52. Cole
Cole
They say the worst moments of your life happen in slow motion.
Now I know that to be true. Because as Sloane legs it in the direction of the incoming taxi, she forgets about the bike lane. And that’s how – a split second after I start to shout – she gets hit by a cyclist going full pelt along Blackfriars Road.
There’s a scream – is it her? Me? Freddie?
A woman nearby? – as Sloane’s flung into the air and lands in a heap on the pavement.
There’s a sickening crack, and I can’t tell if it’s her head or the bike hitting the ground.
The cyclist – by some miracle – seems fine.
He’s standing there, looking discombobulated, as my girl lies crumpled at his feet.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see her, man,” he stutters out, his eyes wide with fear as he looks at her.
The slow motion seems to go on forever, as Freddie throws himself onto the ground next to her.
“Don’t move her!” comes a shout that sounds like it’s under water. “Her neck could be broken!”
Of course her neck isn’t broken. It can’t be. I’ve only just found her. We’re only just beginning. What a completely preposterous and unhelpful thing to say. She’s going to get up in a moment and laugh it all off.
Except she’s not moving.
Freddie lies down on the pavement next to her, careful not to jostle her, as he pushes the hair off her face. She’s unconscious, and there’s a thin trickle of blood coming from her scalp.
“She’s breathing!” Freddie shouts, looking at me, and suddenly time snaps back into normal speed.
“FUCK!” I bellow. “Someone call an ambulance.”
“I’m on the phone to 999,” says a woman next to me.
“You,” I say to a man nearby. “Go into that building and ask for their first-aid kit. NOW.” He scurries off.
“You,” I say, pointing to the cyclist who’s on the brink of hyperventilating. “Sit down. You’re having a panic attack, and you need to breathe.”
“Freddie, take your coat off. We need to keep her warm.”
He nods, whipping off his coat and laying it over her.
A few moments later, we hear sirens and her eyes start to flutter open.
“What happened?” she slurs, her brows furrowing in confusion.
The ambulance pulls up just as she vomits on the pavement.
I can only stand in stunned silence as the paramedics work on her. I reply to their questions on autopilot. No, she hasn’t been drinking. Yes, she’s normally fit and well. Is she allergic to anything? Fuck, I don’t know.
She vomits again, and the paramedics exchange a look that fills me with fear.
All I can do is stare at Sloane as the moment she was hit plays in my mind over and over.
“I’m afraid we can only take one person in the ambulance,” the paramedic is saying to me. I nod slowly, as Freddie starts to protest.
“Freddie, you go. I’ll follow in a cab. Don’t leave her on her own.”
It’s only then that I realise Freddie is crying. I want to tell him it’s ok, everything will be fine. But I can’t. Because I don’t know.
I don’t know anything at all.