by M. J. Trow
Maxwell’s plan only half worked, because Baines fell forward, pressing hard on his already injured knee. Maxwell writhed with pain and above his ruined face, Baines’ eyes were triumphant. He pressed again with all his weight. The pain was worse now than when the knee had first crashed into the wall and Maxwell’s chest hurt so much he couldn’t even summon up a groan, let alone a yell.
Then, suddenly, the weight had gone and Baines was the one who was yelling. The Head of Sixth Form could hardly believe his eyes. Sylvia Matthews was standing over him, like the Angel of Mons, if the Angel of Mons had ever held a PE teacher by the hair and slammed his head into a door jamb until he was unconscious. She looked at Maxwell and assessed him briefly as potentially walking wounded and turned to Guy, lying curled in the foetal position now and gasping with frightening intensity as if each breath might be his last.
‘Guy,’ he heard her murmur, ‘Guy, it’s Sylvia. You’re all right now, baby. I’m here. Look. I’ve put my hand over the hole in your side. It’s only a pneumothorax, Guy. Come on, darling, you’re all right now. Come on. Just breathe, poppet.’
Maxwell closed his eyes and managed a smile. He knew Sylvia would know the proper name for it. And if there was a woman in the whole wide world who could be relied upon to save the day, when Jacquie wasn’t handy, it was Sylv.
Maxwell felt Baines begin to stir and knew he had to get help and somehow he scrambled to his feet and half ran, half fell into the hall, into the arms of Jason Briggs and then, in quick succession, those of his wife. He looked into her face and then his eyes flickered to the staircase, where two pairs of anxious eyes were looking down at him. He looked back at Jacquie and almost managed a smile.
‘What are you doing here?’ he muttered, passing out as she replied.
‘Oh, dear, Max,’ she said, holding him tight. ‘Now I’m going to have to kill you.’
