He was walking along the river bank on the footpath, just whiling away a pleasant Sunday afternoon in Brisbane, no need for a jacket or long pants here in early November. A polo shirt, shorts, short socks and trainers were more than adequate. The Regatta was fifteen minutes away at his current amble and he thought he would have earned a glass of chardy by the time he got there.

Minding his own business, lost in thought, enjoying the sun, when he heard someone yell.

"There's a boy. There's a boy in the water."

He propped and looked. Nobody in their right mind goes swimming in the Brisbane River, not any more at any rate. The reflection from the afternoon sun was raising glaring ripples off the water and it was hard to see, and then he did see. He saw a head appear and then disappear, an arm raised as the head went down, but no cries of help. He didn't stop to think. He ripped off his trainers, ran down the bank and launched himself into the muddy water, swimming as fast as he could to where he had seen the head disappear, twenty yards offshore.

He got to where he thought he'd seen the swimmer...no...non-swimmer and... nothing. Then he saw that arm again, ten yards downstream. Of course, he should have thought. He was supposed to be an engineer wasn't he? The current was doing its work. He quickly swam toward the now-gone arm and a head appeared right in front of him. He grabbed a handful of longish hair and trod water while he got himself ready, then hauled the head up, put his arm underneath and assumed the classic lifesaving position, lying on his back, supporting the victim. He paddled back to shore, kicking as hard as he could, until he felt ground beneath him.

It was more like mud and he had to scramble, slipping and sliding, to get himself and the inert body he was holding clear of the water. As soon as he could he checked the body's pulse.....None......Breathing.......No. Oh, shit. He'd have to give the kiss of life. Yeah, he'd done the training but he'd never actually USED it.

"Let me do it right" he prayed, to a god he didn't believe in, and started in, holding the figure's nose and counting as he'd been taught before blowing into the mouth. He hadn't even had a chance to look at who he'd rescued, assuming whoever it was lived. A cold shivery feeling descended on him as if he were possessed. He knew he wouldn't be able to give up.

People were starting to crowd around. Someone said, "We've called the Ambos and the cops."

He didn't take much notice, concentrating on what he was doing. All of a sudden the body gave a cough and then started spewing water. Quickly he turned it over and began to apply good old-fashioned artificial respiration, expelling the water from the lungs. He felt much more comfortable with this; he'd seen it done many times and done it a time or two himself. A shudder, and a gasp, and breathing......hacking.....gulping breathing, started. He grabbed a wrist. YES! The pulse was going. Then there were two uniformed men beside him, asking him to move back; taking over with the ease that practice brings to professionals. Yes, he could recognise that from his own experience.

He sat back on the muddy riverbank and relaxed for the first time in many minutes, drained emotionally, reaction setting in. He began to shake, and then he began to cry as what he had just done hit him. You couldn't tell because his face was still wet from the river. He grasped the arm of one of the ambulance officers.

"Will....he?...she? I don't know, be all right?"

The ambo looked at him and said, "It's a boy, mate. And yes, he's got a good chance, thanks to you."

"Fuck, thank you, god that I don't believe in. Would it be all right if I got that chardy now?" words unsaid but really meant.

He heaved himself up and staggered up the bank in his socks, helpful hands pulling him up the slope to the cycle path next to the road.

"Must go and find my trainers," he thought. "Can't go in the pub with no shoes. Dress code and all that." The fact that he was dripping wet from his swim somehow escaped him.

People were slapping him on the back. "Bloody great....Well done.....Hero..."

"Shit, I'm no bloody hero. I was there and I can swim a bit, that's all. Anybody would have done the same. 'Scuse me. I have to go and find my shoes"

"They're here. I picked them up," said a lady and handed them to him.

He was just sitting down to put them on and the cops came. Naturally they wanted to ask him questions. They were much more polite than usual and there were plenty of other witnesses, so it only took half an hour, but he had to sign a statement and promise to go to the station the next day.

They said they would take him home. He told them he didn't want to go home; he wanted to go to The Regatta and have a quiet drink, but they wouldn't take him there. What the fuck did a man have to do to get a bloody drink round here? No wonder he didn't believe in God.

The cops did one good thing. They kept the TV reporters and the press off of him. Some kind soul had rung them up and, like ravenous vultures, they flocked to the scene.

So they took him home, to where he did not particularly want to be. His wife took one look at him.

"Typical. Look at you. You tell me you're just going for a walk and you get pissed and fall in the river. I suppose you'll have some wild excuse, but I don't want to hear it. Having the police bring you home, you sorry excuse for a man."

He sighed. Wondering where the sweet girl he had married so long ago had gone to?

"I'm tired. I'm going to have a shower and go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning," If we're talking, he thought.

He stripped off, threw his sodden clothing in the laundry basket, showered and went to bed, dreaming of a glass of chardy.

His wife shook him awake next morning.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've just seen the early news, and there were pictures of you. They're calling you the Mystery Hero, because no-one got your name, and the cops took you away before they could interview you. You rescued a boy and they're saying he will live all because of what you did.

"They're saying he was clinically dead when he came out of the water, but you kept on going, kept working until the Ambos came. People were telling you he was dead but you wouldn't give up."

He didn't remember anyone saying that.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You weren't in a mood to listen."

He could have said more, but it would have done no good. She had changed so much since menopause had hit her. At 45 she was five years older than him. The pity was she had been such a lovely natured woman, and now so bitter and harsh, a living demonstration of the power of hormones. It had been starting when he took the job in Hong Kong, but he hadn't recognised it, certainly hadn't understood what it might mean. Would it have made any difference? No, probably not.

They were due to go back next week and he didn't know if she would. A large part of him hoped she wouldn't. It was hard enough working ten to twelve hours a day without coming home to a litany of woes and a constantly growing list of his shortcomings. The wine was a refuge. If you're pissed a lot of these things go over your head, but it wasn't good for the job or for his reputation. He really hoped it wasn't noticed too much.

With a slight groan he got up to do the usual morning things, dressed and read the papers. He was front-page in The Courier Mail and even got a mention on Channel Nine; the man with no name; made him feel like Clint Eastwood! His wife was contrite and was trying to be nice. He appreciated the effort but knew it would only last until the next hot flush. Then the phone started to ring.

Unfortunately, she answered it first. It was Channel 7, miffed about not being first with the news.

She was saying, "Yes, it was my husband," while he was frantically shaking his head and mouthing "No" but she took no notice, thinking she was making up for yesterday. Could they interview him? Yes, she was sure he would be happy to be interviewed. No, he fucking wouldn't be happy! But it was all arranged. They would send a car to take him to the studios at 10.30 so he could be on the mid-day news.

What do you do? You can try to keep your wife and everybody else happy or you can look like a prick. In a week he would be back in Hong Kong and yesterday's hero and it would all be forgotten.

The news would move on. He would have his fifteen minutes ala Andy Warhol, just grin and bear it. He could act it out. After all, hadn't he been doing that all his life? Pretending.

The car duly came and collected him. His wife had fussed and wanted him to wear a jacket and tie, but he refused, agreeing only to an open-necked business shirt. Smart casual would be OK. The interview went well actually. The name interviewer, Bruce Paige, put him at ease and soon had his background, civil engineer, worked as a contractor, yeah, running up and down ladders and round construction sites kept you pretty fit and he'd always been a good swimmer. Not Australian-born, a ten-pound pom. That got a bit of a laugh. At least the guy he'd rescued might reckon he was worth ten quid. No, definitely not a hero; didn't do anything that lifesavers around the country didn't do every day and without all this hoo-hah. In the right place at the right time, that was all.

They offered him money to keep it exclusive, but he said no. He didn't want to be beholden to them or have some legal type walking behind him. They shrugged their shoulders and took him to lunch.

Now there was an offer he could accept. At long fucking last he got the drink he'd been aiming for for twenty-four hours, a nice glass of chardy. The steak didn't go amiss either. They dropped him off at the cop shop after lunch. He was half-pissed but the cops didn't seem to mind. The questions they asked were purely pro-forma and apparently the interview had been aired at noon on the news. It had come across well and he was the day's celebrity so nobody was going to give him a hard time (except maybe his wife).

One of the cops asked him if he knew the boy he had pulled out of the river and he said no, got no idea who he is. The cop asked if he would like to meet him. He shrugged, hey, who could refuse?

They took him in a police car to The Wesley. That was good. It was only walking distance to The Regatta so he could refuse a lift home and go and have another drink. The Wesley is a good hospital, private of course, but it had been the closest and they don't refuse emergency cases. They had put the boy in a private room in order to keep the vultures away and afford the police some security until they knew the whys and wherefores of the matter.

The cop who took him there showed him into the boy's room and gave him a bit of a strange look as he introduced him.

"John, this is Robert," pointing to the lad, who looked to be fourteen or fifteen. "Robert, this is John, the guy who saved your life. I'll leave you two to talk for a few minutes."

As he left the room the boy gave John a look bordering on hatred.

"Why did you pull me out? I wanted to die. Why did you interfere? I should be dead."

Taken aback would be a mild description. Flabbergasted, gobsmacked, would be closer to the mark, but this was a man who had worked on construction sites for twenty years. You see and hear strange things and deal with them.

"How was I to know? I couldn't stop to ask you and you were in no state to tell me. I did what you would have done for me if it was the other way round."

The boy gave a ghost of a smile. "No I wouldn't have," he mumbled. "I can't swim."

Serious or not, John had to laugh. "Touché!" he said.

"What's that mean?"

"It means I can't answer you. Where are your parents? Surely they'll be happy?"

"You're joking. They'll wish I was dead even more than I do."

He considered for a minute. "Well, from what I was told and what I felt when I pulled you out they got their wish and so did you. You WERE dead. So now you're alive again, what are you going to do? Just so you know, I work in Hong Kong."

"Yeah, I know. I saw you on the news. Hero." He made it into a sneer.

Despite the attitude there was something about the kid that reached out for help.

"I'm telling you because the Chinese believe that if you save a person's life you are responsible for every act they commit thereafter, and I think that's not a bad belief. I may not be Chinese but I understand some and acknowledge more, so, I'm telling you, if you fuck up in any way from now on I'm going to come after you because it's on me. I want you to live the best life you can live. I want you to be happy from now on, I don't care what happened to you before. You have a new life, do not waste it. If you want help you can come to me, but do it before you get in the shit, not afterwards."

Robert seemed nonplussed at this little speech. John took out his wallet and gave the boy a card.

"It's got all my numbers. I mean it. Anytime, anywhere. Your soul is mine. You want money; I'll give it, as much as I can. Help? If it's in my power, it's yours. Now, get well and behave yourself in future."

He walked out of the door, said goodbye to the cop outside and headed to The Regatta, he needed that drink.

For the next weeks and months he half expected a call from the boy but nothing happened. Months lengthened into years. Life went on, as life does. Small problems came up and got dealt with. Larger problems came up and were either endured or dealt with or eventually faded away. There were some big victories and some small ones. There were big failures and small ones, thankfully not too many big ones. His wife got through menopause and his home life became a little less stressed.

Twenty-five years went by and the incident was a distant memory. John was still in Hong Kong, still an engineer of course, but working in a different part of the industry. One day he got a phone call.

His secretary talked to him before putting it through.

"I have this lady on the line. She says it's a personal call, won't give a company. She says you'll take it because she owes you her life."

Puzzled but intrigued he told her to put it through and said, "Hello," in a quizzical tone.

"Hello, John. I don't expect you to remember me but I certainly remember you. My name is Roberta Stone and we met many years ago, in Brisbane."

Well, in twenty-five years you meet a lot of people and it's hardly surprising if you don't remember them all.

So he said, "Well, hello Roberta, what can I do for you?"

"Nothing now. I would just like to invite you for a drink for old times' sake. I'm staying at the Conrad for a few days. Could you meet me in the bar at six tonight?" She chuckled, as if she'd made a joke.

"You can bring your wife or a friend if you like."

By now thoroughly intrigued, John agreed. "How will I recognise you?" he asked.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll recognise you."

The appointed hour arrived and John got a table in the Conrad bar. He hadn't brought any "protection". He didn't think he needed it in a public place like this, especially not in Hong Kong. He had only come because a call like that was out of the ordinary and he still enjoyed the occasional surprise. He ordered a chardy, a nice South Australian, a creature of habit in that department at least, and started to sip it when an attractive woman of about forty, but looking pretty good on it, came straight to the table and sat down.

"Hello, John. It's been a long time. I don't suppose you remember me. I'm Roberta." She stuck out her hand and he took it and shook gently.

"I have to apologise, but I really don't remember you, and I can't understand how I could forget such a beautiful lady." When you get old you can compliment women without them feeling threatened, one dubious advantage of age perhaps.

She laughed.

"It's hardly surprising. The last time you saw me I was lying in a hospital bed and my name was Robert. You pulled me out of the river the day before."

He sat dumbstruck as the waiter brought her a chardonnay and put another in front of him.

"Yes, I drink the same as you," she said. "I've kept tabs on you ever since that day in the hospital. You told me you were responsible for me and I never forgot. You told me to be happy and live the life I wanted to live and that's what I've done. I think I've done you proud. The reason I tried to drown myself was because I wanted to be a girl and nobody understood. You saved me and although the subject never came up I thought somehow it was possible you would understand and here I am."

John looked at her, and ancient regret flooded through him.

"Oh,yes,I do understand. I only wish someone had saved me."