As Rex watched the paramedics working on the broken body of the girl, he steeled himself for the moment they would turn to him and explain it was hopeless.
‘They’re doing all they can,’ his wife reassured him. ‘You’ve given her the best chance.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Rex said, refusing to take credit. If it weren’t for his impatience, his wife might have persuaded the girl to leave when the alarm had sounded.
The alarm was no more than a bleat from inside the theatre now and, when Rex wasn’t staring at the paramedics, his gaze was trained on the fire doors. There had been a slow trickle of survivors coming out, but he had yet to see the woman with bloodied hands. When he had taken the child from her, he had assumed she would follow, but he hadn’t looked back to check. He tried to convince himself that she was already out. He could easily have missed her. He had spent the first few minutes seeking medical help for the girl, and a good amount of time after that had been occupied with hugging his wife and granddaughter.
Rex watched on with growing despair. He should have made sure she was safe too.
The alleyway had been crowded when Claudia had left the theatre. She had spotted the paramedics performing CPR on the little body pulled from the rubble, but she couldn’t watch. She didn’t want to think about life and death at all. She wanted to go home, but her car was in a side street, blocked in by emergency vehicles.
Reluctantly, Claudia had been ushered towards Victoria Park. Someone wrapped a foil blanket around her, but she didn’t need it, and when she stumbled upon a man curled on the grass weeping, she placed the silver wrap over his shoulders.
‘I watched her die,’ the man sobbed. ‘I didn’t want to leave her, but she disappeared, and I kept getting pushed along. She’s dead. Lois is dead.’
Claudia patted his shoulder. ‘You did what you could.’
Wandering aimlessly through the park, Claudia checked her phone. There had been several missed calls from Justin and when she got through, his relief was palpable. He was already close by and, as she waited, she looked at the stains on her once cream coat. Added to the handprint on her sleeve were soot marks and a small tear. It couldn’t be repaired. She would need a new coat.
Why on earth was she worried about a new coat? Stuff didn’t matter. Things could be replaced. Lives couldn’t. Anger forced her to take a sharp breath that caught in her inflamed throat. The smoke had been noxious.
Someone close by heard her coughing fit and she was handed a bottle of water. She savoured the coolness against her throat, but kept some of the liquid to wash the dirt from her hands. Two of her acrylic nails were peeling away and she pulled them off. Her chest hurt, and the stitch in her side had returned, but compared to some of the others, she was fine. She was going to walk away from this unscathed. The worst was over, and she had done as much as she could.