THREE
Blue light, white light, shadows; voices, radios, blood. It's all a confusing mix topped with pain and the distant sound of Boyd shouting. Grace can't remember why he's shouting.
"What day is it today?" the green-clad woman beside her asks.
Grace blinks, tries to remember. "I don't know," she wheezes at last, defeated. Talking hurts. Everything hurts. "Why is Boyd yelling?"
There's a man in green, too. He's holding a large, oddly shaped bright orange thing. "They're straightening his ankle," he explains, "putting it in a splint. But don't worry, he won't remember. They've given him plenty of ketamine."
Ketamine. She's heard of that before. It's hard to remember though. "Elephants?"
The man chuckles. "No elephants today. I'm going to put this on your arm though, okay?" He holds up the orange plastic. "You tell me if it hurts too much."
It makes no sense. "Why?"
"Because your wrist looks pretty broken, my dear. We need to keep it straight. Just like your friend's leg over there."
Grace tries to look at her wrist. It seems a bit blue, and very swollen. Snippets of memory wander through her mind in a tangle. "There was a man with a pole," she tells the paramedic slowly, "and fists. And I fell off… something." Her voice sounds so strange. Maybe it's due to the building fog that's obscuring her mind. Have they given her painkillers, maybe? She can't remember.
She coughs, and it hurts so much that tears prick at her eyes, burning sharply. Her mouth feels wet, and it's a shock when the lady paramedic wipes it with a bit of gauze that comes away bright red.
"Blood?" whispers Grace.
"Yes, but don't worry. We're here to help you."
Another man comes over, kneels next to her. He's wearing red, not green. "You're not a paramedic," she tries to say, but talking is too hard now. The words don't form properly.
"I'm a doctor," he introduces himself. "I'm with HEMS. How's your chest feeling? My colleagues say you've got some damage to your ribs."
Grace blinks. Has she? It might explain why she's starting to feel quite panicked about how hard it is to breathe. How it seems like no air is going in or out when she does. She's incredibly sleepy, just wants to close her eyes for a bit. But what about Boyd?
"Boyd," she rasps. "He's hurt. Please help him." She coughs again and more tears join the blood on her face. The air in her chest is… bubbling. Like it's wet. It's a strange sensation. And an even weirder sound. She ignores it. Finds the red man's hand. "Boyd," she croaks, imploring him. "Please."
The man smiles at her, holds her hand gently in both of his. Shifts sideways a little and then points across the room. "See that lady in red? That's my colleague Maya, she's helping Boyd, I promise. Now, let's do something about that pain of yours, shall we?"
Grace closes her eyes. The idea of gently sliding into sleep is very appealing, but it seems their rescuers aren't about to let that happen. They keep talking to her, stopping her from drifting away into comfortable nothingness, but much of the pain has gone and even breathing seems a bit easier with a mask placed over her nose and mouth, so she doesn't attempt to complain too much.
They load her onto some sort of trolley affair, and that's okay, too, because she can see they've done the same thing with Boyd. He seems to be conscious, but rambling, making no sense. Disjointed bits and pieces make themselves through to Grace, and she's vaguely intrigued by his apparent conviction that they are being abducted by talking flora of the carnivorous variety. God knows what goes on in the man's head, she thinks, briefly and lucidly.
It's cool outside. It would be dark, too, if there weren't headlights and strobes. Lots of people.
"Grace? Grace!"
The voice is familiar. Dark and edgy, with a London accent. Strong features appear above her, set in a worried frown.
"Spence..."
He seizes her hand – the uninjured one. "Christ, Grace..."
"What are you...?" she manages to wheeze out.
He seems to understand. "We were already looking for the pair of you when the call came through. We tracked Boyd's phone to just off the A3 at Guildford, and we were circling from there."
"Oh." It doesn't matter. Something else does. "Boyd...?"
"He's in a bad way, Grace, but..." Spencer shrugs. "Pretty sure he's too disgusted by the idea of dying out here in the sticks to give up and keel over."
It's funny and it's not. She wants to cry again, but something stops her. Survival instinct, maybe. Divert everything to simply staying alive.
She coughs again, and despite the copious amount of painkillers they seem to have injected into her, it hurts. Hurts like hell. Grace moans, wants to curl on her side and protect the ribs that are blazing with pain. The paramedics have strapped her to the bed, though, and she can't move. Another cough brings a half scream with it, one she can't smother when it feels like a knife is being twisted inside her. She chokes, liquid blocking the back of her throat.
"Grace?" There's liberal concern and fear in Spencer's voice. "What's wrong with her?" he demands, tone changing, becoming more authoritative.
"Blood in her chest cavity," a voice she recognises says. "She's had trauma to the ribs."
Trauma to her ribs? When? Where? Confused, Grace tries to remember. A strange tapestry of images assaults her; a wall, fists, a ditch, mud, the Audi's steering wheel, lying across something metal, a red dot, soggy paws… It's all very strange.
A tube is pushed between her lips, begins to suck the liquid away. She splutters, tries to draw breath. Can't.
"Jesus Christ," she hears Spencer swear, and then he disappears as the night sky is replaced by the bright lights of the ambulance.
She can't breathe. Really can't breathe now. Panic sets in as her head gets foggier, as her vision greys. Grace flails her good arm, desperate. "Help me," she wants to shriek, but the words don't come.
"Oxygen sats are plummeting," says a voice near her head. The male paramedic.
The female answers him. Alice, that was her name. "I can't keep her airway clear. There's too much fluid."
Terror swamps her and Grace thrashes against her restraints. Tries to scream at the agony it causes. Someone yells a name from the back of the ambulance. The vehicle rocks, the light shifts as bodies move. Red overalls come into view and move away again.
Grace gasps and chokes, blood gurgling in her throat. Terror swamps her.
"May I?" asks a soft female voice that she recognises. Upside down brown eyes fill her vision, gentle hands rest against her cheeks. "Look at me, Grace," implores Eve. "I know you're scared," she soothes, "but you need to relax. They're trying to help you."
She can't speak, can't make a single sound. Eve strokes her hair, takes the tube and suctions away the blood and liquid. "Look at me," she orders, voice still soft and comforting. "Concentrate on me. Pretend we're in the lab, gossiping about how insufferable Boyd is."
She wants to laugh, she wants to cry. After the last few hours, the softness of friendship is unreal.
Something stabs deep into her side, there's twisting, agonising pain and immense pressure, and then the splatter of something hitting the floor of the ambulance. Her eyes blur, but she holds that dark, intelligent brown gaze as if her life depends on it. "That's it," murmurs Eve, still stroking her hair. "Any minute now and you should start to feel a lot better."
Another voice repeats the same words. It's the doctor from earlier. When he stands, Grace can finally see him again. He smiles at her. "Sorry about that," he says. "It's never pleasant, but your friend is right. You should start to feel better in a moment."
Incredibly, he's right. They both are.
Spencer's voice filters through to her. "Where are you taking them?"
"St George's," one of the paramedics says.
Wimbledon? Grace wonders. Must be. She stares up at Eve, not able to speak, but trying to ask a question nonetheless.
"Boyd?" her colleague asks, and at the tiny nod Grace manages, she gives a short exhalation before saying, "It looks bad, Grace. His leg's a mess. It's a nasty open fracture... amputation isn't out of the question."
She can't process the information. Not at all. Amputation? Boyd? No. Doesn't make sense. He's not a young man, not anymore, but he's physical, energetic, plays various sports in the little free time he has. She can't picture –
"Eve?" Spencer's voice coming from just out of her range of vision. "You want to go with Grace? I'll go with Boyd, and Kat can follow us in my car."
"Works for me," Eve confirms. She takes hold of Grace's hand. "You're both alive, and that's all that matters right now. Hold onto that, Grace."
There's movement and activity, people swapping themselves around, doors being slammed closed. The motion of the ambulance as it starts to roll towards the narrow lane makes her want to vomit. There's not much strength left in her, but she does her best to tighten her grip on Eve as the doctor and the paramedic exchange information in quiet, controlled shorthand.
No blues, she thinks vaguely, as the vehicle begins to pick up speed. No blues, no sirens. No need for them. Yet.
"Should take us under half-an-hour," the paramedic says to Eve.
"Impressive."
"Not really." He shrugs, returns his attention to Grace. "Guess this has messed up any plans you had for this evening, huh?"
She knows what he's doing. Trying to inject some normality, banality, even, into the situation. Keep her awake, keep her calm.
They might have worked late, she thinks. Worked late, then had dinner at the Devonshire Duck, the little restaurant that recently opened less than ten minutes' brisk walk from headquarters. Dinner, then perhaps a slow drift to his place or hers for a drink or two. One of them would have eventually taken their leave, upholding the very last boundaries of propriety.
The ambulance is moving faster now, she can feel it. The narrowest lanes giving way to quiet country roads. They'll be on the A3 soon, no doubt, and speeding their way towards South London.
Blue light flickers on, pulses to a regular rhythm. No siren though. She's grateful for that; the headache building behind her eyes is tremendous. Sickness swamps her, and Grace lifts her hand, catches the attention of the paramedic who has been talking to Eve.
"Feeling sick?" he asks, and she nods. The HEMS doctor is seated further down, by her legs. A brief discussion occurs before there's pressure by her good arm and the cannula they've inserted there. The doctor – he's told her his name twice now, but she can't remember it – gets up and stands where she can see him.
"How's your head feeling?"
Grace pulls a face in answer, and screws up her eyes.
"Pretty bad," guesses the doctor. "And your vision is blurry?"
She manages a squeak in response. He gets her to try to follow a finger with her eyes only, which seems a bit ironic since her head and neck are immobilised, and then shines a light in her face. It hurts. Way more than it should. It's also alarmingly difficult.
"Have you been sick at all?" he asks. Grace has to think about it. Holds up one finger then two, then shrugs as best she can. "A couple of times, maybe?" is his quiet response.
His gloves fingers move over her head and neck, around the rolled towel and tape they've used to immobilise her. There was a reason for that, she thinks tiredly, but she can't remember. Eventually the doctor stills, something Grace is inordinately grateful for. Every little movement, every scrap of light seems to be conspiring to make her feel even dizzier and sicker that she already does.
"You've got considerable swelling to the face around your eyes and nose," he explains. "Your nose looks broken, like you've been punched. And your throat is very bruised and swollen, which is why you're struggling to talk. How did that happen?"
Her tongue doesn't want to work, but she concentrates on trying to form the syllables. Closing her eyes helps. "Strngl," she manages.
"Struggle?"
Grace swallows, tries again. "Stragled. Audi... crahss. Man angry. Dragg me." Even to her own ears, she sounds drunk. Or worse.
Eve, bless her, Eve understands. "You were strangled," she interprets, leaning forward from her seat behind Grace's head. Once again, she starts to gently stroke Grace's hair. It's soothing. "The Audi crashed and a man was angry and dragged you."
"Mm."
"Boyd's Audi?"
"Yes."
"Who was driving?"
"Me." It's a squeak. She can feel the tightness in her throat, the increasing rawness from where the man grabbed her. She'd honestly thought he was going to kill her when he dragged her out of the ditch. Thought he was going to –
"Grace?" Eve again. "Why were you driving?"
That one is easy. "Help Boyd."
"Were you wearing a seatbelt?"
She has no idea. It's automatic movement, to put one on, but she was in a hurry, and the radio was in her hand. Wasn't it? She doesn't know anymore. Doesn't want to keep answering questions. Sleep seems more important than anything. She's so foggy, so drowsy. So very dizzy. Cold, too. Eve is still talking, still asking questions, but Grace's eyes are closed and she's drifting.
"Stay with us," the doctor's voice orders. "Come on, Grace, open your eyes for me."
"TBI?" Eve's voice this time.
It's too difficult to follow the conversation, but Grace manages to do as she's told and open her eyes. It's not pleasant, but it's doable. A memory stirs, momentarily taking her years back in time. Children playing, a little girl with pigtails, a bit of a tomboy, endlessly curious, and always absolutely determined to keep up with her two older brothers. A slip of the foot, a bad tumble from a high wall. A few miserable days of headaches and sickness. Concussion.
She closes her eyes against the bright light again, but predictably they drag her back. It seems terribly important to them that she doesn't rest, doesn't sleep.
Her confused, incomplete thoughts turn to Boyd again, to the things that are, and the things that should be.
"Grace?" Eve again. "Can you squeeze my hand?"
She can and she does, the action pulling her back into some sort of acceptance of the present.
"It's going to be all right," Eve reassures her. "We're nearly there."
It's going to be all right. It's going to be all right.
It's a good enough mantra to hold onto.
cont...