‘We need to get them out,’ Tom said quietly, straightening up so the woman couldn’t hear him. ‘I think the driver’s in a bad way—possible cardiac tamponade—and his feet seem to be trapped, so we can’t get him out. The woman’s trapped and drifting in and out of consciousness, and she’s very scared for the kids and her husband. See if you can find out what’s going on in the back. I can’t see the kids, but I can hear crying—sounds like one only, though.’
‘That’s the little one,’ Kenna said from her position at the driver’s head. ‘I can just see him.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The older one’s looking rough, Mr Whittaker. He’s struggling for breath. You need to get in there.’
But because the car was buried in the hedge they couldn’t, not until the fire brigade had finished lifting the roof clear an endless minute later, then Meg got her first proper look at the occupants and her heart sank.
The children in the back were only small, and the woman was moaning fretfully, her face covered in blood from an oozing head wound. ‘Tom, she’s pregnant,’ she said, and behind her she heard Ben’s indrawn breath.
‘Dear God, I can’t do this,’ he said softly, and she turned in time to see him bending over the ditch, retching helplessly.
She would have gone to him, but the children needed her, and she crawled over the wreckage, pausing to press a hand on the woman’s shoulder in reassurance, and took a tiny, frightened hand in hers and spoke gently.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, talking to all of them, ‘you’ll be OK. Don’t be scared.’ The little fingers tightened, and she realised the hand was in a cast.
A blue cast, with a picture of a train on it.
‘Adam?’ she said, and the little head turned towards her and he sobbed in terror. Oh, dear Lord.
‘Adam, it’s Meg—remember me? It’s all right,’ she said again. ‘We’ll get you out in a minute.’ Her free hand found Mrs Bright’s shoulder, squeezing it again. Fingers came up and wrapped around hers and hung on for dear life while Meg ran her eyes worriedly over the other child. His chest was heaving, but the breath sounds were laboured and deteriorating as she watched. ‘Tom, how are you doing?’
‘Not good. The driver’s definitely got a cardiac tamponade. I’m going to have to draw the blood off if we’re going to save him. How are the kids?’
‘The oldest has severe breathing difficulties. We have to get him out fast. The youngster’s Adam—Adam Bright. We’ve been treating him for a fractured radius. He seems OK. He’s moving freely and there’s no obvious sign of injury, but he doesn’t need to be in here.’
As she spoke her hands were running over him, checking his little body rapidly. Finally satisfied that he was safe to move, she unclipped his straps and lifted him clear of the car seat.
‘I’ll take him.’
She looked up, stunned to see Ben there holding out his hands, and she put the little lad into them without hesitation. He lifted him clear and cradled Adam against his chest, shielding him from the horrors all around, and she turned her attention to the other boy.
‘Tom, he’s getting worse. Someone needs to check Mrs Bright, but I’ve got my hands full.’
‘So have I. I’m trying to insert a needle into this guy’s chest in less than ideal conditions, and I need your help. Tell me about him. What’s going on?’
‘He’s got a throat injury, I think—there’s a toy tucked into the seat belt. It doesn’t seem to have penetrated…’ She checked again, and nodded. ‘But his throat’s swelling and his resps are way up. He needs intubating now to protect his airway, or he’s going to need a laryngotomy.’
‘I can’t leave this man, Meg. We need back-up.’
‘No time. I’ll start ventilation for now. Get me oxygen and a bag-valve mask! And somebody call another team, please! We need an anaesthetist here now!’
She met Tom’s eyes over the back of the driver’s seat, and they both froze.
‘We’ve got one,’ Tom said grimly, and looked up. ‘Ben.’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Ben said, standing by the car with Adam cradled in his arms, the little head burrowed firmly into his neck, hiding from the horror while Ben’s hand stroked his back, up, down, up, down…
‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you,’ Tom said, his voice hard. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, Ben, but if you don’t intubate that boy he could die! If you can stand there and let that happen, then you aren’t the man I thought you were.’
‘Please—save him,’ Mrs Bright said brokenly, and Ben’s face contorted. For an endless moment he stood there, his face racked with emotion, then he thrust Adam into someone’s arms and climbed over into the back seat.
‘Let me see,’ he said, moving Meg aside, and his hands swiftly, thoroughly checked the child. ‘Damn, he’s very cyanosed. Meg, give him 100 per cent oxygen while I set up. Somebody show me where the kit is! He’ll need anaesthetising and intubation.’
Behind Meg there was a flurry of activity, but she didn’t look. She couldn’t. She was too busy holding the mask over the boy’s face, squeezing oxygen into him from the cylinder feeding it, the steady rhythmic hiss of the bag drowned out by the sound of the cutting gear racing to free the parents in the front.
Mike was checking Mrs Bright now, calming her, telling her the baby was fine, reassuring her while Meg struggled with the seal on the mask and tried to stop the other child from dying.
‘OK. Let’s do this. He needs more oxygen first. Keep going while I anaesthetise him. He’s too light at the moment, he’ll fight me. Can someone apply cricoid pressure, please?’
Meg did it, using her thumb while her fingers held the mask, stopping any possibility of reflux from the stomach into the airway until it was secured.
Ben found the vein with the first try, secured the cannula and injected the anaesthetic, the first part to knock the child right out, the second part to paralyse him so he could be intubated without distress. As the muscle relaxant took effect, Meg felt him twitch, and immediately, without moving his neck but simply lifting his jaw forward, Ben slipped the laryngoscope into his mouth and then slid the tube in while Meg continued to press down on the cricoid ring to bring his vocal cords into view.
‘OK, cricoid off,’ he snapped, rapidly attaching the tube to the bag valve and oxygen supply. It had taken mere seconds, and immediately the child started to pink up again.
‘Stethoscope,’ he said, and someone put one in his hand. He checked the boy’s lungs for breath sounds as he bagged him, and then nodded.
‘OK. We’re in. We need to get him out of here. He’s trapped by the seat. Can someone shift it fast? I want him out of here now!’
The woman had already been removed from the car the moment her spine had been secured, and the seat was freed and hauled out of the way, releasing the child’s feet.
The operation to remove him from the car took moments once his spinal board was in place, and then he was away, into the ambulance and rushed to hospital, with Ben still working on him.
Meg watched them go, then turned back to Tom.
‘OK. What now?’
‘He’s OK. I’ve done it—got about thirty mils out and he’s looking better. Well done, Meg, you did a good job on the boy. Right, can we get this man out of here, please? What about the other car?’
‘They’re out,’ she told him. ‘They’ve gone already.’
He nodded.
‘Right. You need to get back to Ben. Take my car, I’ll follow in the ambulance with Mr Bright. What about the little one?’
‘He’s gone. He went with his mother.’
‘Then go and find Ben.’
Easier said than done. By the time she arrived at the hospital, they told her he’d left.
‘Angie, I have to go to him.’
Angie, full of wisdom and human compassion, needed no explanation. She’d seen this coming for days, and she gave Meg a gentle push towards the door. ‘Go on. We’ll manage.’
‘The film crew…’
‘Leave them to me. I’ll keep them away.’
‘Thanks.’
She fled, taking Tom’s car because hers was still at her flat where she’d left it yesterday, and drove to the Red House. His car was there, and without knocking or ringing the bell she went in and ran up the back stairs to his flat.
‘Ben?’
‘Not now.’
He was dressed only in a towel, his skin reddened from the shower. She guessed he’d been scrubbing it, scrubbing off the blood—and the memories?
She followed him into the bedroom and wrapped her arms around him from behind. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Please…’
‘Meg…’
His voice broke, and he turned in her arms and anchored her head in his trembling hands and locked his mouth to hers in a kiss so filled with pain and desperation that she had no choice but to hold him, to press him against her body, to kiss him back.
‘It’s OK,’ she murmured through her kisses. ‘It’s OK.’
‘I need you,’ he said raggedly, tugging at her clothes. She stripped them off and fell with him to the bed, kissing him, stroking him, trying to heal whatever it was that had broken inside him.
His hands were frenzied, racing over her, seeking her warmth, her comfort. He moved over her, burying himself in her, his body driving into hers again and again until he stiffened and cried out, a harsh, animal sound that tore open her heart.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she whispered silently. ‘Oh, my love…’
A sob shuddered through him, but he wrenched himself away out of her arms, jackknifing off the bed and opening drawers, pulling out underwear, a shirt, jeans, dragging them on while she lay there, her hand pressed to her mouth, and watched him helplessly with fear in her heart.
‘Ben?’
‘No. For God’s sake, Meg, leave it.’
But she wouldn’t give up, not this time. She couldn’t, for his sake and for hers. She knelt up on the bed and reached for his shirt as he did, stopping him.
‘Tell me,’ she pleaded. ‘What happened, Ben? Who was it? Who was it you couldn’t save?’
He paused, his hands knotting in his shirt. For an age she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes ravaged with grief.
‘My son,’ he said, his voice tortured. ‘It was my son.’
‘We’d been at the cottage for a few days.’
‘Cottage?’ Meg asked, wanting to get it clear because she knew she would only hear this once.
‘In Norfolk, in a little fishing village, right on the quay with a wonderful view over the marshes and out to sea. It was tiny, just a little brick and flint terraced cottage, but it was our haven, our retreat from the hell of the East End. It was easy to get to up the M11, only a couple of hours door to door, and we loved it.’
He stared down into his tea, and Meg waited, giving him time, letting him sift through the images that were pouring through his mind as she studied him, her heart aching.
They were sitting across from each other at the table in the little living room. She’d pulled on her clothes and made tea and found a packet of biscuits and put them on the table. She pushed them towards him now, but he shook his head and carried on, his voice calm and curiously lifeless.
‘Linda and Toby had been there since Wednesday. I went up on the train on Friday night, and I was going to drive them back down on Sunday, but Toby’d made friends with the little boy next door and he’d been invited round to a party on Sunday afternoon. So I caught the train, and Linda drove back on Monday.’
He paused, his eyes blank. ‘I was called down to A and E on Monday afternoon. A child had been airlifted in following a crash on the M11. It happened all the time. I didn’t think—not until I was in there. They were talking about the accident, about ID. Someone said the female driver was dead. The child needed intubating—he’d got facial injuries and an obstructed airway, and it needed a specialist paediatric anaesthetist to do it.
‘Everything was ready, and he was lying there, a mass of tubes and wires. They’d stripped him of everything except a Mickey Mouse plaster on one scuffed, scabby little knee.’ He swallowed convulsively, the only sign of emotion. ‘I’d stuck it on the day before, when he’d fallen in the garden. It was the only way I could recognise him.’
Meg felt the tears well in her eyes, but she said nothing, just sat with her hands locked around her mug and waited while he carried on.
‘Someone handed me a laryngoscope, and I took it, but my hand was shaking so badly I dropped it. They were still talking about ID, and I told them his name was Toby. Toby Maguire. And then he arrested, while I stood there and did nothing, and they couldn’t get the tube in, and there was nothing I could do to save him. I stood there, Meg, and I watched my son die, and I did nothing.’
She gulped and scrubbed away the tears. ‘You couldn’t. How could you? No one would expect you—’
‘He was my son!’ he rasped, getting up and crossing the room in a stride, bracing himself on the window frame, staring sightlessly down the garden. ‘He was my son,’ he echoed, ‘and I let him die.’ He turned back to her. ‘That’s why I gave up medicine—why I can’t bear to hear it, the hisses and bleeps and doors crashing open and the smell of blood. Why I didn’t want to go back into a hospital to make this stupid damned programme.’
He came back to the table and sat down, cradling his mug in his hands, staring at it. He took a sip and set it down again as if he couldn’t quite work out what it was for. ‘At the inquest the driver in the car behind said Toby had been running up and down the back seat, and Linda had turned round repeatedly to him. Then she turned for just too long, and the car swerved and hit a bridge support. She was killed instantly—her and the baby. She was four months pregnant.’
Meg pressed her hand to her mouth, her heart breaking for him. So much pain, so much loss. The tears flooded over again and ran unchecked down her face, but she didn’t even notice. When that child had been brought in injured after the minor shunt on the school run and he’d been so angry—that was why. Because the child had been unrestrained, like Toby. And she’d asked him if he had children, and he’d said no, and so she’d told him not to be so quick to judge. Dear God. If only she’d known…
‘So now you know,’ he said, looking up and giving her a twisted smile. He lifted his hand and brushed her tears away with his thumb, but they fell still, an endless river, and she closed her eyes.
‘Ben, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
She heard him get up and come round behind her, patting her shoulder awkwardly. ‘Don’t cry. Not for me. I don’t deserve it.’
She put her hand on his, gripping it, but he pulled away, distancing himself again.
‘Anyway, that’s it, my sorry little tale. Over years ago. Finished.’
‘Is it?’ she asked, turning round to face him, knowing he was shutting down again and so afraid for him. ‘Are you sure? Because I don’t think it’s finished—not by a long way.’
‘Of course it is. I failed him. What more is there to say?’
She took a deep breath and put aside her feelings, dredging up the nurse in her and not the woman—the woman who loved him with all her heart.
‘What were his injuries?’
He frowned, then shrugged. ‘Brain contusions, facial fractures, abdominal and chest injuries—I don’t know. All sorts.’
‘What did he die of? Specifically?’
‘A ruptured spleen. He bled out. But if I’d done it—if I’d intubated him instead of falling apart, he would have been on his way to Theatre. They could have saved him…’
‘Could they? Ben, be realistic,’ she said gently. ‘Your son had massive multiple trauma. He was dead before they brought him in. It was just a matter of time.’
He shook his head. ‘I should have insisted they come back on Sunday night with me. Then I would have been driving, and it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘You cou
ldn’t know that.’
‘I could. He was naughty with her—wouldn’t stay in his baby seat.’
‘So she should have made him—should have pulled over and not gone on until he was back in it. Ben, it was an accident. Linda was a full-grown woman. She made a mistake, and she paid for it with her life. It wasn’t Toby’s fault, he was just a baby, and it certainly wasn’t yours.’
‘You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.’
‘No—but I have seen it, over and over again. I saw it today, Ben, and so did you—only this time you could do something, and you did. Daniel Bright’s alive because of you—because you used your skill to save him in incredibly difficult conditions.’
‘Fluke.’
‘Rubbish. I saw you working. You’re competent, highly skilled, efficient—’
‘And scared spitless. I threw up, for God’s sake!’
‘And who could blame you? It was all far too close to home—too hard for anyone to handle. But you did it, and you saved him. And you were wonderful with Adam. Ben, you’re a good doctor, a brilliant doctor. You just have to forgive yourself.’
He turned away, his jaw working. ‘Meg, leave it. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
‘So what are you going to do, Ben? Bury it? Bury it again and forget it, like you have for the past however many years?’
‘Five,’ he said, his voice hollow. ‘It’s five years next week. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just know I need you.’
Meg swallowed, praying for courage, because this was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do in her life.
‘I need you, too, but you aren’t free, Ben. Not to love me. And I won’t settle for half of you because the other half doesn’t feel, can’t cry or grieve or love again. I’m not interested in an affair with you, drifting along, pretending it’s all right when you’re falling apart inside. I want all of it—and until you’re free, you’re no use to me and no use to yourself.’
He stared at her, his brow furrowed with confusion. ‘But…Meg, we’re so good together…’
‘Are we? You won’t talk to me about the things that hurt you most, Ben, and, worse still, you won’t even think about them and come to terms with them. You have to learn to forgive—to forgive Toby, for getting out of his seat, and Linda, for turning round and taking her eyes off the road for too long. And you have to forgive yourself for being human, for not being able to work miracles all the time. And you have to let them go.’
Holding Out For a Hero Page 14
