leaned across, and pushed the door from the inside.
The boy’s screaming continued, getting even louder, whooping with pain and shock. Droplets of blood slid down the paintwork, deep crimson against dusty metallic silver. Oliver ran across, found a grip on the door’s top edge and pulled too. Both the balding man’s legs left the ground for a moment as he used every ounce of leverage he could. The door finally came open with a splitting sound like a safe that had been jemmied.
For a brief instant the screaming stopped. And the footsteps.
Three fingers detached themselves from the door pillar, one after the other. At first Frannie thought the boy was relaxing his grip. Then his fingers fell limply on to the gravel. In the silence she could hear each one land.
*
Oliver took charge. He sent Mrs Beakbane to phone for an ambulance, and told Frannie to come with him. They sprinted into the house and through to the kitchen. Edward had disappeared but in her panic she hardly noticed. Captain Kirk bounded in after them, barking.
‘Towels, that drawer!’ Oliver said, turning on a tap, hunting around the room with his eyes. ‘Soak them!’ He yanked open a drawer, then another, rummaged through it and pulled out a long knife steel. Frannie bundled tea towels into her arms and dunked them in the sink. He helped her wring them out, then they raced back to the car.
The boy’s stunned mother held a bloodstained handkerchief over his hand. Oliver took his arm and removed the handkerchief. The forefinger was hanging from a thread of skin. Blood spurted unevenly from the stumps of the other fingers; some pattered like rain onto Frannie’s trousers as she knelt with wet towels at the ready, and she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. The boy screamed relentlessly, emptying one lungful of air after another and pausing only for choking gulps. A slick of warm blood struck Frannie’s cheek, then another her forehead and she felt it sliding down towards her eye. She turned away, swallowing hard again, fighting not to be sick, unable to look at the hand or the boy’s twisted, boiling face.
Oliver swathed the hand in a tea towel, and she helped him wind it around the wrist, then repeated the process with a second one. He put a third over the top, and with Frannie and the boy’s mother’s help, using the knife steel as the lever, wound the towel tightly into a tourniquet. The boy’s father leaned over, agitatedly crowding them, a feeble twitch animating his expression of utter helplessness.
Oliver scooped up the fingers and parcelled them in another towel, which he gave to Frannie. ‘Pack these in ice.’
The commotion had attracted the attention of several visitors, who watched in a group a short distance off. They were talking amongst themselves, trying to work out what had happened. One woman said she thought the dog must have bitten the boy.
‘Dom? You OK, Dom?’
Edward was rushing towards them, his face horrified. ‘Dom?’ He looked at his friend, then at Frannie. ‘What’s happened?’ His eyes shot to the tourniquet. ‘Hey, Dom –’ He blanched.
As Frannie ran into the house she wondered where he had been during the past few minutes, and why he had not come with her. She unfolded the towel on the draining-board, and stared at the three fingers, each of which was leaking blood. Like joke fingers, she thought. Then a wave of giddiness struck her; her stomach up-ended; she swayed, gripped the edge of the sink and threw up into it. Her eyes streamed and she wiped them with her shirtsleeve, then rinsed the sink out, washed her hands and forced herself into sensible action.
There were several trays of ice cubes in the fridge, and she searched for a suitable receptacle. The screaming was coming closer and Oliver carried the boy in, followed by the parents and Edward. Mrs Beakbane was trying to comfort the boy by assuring him the ambulance would be there any moment. Oliver laid him on the sofa, and Mrs
The boy’s screaming continued, getting even louder, whooping with pain and shock. Droplets of blood slid down the paintwork, deep crimson against dusty metallic silver. Oliver ran across, found a grip on the door’s top edge and pulled too. Both the balding man’s legs left the ground for a moment as he used every ounce of leverage he could. The door finally came open with a splitting sound like a safe that had been jemmied.
For a brief instant the screaming stopped. And the footsteps.
Three fingers detached themselves from the door pillar, one after the other. At first Frannie thought the boy was relaxing his grip. Then his fingers fell limply on to the gravel. In the silence she could hear each one land.
*
Oliver took charge. He sent Mrs Beakbane to phone for an ambulance, and told Frannie to come with him. They sprinted into the house and through to the kitchen. Edward had disappeared but in her panic she hardly noticed. Captain Kirk bounded in after them, barking.
‘Towels, that drawer!’ Oliver said, turning on a tap, hunting around the room with his eyes. ‘Soak them!’ He yanked open a drawer, then another, rummaged through it and pulled out a long knife steel. Frannie bundled tea towels into her arms and dunked them in the sink. He helped her wring them out, then they raced back to the car.
The boy’s stunned mother held a bloodstained handkerchief over his hand. Oliver took his arm and removed the handkerchief. The forefinger was hanging from a thread of skin. Blood spurted unevenly from the stumps of the other fingers; some pattered like rain onto Frannie’s trousers as she knelt with wet towels at the ready, and she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. The boy screamed relentlessly, emptying one lungful of air after another and pausing only for choking gulps. A slick of warm blood struck Frannie’s cheek, then another her forehead and she felt it sliding down towards her eye. She turned away, swallowing hard again, fighting not to be sick, unable to look at the hand or the boy’s twisted, boiling face.
Oliver swathed the hand in a tea towel, and she helped him wind it around the wrist, then repeated the process with a second one. He put a third over the top, and with Frannie and the boy’s mother’s help, using the knife steel as the lever, wound the towel tightly into a tourniquet. The boy’s father leaned over, agitatedly crowding them, a feeble twitch animating his expression of utter helplessness.
Oliver scooped up the fingers and parcelled them in another towel, which he gave to Frannie. ‘Pack these in ice.’
The commotion had attracted the attention of several visitors, who watched in a group a short distance off. They were talking amongst themselves, trying to work out what had happened. One woman said she thought the dog must have bitten the boy.
‘Dom? You OK, Dom?’
Edward was rushing towards them, his face horrified. ‘Dom?’ He looked at his friend, then at Frannie. ‘What’s happened?’ His eyes shot to the tourniquet. ‘Hey, Dom –’ He blanched.
As Frannie ran into the house she wondered where he had been during the past few minutes, and why he had not come with her. She unfolded the towel on the draining-board, and stared at the three fingers, each of which was leaking blood. Like joke fingers, she thought. Then a wave of giddiness struck her; her stomach up-ended; she swayed, gripped the edge of the sink and threw up into it. Her eyes streamed and she wiped them with her shirtsleeve, then rinsed the sink out, washed her hands and forced herself into sensible action.
There were several trays of ice cubes in the fridge, and she searched for a suitable receptacle. The screaming was coming closer and Oliver carried the boy in, followed by the parents and Edward. Mrs Beakbane was trying to comfort the boy by assuring him the ambulance would be there any moment. Oliver laid him on the sofa, and Mrs
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