Blood Counts

JACQUOT SAW HIS SHOT HIT Marita a few centimetres below her left collarbone, just off centre, and he watched her jerk backwards under the impact, gun skittering across the floor, her head coming down with a mighty crack on the concrete.

But that same moment, still deafened by the blast of his own gunshot, Jacquot felt a massive blow against his left hip. For a moment he stood there in the doorway, like an old man steadying himself againt the motion of a train, then tottered back a step and fell.

The pain of his landing, in a sitting position against the open door, was excruciating and, eyes wide with shock and disbelief, he felt what he knew was a wet pulse of warm blood flow across his skin and settle between his legs. Looking down at his lap he could see the side and front of his linen trousers soaking up blood in a widening scarlet stain and he wondered, sitting there blankly, if he was going to die.

But the pain was too great for death, he decided. In death any pain would be numbed, surely? And there was certainly no numbness about the agony lancing like a dagger through his left hip. He also knew for a fact that a coldness seeped through the body in the moments before death. But he didn’t feel cold, just that soaking sticky warmth. Laying his gun aside, he raised his left arm and let the fingers of his right hand explore the source of the blood and the pain, gently fumbling at the torn pocket of his trousers.

But that wasn’t all. Further back was another scorching fumarole of pain from the torn flesh of the exit wound, an open flapping hole far wider and more ragged than the entry wound.

Jacquot felt a rush of shock at the damage he had found. He really had been shot, and shot quite badly. But the next instant he was aware of something infinitely more harrowing, a growing wail from the other side of the room, its volume and insistence breaking into his dulled consciousness.

From where he sat he lifted his head to see Claudine struggling against her bonds and screaming at him through her silvery duct-tape gag – a repeated, two-syllable phrase that could as easily have been ‘Daniel’ as ‘Midou’ or ‘Help us’. And then he saw Midou, beside her mother, her body hanging from its bindings, her head on her chest, her white T-shirt and white rhinestoned jeans stained a horrible scarlet.

It took only a minor attempt to get to his feet to persuade Jacquot that he’d never be able to manage it. The pain shafting through his pelvis like a thousand white hot steely speartips made it abundantly clear that such an attempt would be cruelly dealt with. The only thing he could manage was an elbowed haul across the floor, on his stomach, dragging his legs behind him.

‘J’arrive. J’arrive.’ I’m coming, I’m coming, he called out, surprised by how dry his mouth was, how constricted his throat, and with every push back with his elbows, propelling himself forward, he flicked out a tongue over lips that felt suddenly hot and parched. Finally, panting from the effort, the points of his elbows painfully skinned by the rough concrete, he reached Claudine, the side of his head brushing against her leg.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay . . . soon have you down,’ he managed to say, but he knew at a glance that that was easier said than done.

The only way he could release her was by reaching up to undo the rope knotted around its bracket. As gently as he could he rolled onto his back, sobbing with the pain, and pressed his palms to the floor, pushing himself up against the wall, centimetre by centimetre – the back of his head, his shoulders – until he could reach up with his hand, find the knot and start to untie it.

‘Nearly there, nearly there,’ he called out, his voice croaky and tight, while Claudine hopped round to face him, raising herself on tiptoes and stretching up her arms to provide some slack. ‘Another twist and another . . .’

Then, suddenly, the knot was loose and the rope was pulled from his hand as Claudine tugged it clear of the hook and dropped down beside him, favouring her good leg and pulling the tape from her fingers and mouth.

‘You’re hurt . . . She shot you . . .’ she said, now tearing at the rope around her wrists. When her hands were free, she lifted back the corner of his jacket and stared at the spread of blood.

But before he could finish, Claudine was off, levering herself up against the wall and hopping over to her daughter, one leg bloodied, limp and useless.

In seconds she had the rope holding Midou off its bracket and, taking the weight with one hand, reached out her other to catch her daughter round the waist. Letting go the rope the two of them came to a slumped rest in a puddle of blood.

‘She’s not moving, Daniel. She’s unconscious . . .’ There was fear and panic in Claudine’s voice.

‘She’ll be okay. It’s just shock,’ he croaked, praying it was true as he palmed himself over to them, hands sticky and slippery with blood, his and Claudine’s. ‘Which is good, it’s good; it’s blanked her out. No pain.’

When he reached them he took in Midou’s wounds – the first on the side of her thigh a few centimetres above her knee, the second just below the elbow where it had clearly shattered one of the bones in her forearm. Both entry and exit wounds dripped with blood.

‘Just two shots, right? Two shots? That’s all?’ he asked Claudine, looking to see if there were any other wounds on Midou.

‘Just the two,’ confirmed Claudine, cradling her daughter. ‘Grâce à Dieu. Grâce à Dieu. I thought we were dead. Finished. It was . . .’ Tears streamed down her face; tears of joy, of fear, of pain, Jacquot couldn’t tell. ‘Thank God you got here, Daniel. Thank you, thank you . . . and thank you, God.’

‘She’ll be fine, she’ll be fine,’ he said, wrapping an arm round Claudine’s shoulders, as much for his own comfort as hers, the relief that he had got to them in time, and that she and Midou were both safe, washing over him in waves. ‘But we need to get her to a hospital before she loses too much blood,’ he continued, starting to unbuckle his belt. ‘Here, help me pull it through,’ he said, handing the buckle to Claudine and angling his hips. ‘We can use it as a tourniquet.’

As Claudine tugged the belt free, Jacquot grunted with pain at each jerk. He could feel sweat popping out of his brow, seeping through his hair and running down his chest. It felt as though his body was leaking, with sweat and with blood. But with one final, jarring tug the belt was free, and Claudine was looping it around Midou’s thigh, slipping the leather tongue through the buckle and pulling it tight.

‘Can you get upstairs?’ he asked, wincing with the pain. ‘I’ve got men out there, waiting. They may even have heard my shot. They’ll help.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Claudine, passing Midou into his arms and starting to lever herself up. ‘Will you be okay?’