raised in prayer. The analogy was a good one, she thought bitterly. Help was what she needed.
Action was what she needed. Here she was staring out to sea when she should be figuring out what to do with this guy.
She was figuring out how alone she was.
At least his breathing was fine. Her fingers had been moving over his face even as she looked about her, searching for what was most important. The stranger was face down but as her hand came over his mouth she felt the soft whisper of breathing. Thank God. She adjusted the position of his head a tiny bit—not enough to hurt if his neck was broken but a tiny sideways shift so his mouth and nose were clear of the mud.
So why wasn’t he moving?
‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered, but there was no answer.
Had he hit his head? He must have. Her fingers kept searching and found what they were seeking—an ugly haematoma on the side of his forehead. There was a little blood. Not much.
Maybe this was momentary. Maybe she’d just stunned him.
What else? She sat back, her trained eyes running over his body. What…?
His left leg.
She winced. It was all wrong. Just below the knee it twisted and was lying at a grotesque angle. She moved so that she was kneeling by it and winced again.
He’d snapped the bones beneath the knee. The tibia and the fibula must both be broken. She stared at it—at the position it was lying in. The position meant that there was a huge risk it’d be cutting off blood circulation. In fact…With fingers that felt numbed—horror had made her whole body seem numb—she edged off one of the guy’s shoes and stared down. There was no mistaking the blue-white tinge to his toes.
No blood. She winced again, her mind racing. She was a good five miles out of Birrini. The way those toes had lost colour… Maybe he’d torn an artery.
No. Probably not. There didn’t seem enough swelling to indicate that level of internal bleeding. But the blood vessels must be kinked, and the speed at which his foot had lost colour told her that he’d lose his leg before she could get help.
He needed X-rays, she told herself frantically. He needed careful manipulation under anaesthetic.
He had Lizzie and nothing and nowhere.
But at least she knew what had to be done, and as for anaesthetic…well, he was stunned now. He was temporarily—hopefully temporarily—out of it. What she needed to do would have him screaming in agony if he was conscious. She had morphine in the car but even so… It’d be far better to do this while he was unconscious and worry about pain relief if—when—he came around. So… ‘Move, Lizzie,’ she told herself. Any minute now he could gain consciousness and she’d have lost her chance.
But if only she had X-rays. She gave one last despairing glance at the road ahead. Nothing. She looked up at the cliff and then down to the sea below. There was nothing there to help her either.
She took a deep breath, then moved so that she was kneeling beside the leg. Another breath. She stared down, figuring out which way she should move. She might well do more damage with this manoeuvre—without X-rays she was flying blind. But the choice was to do nothing and watch his leg die, or try to move it into position. No choice at all.
She took hold of his left ankle in one hand and his knee in the other. It was harder than she’d thought. She was applying manual traction, easing the leg lengthwise and to the side. Trying—slowly and gently but still with strength—to move it.
It wouldn’t go.
She wasn’t brave enough. She had to be. More traction. She pulled and it moved. Just.
More traction. Twist…
And she heard it. Crepitus. The grating sound that fractured bones made as they moved against each other. Crepitus was an awful name for an awful sound but now she almost welcomed it.
Had she done it?
Maybe.
Her fingers were on his leg and she felt—she was sure she felt—the pulse return. She stared down, willing the colour to change. And in moments she was sure she wasn’t imagining it. There was a definite improvement in the skin tone of the toes.
The man stirred and groaned. Little wonder. If someone had done to her what she’d just done to him, she’d have screamed so hard she’d have been heard back in Melbourne.
‘Don’t try and move,’ she said urgently, her voice unsteady—but he didn’t respond.
‘Can you hear me?’
Nothing.
OK. What next? She’d saved him from a dead leg. Well done, Lizzie. Now she just had to save him from cerebral haemorrhage, or internal bleeding, or by being run over by another car as he lay in the road.
Her thoughts were cut off by another moan. The guy stirred and moaned some more and then shifted. He was finally coming round.
‘You mustn’t move,’ she said again, and he appeared to think about it.
‘Why not?’ His voice was a faint slur but it sounded good to her. Not only was he gaining consciousness, he was gaining sense.
‘You’ve been hit by a car.’ She moved again so that she could see his face, stooping so her nose was parallel to his. ‘You’ve broken your leg.’
He thought about that for a while longer. She’d laid her face in the mud beside his so that he could see her and she could see one of his eyes. She knew that he’d desperately need human contact and reassurance but she daren’t move him further.
It was a crazy position to be in, but panic could make him move. He mustn’t panic. So she lay in the mud so that he could focus.
He did. ‘Whose car?’ he managed, and she winced.
‘My car.’
That was another cause for some long, hard thinking.
‘My leg hurts,’ he conceded at last. ‘What else?’
‘You tell me,’ she said cautiously. ‘Where else hurts?’
‘My head.’
‘I think you hit your head on the road.’
‘How fast were you going?’
‘Not fast at all,’ she told him, a tiny bit of indignation entering her voice. He was making sense. No brain damage, then. ‘You ran straight into me.’
‘Yeah, like you were stopped and I just smashed into your car. You’ll be suing me next.’ Amazingly there was a hint of laughter in the man’s voice. Laughter laced with pain.
But Lizzie wasn’t up to laughter. Not yet. No brain damage, she was thinking. He had enough strength left to give her cheek. She found she was breathing again but she hadn’t remembered stopping.
‘I
