Drama PG for violence. Tiny bit of adult situation, blink and you'll miss it

Thatcher warning

Usual disclaimers

Thanks are due to Janet for medical expertise, confidence building and aid with electronic communications
..................

Panic

The evening started so well. You still haven't got used to the idea that she is with you, relaxed and wearing jeans and leather jacket like you are, but looking nothing like you. She is small, dark brown hair framing creamy skin and those eyes like the dark coffee she is drinking. Eyes that you could drown in. Eyes that are looking at you and smiling. All day at work they are shaded, you keep your's averted. Its 'Constable do this' and 'Constable do that' and you reply 'Yes Sir, No Sir'... but you think of the eyes smiling. For weeks you kept the secret to yourselves, spent the evenings alone either in your room or her apartment. Then tonight you told the world. Well not exactly the whole world, maybe a dozen or so of Ray's friends, your friends, from the Chicago police. Detective Huey's birthday, a few drinks after work. And she came with you, held your hand in public, danced with her cheek against yours, her arms round your neck, your arms holding her close. Your two bodies seemed to flow with the music as one, as they become one when you are alone.

You drink your coffee while Ray gets, what is Ray getting? Enough doughnuts for an army by the look of it. It has taken him an age to choose. The young men behind him are not happy with the delay. Irritation turns to abuse, to irrational anger. Guns are drawn. You try to help calm the situation, but tonight a smile and a few words do not help. An Inuit story will not penetrate the drug-induced red-mist. The proprietor panics. They hit him.

You, Ray and Meg, three policemen, should be able to subdue five youths, but they have guns and intoxication to spur them on. They will empty the till, take the three customers out the back then make good their escape. A fair plan until they find Ray's gun and badge. They know he's a cop, that you are a cop. As they drag the three of you into the back storeroom Meg falls. They leave her lying there, they are drugged, they think she's only a woman.

The argument is over. The big guy has won. Better to get rid of the cops completely, finally, now. He will use Ray's gun. You hear the muttered prayer from your friend, but your eyes never leave the shooter, watch the skin on his finger whiten from pressure on the trigger. Your mouth is very dry.

A small figure leaps from the side and above, crashing into the killer's shoulder, knocking him off balance, grabbing at the arm holding the gun as it fires. You jump forward while the echo still reverberates round the room. Trained, controlled force soon has the younger men subdued, then you turn to assist the inspector. She can't be even half the weight of her assailant, and though her initial onslaught took him off guard, enough to save your lives, she is now being crushed under his frame. As you reach to grab him the gun goes off again. Silence. You haul the perp aside, the gun falls discarded onto the floor.

Meg lies still, blood pouring from a round hole just under her ribs. Her eyes close as you fall to your knees beside her. Rolling her onto her side you put your hand over the wound trying to staunch the flow. You look up at Ray with horror, desperation. You tear off your jacket, your shirt you use to apply pressure. You are vaguely aware of your friend calling into his mobile phone 'Officer down, Officer down'. There would be no response faster than to that call. Working as a team now, surely the blood flow is lessening. It is.

'Benny, I've lost her pulse'. As Ray moves her onto her back you reach down to your boot and extract the knife, no time for finesse. One slash to cut through the front of her shirt and bra, place blood-covered hands over each other on her breast and press down, release, press, release, press, release... Ray has his mouth over hers, breathe, watch the chest fall, breathe, watch the chest. Over and over.

'Still no pulse' Press, release, press, release.... breathe, watch, breath, watch.

'No pulse, its been over a minute Ben'. Press, release, press, release.

'Got a pulse, got a pulse'. Breathe, watch, breathe, watch. Pause, watch as the chest rises unassisted. She's breathing. Together you return her to her side. Tears of relief fill your eyes as you concentrate on the wound. Now that her heart is beating, blood is running onto the floor. A pool has formed underneath her, from the exit hole. There are noises, sirens, police, ambulance, coming closer.

Paramedics intervene, mask over her face, tube into her arm, fluid going in. They lift her. Someone drapes your jacket round your shoulders, pushes you into the ambulance too. You sit in the corner as the crash team concentrates on the patient. You listen to the beeping, watch the heart beat trace on the screen, and realise that you are still holding your shirt. It is soaked in blood.

How long has it been? You sit, you pace four strides up, four strides down, you sit again, move the shirt from hand to hand. How long has it been? How long does it take? At least no one has come to tell you she is dead, not yet. Hold on to that. Four paces, then lean against the wall. Don't close your eyes, not again, never again. All you see is red flowing across her pale skin, feel the rising panic. There is a hand on your arm. Ray, concern in his face, motions towards the door. Through the glass you see a green clad figure approaching. You swallow, force yourself to breathe. If you had Ray's faith you would pray.

She's alive, come through surgery into intensive care, but the next twenty four hours are critical. You wait. How can you go home? Home is where she is. Ray leads you to the bathroom, he has been to the apartment, has brought you a clean shirt, has taken Dief to his house. You finally wash the blood from your hands and arms, then press the soiled shirt into the basin of cold water, the liquid becomes red round your fingers. Suddenly you are overwhelmed, the smell and colour of the blood, the suppressed panic, the terror, your skin goes clammy, there is a taste of bile in your throat. You just make it to the can before throwing up.

You sit by her bed. The hand you hold is white, slack, with no strength in it. You move as they check readings, change bottles, take temperatures, then back to her side. Other people come and go, one in a red uniform. An emergency replacement from Ottawa. Your eyes tell him what you feel, he puts a hand on your shoulder and lets you stay. Twenty four hours and she is holding on. But she shows no sign of waking, comatose, brain possibly starved of oxygen when her heart stopped. No way of knowing if there is permanent damage, not yet.

Ray is often here. He makes you walk, brings you food and watches as you eat it. He forces you to wash, clean your teeth, change your clothes. He lends you his razor. You would prefer your father's cut-throat, but you can hardly hold a coffee cup for trembling. Sometimes as you hold her hand, your head falls onto your arms and you doze. Time means nothing, there is no daylight, just the staff changing shift. If you could remember how often you have shaved that would tell you how long you've been here, six, seven times maybe. But you are having difficulty thinking logically at all.

The hand in yours moves, you are sure of it. The fingers are curling, they are holding on. Your lips are against her ear, you whisper, nothing that makes sense, her name, over and over. Her eyelids flutter, and so slowly as if they are made of lead they open. Those lovely brown eyes look at you. Her hand touches your cheek.

'Were you hurt, Ben?' You shake your head. 'Was Ray?' You hit the emergency bell then press her hand to your lips. She knows you, she can remember what happened. 'You look terrible, Constable'. A whisper. Maybe one day you'll tell her how it has been, but not now. What do you say? You don't know, but when she drifts off to sleep she is smiling. Someone in a white coat takes your arm, leads you down corridors, outside she opens a door, puts you in a taxi and gives the driver dollar bills. You can't remember asking, but you find yourself at the 27th district; one foot in front of the other, along the passageways. You see faces you recognise, looking at you, mouthing words you can't hear. You don't stop.

The familiar form is bent over its desk. He looks up as you get close, the colour leaving his face, trying to read your blank expression. He takes an arm, Lieutenant Welsh takes the other, into his office, sit. Ray crouches in front of you. You breathe deeply, just need a little more strength to find the words.

'She's going to be all right'.

Ray crosses himself. You lean forward, rest your forehead on his shoulder, 'I thought... I've been so afraid... I thought....'. Then you lose control. All the fears, horrors, dreads of the last week hit you. Tears run down your cheeks and the sobs start. Your friend holds on to you until everything goes black. You sleep.