How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

‘All right?’ I grunt at the brightly dressed figure.

  It turns out to be a woman – late twenties, early thirties at a guess, from what I can see of her. She jumps at the sound of my voice, having been looking in the other direction. But once her wide brown eyes land on my face, she soon flashes me a smile from within the circle of her coat’s wide hood.

  ‘Gosh, you startled me,’ she says in a husky, confident voice. ‘You look like you could have done with getting here a few minutes ago … and maybe wearing something a bit more waterproof.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I reply, wiping the ice-cold moisture out of my eyes with my right hand.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I wish I’d taken the weather forecast more seriously,’ she adds. ‘I figured they were probably exaggerating, based on past experience.’

  I raise my eyebrows and nod. ‘You’re not kidding.’

  The wooden planks above us do offer protection from much of the downpour – although we have to take care to avoid the leaky spots, which are like mini waterfalls. The creaking, rattling sounds all around, particularly when the wind gusts, are disconcerting to say the least.

  Relax, I tell myself, as an extra fierce squall makes everything around us shudder and shake. My new companion and I both look upwards and then at each other; I stretch my mouth into a grimace.

  She keeps smiling, looking way calmer than I feel. ‘I’m sure it’ll ease off soon.’

  ‘You reckon?’ I reply. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  We remain where we are for several more minutes as the rain and hail keep on coming in alternating onslaughts, like a freakish tag team working at the wind’s behest.

  And then all hell breaks loose as the fiercest gust yet roars, pounces, bites and refuses to let go.

  Heart in mouth, I see and hear the scaffolding above and all around teeter and then finally tip.

  ‘We need to move now!’ the woman shouts. But I’m frozen to the spot in terror as, with a series of mighty and devastating crashes and crunches, it all starts coming down.

  That’s it, I think. Game over.

  Then I feel myself being shoved to one side and, with a sudden jolt of intense pain to my head, I’m out of it.

  Nothingness envelops me.

  CHAPTER 2

  When I come to, shivering and achy, it takes a moment to get my bearings. My initial thought is that I must have been having a bad dream and I’m at home in my flat. But the uncomfortable, scrunched position I find myself in and my pounding headache soon set me straight.

  I try to sit up, only to find I can’t. I’m enclosed by what’s collapsed around me. And yet miraculously, other than my head hurting, nothing else appears badly injured or crushed, as best as I can tell lying on my side, wedged into such a confined space.

  I know this because I make a point of wiggling everything, from my fingers to my toes, and it all still appears to work, despite a few aches and pains. My limbs are free to move, but only as much as this small space I find myself in – this bubble amid the destruction – will allow.

  As my mind grinds through the process of fully rebooting, like an ancient PC, I start to recall further details of what happened. I realise it’s probably safest not to move, in case I unsettle something.

  Next my thoughts turn to the woman who was with me before I lost consciousness. How on earth did I not think of her until now? And what was her name? I don’t even know. We never properly introduced ourselves. Is it thanks to her that I’m here and not squashed beneath some other part of the wreckage? She definitely shoved me to the side, presumably out of the way of some danger she spotted while I was incapacitated by fear. So where is she now?

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Can you hear me? Are you okay?’

  Nothing. Not a huge surprise, as my initial attempt is pathetic – little more than a raspy groan. After clearing my throat, wincing from the extra pain this brings to my pounding head, I take a slow, deep breath before trying again.

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  I repeat this several times, as loud as I can manage in a bid to be heard over the still raging storm, but no reply comes. Nothing at all. Shit. She can’t be far away, so if she’s not replying … she must be unable to, for whatever reason.

  She’s probably unconscious, like I was until a few moments ago. How long was I out? It must have been several minutes at least. Maybe longer.

  I try to peer at my watch, but it’s too dark to read the analogue face. I think of my phone, but once I manage to dig it out of my pocket, my heart sinks as I remember the battery died earlier. Dammit. If only I’d got around to keeping a spare charger at work. I don’t usually need it, though. Not unless I forget to plug in the bloody thing before going to bed, like I did last night.

  Desperate, I try to turn it on anyway. The sudden brightness of the boot screen hurts my eyes, but before they have time to adjust, the phone gives up the ghost and switches itself off again. Fantastic. I narrowly resist the urge to smash it on the ground in frustration.

  Unable to see anything other than vague shapes and shadows from the position I’m stuck in, I cry out for assistance; not only to my silent companion this time, but generally, in the hope of attracting some passer-by’s attention.

  ‘Help! Help me!’ I bellow with everything I’ve got. ‘I’m stuck here. Is anyone out there? Please help!’

  I keep at it for what feels like forever: shouting variations of the same desperate words over and over again until my throat is throbbing in time with my banging headache and I’m out of breath.

  Am I going to die here? All it would take would be for some more scaffolding or masonry to come down on top of me and that would be it. I fight to calm my breathing, to steady my mind before it races into a blind panic from which there might be no coming back.

  But the negative thoughts won’t leave me alone. Who would actually care if I didn’t make it out of here? Would anyone really miss me? There were people who might have done once, but now they’ve all been taken from me, or they left of their own accord, or I pushed them away.

  There is Alfred, I suppose, although I’m not sure if he counts, being a cat. I’d certainly miss him; I hope he’d be okay without me.

  ‘Don’t be so defeatist,’ I imagine my mother telling me. ‘You sound like you’ve given up already. Where’s that fighting spirit?’

  I wasn’t always so gloomy and bad-tempered. The younger me would never have spoken like I did to that homeless person earlier: putting my own concerns over the welfare of someone down on their luck and struggling to get by. Far from my finest moment, that. Not exactly a Good Samaritan, am I? And yet here I am, lying on the ground myself now, calling out for others to help me. I guess I got my comeuppance.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I say, recalling her perched on the edge of my bed, reading that very parable to me as a young child. ‘I must be a huge disappointment to you and Dad. I didn’t mean to end up this way.’

  I picture her shaking her head and giving me that disappointed look I used to get from time to time growing up, like when I was a teenager and she once caught me smoking in the back garden while I thought she was out. That look was always infinitely worse than being shouted at.

  As desperation is on the cusp of setting in, I hear something: a woman’s voice, faint but just audible. ‘Hello?’

  Initially I think my mind’s playing tricks on me; that it’s the echo of another resurfacing memory. But when I hear it again, a little louder this time, I realise with a jolt that I’m not imagining it.

  ‘Hello!’ I call back. ‘Is that you: the woman who was taking shelter with me? Are you all right? Are you hurt?’

  There’s a long pause and finally a reply. ‘Yes, it’s me, Iris. I must have blacked out.’

  ‘That’s your name? Iris? Mine’s Luke. How are you doing? Are you also trapped?’

  ‘Hi, Luke. I, um, I’m not great.’ Her voice sounds strained. ‘It hurts … I’m losing blood. And yes, I’m stuck here.’

  ‘Blood? How com
e? Are you sure that’s what it is? You’re not just wet from all the rain?’

  There’s a delay before she replies, during which my heart is in my mouth. Then finally – thank goodness – I hear her voice again, although what she says sounds strangely clinical. ‘I’m sure. Something, um … never mind. It’s not good. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m all right, Iris. I’m trapped and a bit knocked around, but otherwise I’m fine, most likely because of you. You pushed me out of the way of something, I remember. Thank you.’

  ‘Glad to help.’ She breaks off before adding: ‘Listen, if we don’t get out of here soon, I think I could be in real trouble.’

  ‘Don’t talk that way. You’re not a doctor. You can’t know such things. Can you reach the wound? Maybe you should try applying some pressure to it.’ This last suggestion is something of a desperate one, based purely on stuff I’ve seen in movies and TV shows. But I figure it’s worth a try.

  ‘I am actually,’ Iris says, her voice sounding a little louder now; closer than I initially thought, maybe only a couple of metres away.

  ‘What, applying pressure?’

  ‘A doctor.’

  It takes a moment for me to digest this information but, once I do, I feel particularly embarrassed about the two-bit medical advice I offered her.

  ‘Right. So we need to get help ASAP,’ I say. ‘I’ve tried plenty of shouting, but I don’t think anyone’s heard me so far apart from you. The noise of this damn storm is muting everything. I can keep going, but we really need to get word to the emergency services.’

  ‘Have you got a mobile with you?’

  ‘Not a working one,’ I reply, mentally kicking myself again. ‘My battery is totally flat.’

  ‘I have one, in my bag, but I’m not sure I can reach it. Let me try.’

  She falls silent. I’m soon tempted to ask how she’s getting on, but rather than distract her from her mission, I start calling for help again, knowing that might still be our best hope of escape. Eventually, I stop and listen, but all I hear is more wind and rain.

  ‘Iris?’ I ask. ‘Any luck?’

  She doesn’t reply, even when I shout out to her. I call her name at least a dozen more times, but to no avail. She must have passed out again. I pray it’s nothing worse than that; her words about being in trouble and losing blood bounce around my head.

  Yet again, I curse myself for not charging my mobile and try not to fly into a full-blown panic.

  As my mind whirrs, analysing the situation, looking for options, I become increasingly convinced there’s little chance of us being found here while this storm is raging. Anyone with an ounce of sense will be safely indoors or at least in a vehicle.

  I feel so cold, despondent, alone.

  And then I hear Iris’s voice say my name.

  ‘Yes?’ I reply. ‘Are you all right? You stopped answering me. I thought—’

  ‘I blacked out again. It was … hard to reach.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ I tell her. ‘Stay still. Take it easy. We’ll figure something out.’

  As these words leave my mouth, what I’m thinking is very different, but I want to try to keep her spirits up, unlike my own.

  ‘I got it,’ she says.

  ‘Your phone?’

  ‘Yes, I’m dialling now.’

  I can’t make out every word of what she says to the emergency operator, but I get the important stuff. She pinpoints exactly where we are, better than I could manage. And she requests both ambulance and fire crew assistance, which makes sense, as we’ll need to get all of this wreckage carefully lifted off us before we can be freed. God knows how they’ll be able to work safely in these conditions, mind.

  ‘Please hurry.’ That’s how she ends the call. Then she tells me: ‘They’re coming, Luke.’

  ‘Fantastic. You did so well, Iris. How long did they say?’

  ‘Not sure. Really tired. Need to rest.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘You do that. You’ve earned it. I’m sure they’ll only be a few minutes. We’ll be out of here in no time.’

  ‘Hope so,’ she says. Or at least I think that’s it, as it comes out really quiet. I want to ask how she’s doing, but I also feel it’s best to let her rest, if that’s what she needs. Then I start worrying that maybe she ought to be trying to stay awake. Again, the only basis I have for this is what I’ve seen in films – so who knows if that’s right? Iris almost certainly would, being a doctor and all, but she’s in no position to offer advice to herself right now.

  ‘Stay with me, Iris,’ I say as loudly as I can, trying to ignore the rising sense of claustrophobia in my belly. Why am I feeling this now, knowing help is on the way?

  In the absence of a reply, I start gabbling, even though I realise I’m probably talking to myself. ‘Do you reckon the storm has died down a bit, Iris? I think it might have. The wind sounds a little lighter to me. It could have stopped raining too, although it’s hard to know for sure under here. I can’t see much. What about you?’

  Eventually, goodness knows why, I start singing. Part of me hopes Iris can hear it, even though she’s no longer answering me, and that it gives her something to hold on to. I go with the old time-killing classic ‘Ten Green Bottles’, but I add some extra bottles, starting with thirty, to make sure it goes on for a while.

  I’m down to sixteen bottles when I finally hear sirens.

  Breaking off from singing, I shout: ‘They’re coming, Iris! They’re coming. We’re going to be all right.’

  Her silence is deafening.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Oh my God. You gave me a heart attack when you called earlier. I can’t believe what happened. How are you doing?’

  I smile weakly and nod at Meg. ‘Tired and sore, but I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I heard about the scaffolding coming down on the news last night, but they didn’t mention any names, so I had no idea you were involved. Otherwise, I’d have been here right away. Why did you take so long to call?’

  ‘My phone battery was flat. Luckily, I managed to borrow a charger this morning from one of the other patients.’

  ‘Right.’ She’s holding an unfamiliar sports bag, which she raises to my eye height, as I’m sitting up in the hospital bed, and jiggles it around. ‘I got the stuff you asked for, including your phone charger.’

  ‘That’s not my bag, is it? I don’t recognise it.’

  ‘You’re welcome. No, it’s mine – and I want it back, please, once you’re done. It’s my yoga bag.’

  ‘Yoga? Seriously? Since when do you—’

  ‘I do have a life, Luke, and it’s not like we’ve seen each other much recently. Don’t pretend to know everything about me.’

  ‘Hmm. Let me guess: you bought all the stuff and have only used it a handful of times. Am I right?’ She screws up her face and looks away. ‘Ha!’ I continue. ‘I know you well enough, Meg Craven.’

  Not wishing to push my luck with her, I change the subject. ‘Was Alfred okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine. I cleaned his litter tray and left him plenty of food.’

  ‘Was he upset about me not coming home last night?’

  ‘Seriously, Luke? How do I know? He’s a cat; it’s not like he can talk.’

  I shake my head. ‘You know what I mean. What was he doing when you arrived?’

  ‘Sleeping, curled into a ball on your bed. There was still food left in his bowl, although he got up to have some more after I washed and refilled it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Again, you’re welcome. A little thank-you once in a while wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Thanks, Meg.’

  Alfred’s a fat tabby I’ve had since he was a kitten around ten years ago – and the closest thing I have to a flatmate. I named him after Bruce Wayne’s butler in Batman, hoping naively – not having owned a pet before – that I’d be able to train him to do things for me, like you can with a dog. As it turns out, I’m the one who waits on him, hand and foot, making hi
s name pretty damn ironic. Honestly, he has me wrapped around his little finger. I realise now, of course, how utterly ridiculous it was of me ever to think I could get a cat, of all creatures, to be helpful. You live and learn.

  It’s rare for me to stay away from home but, on the odd occasion I have, my cousin Meg has looked after Alfred for me. The daughter of my late dad’s brother, she lives nearby, unlike her parents, who emigrated to New Zealand when we were both still in our twenties. My uncle, who has some kind of high-powered role in finance, was offered a job opportunity in Auckland that was apparently too good to miss. They tried to convince Meg to go with them, but she was having none of it, happy with her life here in Manchester.

  My cousin is a year older than me so has already had plenty of time to embrace the joys of being forty. We used to be very close, particularly after Mum and Dad died, but we had a big row a few months ago that really set things back between us. We didn’t go as far as cutting off all contact with each other, but our relationship cooled significantly. Up until that point, she’d been like a sister and best friend rolled into one. This is the first time since our quarrel that I’ve had to call upon her for a favour. The simple truth is that there isn’t anyone else I can turn to.

  A young nurse I don’t recognise walks by, on the way to see another patient, and I get her attention by clicking my fingers. ‘Hello? Do you know how Iris is doing?’

  I reply to the blank look she gives me by adding: ‘The woman who was brought in with me last night, who’d also been trapped under the fallen scaffolding.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that. What’s her surname? Do you know what ward she’s on?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I snap. ‘For goodness’ sake. You’re the one who works here, right? Surely you can get that information yourself. There can’t be many other people who went through what we did yesterday.’

  In a calm voice, she says she’ll speak to her colleagues in a few minutes and see what she can find out.

  ‘Was there any need to be so rude to her?’ Meg asks once the nurse is out of earshot. She sits down on the chair at the side of my bed. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, Luke, but still. It’s hardly her fault. And clicking your fingers like that to call her over. Really?’