Rise by Karen Campbell Page B

shining liquid in her phone-beam. She hadn’t noticed, on the way out, how the white of the road sign is set to pulse when hit by light. No sign of a crash, no trace of boy, or motorhome. It must have skliffed a tree. What kind of a speed is that to drive on country roads? Hopefully the thing will have a great big dent in its side, at least. But where is he? The boy? She shines her phone in greater and greater circles.
    Over by the grass, just before it falls into a gully; something dark and huddled. A bundle of clothes, half on the road. Bright colours: a purple sock, toe pointing at a training shoe further down the ditch. Justine drops bag, brolly, runs towards the heap; it, him, he must’ve been dragged along, it is only seconds since he passed, was running past all strong and solid on gleaming feet. With a whoosh, that fucking whoosh.
    Keep running .
    Only for an instant.
    He is lying, one leg angled at a sharp obtuse. Pink bone pushing wrinkles through his thigh like puckers on rice pudding. His wee white face; he’s just a kid.
    ‘Ho! Hoi! Can you hear me?’
    No movement. Then a gurgle, a tongue loll. A sliver of tongue comes away, where he must have bitten it.
    ‘Ssh. Hey, it’s fine. Don’t try to talk, all right? I’ll get help. You . . . I’ll go—’
    She tries to pull him off the tarmac completely; it’s his uninjured leg that lies on the road, but still, he screams, not him exactly, but the cavity of his chest flares up, expels its outrage, and she can’t move him any more. Her mobile is still in her hand. With stuttery fingers, she stabs three nines.
    ‘Ambulance please.’
    Bad line, a metallic voice. A woman. ‘Yes, caller. You need an ambulance?’
    ‘It’s an accident. Just outside Kilmacarra. A boy’s been knocked down really, really bad. His bone’s out his leg—’
    ‘Can I just take . . . few details. What’s . . . name please?’
    ‘Look, you need to get someone here now. Now, d’you understand? It’s actually sticking out of his leg. He’s unconscious—’
    ‘Where exactly . . .’ it drifts ‘. . . you are?’
    ‘I don’t know the name . . . we’re on a bend in the road, just outside Kilmacarra. There’s a sign for Kinmore and there’s a massive big chevron on the bend that kind of flashes. Do you know where we are?’
    ‘Kilmacarra? Heading east or west?’
    ‘I don’t know. There’s a chevron, a bloody great chevron sign that glows in the dark.’
    ‘A chevron. Yes.’
    ‘He’s by the road. Just at the big bend outside Kilmacarra. Tell them to go really slow when they see the chevron, right?’
    ‘It might . . . helpful . . . flag . . . ambulance down. Do you . . . torch?’
    ‘Yes . . . no. Look, what do I do?’
    ‘It’s important . . . keep his airways clear . . . he breathing?’
    ‘Aye . . . well. He’s gurgling.’
    ‘OK. You . . . to check for obstructions. Can . . . finger in his mouth? Check . . . tongue—’
    ‘How long will you be?’
    ‘There’ll be . . . soon as possible. Now, if . . . your name? Madam? Son?’
    Justine hangs up. Raises the boy’s head upon her lap. The hidden notes crack like dry leaves. ‘Ssh now. It’s all right. You hang on now. There’s help coming. You hang on. Please.’
    She tries to hook her finger in his mouth, she tries, but it’s all blood and swollen. Cannot push herself inside that. Babbling at him, murmuring. Rocking him, rounded metal in her shoulder blades. Soft curls on her knees. Wet. Behind her eyelids is a pressing image. Curly waves. It was on the flag, the car’s flag. Carefully, she inches her arm into her pocket. There’s rubbish, sweetie papers, a hanky. An eyeliner. With the soft tip, Justine copies what she remembers. It is in her head, so it doesn’t matter that it’s dark. ‘Dah.’
    She bends her neck forward to the boy.
    ‘Da-ah.’ His eyes are crammed-tight shut, his whole face is crammed and twisted,