ANOTHER ghost, that’s all it was.
Paramedic Fiona Murchison jerked the ambulance into a lower gear and the heavy vehicle skidded a little on the steep gravel surface of the mountain road.
‘Whoa!’ Her partner, Shane, grinned. ‘Thought we were covering this rally, not competing in it!’
Fiona chuckled. ‘Just you wait. I might try a Scandinavian flick on the next corner.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a turning technique. You steer a bit into the opposite direction of the turn and put your foot on the accelerator and brake at the same time. That makes you slide away from the turn and then you change the steering, release the brake and keep your foot on the accelerator, and you sort of slingshot your way around the corner in the direction you want to go.’
Shane eyed the steep drop on his side of the road nervously. ‘A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, Fi.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re not going much further. Just up to the spectator area for all those people who’ve been keen enough to hike up the track.’
‘There’s a lot of them.’
‘Yeah.’ Fiona turned her head briefly, surprised by the steady queue of climbers. ‘And there must be a couple of thousand at the bottom. It’s a popular event.’
So many people. It was no wonder her ghost had made an appearance. Given the sheer numbers and the fact that males were more drawn to watching motor sports, there would have to be hundreds enough above average height to stand out in the crowd. Dark, floppy hair wasn’t that uncommon either and more than a few men had that arrogant way of walking—as though the world was their personal playground.
‘I guess your Sam is here somewhere?’
‘Of course. With my mum. He wanted to stay near the flags.’
‘I’ll bet he’s excited.’
‘Over the moon.’
Shane chuckled. ‘Like every four-year-old boy here, I expect, getting up close and personal to this kind of action.’
‘Yeah.’ Fiona eased the ambulance towards the official tents marking the relatively level area that gave a vantage point to see the road as it continued to snake up the mountainside towards a ski-field that wouldn’t have snow for some weeks yet. ‘I reckon it’s more than that with Sam, though. It’s definitely in the blood.’
‘Did he see his dad race, then, when he was a baby?’
‘No.’ Fiona switched off the engine and unclipped her safety belt. ‘I didn’t even know I was pregnant at Al’s funeral. I had so much going on with Dad having another stroke and deciding to come home to New Zealand that I was four months down the track before I put two and two together.’
‘You OK?’ Shane might be a junior ambulance officer but he wasn’t short on compassion. ‘This can’t be easy for you.’
‘It’s five years since Al was killed and the accident was at a rally in Switzerland, not Queenstown.’
‘Still…’
Fiona shrugged. ‘I can deal with it.’
It was easier up the hillside a bit. Away from the buzz of the flagged area where the bright cars and the stars of the sport were surrounded by their support teams and fans. Funny how it had been the sight of a random spectator in the crowd, rather than one of the superstars, that had conjured up the ghost. The intensity of that nasty lurch was fading now. Fiona could look down at the colourful scene below and feel nothing more than a kind of nostalgia.
No. Relief, actually, that she was no longer a part of that world. She hoped the passion for this kind of drama wasn’t really running through the blood of her son. The kind of life it could produce wasn’t what she’d wish for Sam. It might be dramatic and exciting and potentially rewarding but it wasn’t…real.
This was real. The stark beauty of the rugged mountain peaks of the Remarkables making a forbidding silhouette against a sky as blue as only Central Otago could boast. The surprising warmth of the autumn sunshine. And, best of all, the knowledge that a small, dark-haired boy was not too far away, probably clutching more than one of his precious collection of rally car models. His eyes would be shining and anyone lucky enough to be close would find their world a little brighter by seeing his grin. A happy, safe little boy who was protected by two women who loved him to bits.
Fiona knew her mother would have taken her warning on board to keep a low profile. She didn’t want the media discovering that Alistair Stewart’s son was here. Didn’t want the perfect life she had spent years building for them disrupted by the havoc she knew the media could create.
The reasonably level area the ambulance was in—a good kilometre uphill from the start flags—was awash with caravans and tents, spectators and officials. A helicopter hovered overhead, ready to film the event, but the sound of engines revving and people shouting still drifted up from below.
The qualifying heats had finished and the main event was due to begin where one car at a time would tackle the steep grades and nearly a hundred turns on the twelve-kilometre track, many of them impossible-looking hairpin corners with only a low metal barricade on the drop side. The team with the shortest time would win and the buzz of expectation was steadily rising.
Even Fiona was catching it. Like a sensory ghost, it was creeping in on her. The sounds of the engines and the excited shouting and laughter. The gasps of admiration or horror as vehicles were tested to their limits. The smell of petrol and the dust the cars raised as they hurtled past. The bright colours of the cars with their sponsors’ logos, often with matching helmets and suits for the drivers. Any one of those figures in the distance could have been Al and a close-up, albeit brief, flash of a face grim with concentration going past the ambulance position and into a tight turn gave Fi just as much of a lurch as that figure in the crowd had done.
Thankfully, her senses became almost immune after the first hour or so and Fiona was able to relax a little. Enjoy it, even.
‘That’s called “yumping”,’ she told Shane, pointing up the hill to where a car had become airborne after a sharp dip and then rise in the road. ‘They flick the steering a tad in mid-air to try and land one wheel at a time and spread the load of the impact.’
‘Ever tried it yourself?’
‘Only once and that was enough. Al’s parents had this huge country property in England and there was a practice course out the back.’
‘Wow!’
‘His dad was a Warbirds fanatic. He had a collection of World War Two planes and even had his own airfield there as well.’
‘Adventurous family.’
‘Too adventurous. His parents were killed in a plane crash a year before Al had his accident. A new Spitfire or something he’d added to his collection that had some massive engine failure on its first trial run.’
‘Good grief! So the whole family wiped themselves out with adventure sports?’
‘Almost. Al had a brother who was about ten years younger than him and was the black sheep of the family, I guess. He went to med school. Mind you, I suppose he had a few of the genes because he went off to join Médecins sans Frontières not long after his parents’ funeral and I haven’t seen or heard from him since, and that’s sad because Sam would so love to have a real uncle.’
Any wistful note in Fiona’s voice was lost on Shane, who didn’t seem to be listening any more. He had sucked in his breath at the new cloud of dust obscuring the car still hurtling downhill. ‘This guy is moving!’
‘Must be one of the last competitors. He knows what kind of time he has to beat.’
Shane shook his head. ‘Don’t fancy his chances if he misses a turn.’
‘Could be quite a scramble for us, that’s for sure.’ Fiona grinned. ‘If we have to go mountain climbing, you get to carry the gear, mate.’
The car roared closer. Into the tight turn nearest their parking area. Another glimpse of two grim faces. Another cloud of dust and then…
Then that kind of frozen moment in time that sheer horror could produce as the car failed to correct its turn, continuing to skid at high speed through the barrier, which failed to slow the huge missile in any way. Straight towards the crowd of spectators.
The driver must have tried desperately to avert disaster. Maybe he wrenched the steering-wheel hard enough to cause the flip and roll of the vehicle. People were screaming. Trying to hurl themselves out of its path. But some were clearly failing, being clipped by the car and thrown for some distance before hitting the ground.
The finale came only seconds after the drama had begun, with the car slamming into the back of a caravan selling hot dogs and ice cream. A cloud of black smoke billowed and then the ominous lick of flames appeared.
Fiona shook the numbing horror from her brain. She was the senior medical officer on scene and she had to act on the training she had received in dealing with a multi-casualty incident. She grabbed the portable radio hanging behind the driver’s seat and a fluorescent vest from a hook beside it. Then she headed for the stunned-looking group of race officials in that split second after the car had finally stopped its journey of destruction.
Two more officials appeared from a tent, carrying fire extinguishers, and ran towards the car. Many of the crowd were still running for safety, some carrying children, but others were turning back in response to cries from the injured, milling helplessly and beginning to obscure Fiona’s view of the scene as she tried to assess the kind of numbers they were dealing with.
She had her finger on the ‘Push To Talk’ button of the radio.
‘We have a code five hundred,’ she informed the central communications centre. ‘Multi-casualty. Possibly twenty victims. Status still unknown.’
The two ambulances from the main area at the start and finish flags were already on the move, starting the slow climb up the gravel road. A Red Cross Jeep was ahead of them, dust billowing from beneath its wheels.
‘Rescue helicopter back-up needed,’ Fiona told Control. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve triaged.’
She turned to the people around her. ‘Shane, grab my kit and some triage labels.’
Fiona pointed to an official holding a megaphone. ‘Direct any uninjured people to clear the scene. Any injured people capable of walking are to go to the administration tent. I’m going to assess what we have left.’
‘What about the guys in the car?’
Fiona took a quick glance over her shoulder as Shane came running back. ‘Make sure the fire is out and then see if they’re trapped. We may need the fire service up here as well.’
Shrugging on the jerkin that designated her as scene commander, Fiona moved to triage the victims into a priority treatment queue but she couldn’t lose sight of the incident as a whole.
‘Send any new ambulance crews to report to me as they arrive,’ she told another official. ‘And put out a call over the main PA system for anyone with medical training that can assist.’
It was too easy for medics to go towards the first injured person they could see and then get caught up with the assessment and treatment while someone with more life-threatening injuries lay unattended nearby. Fiona’s task right now was to look at everybody and grade the severity of their conditions. Basic treatment, like opening an airway or controlling a severe haemorrhage, could be done but no more until everybody had been seen.
Just repositioning an unconscious person so that their airway was no longer occluded could save a life—but not unless it happened within a short space of time and, given the number of bodies still lying on the ground as the mobile people responded to the official’s orders to move towards the tent and clear the scene, she was going to have to move fast.
It was hard, ignoring the cries of pain or screams for help.
‘My leg! I can’t move!’
‘It hurts…’
‘Help! Please, help!’
The people calling were conscious. Their airways and breathing were clear enough for speech so they weren’t going to be the first priority.
Except for the one Fiona and Shane came to first.
‘Please, help,’ the man said again, ‘It’s my wife. I…’ His voice choked. ‘I couldn’t get to her to pull her away…And the car…’
‘Okay.’ Fiona crouched beside the motionless figure of the woman. A trickle of blood could be seen from her nose. There was a smear of blood on one ear but Fiona couldn’t take the time to check whether it was external or, more ominously, the result of an internal head injury. The woman was breathing and the only blood loss obvious was a wound on the back of her head. Fiona ripped open a dressing and covered the wound.
‘Stay here with her,’ she directed the husband. ‘Talk to her. Hold her head—like this…’ She positioned his hands. ‘Keep her as still as you can if she starts to wake up. Someone will be here very soon to put a collar on and assess her properly.’ Fiona turned to Shane. ‘Pink label,’ she said.
‘What’s that for?’ the husband asked anxiously as Shane slipped the rubber band of the label around the woman’s wrist.
‘It tells the treatment crews who needs attention first,’ Fiona explained as they moved towards the next victim only thirty seconds after stopping. ‘Pink is top of the list.’
The next person, only a few metres away, had torn clothing and flesh on his left side that looked more like a glancing blow from the runaway vehicle than impact with the ground. The man was conscious and breathing but his speech was incoherent between groans of agony.
‘Unstable pelvis,’ Fiona said grimly, seconds later. ‘Pink label.’ He could have other serious internal injuries but a fractured pelvis alone could be enough to cause catastrophic blood loss.
A child was screaming, both arms held in the air with the hands drooping at odd angles.
‘Help him,’ his mother demanded, catching Fiona’s arm as she walked rapidly in their direction.
‘He’ll be seen very soon,’ Fiona assured her. ‘Take him to the tent.’
‘No! Wait!’
But Fiona and Shane kept moving. Anyone that could stand up and scream as loudly as that boy had an excellent airway and level of consciousness. Not that Fiona didn’t have every sympathy for the mother. Running at a level just below her need to handle this situation to the best of her professional ability was a very real horror that her son could be involved.
What if they hadn’t stayed near the finish flags?
Fiona couldn’t afford to distracted by what was probably an imaginary fear—there were no other children to be seen among the injured after all—but as soon as she had even a second to spare, she would be calling her mother for reassurance.
A second ambulance crew intercepted their path.
‘Take the woman over there,’ Fiona directed. ‘Unconscious. Pink label. Head injury. Put a collar on and start oxygen. OP airway if her GCS is still less than ten. Do a secondary survey. Someone will be there to establish IV access as soon as possible.’
She was already crouching in front of a dazed-looking man who was sitting, staring at his hands.
‘Oh, my God…’ he kept saying between frantic gulps of air.
‘It’s OK,’ Fiona told him. ‘Try and slow your breathing down. Are you asthmatic?’
He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said again. ‘I was holding my camera…It got caught on the car…’
A strap had probably been caught around his fingers. The index finger was obviously dislocated and probably broken. The middle finger had been ripped cleanly off the hand. Typically, the traumatic amputation had caused blood vessels to close off completely and the wound was barely bleeding.
‘Green label,’ Fiona directed Shane. ‘Get someone to take him to the tent. He’s got a bit of a wheeze. They’ll need to check if he’s an asthmatic and give him some salbutamol if it gets any worse.’
The fleeting glance she took around them at the litter of abandoned personal belongings, many of which were spattered with blood or covered with dust, confirmed the futility of anyone taking the time to try and find the missing finger. With lives potentially being lost around them, it had to be rated well down any priority list. Fiona hurried towards the next victim. An update to the control centre would need to be made soon.
She needed back-up. Preferably highly skilled.
Nick Stewart heard the call for medical assistance over the PA system but he was already moving back up the track, having heard the crash and then the screams of the injured.
Why had he decided to go down to the finish flags to watch the last competitor make it home?
Why had he come here at all when he had known how many ghosts would be in evidence?
Here he was, a newcomer to a tiny country at the bottom of the world, finally ready to stop running and try to build a life that was grounded and real. And on his first full day he had chosen to resurrect memories that were among the most painful he had.
Which was why he had come, of course. Nick pushed himself up the steep track at a speed that was making his muscles ache and his lungs burn. If there was a challenge that had to be faced, Nick Stewart faced it. If the obstacle seemed insurmountable, he found a way to break through it. The ghosts had been held at bay until now because there had been no reason to lay them but if he was serious about a new start, he wasn’t going to allow himself to back down from what needed to be dealt with.
Two ambulances and a Red Cross vehicle had gone well past him now. He should have flagged one down. Told the crews that he was an emergency physician—fresh out of dealing with mass casualty incidents in war zones—and that he had practising privileges in New Zealand because he was the locum for their community hospital for the next month.
He was too used to relying on his own resources, that was the problem. He’d turned and legged it towards the track he had just come down as soon as he had heard the crash and now he was going to be several minutes behind the play by the time he reached the scene, dammit! His mission of getting uphill was being further hampered by the flow of people being herded away from the scene. Shocked-looking people, who kept slowing and turning to look behind them as though they still couldn’t believe what they’d seen.
Hopefully, there were some competent paramedics among the crews on those emergency vehicles, but this was rural New Zealand. A disaster like this was probably a once-in-a-lifetime event for these people and, no matter how highly trained they were, nothing really counted like experience.
The small crowd of people in the largest tent all seemed to have suffered relatively minor injuries. A loud woman was demanding attention, her hands on the shoulders of a young child who had clearly broken both his arms. Some of the group were sporting large green tags on their wrists and Nick recognised the triage labels with an inward nod of approval. Someone here knew what they were doing.
He approached a man wearing a race official’s vest. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said crisply. ‘You were calling for assistance. Who’s in charge here?’
‘Outside,’ the official directed. ‘Find the medic wearing a vest that says “Scene Commander”.’
That particular vest was not immediately obvious but there were at least half a dozen people wearing the uniforms of ambulance officers, moving among blanket-wrapped victims lying on the ground. Uninjured people boosted the numbers. Nick passed a man who was holding the head of an unconscious woman as an ambulance officer slipped a stiff neck collar into position. She had a pink label on her wrist.
‘I’m a doctor,’ Nick said again. ‘Your patient breathing OK?’
A second ambulance officer, holding a portable gas cylinder and mask, nodded. ‘We’ll get oxygen on as soon she’s collared.’
‘GCS?’
‘She’s been moving a bit and wouldn’t tolerate an airway. Maybe 11?’
Nick nodded. There could well be people that needed his attention more and, besides, he had a responsibility to report to whoever was in charge of this rescue scene. The success of managing a large-scale disaster depended on the chain of command, good communication and the best use of all possible resources. Mavericks who did their own thing were a liability and what good would he be anyway, without anything more than the most basic equipment?
‘Where’s your scene commander?’
‘Over there.’ The tubing of the mask uncoiled as the ambulance officer pointed.
Nick passed the wreck of the car wedged against the hot-dog caravan. The group of men—some still holding fire extinguishers, others trying to open the jammed doors—obscured his view of what might be inside. His brisk stride faltered for a second.
Could he face his worst demon and attend the occupants of this vehicle? Step back in time to when he’d lost not only his childhood hero but the last living member of his family?
Yes…of course he could.
He reached the side of the car just as one of the jammed doors was prised open. The words ‘I’m a doctor’ cleared a space for him instantly.
Two men were inside, both conscious and distressed and talking in what sounded like a European language. They were both breathing without difficulty, had strong pulses and there was no sign of obvious bleeding. One of the men had burns to his face but they weren’t serious and Nick couldn’t see any singed hair or soot inside his nostrils, which might indicate respiratory tract involvement. He knew how to undo the harnesses and could check cervical spines and then chests for any major trauma.
‘Nothing life threatening,’ he said to the officials. ‘The front of the car is buckled enough to trap them. Is the fire completely out?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘You’ll need cutting gear to get them free. They’ll be OK till then. A cold, wet cloth on the driver’s face would be helpful. I need to find the scene commander for the medics.’
‘Over there, mate.’
Yes. Nick could see the vest with the correct designation. On a slight figure who was crouched beside a body. A female, obviously, given the long braid of dark hair hanging between her shoulder blades.
‘Pink label,’ he heard her instruct the man beside her. ‘And I’m not happy with his breathing. This one’s top of the list for intubation. How many more for triage can you see, Shane?’
Her partner was scanning the area. ‘I think this is the last, apart from the guys in the car.’
‘Great. We’ll stay here for the moment, then. I’ve just got to update Control.’ She stood up, unclipping a hand-held radio from her belt.
‘I’m a doctor,’ Nick said to her back. ‘Emergency physician. Where do you need me first?’
‘Right here.’ The woman turned. ‘Status-one patient. Chest injuries…’ Her voice trailed into silence. ‘Oh, my God,’ she breathed a moment later. ‘Nick?’
He’d know who she was the moment she’d turned. Before that even, from the tone of her voice or that lithe movement when she’d stood up when long limbs had moved with all the grace of a dancer.
But, then, he’d often seen a similar movement or long, curly dark hair or heard something in a voice or seen it in a smile that had reminded him of Fi, hadn’t he? He’d spent years experiencing the jolt of a missed heartbeat or a catch of his breath only to find it had been just the whisper of a ghost.
So much time had passed since he’d actually seen Fi and this was unexpected enough to be mind-blowing. He had assumed she was still a nurse in a London hospital somewhere. What the hell was she doing, being a paramedic, let alone being in charge of a disaster scene on a mountain in what was the back of beyond in international terms? Was this why those letters had been returned unopened?
In its own way, this was as shocking as being plunged into managing a disaster scene. Fiona’s brain whirled at lightning speed in the second or two she simply stared at Nick.
Why was it so shocking? If she had ever been going to meet her ex-brother-in-law, the venue of a top-level rally car competition was the obvious setting. Events like this were far more part of Nick’s personal history than her own.
Given that her adrenaline levels were at an all-time high, coping with the equally unexpected, large-scale disaster, coming face to face with Nick Stewart should barely have registered, let alone be giving her this moment of utter confusion.
Fiona wanted to throw her arms around this man. To hug him and tell him how wonderful it was to see him again.
But she also wanted to plant her hands on his chest. To shove him away as hard as she could. To make the accusations that, even as recently as her conversation with Shane just before all this had begun, still echoed in the back of her mind.
The anger was still there.
Maybe it was lucky there was no way Fiona could take even another millisecond to choose between the conflicting reactions. With a deliberate mental shake, she banished anything remotely personal. Instead, she allowed herself a wash of relief that somebody more qualified that she was could share the responsibility of caring for all these injured people. Someone that she knew could be trusted to handle anything that could prove too much of a challenge.
Astonishing how that gave her a new kind of strength. She could cope with this—the biggest incident she had ever faced. She would do her job and do it well.
‘My kit’s here,’ she told Nick crisply. ‘It should have everything you need. My partner Shane will help you.’ She turned her back, pushed the button on the radio and began to walk away.
‘Three status-one patients,’ she informed Control. ‘Four status two, six status three so far. What’s the ETA for the rescue helicopter?’