Somewhere in the distance a dog is barking. It’s muffled, as if the dog is a few gardens away where fences and a double-glazed window absorb the crispness of the sound. I strain to listen. I can hear shouting. Again, it’s from afar, like Sunday- morning football noises from the park behind my house.
But I’m not at home. I’m not dozing on the soft duck-down cushions of my sofa, while gentle meditation wave music plays in the background. It takes a few seconds for my mind to reshuffle the deck of conscious and subconscious thoughts before finally dealing a full hand of stony ground, wet feet and rushing waters.
I open my eyes, now fully aware of my surroundings. I’m lying on my back on the riverbank. Water is lapping around my ankles and light rain tickles my face. I roll my head to the right and can see the river tumbling along. When I move my head to the left, I see Alfie. He’s sprawled on his back, with one arm flung across his body and the other outstretched. His eyes are closed and his skin is pale, with blueness tingeing the edges of his lips.
We had gone into the water, been dragged downstream through the rapids and somehow ended up being spat out the other side. I’m not quite sure how we’ve ended up here.
The dog has stopped barking and the shouting is reduced to one voice. A male voice. I follow the sound with my eyes and see several people line the other side of the river. A guy in a suit and waterproof jacket has his hands cupped around his mouth. I can hear his voice but I can’t pick out the words. The man next to him is wearing a purple weatherproof jacket and a dog, also wearing a purple jacket, sits by his side. Search and Rescue?
There are two police officers in uniform standing next to the dog and several others are making their way down the embankment to join them.
Relief brings a trickle of tears and I rest my head on the ground as exhaustion overwhelms me. All I can think is that we have been found. We’re going to be rescued. All sense of time was lost as I drifted in and out of consciousness, fatigued from hauling ourselves out of the river, fully clothed and drenched, coupled with what I suspect is a touch of hypothermia, adding to the tiredness.
From my first-responder training, I know that the point of rescue can be the most dangerous time. This is where the brain and body can give up fighting for survival, lured into a false sense of security that they are being rescued, passing over the responsibility to the rescuer. I fight to stay awake and alert. I can’t let myself slip past that point now.
‘Alfie,’ I say. ‘Alfie. The police are here. We’re going to be OK.’ I move to reach out to him, but pain shoots up my arm, preventing me. I look down and can see blood coating my hand like a moth-eaten glove. I don’t think my arm is broken, I can wriggle my fingers, but it hurts like hell.
I either lapsed into unconsciousness again or fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, I’m not sure, but the next thing I’m aware of is the thundering sound of a helicopter above me and the downdraught from the rotor blades whipping up everything below, sending water spraying over me.
There’s a thud and two black boots land on the ground a few metres away. A guy in an orange jumpsuit and a white safety helmet hurries over to me. He kneels beside me and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder and then leans down so I can hear him.
‘Hi. My name’s Rick and I’m here to help you.’
‘My son, Alfie – he needs help,’ I say. ‘Help him first. Please.’
They haven’t been able to tell me anything about Alfie yet. All I know is that he’s under observation. I’ve emerged relatively unscathed: no broken bones, superficial cuts and bruises that the medical staff would expect to see from someone who has been tossed about in the water like we were. My injuries are minor. The most serious being my badly sprained wrist and a particularly nasty cut to my head which warranted shaving a small section of my hair and applying steristrips.
Alfie’s injuries, however, are rather more serious.
‘We’re keeping him sedated for now,’ says the doctor as we gather beside his bed in ICU. ‘The brain’s a marvellous thing; in situations like this it rests in order to repair itself. We’ll give him a CT scan in the morning. By that time the swelling will hopefully have gone down.’
‘What’s your gut feeling?’
The doctor gives me a sympathetic look. ‘I’m a doctor, I can’t go on gut feelings. It wouldn’t be fair of me to do that to you.’
I fiddle with the hem of the blanket which has been placed over my knees. The nurse insisted on bringing me down in a wheelchair, despite my assurances that I’m capable of walking. I feel such a fraud being pushed around.
‘You should return to your own ward now, Mrs Montgomery,’ says the doctor. ‘You need to rest too.’
‘One more thing,’ I say, as I feel the nurse behind me lift the brakes from the wheelchair. ‘How is Andrea Jarvis? Is she going to be OK? I did ask earlier but all they could tell me was that she had been rescued and brought here. Other than that, I don’t know anything.’
‘Your friend is going to be fine,’ says the doctor reassuringly. ‘A broken leg and hypothermia, nothing we can’t sort out. She was very lucky to have a good emergency survival pack with her.’
‘That’s a relief. I’ll go and see her tomorrow.’
‘Please get some rest now,’ says the doctor. ‘Good night, Mrs Montgomery.’
I take one last look at Alfie before the nurse turns the wheelchair to face the door. He looks so peaceful lying there. I haven’t seen such ease on his features in a long time. Not since Darren died anyway. I’ve yearned for the return of those days when life was simple, without complications. When Darren and I were a young married couple with a little boy, both of us deeply in love. Before life weighed too heavy on all of us. And now, it looks like I might be getting my wish, but not in the way I could ever have imagined.
I wipe away a tear that has found its way to my cheek.
‘He’ll be OK,’ says the nurse reassuringly. ‘You can come and see him in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’ I take one last look at my son before I’m wheeled through the door and out into the corridor. The nurse gives me a pat on the shoulder, a gesture to let me know that everything will be OK. I don’t correct her. I allow her the indulgence.