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“Bastard!” shouted Warthead as he stood.
Gardener launched forward, trapping Warthead’s left arm with his own. He then forced his chin upward with his right hand.
“Put the gun down, now!”
“Go to hell.”
He twisted Gardener around and shoved him against the shattered shop window. Stuck against the metal frame that had held the window, a piece of glass dug into Gardener’s back. The sudden pain made him act quickly. He brought his right knee up between his assailant’s legs, crushing his testicles. The man sunk a little, but still maintained his grip. He wheezed into Gardener’s face, a mixture of bad breath and stale cigarette smoke.
The gun went off. Sarah screamed as Gardener felt the breeze of the bullet. It passed his nose and blew a hole through the brim of his hat, which flew into the air. Gardener hit Warthead full in the face, dropping him. The gun went off again as he hit the ground.
Sarah shrieked.
Gardener turned in time to see his wife collapse, clutching her stomach. “Sarah!” he shouted, stepping over his attacker to reach her as she lay face down on the pavement.
A small crowd gathered from the nearby McDonald’s, eager to see what the commotion was about. He kneeled down, gathering her up into his arms.
“Oh God, Sarah. Speak to me, please?”
She opened her eyes, trying to crane her neck to see her stomach. He followed her gaze. A large red stain spread across her abdomen where the bullet had entered.
“Don’t move, love.” He placed his hand on her stomach, trying to stop the flow.
“Oh, God, Stewart, it’s hurting!”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled his hand away, panic-stricken, fumbling inside his suit for his phone. Then he remembered. He left it at home. They were having a night out. He wasn’t on call.
He raised his arm, staring at the blood covering it. Sarah’s blood.
Dread passed through Gardener as he realized the enormity of the situation. With little knowledge of first aid, he knew he couldn’t help Sarah.
He raised his head, searching the crowd. “For God’s sake, somebody call an ambulance.”
He gazed into Sarah’s eyes. “You’ll be all right, Sarah. We’ll call an ambulance for you, get you to hospital.”
“Stewart,” her voice lower now, “it’s hurting me.”
“Try to keep still, love. You’re going to be fine.”
Gardener glanced around desperately. Warthead had disappeared. He was left with only a crowd of youths, and people in cars slowing down to see what was happening, but no offers of help.
It was midnight in the centre of Leeds. His wife had been shot; every minute she spent on the pavement, bleeding, was another minute wasted. And all he could do was watch and wait.
His eyes welled with tears. His stomach knotted. “Sarah, please don’t leave me.”
He held his wife’s gaze, watching her life drain away. He refused to turn away. He was not going to shout at some bastard in the crowd for not phoning the emergency services quicker. He was not going to see if anyone else could help him, or whether or not there was a doctor around.
He knew they had little time left together. He held her tight, determined to remain strong for her, comfort her, as he said he would during their wedding vows.
“I love you, Sarah.”
She tried to reach up to touch his face. As her hand touched his skin, he felt how cold she was, how lifeless.
“I will be all right, won’t I?”
Her words were carefully pronounced, spoken with insecurity.
Gardener choked. “Sarah, you’re going to be fine. The ambulance is on its way. We’re going to get you to hospital. You’re going to be fine.” He fought hard to stop his tears.
