TWO
Irecognise him, in his smart suit, as the man with hazel eyes who paced the floor. What happened? How does someone go from pacing to bleeding in the time I take to make a decision?
My gaze flicks to the clear path down the steps beside him. If I tiptoe, I could pretend I was never here. I’m tempted to dash down the stairs and lie to anyone who asks about it later, but he whines again and a chunk of my self-preservation crumbles away, leaving only a sympathy I didn’t know I possessed.
“You couldn’t have picked another block? It had to be mine, right?” I grumble, edging my way down each step, keeping my eyes on his motionless form, but listening out for any other movement.
My nerves rattle my bones. Side by side with the nerves, exists the fear. This could be a trap; it wouldn’t be unheard of. Even if it isn’t a trap, getting involved is dangerous. I want to leave and forget I’ve even seen him, but my siblings smash through my mind; the twins in particular. In a few years, this could be AJ or TJ. What then? Wouldn’t I want someone to help them? My answer doesn’t need saying.
And work? Well, my boss is already going to fire me. I am so late, it isn’t even worth showing up.
So, I guess that means I’m helping.
“What happened? Are you okay? You’re bleeding. What can I do? Should I call an ambulance?” I hear how stupid I sound, but what do you say to a man bleeding in a public stairwell? By rights, I shouldn’t be saying anything at all. I should mind my own business.
“No ambulance. My brother…c…c…call my brother…” he stutters, his voice breaking.
“I don’t know your brother’s number. Listen, just let me run upstairs and call you an ambulance.” We don’t have a phone, but my neighbour does. If I take the stairs three at a time, I can climb them in minutes. Does he have minutes? I damn well hope so. Emergency response time in the Vale is so bad, he’ll be lucky if they show at all.
Reaching out his hand, his face twisting with the effort, he shows me a sleek black cell phone. He holds it out, but his hand shudders and falls before I can take it from him. I place my backpack on the floor and pluck the phone from his fingers. The blood-smeared screen proves he already tried to make the call, but the slick red coating probably prevented the phone from dialling out.
I suck in shallow, hissed breaths of air that chill my gritted teeth. The bitter tang of iron coats my tongue as thoroughly as it fills my nostrils and, though I’m familiar with the taste of my blood, the acrid aroma of this stranger’s turns my gut. It’s too thick, too heavy in my throat. Swallowing it down, I focus on the bleeding man.
“Your brother’s number?” My voice shakes; my hands too.
“Press…hold one,” he whispers before passing out entirely. I pray for someone else, anyone else, to show up and deal with the situation, but no one shows. There’s only me.
Wiping the bloody screen on my jeans, I press and hold the first digit. The screen flashes a name and number I don’t see, and then it rings. One, two, three, four rings before a click signals connection and then the dull acoustics of an enclosed room, of breathing and expectation, fill the line. A voice speaks a single word. “Thomas?”
Thomas? He shares the same first name as my brother, TJ. If human decency isn’t enough of a reason to help this man, then this coincidence clinches it. Stuff the consequences. This is the right thing to do—this is what good people do.
“Hel-lo?” My voice squeaks and breaks.
“Who is this? What are you doing with Tom’s phone?”A man’s sharp voice reaches down the line, almost choking the words in my throat. I push down the urge to vomit and lean on the balustrade for support.
“There…um…He asked me to call you instead of an ambulance. He’s hurt. It looks bad. There’s a lot of blood.”
“Fuck!”he bellows. Sharp and resonant, it rings in my ear. Then the line hisses and a loud thump echoes before he speaks again, this time with more control. “Where are you? What’s the address?”
My response is automatic. “Olive Tower, Harrison Vale.” I’m not so much helpful as desperate for someone else to take responsibility. “We’re in the emergency stairwell.” Muffled shouting reverberates down the line, hollering for someone to send two cars to our location and to ring for paramedics. My knees tremble, but I can’t tell if it’s from fear or relief.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah. What do I do? He passed out and there’s blood.”
“An ambulance is coming, and my men will arrive shortly. Don’t leave Tom’s side until they arrive, you hear me, girl?”he commands, his tone brokering no refusal.
“Yeah, I—”
“Good. If he goes in the ambulance, you go with him. I have a second car going directly to the hospital. They’ll meet you if the first doesn’t arrive in time. You got all that?”he snaps.
I nod my head stupidly but realise he can’t see me. “Yes.”
“Can you tell where he’s wounded?”he asks and then, without waiting for my response, adds, “Do you have pressure on the bleed?”
“What? Oh, shit…um…no.” I fumble the phone in my hands and kneel on the steps beside Tom. My free hand hovers over him, unsure of where to even start.
“Fucking hell, what are you? An idiot? Look for the wound. Do it now. Put me on loudspeaker.”Tapping the screen, I do as he instructs and then lay the phone down beside Tom’s hand.
My heartbeat pulses in my neck, the swish and thud of it in my ears is a warning to breathe before I pass out too.
“You can do this. It’s just a boy, not a body. You’ve got this.” Steadying myself, I lift the smart grey jacket away from his torso. Blood saturates the front of his shirt, which makes little sense when there is blood seeping from his back. Is there more than one wound? Did they stab him? Shoot him?
“It’s bad,” I whisper heavily.
“How bad?”
“Real bad. He’s bleeding from both sides. There is a pool…it’s so thick.” I barely register what I’m saying. The words are a response to the situation, like I’m playing a part and not living the nightmare unfolding before me. I don’t know if I’m even being helpful.
“Can you see the skin? Can you identify the type of wound?”
“How am I supposed to tell?” My fingers smear in his blood and slip off his shirt buttons. An urgency in the man’s voice, even down a phone line, encourages me to do what he says, but I’ve never been great at controlling my tongue when I’m nervous. “You know I’m not some kind of part-time paramedic, right? I’m barely twenty, Mister. I know hardly anything about anything.”
With the shirt peeled back, the hole is clearly visible and weeps blood. I’ve seen nothing like it. Almost the size of a penny, the edges are torn in the shape of crosshairs much like a target. The top of the wound, where the blood hasn’t saturated, appears black. “Bullet wounds are round, right?” I think aloud. “If it was a knife, it would be longer, like a line or a slim oval, wouldn’t it?”
“You think it’s a gunshot?”
That makes the most sense. But it isn’t just one wound, not with the blood also coming out so high on the step. I pull the shirt away to reveal the upper part of his arm. Sure enough, it reveals a second wound, similar to the first. One hole stands out on his lower chest and another up near his shoulder, slightly bigger and without a clear shape. He is a deadweight, his injuries too severe, and I lack the strength to move him, but I’m fairly certain there are only two wounds. Through and throughs, they call them on the crime drama shows my dad likes to watch.
I suck another lungful through my gritted teeth and try to explain what I’m seeing. “They look like bullet wounds. The holes are small. There is one with frayed edges just under the ribcage and there’s another hole at his shoulder and out the back.”
“Fuck!”
His cussing startles me. I quit peering over Tom’s shoulder and stare at the phone on the step. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. You’re doing good, kid. If the bullet exited, then that’s good, but it means you have to plug the bleeds. Put pressure on both wounds until help arrives. Can you do that?”
“Pressure? You mean touch it? What if I hurt him? I…”
“Kid, you need to do it. I know you didn’t ask for this, but I need you to do it, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you do, don’t leave him. I’m on my way.”The line clicks and the call disconnects. The sudden silence swallows us. I shuck off my lightweight jacket and bunch it up into a tight ball, positioning it against his shoulder where the greatest amount of blood concentrates, but I can’t hold the jacket in place and attend to the front wound at the same time. I need a better solution.
My backpack sits less than a metre away, filled to the brim with things that seem trivial now, but there must be something useful. Putting my scarf under his head, I reach over and unzip the bag, turning it upside down and wincing as my beloved journal and books slide across the floor. At the bottom of the bag, every random thing I’ve ever tossed in for safe keeping rattles around before tumbling out and rolling across the concrete. I unzip the side pouches too and watch as lip gloss, tampons, scissors, duct-tape, pencils, loose candy, gum, and even one of Casey’s diapers, hit the floor.
The whole thing takes seconds and yet I feel like I’m wasting time. Scanning the debris, nothing seems useful—No way to sanitise my hands, no gauze, nothing helpful. My thoughts are sharp, but my reactions remain sluggish as terror courses through my veins. The incessant hammering of my heart against my ribs highlights every millisecond that I fail to do something, anything, to help. My gaze skims the rubbish over and over but something keeps pulling me back to the diaper. I might not have bandages, but that would be absorbent, right? With enough pressure, I could put it on the chest wound. But I still have the hole in his shoulder. What can I do with that?
The tampons! Shit, they’re made to plug bleeding holes. How did I not think of that sooner? Actually, wait…that was debunked. A myth or something? Was packing a wound dangerous? Shit. How am I supposed to know these things?
I grab the diaper and scissors and cut it in half straight through the gusset. I set the front panel aside and then cut the back in half again. I reach for the duct-tape, the same duct-tape I use to cover the holes in my shoes, and use it to secure the wadding to the wound at his back, leaning him precariously across my chest to get access to him and knowing that each time I move him, I’m certain to be doing more damage than good.
Thomas rests only a few inches from the wall, so I bite back my fear and ease him back carefully, pinning the jacket behind his back. As soon as he feels steady, I grab a hardback textbook and wedge it behind him to close the distance between his upper body and the wall. I figure it’s another layer of pressure while I tend to the front wounds.
I do the same thing again with the smaller of the diaper pieces and wrap the tape as tightly as I can around his shoulder and the book. Two down, one to go.
Ripping the bottom of my t-shirt, I dab at the hole in his lower chest to get a clearer look.
The thought of putting my hands near the wound damn near makes me piss my pants. His shoulder is one thing; flesh, bone, muscles, and cartilage, but the chest is another thing altogether. There are organs, veins, arteries—things that can rupture and kill him in seconds. Things that might already be ruptured. Add the risk of infection into the mix and I’m ready to leave.
But I can’t. Not now. Not after I’ve promised to help.
The scrap of shirt is saturated. I drop it to the step and reached for the largest diaper section. I hold it over the hole and shut my eyes.
I can do this. I have to do this. So why am I hesitating?
“Are you going to…sit there…or press it?”
My eyes fly wide. He is grey, like all the colour has washed out of him. He stares up at me with glassy eyes. “You’re awake? Oh shit. I mean, that’s great.”
“Do it,” he whispers before shutting his eyes again.
Right or wrong, I put pressure on the makeshift bandage, careful not to press too deep but making sure I’m firmly attached to him. With a weak cry, screamed through clenched teeth, his eyes fly open and then flicker.
“Fuck!” He rests his head upon the step with resignation and closes his eyes. He remains still for so long I fear I’ve lost him, and then his mouth twitches and he speaks. “My brother?” he asks. My relief at hearing his voice is incalculable.
“I called him. He’s on his way, an ambulance too. I am not supposed to leave you until he arrives.”
“Stuck with me?” His eyes remain closed tight, but his lip curls. He bleeds on the cold concrete steps and still jokes with me. He’s either brave or delirious.
“Something like that, I guess.” Try as I might, I can’t match his humour, whether he means it sarcastically or not.
“Name?”
“Juliet but everyone calls me Jules.”
“Tom. Now we’re…friends.” He struggles to talk but seems determined to speak. Does he fear blacking out or is he trying to distract himself? Or maybe distract me?
“Should you even be talking? The shows always tell the victim to save their energy.”
“Shows?”
“Yeah, television. You’re out of luck, that’s my only frame of reference.”
He laughs, but it is swallowed up in a coughing fit that has me bolting upright to hold him down. I imagine things moving inside him, I feel the pressure push against the diaper pad in my hand. When his coughing finally dies down, blood drips from his lip.
That can’t be good.
“Listen…you need to tell…my brother…it was a set up…Not safe.” He looks down at his trousers and sucks in a shuddery breath. “Pocket…letter. Give it…only him.” His eyes flicker shut and his breathing becomes thin and thready. I can tell he’s about to pass out again and this time I’m afraid he won’t just be unconscious — he’ll be dead.
Inside, I pray for help to arrive. Outside, I offer him a reassuring smile, even though he no longer sees it.
“Okay?” he continues, keeping his eyes closed. He breathes out the last word before his whole body just lets go. Whatever tension or pain holds him coiled, releases.
I reach with my spare hand and shove two fingers into his trousers, pulling out a folded envelope. The top is unstuck, but I don’t look inside. I couldn’t even if I wanted to with my other hand still anchored to his chest. I hold the envelope scrunched in my fist and close my eyes.
Please, God. Please let him be okay.I’ve never been religious—if God exists, he watches my family go through hell and never helps, but for this man, I pray.
Minutes feel like hours in the silent shaft and all the while I watch for the moment his body stops reaching for its next breath.
I damn near leap out of my pants when the doors burst open in a riot of sound and movement. Men in luminescent jackets, carrying bags and equipment barge straight to my side. In a flurry of colour and questions, they rip my hands from Tom and push me further and further back until I have nowhere to go. I press my back into the wall and sink to the ground.
The Calvary arrives along with the medics. Men in crisp suits line the hallway, each with a black earpiece and a handgun cocked and trained to the ceiling. Two men aim their guns up the staircase as a third climbs and searches for God-only-knows-what. After all, if anyone was still here, they would have attacked while I was alone with Tom, but it isn’t my place to tell the suits their job.
The paramedics call out instructions and speak into radios. I hear words I recognise and many more that I don’t, but I can tell from the speed they work, the sharp tones they use, and the desperation in their eyes that the prognosis isn’t good. When they hoist Tom onto a trolley and run him through the heavy stair door, I leap up and try to go with him—I’m not supposed to let him go without me—but an arm reaches out and anchors me to the spot via my shoulder. I watch Tom’s unmoving body disappear as they hurry him out to a waiting ambulance.
Only then do I allow my tears to fall.
I don’t even know why I’m crying. The ordeal? The trauma of finding him like that? The fear of what happens next or that it happened at all, in the place where I live, where my family lives? Or perhaps because I believe I’ve messed up, and I’ve risked a man’s life with my actions? What happened wasn’t my fault. I did my best, given the situation, but knowing that doesn’t stop the fear.
When the man holding my shoulder releases me, I take a step backward and slump to the floor, leaning back against the wall once again. The hallway empties almost as quickly as it filled. All except three people; the older, grey-haired man with a gun who stopped me from leaving with Tom, a young female paramedic who looks harassed at having to stay, and the most intense man I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Even through my tears, I know he is important. He exudes it from the clothes he wears to the way he carries himself.
He is most of the way through his twenties with stubble that darkens his jawline making his frown-pinched lips seem even more severe. Dark and scowling brows shadow a pair of sharp hazel eyes, shaped similarly to Tom’s. The resemblance is no coincidence. The man staring down at me is Tom’s brother. He opens his mouth to speak and if there were any doubts about who he was, the sound of his voice blows them away like smoke in a breeze.
“Thank you for not leaving his side.”
Does he really mean that? Mr Serious turns away from me and addresses the paramedic scuffing her feet off the concrete floor as though wiping something dirty from her shoe. “How bad is it?”
She lifts my jacket and shakes it out, only to fold it blood-side in and roll it up again before offering it to me. I’d let her keep it, but it’s the only jacket I own. Something she intrinsically seems to realise.
“Gunshot wound to the chest, another through the shoulder. We’re lucky. It looks like it missed his brachial artery,” she replies clinically. She pulls off her latex gloves, snapping them as they release her fingers. Rolling them inside out, she tucks them into a side pocket in her utility pants. “Until we get him scanned, we won’t know the real extent of the damage, but we know he lost a lot of blood.” She shakes her head and shoots a glance at my blood-covered hands.
“Will he make it?” the grey-haired man asks. His voice is impersonal and his expression steeled.
Staring into his eyes, she assesses him, then answers flatly, “I honestly can’t say.”
I want to ask questions. I want to find out if I’ve done the right things, but I can’t bring myself to open my mouth in front of Mr Serious. What if he blames me? It’d be safer to keep a low profile and get out as soon as possible.
The bodyguard moves from foot to foot, scanning the quiet stairwell between bursts of throwing me the evil eye. “We should get to the hospital.” He glares in my direction. The muscle in his jaw pulses where he grinds his teeth together. He distrusts me and despite being the least threatening person in the stairwell, I feel like a criminal.
“I know. Thank you, Frank. Can you tell Jack to get the car ready? I’ll be right out.” The bodyguard hesitates for a minute, clearly unsure whether he should leave his boss unattended with a distraught girl and a frustrated paramedic, but Mr Serious issues a stern ‘what are you waiting for?’ glare and he vanishes through the door. The paramedic leaves with him.
“What’s your name?” he asks, turning to fix me with a similarly glacial stare.
“Juli—Jules. You can call me Jules.” Juliet was traceable. Jules could have any number of origins.
“Jules.” My name from his lips sounds luxurious. As though he speaks of the sparkling kind of jewels and not a beleaguered girl slumped on the floor in front of him. “I need you to come with me to the hospital. Do you think you can do that?” He carefully enunciates each syllable so that I understand and despite his stern countenance—despite his fixed stare—his careful tone makes me feel seen.
I stare into his eyes. They swallow everything around me and what I thought were hazel irises become strands of green with surprisingly warm flecks of shimmering gold. They would be dazzling if he wasn’t angry—or is it fear that pulls his brows low and stamps the sharp edge of urgency on his expression?
Can I trust him? Is he safe or a threat?
He clears his throat. I blink and come back to his question. “What? Um...I need to get to work, I’m late.” I scramble to my feet, consider grabbing all my books from the floor and then think better of it. Getting away is more important. The books will probably still be in the stairwell later—torn and pissed on, most likely, but still salvageable. Everything else is just trash.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I run, jerking away from his outstretched hand, through the clanging fire door and across the dark lobby.
Without any real plan, I run into the night and head for the one place I should probably avoid: Carlito’s bar and an irate boss.