by Tara Lyons
‘So, it started for me in 1983 when I broke my ankle…’
As I share it with Adele, my mind is instantly back there, in the woods behind my granny’s garden, just after my fifth birthday, when I thought I could keep up with my cousin and his friends. They were tree-climbing one sunny afternoon and I wanted to join in. I opted for the tallest one I could find, with my invisible cape blowing behind me in the light June wind – proving that girls are just as courageous as boys – and I began my ascent. Sadly, I failed to consider my small hands, my lack of upper body strength and restricted leg length and somehow, I’m still not entirely sure how, but the sound of a branch snapping soon echoed in my ears. The gasps and yells for mothers and fathers to come and help swirled around me, mixing with the warm suffocating air as I landed with a painful thump on the prickly green grass sprouting from the hard ground, my cape rendered useless. The wind was knocked right out of me and I struggled to breathe which, looking back, wasn’t a bad thing because it meant I didn’t feel the initial pain in my ankle as the immediate shades of blue and purple took effect. The rest of that afternoon is a blur. I still don’t remember the surgery or the hours or days that followed. As the morphine began to wear off, my mother explained that my awkward landing had meant that I’d fractured my right ankle in three places.
‘Abigail, sweetheart, any fracture is ten times worse than a clean break – I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere before, anyway – let alone three fractures,’ she had said in her no-nonsense way. ‘Your leg will be in a cast for at least six weeks and you’ll need to use crutches. You can’t put any weight on it while it heals.’
The doctors had operated and inserted a metal rod and six screws into my leg, to keep the bones together and assist them in mending themselves over time. It was the scars that surprised me, when they were finally revealed after the cast was cut away. A small one on the inside of my ankle and a long one on the outside; a thick, purple wound running high and deep along my slim, white legs. How had the surgeon managed to fit all that metal inside those small spaces? I must admit, the scars were quite ugly to look at. My cousin had said he wanted to be sick when the staples were removed – what with the puncture holes and bruised skin, my leg looked like a carcass hanging in a butcher’s shop window – but it only fascinated me further.
I no longer wanted to climb trees. I did want to play doctors and nurses. If my mother or father had a hospital appointment, I always asked if I could go with them. I loved watching the way the nurses moved; they were quick, determined and stable in what, from the outside, looked like a tsunami of panic. When children fell in the playground, I was the first there to see the blood and the extent of their injuries. It’s captivating to watch how people react so differently in these situations: scream, cry, panic, ignore it or act brave.
‘And that’s why you did what you did today.’ Adele’s smooth tones bring me back to the present – to my living room – and it’s then I notice the blurry vision that the threat of my tears has conjured. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Abi. You’re a good person. You saved a man today with no discrimination whatsoever, not because you’re a monster but because it’s your job to do so.’
Had I called myself a monster in front of Adele? I shrug and lightly touch her hand. ‘Thank you. I guess it’s just easier to believe the bad stuff when you’re locked in your own memories.’
Adele heaves herself to her feet and laughs. ‘Girl, you need a date.’ I frown while pulling myself up, slightly annoyed that she’s gone to this topic again. She carries on anyway, just as I knew she would. ‘Seriously, you talk about wanting to rescue people since you were the age of five, and how people interest you and all that…’ She mimics me jabbering on with her hand. ‘So why don’t you get out there and meet some new people? Or, Jesus, just get laid and let your hair down. Actually, when was the last time you got some? The night Rose was conceived, I bet.’
She laughs a little too loud and I playfully whack her on the arm. Secretly my stomach flips at the memory of that night and my mind is dragged back to Rose. ‘Come to think of it, you haven’t seen my phone, have you?’
Adele scans the room. I explain I haven’t got my phone, and that I can’t remember seeing it since we were on shift. I so badly want to chat to Rose – it’s been lovely having Adele here, but the anxiety of not returning my daughter’s call has come back with a vengeance.
‘Let me order this Uber and then you can use my phone to give that lovely daughter of yours a quick bell, just to reassure her the Double A Team are fine.’ Adele rolls her eyes at the nickname she claims to hate, but she can’t hide the smirk while tapping away at her phone.
When I finally have her mobile in my hand, I panic – I don’t know Rose’s number off by heart. That’s shameful of a mother, isn’t it?
‘It’s stored in my phone,’ Adele says, obviously understanding the reasoning behind my hesitation. ‘I’ll just grab my coat.’
It goes to voicemail. I don’t even get to hear Rose’s voice – she hates the sound of her own voice on machines and has left the mechanical woman in place to give instructions. I’m about to hang up but have second thoughts and decide to leave a message. It’s late and I was a student once. She’s either cramming for an assignment or drinking in the student union. Probably the latter. A message from me after the news today will be a welcome one, whatever time she gets it.
When I join Adele in the hallway, where she waited to give me privacy to make the call, I notice something off with her stance; there’s an attitude oozing out of her, I can tell from the way she stands with her hand placed on her hip, the puckered lips and raised eyebrows.
‘Why did you lie to Rose?’
I instinctively jerk my head backwards. ‘When?’
‘Just now, in your message. You said you’re fine.’ So much for giving me some privacy, hey, Adele. ‘You are far from fine, girl, and it’s okay to be honest about that. Lord knows we’ve had one hell of a shitstorm kinda day.’
My racing heart calms and I release a sigh. ‘Oh, that. Right. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Besides, it’s okay to sometimes bend the truth if it means you’re protecting the person you love.’
Adele relaxes her judging posture and opens the front door. ‘Hmm, okay, but who’s protecting you?’ she says, leaning in to peck me on the cheek.
She closes the door softly behind her and, just like that, I’m left to the quiet and emptiness of my home again.
Chapter 5
In my mind, today is a normal shift just like any other Saturday, except for the fact I saved a terrorist’s life yesterday and had a draining debriefing about the whole event this morning. Dave insisted Adele and I go home, take a break and clear our heads before returning next week. I won’t lie, I was surprised when Adele accepted his offer. Mainly because she’s the joker, the smiley one who always drags others out of their dark abysses of self-doubt or worry or stress. However, and I know this from personal experience, there are some people who radiate constant sunshine and happiness on the outside but secretly, deep down where no one can see, they are battling their own storms. They are the strongest people I know. To make you feel better, they sacrifice their own fears and pain by pushing them to the back of their mind and locking them away… but we all know those secret dungeons have a way of opening the chained door eventually.
I’m pleased Adele’s taking time for herself to get over what happened in London yesterday. These events affect everyone differently. The fact I’m still at work doesn’t mean it hasn’t touched my soul, or that I don’t want to cry every time I see that murderer’s face – my skin tingles as hot as blisters when I think of his limp grip around my wrist – it just means I’d be worse off at home. Alone. My only company would be thoughts and memories of yesterday: the blood, the confused faces in the crowds, the sounds of tears, loved one’s screams, machine guns and news helicopters. I love my job – it can be thrilling and addictive and rewarding – and since Rose went to university it�
��s the only thing I have in my life. It’s the reason I get out of bed every day, and although it can be full of sadness and trauma, there have certainly been times it’s brought a smile to my face like no other job would have the power to. I’ve delivered babies, talked patients down from the ledge of suicide and heard the sigh of relief from family members when I’ve saved their mother, father, child or partner. Days like those bring sunshine to my world. They lighten the crushing weight of loneliness I sometimes feel, and it’s worthwhile. I’m hoping for one of those days on this shift.
‘Hey, Abi, didn’t expect to see you here today.’ Laura’s suddenly standing in front of me, smiling. ‘I saw Adele leave ages ago.’
I return the smile. Laura’s a nice girl – and I can call her that because I think she’s similar in age to my daughter – and just starting out on her paramedic’s journey. She’s always bright and helpful, regardless of the time, situation or mood. Like everyone else, she probably thinks I’m nuts for not going home after the debriefing.
‘I prefer to keep my mind busy.’
‘Oh, no, I totally get what you mean. That was a difficult Friday night,’ she says, and pulls her blonde hair from the tight bun it’s been wrapped up in during her shift. ‘Even though the attack happened yesterday, the pubs and clubs were crawling with people last night as always.’ She waves a hand, dismissing her own comments, and shakes her head, quickly realising this isn’t something that needs any explanation to an old hat like me. I’ve worked my fair share of weekend night shifts in this city and they can be manic, to say the least. ‘Anyway, I need to head off home and have a long soak and sleep the evening away,’ Laura continues as she rolls her head from one side to the other, stretching the muscles in her neck – a movement I’m all too familiar with as it brings some relief to our strained bodies after a shift. ‘Did you get your phone?’
‘Pardon?’ I ask, and in the same moment hate myself for not thinking of it sooner.
‘I helped clean and restock the van last night and found a mobile in one of the door pockets. Adele said it was yours just before she left the station.’
And so the shift does begin with the buzz I need. ‘Oh, Laura, you’re an absolute bloody star. I realised last night I didn’t have it at home and didn’t even think if I’d put it in the ambulance.’
Laura, at least fifteen years my junior, frowns. ‘I would have noticed the moment I stepped out of here.’ She taps her trouser pocket. ‘I can’t do without Facebook and WhatsApp. Does that make me sound awful?’
Her bright emerald eyes look tired and the frown deepens on her tanned skin – except Laura doesn’t come across as judgemental any more, this look is born out of uncertainty of her own priorities. I feel bad.
‘Don’t be silly. If I had more people to chat to, I’m sure I wouldn’t have left it behind.’ I giggle. It’s fake, but has the desired effect on the younger woman, who laughs too, and then rattles on about social media being a necessary obsession in everyone’s lives.
Finally, she tells me where my mobile’s been left and says goodbye. I glance around, still waiting for Dave to join me – one of the boss’s conditions of me finishing my shift is that I team up with him. It’ll certainly be different. Anyway, he’s still not here, so I leg it back to the office and hunt down my mobile phone.
How sad; Rose’s two missed calls have only been joined by a notification of a voicemail, probably from my daughter too. That’s all. Twenty-four hours without my phone, a terrorist attack in the city where I work and live, and no one feels the need to check in with me. But it’s my own fault, I guess… distancing myself from my friends was a personal decision. Twenty-one years ago, when I finally made the choice to keep the baby growing inside me, I also made the choice that she would be my main focus in life. Followed by my work, of course, but there would be no time or space for anything or anyone else.
I can only imagine that when Adele checked her phone after we left the scene yesterday it was pinging with notifications. Text messages, missed calls, Facebook Messenger and WhatsApp messages aplenty. She’s a woman surrounded by family and friends who want to know she’s safe, and she deserves to be. Unlike me, Adele is a wonderful, honest person.
God! What is wrong with me? I haven’t been this hard on myself since Mum went into the hospice… I have to stop.
The voicemail is from Rose, just as I predicted. Her voice is muffled and it’s hard to understand what she’s saying. The timestamp on the notification must be about the same time I arrived at the mosque yesterday. As the information would have already been on the news, and Rose knows my work patterns and shifts, she would have assumed that I’d be called to some part of the city to assist during the attack. Her tone doesn’t sound like she’s worried; it’s more like she’s scared. I press play to hear it again.
I definitely hear the name Dylan, and that he’s found out. Who the hell is Dylan, and what’s he found out? Rose sounds panicked. She mentions Penny too, and the pair spending time together. At least I know that one: Penny is one of her housemates in the house she shares with four other female students. Why is she talking so fast? And why is it so bloody muffled? Rather than listening to the useless message again, I decide to phone her back.
I wander towards the exit and hope Dave isn’t stood by the van as I press call and wait for it to connect. The ringing sound buzzes in my ear for a nanosecond before cutting to her voicemail again. Fuck’s sake, damn voicemail!
‘Abi, category one. We’re up. Come on, let’s go,’ Dave shouts at me as he walks towards the van, and the look on his face is one of pure impatience, as if he’s been yelling at me for ages.
I have no choice but to slip the phone in my pocket and jump in the passenger seat of the ambulance. He reels off the information about our first job together and something inside me switches. I’ve never put Rose to the back of my thoughts, but I’ve learnt to move her slightly to the side of them when I’m at work. Realistically, she has her own life living away from home, enjoying university, and has been gone for nearly a year now. I have to accept that. It’s difficult… a difficult feeling and a difficult emotion to describe. I mean, you want your children to grow into well-rounded adults, fend for themselves and enjoy life’s experiences and adventures, of course you do, but when they leave, they take a part of you with them. A part of your heart is missing. Yes, that’s a huge cliché. Damn, it’s the truth; I cried every night for at least a week when Rose moved to Brighton. It’s not even a million miles away, but she wasn’t with me and it hurt like hell. Still does. Well, it stings. It was after she left when I understood how my parents must have felt when I packed my bags for Scotland.
A shiver snakes down my back. Scotland is something I’d rather not think about at all, although sometimes, particularly late at night when I’m alone, it’s hard to think of anything but. And so, I do what I do best and push my job to the forefront of my mind, knowing it will keep me busy enough until the end of my shift. After returning to London from university, and giving birth to Rose, I knew the only way to redeem myself for what happened in Scotland was to spend my life helping others. And right now, we were on our way to see a child who was having difficulty breathing and needed my full concentration.
Chapter 6
Six minutes after receiving the initial 999 call, we pull onto a road which looks more like a street preparing for Notting Hill Carnival than it does a quiet cul-de-sac estate in the heart of Belsize Park. Kids and adults are waving us down, fear etched on their faces, clamouring for our attention. As I climb down from the ambulance and grab my green response bag from the van’s side cupboard, it’s hard to make any sense of their cries of panic.
‘This way, quickly.’ A burly man pushes through the crowd blocking the pathway to the terraced house. Number sixteen – the one we need. ‘It’s my niece, she’s stopped breathing,’ he continues as he thrusts the people aside effortlessly. It’s stereotypical to say all muscular bald men are bouncers, but it’s exactly how he makes m
e feel as we’re ushered into the front door with no hassle.
‘Hello, paramedics are here,’ Dave calls out from behind me, his voice loud and clear to announce our arrival to anyone else in the house. I simply follow the uncle on a mission in front of me and the sounds of whimpering.
It’s hard to ignore the balloons and happy birthday banners, as well as the tons of sweets I’m trying not to crush into the carpet – obvious wins from the broken and beaten-up unicorn piñata on the floor. What was obviously a scene filled with laughter, celebrations, children and music just moments earlier has quickly been replaced with dread, alarm and tears.
‘Please, we’re in here!’ A woman’s screams echo through the house and the bouncer-like uncle leads us off to the left, as if he’s following the trail of sweets beneath our feet.
A young woman with a stylish blonde bob is kneeling on the floor, wailing as she cradles a little girl with blonde curls stuck to her forehead, rocking her back and forth in a trembling motion. Even while my mind takes in all this information, my body reacts to the crisis in front of me like a mechanical robot. It knows what to do in an emergency, even when I feel like my brain isn’t communicating the necessary actions. My response bag is on the floor and I’m trying to pry the little girl out of the woman’s grasp.
‘She’s not breathing. S-s-she choked.’ The woman stumbles over her own words and releases the girl to me.
‘I’m Abi and this is Dave. What’s the girl’s name?’
The woman continues to cry. The uncle steps forward and lifts her off the floor, shielding her view with his broad chest, and answers my question. ‘Her name’s Tilly. This is her mum, my sister. Tilly’s six years old. Today. This is her birthday party.’
‘Tilly, can you hear me?’ I call out, knowing she can’t. The red flush on her cheeks and pale lips tell me everything. The family are right. The little girl isn’t breathing. ‘Do you know what happened?’