by Ashe Barker
A few seconds later I’m dumped unceremoniously on the ground. The second man, Will, strides past me and secures the two horses to a tree a couple of yards away. Robbie waits until he is finished, then he shoves me back until I’m pressed up against the tree too. The horses snort behind me, their breath hot on my neck even through the quilted hood of my padded anorak.
“I’m going to tie you to this tree. You’ll be here for the night so you can stand or sit, it’s up to you. But you’ll not be moving till the morning.”
“No! It’s too cold. I’ll freeze. Please…”
“You’ll be fine. The horses will keep you warm. So will you be spending the night on your feet, or sitting?” He stands in front of me, arms folded across his powerful chest. His expression is implacable and I abandon any notion of appealing to him.
“I’ll sit.”
“Wise choice, lad. Make yourself comfortable then.”
I sit down and lean back against the trunk of the tree. Robbie digs in one of the saddle bags again, and this time produces a length of rope, He loops it around my chest, then around my waist before tying it off behind the tree. I’m glad of the thick bulk of my anorak, and the thermal fleece lining beneath that. Not only do they provide some protection from the cold but they also conceal the outline of my body. Not that he seems unduly interested in that, thank God. He stands back to regard me for several moments, his head cocked to one side as though something puzzles him. He turns and strides the two or three yards to where his companion is crouching beside a small pile of twigs. I watch as Robbie makes deft work of striking a flint against a rock to produce a spark, which he then nurtures into a small blaze. My gas lighter would do a better job…
Christ, my backpack! Where is it?
I rack my brain, my recollections of the last half hour or so are more than a little hazy and confused. I remember setting the pack down to check my position. I had my phone in my hand; I was searching for a signal when I was assaulted by these two maniacs. I remember dropping my phone, but I never gave a thought to my pack. It must be lying up there on the fell, just waiting for the next passing fell walker. The good news is that an abandoned pack full of gear is sure to alert someone to my predicament. No hiker would just leave his, or her, gear behind. The bad news is, when—if—these two deranged thugs eventually release me, I’ll have no supplies or equipment to help me find my way back to civilisation.
That’s not the end of the world though. I have a decent sense of direction. And at least I’m wearing the most important bits of kit, my boots and my all-weather jacket. I have a good chance. If they let me go.
The two men are talking quietly. Occasionally one or the other of them will cast a glance in my direction. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to study Will. He’s also a striking, handsome man, even if the pair of them are violent brutes. About the same height and build as Robbie, Will has dark hair, tied in a small ponytail at the back of his neck. I can’t make out the colour of his eyes, but his voice is softer. I get the impression he may be the gentler of the two, and I recall he interceded for me when Robbie was being especially rough. It was Will who asked Robbie to go easy on me, who pointed out how terrified I was. Maybe he would help me. If things don’t go well tomorrow.
As I watch I note that Will appears to be in some discomfort. He is breathing rapidly, and seems to be in pain. Robbie passes him a knife, which Will uses to prod something on the small fire. The smell of cooking reaches me. They must have killed a rabbit or something earlier.
Again, I long for my pack, crammed with chocolate, dried soup, cereal bars, and a pack of tuna sandwiches. Not the most appetising fare but good for the great outdoors. Whilst I’m out on the fells I always go for something light to carry and easy to prepare. I can eat when I get back.
If I get back.
The aroma of fresh cooked meat is tantalising. My assailants will eat well this evening even if I don’t. Maybe I can locate my pack in the morning and have access to my supplies again. If the mist lifts, and as long as no one else gets there first. Ever the optimist, I settle in to wait out this long night.
“Are ye hungry, lad?”
“What?” I come awake from a light, fitful doze and peer up at the shape looming over me. It’s Will, a battered-looking metal plate in his left hand. He lowers it to give me a good look at the generous helping of cooked meat. My mouth waters, despite the stiffness in my joints. I’m uncomfortable, and the bitter cold is seeping into my very bones. I can’t believe I actually managed to fall asleep when my body feels like it’s seizing up. I shift, try to find a less painful position, but there isn’t one. I want to cry, tears are pricking my eyelids but I blink them back. To surrender to a fit of sobbing would give my deception away. If they discover I’ve been pretending to be a boy, I don’t know for sure what will happen, but I’m reasonably certain it won’t be good.
“Some food. Do you want it?”
I’m surprised, but pathetically grateful. “Yes, please.”
Will kneels beside me and balances the plate on my thighs, stretched out in front of me on the hard, cold earth. He picks up a piece of the meat and holds it close to my mouth. I stifle any thoughts of rampant germs; this is no time to be fastidious. I open my lips obligingly and Will feeds me. The rabbit is remarkably palatable, succulent and juicy, the flesh permeated with the wood smoke of the fire. Will smiles as I chew it, then lick my lips.
“More?”
I nod, and he feeds me another piece, then another after that. In minutes the plate is empty. Will wipes it with his sleeve and places it on the ground.
“Will you be needing a piss then?”
“A…?” In fact my full bladder is reaching desperation stage, but I can’t contrive any way to relieve myself without betraying my secret.
“A piss. If you want me to untie you for a couple of minutes I will. But the first sign of trouble from you, lad, and you’ll feel my boot up your arse. Are we clear?”
I nod, still not sure how this is going to work out but short of any better options. Will moves to the other side of the tree and within seconds the ropes holding me fast loosen and fall to my waist. I start to attempt to push myself up into a standing position but my legs are useless, like jelly. Will seizes my elbow and drags me to my feet.
“I’ll free your wrists too, just for a minute or two. Unless you want me to do the honours for you?”
I back away from him. “No! No, thank you. I can manage.” Somehow.
Will grins, and gestures me to a dark spot a few feet from us, just behind where the two horses are tethered. “Do it there, lad. And stay where I can see you.”
“I, I need to… I need a private place.”
“My fine rabbit found its way through your innards so quick? Okay, you can squat if you want. But stay in sight.”
I sense no further concessions will be forthcoming and can only hope this vile individual doesn’t take it upon himself to inspect the site after I’m done. As it is, it takes all the determination I can muster, and a hefty dose of desperation, to shuffle the several feet to the edge of the clump of trees surrounding our camp and fumble to undo my all-weather trousers. My back to Will, I crouch and relieve myself, then deliberately wait a few moments longer to create the illusion I’m not quite done yet. I right my clothing again, with difficulty as my hands are frozen, and pick my way back through the fog to where he’s waiting for me, the kerchief dangling from his fingers ready to retie me.
I shake my head. “You don’t need to do that. I can’t move from the tree, and my hands are so cold. Please.”
He cocks his head to one side, then, “Your hands, lad. Show me.”
I hold out my hands, palms down. Will takes one in his and squeezes.
“Fuck, these are like lumps of ice. Ye should have said, laddie. Go warm them at the fire.”
I don’t need to be asked twice. I stumble over to the small blaze and stretch my hands out to it. The heat wraps itself around my numb fingers. It hurts, b
ut feels so good too. I rub them together, the tingle in my fingers an indication that the circulation is improving.
A slight movement in the misty gloom beyond the fire attracts my attention. It’s Robbie, lounging on a pile of furs and wrapped in his plaid. His hands are also bare, his knees too, but he doesn’t appear cold. Maybe he’s more acclimatised than I am.
“You can sit if you want, lad, and get properly warmed up. I won’t bite you.” His voice is low, and were it not for the precarious situation I find myself in I might even consider it sexy, especially with that Scottish brogue to add a seductive richness to the mix.
I don’t answer. My response is to sink to my knees, loving the comforting sensation as the heat from the fire reaches my face. I hold my hands closer, watching them redden in the firelight.
“What’s your name, laddie?”
I glance up, and bless the day my parents opted for a name that could be shortened to something androgynous. “Charlie.”
“Charlie, eh? And where are you from, Charlie lad? Did you say Glenridding?”
I nod. Glenridding’s as good as anything else to say, I suppose. I’m wondering whether to elaborate and explain that I’m just staying at the youth hostel for a few days, but my home is in Manchester when I sense rather than hear Will approaching behind me. He eases himself onto the ground at my side. His movements are awkward and he hisses in a sharp breath when he shifts his weight. Robbie notices, as I do.
“Is it worse, then?”
“Aye. I’ll last the journey though, then Morag can fix me up.”
“Mmm, rather you than me, cousin.”
Will groans. “Even Morag’s tender mercies will be preferable to this.”
I risk a glance at him and even in this light I can tell Will’s features are ashen. He’s in a lot of pain. Why should I care? The fact that one of my assailants is debilitated is to my advantage, potentially. Except I’m not wired that way. My training as a paramedic is already kicking in.
“You’re injured. How did that happen?” I ask the question by instinct, already assessing the likely damage.
Will slants a grimace my way. “Thrown from my horse. Cracked a couple of ribs, I daresay.”
“Would you like me to look at it?”
“You, lad? Why would ye want to be looking at my busted ribs? Anyway, there’s nothing to see.”
“You’re having difficulty breathing. Do you have any pain in your chest?”
“Aye. It’ll pass soon enough, I expect.”
Oh, for an X-ray facility, or failing that just a stethoscope. Even without those though I could probably work out what’s wrong if he’d let me have a closer look.
“Did you say you fell from a horse?” I’m beginning to suspect some sort of trauma from the impact of the fall, maybe even a pneumothorax. If I’m right that could indeed right itself in time without treatment, but if it worsens it would require urgent intervention. That could prove awkward, out here on the fells in the middle of the night.
“Would you be some sort of healer then, laddie?” This from Robbie who is watching us with an intent expression.
I return his gaze, bemused by his odd phrasing. “I suppose so. I’m a paramedic. That’s my job. At home.”
“Paramedic? Is that what you English call your healers, then? It’s not a word I’ve heard before.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a healer. I drive an ambulance, that’s all. I scoop them up and leave the healing to others. I can manage some serious first aid though. Enough to perhaps make you more comfortable, at least until you can get to a hospital.”
I turn to Will, and I’m already reaching for the thick blue and green tartan draped across his chest and shoulders. He leans away from me.
“Oh, no you don’t, laddie. What’s to stop you punching me in the ribs and making a run for it?”
“I wouldn’t do that. I just want to help you. In return for the food.”
“And on top of that, the first sign of any bother from him and I’ll knock the lad senseless. Come on, Will, you may as well let him see. What harm will it do?”
I’m not sure Robbie’s support is exactly what I was looking for, but it has the desired effect on Will who relaxes somewhat, though he still eyes me with a degree of lingering suspicion. “All right, you can take a look. But nae messing, right?”
“Right.” I move in closer to him and again reach for the plaid. This time he makes no move to stop me as I unwind it, and the furs, from around his shoulders. “Could you remove the shirt too?”
Will manages a low chuckle as he complies, his movements awkward and pained. “An invitation I normally greet with a little more enthusiasm, wee Charlie, especially when it comes from a comely wee lassie.”
I shoot him a sharp glance, wondering if I’ve somehow blown my cover. His expression remains teasing, as does Robbie’s. They are exchanging laddish banter, and including me in it, no more than that.
One glance at Will’s battered and bruised torso is enough to confirm at least some of what I had suspected. Broken ribs, two or three I’d say, on the left hand side, and one has probably damaged the lung. No wonder he’s struggling to breathe comfortably. Barring complications the treatment is simple; just strap it up tight to prevent the ribs from moving, and wait for nature to take her course.
“Can you lift your arm?”
He does so, wincing as his fractured ribs shift inside his chest. I lay my fingers on his side, probing for the site of the injury. I am as gentle as I can be, but there’s no avoiding the pain.
“Shit, Charlie. Ye’ve heavy hands. That’s enough now.”
Will lowers his arm and reaches for his shirt. He starts to put it back on but thinks better of it, settling instead for just wrapping his tartan around his upper body.
Robbie reaches for a flagon beside him and passes it to Will. “Here, have a swig of whisky to dull the pain. The lad hardly touched ye, stop whimpering like a baby. Morag will have worse in store for ye, back in Edinburgh.” Robbie gets to his feet. “I’m going for a piss.”
Will downs a hefty draught of the liquor before muttering something in response. I don’t entirely catch it, but get the impression Will doubts the parentage of his comrade. My help not apparently required, I settle back into my position beside the fire, hoping they don’t find it necessary to banish me back to my cold tree any time soon.
“Aah, oh, sweet Jesus…” Will lurches forward, clutching at his chest, then falls to his side. He is gasping for air, writhing on the ground. His face is contorted in a bitter grimace, painted there by pain and the struggle to drag in his next breath.
I have no doubt at all now about my diagnosis—a tension pneumothorax that has undoubtedly been building since the fall from his horse. Will’s lung has collapsed due to the presence of air in the cavity surrounding it, and the trauma is too massive to ignore any longer. He needs emergency treatment, and he needs it now.
I stand, peer into the inky darkness surrounding us for any sign of Robbie. We don’t have time to get Will to hospital, but I know what needs to be done. Robbie will have to help me. Or he would, if he was here.
I have no medical kit, but the instruments for this are crude enough anyway. I need a narrow tube, and something with which to puncture the lung cavity. I crouch beside Will.
“Okay, try to keep still. I’ll help you, and you’ll soon feel better.”
His response is a long, low groan as he rolls onto his back.
I grab the dagger Will had been using to skewer the rabbit earlier. A quick assessment of the blade confirms it might be narrow and long enough for this. Whatever, it’s the best I can find, but I still require a tube of some sort.
On a flash of inspiration I reach into my inside jacket pocket and pull out a biro pen, the cheap sort you get as freebies from charities sending out begging letters. This one proclaims the virtues of the RSPCA. I use my teeth to pull out the bung plugging one end, and proceed to drag the inner ink cartridge from the other. The
remaining outer casing will have to do as a chest drain. It’s a little wider than I would like, but I’m improvising. I grab the flask of whisky that Will had been drinking from a few moments ago and dunk both the dagger and the butchered pen in the liquid. That done, it’s time for the hard bit.
I slide my fingers over Will’s torso, seeking out the spot to make my incision. The second or third intercostal space is favourite, and I locate it quickly. I reach for the dagger and position the tip between Will’s ribs. With no anaesthetic to help him I know I have to make this quick.
I shove the dagger in, hard and sharp but not too deep. I only want to create a passage through the chest wall to the lung cavity, not wreak further internal damage. As I pull the knife out I hear a short, sharp hiss of air and I know I hit my target. However, the wound is clean and closes up as the blade retreats, sealing in the trapped air once again. I remove the biro carcass from the whisky and insert the narrower end into the hole in Will’s chest.
He grunts in pain, but I have no choice now. I’m committed to this, and I know it’s the only reasonable treatment in our circumstances. I ease the makeshift tube into position and crouch over him. In a surgical setting a doctor would use a syringe to withdraw the air for the cavity, but out here there’s just me. I seal the protruding end of the pen with my mouth and suck on it. I place my thumb over the end as I stop to exhale, then repeat the procedure.
The result is fairly instantaneous. Will’s laboured breathing slows, his awful, impotent gasping giving way to more measured inhalation as his lung reflates. Ideally I would have preferred the reflation to be slower, but there’s nothing I can do to manage or control that. I’m just relieved my solution seems to be working.
