Samantha remained welded in position as the nightmare unfolded about her.
Yet it seemed so surreal. The van didn’t swerve; there was no squeal of breaks; just an inevitable, sickening crunch as her child was thrown skyward like a discarded paper cup.
The knot of gut-twisting helplessness that clenched at her stomach as her son’s small body flew through the air to land in some manicured flowerbeds twenty yards away was a sensation she would never forget.
But I’m right here. I’m – right – here. This can’t…I can’t…?
Bile swirled against the back of Sam’s teeth and she fell to her knees. She didn’t register the vehicle after that. It might as well have never existed. She just wanted to get to her boy and see with her own eyes the unavoidable results of such an accident. But after the initial impact and momentary silence that followed, where everyone seemed frozen in place – except for some cold hearted bastard on the other side of the road in a black fleece who was already walking rapidly away, as if dismissing the significance of her son’s death – Sam found she simply couldn’t move.
Her vision dimmed and a cold sweat erupted across her forehead. Then nausea, insidious and vile, took hold. I…I’m gonna be sick.
A huge clamor broke out as bystanders congregated around the truck. Far more swarmed toward Joshua, converging from all sides, pushing and shoving in their eagerness to help. The sight of them snapped Samantha back to the cruel reality of her predicament.
Surging to her feet, Sam pressed forward and started elbowing her way through the living barrier separating her from her son. “Joshua, Joshua,” she cried, over and over again. It made no difference. So great was the press and so loud were the people – jostling and shouting and demanding contradictory things all at once – that she made little headway.
“Call the police.”
“No, get an ambulance.”
“Does anyone know first aid?”
“What’s the point? Poor little guy won’t have survived that.”
As tears flowed uncontrollably down Sam’s cheeks, those nearest her somehow realized who she must be. Respectfully, the milling throng began to give way and made space for her to get through.
Sam had almost reached the inner cordon when a tangible bolt of alarm ran through the crowd like an electric shock. Someone hissed, “No fucking way. Is he alive?”
The outburst was followed by several other exclamations.
“Don’t be stupid, he can’t be.”
“Well, he is…see? He twitched.”
“Look, he’s waking up.”
“But where’s the blood?”
“Josh, Josh!” Samantha shouted as she fought her way through the last few people.
From Sam’s perspective, Joshua’s inanimate corpse blinked and opened its eyes. It sat bolt upright, bewildered by the commotion about it. Then its countenance darkened and its bottom lip began to tremble. Resurrected, Joshua spotted her through a sea of faces.
“Mommy!” he screamed, hands outstretched in a desperate need for comfort.
Released from the weight of grief, Sam’s outlook blurred.
“Don’t touch him,” someone pleaded as Samantha ran to scoop her son into her eager embrace.
The warning didn’t register. Sam was too busy marveling at the warmth of Josh’s body and the strength of his fingers as he clung tightly to her; the shudders wracking his little shoulders as pent up emotions surged to the surface; the wonderful music issuing from his lungs as he buried his head against her shoulder and started bawling his eyes out; the smell of his tousled hair.
He’s alive, my little boy’s alright, was all she could think. However, morbid curiosity soon got the better of her. But how?
Peeling Josh away, she commenced looking him up and down, incredulously at first, then with mounting confusion. She checked him a second time. Then once more, refusing to believe what she saw.
Sirens could be heard in the distance now, their multi-tone warbles announcing to the world that emergency services were at last responding.
But Sam didn’t care. She couldn’t believe her son was in her arms again, and somehow, there wasn’t the slightest scratch on him.
No bruises, no swelling, no blood. How is that possible?
Turning, she wandered back through the crowd until she reached the spot where the collision had occurred. An ashen-faced middle-aged man stood there, rooted to the spot like a tree, staring repeatedly between the truck and himself. His head shook from side to side and his jaw hung open. Obviously traumatized, he kept muttering under his breath, as if he was engaged in an argument with an unseen adversary and couldn’t accept the truth of the answers he was hearing.
As Sam drew closer and saw the extent of the damage, she began to appreciate why he was so shocked. Oh my God, the front of his van is wrecked! The engine has been crushed right back into the cab area. How did he manage to walk away from that?” She glanced at Josh. Come to that, how did either of them manage to walk away?
The driver discerned her watching him. As his gaze came to rest on Joshua, his eyes flared in recognition. His mouth flapped uselessly for a second or two. Though he recovered quickly, he was only able to stammer, “Ho…how did? But, but that’s impossible.”
He started panting, as if finding it hard to breathe.
Overcome with concern, Samantha asked, “Are you alright?”
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I . . . he just stepped out, I didn’t have time to . . . .”
“It’s okay. He’s fine. See for yourself.” She held out her son, who had now turned his attention toward the source of the approaching sirens.
“Mommy, mommy, is it a fire engine? Is it a fire engine or a police car? Oooh, will there be an ambulance?”
Bemused, both of them looked Joshua up and down, whereupon the driver shook his head more firmly. “But he shouldn’t be. You’ve seen my truck. How could that much damage have been caused without putting a scratch on him…?
“…Or me?” he added quietly.
For a final time, the driver’s gaze wandered the wreck of his vehicle, the miracle that was Joshua, and the conundrum that was his own escape. Then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he folded slowly to the floor.
*
Police attending the scene that day were reportedly confused by accounts that conflicted in a number of minor, but extremely important ways.
Of the numerous eyewitnesses interviewed, each and every single one had been able to verify the basics: a little boy – now known as Joshua Drake – had indeed run out in front of a delivery truck traveling at thirty miles an hour, giving the driver – a Mr. Albert Finn of Westfields estate, Plymouth, Devon – no time to take evasive action. There had been a collision, resulting in the youngster being thrown for many yards down the street, and the vehicle itself being wrecked. And yet, both Joshua and Mr. Finn had emerged from the incident unscathed.
That didn’t add up.
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Therefore, authorities had put out multiple requests via the media, asking for anyone with the slightest information relating to the accident to come forward, and assuring such ones that the help they offered would be treated in the strictest confidence. Police, and a growing number of citizens, were keen to rationalize the events of that day, especially as there was a growing suspicion Joshua’s miraculous survival might be in some way connected to other strange occurrences around the world.
That request, and the accompanying assurance of confidentiality, is what eventually spurred eighty-six year old May Randle to come forward.
*
May was a fiercely practical and independent God-fearing lady, who had served people all her adult life. A nurse for more than four decades, she had also been happily married to a doctor for over sixty years before an unexpected heart attack took her beloved Stanley from her. That sad episode had left her as the matriarch to their three children, eight grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. Born in an era when making a fuss was seen as a lack of moral fiber, time and circumstance had been unable to daunt May’s resolve and everyone she knew was always amazed at how sharp she was for her age.
Yes, her hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but she was so proud of the fact that she’d never had to use glasses that it was always one of the first things she announced to people when she met them.
And providentially, it was her aural shortcomings that helped police piece together the real events of the day.
May was supposed to wear a hearing aid, you see, but she often refused to use it unless family and friends were about, or she actually had to converse with someone. As such, she typically went about her business with the ear bud turned off. Obviously, this meant May needed to be wary and especially observant of what was going on around her.
Therefore, on that day, now two weeks in the past, May saw exactly what had happened without the distraction of sound. She saw it clearly and precisely, from only seven feet away. The trouble was, no matter how many times she ran things through in her head, it still didn’t make sense to her. So much so, that May was initially reticent to step forward for fear of neighbors thinking that she’d lost her marbles to dementia at last, and needed locking away in a home for the mentally fragile.
And can you blame me? Even I can’t quite believe it.
Just before the accident, May had left her favorite shop – Marks & Spencer’s – with ingredients for her favorite meal tucked safely in her bag. As was her custom, she’d paused at the curb, to ensure her change was in her purse, that the purse was at the bottom of her shopping bag, and that the personal alarm she habitually used was switched on, with the cord attached to her thumb…
In moments, her mind drifted, and everything came flooding back:
Hee, hee, I pity anyone who picks on me just because I’m old. May looked up and down the road before stepping out, being careful not to upset a small flock of pigeons feeding right next to her.
She registered the truck coming toward her from over thirty yards away to her right and decided to wait for it to pass before she commenced crossing. Killing time, she glanced across to the other side of the street and immediately obsessed on a young man with a shaven head, wearing a black fleece jacket, loitering on the sidewalk.
May was drawn to him, because after forty years of working with people – many of whom were employed within the emergency services – she was an excellent judge of bearing and character. And the man opposite, although appearing to be in his late thirties, perhaps his forties, seemed to radiate the relaxed confidence and authority of someone much older.
Not only that, but even at this distance, she could see he had the most magnetic grey eyes; eyes that seemed to skim the environment about him without missing the slightest detail; eyes that narrowed marginally the moment they alighted on those CCTV cameras clustered about adjacent buildings, before skipping off to focus more intently on someone or something on either side of her.
Is he looking at me?
Puzzled, May glanced to her right, noticing immediately that the truck was almost upon her. Then, somewhat startled by the same flock of pigeons that had been at her feet – now flapping frenziedly every which way at once – she spun left, and realized they were fleeing from the unwanted advances of a little boy. A little boy who was so focused on scaring them, he obviously wasn’t watching where he was going.
Pivoting as fast as her old hips would allow, May glanced at the truck, back at the child, and behind him to a young woman – most likely his mother – who not only appeared to be terrified, but was mouthing something as she frantically waved her arms.
A dreadful certainty of what was about to happen clutched at May’s heart. Oh dear.
The last of the pigeons took to the air, just missing May’s face, and causing her to duck and look away, back across the street to the striking young man in the black fleece.
For a second time, May found herself entranced. In all her years of experience, she had never seen a countenance that seemed to flash so brightly. It’s almost as if he has an inner furnace making his irises shine?
The mystery man’s gaze scoured the vicinity like a laser beam; once, twice, three times, before returning to the CCTV cameras. He grimaced, and May received the distinct impression he didn’t like being forced to act in public.
May thought that odd, but then he did something even stranger.
Instead of reacting, or beginning to react like those few people around her who recognized an accident was about to happen, the man inhaled sharply and kept breathing in for the few seconds it took for the youngster came to a frozen halt in the road in front of her.
By now, the truck was almost upon the boy – a mere foot away at most – and because May’s nervous system was surging with adrenaline, she perceived everything becoming sluggish, as if each second now vied for dominance against resisting currents.
Then it was May’s turn to frown as the man stepped forward into a fighting stance, with both hands raised. What the dickens?
Perplexed, she continued to watch as the man’s left palm shot out abruptly, fingers splayed wide like a police officer denying access to traffic. Incredibly, the truck slammed to a direct stop, the invisible wall in front of it causing the engine block to crush in on itself, and the back end to spring up from the asphalt.
With his other hand, the man made a sweeping motion, as if he were giving an imaginary opponent a back-handed slap to the face. At that exact same instant, the child was knocked away from the vehicle, with inches to spare.
Glass and other fragment generated by the van’s demise fountained down before her, raining through the unyielding firmament like frost-flecked diamonds. Moving as she was in ultrafine slow-motion, May was just about to throw an arm across her face to shield herself, when she felt the air trembling with unseen power. On the other side of the street, the man’s hands created blurred streaks across her vision.
How...how is he reacting so swiftly?
Closer to home, the encroaching shower paused momentarily in midair before dropping vertically straight down onto the ground without having touched a single bystander.
Staring through the glittering cascade, May could see the driver of the truck also seemed to be held in position by the same force. His van was now so far up on its nose that all manner of stock continued to spill forward. Even so, the driver himself remained seated, hands on the steering wheel, shoulders hunched, eyes screwed tightly shut, with a blanched expression of shock written all over his face. A loud metallic groan announced the moment gravity returned.
As the cab tipped back out of the way, May was able to confirm the young man on the opposite corner was still gesticulating furiously. His right arm snapped out, the hand itself upturned, in the manner people adopt when twisting in a light bulb. Following the line of his gaze, May was astonished to see the boy’s trajectory through the air altered, away from hard concrete, and toward the relative safety of a series of raised flowerbeds outside a bookstore more than sixty feet away.
No sooner had the child and vehicle come to rest than the black-fleeced man relaxed. He stared intently in each respective direction for a few seconds, squinted – as if reading the small print of a particular shady contract – then rewarded himself with a slight nod and self-satisfied grin.
People were understandably distracted, preoccupied by the mistaken assumption that a tragic accident had just taken place. Using the ensuing bedlam as cover, the mystery hero stared up at the CCTV cameras for a few moments longer – his features alight with humor – and then he began to turn and walk away.
Free of his spell, May reacted instinctively. Hang on, she chided mentally, you clearly did something to help, something that saved at least one life, and now you’re just going to leave as if nothing’s happened?
Amazingly, the man in black immediately checked his stride, turned around and looked back at her, smiling. His words echoed in the ether: One day the world will see how special that little boy is, May, what he’ll become. We can’t have him messing things up before he’s had a chance to shine, now can we?
Then he turned on his heel, and displayed the great finesse in fording the oncoming tide of latecomers rushing to help.
Numbed by the whole incident, it took May a moment or two to recognize the mother of the little boy was now standing next to her. She, in turn, didn’t seem to comprehend May’s existence, for she was staring at the hero’s receding form, her face twisted into an ugly mask of rage.
May was about to turn her hearing aid on and offer what comfort she could, but the young lady jumped as if something had startled her. Before May could react, she was gone, battling her way toward the flowerbeds with a strength born of desperation.
Of course, she doesn’t know – know – know – know…
“And that’s exactly how it happened,” May asserted loudly, more to reassure herself than to add credence to the veracity of the statement she had provided to the police. For even though she knew she could recall the circumstances of that day with a clarity that would put folk half her age to shame, there were certain details of her account that had never been made public: for one, the exact manner by which Joshua Drake and Albert Finn had been saved from injury, for it was a series of events as extraordinary as it was hard to believe.
Even so, that wasn’t what had spooked May so much. No, for she had been more unnerved by the ease by which a total stranger – benevolent or not – had apparently been able to read her thoughts. He’d also known her name and been able to speak to her across a crowded street without moving his lips.
“Impossible, especially when you consider my hearing difficulties.”
And that was what had put May’s whole world in a spin. For she was a God-fearing woman, and the only creatures she know of who might achieve such wonders were the creator himself, or one of his heavenly messengers.
“It’s something I might never be able to share openly,” she admitted forlornly, “for I don’t think people will ever be ready to learn that guardian angels walk amongst us.”