Steve leant back against the wall, defeated. Tears pricked his eyes as he watched his father desperately working on Jesse, paralysed to do anything to help. He turned his head away, ashamed at himself for crying and furious that he could do nothing to help his best friend when he so desperately needed it.

"I've got a pulse!" Amanda's voice rang out, heavy with relief. Mark immediately stopped his compressions and sank back onto his heels. He was breathing heavily, his eyes appeared glazed and his shoulders slumped; he looked like a man utterly drained.

Amanda emitted a stifled cry, silent sobs wracking at her chest. She clambered to her feet, and wiping a shaking hand over her tear stained face she turned and hurried from the room, retreating away from the dim candlelight, her choking cries echoing in the silent, inky darkness.

Steve moved further into the room, he stared down at Jesse, his chest rising in weak, shuddering inhalations. The once white dressing on his injured stomach was now stained a deep, crimson red as blood continued to seep from the wound. Steve shifted his attention to his father,

"Dad?" His voice barely sounded above a whisper.

Mark looked up and stared unseeingly into his son's face, then open his mouth to speak. He mouthed silently for a moment for dropping his head down. He squeezed his eyes closed and seemed to recover himself.

"He stopped breathing. Amanda noticed first. We started artificial respirations immediately but his heart stopped…" Mark stopped mid-sentence, the fresh memory obviously painful. "He was down for nearly ten minutes, I thought…"

Steve didn't need the sentence to be finished. He had thought the same thing – that Jesse was dead. That he had lost his best friend. For a few minutes there was silence. All thoughts but the image of Jesse lying on the floor, fighting for his life were erased from his mind. He simply sat and stared at him, willing him not to give up.  And then the veil which had descended on his consciousness lifted and he remembered the news which only minutes earlier he had been bursting to share.

"Dad!" His sudden rise in volume startled Mark, who visibly jumped.

"My police radio – I managed to call for an ambulance…" Steve was interrupted by Mark's surprised reaction. His head snapped up, a frown creasing his features. Had he heard correctly?

"What?" his voice was harsh, piercing.

"An ambulance, they're…"

"You called an ambulance from your police radio?" Mark's face was fixed in a steely glare most unusual to his usually gregarious face. It disturbed Steve slightly.

"Yeah, they said we'd…" again he was interrupted.

"All this time... You could have called for help hours ago." The tone in Mark's voice was definitely hostile, unlike anything Steve had ever known before. He stared at his father, confused.

"I didn't think…"

"You could have called for help, and Jesse could be in a hospital right now instead of laying there, bleeding to death!"

Steve stared, amazed.

"Dad, I…" he honestly didn't known how to respond. A millions thoughts twisted through his mind, most of all bewilderment at how his father could look at him in such a reprehensible way. I couldn't have done it any sooner he thought, I didn't think. None of us did. A surge of anger flare in his stomach, How dare he blame me?! Any of us could have thought of using the radio! But a small voice niggled in the back of his mind, But it's your radio, it said. Maybe, it whispered, maybe if you had thought of it earlier Jesse wouldn't be in such a serious condition. You are a police detective after all, you should have thought of it sooner. Steve opened his mouth to defend himself, but found that no words would come. His father had voiced something which always lurked in the back of his mind, coming to the brink of his consciousness in times of worry just to drag him a little deeper into despair.

I should be able to protect them he thought. I should be there when they need me, but I never am. With that belief filling every fibre of his reason he sank back into the armchair, resting his swollen, pulsating wrist into his lap. At his feet, Jesse fought for breath, but lost in the conclusion that he could have done something to help Jesse earlier, he descended deeper into a morass of despondency.

Mark sat back on his heels, his breath still coming heavily. He felt a deep sense of anger towards his son, but a flush of shame was also creeping up his face. He knew, in his heart of hearts that Steve was guilty of nothing and that he was being completely irrational. But he still felt an untenable kind of release at having fired off some of the tension which had been boiling in his gut for hours. Staring down at Jesse he felt, at first, justified. He should be in a hospital he thought. But then looking closer at him; his almost porcelain-like complexion, the dark bruises and the streaks of blood, he felt overwhelmingly sick. Jesse wouldn't want this. Steve was his best friend; he would never do anything to make him feel so wretched, and anyway, wasn't it more important to get Jesse the care he needed rather than quarrel over such nonsense?

All traces of anger dissipated as quickly as they had surged, leaving a hollow emptiness sitting heavily in his stomach. Mark glanced up at his son, his shoulders hunched and head drooped to his chest. The emptiness seemed to swell.

"Steve?" Mark addressed him cautiously, but received no response.

"Steve, I'm sorry, I…" What could he say to excuse his behaviour? 'Sorry' hardly seemed enough to forgive such a ridiculous outburst.

"Steve, please..?

Finally Steve raised his head. He looked measuredly into his father's face as if sizing him up, then gave a slight nod.

"Its ok Dad. I know… everything's crazy. Lets just get Jesse out of here, ok?" Steve recognised in his father's face the contrition of sinner. He had no wish to dwell on the accusation that had been directed at him, trying to assure himself that it was born out of sheer frustration rather than true blame.

But the voice still lingered, whispering maliciously in his head, taunting him.