I curl my fingers into my palms until they hurt. My stomach is fluttery but I know my body well enough and I still have some way to go before a full-blown panic attack sets in.
I think of the expression on my mother’s face when I tell her I managed to sit out of view of the door. Fifteen minutes is only 900 seconds, that’s not long. It would take far less than that for someone to come inside and attack me though. I glance at the wall, imagining its pristine white splattered with my blood and I shiver. I can’t do it.
I am tugging at the first lock to slide it shut when there’s a knock. Actually, ‘knock’ is the wrong word; it’s a frantic staccato, rising in intensity. I fall backwards, my veins twisting into ice. My breathing abruptly changes and my chest rises and falls alarmingly.
‘Help me.’ It’s a male voice and, despite the muffled quality thanks to the closed door, it’s obviously full of panic.
I shake my head rapidly. I’m imagining things; I have to be imagining things. But the door rattles and the knocking continues. I’m frozen to the spot. My eyes are fixed on the door handle. I will myself to lurch forward and lock it but my brain won’t send the right signals to my legs. My throat feels tight and pins and needles tingle up and down my arms, I can feel the sweat on my skin and my vision starts to swim. No. Not now.
The door handle jerks downwards. I can’t do anything except stare in horror as the door crashes open and a figure appears. His face is red and his eyes are bulging. He lunges towards me and I scramble back. He’s going to grab my ankle though, he must have a weapon, it’s only a matter of moments and he’ll...
I blink several times. He’s not reaching out towards me at all; he’s face down and twitching. His hair is snow white and very thin and his hands, clawing the carpet, are wrinkled and old.
Move, I tell myself. My heart thuds but my breathing is slowing. The man’s feet hang lifelessly out of my porch. He’s wearing tartan slippers and I focus on them. Move, Zoe. Move.
I make it to his side and turn him over. He gulps for air; his skin is no longer merely red – it’s purple. One hand flails towards his chest and I realise what is happening. My panic fades, to be replaced by an even more alarming sensation that I can’t yet name.
‘You’re having a heart attack.’ My voice is weak and shaky and I have no idea whether the man heard me. ‘Recovery position,’ I mutter. ‘I’m going to put you in the recovery position. Stay calm.’ I don’t know whether I’m telling him or myself. He chokes and I can see red threads lining the whites of his eyes.
I adjust his right leg and manoeuvre his heavy body. His arms thrash, making it difficult for me to move them. He grunts something. ‘Don’t talk,’ I say. I try again to move him into the correct position but he has more strength than I’d have thought possible and he fights me.
I remember the phone. It was in my hand when he started knocking and I must have dropped it. I search frantically, finally locating it under his back.
I did say logic isn’t my strong suit. The sensible thing would have been to call the police immediately I saw the man. Instead, I let the panic destroy any semblance of common sense and now, if I don’t get help in the next few minutes, this man is going to die.
I jab in the number and wait for someone to answer. ‘999, what’s your emergency?’
‘I’m at 17 Christie Crescent. There’s a man. I think he’s having a heart attack.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Zoe. Zoe Lydon.’
‘Zoe, I need you to stay calm. I’m dispatching an ambulance right now.’
‘Please, tell them to hurry.’
‘They will.’ The voice is soothing and calm but it’s not helping.
‘What do I do?’ I shriek. ‘What do I do?’
‘Is he still breathing?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need to keep his airway clear. Put him in the recovery position. That’s...’
I drop the phone. The woman’s voice continues, disembodied, but I refocus my efforts on moving the man into place. He’s losing strength; his arms are easier to manoeuvre now. He doesn’t have much time. He grunts again. ‘The Department.’
‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘Help is on its way. Don’t talk. They’ll be here soon.’ I can already hear the distant sirens.
He twists onto his back and his right hand clutches at my blouse, pulling me down. ‘Don’t trust them.’
‘Sir,’ I begin as his left hand reaches up. He presses it hard against my chest and I feel a funny jolt like an electric shock or something, sending prickles down through my body.
Then his arms collapse onto the floor and his eyes roll back into his head. The sirens get louder and louder while I begin CPR.
Chapter Two
All men dream, but not equally.
T. E. Lawrence
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