Finton Moon

Finton Moon by Gerard Collins Page A

Book: Finton Moon by Gerard Collins Read Free Book Online
Authors: Gerard Collins
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blocks had slid away, lowering the Volkswagen just enough to pin Tom underneath. It was only by a hair’s breadth that he escaped being crushed. “Finton!” he yelled. “Come here!”
    Within seconds, Finton was on his knees beside his father’s blueclad leg, looking underneath the car and asking if he was all right.
    â€œSee can ya pull me out, b’y—Jesus’ sake! Hurry up!”
    Finton positioned himself at his father’s feet. A quick look around confirmed that no one else had come running, so he grabbed his father’s ankles and pulled.
    â€œHarder, b’y! Put some muscle into it!”
    â€œI’m trying,” he said, panic setting in. “I’ll be right back.” He scurried outside and yelled, “Somebody! Help! Dad’s stuck under a car!” Within seconds, three men came running from the scrap yard, assessed the situation and, within a short time, two men—and Finton—lifted the small car while another man pulled Tom from beneath the VW. His father was dazed, even a little shocked, as he sat on the concrete floor, holding his grease-blackened, quivering hand in front of him. Blood dripped onto the concrete between his legs and pooled into a dark circle.
    â€œWe’ve gotta get you to the hospital, Tom,” said the oldest of the three men, with grey sideburns and wearing a baseball cap with “Pat” on the front. Finton recognized him as Pat Taylor, who owned the garage.
    â€œI’m coming,” said Finton.
    â€œNo,” said Tom. “Stay here with Pat. These men will take care o’ me.”
    â€œNo—I’m going.”
    â€œI’ll get my car,” said one of the men, and the other one followed him, while Pat stayed behind and bent down to assess Tom’s hand.
    â€œLooks pretty bad, b’y—I’ll get ya a clean rag. Must be one somewhere. Look after yer old man, young fella.” He gave Finton’s hair a quick scrub and went off to look.
    â€œGive it here,” said Finton.
    â€œWha’?” Tom looked startled, as if the boy was speaking a foreign language.
    â€œLet me see it—quick.”
    Appearing stunned, Tom held out his trembling hand for Finton to see. It was bruised so ugly that Finton couldn’t look at it. The blood ran freely and was particularly dark around the wound in his father’s palm, where the skin had been scraped and pulled. The bluish discolouration reminded him of a cut he’d had in his own palm once when he’d wrecked Homer’s bike in the lane. That one had healed within seconds and had needed only to have the rocks picked out of it. This one was much worse.
    Carefully, he cupped his hands and placed one on each side of his father’s bloody palm. He drew a deep breath. The hand quivered violently, but Finton managed to steady it enough. Within seconds, his father’s breathing began to stabilize. “Holy Mary Mother of God,” Finton kept saying over and over. Eyes closed, he imagined a place far away—high above the garage, in a different dimension, beyond the earth and its planets—and, at last, his Planet of Solitude.
    â€œWe’re here,” he said and glanced down to see his father’s head in his lap, peaceful and happy, no angry lines on his face. “Everything’s okay, Dad. I’m here.”
    Tom didn’t speak, just kept beaming up at his son.
    â€œThere,” Finton said. At the sound of a voice, he opened his eyes. He was holding his father’s hand, while Tom was sitting up, head laid back against the side of the Volkswagen, his face twisted in anguish and appearing ready to pass out.
    â€œThis should do the trick,” said Pat, getting down on his knees beside the patient and snapping open a first-aid kit. He pulled out a gauze bandage and began to unroll it. “This might hurt a bit, Tom. Hold out your hand.”
    With glazed eyes, Tom scrutinized his

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