My response is automatic. “Olive Tower, Harrison Vale.” I’m not so much helpful as desperate for someone else to take responsibility. “We’re in the emergency stairwell.” Muffled shouting reverberates down the line, hollering for someone to send two cars to our location and to ring for paramedics. My knees tremble, but I can’t tell if it’s from fear or relief.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah. What do I do? He passed out and there’s blood.”
“An ambulance is coming, and my men will arrive shortly. Don’t leave Tom’s side until they arrive, you hear me, girl?”he commands, his tone brokering no refusal.
“Yeah, I—”
“Good. If he goes in the ambulance, you go with him. I have a second car going directly to the hospital. They’ll meet you if the first doesn’t arrive in time. You got all that?”he snaps.
I nod my head stupidly but realise he can’t see me. “Yes.”
“Can you tell where he’s wounded?”he asks and then, without waiting for my response, adds,“Do you have pressure on the bleed?”
“What? Oh, shit…um…no.” I fumble the phone in my hands and kneel on the steps beside Tom. My free hand hovers over him, unsure of where to even start.
“Fucking hell, what are you? An idiot? Look for the wound. Do it now. Put me on loudspeaker.”Tapping the screen, I do as he instructs and then lay the phone down beside Tom’s hand.
My heartbeat pulses in my neck, the swish and thud of it in my ears is a warning to breathe before I pass out too.
“You can do this. It’s just a boy, not a body. You’ve got this.” Steadying myself, I lift the smart grey jacket away from his torso. Blood saturates the front of his shirt, which makes little sense when there is blood seeping from his back. Is there more than one wound? Did they stab him? Shoot him?
“It’s bad,” I whisper heavily.
“How bad?”
“Real bad. He’s bleeding from both sides. There is a pool…it’s so thick.” I barely register what I’m saying. The words are a response to the situation, like I’m playing a part and not living the nightmare unfolding before me. I don’t know if I’m even being helpful.
“Can you see the skin? Can you identify the type of wound?”
“How am I supposed to tell?” My fingers smear in his blood and slip off his shirt buttons. An urgency in the man’s voice, even down a phone line, encourages me to do what he says, but I’ve never been great at controlling my tongue when I’m nervous. “You know I’m not some kind of part-time paramedic, right? I’m barely twenty, Mister. I know hardly anything about anything.”
With the shirt peeled back, the hole is clearly visible and weeps blood. I’ve seen nothing like it. Almost the size of a penny, the edges are torn in the shape of crosshairs much like a target. The top of the wound, where the blood hasn’t saturated, appears black.“Bullet wounds are round, right?”I think aloud. “If it was a knife, it would be longer, like a line or a slim oval, wouldn’t it?”
“You think it’s a gunshot?”
That makes the most sense. But it isn’t just one wound, notwith the blood also coming out so high on the step. I pull the shirt away to reveal the upper part of his arm. Sure enough, it reveals a second wound, similar to the first. One hole stands out on his lower chest and another up near his shoulder, slightly bigger and without a clear shape. He is a deadweight, his injuries too severe, and I lack the strength to move him, but I’m fairly certain there are only two wounds.Through and throughs, they call them on the crime drama shows my dad likes to watch.
I suck another lungful through my gritted teeth and try to explain what I’m seeing. “They look like bullet wounds. The holes are small. There is one with frayed edges just under the ribcage and there’s another hole at his shoulder and out the back.”
“Fuck!”
His cussing startles me. I quit peering over Tom’s shoulder and stare at the phone on the step. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. You’re doing good, kid. If the bullet exited, then that’s good, but it means you have to plug the bleeds. Put pressure on both wounds until help arrives. Can you do that?”
“Pressure? You mean touch it? What if I hurt him? I…”
“Kid, you need to do it. I know you didn’t ask for this, but I need you to do it, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you do, don’t leave him. I’m on my way.”The line clicks and the call disconnects. The sudden silence swallows us. I shuck off my lightweight jacket and bunch it up into a tight ball, positioning it against his shoulder where the greatest amount of blood concentrates, but I can’t hold the jacket in place and attend to the front wound at the same time. I need a better solution.
My backpack sits less than a metre away, filled to the brim with things that seem trivial now, but there must be something useful. Putting my scarf under his head, I reach over and unzip the bag, turning it upside down and wincing as my beloved journal and books slide across the floor. At the bottom of the bag, every random thing I’ve ever tossed in for safe keeping rattles aroundbefore tumbling out and rolling across the concrete. I unzip the side pouches too and watch as lip gloss, tampons, scissors, duct-tape, pencils, loose candy, gum, and even one of Casey’s diapers, hit the floor.
The whole thing takes seconds and yet I feel like I’m wasting time. Scanning the debris, nothing seems useful—No way to sanitise my hands, no gauze, nothing helpful. My thoughts are sharp, but my reactions remain sluggish as terror courses through my veins. The incessant hammering of my heart against my ribs highlights every millisecond that I fail to do something,anything,to help. My gaze skims the rubbish over and over but something keeps pulling me back to the diaper. I might not have bandages, but that would be absorbent,right?With enough pressure, I could put it on the chest wound. But I still have the hole in his shoulder. What can I do with that?
