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“Hey! Mate! Stay where you are! Don’t do anything. I’m coming.”
With another groan of discomfort, the guy pushed on the car door and swung his other leg out. Jesus, what bit of stay where you are was he failing to understand? The acrid scent of burnt rubber carried on the breeze as I picked my way over to him, a tell-tale sign the airbags had deployed. Which meant a high-impact, car-versus-tree situation, which meant perhaps neck, head, or back injury, which meant—
“I said don’t. Fucking. Move!”
“It’s okay,” said a weak voice, accompanied by a vague arm gesture, which elicited another yelp and an impressive mastery of Anglo-Saxon swearwords.
“It’s okay,” he said again, more clearly. “I’m a surgeon.”
What the fuck did that have to do with anything? The guy must be in shock. Smacking an expensive lump of metal into an immovable object, followed by a firework exploding in your face, was a hideous experience; I knew because I’d done it, racing into Rossingley as a feckless youth and misjudging both my reflexes and the width of a humpbacked bridge.
“I really think you should stay where you are, mate,” I reiterated in a kindlier tone as I reached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s check you for damage before we start rushing about.”
Ignoring my advice entirely, he braced himself on the car door, as if to push himself upright. “My neck is fine,” he bit out, with a wince. “It’s just my…ow, fuck…can you take your hand off? It’s my shoulder and ribs. I must have hit the steering wheel.”
He made a second attempt to stand, and I pushed him down again. “Not so fast, buddy. Take your time. In fact, why don’t you stay where you are for a second? Give yourself a minute.”
A heavy dump of snow was a funny, disorienting thing, especially in the countryside. It rendered everything silent, to the point you questioned whether your ears still worked. My words, puffing out clouds of frigid air ahead of them, travelled for miles in all directions. In the dead calm, each of this stranger’s gasps of pain and attempts to shuffle himself upright hissed furiously between us, like unspoken threats. I examined him, dark head bowed and shoulders lopsided. With one arm he gingerly supported the other. Dressed only in a lightweight sweater and jeans, a violent shiver rippled through him. Another wave followed, hot on its heels.
“I…I can stand, honestly. My neck is fine. I wasn’t actually driving that fast. I just skidded…and…I didn’t bang my head. I need…need to…fuck me, that hurts…get my phone out of m…my back pocket and phone for…”
“Was there anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just me.”
I looked up and down the road, beyond the crescent of snow rendered pink by the car’s tail lights. No other signs of life. Icy water seeped through the denim of my jeans, already creeping beyond my shins. A sudden gust of wind whipped across Fearnley Field, blasting a flurry of snow. Neither of us could stay here for much longer. Too fucking cold for one thing. Too exposed. Taking my own phone out of my pocket, I swiped it on. No bars of reception, which didn’t come as a surprise.
“Are you totally sure your neck doesn’t hurt, mate?”
He nodded as if to demonstrate and inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering closed. “It’s fine. I think my shoulder’s dislocated, though.”
“Okay.” My mind was made up. “Here’s the plan. Give me two seconds. I’m going to fetch the warning triangle out of my truck and stick it farther down the road. Then I’ll come back for you. I’ll get yours, too and put it in the other direction. After I’ve done that, we’ll take you back to my place and sort you out. I only live down the lane.”
When he stood upright, he swayed, nearly pitching flat on his face. Seemed he’d hurt his ankle too, or his knee; he wasn’t entirely sure. Leaning on me, and with my arm around his waist, we managed a slow hobble to the truck.
“Do you need anything from out of the car?”
I didn’t add it was the last time he might see it. The Beamer had write-off written all over it.
“My overnight bag is in the boot. I’ve a coat in there.”
The deep layer of snow cushioned him from the worst of the potholes. Even so, negotiating my truck up the track at ten miles an hour was an uncomfortable experience. Zeus, kicked off the front seat, sat on the back row with his head between us, watching the strange white world with more interest than he usually mustered for anything. If my passenger objected to the overwhelming odour of old incontinent dog and his halitosis, he made no comment. Several times, through chattering teeth, however, he apologised for the trouble he was causing. I generously waved him away, seeing as it was Christmas and all.
“What’s your name?” We rounded the last corner. The sides of the road merged with the grass verges in a seamless white blanket; I drove from memory towards the dim glow from the cowsheds.
“Evan.”
“Well, Evan, I’m Rob. When we get inside, I’ll call for an ambulance. Are you a member of any breakdown services?”
“The RAC. The details are on a card in my wallet. But I don’t need an ambulance.”
“You look like you do.”
He shook his head with as much vigour as a dislocated shoulder allowed. “I’ll be fine. They’ll never find this place, anyhow. Or get through the snow.”
He made a valid point. Ambulances weren’t designed for muddy backroads hidden under two feet of snow. Add in twisty turning dark corners and a confused satnav; they wouldn't pitch up for hours. The man on RAC duty, however, might be someone totally familiar with Langford’s Farm, including the layout of my bedroom. If his tow truck had four-wheel drive, it could be my lucky night. Shame he was married with three kids, really.
I pulled into a white square of ground, formerly identifiable as my farmyard. “We’ve got to sort your shoulder out. And have you checked over. We’re going to need to get you to hospital somehow.”
