Saving Mr Scruffy

The problem with being good at your job is that others notice. I should have had the foresight to fumble a few easy cases during my training and spend the rest of my career coasting, but no. You see, in my line of work, there are the easy cases, the hard cases and the downright impossible cases. Naturally, after excelling at my job for years, the chap upstairs has rewarded me with successive examples of the latter, and you were the hardest yet.

After receiving the alert, your parents dragged you from your bed. You weren’t happy but then again, I could never really empathise with you; it’s just not in my job description. Diplomacy had failed. The suits had withdrawn. The bombing was inevitable,

It’s odd how you guys strive to paint a civilized veneer over your base instincts. Blowing an entire neighborhood to kingdom come is alright provided you’ve tweeted a warning two hours before the bombs start to fall. Again, another department deals with that stuff. None of my business. I just think it’s odd.

Admittedly, you were a brave boy. Though the tears shone in your opalescent eyes, none escaped until you made it down to the shelter. As your parents busied themselves helping the most vulnerable, you found solace in a dark, damp corner. It wasn’t like home but when the rockets hit you were safe, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Surely now you would sit tight and wait for the ‘all clear.’

Free will is a tricky one. Seemingly, it fascinates you guys. Countless saints and scholars have pontificated aimlessly on the question but, to me, it’s unclear why. Look, obviously I must tow the party line, but people have so little time here. I’m no expert on mortality but if I only had a few years, theological discussions would be pretty low on the list. Right between stamp collecting and posting Tik Toks online. But I digress...

The truth is that you basically do have free will. No doubt there are reasons (way above my pay grade of course), but it makes this job bloody difficult! I saw your little mind whirring, dwelling on something you’d left behind. When you chose to leave your corner, scurry past the dusty grey mattresses and sprint towards the light, I was unable to stop you. In fact, I had to follow you.

As you emerged from the shelter, you were still running. The marketplace, which held so many colorful memories, was now shrouded in a blanket of ash. You’d never seen snow but perhaps it looked something like this. At that point I still couldn’t fathom why you left the safety of the shelter. I was there, above you, silently urging you to turn back. I know you considered it, yet still you pressed on. 

The bright sun of your childhood was now an angry red eye, peering through the wall of dust. Your footsteps broke the silence as you entered a maze of rubble, jagged metal and shattered glass. Still, you persevered. The street was unrecognizable when you arrived. Despite the destruction, some skeletal structures remained, having been gutted by the rockets. Your house was among them. 

As I frantically scanned the surrounding area, you ran up to your room (miraculously still intact), grabbed something from under your bed and tucked it into the inside pocket of your little red jacket. It seemed, despite the recklessness of your escapade, you had achieved your objective. After so many years in the field, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. That said, even I was starting to think you’d got away with it.

I sensed it shortly before it happened. The cracks spreading across the columns, the concrete tiles sinking into the ground beneath, the foundations tilting to one side – an impossible balance that nature was about to correct. You started to descend the stairs. Then the floors shook, and the furniture slid; your childhood home was about to collapse.

I know you were only small. I know you were scared, alone, and overwhelmed. I know at school you were told to ‘drop, cover and hold on’ if there was an earthquake, but hiding under the bed was a bad decision. This wasn’t an earthquake and you had about ten seconds to leave the house before you were crushed. 

9, 8, 7…

My words transcended all invisible walls as they penetrated your mind. I called desperately for you to reconsider. It was all I could do. You didn’t make a sound, yet I heard the internal wail of anguish as the old photos on your wall crashed to the floor. I grimaced as you curled into a fetal position, as you had done after that wasp sting when you were three. After all, you were just a child. If you shut your eyes and pretended it wasn’t happening, perhaps it would go away.

6, 5, 4…

I was right there besides you, urging you to move but to no avail. By then there was no way you could’ve escaped. My impotence was agonising. I was always a stickler for the rules and for good reason. Naturally, I can try to dissuade hostile actors, I can encourage you to walk the right path and do my best to clear the way when you do. However, where the rules are concerned, direct intervention is a big ‘no no.’ 

3…

Now, you cried out as the ceiling began to crumble. You called out for your mother almost a mile away in the shelter. Perhaps she heard you. I watched you scrunch up your little face and brace for the worst. It reflects poorly on me that I chose then to entertain my curiosity, but I did. I glanced through your inside jacket pocket at the item you’d retrieved and gasped. 

2…

It was the raggedy old teddy bear you slept with, the one without a tail or even a left eye. From what I recall, your father found it at the bottom of a well the week you were born. Unbelievable. You risked your life to retrieve ‘Mr Scruffy!’ I cried out in frustration; a tortured, unholy howl that echoed throughout the city. Perhaps you heard me then. Who knows? Eternity passed in that one second, but I couldn’t look away. At times, I really hate my job. Don't do it.

1…

The building shuddered, as if exhaling one last breath, then crumbled. Instantaneously, the walls collapsed in a deafening cascade. The house, already a hollow shell, devoured itself as bricks shattered like teeth. Any remaining furniture was lost to the churn. A brief pause, then the rest of the houses on the row followed suit. Centuries of history made rubble in minutes. When the dust settled, the heavy silence returned. But for the occasional shift of debris, there was no evidence that the grand old neighbourhood had remained standing for over an hour after the bombing.

In the years following, you occasionally wondered just how you got out. There was a faint memory, just as the ceiling had fallen in. A blurry form, a golden glow. You awoke dazed and disoriented some way down the street, clutched your raggedy old teddy bear, and staggered back to the shelter where your parents were on the verge of despair. At that point, you didn’t care what had happened. You just wanted to get back to safety as quickly as possible. Of course, I followed.

Almost a century later, I remember every moment. Life is a miracle. As someone who’s witnessed quite a few, I feel qualified to say that. It’s also a gift. Forgive me for towing the party line but it’s true. Some squander it, some cast it aside. Some spend it in pursuit of abstract numbers or tokens. Some are good, some are bad. Most are somewhere in between (again, not my area).

I think you’ve had a good innings though. You took the trauma of your childhood and harnessed it for the pursuit of peace. These good deeds didn’t make a dent in the grand scheme of things, but you changed lives for the better. Elsewhere, your life was long and rich. You loved freely, you travelled widely. In time, little footprints came, and you built a family home, warm with lessons and laughter, from which you never had to flee in the middle of the night.

Nowadays, you can’t leave the bed often, but you get plenty of visitors - a decent measure of a life well-lived. Your wife passed last year, unburdened with regrets or grievances. That said, there’s still your brother, who arrived after the troubled years of your childhood. There’re your children to whom you gave the world. Your granddaughter likes to bring Mr Scruffy when she visits, although now he’s Mr Falling-Apart! It’s sweet that you passed it down but the sight of it still traumatises me. 

I’ll never understand why you went back for that bear. Almost from birth you knew the danger. At home and school, you were taught what to do when the bombs fall. You knew to stay in the shelter until the ‘all clear’ came. Yet you went back. Why would you ignore these lifelong axioms to save something so ostensibly insignificant? Then again, perhaps I should ask myself the same question.

The job is easier now, but I’m still on guard. Sometimes, on those particularly quiet nights, I think you see me. You glimpse a formless shadow, an ethereal light, and a flicker of understanding flits across your aged eyes. Perhaps I’m imagining things. Either way, from what the nurses say, it seems you and I will be meeting shortly. Then we’ll see what the chap upstairs has in store for you. Until that bittersweet day, I’ll always follow you – your guardian angel until the end.

As for my future, who knows? I’d never dream of telling my colleagues what happened in Beirut. Honestly, I’m still on the fence about telling you. Despite whinging about my job, fundamentally I'm a professional. Sentimentality should be anathema yet when that ceiling fell I had no choice.

In most jobs you can bend the rules. You can browse Facebook during an extended toilet break or expense the odd date night because your boss probably won’t notice. My boss literally sees all. Yes, there’s no escaping it. The chap upstairs saw me holding up the ceiling as I carried you to safety that fateful day. As I’ve said, regardless of what it says in the Bible, he hates direct intervention.

Or maybe it’s more complicated.