“…damn fool…” That sounded like McFall.
Boots surrounded him as he lay on the frosted grass. The world spun. Voices called his name. Someone touched his face, shooting pain through his body. Hell, he wanted to throw up.
Anthony’s head became light, and the sounds receded.
He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he was lying on a carriage seat. His head rested on Patrick’s lap, and only his right eye worked. The left one was swollen shut or maybe it was missing. He couldn’t tell.
Patrick pressed a cloth against Anthony’s face. A face that was burning and throbbing without mercy.
“What the hell is happening?” Patrick asked someone. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“A riot, my lord,” the footman said from somewhere. “The protesters and the police are blocking the street.”
“Go around them. Find another way.”
Anthony groaned. His throat and mouth tasted of copper and seemed filled with glass shards.
“Anthony, can you hear me?” Patrick’s worried face filled Anthony’s field of vision. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“The bullet?” he slurred.
“I’m not sure what happened. There’s too much blood, and the flesh is all torn.” Patrick’s voice shook with fear.
“My eye?”
“I don’t know.” Patrick was shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
Anthony wanted to reassure him, but talking required too much effort.
The carriage rolled onwards for a while before stopping with a jolt. Loud voices sounded. People thumped the carriage, yelling slogans against the government. Hundreds of feet thundered. Anthony tried to sit up.
“Don’t.” Patrick pushed him down.
“Let me.” He wasn’t sure he could sit up without feeling sick, but he needed to do something other than lie helplessly.
Patrick helped him, still pressing the cloth against the burning cheek. “You jumped in front of me to protect me. You shouldn’t have.”
What was he supposed to do? Watch his brother get killed?
He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and replaced Patrick’s hand with his. The world tilted again, but if he rested his head on the wall, he could sit without feeling sick although the protestants rocked the carriage right and left on the spot. The horses snorted.
“Take us out of here!” Patrick yelled to the coachman.
“I’m trying, my lord.”
The cloth was soaked, and the pain was agonising, but Anthony’s mind was clear. He took deep breaths, glancing out of the window. Men waving the flag of the Social Democratic Federation were clashing against another group he couldn’t identify, and his carriage stood in the middle of the riot.
“What’s this?” Each word was like a stab to his face.
“Socialists against protectionists. It’s a huge riot. Every bloody street seems blocked.” Patrick let out a sob. “I’m sorry, Anthony. It’s my fault.”
He didn’t have the strength to reply. Lying down seemed like a bloody good idea.
The last thing he heard before closing his only working eye was Patrick apologising again.
