Shared by the Highlanders (3 page)

I don’t answer. My response is to sink to my knees, loving the comforting sensation as the heat from the fire reaches my face. I hold my hands closer, watching them redden in the firelight.

“What’s your name, laddie?”

I glance up, and bless the day my parents opted for a name that could be shortened to something androgynous. “Charlie.”

“Charlie, eh? And where are you from, Charlie lad? Did you say Glenridding?”

I nod. Glenridding’s as good as anything else to say, I suppose. I’m wondering whether to elaborate and explain that I’m just staying at the youth hostel for a few days, but my home is in Manchester when I sense rather than hear Will approaching behind me. He eases himself onto the ground at my side. His movements are awkward and he hisses in a sharp breath when he shifts his weight. Robbie notices, as I do.

“Is it worse, then?”

“Aye. I’ll last the journey though, then Morag can fix me up.”

“Mmm, rather you than me, cousin.”

Will groans. “Even Morag’s tender mercies will be preferable to this.”

I risk a glance at him and even in this light I can tell Will’s features are ashen. He’s in a lot of pain. Why should I care? The fact that one of my assailants is debilitated is to my advantage, potentially. Except I’m not wired that way. My training as a paramedic is already kicking in.

“You’re injured. How did that happen?” I ask the question by instinct, already assessing the likely damage.

Will slants a grimace my way. “Thrown from my horse. Cracked a couple of ribs, I daresay.”

“Would you like me to look at it?”

“You, lad? Why would ye want to be looking at my busted ribs? Anyway, there’s nothing to see.”

“You’re having difficulty breathing. Do you have any pain in your chest?”

“Aye. It’ll pass soon enough, I expect.”

Oh, for an X-ray facility, or failing that just a stethoscope. Even without those though I could probably work out what’s wrong if he’d let me have a closer look.

“Did you say you fell from a horse?” I’m beginning to suspect some sort of trauma from the impact of the fall, maybe even a pneumothorax. If I’m right that could indeed right itself in time without treatment, but if it worsens it would require urgent intervention. That could prove awkward, out here on the fells in the middle of the night.

“Would you be some sort of healer then, laddie?” This from Robbie who is watching us with an intent expression.

I return his gaze, bemused by his odd phrasing. “I suppose so. I’m a paramedic. That’s my job. At home.”

“Paramedic? Is that what you English call your healers, then? It’s not a word I’ve heard before.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a healer. I drive an ambulance, that’s all. I scoop them up and leave the healing to others. I can manage some serious first aid though. Enough to perhaps make you more comfortable, at least until you can get to a hospital.”

I turn to Will, and I’m already reaching for the thick blue and green tartan draped across his chest and shoulders. He leans away from me.

“Oh, no you don’t, laddie. What’s to stop you punching me in the ribs and making a run for it?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I just want to help you. In return for the food.”

“And on top of that, the first sign of any bother from him and I’ll knock the lad senseless. Come on, Will, you may as well let him see. What harm will it do?”

I’m not sure Robbie’s support is exactly what I was looking for, but it has the desired effect on Will who relaxes somewhat, though he still eyes me with a degree of lingering suspicion. “All right, you can take a look. But nae messing, right?”

“Right.” I move in closer to him and again reach for the plaid. This time he makes no move to stop me as I unwind it, and the furs, from around his shoulders. “Could you remove the shirt too?”

Will manages a low chuckle as he complies, his movements awkward and pained. “An invitation I normally greet with a little more enthusiasm, wee Charlie, especially when it comes from a comely wee lassie.”

I shoot him a sharp glance, wondering if I’ve somehow blown my cover. His expression remains teasing, as does Robbie’s. They are exchanging laddish banter, and including me in it, no more than that.

One glance at Will’s battered and bruised torso is enough to confirm at least some of what I had suspected. Broken ribs, two or three I’d say, on the left hand side, and one has probably damaged the lung. No wonder he’s struggling to breathe comfortably. Barring complications the treatment is simple; just strap it up tight to prevent the ribs from moving, and wait for nature to take her course.

“Can you lift your arm?”

He does so, wincing as his fractured ribs shift inside his chest. I lay my fingers on his side, probing for the site of the injury. I am as gentle as I can be, but there’s no avoiding the pain.

“Shit, Charlie. Ye’ve heavy hands. That’s enough now.”

Will lowers his arm and reaches for his shirt. He starts to put it back on but thinks better of it, settling instead for just wrapping his tartan around his upper body.

Robbie reaches for a flagon beside him and passes it to Will. “Here, have a swig of whisky to dull the pain. The lad hardly touched ye, stop whimpering like a baby. Morag will have worse in store for ye, back in Edinburgh.” Robbie gets to his feet. “I’m going for a piss.”

Will downs a hefty draught of the liquor before muttering something in response. I don’t entirely catch it, but get the impression Will doubts the parentage of his comrade. My help not apparently required, I settle back into my position beside the fire, hoping they don’t find it necessary to banish me back to my cold tree any time soon.

“Aah, oh, sweet Jesus…” Will lurches forward, clutching at his chest, then falls to his side. He is gasping for air, writhing on the ground. His face is contorted in a bitter grimace, painted there by pain and the struggle to drag in his next breath.

I have no doubt at all now about my diagnosis—a tension pneumothorax that has undoubtedly been building since the fall from his horse. Will’s lung has collapsed due to the presence of air in the cavity surrounding it, and the trauma is too massive to ignore any longer. He needs emergency treatment, and he needs it now.

I stand, peer into the inky darkness surrounding us for any sign of Robbie. We don’t have time to get Will to hospital, but I know what needs to be done. Robbie will have to help me. Or he would, if he was here.

I have no medical kit, but the instruments for this are crude enough anyway. I need a narrow tube, and something with which to puncture the lung cavity. I crouch beside Will.

“Okay, try to keep still. I’ll help you, and you’ll soon feel better.”

His response is a long, low groan as he rolls onto his back.

I grab the dagger Will had been using to skewer the rabbit earlier. A quick assessment of the blade confirms it might be narrow and long enough for this. Whatever, it’s the best I can find, but I still require a tube of some sort.

On a flash of inspiration I reach into my inside jacket pocket and pull out a biro pen, the cheap sort you get as freebies from charities sending out begging letters. This one proclaims the virtues of the RSPCA. I use my teeth to pull out the bung plugging one end, and proceed to drag the inner ink cartridge from the other. The remaining outer casing will have to do as a chest drain. It’s a little wider than I would like, but I’m improvising. I grab the flask of whisky that Will had been drinking from a few moments ago and dunk both the dagger and the butchered pen in the liquid. That done, it’s time for the hard bit.

I slide my fingers over Will’s torso, seeking out the spot to make my incision. The second or third intercostal space is favourite, and I locate it quickly. I reach for the dagger and position the tip between Will’s ribs. With no anaesthetic to help him I know I have to make this quick.

I shove the dagger in, hard and sharp but not too deep. I only want to create a passage through the chest wall to the lung cavity, not wreak further internal damage. As I pull the knife out I hear a short, sharp hiss of air and I know I hit my target. However, the wound is clean and closes up as the blade retreats, sealing in the trapped air once again. I remove the biro carcass from the whisky and insert the narrower end into the hole in Will’s chest.

He grunts in pain, but I have no choice now. I’m committed to this, and I know it’s the only reasonable treatment in our circumstances. I ease the makeshift tube into position and crouch over him. In a surgical setting a doctor would use a syringe to withdraw the air for the cavity, but out here there’s just me. I seal the protruding end of the pen with my mouth and suck on it. I place my thumb over the end as I stop to exhale, then repeat the procedure.

The result is fairly instantaneous. Will’s laboured breathing slows, his awful, impotent gasping giving way to more measured inhalation as his lung reflates. Ideally I would have preferred the reflation to be slower, but there’s nothing I can do to manage or control that. I’m just relieved my solution seems to be working.

I start to turn at a sound behind me, then I am grabbed by the arm and whirled to my feet.

“For fuck’s sake, you vicious little bastard…” Robbie lands me a head-splitting clout to the side of my skull. I go sprawling across the ground, my ears ringing, as the auburn-haired Scot follows me. No doubt he intends to deliver the rest of the battering he promised if I did any damage to his friend. I abandon any hope of explaining what has happened, just start to scramble away. Even that seems futile so I just curl into a ball and wait. His expression offers little hope of mercy.

“Robbie, no, he was helping me. It’s fine now. Not hurting any more. And I can breathe.”

“What? But ye…” Robbie turns to his friend, bewildered.

I take the precaution of edging further from the pair. I know I averted the immediate danger for Will and the most acute discomfort is now over with, but I’m not sure how long it will be before he registers real and lasting improvement. And I did stab him with his own dagger. He may not take kindly to that.

“The lad did a good job. I don’t know what happened, all I recall is it hurt like fuck and I couldn’t get my breath. Also, I’ll be needing to be having a wee word with him about his notion of what constitutes the right and proper use for a fine whisky, but he’s eased it a lot. It feels better. A lot better.”

I crack open my eyes to see Will easing himself into a semi-sitting position, the pen still sticking out of the side of his chest. He fingers it, his face a mask of astonishment.

“What was all the caterwauling for then? I thought he’d fucking killed you.”

“Well, he didn’t, though I’m not convinced I can rightly say what he
did
do. And if you think you could manage the same experience without making as much din, do please feel free. I’d be delighted to bust a rib or two of yours. For God’s sake, go help the lad up.”

Robbie turns his attention back to me, and despite the fact that I can see two of him, his features are a great deal less menacing now. If anything, he looks a little contrite. Just a little though.

“Sorry lad. You know how it is. I thought you’d murdered him. Will and I are cousins, I couldna just let ye go sticking him with a dagger, now could I?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. Instead I blink and shake my head in an attempt to clear my vision. Groaning, I lift a tentative hand to my ear.

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Robbie leans down and grabs my arms, lifting me bodily to my feet. He holds on to me while I stagger in his grip, fighting to regain my balance.

“I’m fine. I think. Is he…?” I turn to regard Will who is watching us from the fireside. He is already starting to experiment with some deep breathing and seems well pleased with the outcome of my ministrations. Even so, I know he needs to keep the chest drain in place for at least the next few hours and it can’t be comfortable. He is remarkably stoic, all things considered. And he did have the presence of mind to save me from a battering.

“Don’t move it if you can help it. Your lung needs to heal. Hopefully it won’t collapse again…”

“If it does I’ll be sure to hide my whisky from ye, wee Charlie. If I’ve any left.”

The pair of them watch me in silence as I check that the drain is still in place after the commotion. I stem the residual bleeding from the wound with the kerchief that had been used to bind my wrists together. If they insist on tying me up again they’ll have to find something else to use. When I’m finished I sit back and stare into the flickering flames, not at all sure how matters now stand between us.

“We can’t take the risk of you being on the loose while we sleep. You do know that, lad?” This from Robbie. It seems I am to be tied up after all.

“It’s too cold over there. Do you have a spare blanket?”

It’s Will who answers. “No, lad. But you can share mine. It’s the least I can do. We’ll be tying your wrists and ankles, but you can stay here by the fire, with us. Will that do ye?”

It’s a better offer, I suppose. I nod. Luckily my bulky anorak should be sufficient to conceal my female curves, such as they are. Small breasts and angular hips might not be every woman’s idea of the perfect body shape, but for once I’m glad of nature’s ungenerous attitude toward me. If I can just make it through till morning I’m beginning to believe I might live to tell the tale after all.

Chapter Two

“Charlie, come on, lad. Wake up.”

I tug the scratchy plaid up around my ears, burrowing further into its thready warmth.

“Charlie, we need to move. Now.” It’s Will’s voice, a note of urgency jolting me into something like wakefulness. My back feels cold, and I realise I’m missing his warm, comforting presence behind me. I considered arguing when he slipped into place at my back as we settled down for the night, but decided against it. There is much to be said for shared body heat. I watched through half-closed eyes as Robbie stretched out on the other side of the fire, and that’s the last I recall. Until now.

“What? Why…” I shove myself up on one elbow and peer at him from within the safe cocoon of my anorak hood.