This Still Happens

Chapter Five - Resurrection: Lena

"Hello, ambulance service. Is the patient breathing?"

I swallow hard. I look at Gordon lying still and pale, looking wrung-out like a dishcloth, on the beach. His eyes are closed. His chest is motionless.

"Hello, ambulance service." On the other end of the line, the woman's voice grows impatient. "Is the patient breathing, please?"

Etta kneels over Gordon's body, pulling him into the recovery position and checking his airways. She looks up, eyes wide and full of tears.

"I—" My throat closes up, and I choke out a son as I press the cold silver of my crucifix against my lips. "I don't think so. He's. He's not moving."

"Can you tell me where you are?" the operator asks. "What's the address?"

"Chase Valley Lake... Chase Valley... Wooler. Um... Northumberland. We're on the northern shore. On the— On the beach? By the boathouse."

"All right, Chase Valley Lake..." Her voice softens. "OK. All right. And what's your name?"

My name? Why should my name matter? I shut my eyes. "Lena. But it's not me I'm calling for; it's my friend. We pulled him out of the water, and he's... our other friend's trying to bring him around, but—"

"Oh that's something. Lena, you've done the right thing calling. Would you mind passing your phone to your other friend? I think it's better I speak to her. Or him."

For a moment I almost think it might work. I don't know much BSL, but Gordon could interpret, couldn't he? No. Char, then?

I look around. Char and Stefan are nowhere to be seen. Tim and Scott are at home. Scott's at home. Scott doesn't know. Scott doesn't know what's happened. How am I going to tell Scott what's happened?

"She's Deaf," I stammer, "My friend. She knows First Aid, but... I'm sorry." My voice splits, and I start shaking. I can't breathe. I can't breathe, I can't—

"OK, can you sit with her and watch what she's doing, and tell me?" asks the operator.

Trembling, I bend my weak legs and kneel down on the sand, next to Etta and Gordon. "OK... I'm sat next to her. She's rolling him onto his back..."

Etta heaves Gordon's shoulder backwards, tilts his head back, and pinches his nose. "I'm doing rescue breaths, for you, Gordon," she says loudly, rubbing his tummy as she takes a deep breath. Leaning forward, she blows into his mouth, again and again and again and again and again.

"OK, rescue breaths, that's good. Five of those, please," says the operator, "And then get your friend's heart beating. Chest compressions, nice and hard, thirty at a time. Can your friend do that?"

I don't know where I'd even begin explaining that for Etta, but I don't need to.

She starts pumping Gordon's chest almost as fast as my heart is pounding, and she doesn't slow down. I never realised how strong her arms are, but the flexing of her toned muscles puts me in mind of a fairytale princess marching into a palace to save her baby. Stamp, stamp, stamp. Give me my child.

"She's doing it now," I say, watching Etta mouth numbers up to thirty.

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

"Good. Good, and what's your friend's name, the one you're calling for?"

"Gordon Benn." I squeeze my eyes shut and try to fight off the knot in my throat. I'm hit with the vision of all the Benn family's graves in the shadow of St Andrew Corsini's steeple. And a new one, lined up alongside them. One with Gordon's name on it. His grandparents were Catholic, even if his parents aren't, even if he isn't. Bile burns my insides, and I shake my head hard as I open my eyes.