standstill. Dave whooped the siren a couple of times but it made little difference – nothing was moving. In the distance, they could see the flashing blue lights of a police car.
‘Take the packs and run for it,’ Dave shouted. ‘I’ll get there soon as.’
It was still raining heavily as they panted down the slick pavement. I must be losing fitness, Jess thought to herself; she’d run much further with a heavy Army Bergen on her back with no problem at all in the past. They pushed their way through a crowd of gawpers with umbrellas to a scene of carnage: a car had obviously driven onto the narrow pavement at some speed and hit two people, both of them now on the ground. The driver was still in his seat, a very old man, his face ashen, and a baby buggy lay on its side near the front wheels. She looked around frantically to see where the child could be before spying it in the arms of a policewoman, apparently unhurt.
Over to her right, a policeman was doing CPR on a girl whose face already had that grey, hollowed-out look of a dying person. As she approached he shook his head grimly and gestured with a nod in the other direction, towards a shattered shop window behind the car. ‘There’s a guy over there who needs your help.’
‘I’ll get that one if you take over here,’ she told Emma.
Lying amid the shards of glass was a young man, moaning slightly, his legs in a pool of shocking red that was being washed across the pavement by the rain. Her stomach turned over as she approached, smelling that terrifying metallic stench of blood and fear. At first she thought the man’s leg was twisted beneath him but her stomach lurched again, even more violently, when she saw that the lower leg was completely missing.
Stop thinking. Get on with it, no time to waste. The checklist ran over and over in her head, like a mantra: C.A.B.C, C.A.B.C. Catastrophic haemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation.
Barely noticing the blood and glass, she kneeled down, tore open her medipack and grabbed a tourniquet. ‘My name’s Jess and I’m a paramedic,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt a bit. Just hang in there, we’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’ She secured the band swiftly and efficiently just above the knee and observed with satisfaction as the pumping gush of brilliant red arterial blood slowed to a dribble.
Lifting her head for a moment, desperate for Dave to arrive, she caught sight of the ankle and foot a couple of metres away near a litter bin. It looked just like part of a discarded shop dummy, still wearing a sock and trainer, the canvas type in show-off scarlet, just like Nate sometimes wore. She thrust a dressing towards a middle-aged woman standing nearby. ‘This is really important,’ she said, urgently. ‘Get that limb, wrap it up and get it somewhere cold. Find a shop with a drinks cooler or ice cream freezer, soon as you can.’
The injured man’s eyes were a maelstrom of panic and fear. Even through the pallor she could see his well-made features: a handsome young man, perhaps in his twenties, with all his life before him. Like James. Like Scott. Come to think of it, he had a look of Scotty, with that mouse-blond hair and freckles all over his nose. He was breathing, fast and shallow: his airway was clear. She quickly took his pulse. It was faint, but at least it was there.
Airway okay, breathing okay-ish, circulation okay-ish. Where the hell is Dave?
It was only when she went to cover the end of the severed leg that she faltered. The shattered ends of the tibia and fibula bones glowed shocking pearly pink-white against a bloody mess of skin and flesh, like a leg of meat hacked by a crazed butcher.
It wasn’t as though she’d never seen this kind of injury before – in fact she’d seen it too many times in the heat and sand of the desert. She grabbed a pack of dressings, but when she went to lift the stump the man whimpered again and then uttered another long, loud,
‘Take the packs and run for it,’ Dave shouted. ‘I’ll get there soon as.’
It was still raining heavily as they panted down the slick pavement. I must be losing fitness, Jess thought to herself; she’d run much further with a heavy Army Bergen on her back with no problem at all in the past. They pushed their way through a crowd of gawpers with umbrellas to a scene of carnage: a car had obviously driven onto the narrow pavement at some speed and hit two people, both of them now on the ground. The driver was still in his seat, a very old man, his face ashen, and a baby buggy lay on its side near the front wheels. She looked around frantically to see where the child could be before spying it in the arms of a policewoman, apparently unhurt.
Over to her right, a policeman was doing CPR on a girl whose face already had that grey, hollowed-out look of a dying person. As she approached he shook his head grimly and gestured with a nod in the other direction, towards a shattered shop window behind the car. ‘There’s a guy over there who needs your help.’
‘I’ll get that one if you take over here,’ she told Emma.
Lying amid the shards of glass was a young man, moaning slightly, his legs in a pool of shocking red that was being washed across the pavement by the rain. Her stomach turned over as she approached, smelling that terrifying metallic stench of blood and fear. At first she thought the man’s leg was twisted beneath him but her stomach lurched again, even more violently, when she saw that the lower leg was completely missing.
Stop thinking. Get on with it, no time to waste. The checklist ran over and over in her head, like a mantra: C.A.B.C, C.A.B.C. Catastrophic haemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation.
Barely noticing the blood and glass, she kneeled down, tore open her medipack and grabbed a tourniquet. ‘My name’s Jess and I’m a paramedic,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt a bit. Just hang in there, we’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’ She secured the band swiftly and efficiently just above the knee and observed with satisfaction as the pumping gush of brilliant red arterial blood slowed to a dribble.
Lifting her head for a moment, desperate for Dave to arrive, she caught sight of the ankle and foot a couple of metres away near a litter bin. It looked just like part of a discarded shop dummy, still wearing a sock and trainer, the canvas type in show-off scarlet, just like Nate sometimes wore. She thrust a dressing towards a middle-aged woman standing nearby. ‘This is really important,’ she said, urgently. ‘Get that limb, wrap it up and get it somewhere cold. Find a shop with a drinks cooler or ice cream freezer, soon as you can.’
The injured man’s eyes were a maelstrom of panic and fear. Even through the pallor she could see his well-made features: a handsome young man, perhaps in his twenties, with all his life before him. Like James. Like Scott. Come to think of it, he had a look of Scotty, with that mouse-blond hair and freckles all over his nose. He was breathing, fast and shallow: his airway was clear. She quickly took his pulse. It was faint, but at least it was there.
Airway okay, breathing okay-ish, circulation okay-ish. Where the hell is Dave?
It was only when she went to cover the end of the severed leg that she faltered. The shattered ends of the tibia and fibula bones glowed shocking pearly pink-white against a bloody mess of skin and flesh, like a leg of meat hacked by a crazed butcher.
It wasn’t as though she’d never seen this kind of injury before – in fact she’d seen it too many times in the heat and sand of the desert. She grabbed a pack of dressings, but when she went to lift the stump the man whimpered again and then uttered another long, loud,
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