Since You've Been Gone

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  “I reckon we should go to London Bridge first and check out Guy’s Hospital,” Jermaine says. “It’s huge. And it’s where I was born, so it’s gotta be lucky.”

  “You wish,” I say with a laugh. I look up at the sky. Already the sun is surrendering to an army of grey clouds.

  We’re nearly at the entrance to the car park in front of our block of flats when Jermaine grabs my hand and yanks me down to the ground.

  “What the —” I splutter.

  “Shhh,” Jermaine says, holding a finger to his lips like I have no clue what the word means. I glare at him.

  Ignoring me, he scurries onto a nearby front garden, moving low to the ground with his legs bent like a crab. He waves me over to where he’s squatting behind an overgrown hedge.

  Something’s wrong. I have no idea what Jermaine saw or if what he’s doing, but I run over as quickly as I can and crouch down beside him.

  “They’re there again,” he says, keeping his voice low. He straightens a bit and pulls apart a section of the hedge. “Look.”

  I peer through the bushes, trying to not to poke out my eyes on any of the random branches. The area outside our apartment is empty.

  “Second-row walkway,” Jermaine says. “Looks like they’re knocking on doors and asking the neighbours something.”

  I look again and there they are: yellow-vested, talking to the neighbours who live directly below us. It looks like it could be the man and woman from last time, but from this distance I can’t be one hundred percent sure.

  “Maybe they’re here for some other reason,” I say.

  Jermaine looks at me. “You want to take that chance?”

  I shake my head. Clearly I’m not going to get a change of underwear and the chance to use deodorant today.

  We board a train at New Cross Gate Station. I take the window seat, still nervous that the community officers will find us. I might be slightly paranoid, but considering the life I’ve led with Dad hunting us down all the time, it isn’t surprising.

  Within five minutes an announcement informing us that the train is approaching London Bridge breaks the silence of our ride. Butterflies of anticipation dance inside my stomach.

  “This is us then,” Jermaine says, getting up from his seat.

  I follow him into the aisle. Maybe it’s because it was a Sunday, but the train seems less crowded, with only a smattering of young families and tourists making their way into the city.

  The platform outside the train is more chaotic. Jermaine punches the open button as soon as it lights up and we jump out onto the concrete, nearly falling over a harried-looking mother who’s simultaneously battling her young, teary son and hyperactive dog. Both the boy and the dog appear to have decided they aren’t going to enter the train without a fight.

  The dog, whose wiry grey hair makes it look a lot like a barking toilet brush, wraps its leash around the woman’s ankles as the young boy chases it. As the woman bends down in a desperate attempt to try and untangle herself, I catch a glimpse of something directly behind the commotion that makes my heart stop.

  My dad is standing there.

  Even though it’s been a few years, there’s no doubt it’s him: same spiky black hair (though now receding slightly), same prominent nose that I luckily didn’t inherit, and the same strong, sharp jawline.

  He’s looking at the arrivals and departures screen.

  “We need to get out of here,” I say to Jermaine. I turn back toward the train, hoping to hop back on before the doors slide shut, but it’s too late.

  “Wait!” the woman shouts. She runs over to the train door, dog and child dragging behind her, and begins hammering her fist against the glass. Loads of people turn to see what the commotion is about, including my father.

  And then, just like in the movies, our eyes meet. I’m sure the look of absolute disbelief and shock that washes across his face is mirrored on my own. He begins to move toward me.

  “Run!” I scream at Jermaine. I throw myself in the opposite direction of my father, dashing toward one of the staircases further along the platform.

  I reach the stairs and leap up them two at a time, praying I won’t trip. Jermaine’s beside me within moments.

  “What is it?” he asks breathlessly. I shake my head. I can’t speak; I don’t want to take the risk of slowing us down. My lungs feel like they’re on fire.

  “Edie!” my father shouts from behind us. He isn’t that far behind.

  Jermaine is outpacing me now; his long legs allow him to run much faster. We’re on the upper platforms now, having to weave around suitcase-carrying tourists, elderly people, and hand-holding couples.

  “Get out your Travelcard!” Jermaine shouts over his shoulder to me. He’s reached the turnstiles and is sliding through.

  My Travelcard! I frantically search my pockets.

  “Edie! I just want to talk to you!”

  Unable to help myself, I look back. My father is only a few feet away and closing in fast. My bladder loosens.

  Where is my Travelcard? I check my back pockets. My fingers suddenly feel as large and awkward as sausages. The Travelcard is there. I slide it into the turnstile and run through. Jermaine is still ahead, running past a tiny newspaper stand and out the doors where several black cabs sit idling.

  A rambling, double-decker Vauxhall-bound bus thunders past me, leaving a cloud of exhaust fumes in its wake as I exit the station. Jermaine is waiting for me by two bank machines. As soon as I’m within reach, he grabs my hand and begins to run again in earnest. We reach a crosswalk and he pulls me across just as a black cab is turning into the station, its front bumper missing my legs by inches. The driver leans heavily on his horn.

  “Sorry, mate!” Jermaine shouts.

  I glance back. Dad is behind us, his tie flapping behind his shoulder as he runs.

  “He’s still following us,” I say.

  “Who is he?” Jermaine asks. We reach Borough High Street. Motorcycles and cars whizz by.

  “My father.”

  Without warning, Jermaine leaps into the intersection, taking me with him. A car slams on its brakes.

  “What are you doing?” I scream. “Trying to get us killed?”

  “No time to wait!” Jermaine says breathlessly.

  We reach the other side of the road, bound down a set of stone stairs, and across the front courtyard of an ancient-looking church. Several people eating lunch while lounging on the grass turn and stare.

  Jermaine heads down a narrow, cobblestone alleyway. It’s packed with people. I don’t want to turn around, but hope the crowds will make it harder for my father to continue his pursuit.

  “In here,” Jermaine says, ducking into a dark doorway. Low, horror-movie-type organ music emanates from the building. A sign above the door reads the clink prison museum.

  We make our way down a short flight of steps and press our bodies against one of the walls, trying to make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” I say, reading a sign on the wall near Jermaine’s shoulder. “I can’t believe they’ve made a museum for a prison that was used for torture in the twelfth century.” I shudder, wishing we’d found a different place to hide out.

  “Back to the important stuff, Edie. That was your dad?” Jermaine asks. “Seriously?”

  I nod. “ It’s crazy. But I told you, he has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to Mom and me.”

  “Do you think he followed us from New Cross?”

  I shake my head. “No. He looked too surprised when he spotted me.”

  A man dressed in a medieval costume made of red velvet with gold trim approaches us. He takes off his hat and scratches at an inflamed pimple near his glistening hairline.

  “Are you two coming in or what? Five pound each.”

  “Naw,” Jermaine says. “We just need to hang here for about five minutes. That okay?”

  The man shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t mind. It’s not like I own th
e place.” He turns and trudges back up the stairs.

  “You think maybe your dad is here on holiday?”

  “No way,” I say.

  “Think we’ve lost him?”

  “Who knows,” I reply. I pause for a moment. Here I am, running away again because of Dad. When will it stop? Will I be running with my own children someday?

  “Actually, I want to find him,” I say. “Mom is gone and I’m sure he’s got something to do with it. I’m tired of letting him terrorize us and control my life. It’s time for him to be the hunted.” I turn and head up the museum stairs.

  Jermaine grabs my shoulders and turns me around. “Edie, are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Of course I don’t want to do this. But what choice do I have? I’m done running.”

  He leans in and kisses me. “Then I’m right beside you. Let’s give your dad some payback.”

  We emerge back out into the narrow laneway.

  “I think we should keep moving in the same direction,” Jermaine says. “He was pretty close behind us and likely passed us.”

  We’ve only taken a few steps when the screaming starts.

  CHAPTER 27

  Most people run away from random screaming. Visions of out-of-control gunmen, raging fire, or other kinds of danger usually spring to mind and most people’s instinct for self-preservation kicks in. Jermaine, on the other hand, begins running toward the screams. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I follow him anyway, not wanting to be left alone.

  We’re right by a chicken restaurant when we hear the woman’s cries for help. As her shrieks cut through the air like a razor, people sitting outside the restaurant, chicken wings and chicken wraps halfway to their mouths, just sit, kind of frozen.

  “What the —” I say, but Jermaine is already running toward an elevated patio filled with umbrella-topped tables. A black metal railing separates the patio from the river. And there, at the railing, a woman stands screaming in despair. A fair-haired toddler in a pushchair beside her begins wailing in unison.

  Jermaine is beside the woman in seconds.

  “My son!” the woman screams, her arms flailing crazily in the air above her head. “He’s fallen in! Call 999!”

  A couple of people now begin to crowd around. Some pull out phones. I run toward the commotion, thinking we should get out of here. We’ll never find Dad if we get involved.

  But before I can reach Jermaine he scrambles over the railing and jumps into the water below. My mouth drops open. What’s he thinking?

  I join the others at the railing, including the woman, who is leaning dangerously over, straining to see what’s happening. She’s still screaming, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion.

  I look over the railing at the murky water below. It laps and whirls hungrily around both of them. Jermaine has the boy, who is as limp as a rag doll, in a loose headlock and is paddling with his other arm toward us.

  “Look out!” a deep voice shouts from behind me. A short, square-shouldered man in a white button-down shirt and black trousers pushes past. He’s holding an orange flotation ring in his hands.

  “I was just setting up bar in the pub when I heard all the screaming. Took me a minute to realize it wasn’t just some kids messing about,” he says.

  “A little boy fell in,” I say. “My friend’s gone after him. They’re right there.” I lean over the railing and point.

  “Hang on, lads!” the bartender shouts. “Grab hold of this and I’ll haul you up!” He tosses the orange ring into the water and I can’t help but notice how his biceps strain against the cotton of his shirtsleeves.

  The ring hits the water with a slapping sound, the wind grabbing it and causing it to land several feet away from Jermaine and the boy. Jermaine paddles slowly toward it. It looks like he’s struggling to keep the boy’s head above the water now.

  Suddenly the boy becomes more alert. His eyes fly open, panic sweeps across his face, and he begins thrashing about, pulling both himself and Jermaine under the water.

  The woman begins screaming again. I watch in horror as Jermaine slips under the water. I desperately want to do something. It’s such a horrible feeling just standing there, unable to help. First I lose Mom, and now I might lose Jermaine.

  Realizing that time is quickly running out, the bartender hurriedly pulls the flotation device back out of the water, tucks it under his arm and slips off his shoes. Then he hops the fence and dives into the water with surprising grace considering his size.

  I hear the faint cry of sirens in the distance. Help is on the way, but will it arrive too late? People continue to crowd the railing, watching as the bartender swims toward the spot where Jermaine and the little boy went under.

  Suddenly, the crown of Jermaine’s head breaks the surface of the water, followed a moment later by the boy’s. Both of them are coughing and gasping for breath. Pulling the boy close to his side, Jermaine struggles to stay afloat. The weight of the boy is clearly too much; he looks exhausted.

  The bartender tosses the flotation device at Jermaine. It narrowly misses his head and then lands just inches behind him.

  “Come on! Grab hold of it, lad!” he shouts.

  Jermaine nods weakly. The water is rising around his mouth again. He’s sinking.

  Nausea sweeps over me. I’m going to vomit.

  “Grab it, Jermaine!” I cry. My voice sounds far away, as though I’m screaming down a tunnel.

  Jermaine’s arm shoots out of the water. He slowly paddles sideways toward the orange ring, which is drifting farther away, pulled by current. The crowd claps in response to his efforts.

  The sirens are growing closer, the sound reverberating in my chest.

  “You can do it!” the bartender yells as he swims toward Jermaine and the boy.

  The encouragement appears to help. Jermaine is suddenly stronger. He reaches the device and tightly grabs hold of it. The crowd begins applauding again, this time the clapping is more frenzied. A woman somewhere behind me begins sobbing.

  Fire engines and a white-and-green ambulance pull up alongside the pub. Doors fly open and firefighters and paramedics emerge.

  And, as I turn back around, it happens. Jermaine reaches the orange ring and hooks his arm over it so that the crook of his elbow is firmly locked onto the inside of the circle.

  “That’s the way!” the bartender cries, his voice cracking with emotion. He begins pulling the rope back, tugging Jermaine and the boy closer to him.

  “Clear the way!” a paramedic shouts as he rushes by me. The rescue workers jostle me backward, away from the railing, and into the crowd. There’s a flurry of activity. I’m desperate to see what’s going on.

  Triumphant shouting causes me to push my way through again. Jermaine and the boy are being pulled over the railings by some firefighters. Just the sight of his wet, dark curls makes me start to cry. He looks over, gives me a tired grin and a thumbs-up. One of the paramedics wraps him up in what looks like a huge piece of aluminum foil and sits him down on one of the patio chairs.

  The focus of everyone’s attention is now on the little boy and his mother, who is near hysterics. A man holds the mother in a tight embrace as she sobs uncontrollably against his chest. The paramedics have the little boy on a stretcher with one of the aluminum foil blankets around him, but they seem to be doing something more. One of the firefighters shouts at the crowd to move back and away.

  “Nothing to see. Time to move along,” he says.

  I catch a glimpse of the little boy and immediately realize something is wrong. His head lolls on his neck like a rag doll’s and his face is the colour of campfire ashes. Several firefighters create a barrier with their backs so that the crowd can no longer see what’s happening.

  “Edie!”

  It’s Jermaine. He’s waving me over. The paramedic attending to him is leading him away toward one of the fire trucks. The bartender is with them. I run ove
r.

  “We’re taking the little boy to hospital straightaway,” the paramedic says. “And I think you two should also go to be checked out. Especially you,” he adds, looking at Jermaine. “I know you say you feel fine, but you’re a prime candidate for hypothermia and shock.”

  “I’ll go over with him in a cab,” the bartender offers. “We’ve other staff on.”

  The paramedic smiles gratefully at the man and I wonder if Jermaine is being difficult about the whole hospital thing. “No can do. We’ll take you in the other ambulance,” the paramedic says. “You know, legalities.” He turns to me. “Are you together?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Then we’re off,” he says.

  As we get into the ambulance, I look back toward the little boy. I can just catch a glimpse of him. He’s so still and pale, he looks like one of the little plastic action figures I used to play with as a kid. Shivering, I divert my gaze over the river. Under the grey winter sky, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral sits elevated like a stern old man in the middle of newer buildings surrounding it.

  I wonder if Dad is still out there looking for me.

  CHAPTER 28

  “James, by the way,” the bartender says. He takes a seat opposite us in the back of the ambulance.

  “I’m Edie,” I say.

  “Jermaine,” Jermaine says. “Thanks. You know, for everything back there.”

  “No need to thank me. Though I really did think we were going to lose you a couple of times,” James replies. He locks his hands together behind his head and leans back against the wall of the van. “What you did for that little boy today was extraordinary. I hope he’s going to be okay.”

  Jermaine shrugs his shoulders and looks out the back window. “Wasn’t anything, really.” He pauses for a moment. “But I hope he’s okay, too.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t anything? Didn’t you see all those other tossers just standing around doing absolutely nothing? You’re a hero. People should know about what you did.”