25 December 2017
I wake to a dark winter morning, and Joel is there: a mud-covered scarecrow.
‘Merry Christmas, Kerry Smith.’
‘Merry Christmas, Joel Greenaway.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Pretty out of it. Did you sleep here? You didn’t have to stay.’
‘I did and I did.’ He smiles. ‘But I ought to go now you’ve woken up; Leo might be thirteen, but he still likes his dad there for present-opening.’
I smile. ‘Who doesn’t?’
But I don’t want him to go. I don’t ever want to let him out of my sight again.
‘Is there any news?’
‘I checked on Emily,’ he says, ‘she had a good night.’
The little girl had ruptured her spleen in the accident, but the shock took a while to kick in, enough time for her to get lost. She’ll be too poorly to celebrate Christmas, but her family are with her on the ward, and Santa will no doubt make a special trip when she’s feeling better.
I was right about my own fractured shoulder too – it’ll probably need surgery – but I missed my matching dislocated ankle, which has earned me a night on the orthopaedic ward, to keep an eye on the circulation. My parents dropped in last night with Marilyn, and they got cross with each other over nothing when, underneath, they were furious with me.
Not as angry as I am with myself. I cringe thinking about what I did. In the context of a major incident that claimed four lives, my injuries could have diverted attention from more serious cases. Walking off like that was a major breach of protocol. There will be consequences at work . . .
Joel leans over to kiss me on the cheek and the sheet turns grey from the dirt and grime on his hair and face. ‘Do you want me to come back later?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’
After breakfast, the WRVS ladies come round. They’re wearing Santa hats, handing out shoeboxes lined with Christmas paper and filled with lavender soaps and hand cream.
I thank them. Yesterday’s tragedy has made me appreciate every kindness.
Yet as I lie in bed, my shoulder and ankle start to throb – I’m due more analgesia. Everything seems to darken as the pain deepens.
It’s over with Marek. The moment I heard Joel’s voice as I lay in that ditch I understood why I’ve never committed to anyone else. I texted Marek on my sister’s phone last night saying I’d been hurt at work, but not badly enough for him to cut his holiday short. When he’s home, I’ll try to explain. I care about him, but he’s not Joel.
It has always been Joel.
Except what if it’s not, even now? What if he’s with someone?
The thought is worse than the pain. When Zoë died, he said he’d met a woman, but that was over three years ago. I close my eyes. Please let him be free after all this time . . .
‘Dr Smith.’
My eyes snap open. Shit. It’s the director of the air ambulance charity, sitting by my bed. How long has he been there? I’ve only met him twice before, and from the expression on his face, he’s not delivering a Christmas present.
‘Mr Sawyer. Hi. I hope you didn’t make a special trip.’ My mouth is dry and the words come out thick and unclear.
‘This has been a busy night on duty for all of us,’ he says. ‘Are you in pain, Kerry?’
‘The meds are keeping it under control.’
‘Good. Well, in any case, I’ll be leaving you a letter in case your memory is affected. I’m afraid I’m here to tell you that you’re temporarily suspended. It’s slightly academic, given your injuries, but we will be aiming to investigate and adjudicate as quickly as possible.’
Gwen and the paramedics always say he’s a jobsworth, but I don’t blame him for sounding pissed off.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘I know it was the wrong thing to do, I should have got help immediately.’
‘Or not gone walkabout in the first place. The rules are there for a reason, as you discovered. And now you’re plastered all over the news as some hero, it makes us all look like bloody idiots. Hence the disrepute clause in the letter.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You really haven’t seen it yet? Ah, yes, I remember. You wrecked your radio and your phone due to your rash actions.’ He drops his iPhone into the tray table as though it’s contaminated. ‘Go on, search for yourself.’
As I type my name in one-handed, Google is completing my search with the name ‘Joel Greenaway’.
The top result takes me to a YouTube video, which buffers forever. I go back, to a report posted by BBC Online. The image pixelates but the voiceover is clear.
‘In the midst of the terrible scenes at the Sussex train derailment last night, there was a moving fragment of hope. Air ambulance doctor Kerry Smith located a young child who’d fallen into a dangerously swollen river after being separated from her grandmother in the chaos.’
The video keeps freezing but I can make out enough to realize that it’s switched from aerial footage to something more close-up.
I recognize myself, holding Emily’s hand as she’s being moved onto a spinal board, ready to be lifted out.
How the hell did they get this?
‘Dr Smith fell down the bank and sustained fractures that left her unable to climb out and raise the alarm. But in an uplifting twist, it was TV presenter Joel Greenaway – there filming a documentary about the fire service – who first located Dr Smith and her young patient.
‘This remarkable footage shows the rescue, as Dr Smith supported the little girl, despite her own injuries.’
I look up at Sawyer. ‘But I didn’t know anyone was filming . . .’
He shakes his head.
The images change again, and I force myself to keep watching.
‘And as soon as the video was posted on social media, viewers spotted another connection between Dr Smith and Mr Greenaway, who presents Secrets of Wellbeing on BBC2. Eighteen years ago, the two hit the headlines as teenagers, when Joel suffered a cardiac arrest in his hometown of Brighton, and Dr Smith, then studying for her A levels, saved his life.’
I cringe as they play a terrible clip from that daytime TV show all those years ago. The item ends with a trailer for Joel’s forthcoming show, and it’s all I can do not to throw the phone across the ward.
How dare he turn a tragedy into a PR opportunity. There was true heroism yesterday, I’m sure, but it definitely didn’t involve me.
This was why he was at the scene of the disaster, wasn’t it? There was no mystical completion of the circle of life. No debt repaid. Instead, he got the kind of self-promotion that will boost his career – and might cost me mine.
‘Mr Sawyer, all I can say is sorry.’
He takes his phone back. ‘It is highly unfortunate. Bad enough that you disregarded health and safety, but to have that misjudgement turn into a media circus will make us a laughing stock. The charge of disrepute allows for termination of contract and I have to tell you, I will be recommending that.’ He stands up. ‘Get well soon, doctor.’
I won’t cry. My situation is trivial compared to the suffering of the four families of the train passengers who died. Instead I am angry. I wish . . . I wish I had never loved Joel, never trusted him. I wish I had never saved his fucking life.