been a long day. You get some beauty sleep.’
‘I’m beautiful enough. Mum says so.’
‘And I agree, but you still need to sleep.’
Poppy turned and lay on her side. When she pulled her sheet up over her nose, her eyes shone with tears.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ He dipped his head closer to her.
She gave a small sniff. ‘Will the woman you helped be okay?’
‘Yes, she’ll be as right as rain,’ Mitchell said, trying to convince himself as well as Poppy. He picked up her plait and gently brushed the end of her nose with it. ‘I left her with a doctor.’
She peered up at him. ‘What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know. I wished I’d asked her. But look, get some sleep and we’ll chat in the morning.’
She was quiet for just a second. ‘Was she pretty?’
Mitchell cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t notice.’ But in his head, the woman smiled at him on the bridge and he saw the sunlight kissing the tip of her nose. He thought of Barry’s words, not to invite drama into his life, and knew it was good advice. He tugged Poppy’s sheet down to expose her face and her words tumbled out.
‘I thought you weren’t coming to get me from school. You said you’d never be late, but you were, and Mum did the same thing…’
Her words made him sway. ‘The woman was in danger, and I was there.’
‘I know, but…’ She swallowed a sob.
Mitchell gathered her into his arms and they sat together in the dark. He held her until she grew drowsier and heavier in his arms. When her breathing slowed, he kissed her forehead and helped her settle under the covers before he stood back up.
As he moved away Poppy said quietly, ‘No one saved Mum.’
Her words felt like a thump to his gut, and he gripped the door-frame. ‘People tried to…’
He waited for her reply, but it didn’t come as she drifted off to sleep. His footsteps were leaden as he walked back to his own bedroom and fell onto his bed, fully clothed. He took Anita’s sealed lilac envelope out of his bedside drawer and held it to his chest, still unable to open it.
After pulling out his notepad from under the bed, he clumsily took the top off his pen. He propped his head up with his hand and began to write.
Dearest Anita,
Something happened today and I wish you were here, so I could talk to you about it. I helped a lady who fell, but I wasn’t there for you…
His words stopped as a fog descended on his brain. Mitchell pushed himself to write more, but could only manage two additional words.
Love always
Then the pen slipped from his fingers, and his eyes fell shut as he slipped into a deep slumber.
The next morning, Mitchell woke with alarm. His bedroom was brighter than usual, and his eyes shot open when he saw the time on his watch. He was already two hours late for work. He was still wearing his clothes and, when he kicked off the bedsheets, his writing pad skidded to the floor.
Across the corridor, Poppy snored lightly as he hobbled into her room.
‘Pops,’ he hissed. ‘Poppy.’
When she didn’t stir, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He calculated he could make her a late breakfast, rush her to school and make it there before lunchtime. Then he could go into work.
But tomorrow was the last day of the school year and the lessons would be winding down. He knew deep down that, last night, Poppy wasn’t okay.
And he wasn’t okay, either.
He had leaped from a bridge, saved someone, been knocked unconscious and woken in hospital. He tried to survey it all technically and without emotion, but he couldn’t deny his body felt like it was filled with wet sand.
Even though his brain urged him to wake her, Mitchell brushed a lock of hair off Poppy’s cheek and he decided to leave her in bed. He made himself a bowl of muesli and sat alone at the dining table to eat it. He noticed the light bulb that hung down above his head was dusty and didn’t have a shade.
Whenever Anita used to visit, she would say the place looked like a bachelor pad. At the time he thought it was amusing, but now it felt rather tragic.
Instead of browsing the national news on his iPad as usual, Mitchell opened the Upchester News website. If Barry had seen a photo of him online, there might be an image of the woman in the yellow dress, too. He felt a desperate need to find out if she was okay.
On the main page, there was a photo of the bridge and he read the large sub headline: Man Saves Woman from Raging River.
He shook his head at it in dismay. I didn’t save the woman, I helped her. The water wasn’t raging.
The piece was written by someone called Susan Smythe and was full of theatrical words such as selfless and courageous and dashing – words he didn’t associate with himself. Thankfully the article didn’t mention his name, but it didn’t give the name of the woman in the yellow dress, either.
He read through it twice and his concern increased. Perhaps she’d ended up in hospital, too. He felt annoyed with himself for not making enquiries while he was in there.
When he scanned the last sentence of the article, he sucked in a breath.
Have you attached your own padlock and why? What would you say to the Hero on the Bridge? Write in and you could win £200.
There was another square image below this, featuring a large red triangle. When Mitchell clicked it, a video played. The air around him chilled as he watched himself sitting by the river edge. His polo shirt clung wet to his body and he hadn’t realized how slim he’d become.
The woman in yellow sat in front of him and bent her head, so he couldn’t see her face. The film ended with a zoomed-in frozen image of her eye and ear on the screen. Her earring was the shape of a large gold cactus that he hadn’t noticed when he’d helped her.
Somehow, she seemed to look straight at him and Mitchell rubbed his fingers together, wanting to reach into the screen. ‘I hope you’re okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Who and where are you?’
His thoughts were broken
