Page 39 of In Sheets of Rain

“I’ve not been to many myself,” he admitted.

The hand on the clock ticked over another minute.

“Just remember the basics. ABCs,” he said.

I nodded. The clock sounded louder when the minute hand next shifted.

* * *

We stared out the windshield at the uniformed cops standing further up Grafton Mews. The sign for the bowling club stood forlornly behind them. They wore stab vests and carried rifles. One or two even had on Armed Offender Squad helmets. All black. All menacing. All looking agitated.

“Not long now,” John offered. I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes had passed since we’d arrived.

John shifted in his seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Outwardly, he looked calm, but that one little movement betrayed his unease. I glared at the clock. The cops shifted on their feet. The sounds of Auckland City surrounded us on Grafton Mews.

Then a uniformed officer strode over, and John sat up in his seat.

“One victim,” the cop informed us. “Gunshot wound to the chest. Follow the Mews to the end; there’ll be another officer to guide you from there.”

John grunted in acknowledgement and started the truck, inching it past the two angled cop cars.

The sun disappeared behind clouds high in the sky. Thick foliage from overgrown park trees shielded us from what was left of the daylight. The truck rolled over uneven asphalt, the trees lining the Mews having disturbed the smooth surface with their roots, making for a rough ride. Oxygen bottles clanked, something in the cupboard crashed into the side, the whole thing creaked and groaned as if it was dying.

One victim. Gunshot wound to the chest.

I hit the button on our GPS unit, switching it from ‘staged’ to ‘on scene’ then climbed out of the parked truck. I rolled my shoulders as John reached past and grabbed both kits, leaving me the defib and O2bottle. Then I walked up the path a cop indicated and followed him inside.

The victim lay on the floor of the clubroom. A kitchen and the bathrooms were noticeable off to one side, tables and chairs dotted the space, a couple of couches, the smell of well-cooked meat. The large wall-mounted TV was switched off, but every light in the place was blazing.

I stared down at the elderly woman and watched as a young cop tried to perform CPR. Another had her legs up, resting against his chest, trying to help with the flow of blood at a guess. I knelt beside the one at her head, pulling out the leads to the defib, staring at the tiny hole in the centre of her exposed chest.

We worked in relative silence. Automated. In control. Electrodes attached. OP airway inserted. Bag-mask in place. And watched as a flatline emerged on the ECG tape.

“Asystole,” John announced, as I remembered a smiling face and smoke-laden laugh. “Stop compressions,” he ordered, as I pictured work-roughened hands holding my own.

We tidied up and packed away our gear; leaving no evidence of our presence, bar the electrodes still attached to her cooling skin. The cops watched on; deflated; defeated. The oxygen bottle felt cold against my hands.

“You all right?” John asked as we climbed back into the ambulance. “You’ve not said a word since we got in there.”

“I knew her,” I said as I started the truck. “Went to her a couple of weeks ago after her team won a bowling match. Emphysema.” She’d been laughing.

“Shit,” he said.

Not much else you can say about that.

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