Bang.
The sound cut through the air, amplified in the empty space so that I felt, briefly, as if my whole head had expanded and contracted with the sound. And then, too quickly –
Bang.
I yelped.
‘What the f—’ Donna yelled.
‘We need to get out of here, man!’ the boy shouted.
I looked back, willing Sam to get in. Get in now. Please. But Sam had gone. No, not gone. There was something on the ground: a high-visibility jacket. A yellow stain on the grey concrete.
Everything stopped.
No, I thought. No.
The ambulance screeched to a halt. Then Donna was out, and I was running after her. Sam was motionless and there was blood, so much blood, seeping outwards in a steadily expanding pool around him. In the distance the two old people scrambled stiffly towards the safety of their door, the girl who was supposedly immobile sprinting across the grass at the speed of an athlete. And the men were still coming, running down the upper walkway towards us. I tasted metal in my mouth.
‘Lou! Grab him.’ We hauled Sam towards the back of the rig. He was leaden, as if he were deliberately resisting. I pulled at his collar, his armpits, my breath coming in short bursts. His face was chalk-white, huge black shadows under his half-closed eyes, as if he had not slept for a hundred years. His blood against my skin. Why had I not known how warm blood is? Donna was already in the rig, hauling at him, and we were pushing, heaving, a sob in my throat as I pulled at his arms, his legs. ‘Help me!’ I was shouting, as if there was anyone who could. ‘Help me!’
And then he was in, his leg at the wrong angle, and the doors slammed behind me.
Crack! Something hit the top of the rig. I screamed and ducked. Some part of me thought absently, Is this it? Is this how I die, in my bad jeans, while a few miles away my parents argue about birthday cakes with my sister? The boy on the gurney was screaming, his voice shrill with fear. And then the ambulance skidded forwards, steering right as the men approached us from the left. I saw a hand rise, and thought I heard a gunshot. I ducked again instinctively.
‘Bloody hell!’ Donna swore and swerved again.
I raised my head. I could make out the exit. Donna steered hard left, then right, the ambulance almost on two wheels as she hurled it around the corner. The wing mirror clipped a car. Someone dived towards us but Donna swerved once more and kept going. I heard the thump of an angry fist on the side. And then we were out on the road, and the young men were behind us, slowing to a furious, defeated jog as they watched us go.
‘Jesus.’
The blue light on, Donna radioing ahead to the hospital, words I couldn’t make out through the thumping in my ears. I was cradling Sam’s face, grey and covered with a fine sheen, his eyes glassy. He was completely silent.
‘What do I do?’ I yelled at Donna. ‘What do I do?’ She screeched around a roundabout and her head swivelled briefly towards me. ‘Find the injury. What can you see?’
‘It’s his stomach. There’s a hole. Two holes. There is so much blood. Oh, God, there’s so much blood.’ My hands came away red and glossy. My breath came in short bursts. I felt, briefly, as if I might faint.
‘I need you to be calm now, Louisa, okay? Is he breathing? Can you feel a pulse?’
I checked, felt something inside me sag with relief. ‘Yes.’
‘I can’t stop. We’re too close. Elevate his feet, okay? Push up his knees. Keep the blood near his chest. Now make sure his shirt is open. Rip it. Just get to it. Can you describe the wound?’
That stomach, which had lain warm and smooth and solid against mine, now a red, gaping mess. A sob escaped my throat. ‘Oh, God …’
‘Don’t you panic now, Louisa. You hear me? We’re nearly there. You have to apply pressure. Come on, you can do this. Use the gauze from the pack. The big one. Whatever, just stop him bleeding out. Okay?’
She turned back to the road, sending the ambulance the wrong way up a one-way street. The boy on the gurney swore softly, now lost in his own private world of pain. Ahead, cars swerved obediently out of the way on the sodium-lit road, waves parting on the tarmac. A siren, always a siren. ‘Paramedic down. I repeat paramedic down. Gunshot wound to the abdomen!’ Donna yelled into the radio. ‘ETA three minutes. We’re going to need a crash cart.’
I unwrapped the bandages, my hands shaking, and ripped open Sam’s shirt, bracing myself as the ambulance tore round corners. How could this be the man who had been arguing with me just fifteen minutes earlier? How could someone so solid just be ebbing away in front of me?