wasn’t necessarily a good sign. Brera noticed that Sylvia’s face was wet and thought, Why is she sweating so much?, then realized that she had soaked Sylvia’s face with her own tears.
‘The inhaler!’
She ran back into the house, through the living-room and into the hall. It was still on the floor. She picked it up and headed outside again. As she passed through the door on to the roof she shrieked.
Sylvia’s body was seething and twitching. Twenty or thirty birds were sitting on her, covering her, smothering her. Brera threw herself at them, shouting, crying, and they ascended, together, like a funeral shroud, a brown feather blanket.
Sylvia’s face was marked with large, red blotches. Brera took hold of her head and rammed the inhaler between her lips, but her teeth were clenched together now and grinding. She tried toprise her jaw open but she wasn’t strong enough. Instead she gathered her up in her arms, lifted her and, staggering, carried her through to the living-room. She dumped her on the couch, picked up the phone, dialled 999 and waited.
‘Ambulance. Emergency. Jubilee Road, Hackney. Flat 9. Asthma. Please, quickly.’
She slammed down the receiver. What if they took too long? She had to get Sam.
She scrabbled among the pieces of paper next to the phone, hoping Sam had written Connor’s number down. She saw a number written in Sam’s hand and dialled it.
‘Hello?’
It was Steven’s number.
‘Hi. Steven here.’
She thought her head was about to explode. She couldn’t stop crying.
‘Have you got a car? Where are you?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Brera. Please! Where are you?’
‘I’m …’
‘Are you near here? Are you near Hackney?’
‘I … not far away. I’m at Liverpool Street. This is my mobile phone.’
Brera could hardly speak. ‘Please come here. My daughter … I’ve phoned an ambulance but it might take too long. Please come.’
She dropped the receiver and ran back over to Sylvia. Sylvia was now limp, her eyes were closed and her head was lolling to one side. Brera lifted up her T-shirt and started to rub her chest. Sylvia’s eyes opened slightly. She whispered, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Brera felt as if a firework had gone off inside her mouth. ‘You can bloody talk! You can bloody talk you little vixen and that’s all you can say! You can talk and that’s all you can say! Christ! Say something. No. Don’t say anything. Just breathe!’
She stopped rubbing, ran out on to the roof, picked up the inhaler and sprinted back inside with it. She rammed it betweenSylvia’s lips and pressed it three or four times. Most of the gas escaped through the sides of her mouth. Her head lolled. Brera tried it several more times and then, once again, attempted mouth to mouth.
It seemed like an age before she heard the buzzer sound. She ran to the entry-phone and pressed the button next to it, shoved the front door wide open to ease access and then ran to get Sylvia. She pulled down her T-shirt and tried to pick her up.
There was no ambulance, only Steven. He jogged up the stairs, through the flat, into the living-room. He was breathless and frightened, not so much by the possibility of facing something horrible (like a bloody injury, for example, a broken limb) as by the fear that he might not prove up to coping with it. He was prepared to see Sam, cut, bruised, maimed, electrocuted, but instead all he saw as he ran in was Brera, her face red, her hair red, wearing only a blue and white striped night-shirt, trying to pick up the prostrate body of a girl he had never seen before.
Brera glanced over her shoulder and saw, with horror, that it was only Steven. ‘Oh God! I thought you were an ambulance. What good can you do? It’s been at least fifteen minutes since I phoned.’
Steven moved swiftly over to Brera’s side and helped her to lift the girl. He picked her up easily and held her in his arms. ‘Shall I carry her downstairs? I can take you to casualty in
‘The inhaler!’
She ran back into the house, through the living-room and into the hall. It was still on the floor. She picked it up and headed outside again. As she passed through the door on to the roof she shrieked.
Sylvia’s body was seething and twitching. Twenty or thirty birds were sitting on her, covering her, smothering her. Brera threw herself at them, shouting, crying, and they ascended, together, like a funeral shroud, a brown feather blanket.
Sylvia’s face was marked with large, red blotches. Brera took hold of her head and rammed the inhaler between her lips, but her teeth were clenched together now and grinding. She tried toprise her jaw open but she wasn’t strong enough. Instead she gathered her up in her arms, lifted her and, staggering, carried her through to the living-room. She dumped her on the couch, picked up the phone, dialled 999 and waited.
‘Ambulance. Emergency. Jubilee Road, Hackney. Flat 9. Asthma. Please, quickly.’
She slammed down the receiver. What if they took too long? She had to get Sam.
She scrabbled among the pieces of paper next to the phone, hoping Sam had written Connor’s number down. She saw a number written in Sam’s hand and dialled it.
‘Hello?’
It was Steven’s number.
‘Hi. Steven here.’
She thought her head was about to explode. She couldn’t stop crying.
‘Have you got a car? Where are you?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Brera. Please! Where are you?’
‘I’m …’
‘Are you near here? Are you near Hackney?’
‘I … not far away. I’m at Liverpool Street. This is my mobile phone.’
Brera could hardly speak. ‘Please come here. My daughter … I’ve phoned an ambulance but it might take too long. Please come.’
She dropped the receiver and ran back over to Sylvia. Sylvia was now limp, her eyes were closed and her head was lolling to one side. Brera lifted up her T-shirt and started to rub her chest. Sylvia’s eyes opened slightly. She whispered, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Brera felt as if a firework had gone off inside her mouth. ‘You can bloody talk! You can bloody talk you little vixen and that’s all you can say! You can talk and that’s all you can say! Christ! Say something. No. Don’t say anything. Just breathe!’
She stopped rubbing, ran out on to the roof, picked up the inhaler and sprinted back inside with it. She rammed it betweenSylvia’s lips and pressed it three or four times. Most of the gas escaped through the sides of her mouth. Her head lolled. Brera tried it several more times and then, once again, attempted mouth to mouth.
It seemed like an age before she heard the buzzer sound. She ran to the entry-phone and pressed the button next to it, shoved the front door wide open to ease access and then ran to get Sylvia. She pulled down her T-shirt and tried to pick her up.
There was no ambulance, only Steven. He jogged up the stairs, through the flat, into the living-room. He was breathless and frightened, not so much by the possibility of facing something horrible (like a bloody injury, for example, a broken limb) as by the fear that he might not prove up to coping with it. He was prepared to see Sam, cut, bruised, maimed, electrocuted, but instead all he saw as he ran in was Brera, her face red, her hair red, wearing only a blue and white striped night-shirt, trying to pick up the prostrate body of a girl he had never seen before.
Brera glanced over her shoulder and saw, with horror, that it was only Steven. ‘Oh God! I thought you were an ambulance. What good can you do? It’s been at least fifteen minutes since I phoned.’
Steven moved swiftly over to Brera’s side and helped her to lift the girl. He picked her up easily and held her in his arms. ‘Shall I carry her downstairs? I can take you to casualty in
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