’s scarf, the crust of limescale coming off in his hands.
‘Do you think Nan has kept any photos of Mum?’ He feels ashamed asking.
‘I’ll ask her for you.’
Tristan feels buoyed by the conversation and the strength he’s pulling. It’s time to ask about her.
‘What happened to Pamela?’
Malachi flicks his eyes up to the ceiling, the same maze of white pipes and square panels Tristan has spent hours staring at. He crumples his mouth. ‘She was in her flat. I don’t know when she got back from Portishead because she never came down or called me or anything. She was so high up in the building,’ he clears his throat, ‘she probably died straight away.’
‘But I was high up too. I don’t get how people died but I’m still here.’ He wells up.
‘They think the stairwell protected you and Elvis when the plane hit the building. But Pamela was in her flat.’
That high up, Tristan and Elvis just managed to get out alive. But Pamela, in her locked flat, had no chance.
‘And what about David? I saw his name in the paper. Is that why Mary won’t come and visit me? Like, does she blame me or something?’
‘Why would she blame you?’
‘’Cause I saw David last. Does she know that? Is that why won’t she come and visit?’
‘Tris, calm down. This was a bad idea. We don’t need to talk about everything in one go. You need to focus on getting better. So let’s not talk about it anymore.’
‘I can’t believe after everything that you’re still doing this.’
‘What?’
‘Trying to protect me. I can only see out of one eye, Mal. My foot is fucked – two operations later and I still can’t stand on the thing,’ he cries.
‘Your Achilles was seriously damaged, Tris. You’re lucky they didn’t amputate. It’s going to take time to heal.’
The fact they didn’t need to amputate his foot has been the one thing Mal and Dr G have thrown around since he woke up, like he should be grateful that even though a piece of radiator pipe almost destroyed his foot, it’s still connected.
‘I was the last one in that fucking block and no one wants to tell me why. Why was I the last one to be saved? How comes I’m not dead when everyone else is.’
The curtain opens and Tristan hides his face in the crook of his arm from Olisa. She puts her hand on his wrist and turns to Malachi. ‘This isn’t helping, whatever you two are shouting about in here.’
‘We’re just talking.’
‘That’s not talking. You’re stressing him out. Malachi, I think your brother needs to be alone for a bit. Come on, I’ll walk you out.’
‘No,’ Tristan says. ‘I need him to stay.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Please, Olisa.’
She looks at the two of them and steps back, leaving the curtain open slightly. They wait until she’s walked away. Then Tristan starts again.
‘You telling me you haven’t broken down about this? You’ve had weeks to deal with this, Mal. You’ve seen it unfold. Even now you get to go and look at it. All I’ve got is the newspaper and the images in my head. I can’t even believe it happened.’
Malachi sinks his head into his hands. ‘It’s too hard, this is all too hard. I can’t think about any of it, sometimes. It’s like a big cloud or something.’
‘How did you find out about Pa
m?’ Tristan asks tentatively.
‘I saw her dad at the relief centre after the crash. He told me …’ He trails off, looks away. ‘Well, he told me she had been in the flat.’
Tristan feels cold as he remembers the black bars of the gate, her puffy red face behind it. Even if her flat wasn’t crushed on impact she wouldn’t have been able to escape anyway. He remembers the way she smiled when he promised to take the letter. The letter that now sits folded in a copy of Men’s Health magazine in the bedside unit with his few possessions. The letter with Pamela’s last message.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Chapter Thirty-One ,Malachi
He had hoped it would be Tristan’s last week in hospital. The physiotherapy seemed to be going well, with Tristan already able to pull himself to standing using the parallel bars, as well as get in and out of the wheelchair. Dr Gonsalkorale said this kind of recovery was common in the young, but Tristan credited it to the hundred push ups he did each night before the accident.
Malachi wonders how his own body would have coped with all Tristan’s has gone through. He’d probably be dead; he can’t even trust his body to get him through winter without being brought down by a cold or virus. He’s always been like that, sickly and prone to whatever bug’s going around. And then there’s Tristan, his foot almost blown off and already thinking about raving again. He seems better since they talked properly last week, though it doesn’t feel quite the same between them, it’s tense. Tristan’s mood varies from one day to the next, sometimes hopeful, other times awkward and angry.
He smiles as Malachi approaches the bed; it’s a good mood day.
‘What were you talking to Dr Parma Violets about?’ he asks. ‘Out of all the women here she’s the only one I can’t get any banter going with.’
Malachi sits on the edge. ‘Well, she has more important things to do than banter with a fifteen-year-old boy.’
‘I’m practically sixteen.’ Tristan smiles, pleased with himself.
His birthday felt so far away, but now it’s looming and he’s going to have to spend it in hospital. Malachi sighs, expecting this information will cause Tristan to kick off again.