Other people 2

The beginning of something.

~~~

Alarm sounds. First freeze.

Heart beat. Breath in. Breath out. The

Adrenalin swells.

He fights the unseen

Tiger, crouched in the corner

Of the living room.

He is untethered.

The vacuum has him

Tumbling in space.

*

Spike remembers.

“I was in the red zone!”. 

“What did it feel like?”

“I fell off my scooter and bursted into flames.”

No arguments here.

*

I have become accustomed to the angels. Not the luminous, incorporeal intermediaries between God and man. The mundane flesh and blood helpers. The people who stop and act. For a while I did not believe in them, but one appeared on a Tuesday afternoon on a street corner in north Kensington. She was driving a battered blue Vauxhall and pulled up abruptly, having spotted Spike distraught and prostrate on the pavement, and me, sat on the Yorkstone with my arms around him, legs thrown out in a ‘v’. 

An errant corner of cement slab had caught the wheel of Spike’s scooter, propelling him hard onto the ground. The shock of the impact had instantly overwhelmed him, a tidal wave of pain, rage and confusion sweeping him up, away from soothing. He was reduced to a wild impulse to flee and fight. The emergency had caused my heart to thump out in something like Morse code and a small, middle-aged woman in a bobbly cardigan emerged from the car to answer it. 

“What can I do?” she asked. 

“It’s ok”, I replied, looking up at her, unsure whether I was offering reassurance or declining assistance. 

The observer appeared unfazed by Spike’s windmilling limbs and the sight of a grown woman (reasonably well-turned out, I would say) plonked on the thoroughfare. Determining that she did not seem in need of reassurance, I added “He is autistic. He fell.” 

My attention vacillated between the woman and Spike. Next to me a wheelie bin peered over a garden wall. Splintered thoughts surfaced like fragments snatched from the space between radio stations. 

“Hold him...Reach my phone….Shhhh….Shhhhh….”

Her presence seemed a complication. I felt embarrassed and undignified as I struggled to keep my son from launching himself into the road and taking handfuls of my scalp with him. Now I had to worry about whether my knickers were on show. The woman surveyed the squirming, tangled scene of us and then returned to her car. I assumed she was leaving. She returned a moment or two later with a large pillow covered in tiny purple flowers. As my son flailed she shoved the pillow firmly under his upper body, protecting his head and then stood a little way back. 

“That is incredibly kind. Thank you.” 

An older woman in supermarket overalls passed by us and stared. I stared back, irritated. 

I folded myself around my son, as he made another bid for the kerb. What was he trying to do? Escape from me? Outrun the pain and panic? Throw himself in front of a car? It hurt to see him like this, floored by a childish mishap.  I was momentarily grateful for his youth so that, to the passer-by, this probably looked like a tantrum. It preserved Spike’s dignity, the false notion that there was some underlying intention, that he might have put himself in this position in a bid for attention or control. “Losing it” was so much more unseemly and frightening. Not for the first time, I worried about the future. Time passed. Spike stilled in my arms.  

“He’s calming down now,” my kind onlooker observed. 

Whatever wave had swept Spike away had returned him, mussed and exhausted, but no additional harm done to either of us. He allowed me to comfort him. 

“It’s ok. It’s ok. You hurt yourself. It will feel better.” 

I pulled up his trouser leg to check the extent of the damage. The rough asphalt had skinned his knee. Blood oozed from it. I promised him magic cream and helped him to his feet. I picked up the pillow and my bag, and set the scooter back onto its wheels. 

“I think he’s fine,” I said handing the purple pillow back to the lady in the bobbly cardigan. “Thank you so much for your help. You were kind to stop.” 

“It’s fine. You did well.” I pressed my lips together in a tight smile to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened. I gulped them back and managed to squeak out a “Thanks”. Ugh. Don’t cry. Kindness is complicated. 

“You’d better get on while you can.” 

“Yes. I will. See you. Thank you.” I grabbed the handlebar of the scooter and wheeled Spike away. The angel drove off in her Astra. 

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