Jevon left them to it and retreated to the phone he’d left propped up on a stack of crates. Rhys was there, like he had been every morning for the past week, eating what looked suspiciously like Coco Pops while he lounged in bed after a long night shift.
Grinning, Jevon jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Are you seeing this?”
“Syria’s Got Talent?” Rhys nodded. “Yeah. Weird that they’re all so fly. Where did they come from?”
“Originally? I’m not sure. I know they sailed in from Turkey, but I don’t know which part of Syria they came from.”
“Ask them,” Rhys said. “I read about the last performing arts institution in Aleppo being bombed a few weeks ago. Maybe they came from there.”
“I doubt it. I can’t imagine that anyone would be left in Aleppo by now.”
But when Jevon left Rhys to sleep and struck up a conversation with the older children in the group, it turned out that Rhys’s musing had been right on the money. “It’s fucking criminal,” Jevon fumed to the leader of the Médecins sans Frontières group they were sharing living quarters with. “Why are they still bombing civilian areas?”
Anton shrugged. “You’re asking me to make sense of what’s happening in Syria? We could talk about it for the rest of our lives and never understand.”
Jevon growled and flopped down on the camp bed he’d claimed as his own. “Have you heard from your people at Idomeni? Ours got kicked out a week ago.”
It was Anton’s turn to growl. “We’ve got a team on the ground, but they’re being kept back at the roadblocks while they clear the camp. God knows when they’ll be able to link up with the DPs again.”
DPs: displaced people. It sounded so clinical, and Jevon was glad he hadn’t been around to see the Idomeni camp dismantled. To wave helplessly at children as they were herded onto rickety buses bound for who knew where. At least in Lesbos they sometimes got to the children before the authorities, smuggling toys and sweets into their sodden pockets.
Anton was called away. Jevon claimed ownership of his still warm cup of muddy coffee and lay back on his bed, itching to call Rhys again but forcing himself to wait until later. Rhys seemed to be working around the clock right now, and he needed rest. A lot of rest if the shadows smudged beneath his eyes were anything to go by.
Not that Jevon could talk. Local tensions surrounding the camp were spilling out every night now—protests, flares, soldiers, and police with dogs. Last night, it had got to the point where Jevon and his team had brought the youngest children into the staff tent, sitting up until dawn with half a dozen toddlers each to care for. Only the prospect of calling Rhys at sunrise had kept Jevon sane.
Sleep was his only true respite, but his dozing was interrupted a little while later by Anton coming back from the medical tents.
“Don’t suppose you know how to stick an IV, do you?”
“Me?” Jevon cracked an eye open. “Nah. Sorry, mate. I’ve only done that basic Red Cross course.”
Anton sighed. “Shame. I reckon you’d be a better nurse than you are a clown.”
It was Anton’s way to fill any time he spent with Jevon and his troop drolly informing them how distinctly unfunny they were. The banter passed the time when the generator failed and the water system clogged, but it was different now. The humour was laced with a graveness that drove Jevon to sit up. “What’s going on?”
“The reinforcements I was expecting to arrive this week aren’t going to get here.”
“They’re delayed?”
“Nope. They’re just not coming. Something’s kicked off somewhere else so they’ve been sent there instead. There’s no money to bring anyone else over, so we just have to make do.”
“There’s no volunteers?”
“None that we haven’t taken full advantage of already. I might be able to rustle up a couple of docs in the next few months, but it’s nurses I need and medical assistants, particularly ones with paediatric experience.”
Jevon recalled the moment he’d spun around in the Bedford hospital to see Haya climbing up Rhys’s legs. “What about paramedics?”
Anton nodded. “I’d marry one about now if it got them on a plane. Why? You know of anyone? Or a secret stash of paediatric antibiotics I could raid?”
“Maybe.” But Jevon left it at that as madness began to take hold in his brain. Anton wandered off again, and Jevon retrieved his phone from under his pillow. The Wi-Fi wasn’t working well enough for FaceTime, so he sent Rhys a message.
J: Random long shot . . . MSF is in desperate need of medics and paediatric drugs. Any chance you fancy a change of scenery?
R: When do you need an answer? Got to find some info first.
Jevon read the message for the thousandth time over the two weeks since Rhys had sent it, his heart skipping a brand new beat every time he considered the implications—the possibility that Rhys could join him at the camp in Lesbos. The application process for MSF took too long, but another NGO working with them on site had a faster system and had bitten Jevon’s hand off when he’d passed them Rhys’s details.
It seemed too good to be true. And there it was. Good. The word was so ironic it burned. The prospect of Rhys coming over filled Jevon with emotions he couldn’t describe, but there was conflict too. Life on the camp was horrendous and growing worse every day. Did Jevon truly want Rhys to see the things he’d seen? Babies dying in tents? Dead children washing up on beaches?
It’s Rhys’s decision. But it didn’t seem to matter how many times Jevon told himself that or even reminded himself that Rhys had seen plenty of horrors of his own, the war in his heart remained. A war that had sparked the moment they’d first kissed all those weeks ago. Months ago. A lifetime ago.
Jevon reflexively touched his lips, tracing them with the pad of his thumb. They tingled like they always did when he gave into memories that made his dick hard. Thankfully, he was alone in the living quarters, but he rolled over all the same, squashing the bulge in his trousers. He missed Rhys’s touch like a drowning man missed air, but it ran deeper than sex, even with the sensation of Rhys finally pushing inside him still raw in his mind. Fuck. Jevon closed his eyes as desire pulsed through him. His yearning for Rhys was far more than physical, but the craving for that mind-blowing sensation haunted Jevon every free moment he wasn’t distracted by something else.
Like talking to Rhys on the phone, on FaceTime, or texting him.
Jevon tapped out of WhatsApp and attempted a FaceTime call. The Wi-Fi failed for video, but the audio call went through until it failed to connect at Rhys’s end. Disappointment weighed heavily in Jevon’s bones. It was Saturday afternoon, and Rhys was on nights. Jevon would’ve regretted waking him up, but every snatched contact was precious. Missing one felt like the end of the world.
An inexplicable dread settled over Jevon. He sat up, boner forgotten, and rubbed his chest to disperse it, but agitation took hold of him instead. He’d been scheduled a rest afternoon, but suddenly the idea of spending the next four hours alone was awful.
He abandoned his bed, dressed in his least dirty clown clothes, and left the tent. The FFP big top was a five-minute unicycle ride away—three, if he avoided the sludge, and when he got there, he found a rowdy game of stuck-in-the-mud in full swing.
The noise and the joy you only saw in children when they ran without a care in the world was a welcome distraction. Jevon ditched his unicycle and joined in, scooping up the smaller children and dashing around the tent with them, shouting, whooping, and celebrating tiny victories as though they were changing the world. Because laughter did change the world, if only for a moment.
After the third game, the session leaders called a timeout to distribute juice and snacks. Jevon sat with the acrobat children from Aleppo. He’d grown close to them in the fortnight since they’d arrived, and they seemed drawn to him too—and Rhys, when they’d worked out that Jevon was talking to someone whenever he retreated to the corner with his phone.
The oldest bo
y—spokesman for the tight knit group—nudged Jevon’s arm. “Can we talk to the orange man?”
Jevon chuckled. He’d yet to tell Rhys about the nickname his flight suit had earned him. “You mean Rhys? I don’t know. I think he might be at work.”
The children continued to stare expectantly, reminding Jevon that Rhys being at work had proved no barrier to communication in the past. A tour of the rooftop base and the air ambulance had kept fifteen children crowded around Jevon’s phone for forty-five minutes a few days ago, before they’d broken form to put on a show for Rhys and his colleagues. “Seriously, guys. We can try, but don’t get upset if he can’t talk, okay? Rhys has a very important job.”
They made the call. Rhys didn’t pick up, and the kids wandered off, but Jevon stayed on the floor, picking idly at a leftover packet of raisins, trying not to scrutinise the time and wonder what Rhys was doing to stop him answering the phone. Jevon had told the kids he was probably working, but it wasn’t like Rhys to let two calls go by without some kind of response, even if it was a one-word text.
And it wasn’t like Jevon to fret over something so ridiculous either. He finished the raisins and hauled himself to his feet. Daft twat. There were all kinds of reasons why Rhys might not have called back. The fact that Jevon had lost the ability to think of any was irrelevant. Or maybe it wasn’t. Huh. Perhaps he did need those rest hours after all.
Jevon was on his way out of the big top when Anton appeared, carrying a baby that had come off the same boat as the Aleppo acrobats. “Oh, hey.” Jevon took the baby and fitted her to his hip. “I thought she was too poorly to come and play?”
“She was yesterday,” Anton said. “But we got a surprise shipment of antibiotics overnight. A donation from The Royal London Hospital.”
Royal London was where Rhys was based. Where the air ambulance he worked on took off from every day. Coincidence? Rhys hadn’t mentioned talking to hospital bosses, but he knew about the shortages the camp medical teams were facing. Knew how a simple resupply would keep hundreds of people alive long enough to continue their journeys. God, I love him.
Jevon relieved Anton of the baby for a while and took her to the magic show he’d been planning on skipping. With many of the children tired from a rambunctious afternoon, the performance was light and easy and filled with gentle laughter that made the baby girl hiccup with glee.
She was still smiling when Jevon returned her to her family a little while later.
And Rhys still wasn’t answering his phone.
J: Everything okay?
Jevon waited for two grey ticks to appear by the message to signal that it had been delivered, but for long minutes there was only one. Tired of fretting, he thrust the phone into his pocket and returned to his bed. His planned nap turned into a restless doze, and when he woke, the evening had turned into night, and temperatures in the camp had dropped. Jevon joined the medical staff passing out blankets and woolly hats to new arrivals, determinedly avoiding his blank phone screen. Camp officials liked children to stay in their assigned tents at night, but that didn’t mean FFP’s work was done.
It was close to midnight by the time Jevon had finished his rounds, sprinkling tiny foil dreamcatchers with “magic” dust. Anton was waiting for him, his face grave.
Jevon’s forced good mood faded. “What’s the matter? Did a boat come in?”
Anton shook his head. “No. It’s not that. Load your news app, Jevon. Something’s happened in London.”
Eighteen
Rhys hadn’t been born with a gut instinct that carried him through a paramedic shift; it had developed over time, nurtured by each and every job. Every patient. Each life he’d held in his hands. Five years deep and he was still learning, but as he dashed across London Bridge, tracking the shouts of panicked police officers, every nerve he had was in overdrive.
“Is there anyone else on scene?” Tarryn, the chopper doc for the shift, shouted ahead.
Rhys tossed a glance over his shoulder. “No. Just the police. LFB are on route.”
“Jesus.”
Rhys concurred. It was rare that a helicopter crew were first on scene, but they’d been on another run when the call had come in, loading their patient into a road ambulance. With the incident just over the bridge from their location, they’d opted to approach on foot, leaving the chopper to take to the sky and find somewhere closer to land.
They reached the other side of the bridge. A policeman called out, and Rhys zeroed in on him, absorbing the carnage. Blood. So much blood. Rhys’s stomach turned over.
He dropped to his knees, hands doing what they were meant to even before his brain had processed the patient’s injuries. “What happened?”
“Knife attack . . . like the last one,” the policeman said. “I’ve got two down here, one at your six and more further into the street to your left.”
“Where’s the attacker?”
“At large. I’m surprised you got this far across the bridge, actually. They’ve just told me no crews are coming in until the area is secure.”
Adrenaline was making the policeman talk so fast he was barely coherent, but Rhys collated the useful information: terror attack, lockdown, no other crews on scene. Shit. He’d worked through previous attacks on the city, but never on the ground with no back up.
He shot Tarryn an urgent glance. “Assess any casualties close by, but don’t go far. We need to tag them and move on.”
“Right.”
Tarryn was ashen, reminding Rhys that it was only her second flight shift. Her anxiety laced the air, so thick he could taste it, but he pushed it away, grabbed her arm, and pointed to the next closest body on the ground. “Take the packs. Assess and tag. It’s all we can do with no transport. The crews that come in behind us will scoop and run.”
Five minutes later, they moved off, leaving three patients under the care of the policeman. Eerie silence greeted them in the next street. Restaurants and bars had locked their doors, and the usually bustling pavements were deserted, save the scattered bodies on the ground.
Rhys black tagged two—a young couple who’d fallen close together. The man had long dreads like Jevon’s, and Rhys’s heart tightened, threatening the barricades he’d thrown up when he’d clocked on shift this afternoon. Unease prickled the back of his neck. Logic told him the scene would burst to life at any moment, be flooded with blue lights and boots on the ground, but right now, even with Tarryn at his back, he’d never felt more exposed.
A noise to the left made him jump. In the distance, sirens wailed and car brakes screeched. Someone yelled for help, and the ghostly silence evaporated like it had never been there at all.
Pub doors opened. People streamed out, covered in blood and carrying people who couldn’t carry themselves. A panicked crowd swarmed Rhys, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “Back up. If you need medical attention, find a safe place to wait and we’ll come to you.”
Eventually. As pieces of a grim jigsaw fit together, Rhys couldn’t see how they’d ever get to everyone crying out for help, and another spike of terror reared in his gut. RTCs, fights, and gang wars had brought him a constant workload, day and night, since he’d hit the streets as a rookie technician years ago, but the sinister sense of something “big” unfolding around him was impossible to ignore.
A conveyor belt of truly horrible trauma unfolded. Rhys triaged one side of the street, Tarryn the other, and with each stab wound and trample injury, it became clear that whoever had wielded the weapon had intended to kill anyone who crossed their path. Neck slashes. Chest punctures.
“There were three of them,” a woman gasped. “They had machetes and carving knives.”
“Easy. You’re safe now.” Rhys repeated the mantra to every soul he touched but believed it less and less the longer he and Tarryn were the only crew on the ground. “We need urgent assistance,” he pleaded into the radio. “There’s too many wounded for us to help.”
Again and again, the message came back: Not
yet. Standby.
They cleared the first road. A policeman armed with a pepper spray and a thin baton accompanied them into the next. More bodies littered the street. A man was in the gutter, blood pouring from a puncture wound to his stomach. Rhys crouched down as the radio on his shoulder crackled to life, speaking in time with the policeman’s, warning them to take cover.
Gunshots rang out, one after another. Crack, crack, crack. Rhys’s whole body cringed, and the policeman grabbed his arm. “We need to get off the streets. Armed police are moving in.”
Rhys pushed Tarryn towards a cafe that had seen them coming and opened its doors. “In there!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
He hauled the injured man up and dragged him towards the cafe as more gunshots pierced the air. A helicopter buzzed above them, and police cars screamed into the street. Rhys pushed Tarryn again, knocking her off balance. She grabbed him to steady herself. He tripped up the kerb, rolled his ankle, and whacked his head on the kerb with a sickening crack.
It’s funny how the concept of time passing can change by the second. One minute, Rhys was stalking the city streets, stuffing stab wounds with gauze, the next he was sitting on a hospital ward with the worst headache in the world, having a meltdown over his misplaced phone.
“Calm down,” Harry said. “We’ll get you another phone.”
Rhys ignored him and rummaged through the flight suit he’d found in a plastic bag by his bed for the hundredth time. Save his ID, his pockets were empty. No wallet, no phone. “Fuck!”
Harry stood and put his hands on Rhys’s shoulders. “Easy. Do you need to call someone? You can use my phone.”
More panic lanced Rhys’s chest. “I don’t have his number. It’s in my phone.”
“Whose number? Jevon’s?”
Rhys nodded, his teeth chattering, even though he wasn’t cold. “I haven’t spoken to him since Friday.”
“It’s barely Sunday now,” Harry said.
Believe: A Skins Novel Page 15
