A Heat of the Moment Thing

by Maggie Le Page

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Help is coming.”

  Which seemed pretty inadequate for a guy lying in a pool of his own blood. Especially since I didn’t know if it was true.

  His eyes fluttered closed and my pulse raced. Now what? Was he dying? Catching a quick nap? Praying?

  I looked longingly at the stairs. Maybe I should go. There wasn’t much I could do here. The fact was, I was a claustrophobe who didn’t much like dealing with blood, looking down on a bleeding man in a crushed bus that might explode into flames any second. It didn’t get much worse.

  I glanced back at him and his eyes were open, watching me. They looked sad, like he knew I would leave.

  Well? Was I going or staying? I looked up at the night sky and knew the answer.

  Why couldn’t someone else have stopped for him? Why did it have to be me?

  I took a deep breath and yelled loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. “Driver’s hurt! We need help, fast.”

  Then, to him, “Hang in there, okay? I’ll stay with you.”

  I couldn’t hold his hand so I placed my hand palm-down, fingers spread, on the glass.

  He gave a barely perceptible nod, mouthed, “Thanks.” His hand splayed at his side, mimicking mine.

  I smiled down at him but his eyes had already lost focus.

  No! He needed to stay conscious. Um . . . Didn’t he?

  Well, sure. That’s what happened in the movies.

  And was I really so retarded I had to draw on what I’d seen in the bloody movies?

  Apparently, yes. Nothing else sprang to mind.

  I bit my lip, not liking this one bit. “Is someone waiting at home for you?”

  He blinked, frowned, blinked again, as if to clear his head.

  “Your wife?” Come on, Mister, concentrate.

  He gave a slow nod.

  “Well, you just keep thinking about her. You’ll be out of here soon.” I bloody hoped so, because I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up this cup-half-full talk.

  I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. It couldn’t hurt. When I looked back down at the driver, he was straining to reach a black control panel near the steering wheel.

  “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t reply. His face turned puce with effort as he closed his fingers around a raised switch. Pain cut deep grooves in his face as he ponderously turned the switch anti-clockwise. The bus shuddered and the engine cut.

  An eery silence filled the space.

  “Well done,” I said. As if he needed a cheerleader.

  The driver didn’t respond. He lay there, still—too still—his hand on the switch.

  Panic tore at my gut.

  “Hey!” I thumped the screen. “Don’t you die! Don’t you dare die!”

  His fingers twitched.

  I released the breath I’d been holding. Thank you, God.

  Inch by laborious inch, he felt his way along the panel towards another switch.

  Abruptly, the lights cut.

  My pulse skittered along like a frightened rabbit. What had he done?

  Now our only light came from a nearby lamp-post. I could barely make him out. Down the bus, the obstacle course of twisted metal had become a maze of ghostly shapes and long, foreign shadows. I felt like an extra in a Stephen King movie. Fear would probably kill me if nothing else did.

  “I can hardly see you,” I said, trying to keep it conversational but desperate to keep him talking, for me as much as him.

  No reply.

  “Hello? Are you awake?”

  Still nothing. If only my arm were long enough to reach through the coin window and shake him. “I need you to talk to me. Please. Come on, open your eyes. Look at me. Say something.”

  He mumbled.

  “Good. Hang in there. They’ll be here soon.”

  They’d better be.

  “My . . . wife. Tell . . .” He struggled to keep his eyes open.

  “Tell her what?”

  “Love . . .” His eyelids fell over his eyes, like a curtain falling at the end of a show.

  “Tell her yourself.” Then, louder, “Hey! You’re going to be fine.”

  He didn’t respond.

  My hands felt clammy. I didn’t want to watch him die. It was bad enough watching him hurt. Anyway, wasn’t someone meant to read him his last rites if he was dying? I had no idea how they went, and I sure didn’t want to ruin his death for him, so he couldn’t die now and that was that.

  Wasn’t hearing the last sense to go? What could I say that would bring him back?

  “The paramedics are here.” A lie, but only a tiny one, said with the best of intentions.

  And then I really did hear sirens approaching. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but for once I was really, really happy the cosmos had turned my lie into a truth.

  Several heavy, truck-sized vehicles pulled up, followed by lighter ones—cars? Ambulances? Doors slammed. People shouted.

  “They’re here,” I repeated, then stood and waved wildly through the windscreen. “In here! Help!”

  Weighty objects met the ground with hard thuds, metal clanged on metal, something was winched, prrcht-prrcht-prrcht, more shouted instructions, a throbbing pulse of hammering . . . What was happening? I felt disoriented.

  Light blazed on me. I blinked, shielded my eyes, then looked up as footsteps sounded on the vehicle above me. A man stood looking down on me, framed in the window, every bit the mad scientist. All he needed was the spaceship and evil laugh.

  “Are you okay?” he asked through his heavy-duty face-mask. Why was he wearing that? Was the air contaminated? Was I contaminated?

  “Yes, I’m okay. But the driver—he’s in the cab. I can’t get to him.” I swallowed a sob. “I hope he’s still alive.”

  He lowered a ladder through the window and a moment later was standing beside me. “Let’s get you out of here. Up you go.” He pointed. “My pal’s waiting for you at the top.”

  Another man waved down at me.

  “Go on. We’ll sort out the driver.”

  “Will he be okay?” I asked.

  “We’ll know more once we get to him. Best you climb out now. You’re doing great,” he added, as if encouraging a child.

  He moved off through the wreckage, checking for people. I grasped a rung, my tremors shaking the whole ladder. I looked skyward. How would I ever make it up?

  The guy at the top must have seen my expression. “Here, I’ll help you,” he said and scooted down.

  “Thanks.” I swiped away tears. What I’d give for a familiar face right now.

  “You go first. I’ll follow behind. Hold the ladder, that’s it. Start climbing. Don’t worry, I’m right here. You won’t fall. A few more steps . . .”

  And then we were there.

  A third rescuer helped me off the ladder.

  “Thanks,” I whispered, feeling like the only kid in class who couldn’t remember the alphabet.

  She guided me down a second ladder and finally my feet were on solid ground. A blanket appeared around my shoulders.

  I gazed about, bewildered and frightened. It looked like I’d climbed into an episode of CSI. Flashing lights, red and blue; loads of uniformed, stern-faced people shouting at each other; walky-talky radios and vehicle radios, all going at once; stretchers and medical supplies; limping, bloodied people; traffic banking up. And, underpinning it all, the constant bass thrum of the fire-fighters’ emergency vehicle.

  Tape neatly cordoned off the scene from the inevitable crowd of rubberneckers, who strained for a view of—what? Blood? Injuries? Death?

  But this was no TV show. This was real. This was my bus trip home. I looked back at it, and my teeth started chattering.

  A policewoman approached me, notebook in hand. “Can you tell me your name, Ma’am?”

  “R-Rebecca Jordan. I’m t-tired. Could someone t-take me home, please?”

  I really didn’t want to be here. I wanted to ring my parents, hug Liz, laugh with
Jim, put things right with Dani . . . but most of all, I wanted to see Matt. My heart ached. I didn’t just want to see him. I wanted to touch him, speak to him, hold him.

  Love him.

  I swallowed back a burning ball of heartbreak.

  “Are you feeling any pain?” the policewoman asked.

  Yes. Everywhere. It hadn’t eased in months.

  I shook my head.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you?”

  Hope flared in my chest. “To come and collect me?”

  She smiled. “No. So they know you’ve been in an accident.”

  “Oh.” My parents!

  No, they’d be desperate to help, and powerless to do anything from down in Reading. Liz was stuck on a bus heading south. Jim? Dani? Matt?

  I hugged the blanket tighter around me. “No, thanks.”

  The policewoman wrote briefly on a little pad then signalled to another woman, who came closer. “If you’ll just come with me, we need to assess your injuries.”

  A giant-liquidiser noise erupted into the night air. I started, whirled around. My throat tightened. The windscreen.

  “I don’t need help,” I said. “It’s the driver you should be worrying about.”

  Abrupt silence. I strained to see if they’d reached him. Please let him live.

  The paramedic gently turned me towards an ambulance. “He’ll be fine. This won’t take long, Ma’am.”

  She bathed my cut hands, using tweezers to pick out miniscule pebbles of glass. I tried not to watch. She bandaged my sprained elbow and advised me to R.I.C.E. it.

  “You’ll be transported to hospital soon,” she said.

  “Hospital? Why?”

  “Standard procedure. We need to check for internal injuries.”

  Internal . . .?

  “And we’ve probably missed some of the glass. We need to make sure every last piece is removed, to avoid any complications later on.”

  Hurry up, then. I’d had enough complications for one lifetime.

  I walked out of the ambulance and back into all that frenzied activity. Stopped. Stared around me. It all felt too over-the-top to be true. Any minute now someone would yell, “Cut.”

  Then some medics hurried past with a body, limp and pale, on a stretcher. Real people in a real emergency. Shockwaves rippled through my body. No actors here.

  We could have died. We all could have died.

  Died.

  A police officer approached. “Excuse me, are you all right?”

  I swallowed, breathed, nodded. I was alive. That was enough. “What about the bus driver?”

  The policeman cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I’m not at liber—”

  “I waited. In there.” I pointed to the wreckage. “With him. With him. I’m claustrophobic, but I did it. So I need to know—will he live?”

  He inspected his feet. Then, with an infinitesimal nod, met my eye. “It’s a suspected heart attack, but yes, they think he’ll live.”

  A heart attack? I’d been cursing him for being a lousy, inconsiderate driver, and all along he’d been having a heart attack? That poor, poor man.

  “Thank you.”

  “Ma’am, you need to wait over here.” He guided me to the area where passengers awaited transfer to hospital. “I think you should sit down for a while.”

  Good idea. I collapsed into a plastic chair, leaned back and closed my eyes, weary to my soul. Numb.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be safely home soon.”

  Safe, maybe—but not home. Home was all about family and friends and happiness and togetherness. Truth pierced my heart with to-the-hilt certainty: home was London, not Edinburgh.

  My eyes flew open. Beautiful as Edinburgh was, this move had always been a temporary measure; a quick escape, nothing more.

  I’d escaped, all right. But up here in Edinburgh I’d found me. I’d found self-belief, and the confidence to live my life for me. I finally knew what mattered.

  And now—I needed to go. I had bridges to build, rifts to mend, a life to live.

  Chapter Forty

  I nervously paced the living room, listening as the phone pealed on in my ear. Three times . . . four . . . five . . . Blast! I’d stewed about this call for hours. And now I’d finally found the courage to ring, she wasn’t going to even pick up?

  “Hello,” she said, and I jumped. “Dani Jordan speaking.”

  My body zinged with a fresh rush of nerves. “Hi—Dani? It’s Becky.”

  “Finally!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been all this time? We so need to talk.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m ringing.” I steeled myself. “Dan, I owe you an apology. A big one.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve left loads of messages for you and you’ve ignored them all.”

  “What?” I tried to realign my thinking with Dani’s. “Um . . . on my mobile?”

  “Of course. You haven’t told me your landline yet.” She sounded surprised—but what had she expected, after practically disowning me?

  “Oh. Sorry. I . . . I lost it. My mobile, I mean.”

  “Ooh, nightmare. That’d kill me. I’d have to replace it strai—”

  “Dani,” I interrupted.

  “Remember that time my phone was on ‘silent’ and I couldn’t find it? It drove me nuts and in the end I—”

  “Dani!” Oops, too loud. I lowered my voice. “Sorry, but this is hard for me to do, and I just need you to be quiet for a minute so I can get this out because it’s been on my mind for ages and if I don’t say it now I might never manage to say it and I just can’t live with this any longer, okay?”

  “Er . . . okay.” She sounded stunned.

  “Okay. You know that Edinburgh bus crash that’s been in the news?”

  “Ooh, yes. Wasn’t it horrific? I couldn’t believe—”

  “I was in it.”

  She gasped. “Are you okay? You’re not in hospital, are you? Have you told Mum and Dad? Where—”

  “I’m fine. I’m resting up at home. But look. What I’m trying to say is that the accident gave me a bit of a wake-up call. Life is short. So . . .” I took a deep breath. “There are some things I need to say.”

  “Are you dying?”

  “No.” But it might be easier than this. Shut up, Dani!

  “Dani, I don’t want us to be enemies. I’m sorry I made you hate me, but you must know I’d never do anything to hurt you.” I tracked up and down my living room floor. “So I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”

  “What—”

  “No, Dan, let me finish. You’re a great sister. The best. And I love you to bits. You’re my little sis and I’ll always be there for you. And as for sleeping with your man, believe me, I just wouldn’t go there. Ever. Surely you know that? It was an honest mistake.”

  I didn’t give her time to respond, but ploughed on, desperate to get it all said. “But, mistake or not, I let you down and sisters aren’t supposed to do that. They’re supposed to be there for each other. So I’m sorry. And I understand why you said the things you said, but honestly, Dan, I’m not the person you accused me of being.”

  I stopped, took a deep breath in, blew out my cheeks. “So. Do you think you could meet me halfway, maybe? Agree to let bygones be bygones? ’Cause I really miss you.”

  She was silent a moment. “Can I speak now?”

  “Sure. Your turn. Thanks for listening.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “What am I—?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it, incredulous. Put it back to my ear. “Charlie, you ditz!”

  “Charlie? Oh! Grief, Becky, you don’t need to apologise for that. You did me a favour. I should be thanking you.”

  “Sorry?” I felt like my brain needed rewiring.

  “Hell, if it hadn’t been for you I might’ve married him. And that would’ve been a fast track to misery. Charlie thinks it’s all about him, but he’s wrong. It’s all about me.” She giggled. “Everyo
ne knows that. We’d have killed each other.”

  I laughed. I hadn’t thought of it before but, actually, she was right. “Well, I’m glad something good came out of it. But I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

  “Sure. Great. Can we talk about me, now?”

  “I thought we were.”

  “No, Becs. I’ve got news. Big news. Can you guess?”

  “Um . . .” She couldn’t be pregnant; she’d be crying. New man? No, that would be news, but not ‘big’ news. “It’s something really exciting. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Yep.” She sounded like she might burst.

  “You’ve got a new job. A major promotion. Partner or director or something?”

  “Nope. Not even close.” Her voice climbed an octave.

  “Not even . . . You must be kidding. You’ve won the Lottery?” I ended on a shout. “Really?”

  “No-o,” she scoffed. “Way better than that.”

  What could be better for my I-Want-It-So-I’ll-Damn-Well-Have-It sister than a multi-million-pound Lottery win? Nothing. “I give up. What’s your news?”

  “I’m getting married!”

  “You’re getting—”

  “To the most gorgeous man on the planet,” she squealed.

  My throat closed over. My grip on the phone loosened. Matt? She was marrying Matt? Oh, fuck, no. Not now. Not when I’d just got my head together. Not my sister and Matt. My heart squeezed tighter and tighter. Blackness descended.

  “His name’s Sebastian Gauthier and I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  The blackness lifted, my heart released, and air surged into my lungs. I felt light-headed and floppy, like a raggedy-Ann doll.

  “Married? You? I thought you thought marriage was pointless and old-fa—”

  “Yes, but I hadn’t met Sebi then. Becs, he’s divine. I couldn’t say no. Wait ’til you meet him; you’ll see.”

  “Wow. What can I say? That’s . . . fantastic, Dani,” I managed. “The best news ever. Wow.”

  I rubbed my eyes.

  “I’m thrilled for you,” I added, trying to sound enthusiastic because that was what she wanted to hear. But, actually, I wasn’t thrilled at all. I was big-time, big-sister worried.

  How long had she known this guy? Not long; I’d only been gone four months. And she reckoned she knew him well enough to marry him? Legally link herself to him for life? This was nuts. He’d probably checked out her pay packet, sized up her apartment, and decided he was onto a good thing.