Mr. Nobody(100)

    I hang there taking great gasping breaths. Above me, caught on the scaffold platform, I see the metal chair, my lovely, lovely chair, wedged hard between two scaffold struts, safely suspending me. My vision blurs as hot tears of relief slide from my cheeks down to the snow beneath.





47


DR. EMMA LEWIS


DAY 13—DO NO HARM

I brace myself against a pole and peer down for the first time, safely back on the scaffolding. Matthew is lying facedown on the snow-covered concrete beneath, one of his arms twisted awkwardly beneath him, the other palm-up on the snow beside him. He didn’t have time to break his fall.

Blood pools around him but it’s impossible to tell from here if he’s still breathing.

A healthy person can survive a fall from up to four stories high if they land the right way. But if they land the wrong way a person can die from just slipping on an icy sidewalk. Reassuring statistics if you’re scared of heights.

From up here, it doesn’t look like Matthew, or Stephen, or whoever he is, landed in the right way, but the human body is an incredible instrument of survival—he could still be alive down there.

I find a raw edge of scaffold metal and rub the now-stretched plastic tie against it until it finally gives. I push my chair away and struggle to my feet, my muscles quivering. I take the ladder down, rung by rung, salty sweat stinging my eyes. My ankle throbbing like a heartbeat. My wrists weeping, livid with second-and third-degree burns. My broken hand discolored. I must be in shock, because nothing hurts quite as much as it should yet.

    When I reach the snowy ground at the bottom of the ladder, I take a large loop around his sprawled body, making a dash for the dropped shotgun. Matthew’s body doesn’t move. I can’t tell if he’s breathing yet, I’ll need to get closer. I snatch up the shotgun, the back of my bruised skull throbbing as I bend. The gun’s cartridges are spent after hitting the ground and I don’t have more, but somehow I feel safer having the gun in my hands. If the worse comes to the worst, at least I have another long metal implement as a weapon.

I creep forward. I need to be able to see his eyes. In case they open, in case he attacks again. I prepare myself, imagining the moment when he will leap up and rush me.

As I get closer I freeze. I see the movement of breath on the still pool around him, slow and faint but still there. Blood puddling around his upper chest and face but he’s alive.

I look back up to the scaffold behind us. I’d guess it was a fifteen-foot unprotected fall onto concrete. His body position shows he didn’t have time to protect his head before he hit. I can’t be certain, of course, but I’d imagine his ribs will be completely shattered, his collarbone broken; there will be internal bleeding, organ damage.

I can’t see the extent of his head wound as it’s hidden against the concrete. Confident I’m safe for the moment, I crouch next to him. His eyes remain closed as I lean in and with extreme caution take a pulse from his free wrist. I watch his eyelids for movement but the papery skin does not stir. The pulse I feel is weak but it’s there. It’s unlikely he’ll be leaping up to do anything at this point, though. I let out a breath. Safe for now.

I set his hand back on the snow gently and look to his pelvis. I’d be amazed if it wasn’t fractured. If he stands any hope of surviving this, I’ll need to stabilize it. And I need to move him into a recovery position so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. I need to get him to ICU as soon as possible. I need an ambulance. I need the police. But I have no phone and I’m trapped in the middle of nowhere. The nearest house is a good twenty-minute walk on legs that are already trembling, and that’s if anybody’s even home.

    But Matthew must have driven us here. I can drive. I check his trouser pockets for keys. Nothing. I stare down at his broken body. What can I do? I choke back a sob. What am I supposed to do?

I take one last look at his body and make a decision. Shotgun in hand, I go around the house to the front door.

In the study I find Matthew’s canvas bag, open, as expected, its contents neatly packed: a bunch of zip ties, a box of cartridges, my pager, Stephen’s mobile phone, a change of clothes, a serrated knife, and then, in a small Ziploc bag, I find my iPhone. What was he planning to do with it? I wonder. Send some messages and plant it next to my corpse? I root into the bag’s side pocket and find Rhoda’s car keys. He must have parked by the other entrance, where I parked the rental car before, hidden from the road.

Clumsily I tear open the plastic bag with numb fingers and fish out my phone. I push on the power button and wait. I need to call an ambulance. I can’t risk moving him myself, he might not make it. I won’t have his death on my conscience. The dark screen brightens and the apple logo appears. I’ll call 999, get someone here as soon as possible.

And then I pause. I think of the press swarming, I think of the photos, the headlines, the inquest, my family, and another tenet of the physician’s pledge occurs to me:


I WILL ATTEND TO MY OWN HEALTH, WELL-BEING, AND ABILITIES IN ORDER TO PROVIDE CARE OF THE HIGHEST STANDARD.



My own health and well-being. I look down at my burnt and bleeding hands, my breath coming in snagging rasps. I turn my phone off as soon as the home screen appears. I need to sort out my own health and well-being first. I need to look after myself.