Someone To Save you

by Paul Pilkington

  ‘I wanted to congratulate you about yesterday,’ she said. ‘What you did was an amazing thing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sam replied, thinking back to the whereabouts of Alison. There had still been no word from the police. ‘I did what anyone else would have done in the situation.’

  Carla raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so, Sam. Not everyone would have risked their life the way you did.’

  Sam shrugged, not wanting to dwell on the event.

  ‘How are you? That’s a nasty looking bruise.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘A little bit sore, but I was really lucky.’

  Carla nodded. ‘You’re a hero, Sam.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ he said. ‘I was just in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘Like on board the plane last year?’ Carla smiled. ‘You’re making a habit of being in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘That was different,’ Sam replied.

  ‘Different circumstances,’ Carla agreed, ‘but it still demonstrated something special Sam. It’s something that people wanted to hear about. People should hear about last night, too.’

  ‘The story is in today’s papers,’ Sam stated. ‘People already know about what happened.’

  ‘I’ve seen them.’

  ‘So that’s okay,’ Sam added. ‘People know.’

  ‘The basic story is there, Sam, but not the details. You aren’t even mentioned by name in the any of the articles, unless I’ve missed it?’

  Sam shook his head in confirmation.

  Carla looked off towards the city. ‘Then I think that more does need to be done, Sam. The general public will want to know more about the human story behind what happened.’

  ‘Just because people want something, it doesn’t mean you have to give it to them,’ he said.

  ‘True,’ Carla replied, ‘but sometimes it’s the best thing to do.’

  ‘I don’t want speak with the media,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t want any more coverage, and I don’t want my name mentioned. Surely you can appreciate that, after last time. I didn’t run onto the track and save those children because I wanted my name splashed all over the papers.’

  Carla turned to face him. ‘I do understand, Sam. I really do. And I know that it was difficult last year with some of the coverage, but we have learned lessons and this time it will be different.’

  Sam shook his head.

  ‘Sam, this is a great opportunity.’

  ‘For who?’

  A mother had died. It was a tragedy, not an opportunity.

  Carla blinked. ‘For you and the hospital.’

  Sam smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m in surgery, not public relations.’

  ‘I realise that,’ she said. ‘That’s why I called you up here. We can help.’

  Sam doubted that. ‘Help? In what way?’

  ‘We can draft a press release, and put in a quote from you. The press will be happy with that. They can run their story and they’ll leave you alone. And by the day after tomorrow you’ll be yesterday’s news, free to get on with the rest of your life.’

  ‘I was hoping the press wouldn’t be interested after today,’ Sam said.

  Carla let out a laugh. ‘Do you know how many enquiries from the media we’ve had this morning about you? Twenty – and that was the latest update, an hour ago. We’ve managed to put them on hold for now, promising them a press release later this afternoon. But if the press release doesn’t materialise they’ll come knocking on your door for the story instead.’

  Sam gripped the hair on the back of his head, considering his options. This changed things. Carla was right; if the press were so keen, they would track him down, quiz him, and then write whatever they wanted. So this way would be better, despite his genuine reticence to engage. He thought for another few seconds, fighting against his instincts. ‘Okay,’ Sam conceded. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good, that’s good,’ she said, her relief evident. ‘Sam, I know you probably think that I’m some sort of vulture, taking advantage of this, but the reality is that good news stories for the hospital really matter when it comes to decisions at the highest levels - especially with the kicking that we’ve had in the press during the past eighteen months over the infection rates.’

  ‘You’re just doing your job,’ Sam replied.

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s a veiled criticism, Sam,’ Carla smiled. ‘But you’re right; I am just going my job - which is to ensure that this hospital is a success. And by being a success I’m not just talking about money. I mean improving patient care. We’re all chasing the same goal here.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ Carla said, ‘because I want to ask you one last favour.’

  ‘Go on,’ Sam said, wary as to the way this conversation was going.

  ‘We got a call this morning from the BBC,’ she explained. ‘They want to do an interview with you this afternoon on radio five live.’

  This was a step too far. He had been interviewed on the radio the last time, and it had been a really stressful experience. ‘No way.’

  ‘We have people who can help,’ she said. ‘Melanie Grace is our new communications manager. She’ll be able to advise you, and she’ll also liaise with the BBC to make it clear where the boundaries are.’

  ‘I really don’t want to do this.’

  ‘Please, Sam, I will really appreciate it, the board will really appreciate it. You have no idea how much this could help the hospital. Just for fifteen minutes of your time. Your story can make a real difference, believe me.’

  What choice did he have? He’d ceded control of the situation, giving Carla a yard and now she was taking a mile. ‘What if I say no?’

  Carla shrugged. ‘Then it doesn’t happen. We call the BBC and tell them we can’t do it.’

  Sam thought it over. It was a foolish man who went against the wishes of the Chief Executive, even a fair one. Carla had been highly supportive of the cardiothoracic centre, giving the go-ahead for the expansion of the team and acquisition of several expensive bits of equipment, and they needed to keep that support. And then there was the important fact that she would be on his interview panel. ‘Fifteen minutes? And then that’s it?’

  ‘A quote for the press release and a fifteen minute interview,’ she said, the hope rising in her voice. ‘Then that’s it.’

  ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘But on one condition. I do this one interview and then that’s it; no more interviews, no more comments. Nothing.’

  Carla held out her hand and smiled. ‘You have my word, Sam.’

  6

  ‘You’re doing what?’

  ‘I didn’t feel I had a choice,’ Sam admitted, as Louisa shook her head. They were in a quiet part of the hospital cafeteria, out of earshot from the other staff and patients. ‘I know it sounds terrible, but in two weeks I’m going to be facing Carla Conway across an interview table, and I don’t want to make an enemy.’

  ‘So you do whatever she says,’ Louisa replied. Her face was flushed with anger. Louisa didn’t often get angry, or at least hid it well, and the strength of her reaction took Sam by surprise.

  ‘I’ve got more than just me to think about, Lou,’ Sam explained. ‘If everything goes to plan I’ll have a family to support in just under nine months. And it’s just fifteen minutes.’

  Louisa shook her head again, unconvinced.

  ‘They have helped me today, dealing with the media enquiries. And Carla’s right. If I don’t go along with this, the press will come right to my door. At least this way there’s some control.’

  ‘I’m just worried about you, Sam,’ Louisa said, softening.

  They paused for a second as someone approached them. The white-haired late to middle aged man was wearing a distinctive neon yellow puffer style coat, like something you’d expect to see on a roadside worker. He fixed his sights on Louisa.

  ‘Miss Owen, I, I, I’d like to speak, to, to...�
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  ‘Richard, now isn’t a good time,’ Louisa interrupted with uncharacteristic abruptness. ‘We’re seeing each other on Friday. Remember what we agreed?’

  The man’s face pursed as if in heavy contemplation. ‘Of c, c, course,’ he said, his eyes drifting to the floor. ‘Sorry, to, to, bother you, Miss, Miss Owen.’

  He turned, his head lowered, and moved off, quicker than Sam had expected, obviously agitated. They both followed his journey, weaving around the tables and chairs, until he disappeared out of sight, through the main exit doors.

  ‘He’s a patient?’ Sam asked.

  Louisa nodded. ‘Richard Friedman. I’m having a few problems with him. I really hate being like that with people, but sometimes you have to be quite firm.’

  ‘Want to talk?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Louisa dismissed. ‘The guy is struggling to come to terms with a bereavement. He’s just a little clingy. I can handle it. Anyway, you’re not changing the subject on me, Sam,’ she said, ‘we’re talking about you and this silly radio appearance.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  ‘I am worried about you, Sam. ‘I just don’t think that this is a very good idea when you’re still coming to terms with what happened. Yesterday was a massively traumatic event, even for someone like you who deals with death every day.’

  Louisa was right, of course. ‘I’ll be okay.’

  ‘But will you? You were nearly killed yesterday – yesterday for goodness sake. And today, instead of speaking to a counsellor about things, or speaking to your friend, who just so happens to be a clinical psychologist, you’ll be talking to a DJ on national radio.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Sam admitted, recognising the irony of the situation. He still wasn’t at all comfortable with the decision, but he’d made up his mind.

  ‘And after what happened last time, I just don’t know how you can even contemplate putting yourself through that again. I know how much it affected you last year when the papers were full of your life story. It affected me too, it affected your parents, and Anna. Journalists dredging through your past, gossiping about Cathy, speculating about what happened. Do you really want to risk that happening again?’

  ‘They’ve promised that they won’t ask me any questions about Cathy,’ Sam said.

  ‘But can you really guarantee that?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘The media might not be able to resist themselves, Sam. Marcus has just been released from prison; Cathy would have just celebrated her thirtieth. You can see how it might be too tempting?’

  Sam nodded; he’d thought the same himself. ‘I know, but if they do start asking questions about that, I’ll stop the interview there and then.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Sam glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go. They’ve got a taxi coming to get me in a few minutes.’

  Louisa just stared at her coffee.

  Sam tried again. ‘Look, Lou, I know what you’re saying, and I do agree. But I just think that this could be the best way of getting the press attention out of the way, in a more controlled fashion. It might backfire, who knows. I don’t want this any more than you do, but I’ve decided it’s the best thing to do under the circumstances. Will you support me?’

  Louisa looked up. ‘Just be careful, Sam.’

  During the ten minute taxi ride over to the BBC radio studios, Sam dwelled on what Louisa had said. He just hoped that they would be true to their word, and steer well clear of anything to do with Cathy. Louisa had been right – the media coverage the previous year had hurt Sam terribly. It had also really affected his parents, pushing his father back into depression. After over a decade of trying to shut out the pain and horror, it had all come crashing back into their lives, as fresh and raw as ever.

  By the time Sam reached the studios, registered at reception and waited on the comfy green sofa, he was full of trepidation. He was close to walking out when a young girl of Asian appearance approached, clipboard in hand.

  ‘Hi, it’s Sam, isn’t it?’

  Sam nodded, and he followed her along a corridor. She talked as she walked, explaining what would happen, but distracted by his own thoughts, Sam only heard bits of it. They went down a flight of stairs, passed through a set of double doors and emerged into one of the main broadcast areas. Three goldfish bowl like recording studies, fronted by glass, led off from the central waiting area in which they now stood.

  ‘You’ll be interviewed by Simon Saunders,’ the girl said, looking over to the only occupied studio. ‘He’s covering the afternoon slot while Mike is away.’

  Sam could see Simon at the control desk, headphones on, talking to the sports reporter sat opposite him. The broadcast was being piped over the speakers. At the moment they were speculating about the latest rumours on the football transfer market. He wasn’t familiar with this presenter, he tended to listen to Radio 4, but Sam was grateful to be spared the confrontational well-known regular host, Mike Bennett.

  ‘You’ll be on in a few minutes,’ the girl explained. ‘Just after the news. Take a seat and we’ll come and get you.’

  ‘We’ve got time for one more caller. Richard from London, what’s your question?’

  Sam looked over at Simon and wished he was somewhere else. The presenter had been fine, asking some standard questions about the previous night. But he hadn’t reckoned on a full-blown phone in to follow. For almost ten minutes now he’d been quizzed by callers about the crash. Some had wanted to know the basic facts of the event. Others had sought to reflect on the nature of what it meant to be a hero. It was like a backstreet psychiatry session in front of an invited audience. He should have listened to Louisa. But one more caller and it would be all over.

  ‘Hi Simon,’ the caller began. ‘Hi Sam, how are you?’

  The sentence was slow and deliberate, like each word was being stretched.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Sam lied, gazing down at the console that curved around him. The headphones were starting to irritate and he longed to rip them off and end this now.

  ‘But you’re not,’ the caller replied, in the same slow drawl. ‘You’re not fine at all, Sam.’

  For a few seconds the comment just hung in the air, as Sam decided how to respond. But before he could speak, Simon stepped in.

  ‘How do you mean, Richard?’ He glanced over at Sam as he spoke, and the excitement in his eyes was clear as he waited for a response.

  ‘I mean that Sam isn’t as fine as he’s making out. We’ve not heard the truth.’

  Sam shook his head. Louisa had been right. This had been a terrible idea.

  Simon moved closer to the microphone, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam. ‘You’re not accusing Sam of lying?’

  ‘I’m not making any accusations,’ the man replied. ‘Just an observation, that’s all. I’m interested to hear what Sam thinks about it.’

  Simon looked over at Sam, giving him an opportunity to respond that Sam felt unable to turn down.

  ‘I’ve answered the questions as honestly as I could,’ Sam said, trying hard not to sound defensive.

  ‘Ah,’ the caller replied. ‘But that’s different.’

  Sam met Simon’s gaze as he moved back towards the microphone – the guy was captivated. ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Tell me about what she said, Sam.’

  This was getting totally out of order. Couldn’t the station just cut this guy off? He looked again at Simon. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do,’ he replied. ‘Tell me about what she said to you, just before the train hit. That’s what I want to hear.’

  ‘Err, I think we’ve heard enough,’ Simon said. ‘Thanks for your call, Richard…’

  ‘No,’ Sam interrupted, putting up a hand and leaning into the microphone. He’d changed his mind, now wanting to challenge this individual. ‘I want to know why you think you’ve got the right to ask that, Richard.’

  Simon nodded, taking a symbolic mov
e away from the control console.

  ‘Because I want to be entertained, and you’re not giving me the full show.’

  Sam laughed in disbelief. ‘This isn’t a show.’

  This time it was the caller’s turn to laugh. ‘It’s entertainment, Sam. And you’re the star attraction.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

  ‘You think you’re a hero, Sam, don’t you? But you couldn’t save your sister from Marcus Johnson.’

  Sam just sat there, stunned. It felt like someone out of nowhere had just delivered a sharp blow to his gut.

  Simon stepped in. ‘Thanks for all your calls. And thanks to our guest in the studio, Sam Becker. It’s clear from the vast majority of calls we’ve had that he’s a true hero, and a testament to the staff of the health service. Thanks for coming in today Sam and sharing your experience with us. I know it must be really difficult talking about this. Thank you.’

  Sam nodded, the words of the caller lodged in his brain.

  ‘And now time for the traffic and travel with Claire Davies. Over to you, Claire…’

  ‘I’m really sorry about that last caller,’ Simon said, as they both took off their headphones. ‘You get those sorts of people sometimes. We try our best to screen out people like that, but every now and again one slips through the net. You’d be amazed by how many crazies there are out there.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Sam replied, placing the headphones on the desk in front of him. In truth he felt anything but okay, but he wasn’t about to discuss this with someone from the media. ‘Really, it’s fine.’

  Simon nodded, seemingly unconvinced.

  ‘Sam. It’s Doug. Sorry to call you out of the office.’

  ‘Doug,’ Sam said, as he emerged from the BBC building onto the busy pavement. The heavens had opened and the rain was bouncing up from the pavement, so he sheltered in the entrance. ‘Did you hear the interview?’

  ‘I caught the end of it,’ he replied, ‘they had the radio on in the staff room and everyone who could was listening. That last caller was something else. I mean, talk about deranged.’