As they caught each other’s eyes, a wash of colour circled his neck, but he found it difficult to look away.
You’re still in love with Anita, remember?
Mitchell’s eyes fell upon the sweep of her collarbone and her shoulders, before stopping on the shiny thing in her hand. It was large, heart-shaped and glinted intermittently gold and then white in the late afternoon sunlight.
A padlock.
He gritted his teeth as the woman stepped towards the railing and stooped to secure her lock. After straightening back up, she tossed its key into the river and peered down at the water. She brushed her hair back with her hand then patted her ear. Her forehead furrowed and she spun around on the spot, searching on the pavement. She then looked over the railing at the narrow ledge on the other side.
Mitchell wondered what she’d lost, but told himself he didn’t have time to help her to find it anyway.
His view of her was obstructed by a young man carrying a large shiny shovel on his shoulder and a few other passersby. When he saw the woman again she was leaning over the railing on her tiptoes, reaching for something on the other side. Her fingers padded around and she raised a leg off the ground, pointing her foot to balance herself as if performing a ballet move.
A feeling of worry reared up inside him at her precarious position. ‘Hey, be careful,’ he called out.
His view was interrupted again by a large group of students traipsing along. When they had passed, Mitchell stared at the spot where the woman had stood. Except she was no longer there.
He saw a flash of her yellow dress through the railings, vivid in the rushing river below.
‘Damn,’ he said out loud.
And in that split second, all thoughts of Anita flew from his mind. He dropped his toolbox to the ground, ran and swung his legs over the railing with ease.
When the base of his back caught against the ledge on the other side, he knew a jolt of pain should accompany it, but Mitchell didn’t feel anything as he crashed down into the violent water.
2
Pizza Boxes
Mitchell had never been a strong swimmer. He hadn’t been that great at any sports or classes in school, except for physics, where he loved learning about fulcrums, loads and motion. He and Poppy used to enjoy swimming sessions together until recently, when she got out of the pool after a couple of lengths, arms folded. ‘I like swimming with Mum better,’ she said. ‘This isn’t as fun. You always set targets for me.’ And she hadn’t wanted to go to the pool with him since.
As Mitchell plunged into the river, icy cold water gushed over his head and plugged his ears. When he stopped sinking, he pushed upwards and broke to the surface with a gasp. He squinted and saw the woman in the yellow dress was twenty metres or so in front of him, being sucked along by a strong torrent. She flailed her arms, clutching at the air, before her head disappeared underwater.
People along the street at the side of the river slowed to stop and watch, gaping down at the crisis occurring in front of them. Mitchell was only vaguely aware of them as he kicked off his shoes and began to swim.
He arched one arm and then the other, kicking his legs as quickly as he could. After every few strokes, he fixed his eyes on the woman as she was swept along. ‘Hold on,’ he called out, spitting out the bitter water that filled his mouth. ‘I’m coming for you.’
He urged himself onwards, but although he was using all his strength, it felt like he wasn’t moving anywhere. He clenched his jaw as the river tugged him backwards, like it had strong arms wrapped around his thighs. The young man who drowned last summer had lost his battle against the currents that swirled forcefully beneath the surface.
Mitchell pushed himself to swim harder, trying to find a rhythm with his limbs. One-two, one-two, one-two. He lost all sense of the geography of the city. All he could see was greyness sloshing around him, and a circle of yellow fabric in front of him like a beacon.
Fear made him focus. The dread of not reaching her, not managing to save her, pushed him onwards.
Pain seared across his shoulders, and his throat tightened so much his breath was shallow through his nose. He told himself he was getting closer to her, mind over matter, but he wasn’t really sure.
After what seemed like forever, he spotted a fallen tree, split by lightning in a storm, that hung over the river at a right angle. The flow of water suddenly pulled the woman towards it, and spindly branches stuck out like daggers to greet her. Mitchell watched as she became entangled in them, and then she was gone from his sight.
He thrust his face into the water, swimming harder than ever before. All he could see was blackness until he felt something sharp scrape his arm, and he was there alongside the tree. Next to her.
A section of her dress had snagged on a branch and the rest of it billowed around her.
He fought against the branches to reach her and took her into his arms. While treading water, he gently lifted her chin with his fingers. ‘Are you okay?’ he spluttered. ‘Can you talk?’
Her lips moved, but she didn’t reply. Her face was ashen and strands of her wet hair hung down over her eyes.
‘Try to hold on to me, if you can. I’m going to swim and get us both to safety.’
Mitchell unhooked her dress from the tree and managed to recall snippets of the few lifesaving sessions he’d watched Poppy have at the pool. He helped the woman to lie on her back and, after cupping his hand under her chin, he swam backwards, pulling her along with him.
Fortunately, he found a calmer current that assisted their movements.
The riverbank was lower on one side than the other, with a long grass verge in front of a series of waterfront bars. Mitchell headed towards them, his eyes intermittently flicking between the woman’s face and his destination.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he said. ‘Only a bit further. You’re doing so well.’
A few people stood, clutching pints of beer and staring at him as if he was competing in a swimming race. The edge of the river shallowed and Mitchell pushed himself forwards onto the grass and pulled the woman out of the water. She lay in his arms with the back of her head pressed against his chest. ‘You’re okay. You’re safe,’ he blurted with relief.
They stayed there together, his arms wrapped around her as the blazing sun warmed their cold bodies.
The woman’s eyes were shut, but her eyelashes danced against her cheeks and she smiled serenely.
This moment, being here with her, reminded Mitchell of the contradictory mixture of stillness and exhilaration he felt when Poppy was born, when he first held her in his arms. Anita had smiled at him weakly and he had wanted to burst into tears and laugh at the same time, as exhaustion, joy and responsibility sent his feelings into a tailspin. When he looked down at the woman, he pictured Anita with her damp curls pressed against her forehead. The closeness to this stranger, her body in his arms, was both tender and unnerving and his hand shook when he brushed her hair away from her eyes.
She squinted against the daylight. ‘What happened?’ she rasped. ‘Where am I?’
‘My name is Mitchell Fisher. You were standing on a bridge in Upchester, attaching a padlock. I think you dropped something and were looking for it. You leaned right over the railing and fell.’ He held his breath for a while. ‘You could have got yourself killed.’
She smiled weakly and reached up to take his hand. Their wet fingers entwined tightly. ‘I’m so clumsy recently. I don’t make a habit of this, honestly. I usually just knock glasses of wine over or forget my door keys.’
Mitchell liked how she managed to find humour in her situation. ‘So long as you’re safe. Do you think you’re ready to try to stand up?’
She crooked one knee, then frowned in pain. Her head slumped back against his chest. ‘Not yet.’ She looked up at him, and again he felt a tug of something for her. It caused more memories of Anita to trickle back and he didn’t want to think of her, not here and now. The shame he often felt could bury him like an aval
anche.
‘I do know you, don’t I?’ she said.
Mitchell looked away. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’ He wondered if her fall was causing her confusion, but as he opened his mouth to reply, a hand clamped down on his shoulder. A man with a thin moustache and horn-rimmed glasses stood above him.
‘I’m a doctor. Can I help?’ the man said.
Mitchell nodded gratefully, and he slipped his fingers away from the woman’s hand. He cradled her head and helped her to lie down flat on the grass, then he shuffled backwards out of the way.
The doctor crouched down. ‘What happened?’
The woman swallowed but didn’t reply.
‘She fell into the river, and I jumped in to help her,’ Mitchell said.
‘How long was she in for?’
‘Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don’t really know.’ His sense of time had flown and his stomach plunged when his watch showed 5.40 p.m.
His attention snapped back to Poppy. She was at school and he was very late. He’d also left his toolbox on the bridge. ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ he said to the doctor and the woman.
Mitchell stood up and took a few unsteady steps along the grass verge in his soggy socked feet. He hunched away from the well-meaning pats that rained down on his back. When a couple of mobile phones appeared, he resisted the impulse to bat them away.
He told himself the woman would be fine. She was with a doctor.
Heart thumping, Mitchell thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and tugged out his own phone to call the school. But the screen was blank and tiny bubbles emerged from the camera hole.
He limped to where the grass verge ended, made his way back up onto the street and headed towards Redford to quickly look for his toolbox. When he reached midway along the bridge, he stood in the rough spot the woman in the yellow dress had fallen.
He searched frantically around for his tools and his shoulders sagged when he realized they’d gone, perhaps stolen.
When he looked back over the railing, he saw the woman and doctor were heading in his direction. The sun made her wet dress shine like gold, and a thought struck Mitchell like a lightning bolt.
I don’t even know her name.
He looked at her again and his pull towards her was magnetic. But she was over thirty metres away from him, and he had to get to the school.
He would rush past and ask what her name was.
He had to know.
He turned and saw a cyclist whizzing along the pavement towards him at great speed. Pizza boxes were piled high on the handlebars. Mitchell tried to jump out of the way, but the bicycle smashed into him, knocking him to the ground.
As boxes went flying in the air, Mitchell heard the thwack of his own head on the pavement. Pain bloomed and his vision blurred. Someone shouted for an ambulance, and legs surrounded him like trees in a forest.
When he strained to raise his head, a hand pressed his shoulders back down.
Mitchell wasn’t sure how long he lay there for, but through a set of fleshy knees in long khaki shorts, he thought he saw the swish of a yellow dress.
Then he closed his eyes and everything went blank.
3
Small Shoes
While he was out cold, Mitchell dreamed.
It was another kiln-hot summer day where the air shimmered and people gathered in the pub for shelter from the sun. A woman with copper curls pushed in next to him at the bar.
‘A pint of cider, please,’ she said, even though it was Mitchell’s turn to be served. She glanced at him and pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, you were next?’
He shrugged, a little irritated. ‘It’s fine.’
‘No, it’s not. Really. The barman was cutting into a lime and the smell always reminds me of this holiday I went on to Ibiza in my early twenties. It was supposedly cool to drink beer from a bottle with a slice of lime sticking out of the neck. Even though I didn’t like the taste, I drank it for a whole week and…’
Mitchell laughed despite himself. ‘I once forced myself to drink the same thing at a barbecue because my friends liked it.’
She returned his smile. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is sorry, and can I get you a drink?’ When he started to protest against her offer, she jokingly placed her elbow in front of him. ‘I’ll get this,’ she said to the barman.
She wasn’t his usual type, with a round face and messy red hair when he was usually attracted to brunettes. But when she grinned at him, he liked how her eyes crinkled at the corners in a fan shape.
Mitchell asked for a cider, too, and they carried their drinks outside together, grumbling about the hot weather, and sat down at the only free table. She told him her name was Anita and she was waiting for a friend who was always late.
She raised her glass at him. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ He clinked his in return.
When Anita pressed her lips against the glass, she savoured every sip of the fizzy amber liquid as if it was the finest champagne, and Mitchell realized he actually fancied her. She was the kind of person who could find adventure in the simplest of things.
A delicious sensation tingled in his chest as he thought about where their conversation might take them both.
Mitchell closed his eyes as he drank his cider. However, when he opened them again, his glass had vanished from his hand. The table and the pub were no longer there. Anita had gone, too.
He woke up and found himself woozy and sore, lying on a hospital bed. There was an electronic beeping sound to his right, and a cannula tube taped to the back of his hand. He wore a starchy, patterned gown and a wristband with his name on it.
He forgot about his dream and tried to sit up. ‘Poppy,’ he cried out.
A bag with an Upchester Hospital logo sat on a chair beside his bed and he could see his clothes were folded inside it. On top of the small table next to him, his keys, wallet and mobile phone were sealed inside a plastic bag that was foggy with condensation. He stretched to reach for it, but realized a nurse was pointing a finger at him from the end of the bed.
‘Leave that alone,’ she ordered.
Mitchell tried to sit up again. ‘You don’t understand—yow!’ A pain shot down his spine and he screwed his eyes shut.
‘What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?’
Mitchell opened one eye and took in the nurse’s blue uniform, tight black curls and steely brown eyes. ‘Sorry, but I need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’m late to get my daughter from school. She’ll be worried…’
‘Even if you have a dinner date with the queen, I’m not letting you go anywhere.’ Her name badge said Hello My Name is Samantha and it made her sound friendlier than she looked.
He clawed at the neck of his gown. ‘I’m absolutely fine, honestly.’
‘That’s for me to say, not you. As it stands, your oxygen levels, temperature and blood pressure are okay. You’ve had a CT scan, and the good news is you’ll be fine.’ She tapped the side of her own head. ‘You’ve had a couple of stitches.’
Mitchell felt like he’d been battered with a meat tenderizing hammer. He reached up to feel the spongy softness of gauze taped above his right ear. ‘Poppy’s only nine, and she has a guitar lesson. What time is it?’ When he saw a wall clock displayed 7.25 p.m., his insides cramped. ‘I have got to go.’
He imagined Poppy staring expectantly at her watch as the other kids were picked up from the club and she was left behind. She’d be twitchy, frightened even. Exactly the same as the fateful day Anita didn’t arrive to collect her.
‘You need to calm down,’ Samantha ordered. ‘Won’t her mum have things covered?’
Mitchell wondered why she’d assume this. He tried to reply, but the words stuck in his mouth. ‘No. She’s…’
Samantha crossed her arms expectantly.
‘There’s only me.’ Mitchell looked down at his hands. ‘Poppy’s mother… well, she died.’
Samantha unfolded her arms and fiddled with h
er name badge. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll find out what I can.’
Mitchell nodded. ‘Please.’
He’d never fully settled on how to describe Anita. She wasn’t his wife because they weren’t married, and they’d never got engaged. The word partner sounded like a business arrangement, and soul mate was too soppy. Girlfriend was too young, and the mother of my child suggested Poppy was the result of a one-night stand. He usually called her Poppy’s mum.
If he ever had to explain his circumstances, he often found himself consoling people, rather than the other way around.
‘You weren’t to know…’
‘I’m sorry to tell you…’
‘It’s one of those things…’
What he really wanted to say was, ‘Imagine being told you’ll never feel sunshine on your skin ever again. That’s what life is like without her. And every minute and hour of each day, I feel like it’s my fault she’s no longer here.’
But he kept this to himself.
He tried to picture himself as an armadillo, curled up against the world and displaying an armoured shell. Even though three years had passed, he still needed this protection.
Samantha returned a few minutes later. ‘Your friend Barry Waters is listed as an emergency contact at the school. I understand he picked up your daughter and took her to her music lesson.’
‘But that will have finished…’
‘That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’ Samantha passed him a small paper cup that contained two round white tablets. ‘Are you allergic to paracetamol? Do you feel sick at all, or dizzy? Any memory loss? Do you know where you are?’
‘In prison?’ He eyed the pills with suspicion. ‘I’m totally fine, genuinely. Do I really need to take these? Don’t I have to sign something to agree to it? What are the rules about these things? I just want to leave.’
She looked at him disparagingly. ‘Just take the tablets, please, Mr Fisher. You’re not going anywhere until I say so. Those are my rules.’
The Secrets of Sunshine Page 2
