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Eventually, the news presenter reads out the headline in measured tones, a wry smile on her lips. ‘Today a Maasai warrior, Mr Lemasolai Ole Nangon, also known as Dominic, who has been living homeless on the streets of London, was commended for his bravery after tackling a mugger who attacked an elderly lady.’
The rest of the details blur into white noise as I gape, transfixed. Dominic is in London. He’s been sleeping rough on the streets. I feel the colour drain from my face. How has he managed? How has he survived the bitter cold at all? We have searched and searched and searched the countryside, the hedgerows, the fields, tirelessly and, quite possibly, all the time he’s been in London. Why did I not consider that? It hadn’t even occurred to me. But it doesn’t matter now where he’s been or how he got there. He’s safe. He’s alive.
The studio hands over to a reporter for an outside broadcast and the next thing I know, the man is thrusting a microphone into Dominic’s face.
‘Oh, God,’ I cry out and clutch harder at Mike’s hand, needing something tangible to anchor me.
Dominic looks tired and gaunt. His beautiful face is dirty and bruised. He’s wearing his red shuka and his colourful blanket, but both are filthy and ripped. Instead of his shaved head, his hair has grown and there’s a halo of ragged afro that alters his features, but still it is unmistakably my Dominic, my love.
Tears pour down my face and I turn to Mike. ‘He’s alive,’ I say. ‘Thank God. He’s alive.’
It seems that a mugger had snatched a handbag from an old lady at knifepoint and Dominic, seeing what happened and without thought for his own safety, gave chase. He brought down the thief and returned the bag to its rightful owner.
‘How does it feel to be a hero, Mr Ole Nangon?’ the reporter asks.
Dominic shrugs shyly, obviously discomfited by the presence of the camera, the attention of the press. ‘I only did what every English citizen would do.’
‘Oh, Dominic,’ I sigh. ‘Come home.’ I turn to Mike again. ‘I have to find him.’
Mike nods. ‘I’ll get the car,’ he says.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Not five minutes later, we’re in Mike’s car speeding down to London. In the back, Nina is with us and she’s holding my hand tightly between the seats, while Mike has his foot flat to the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says over and over tearfully. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her face puffy. She looks truly awful. ‘I’ve been a complete cow, Janie. Can you ever forgive me?’
Despite my earlier intentions of never speaking to her again for the rest of my life, my heart softens immediately. ‘Of course.’
My friend clutches my hand tighter and sobs. ‘I’ve been a rubbish friend,’ she says. ‘But I’m going to do all I can to make things right between us.’
‘Now’s not the time for blubbing, woman. We’ve got to stay strong until we get Dominic back. He’s still out there, alive and well. That’s all that matters to me.’
‘We’ll find him,’ she promises. ‘I’ll do all I can to help.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve been a right twat,’ she admits. Neither Mike nor I disagree but whatever our differences, I’m so glad that she’s here with me now.
‘Let’s see if we can pin down where he might be,’ Mike suggests as he drives. ‘Phone the BBC.’
My voice shaking, I call the television station and eventually manage to speak to the editor of the news programme. Due to data protection, frustratingly, he can’t tell me where Dominic is living, but he does give me the name of the police station where the incident was dealt with. So that’s our first port of call.
An hour later and we’re at the station. Nina and I shoot out of Mike’s car and run inside to explain our plight. Whether the officer on the desk breaks data protection rules or not, I don’t care, but he clearly takes pity on me and tells me that Social Services have now found a bed in a homeless persons’ hostel for Dominic. Nina scribbles down the address for me, as my hand is shaking too much to be able to hold a pen.
Back in the car and Nina gives the address to Mike, who then keys it into his stat nav and off we go again. The traffic is slow and it takes us half an hour to crawl to King’s Cross where the hostel is situated. All the while, I drive myself to distraction by tapping the dashboard impatiently.
Mike, grim-faced next to me, says nothing. Nina, in the back, chews her fingernails. My friend follows the sat nav’s well-modulated instructions while I want to scream at the damn thing to get a move on. When I think that I can stand the waiting no longer, we pull up outside a tall austere building that looks like a run-down hotel.
