Chapter 10: Tim

14 February 2000

‘Just pop in here and we’ll dab on a bit of make-up, stop you going all shiny on camera.’

Joel hesitates in the doorway.

‘Come on, Joel,’ I say. ‘After broken ribs and cardiac surgery, I’m sure you can handle going on TV.’

He gives me a dirty look but steps into the room. Bulbs surround a giant mirror, and our reflections are pale, Joel’s most of all.

The researcher opens a drawer and pulls out a towel, a pot of orange powder and a big brush. I wonder how many other people’s bacteria and dead skin cells linger on the bristles. But I check our faces in the mirror – no signs of lesions or spots, which means the infection risk is minimal.

The researcher drapes the towel over the front of Kerry’s red velvet dress, which makes her breasts look even bigger. I look away. They torture me, make me forget we’re meant to be friends. I must find out which part of the brain is responsible. It might help me feel less dirty.

The powder smells of vanilla and musk, though the musk might be caused by other people’s sebum. Kerry’s face is now tangerine, but she looks older, more together.

If only I could go back to how I felt about her before we started sixth form. Finding her attractive is inconvenient. No, it’s agonizing. Sometimes I think we’d make an excellent couple, in the future, but other times I catch her looking at me as though she can’t stand the sight of me.

‘You next.’

‘Don’t you have professionals to do this?’ I ask.

‘The presenters do. And the famous people. But you’re kids,’ the researcher says. She’s only a few years older than we are. ‘This is your fifteen minutes of fame. Enjoy it while it lasts’

I close my eyes as the powder rains down on my face, trying not to inhale. When I open my eyes again, my skin is matte in the mirror, like the corpses in my Edwardian anatomy book. It’s not surprising no one fancies me.

‘Now you . . . ah.’ The researcher looks down at the orangey shade of the make-up and back up at Joel’s ghostly face. She’s only just realized how ridiculous the shade will look on him. ‘You can probably go without.’

I bet the TV people will like that. The sicker he looks, the better the story.

Joel shrugs. He doesn’t seem to care about anything, certainly not being in a TV studio to talk about being the Millennium Miracle.

They’ve put in an implantable cardioverter defibrillator, which will give him an instant shock if he suffers another arrhythmia. It’s incredible technology, and I’ve been trying to talk Kerry into asking Joel to let me take a look, but she says I’m being ghoulish. Which is not true: surely it’d only be ghoulish if he was actually dead.

I talked about the ICD when I went for my interview at Sussex Med School. That, and the resuscitation and my involvement, and how it had confirmed how strongly I feel about becoming a doctor. I’m pretty sure it tipped the balance. But I still have to get the grades and while hard work gets you Bs, only brilliant minds like Kerry’s are guaranteed triple As.

‘Once we get onto the studio floor, please keep as quiet as possible because we’re broadcasting live,’ the researcher says.

Inside, it’s smaller than I expected. Camera rigs slide around on wheels, circling the set. There’s an L-shaped sofa in front of a fake window lit with fake sunshine. To the side, I see a raised circular podium and a kitchen area where a moon-faced chef is currently showing the two presenters how to burn custard in a heart-shaped dish using a blowtorch.

The burned sugar fumes catch in my throat.

‘. . . and we’ll be back after the break, with a review of Toy Story 2, plus the incredible story of how a teenage kiss helped to save the life of a brilliant young footballer.’

I catch Kerry’s eye. Where did they get that from? For the first time in weeks, I remember the story we’ve been telling about what happened that night is just that: a story.

No. It’s worse than that. A collection of lies.

‘And we’re off-air. Reset, please. Can someone get rid of all this bloody smoke? We have three minutes sixteen.’

Staff with headsets and clipboards appear from nowhere. One ushers out the chef, another turns on a noisy extractor above the hob. The researcher tells us where to sit on the yellow sofa. ‘Kerry in the middle, please, Joel nearest the presenters, Tom at the end.’

‘My name is Tim,’ I say, but quietly. While the female presenter’s make-up is retouched – no universal orange powder for her – her co-host and husband greets us with presidential handshakes.

‘Guys, it’s great to have you here. And especially you, Joel. What a story! We’ve worked with your mother over the years; we couldn’t believe you’d got sick, but you’re looking in great shape, really great.’

Joel does not look in great shape. It’s only six weeks since his heart stopped, and four since they implanted the box.

The female presenter joins us. My mum loves them, though Joel’s mother was less complimentary on the journey up. They cater to the lowest common denominator, but at least it’ll get the first-aid message out to the widest possible audience.

‘I couldn’t have done what you two did,’ the woman gushes, giving each of us a hug in turn. Her cheek brushes against mine, the skin damp.

‘It’ll be over before you know it,’ the man is saying, as he smooths down his hair with his fingers. ‘You’ll forget the cameras are even there. It’s just a relaxed conversation.’

The musical jingle is playing and the man with the biggest headset is counting down with his fingers.

‘Off we go,’ the woman presenter whispers out of the side of her mouth.

‘Welcome back to our Valentine’s special! We have the most incredible story for you now, one to restore your faith in teenagers, the NHS and the power of a kiss.’

A red light appears on the top of a camera facing us. Someone should have told us whether to look joyful or deadly serious.

‘Yes, while the rest of us were celebrating the millennium, talented teenage footballer Joel Greenaway was literally fighting for his life – and, astonishingly, it was two of his old school pals who came to his rescue. Kerry Smith was the first to notice something was wrong, right, Kerry?’

I can’t breathe. She’s stuck to my story since I begged her to, and so have all the witnesses: they saw us both working on Joel, and memory is malleable. But it’s one thing Kerry telling a white lie for my sake. It’s another repeating it to millions of people . . .

‘Tim and I spotted it at the same time. We all used to go to the same school so we were out celebrating in a big gang. The lads were playing football and I just . . .’ She’s blushing now, from the studio lights. ‘I happened to be watching when Joel collapsed.’

‘No warning, nothing?’ the man asks.

‘One minute he was running and the next . . .’

‘Do you remember that moment, Joel?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

They wait for more, but he’s finished answering their question. You’d think they would ask better ones, all the years they’ve been interviewing people.

‘Now what probably saved Joel’s life was that Kerry, and also Tim here, are both first-aiders, right?’

I nod. ‘St John Ambulance cadets, yes. We plan to be doctors. We both have offers from medical schools so we’re revising hard to make sure we get the grades needed.’

The woman beams at me. ‘Amazing. So, which of you two made the diagnosis?’

Kerry shoots me a terrified look. I answer for her. ‘First aid isn’t about diagnosis, it’s about assessing vital signs and stabilizing the patient so he or she can get to hospital. Joel was in the worst state possible, not breathing or responding. He was effectively dead.’

‘Gosh, you know your stuff, Tim,’ the woman says, leaning forward. ‘Which means the only way to bring him back to life was with mouth to mouth, am I right?’

No. I am about to correct her, because this kind of misinformation could endanger patients, not help them. But Kerry is finally talking.

‘Well, that and CPR. That’s chest compressions, to keep the blood going to his brain.’

‘But you did give him the kiss of life, too?’ the man insists.

Kerry blushes. ‘We call them rescue breaths. It’s not . . . not like a normal kiss—’

‘Unless a normal kiss involves pinching your partner’s nostrils and blowing hard enough to make their lungs inflate,’ I say to help her out. A joke, on national TV. Mum will be proud.

The presenters laugh, then the guy continues, ‘And all this is going on literally while the new millennium is starting?’

‘There were fireworks going off,’ Kerry says, ‘though we hardly noticed them.’

‘I hear you were also at this young man’s bedside when he opened his eyes?’

Kerry nods.

‘Would you like to tell us about that, Joel?’

Joel frowns. ‘I’d no idea where I was or what had happened. It was horrible.’

After another slight pause, the woman leans forward again. ‘And you’ve had a pacemaker fitted to make sure your heart won’t play up again?’

I have to correct her. ‘Actually, it’s a defibrillator—’

The presenter’s eyes are stony as she ignores me. ‘And, Joel, are you back on the pitch yet?’

Silence.

‘Joel?’ Kerry says softly.

‘I’m getting my fitness back. I’ll be playing again by spring.’

If he believes that, he’s even dimmer than I thought.

‘Now,’ says the man, ‘this is our Valentine’s Day special, and our viewers will be wondering if this heart-warming Millennium Miracle has a happy ending. A little bird told me that what happened on New Year’s Eve might just have been Kerry’s very first kiss . . .?’

No. Oh no.

‘You’re a very bad man, Alastair, to ask a girl a question like that.’ The woman slaps his knee. ‘But I will ask a more delicate version. Is there any romance in the air? After all, this is the girl who helped to save your life.’

What are they playing at?

Joel sighs. ‘I’ve got football, I’m too busy for a girlfriend.’

A disembodied hand passes the biggest bouquet of roses I have ever seen to the male presenter. ‘Ah well, football comes first. But we did think you might like to thank Kerry with these?’ He hands them to Joel, who looks as though someone has just put a baby alligator in his arms.

He almost throws them at Kerry. ‘Thanks for doing what you did.’

The woman presenter claps her hands in delight. ‘Now, how about a little peck on the cheek? I think it’s the least this girl deserves.’

If he kisses her now, I don’t know if I will be able to stop myself knocking him out . . .

Kerry shakes her head. ‘The flowers are enough, thanks.’

She doesn’t want Joel to kiss her. I grin at her over the top of the bouquet. The lights are already making the petals curl up at the edges, but the scent is intense.

Maybe it’s a sign that Kerry does feel the same way about me.

That all is not lost.