As I prepare for the next rescue breaths, a horrible gagging noise comes out of Joel’s mouth. Animal, not human.
‘Joel. Joel, are you waking up? Can you hear me?’
I stop the compressions, willing his ribcage to inflate on its own, and for him to open his eyes and fight me off.
Nothing happens.
I remember something the resus instructor said. Agonal breaths are a sign that the brain is dying from oxygen starvation.
I restart the compressions.
Some girls crowded around are crying. Further along the Prom the hippies are drumming and singing, and the fireworks keep filling the sky with sparks of colour.
Unless Tim’s predictions have come true and it’s actual planes falling out of the sky.
‘What’s Kerry doing to him? Not a doctor yet, is she?’ I hear Louise Norman lisping to someone.
‘Is Joel dead?’ another girl asks.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Ant says. ‘He was running with the ball just now. Of course he’s not dead.’
Except Ant might be wrong. Joel doesn’t look dead – yet. But if I’m right, his heart has stopped, which means my hands are the only things keeping his blood flowing, my breath his only source of oxygen.
It can’t possibly be enough.
I don’t hear a siren, but the grass around me changes colour: blue, orange, blue, orange. The rhythm of the flashing light confuses me, breaks my own pattern, and I tune back into ‘Nellie the Elephant’, pushing, pushing, pushing . . .
For the first time, my arms are tired. When I reach thirty compressions and dip down to give Joel another rescue breath, I realize how ragged my own has become. But exhaustion is no excuse.
I seal my lips against Joel’s again. Exhale. Is it my imagination, or is his face colder now?
‘Kerry. Listen. I’ll take over the compressions after your two breaths.’ Tim’s voice.
Where the hell have you been?
I don’t look up. Can’t break the cycle. Every beat counts.
As I raise my head from the rescue breath, our bodies touch, and Tim slips into position.
Like me, he looks surprised at how much effort it takes to force down the ribcage. He pumps once. That’s not hard enough. Have I done the wrong thing, letting Tim take my place?
He pumps a second time.
‘Lads, come on. Let us through.’ A man’s voice, world-weary. The edge of my vision fills with the lemon brightness of a fluorescent jacket. I think – hope – it’s a paramedic.
‘What have we got here? One too many to see in the New Year or—’ The paramedic stops abruptly. I look up just as his frown turns to understanding. ‘Jeff!’ he shouts out, ‘I think we’ve got an arrest. Get the defib.’
He understands.
‘All right, mate,’ the paramedic is saying to Tim. ‘You’ve been doing a grand job. First-aid trained, are you?’
When Tim doesn’t answer, I speak for him. ‘He’s a St John cadet . . . So am I. The patient . . . we think . . . he’s in cardiac arrest.’ I sound as though I’ve been running cross-country. ‘He collapsed . . .’ I remember the fireworks. ‘Just before midnight. We’ve been giving . . . two rescue breaths every . . . thirty compressions.’
The paramedic nods. ‘All right, love, give us some space to do our work now.’
I have no strength left to move.
‘The patient’s name is Joel.’ Tim speaks now, his voice imitating the calm tones the paramedic used. ‘He’s seventeen. On his way to being a pro footballer with the Dolphins. At least, he was.’
The man flinches. ‘Right. My name’s Roger. Who are you?’
‘Tim.’
‘All right then, Tim. I will take over after the next fifteen compressions. My colleague Jeff is coming with a defibrillator from the ambulance. You’ve done a brilliant job.’
Roger shoots me an impatient glance as he pushes in between me and Tim. I shuffle backwards as the paramedic takes over. Tim looks shell-shocked, even though he’s done less than a minute of CPR. I did ten, or longer.
A hand reaches for mine, steadying, pulling me up.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Ant’s hand is strong but his voice is small. ‘Kerry?’
I’m surprised he remembers my real name, after years of calling me nasty nicknames. ‘I hope so.’
Ant is still looking at me, but his hand has dropped to his side. ‘What were you doing to him? I feel like I’m in an episode of Casualty.’
‘I was . . .’ It seems unbelievable already, what I just did. ‘I was making sure Joel’s blood kept circulating. To keep the oxygen reaching his brain.’
Ant nods. ‘On telly, they wake up. Why hasn’t he woken up?’
My hands are starting to shake. The paramedic continues CPR. A second crew member runs towards Joel’s prone body, carrying a bulky bag.
‘The cardiopulmonary resuscitation can’t wake anyone on its own.’ Tim brushes his hands against his jeans. ‘They need to shock his heart back into the correct rhythm, using a defibrillator.’
I don’t think Ant will have understood Tim’s answer.
‘Everyone move back, please,’ one of the ambulance men calls out.
‘You heard them!’ Tim shouts, shooing the other kids away.
‘How did you know to do that?’ Ant asks me, shaking his head.
‘I do first aid. For a hobby. Tim and I both do.’
‘Weird hobby.’
I hear an electronic beeping, followed by a robotic female voice. There’s a gap where the other kids have broken the circle and I move so I can see Joel again.
Analysing . . . analysing.
Shock advised.
Stand clear.
It’s impossible not to look. Will this work? If it doesn’t, am I to blame?
Joel’s body buckles upwards from the grass as the shock is delivered. How many thousand volts is it? They told us in cadets. It’s enough to create movement where there was none. As he crashes back down to the floor, I hold my breath.
Analysing . . . analysing.
Shock advised.
It hasn’t worked. Joel is still dead.
For the first time, I hear sirens. They must have sounded before, but I was too preoccupied to hear them. A second ambulance and a police car mount the pavement and drive across the grass towards us.
Stand clear.
A couple of the lads are hiding cans under their coats and shuffling off, a reflex response to approaching police.
Joel’s body bucks and crashes down a second time.
I hold my breath.
Analysing . . . analysing.
‘We’ve got a pulse,’ one of the ambulance men calls out.
Ant’s eyes widen. ‘He’s gonna be OK?’
It is eighteen minutes past midnight: that’s how long Joel’s brain and body have been deprived of oxygen. Even if his body is responding, the odds are that what I did wasn’t enough.
He stares at me, his face fierce. ‘A pulse means his heart is beating, right?’
The second ambulance crew are setting up kit on the Lawns, like a mini field-hospital. Tim is talking to the police; the officers frown as Ant and I approach.
‘Keep your distance, lad,’ the policeman says.
‘He’s the patient’s best friend,’ Tim tells the female officer. She’s skinny with grey wiry hair under her cap. Her colleague has a huge belly and his face is slick with sweat, as though the walk from the car has been too much for him.
Yet it’s Joel – the fittest kid I know – lying on the cold earth.
The policewoman leads us towards the car, but Tim holds back. I see the determination on his face: I think he’s hoping to cadge a lift in the ambulance.
Let him.
‘Bet this is your first time in the back of a cop car,’ Ant says, as we climb in.
I manage a weak smile: he’s trying to help us forget what I did, what he saw. ‘This definitely wasn’t how I thought tonight would go.’
It feels like years ago I was that girl worrying about whether Tim would kiss me.
‘We’ll follow the ambulance,’ the policewoman says. We look out of the windows, see a group of women tottering by in short fur coats and strappy heels, like a line-up of chorus girls. Behind them, the lights of the Palace Pier blur and that’s when I realize I’m crying. Why?
I’m nothing to Joel. He barely recognizes me, even though we walked the same route home from school for five years. But I still want to be at the hospital when he wakes up.
If he wakes up.