A young boy appeared from behind a concrete pillar, another behind him, a hoodie pulled forward to obscure his face. I took a step back towards the rig, my heart racing. ‘I’ve got back-up on the way,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘There’s no drugs in here. You both need to back off. Okay?’
‘Miss. He’s by the bins. They don’t want you to get to him. He’s bleeding real bad, miss. That’s why Emeka’s cousin is faking it out there. To distract youse. So youse’ll go away.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘He’s by the bins. You got to help him, miss.’
‘What? Where are the bins?’
But the boy glanced warily behind him, and when I turned to ask again, they had disappeared into the shadows.
I glanced around, trying to work out where he meant. And then I spied it, over by the garages – the protruding edge of a bright green plastic rubbish container. I edged along the shadows of the ground-floor walkway, out of view of the main square, until I saw an open doorway out to the refuse area. I ran over, and there, tucked behind the recycling bin, a pair of legs sprawled, tracksuit bottoms soaked with blood. His upper half was slumped under the containers and I crouched down. The boy turned his head and groaned quietly.
‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
‘They got me.’
Blood seeped stickily from what looked like two wounds to his legs. ‘They got me …’
I grabbed my phone and called Sam, my voice low and urgent. ‘I’m over by the bins, to your right. Please. Come quick.’
I could see him, looking around slowly until he spotted me. Two elderly people, Samaritans from a previous age, had appeared beside him. I could see them asking questions about the fallen girl, their faces blanketed with concern. He gently placed a blanket over the faking cousin, asking them to watch over her, then walked briskly towards the rig with his bag, as if to get more equipment. Donna had vanished.
I opened the bag he’d given me, ripping open a pack of gauze and placing it over the boy’s leg, but there was so much blood. ‘Okay. Someone’s coming to help. We’ll have you in the ambulance in a moment.’ I sounded like someone out of a bad film. I had no idea what else to say. Come on, Sam.
‘You gotta get me out of here.’ The boy groaned. I put my hand on his arm, trying to keep calm. Come on, Sam. Where the hell are you? And suddenly I heard the rig’s engine starting, and there it was, reversing through the garages towards me at some speed, its engine whining in protest. It bumped to a halt, and Donna jumped out. She ran towards me, threw open the back doors. ‘Help me put him in,’ she said. ‘We’re getting out of here.’
There was no time for gurneys. Somewhere above I heard shouting, multiple footsteps. We shouldered the boy towards the ambulance, shoving him into the back. Donna slammed the doors behind him and I ran for the cab, my heart racing, and threw myself in, locking the doors. I could see them now, a gang of men, racing towards us around the upper floor, hands raised with – what? Guns? Knives? I felt something grow liquid inside me. I looked out of the window. Sam was walking along the open space, his face turned to the sky: he had seen them too.
Donna saw before he did: the gun, raised in the man’s hand. She swore loudly and slammed the rig into reverse, steering it round the garage, headed straight for the grassed area where Sam was still walking towards us. I could just make him out, the green of his uniform growing larger in the passenger mirror.
‘Sam!’ I yelled out of my window.
He glanced at me, then up at them. ‘Leave the ambulance alone,’ he yelled at the men, over the whine of the ambulance’s reverse gear. ‘Back off, all right? We’re just doing our jobs.’
‘Not now, Sam. Not now,’ Donna said, under her breath.
The men kept running, peering over as if calculating the quickest way down, relentless, moving forward like a tide. One vaulted nimbly over a wall, swinging his way easily down a flight of stairs. I wanted to skid out of there so badly I was limp with it.
But Sam was still walking towards them, his hands raised, palms up. ‘Leave the ambulance, boys, okay? We’re just here to help.’ His voice was calm and authoritative, betraying none of the fear that I felt. And then I saw through the back window that the men had slowed. They were walking now, not running. A distant part of me thought, Oh, thank God. The boy lay behind us, still moaning.
‘That’s it,’ said Donna, leaning around. ‘Come on, Sam. In you come. Come on over here now. And we can get the –’
Bang.
The sound cut through the air, amplified in the empty space so that I felt, briefly, as if my whole head had expanded and contracted with the sound. And then, too quickly –
Bang.
I yelped.
‘What the f—’ Donna yelled.
‘We need to get out of here, man!’ the boy shouted.
I looked back, willing Sam to get in. Get in now. Please. But Sam had gone. No, not gone. There was something on the ground: a high-visibility jacket. A yellow stain on the grey concrete.
Everything stopped.
No, I thought. No.
The ambulance screeched to a halt. Then Donna was out, and I was running after her. Sam was motionless and there was blood, so much blood, seeping outwards in a steadily expanding pool around him. In the distance the two old people scrambled stiffly towards the safety of their door, the girl who was supposedly immobile sprinting across the grass at the speed of an athlete. And the men were still coming, running down the upper walkway towards us. I tasted metal in my mouth.
‘Lou! Grab him.’ We hauled Sam towards the back of the rig. He was leaden, as if he were deliberately resisting. I pulled at his collar, his armpits, my breath coming in short bursts. His face was chalk-white, huge black shadows under his half-closed eyes, as if he had not slept for a hundred years. His blood against my skin. Why had I not known how warm blood is? Donna was already in the rig, hauling at him, and we were pushing, heaving, a sob in my throat as I pulled at his arms, his legs. ‘Help me!’ I was shouting, as if there was anyone who could. ‘Help me!’
And then he was in, his leg at the wrong angle, and the doors slammed behind me.
Crack! Something hit the top of the rig. I screamed and ducked. Some part of me thought absently, Is this it? Is this how I die, in my bad jeans, while a few miles away my parents argue about birthday cakes with my sister? The boy on the gurney was screaming, his voice shrill with fear. And then the ambulance skidded forwards, steering right as the men approached us from the left. I saw a hand rise, and thought I heard a gunshot. I ducked again instinctively.