Past Imperfect (2 page)

He didn't notice the motorbike change lanes without warning ahead of the truck, nor the sudden swerve the driver made in the cabin to miss the bike. The first thing he noticed was the lazy snake like undulation at the back of the trailer, twisting abruptly at an angle and into a jack-knife which finally pulled it away from the cabin.

There was a suspended moment as it happened. As if in one blink everything was still: the road, the trees, the roadside signs and hoardings, the grey dusk sky; the landscape rolling past suddenly frozen. And then in the next blink the trailer was rushing towards him.

Jeremy braked hard and turned the wheel sharply away - but the suddenness with which the trailer flew at them made him gasp out loud.
'Oh... Jeez!'
He braked harder, wrenching the wheel frantically away from the large grey steel block floated inexorably upon them, filling the windscreen and his view as it scythed through the front of the Jeep.

He heard Allison scream as the Jeep tilted sharply with the impact, and felt something jam hard into his stomach and ribs, pushing the air from his body as the windscreen exploded and shards of glass flew past them like blizzard snowdrops. Numbness more than pain hit him as the engine block was shunted back, severing his right leg just below the knee joint, and the first two rolls of the Jeep became a spinning confusion of sky, road, grass verge. Then darkness.

He remembered awaking once later. He could hear voices, though they were muffled and indistinct. When he tried to focus, the people seemed to be far away, though he could see clearly the arm of a man leaning over and touching his body. He found it hard to breathe, as if he was gargling and choking on warm water, and a jarring pain gripped his stomach and one leg. He must have lay there for some while, at times almost succumbing to the welcome release of the darkness, but knowing somehow that the pain was his only tangible link with consciousness and life.

He mouthed the word 'Eyran', but the man by his side didn't respond, nor could Jeremy in fact hear his own voice.

As finally they lifted his body, the lights twisting and spinning briefly to one side and away, the voices faded and he drifted back into the darkness.

Stuart Capel looked at his watch: 10.40 pm. - 2.40 pm in California. When he tried his brother Jeremy's number earlier it was on the answer-phone, so he'd made a note to call again in the afternoon.

Only two or three weeks to go and so much to plan. He hadn't seen Jeremy and his family for almost two years. He had ten days off work over Christmas while they were over, but the problem was he couldn't remember if it was the 16th or 23rd when they arrived. All so precise Jeremy, phoning him almost a month ago, going painstakingly through flight numbers, dates and times. Somehow he'd ended up with the flight number and the time on his phone pad, but not the date. The problem was, the same flight number left at the same time each week.

If he had to ask Jeremy again, it would probably provoke a comment. A short snub that said it all: I'm organized and you're not, I'm successful because I plan carefully, you've suffered in business because you don't. All so precise Jeremy. Each step of his life carefully mapped out and planned. From University at Cambridge, through London Chambers, then re-taking exams in the US and six months in Boston as a stepping stone to a San Diego law firm.

Stuart's life and career had been in almost complete contrast. A massive rise in the eighties in design work for print media, then the slump. Two partnership break ups followed and he was almost bust by the late eighties, only crawling his way out the last few years. Methodical planning had never worked for Stuart, and nearly all of his arguments with Jeremy revolved around the same thing: Jeremy trying to suggest some well staged plan, Stuart telling him at every turn why it wouldn't work, what would probably arise to fuck it up, and finally they'd reach the subject of Eyran.

Stuart would strike back by complaining that Jeremy was trying to structure Eyran's life too carefully, the boy was being stifled. He sensed a kindred spirit in Eyran that was somehow lost on Jeremy, a curiosity and thirst for life that Jeremy so often quelled by trying to map out his son’s life to finite extremes. Jeremy loved Eyran, but had little grasp how important it was to allow the child some freedom. Some choice.

The last get together almost two years ago, Stuart had taken his family out to California. He’d put his foot in it by mentioning some of Eyran's old friends in England. Could Eyran write them a postcard or perhaps get them a small memento from San Diego zoo? Jeremy had shot him a dark look, then explained later that they'd had problems with Eyran being homesick and missing his English friends. Only in the last six months had he settled in more and not mentioned them.

Later in the same holiday, Jeremy had poured cold water on Stuart's plans to expand into multi-media production, and they'd had more words. Of course there were risks, Stuart explained. Anything that depended on creative input, market forces and an unpredictable general public was a risk. As usual, Jeremy was blinkered; Stuart might as well try and explain Picasso to a plumber.

Stuart made a mental note:
Eyran's friends in England, advice about Eyran's upbringing and future, current business activities which might be viewed as risky
. Any other no go areas for his conversation with Jeremy?

He made the call again, but it was Helena, the visiting Mexican maid, telling him that they were away, 'Hup state till later tonight... about nine o’clock. You want I ask them to call you when they get back?'

'No, its okay. I'll set an alarm call early and phone them back.'

He arranged the call for 6.30 am, 10.30 pm California time. One finger tapped at the receiver for a second after putting it back. Fleeting unease. He pushed it as quickly away, told himself it was just his nerves settling back from steeling for possible confrontation with Jeremy.

Dr Martin Holman, at thirty-four the youngest of Oceanside's three head ER consultants, heard the babble and commotion of voices a second before the emergency doors swung open. He was aware of two gurneys heading to different parts of the room, and then his attention fell on the young boy.

'What have we got?'

'Accident victim. Ten years old. Head injuries, but the chest's the most severe: two cracked ribs, possibly a fractured sternum as well.' The paramedic spat the words out breathlessly as they wheeled the gurney rapidly towards a bed.

'Conscious at any time?' Holman asked.

'No. He's been out since we loaded him. Breathing blocked - so tracheal, respirator, plasma to keep up the volume. The normal. But still his blood pressure and pulse dropped the last few minutes in the ambulance. Last pulse reading was forty-eight.'

'Okay. Let's get him up and attached. One...
two
.' They lifted the boy in unison onto the bed. Holman called over two nurses and a junior doctor, Garvin, to attach the monitors: pulse, respiration, central venous and arterial pressure. Within a minute, the readings and a steady pulse bleep were there for Holman. But he was immediately alarmed: Blood pressure 98 over 56, and pulse only 42 and dropping...
40
. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

'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?'