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“Oh god, what happened?” I choke, rushing to him, unsure where the blood is coming from. I don’t know where I can touch, where to start first, what I’m supposed to do? I sob, panicked, and jolt into shock. I can’t move. Can’t think. I stutter and silently beg him to help me. Help me, even though it’s him who is bleeding on the floor and showing a pallor to his skin that has me severely worried.
“First aid,” he puffs, stumbling to a chair and sitting down. He goes floppy, and I grab him, groaning in protest at his challenging weight. He rights himself and tries to cup my face, but misses. “The kit.”
“Where is it?” I stumble about, dragging cupboards and drawers open. I clatter about, knocking things over as I look for anything that resembles a first aid kit.
“En-suite,” he grunts painfully. I rush off, but not before looking back to see he is trying to remove his shirt. He curses and my stomach revolts at all the blood dripping on the tiles. I pound into the en-suite and pull the few cupboards open, sagging in relief when I find the box. I nearly drop it in my haste to get back to him and discover that when I do return, I’m not prepared for what I witness. There is a deep, seeping wound in his shoulder, where a sizable chunk of flesh is missing and another laceration to his side. A knife wound, perhaps, or maybe he was shot. I whimper, terrified by the mess he is in. It looks like a bullet grazed his side.
“Oh, god, Callan, what do I do?” I dump the kit on the side and begin pulling things out, holding them out for him.
“Stitch me up,” he laughs hollowly. He’s in a lot of pain. His black gaze is flat and dilated. “The bullet barely skimmed me,” he pants.
“What!” I screech. I’m not stitching him up. “I’m not stitching you up!” I cry. This is madness. “You’ve been shot. Oh, god, you’ve been shot…Shit.” I baulk and grip the side, my legs weakening at what is transpiring around me. “They’re here.” I go ashen.
“No, not them. They’re not here. I need you to focus. Sterilise the wounds, and your hands,” he grunts between short pants, “stitch me up.” His shaky hand lifts to the kit. Blood is seeping steadily out of the wounds. How can I do anything when there is so much blood?
“Where is Stalin?” I’m crying now, shaking visibly. I desperately need for this all to be a big, nasty dream.
“Cleaning up.” He flattens me with a stare that dries my stomach raw. That’s code for the other person getting off far worse. I nod and huff, grabbing the pure alcohol and struggling with the lid. As soon as I have it off, Callan yanks it from me, stiffening at the pain it causes him to move before he pours it down his stomach, hissing, then lifts a wobbly hand to his injured arm and does the same. “Hands,” he orders, his voice a low hiss. Mine are shaking just as bad as his.
“Don’t make me do this,” I whisper fearfully. My lips are dry. I feel sick.
“You need to. Come on, Zara. You can do this.”
“But what if you need more than stitches? Your arm,” I whimper.
“Bullet went clean through. It grazed the edge of my muscle. I’ll heal,” he bites, “grab a needle.” He nods to the kit. I grab what I can and thread the needle. Callan reaches for some sterile bandage and holds it to his arm, slowing the bleeding. “The gash,” he grunts, nodding to his side.
I nod. I can do this.
“I can do this,” I say quietly.
“You can, baby, come on,” he encourages softly. I bite my lip and move in, and he leans to give me access.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I pierce the skin with the hooked needle. Callan doesn’t move, never flinches, and barely speaks as I thread the needle in and out of his skin.
“You’re doing good, last bit. Tie it off.” He gasps. My shaking hand accidentally tugs, pulling at the wound, and his nostrils flare.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say in a panic. Callan, although pale and clearly in pain, gives me a reassuring wink. I’m cutting the thread when Stalin barrels in, his eyes wide and face also ashen.
“Oh, thank God. He needs stitching,” I say on a short blub, grateful that he is here now.
“I’ll do you a deal. You clean me up, and I’ll sort his wound,” Stalin tells me.
“You’re hurt too?” This is a nightmare. He takes the seat beside Callan and grabs his hand, pulling him in for a quick but gentle slap on the back. Both men drop their foreheads together in solidarity, an unspoken brotherhood. They have been through hell tonight. For me? I daren’t ask. I can’t cope with that truth. I step back and allow them a moment.
After a few moments, Stalin pulls back, shrugging his suit jacket off. Next, his shirt is removed, which is saturated in blood too.
“I’m not a nurse!”
“Tony is on his way. Just clean it until he gets here,” Stalin advises me. He turns his attention to Callan’s upper arm, where the chunk is missing. A flimsy bit of skin is keeping his arm from forming a clean hole. A millimetre to the right, and it would simply be a sizable crevice. I swallow bile and breathe through my nose as I pour alcohol over Stalin’s waist.
“Fuck!” he snaps.
“Oh, sorry, applying alcohol,” I whisper, blushing deep crimson. Callan laughs, then grunts in pain. A loud knock sounds at the door, and I jump away, expecting the police to charge in and arrest us all.
“That’s Tony,” Stalin tells me. I nod and rush off, swearing when I get to the door, finding my hands are tainted with blood. I yank the handle open, not even saying hello and rush back, noticing bloody prints on the marble floor.
“They’re here,” I stammer. Now Tony is here to take over, I start to find things to clean the floor with, but Callan tugs me to him.
