One Of Life's Heroes

The narrator rescues a drowning man - but can't stop wondering if he did the right thing . . .

Recognise me from the paper do you? My ‘fifteen minutes of fame’? Yeah, it was me. ‘I pulled a drowning man from the river!’ A glorious thing, to save a life. Everyone kept saying that. Proud of what I did? Funny thing is, I don’t remember much. A woman screamed, and I looked up just in time to see someone plunge into the water from the bridge. And it was like I just got pulled along when my legs ran down the bank and jumped in.

I hit my shin against something. Shopping trolley I think. Just a bang – no pain. Anyway, I’ve been a swimmer all my life: when I was a kid, you’d always find me down the canal. Or a river somewhere. The sea at Skeggie every summer. Up to last year, I’d always be down the pool. I could do a mile in under half an hour, easy. So I suppose it was automatic. It wasn’t quite the same though: there was this adrenaline rush. I felt like I was wrestling with the water, trying to manhandle it out the way.

I got to him in a flash. His arms were flailing about. One of them hit me across the head. I tried to lift him, turn him on his back. But he kept pulling and twisting. He grabbed me, let go, seized me again. I look back on it now - he could’ve drowned me, no question. But I didn’t think of that at the time. Didn’t think of anything. And it never crossed my mind that I was saving somebody’s life. Why should it? In that situation, you’ve nothing to fall back on, no memories. It must be like, I don't know, being a baby: aware something’s happening to you, seeing it all, but not understanding it. So I’m in the middle of the river, fighting this guy it seems like, fighting him for his life. But at the end of the day I suppose I’m bigger and stronger than he is. And a lot better swimmer. So I win. I turn him in the water in spite of himself, get my arms under his shoulders, bend my elbows back, and take charge.

I thought he might start struggling again as I brought him in. But he never stirred - knackered I suppose. It seemed to take ages to get back. A few people clapped. “There’s an ambulance been called,” I heard someone say. When I get to the bank, I lift him onto his side. He’s coughing, spitting out all sorts of gunge, panting. He clings onto some grass, crawls up the bank some more. He’s shivering, like he’s going to have a fit. I don’t see his face, he looks quite young though, except he’s losing his hair badly.

“You alright?” I ask him. Effing stupid question! Someone stepped down, and put their coat over him to keep him warm.

Well anyway, as I went up the bank, I was on this incredible high. I didn’t look at anyone, but I knew something big had just happened to me. Hands slapping down on my shoulders from every direction. And loads of words coming at me: “Well done, mate,” or “Nice one,” or even “Congratulations!” I felt great . . . but sort of guilty too in a weird way. Like my body had acted of its own accord, and it wasn’t right for me to take all the credit.

I didn’t see the guy again. The ambulance came and took him. The police asked me a few questions, and took me to the hospital to have my shin checked – it was nothing, just a bruise. They made me clean up there too. I’d sort of been thinking about going back to office as I was, totally drenched. Just to show them, you know.

The police must’ve been the ones to tip the papers off, cos they knew where I lived. Soon as I got home, there was Geoff Brett, from the Reporter. He’d already talked to Nicola. I could tell she’d been crying. Course, Dad was there too: it was Wednesday, and he comes to do our garden Wednesdays. So Geoff had talked to him as well. Asked him if he was proud.

Dad told him about the time, when I was six, we had some laundry drying by one of those electric bar heaters. Well, something caught fire, I don’t know how, but it spread like mad. Dad was out, and Mum panicked a bit. It was me that ran upstairs for Julie, my little sister, and took her outside. And I was the one that got the neighbours to dial 999 – we didn’t have our own phone those days. (I got in the papers back then too.) So of course Dad tells Geoff he isn’t that surprised really, he says I’m “one of life’s heroes.” They used that in the caption by my picture. You probably remember.

Well, me and Geoff didn’t talk long. I just told him what had happened, what I remembered. Said I didn’t think what I did was that unusual. Then I said it was, but only because we didn’t get the chance to do stuff like that very often. I was just lucky an opportunity had come my way. He seemed happy enough with that, and left. He never asked me the obvious question. Which was just as well, cos I had no idea what the answer was.

But I kept thinking about that guy. Maybe he’d wanted to die. What right had I to do the hero bit at his expense? Like I knew best? “Well, he held on to you, didn’t he?” Nicola said.

Of course he didn’t really want to die. What he needed was attention. He certainly got plenty of that. Thanks to me, he survived to enjoy it. I just hoped never to meet him again, that’s all.

Then a few weeks later . . . well, I don’t need to tell you, you probably read about it. Geoff rang me to tell me personally. Thought it would be easier on me that way - and did I have any comments? After all, he said, I must’ve felt some kind of bond with the man. I can still hear Geoff’s voice over the phone: odd phrases, you know, giving me the news . . .

Body slumped over weir . . . Car found up near Tinford Bridge . . . Remote spot . . . No suspicious circumstances . . .

I had no comments. Well what can you say to that? ‘Like a kick in the teeth from an invisible man,’ as my mate Rob put it.

So, yeah, that was it. My ‘fifteen minutes!’ Enough to last me the rest of my life.