Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 62
Stephen looked straight at Rosie and managed to say, ‘I think … I think I need …’ before his head started to loll to the side.
‘Quick, someone help me!’ shouted Rosie, rushing to his side. Gerard stayed put, annoyingly, but Moray was already there and they helped Stephen to a nearby chair and put his head between his knees until he could stabilise his breathing. His left leg was an absolute waterfall of red. Moray and Rosie looked at each other with worried expressions, and the landlord indicated they could carry him into the back room. Even as thin as he was, his large frame was heavy to man-handle and the landlord had to help. Finally, out of the hubbub of the lounge – at least, Rosie thought in passing, she and Gerard would no longer be the main topic of conversation – they could get some peace and quiet.
Stephen was looking around him blearily as Rosie fetched a glass of water. He was still bleeding, and Moray rushed off to fetch his medical kit. The landlord made himself scarce once he’d worked out there was nothing more he could do to help, and knowing there was little better than a minor misadventure to bring out the thirst in his customers. Stephen and Rosie were alone.
‘What the hell did you do?’ said Rosie, close to his ear. She tied together two bar towels to make a tourniquet.
Stephen shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Accident.’
‘What kind of an accident?’
Stephen gulped down some more water. His face was very white indeed.
‘Stupid bloody step … Tripped.’
‘You are bleeding out, for goodness’ sake,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’
‘Take too long,’ said Stephen. ‘Durn’t matter.’
His breathing was shallow, and his eyes were having trouble focusing.
‘Why didn’t you call us?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘Forgot to pay the bloody landline bill. And no mobile reception.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Ah, this bloody countryside.’
‘I am very cold,’ announced Stephen quietly. Rosie covered him in a tablecloth, the nearest thing to hand, and checked her tourniquet. It was holding it, but he was in a very bad way indeed. Rosie knelt close to try and keep him conscious.
‘It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,’ she said, her heart racing. Where was Moray? She clasped Stephen’s freezing fingers between her own. ‘Just hold on.’
His eyes were drooping.
‘How … how did you get down the hill in the dark?’ asked Rosie.
‘Mm?’ said Stephen. ‘Oh. Oh, they left … they left some stupid old thing … stupid really. Stupid.’
At that moment, the door burst open and Moray came in with a large black bag, and the landlord close behind him carrying what looked like a quadruple brandy.
‘There’s no time for that now,’ scolded Rosie.
‘Not for me, for him,’ said Moray.
‘You don’t keep a full medicine cabinet?’
‘Someone never sorted it out after the dog thing,’ panted Moray, glancing back into the bar. Hye hadn’t bothered to come through to see what was going on.
Stephen looked around him in confusion. ‘Where’s that shyster doctor gone? Has he been drinking again?’
Rosie knelt down, holding both his hands as Moray scrubbed up at the sink.
‘Listen,’ she said, turning his face so he could see her. She didn’t like his condition, not at all. ‘Moray is going to stitch you up, and the landlord’s called the ambulance. You need a blood transfusion really really quickly. What type are you?’
Stephen couldn’t answer.
‘OK, well, fine, I’ll make sure they bring whatever they have. But listen. Moray’s going to stitch you now. But I’m afraid there’s no anaesthetic. There’s just …’
Moray was holding up a packet of Nurofen.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Rosie. She took the brandy off the barman. ‘Drink this,’ she said.
Together, they managed to get most of it down his neck, along with a couple of tablets. Then Moray ripped off the last of Stephen’s trouser leg. The wound was a horrible, livid thing against the stark white of his leg.
‘OK,’ said Moray, breathing out.
‘So, Stephen,’ said Rosie, ‘you have to trust me. You have to trust me, OK?’ She turned quickly to Moray. ‘Do you think the tourniquet would hold till the ambulance arrived?’
‘I don’t know when that might be,’ said Moray. ‘So, no.’
Rosie nodded.
‘Just keep looking at me,’ she said, and moved to the side to let Moray work.
Stephen’s eyes didn’t waver from hers for a moment, although they closed, briefly, when the needle went in for the first time.
‘It hurts,’ he breathed, quietly, his grip on Rosie’s hands strengthening.
‘I know,’ said Rosie, as if she were speaking to a child. ‘You’re being very brave.’
‘Oh, Rosie.’
‘I know. I know. You doof, if you hadn’t been such a stubborn arse, you’d have had this done under a lovely local anaesthetic.’
The violet shadows under his eyes gave him a haunted look as he winced.
‘Christ.’
‘I know, I know.’ Rosie glanced at Moray, urging him to work faster, but he was making a careful job of it. He caught her eye.
‘This appears to be our new hobby.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Rosie. Then she concentrated again on Stephen. Later, he would remember very little of it. Nothing but a tight hold on his hands that did not falter, even when he was gripping them in agony like his life depended on it, and a pair of grey eyes that refused to let him look away.
In reality, stitching Stephen’s leg took just over ten minutes. To everyone in the room it felt like a million years. Stephen fell silent, the only sign he was conscious a tear he could not prevent falling from the corner of his eye. Rosie could not remove her hands from his to wipe it away, but moved their hands together, gently, to brush it from his cheek. Then she tried to focus on their breathing; taking deep breaths, holding them and exhorting Stephen to do the same; to breathe in time with her to relieve the pain; to keep the oxygen moving, until their breath was going in and out at the same time and Rosie, briefly, had the oddest sensation of being unable to tell quite where Stephen ended and she began.
‘Quick, someone help me!’ shouted Rosie, rushing to his side. Gerard stayed put, annoyingly, but Moray was already there and they helped Stephen to a nearby chair and put his head between his knees until he could stabilise his breathing. His left leg was an absolute waterfall of red. Moray and Rosie looked at each other with worried expressions, and the landlord indicated they could carry him into the back room. Even as thin as he was, his large frame was heavy to man-handle and the landlord had to help. Finally, out of the hubbub of the lounge – at least, Rosie thought in passing, she and Gerard would no longer be the main topic of conversation – they could get some peace and quiet.
Stephen was looking around him blearily as Rosie fetched a glass of water. He was still bleeding, and Moray rushed off to fetch his medical kit. The landlord made himself scarce once he’d worked out there was nothing more he could do to help, and knowing there was little better than a minor misadventure to bring out the thirst in his customers. Stephen and Rosie were alone.
‘What the hell did you do?’ said Rosie, close to his ear. She tied together two bar towels to make a tourniquet.
Stephen shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Accident.’
‘What kind of an accident?’
Stephen gulped down some more water. His face was very white indeed.
‘Stupid bloody step … Tripped.’
‘You are bleeding out, for goodness’ sake,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’
‘Take too long,’ said Stephen. ‘Durn’t matter.’
His breathing was shallow, and his eyes were having trouble focusing.
‘Why didn’t you call us?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘Forgot to pay the bloody landline bill. And no mobile reception.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Ah, this bloody countryside.’
‘I am very cold,’ announced Stephen quietly. Rosie covered him in a tablecloth, the nearest thing to hand, and checked her tourniquet. It was holding it, but he was in a very bad way indeed. Rosie knelt close to try and keep him conscious.
‘It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,’ she said, her heart racing. Where was Moray? She clasped Stephen’s freezing fingers between her own. ‘Just hold on.’
His eyes were drooping.
‘How … how did you get down the hill in the dark?’ asked Rosie.
‘Mm?’ said Stephen. ‘Oh. Oh, they left … they left some stupid old thing … stupid really. Stupid.’
At that moment, the door burst open and Moray came in with a large black bag, and the landlord close behind him carrying what looked like a quadruple brandy.
‘There’s no time for that now,’ scolded Rosie.
‘Not for me, for him,’ said Moray.
‘You don’t keep a full medicine cabinet?’
‘Someone never sorted it out after the dog thing,’ panted Moray, glancing back into the bar. Hye hadn’t bothered to come through to see what was going on.
Stephen looked around him in confusion. ‘Where’s that shyster doctor gone? Has he been drinking again?’
Rosie knelt down, holding both his hands as Moray scrubbed up at the sink.
‘Listen,’ she said, turning his face so he could see her. She didn’t like his condition, not at all. ‘Moray is going to stitch you up, and the landlord’s called the ambulance. You need a blood transfusion really really quickly. What type are you?’
Stephen couldn’t answer.
‘OK, well, fine, I’ll make sure they bring whatever they have. But listen. Moray’s going to stitch you now. But I’m afraid there’s no anaesthetic. There’s just …’
Moray was holding up a packet of Nurofen.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Rosie. She took the brandy off the barman. ‘Drink this,’ she said.
Together, they managed to get most of it down his neck, along with a couple of tablets. Then Moray ripped off the last of Stephen’s trouser leg. The wound was a horrible, livid thing against the stark white of his leg.
‘OK,’ said Moray, breathing out.
‘So, Stephen,’ said Rosie, ‘you have to trust me. You have to trust me, OK?’ She turned quickly to Moray. ‘Do you think the tourniquet would hold till the ambulance arrived?’
‘I don’t know when that might be,’ said Moray. ‘So, no.’
Rosie nodded.
‘Just keep looking at me,’ she said, and moved to the side to let Moray work.
Stephen’s eyes didn’t waver from hers for a moment, although they closed, briefly, when the needle went in for the first time.
‘It hurts,’ he breathed, quietly, his grip on Rosie’s hands strengthening.
‘I know,’ said Rosie, as if she were speaking to a child. ‘You’re being very brave.’
‘Oh, Rosie.’
‘I know. I know. You doof, if you hadn’t been such a stubborn arse, you’d have had this done under a lovely local anaesthetic.’
The violet shadows under his eyes gave him a haunted look as he winced.
‘Christ.’
‘I know, I know.’ Rosie glanced at Moray, urging him to work faster, but he was making a careful job of it. He caught her eye.
‘This appears to be our new hobby.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Rosie. Then she concentrated again on Stephen. Later, he would remember very little of it. Nothing but a tight hold on his hands that did not falter, even when he was gripping them in agony like his life depended on it, and a pair of grey eyes that refused to let him look away.
In reality, stitching Stephen’s leg took just over ten minutes. To everyone in the room it felt like a million years. Stephen fell silent, the only sign he was conscious a tear he could not prevent falling from the corner of his eye. Rosie could not remove her hands from his to wipe it away, but moved their hands together, gently, to brush it from his cheek. Then she tried to focus on their breathing; taking deep breaths, holding them and exhorting Stephen to do the same; to breathe in time with her to relieve the pain; to keep the oxygen moving, until their breath was going in and out at the same time and Rosie, briefly, had the oddest sensation of being unable to tell quite where Stephen ended and she began.
