'More plasma infusion!' Holman snapped at Garvin. 'Do we know blood type?'
'O Positive.'
Holman instructed a nurse to arrange a supply for transfusion, then looked back to the boy. The pulse stayed stable at 40 for a few seconds with the increased plasma, then dropped another notch… 38. Holman began to panic. By the early 30s, it was all over. The boy was dying!
He scanned rapidly — the chest bandaged and blood soaked, the face and head bruised with heavy contusions — looking for tell-tale signs. Blood loss was heavy, but the plasma infusion should have compensated. He moved around, feeling the boy's skull, shining a penlight into the eyes. No responsiveness. There was probably internal damage, but no alarming swelling to cause the current problem.
'Thirty six!' Garvin called out with alarm.
Then Holman noticed the unevenness of the boy's chest: one part of his lungs wasn't expanding! Possibly a broken rib puncturing one lung.
He nodded urgently at the remaining nurse: 'Trochal cannula! Set up a plural drainage.'
Holman cut through the chest bandages and then slowly inserted the cannula, a hollow metal pipe with a cutting edge, between Eyran's ribs and into his left lung. He then fed a thin plastic pipe through the cannula, and at his signal the nurse activated the pump. It started sucking out blood from the flooded lung.
Garvin announced: 'Thirty four!' And Holman muttered under his breath, 'Come on… come on!' It had been a good day so far, mostly only minor injuries. He'd been hoping to finish his shift unscathed at midnight. Don't die on me now!
Holman looked anxiously between the cannula pipe and the pump. It was a race against time. Hoping that enough blood could be pumped from the lungs to restore blood pressure and respiration before the pulse dipped too low. But when blood pressure fell to 92 over 50 and Garvin announced pulse at 32 — then after only a few seconds' gap, 30 — Holman realized with rising panic that it was a race he was losing.
Garvin's shout of 'Brady Cardia!' and the boy lapsing into cardiac arrest came almost immediately after. The pulse became a flatline beep.
Holman had already signalled the nurse, and now prompted urgently: 'De-frib!'
Garvin put the electro-shock pads into position, but Holman held up one hand, counting off the seconds... six… seven. It was a calculated gamble. Holman knew that as soon as the heart started again, fresh blood would be pumped into the lungs. Each extra second gave him more chance of clearing the lungs and stabilization. Ten… eleven... Garvin looked at him anxiously, the flatline beep sounding ominously in the background… thirteen… fourteen… 'Okay… Clear!'
Holman stepped back as Garvin hit the charge. The shock jolted the boy's small body dramatically.
But there was nothing. The flatline pulse still beeped… nineteen… Holman's jaw set tight, frantic now that he might have mis-timed it, left the de-frib too long. Twenty-one seconds now the heart had been stopped! He leant across, put one hand firmly on the boy's chest and started massaging. It was thick with blood, and with the cracked ribs and sternum, Holman feared he couldn't apply the pressure he'd have liked. Twenty-eight… twenty-nine…
Still nothing! The beep a persistent, infuriating reminder. He didn't need to look up. He leapt back, signalling Garvin. 'Hit it again!'
Another shock and jolt. But with still no pulse signal, Holman feared the worst. He leant back over for another massage, his hands now slippery with blood on the small frail chest, trying to feel deep with each push down, silently willing back a spark of life. Beads of sweat massed on his forehead. Only minutes since the boy had been wheeled in, and his nerves were gone, fighting now to control the trembling in his hands to hold the massage rhythm… forty-three… forty-four. If he lost the boy now, he doubted he could face another patient the rest of his shift.
But already he knew there was little hope. One more de-frib, and then that was it. By then the boy would have been dead almost a full minute.
Fields of wheat, swaying gently in the breeze.
The incline changed suddenly, without warning. Eyran could see the small copse of woods at the end of the field and ran down the hill towards it, excitement growing as he got closer. Inside the copse, it was dark and damp, the air cooler. He looked for familiar landmarks that would lead him towards the brook, picking his way through the darkness. At one point he thought he was lost, then suddenly the brook appeared ahead from behind a group of trees. He felt uncertain at first, he couldn't remember the brook being in that place before. As he got closer, he could see a small figure hunched over the brook, looking into the water. He thought it might be Sarah, but there was no dog in sight. The figure slowly looked up at him, and it took a second for recognition to dawn: Daniel Fletcher, a young boy from his old school in England who he hadn't seen for years.
He asked what Daniel was doing there, it wasn't the normal place he played, and Daniel muttered something about it being peaceful. 'I know,' Eyran agreed. 'That's why I come here. It's so quiet. Sarah comes down here with her dog sometimes as well.' Then he remembered that Daniel lived almost two miles beyond Broadhurst Farm. 'It must have taken you ages to get here. Do your parents know you're here?'
'No, they don't. But it doesn't matter, I haven't seen them in years.'
'In years! Very funny.' Though Eyran could see that Daniel wasn't smiling. He was looking soulfully back into the water, and some small quirk told him that something was wrong, that all of this wasn't real, it was a dream. Then he recalled with a jolt what it was: Daniel had suffered with acute asthma, he'd died at the age of six after a severe bronchitis attack, over a year before Eyran left for California. He remembered now the service of the school chaplain, the whole school tearful, and how all the boys who had picked on Daniel for his frailty had felt suddenly guilty. He could see Daniel's pigeon chest struggling for breath, hear the faint wheezing. Eyran was startled by a rustling among the trees, preparing himself to turn and run before seeing that it was his father walking through.
He felt nervous because he'd never seen his father down by the copse before. He knew instinctively that he must be late returning home or have done something wrong, and mouthed 'I'm sorry', almost as a stock reaction.
His father looked thoughtfully down at Daniel before waving his arm towards Eyran. 'You must go home now, Eyran, you don't belong here.'
Eyran started to move away, then realized his father wasn't following. He was staying by Daniel at the side of the brook. 'Aren't you coming with me now, Daddy?'
His father shook his head slowly, his eyes sad and distant, and Eyran looked out of the copse to find that now it had become dark outside. The darkness was a solid black blanket, the wheat field seeming to stretch endlessly into the distance, as before, with no hills and contours which he recognized. 'But I could get lost', he pleaded, just before his father turned and disappeared back into the darkness of the woods.
Eyran started to tremble and cry. He sensed that he must do as his father said and try to find his way back home, though he was struggling desperately at the same time to understand why his father had deserted him to fight back through the darkness on his own. If he could just get back home, he knew that all would be well. But the darkness of the field was deep and impenetrable, with no familiar landmarks.
TWO
Provence, August, 1963
Alain Duclos saw the boy a few hundred yards ahead walking at the side of the road. His figure emerged like a mirage from the faint shimmer of the August heat haze.