1 January 2000
I cannot move.
I stare at Kerry, kneeling on the grass next to Joel, and I know she needs me, they both need me, but I cannot move.
Do not panic. Perform a primary assessment: Danger? There is none. Responsiveness?
I am responsive, I can breathe, I am uninjured. But I can’t bloody move.
What’s wrong with me?
Not syncope, because if I had fainted, I would be lying next to Joel, but I am still upright.
Around me, the world is in motion, exactly as it was before midnight. The traffic lights are still in sequence, the music still blares from the clubs, the sky is still free of burning aeroplane debris. So much for Armageddon . . .
And Kerry is giving Joel CPR.
But I cannot move.
Why? Think, Tim.
Signs and symptoms. This is not full paralysis because I can breathe, and swallow, and feel my body, from the tips of my fingers to the end of my toes. So probably not a stroke or spinal injury . . .
The millennium bug was meant to bring Armageddon, but instead, I am the glitch.
It should be me doing the compressions and rescue breaths. Kerry might be cleverer at school, but she always comes second to me in cadet competitions. She’s too impetuous, which can lead to catastrophic errors, while I always analyse with clear-headed efficiency. It’s why she takes silver when I take gold. I even made it to the national finals.
But my body won’t let me, my legs are leaden. It’s like I’m in a nightmare. Sweat prickles in my armpits, my groin. I think I can smell worse. Have I pissed myself or is the stink coming from Joel?
Even when I try to open my mouth, to call out for help, my jaw seems to be locked in position.
But perhaps this is a good thing. I can’t draw attention to myself, and no one should see me frozen like this, least of all Kerry. Plus, she must not be interrupted. Nothing is as important as what she’s doing now.