Flares Up: (Shortlisted for the Sunday Times Sports Book Awards 2023)

By Niamh McAnally

**SHORTLISTED FOR THE SUNDAY TIMES SPORTS BOOK AWARDS 2023**

Flares Up is a true story of adventure, tenacity and the capacity of the human spirit to triumph over adversity.

Firefighter Paul Hopkins, 55, survives a brain hemorrhage. The experience motivates him to undertake the Talisker Whisky Atlantic Challenge - to row 3,000 miles across the Atlantic. He teams up with entrepreneur Phil Pugh, who is aged 65 but renowned for undertaking extreme physical challenges in honor of his disabled son.

They encounter major financial and physical setbacks, which cause years of delays and put a strain on both their marriages. Finally, on December 12, 2019, in a fourth-hand 20ft wooden boat, they set off from the Canary Islands.

Violent storms, 30ft waves and equipment failure leave both men seasick, dehydrated and sleep-deprived. Alone on the ocean, they are forced to examine their lives. Was the decision to undertake this challenge brave, selfish or foolish? After 70 days, nine hours and 11 minutes at sea, they cross the finish line, two changed men. Will either of their wives be there to greet them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Sep 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781801504041

Book preview

Prologue

20 February 2020

Antigua

The flare set fire to the evening sky. From the same boat, a second one blazed; its red sparks reflected on the dusky waters off the Antiguan coast. Two flares. Normally a sign of distress, a call for help, a plea for rescue, but not these flares, not this time, not this night.

An hour earlier, locals and visitors, cruisers and superyacht staff had begun to gather around a podium at Nelson’s Dockyard in English Harbour on the southern end of Antigua. The atmosphere tingled. Word had gone out: ‘They’re coming!’

Outside the inlet, wind drove white caps on to nearby rocks and pelicans deferred their dives for fish. In the fading light, a dot appeared on the horizon. It disappeared, then reappeared as it rode the swells. The closer it got, the more details emerged – a white boat, maybe 20 feet long, oars dipping in a lumpy sea. Stick figures became the silhouettes of two men slicing their way home. The media and race officials of the Talisker Whisky Atlantic Challenge jumped in powerboats and sped out to sea to guide them in. Only a couple more strokes and these two middle-aged British men would complete their arduous voyage, having rowed 3,000 nautical miles across the Atlantic, from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean.

As the tiny vessel skimmed between the red and green buoys marking the finish line, the cannon fired and the harbour erupted in a cacophony of horns, hooters, ships’ bells and whistles. From sailboats to luxury yachts, every deck of every moored boat was laden with mariners applauding their achievement, and along the cliff road citizens and expats waved their national flags.

In keeping with race tradition, the two balding, bearded men stood up in their tiny boat, despite the choppy sea, lit their hand-held flares and raised them to the skies. The redhot blaze illuminated their weary but elated faces. Smoke snaked its way around their torsos and morphed into clouds of grey against the dark green hills. The media boat circled them, filming their moment of triumph. Race officials in an inflatable dinghy followed their arc. Round and around the rowers they sped, churning up a congratulatory spray. In the centre of the rowboat, still as bronze, stood the two men who had dared to dream.

On the quay, emotion overwhelmed the well-wishers who waited for them to step ashore.

‘I’m in bits,’ one tourist said, ‘and I don’t even know them.’

‘Me neither,’ said a local woman, passing her a tissue. ‘I came down because I heard they had no family here to greet them.’

Beside them, a proud father, who’d flown from South Africa, chatted with his 25-year-old son, who’d crossed the finish line the previous week. Four small children with Scottish accents stood next to their mum, anxiously awaiting their dad, who still had six more days to row. This crowd of international strangers had become friends, united in recognition of the potential of the human spirit.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Danish race director, Carsten Olsen, announced, ‘let’s give it up for team Atlantic Dream Challenge.’

Cheers echoed off the harbour walls as the vessel touched the dock. Onlookers found it hard to grasp that this boat – adorned with inspirational stickers, signatures of supporters, and rust stains that dripped from a now defunct solar panel – this small wooden boat, whose only form of propulsion came from the carbon fibre oars and the sheer determination of the men who plied them, had just traversed a tumultuous sea. In homes across the world, devoted followers watched the livestream on the internet as these two stocky, unathleticlooking men posed for photos. Between them they held the official banner which read: We Rowed the Atlantic.

‘Would you like to see them step ashore?’ Carsten asked the crowd.

Another cheer. One after the other, the men set foot on solid ground and swayed. Marine-lagged, their bodies were still tuned to the rhythms of their watery home. They weren’t the first to arrive, nor were they the last, but when they took their place on the podium, next to the sign documenting their certified time, they hugged, slapped each other on the back and bellowed a winner’s roar. They’d done it. They had damnwell-done-it.

Questions peppered the minds of those who stood in awe. Who were these intrepid characters, Paul Hopkins and Phil Pugh from Newcastle upon Tyne? And why? Why did they decide to row across an ocean? Not the prepared why they told the press or the noble why they told their friends, but the real why they told themselves in the dark of night. The why that drove them during the years of preparation and enabled them to say goodbye to loved ones they prayed they would see again. The why that made quitting not an option when they faced storms and equipment failure in the middle of Poseidon’s rage, and the why they had yet to discover once they’d stepped on dry land and reflected on who they had become during those 70 days, 9 hours and 11 minutes at sea.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

6 September 2014

PAUL HOPKINS was hungry. Dinner at Byker Community Fire Station was hit or miss, depending on who was cooking. Tonight, thankfully, was a hit. His plate was heaped with piping-hot spaghetti bologese and garlic bread.

‘Smells delicious, Andy, thanks.’

‘Welcome, gaffer.’

While he waited for the lads to pass around the large bowl of parmesan, Paul crunched into the bread. He loved mealtimes, the bonding, the banter, and for him, a break from the office, the reports, and having to wear reading glasses. His boss, and fellow triathlete, Carl Latimer, was on holiday, which left him in charge as acting watch manager.

Whoop, whoop, whoop …

The siren went off. Spoons clattered; chairs screeched backwards. Within seconds the first person was down the pole. Paul tore the message off the printer. He’d already assigned duties for the evening – Doug would drive, Bill and Maurice would wear the breathing apparatus – now he shouted the address.

When they pulled up at the student accommodation block for one of Newcastle upon Tyne’s universities, they found the street littered with teenagers, some dressed for bed, others for a Saturday night on the town. But no sign of a fire. Paul hoped this wasn’t another prank call-out, especially since his stomach and dinner had been so rudely separated.

‘Anyone know what happened?’

A chap in a dressing gown came forward.

‘I think it’s my flat.’

‘Okay. Let’s check it out.’

When Paul and his crew reached the young man’s room, they found the detector had been activated, but no sign of any damage.

‘What were you doing that might have set this off?’

‘My hair.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I think I used too much cream. My straighteners started smoking.’

‘Right.’

After Paul reset the panel, they headed back to base.

‘It was a splash of Brut in my day,’ said Paul.

‘You’re only jealous,’ Doug said. ‘Been a long time since you needed a hairbrush.’

Paul patted his head. ‘Sooner have a semi-polished noggin than your ugly mop.’

‘At least mine isn’t grey,’ said Doug.

‘I think you’ll find my Nicola calls this colour distinguished.’

‘She’s biased.’

‘Biased wife, happy life.’

Doug laughed. ‘This from the man on his third marriage.’

‘I’m a slow learner.’

As they drove through town Paul noticed the pubs and restaurants had started to fill. They were in for a busy weekend with all the out-of-towners who had descended on Newcastle for the half-marathon tomorrow. If he wasn’t working, he wouldn’t mind heading out for a pint or two himself. He loved the pub atmosphere. He’d met almost everyone he’d ever dated in a bar, including Diane, his first wife, and mother of his two older sons, Sean and Jamie, and Vicki, his second wife, too. Well, if he couldn’t go out for a beer, the next best thing was a good plate of grub. Fifteen minutes later, he and the crew were once again sitting down to eat. Paul eyed his mountain of food with that heady feeling of love at first sight. He stabbed the pasta with his fork and twirled, scooped the meat sauce on top and shoved the whole lot into his mouth.

‘God, this is a feast, Andy.’

Two more mouthfuls. Joy.

Whoop, whoop …

Once again, the turn-out system transformed the crew like a pack of Pavlov’s dogs. In rapid succession Paul swallowed, jumped, and slid. He ripped the message off the printer.

Persons reported.

This was the big one. The practice, the drills, all for this – to rescue people from a burning building. There was no banter now, just the echo of Paul’s announcement being repeated from one firefighter to the next. Persons reported. Seconds could determine life or death.

Lights flashing, alarm screeching, they left the forecourt and drove up the hill. Paul watched Doug rock back and forth in the driver’s seat. His face was taut. This part of the call-out was all on him.

‘Clear left,’ said Paul.

‘Thanks, gaffer.’

Doug took the intersection as fast as he dared, the engine leaning hard over. The fastest route was past the busy bars. Paul scanned the street for idiots. He heard the lads in the back checking their breathing apparatus and in the wing mirror he saw the second fire engine right behind them. Good. Two teams, better chance.

Doug parked the rig as close to the block of flats as possible.

‘Let’s go.’ Even though there was still no sign of a fire, Paul grabbed his kit and ran across the grass. A group of neighbours waved, directing him to the rear of the building.

‘Is anyone home?’ he asked them.

‘Yes, yes,’ one of them answered, ‘the door is locked.’

As soon as Paul came around the corner, he could see smoke coming out of a flat on the ground floor. The windows were blackened. Paul was glad to see a wooden door, not composite.

‘Stand back.’

Paul swung hard and fast with the sledgehammer. He knew breaking the door would add oxygen to the fire, putting his team in more danger, but he had no option but to send them in. He hit the lock full on. The door broke open, wood splinters flew. As the air rushed in, smoke poured out the top of the doorway. Without hesitation Bill and Maurice disappeared into the thick smoke. They were well trained, but, as always, Paul was conscious that he was responsible for whether or not his crew would see their loved ones again. He briefed the second team and sent them in.

Paul radioed Control, letting them know how many people he had committed to the property and the equipment in use. Just after the second crew entered the flat, the first rushed out, Bill carrying a middle-aged woman. He didn’t need to call for oxygen. Maurice had the O2 mask covering her mouth and nose before Bill set her down on the chair a neighbour had brought. Her face was black with soot, but not burned.

‘Is there anyone else in there?’ Paul asked her.

She coughed, spluttered.

‘Anyone else in there?’

Paul knew she needed to take a breath, to replace the toxic smoke clinging to her throat and lungs, but he had to know. If there was someone else, they only had seconds left.

‘Anyone else?’

The lady gasped. ‘My dogs, save my dogs.’

‘Got it, gaffer.’ Bill and Maurice went back in.

Paul radioed the second pair.

‘How are we doing?’

‘Structure’s okay. Just got two more hotspots.’

‘Okay. Look for dogs.’

‘Copy.’

Paul heard the ambulance arrive. The rush of adrenaline that had flooded his body started to fade. Although his teams were trained first-aiders, it was always a relief to see the paramedics arrive on scene. He sent an update to Control. The fire was almost out, the woman’s breathing was improving. If they could save her dogs, it would be a bonus.

An older couple approached. Paul was happy to let these neighbours console her. The comfort of familiar faces would do her good.

‘Where’s John?’ the gentleman asked her.

‘Who’s John?’ said Paul.

‘Her husband.’

‘Where’s John?’ Paul asked the woman.

She pointed at her flat.

‘Where? What room?’

She shook her head.

‘One more, lads. A man.’

They’d lost valuable time. What would they find? He didn’t want to open that box, the box he kept locked at the back of his mind: images of corpses he’d pulled from burnedout buildings, body parts he’d picked up from railway tracks, human remains he’d cut out of cars. If he let those pictures loose, he would never sleep again.

‘Lads, any sign?’

‘Coming.’

The second crew came out carrying an unconscious man. The ambulance team went to work, pounding on his chest.

The woman gasped. ‘Oh my God, John.’

‘Would you mind walking her to the ambulance?’ Paul asked the neighbours. Real-life CPR was a lot more physical than in the movies.

As he watched the couple lead her away, he wondered how she could have remembered her dogs before her husband. But then, even though he had been to many fires, he had never been pulled out of one, so who was he to judge? At least he was sure his wife, Nicola, would think of him and their 13-year-old son, James, before their dog, Betty Boo. Wouldn’t she?

His radio squawked.

‘Gaffer, we have them.’

The first crew emerged, each of them carrying a dog.

Chapter 2

7 September 2014

PHIL PUGH didn’t need the alarm. Even though it was Sunday, and he would normally like a bit of a lie-in, his eyes flew open and he jumped out of bed. Race day. The annual Newcastle half-marathon, known as the Great North Run, was a highlight in his family’s calendar. For the past seven years, he had run it with his three sons. He and his two younger lads, Rod and Alex, would take turns pushing Tom’s wheelchair through the course while collecting money for Tiny Lives, a charity which supports the families, babies and staff on the Neonatal Unit at the Royal Victoria Infirmary, Newcastle upon Tyne.

His wife, Meme, called from the kitchen. ‘Morning, Phil. Scrambled?’

‘Lovely, thanks. Just going to give Tom a quick call.’ He dialled the independent living facility on The Causeway and his son’s support worker answered.

‘Hi, Mr Pugh.’

‘Good morning, Emily, how are you? How’s Tom?’

‘Excited. He’s already talking about his beer at the finish line.’

Phil chuckled.

‘Here he is.’

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Are you ready, son?’

‘Can’t wait, Dad.’ Tom laughed. The pure joy and innocence that burst out of his eldest was Phil’s favourite sound. He wished he could bottle the love and pride he felt when he heard his voice.

‘Soon. Emily will bring you.’

‘Are Alex and Rod coming?’

‘Of course.’

‘Will you be there, Dad?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘And Mum?

‘Yes Tom, she’ll be there too.’

‘Meme?’

‘We’ll all be there.’ Phil heard the doorbell. ‘Rod, can you get that? Okay, Tom, sounds like Alex has just arrived. We’ll see you at the rendezvous.’

‘Where will I see you?’

‘Emily knows.’

‘Can’t wait to see you, Dad, and can’t wait for that beer.’

Tom was still laughing when they disconnected. In the kitchen, Meme was setting a platter of sausages and scrambled eggs on the table.

‘Thanks, love, looks delicious.’

‘Yum,’ said Alex, sitting down.

Rod took his leftover pizza out of the fridge and offered it around.

‘No thanks,’ said Phil. ‘I’ll stick with protein.’

‘Gotta carb up, Dad,’ said Rod, ‘Tom’s chair’s not light any more.’

‘Oh, did you finish the modifications, Rod?’ said Alex. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Great. I’ve come up with a name for the company. I’m going to call it Adventure Mobility.’

‘Cool. Bet Tom’s thrilled to have the prototype. How is he?’

‘Thirsty,’ said Phil.

‘Ha, he’s been talking about that cold one for weeks.’

Phil smiled. ‘Yes, he has.’

‘So, Alex, how are things at uni?’ asked Meme. ‘Did your professor get back?’

‘Unfortunately. Eggs are delicious, thanks.’

‘I’m so glad to be done with college,’ said Rod, his mouth full of pizza crust.

As Phil ate, he couldn’t help but feel proud of all three of his boys. They’d only been young teenagers when he and their mum, Debbie, divorced, but they’d got through it, and then later had very generously accepted Meme into their lives. He was enjoying having Rod living with them again while he was working to set up his own business.

‘We’d better get a move on,’ said Alex, starting to clear the table.

‘Don’t worry about the dishes,’ said Meme. ‘I’ll get them later, thanks. Would you like me to give you guys a ride down?’

‘It’ll probably be easier to walk from here, thanks anyway.’

‘Better to meet us at the finish line, love.’ Phil gave her a kiss.

‘You got it.’

As Phil and his sons strolled towards the meeting point, they passed a handful of people, then larger groups, all heading in the same direction. The closer they got, the thicker the crowds, hundreds, then thousands.

The serious athletes, many of whom had come from overseas, were dressed in branded running gear and expensive trainers but there were also plenty of fun runners attired in fancy dress.

‘Dad, Dad.’

‘There he is.’ Phil gave Tom a big wave.

The 26-year-old’s excitement was infectious. Dressed as a superhero, Tom sat in the all-terrain wheelchair that Phil had helped Rod adapt for him.

‘How’s my bestest pal?’ Phil bent down to give him a hug. ‘Any jokes for me?’

Tom grinned. ‘What do you get when you cross a cat with a lemon?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘A sourpuss,’ said Tom, laughing in delight.

‘Good one,’ said Phil. Rod and Alex joined in the merriment which made Tom laugh even more.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the marshal announced over the PA system, ‘the entry gates are now closed.’

The music started. TV cameras rolled. Athletes stretched their quads, shook their shoulders; runners sipped their water, checked their snacks. Phil tucked Tom’s diabetic kit into the back of his chair. He was delighted to see even more people in wheelchairs taking part this year.

The starter began the countdown. ‘Ten, nine, eight …’

The crowd picked up the chant, ‘seven, six …’

‘Where’s Ant and Dec?’ asked Tom, as he did every year since the TV presenting duo had started the 2010 race. He’d loved how they’d high-fived the runners as they’d passed by.

‘Someone else this year,’ replied Phil as he did every year Tom asked.

‘… two, one,’ Tom finished.

The pistol fired.

‘Let’s go, Dad.’

Phil moved into position behind Tom’s chair, Rod and Alex flanking him. The Pugh family was ready to run but there was barely enough room to jog. It took 40 minutes for all 57,000 runners to cross the starting line. Once the athletes up front broke away the crowd thinned. Phil pushed while Rod and Alex ran along the edge of the road seeking donations. Spectators dropped coins in the buckets. The first half mile took them beneath the underpass and on to the central motorway. As they approached Tyne Bridge, they spotted people they knew along the route.

‘Well done, Tom, keep going.’

Tom laughed and cheered. Just past McDonald’s, Phil spotted his ex-wife waving from the sidelines.

‘Look, Tom, there’s Mum.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘You’re doing great, Tom,’ called Debbie. ‘See you at the finish.’

‘That’s one mile done, Tom,’ said Phil, already sweating in the blazing heat. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Yeah.’

Rod squeezed the water bottle into Tom’s mouth but it spattered over his face. Tom coughed and laughed and coughed.

‘How much longer?’

‘Another couple of hours, mate.’

Runners overtook them, they overtook others. At the seven-mile mark Team Pugh pulled over to the side to check Tom’s blood sugar.

‘How long till my beer?’

‘Another while yet. Time for some food first, but let’s keep going.’

Rod took over pushing while Phil ran alongside, breaking a sandwich into bite-size pieces and feeding them to Tom. When they approached the town of South Shields, the punishing incline slowed them to a walk.

‘This hill gets harder every year,’ said Phil.

‘Look, Tom, there’s Mo Farah,’ said Rod. ‘How cool.’

‘He’s going the wrong way,’ said Tom.

Having already won, in a personal best of exactly one hour, the British Olympian waved as he passed.

‘It’s okay, he’s on his way back to Newcastle.’

‘Dad?’

‘Don’t worry, son, we are going back by car.’

Seeing the great athlete inspired their final push up the hill. At the top, they circled the roundabout that marked the last mile. As they took off down the steep gradient Tom chanted: ‘Beer, beer, beer.’

Halfway down Phil’s left leg cramped, then his right. Both calves knotted tight. He moved to the railing and groaned in pain. Rod looked over his shoulder. ‘Dad?’

‘Keep going, lads.’

‘We’ll wait for you.’

‘No, don’t, get Tom across the line.’

Phil moved his right foot forward, but it was as if it belonged to someone else. He tried to put weight on his left. Same. He put one foot up on the kerb and pushed down through his heel to stretch his calf. The pain was excruciating. His fingers curled around the rail even tighter. He took a deep breath and willed the steel knots to unravel. Then he pushed off the railing and hobbled forward. He had to keep going. He had no choice. He couldn’t disappoint Tom, but above all, he still owed God.

Twenty-six years earlier, in Bath General Hospital, Phil and Debbie had kept vigil beside their son’s cot. Their first-born had come into the world at 24 weeks and now, two months later, was making his exit. The consultant and nursing staff suggested they call a priest; Tom wouldn’t last the night. But Phil and Debbie refused to give up hope. They prayed for a miracle and willed the ventilator to force oxygen into Tom’s tiny lungs. As the night progressed, Tom’s hold on life slipped further away.

The nurse returned and asked Debbie if she would like to rest.

‘No, I don’t want to leave him.’

‘I’ll stay,’ said Phil.

‘What if—’

‘If there’s any change I’ll come and get you right away.’

Debbie was too tired to yawn and too distraught to argue. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

She laid her hand on the incubator. ‘I love you to the moon and back, Tom. Stay with us, my angel.’

After the nurse led Debbie to a room across the hall, Phil put his head in his hands and cried. He bargained with God. Hour after hour, he begged, he promised. He vowed he would do everything he could to take care of Tom if God would just let him live.

‘Are you listening, God? Just give us a chance to love him.’

No matter how hard he prayed, no matter how much he hoped, he could feel Tom leaving. The sun was about to rise on what Phil knew would be the worst day of his life. At 6am the door to the unit opened, and a man in white approached Tom’s cot.

‘Shall we give him the full amount?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Phil watched the syringe, with 100ml of type O positive blood, empty into his tiny son. The doctor smiled and left as calmly as he had arrived.

‘Please God, please.’

Then Phil thought he saw something. Not the face of God, but something different on the monitor. Yes, the numbers had changed. The oxygen input into Tom’s little body had fallen from 90 per cent to 85. Seconds became minutes, 85 per cent dropped to 80. Was he imagining it, or was Tom taking charge of his own breathing? Phil watched, thrilled with every number his son claimed. ‘Yes, Tom, breathe. Keep breathing. I’ll be back with your mum.’

Across the hall, Phil put his hand on Debbie’s shoulder. She jumped.

‘Oh my God. Tom.’

‘It’s okay, it’s okay. Come.’ He took her hand and together they crossed to the Special Baby Unit, but before they reached the door, Debbie stopped.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing down the corridor.

Phil followed her gaze. At the end of the hall, he saw a ball of sunlight. How could that be? There were no windows and no doors to the outside. It grew, expanded outwards and inched up the corridor, lighting everything along the way. When it reached them, it seemed to swirl around their bodies, enveloping them in golden light. A sense of peace embraced them and they held each other close. In that moment they both knew God had granted their miracle.

‘Come on, you’re almost there.’

Supporters on the sidelines brought Phil back to the race. He moved his right foot in front and pushed down through the heel, trying to keep the scream from reaching his throat. Then, the left. He hobbled forward. He saw his three sons waiting at the finish.

‘Come on, Dad,’ Rod shouted. ‘You’ve got this.’

His left leg was easing and he used it to limp. Every step seemed to take forever but he focused his eyes on Tom, breathed through the pain and stumbled across the line.

‘Well done, Dad.’

‘Well done you, Tom,’ said Phil. ‘Let’s go get our medals and tee-shirts.’

‘Do you need my chair?’

Oh, how he loved his boy’s wicked sense of humour. He kissed the top of Tom’s head.

‘Now can we have beer?’

‘Absolutely, you’ve earned it.’

The car park was crowded but they manoeuvred their way to the pub where Meme and Debbie were waiting. Debbie gave each of her boys a hug.

‘Did you see us running, Mum?’ Tom asked.

‘I did, my angel,’ said Debbie, taking Tom’s hand in hers. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

‘You did great, Tom, you even beat your dad,’ said Meme.

Alex battled his way to the bar and returned with a tray of pints. He put the one with the plastic straw down in front of Tom.

‘Cheers, everyone,’ said Phil. ‘Three hours and five minutes. Our fastest time yet.’

Before Phil had taken his first sip, Tom had sucked his glass dry.

Later, the whole family sat together and shared one of Meme’s lovely hotpots. By eight o’clock the four grown men were yawning. Debbie and Alex headed back to their respective homes and Rod gave Meme a hand with the clean-up.

‘Right, Tom, time to drive you home too.’

Phil loved evenings like this at the care facility when he could relieve Tom’s support workers and spend precious time with his son: bathing him, dressing him in his pyjamas, and carrying him to bed.

‘God, the weight of you. How many beers did you have?’

Tom giggled.

Phil was strong, but tonight every muscle in his body ached. His calves still stung from the cramps earlier. Lifting Tom was so much easier when they were both younger. But when he carried his son in his arms, Tom’s arm around his neck, his head resting on his shoulder, Phil felt energised by the boundless love they had for each other. As he’d aged, he’d become even more determined to stay fit and healthy enough to be able to support Tom’s weight and his dreams. This was what he had signed up for, and he could feel God watching, approving.

When he’d turned 60 in June, Phil had committed to undertaking a new and strenuous challenge every year over the next five. Each one, like swimming the English Channel with Alex and Rod earlier that summer, had to be physically demanding and an adventure that Tom would love to do if cerebral palsy didn’t confine him to his chair.

‘I had a fantastic day, Dad.’

‘That makes me so happy,’ said Phil, laying him down on the bed.

‘Can we do it again next year?’

‘Yes, Tom,’ Phil said, standing up and arching his back, ‘we’ll do it all again next year.’

‘Thanks.’

Phil pulled the blankets up over his son.

‘Hey, Dad, do elephants snore?’

‘I don’t know, do they?’

‘Only when they’re asleep.’

‘Good one, Tom. Night, night.’

‘Goodnight, Dad. Love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Chapter 3

6 October 2014

Given the crushing pain at the back of Paul’s skull, he couldn’t open his eyes, but the antiseptic smell told him where he was. He lay still, listened. Beep, beep, beep. Thank God there was more than one, not that continuous tone. But then he wouldn’t have been the one hearing it, of course. The tinnitus in his left ear was dialled up to rock-concert level. A puff of air blew across his torso as he heard metal curtain rings scrape aside. He felt a warm breath near his face. A scent of pesto? Or was it perfume?

‘Mr Hopkins.’ A cool hand touched the middle of his forearm. ‘Mr Hopkins, how are you feeling?’

How was he feeling? How was he feeling? He was feeling what the fuck?

Hours earlier he’d been training for the next triathlon he and Carl were planning to do together. He’d set up his stationary bike in the garage. No shame there, even the hardiest of athletes trained indoors during the English winter. James was upstairs doing his homework and Nicola was watching TV. Nothing for it but to stick on Queen’s Greatest Hits and drag himself through an hour of torture.

As usual, the first few minutes crawled until he got into his rhythm. He focused on the long bike rides he and Carl took on the open roads in the summer: the smell of cut grass, the perfume of flowers in bloom, and the sense of accomplishment when they’d crest that final hill. They were often joined by Carl’s neighbour, Zoe Neasham, who’d completed her first marathon and was considering a triathlon next. By the time Freddie Mercury was singing that he’d just killed a man, Paul was pushing peak.

BANG.

Something hit him in the head. Hard. He spun around. Nobody there. He felt for blood but found only sweat. No bumps, no contusions. The pain was intense, as though someone had poured acid inside his head. His legs stopped spinning but his heart pumped faster as panic clawed. Get a grip, Paul, you’re a firefighter, you know how to stay in control. A couple of deep breaths. Right, let’s do something constructive. What though? Peas. The freezer was right there. He stepped off the bike and bent down to retrieve the bag from the bottom drawer. Whoa, that did not feel good. He straightened up. Okay, that was better. He held the peas against the base of his skull. His skin cooled but his head still burned. At least he felt in control now, and pain was just pain – something his dad had told him to deal with when no one was watching. After that one time as a 12-year-old kid, when he’d rolled and bawled on the football pitch, Paul never wanted to disappoint his father ever again.

‘Run it off, son, run it off.’

Paul got back on the bike and started pedalling. Not too hard, just turning his legs over. It didn’t help. Maybe time to take some pills. In the kitchen, he found the medical box and swallowed a couple. Perhaps a lie-down. As he passed through the lounge, Nic looked up