The Hands by Stephen Orr Page A

wrong.’
    He heard sirens and, in the distance, doors slamming and feet on bitumen. There was a short silence. When he looked into the sky, with its lines and circles and scattering of stars, there was a figure beside him saying, ‘Nothing broken … do you think you can stand up?’
    â€˜Yes.’ He sat up, splayed his legs and stumbled to his feet.
    â€˜Steady,’ the paramedic said, helping him.
    â€˜I’m okay.’ He reclaimed his arm and looked at the car, mostly intact, its edges and corners crushed smooth. ‘Everyone’s alright?’
    â€˜You should go with your son.’
    â€˜Righto.’
    The man led him towards the road. He looked back at the torches poking around inside the car. ‘What have I done?’ he asked.
    â€˜Don’t worry about that. Your son needs you now.’
    â€˜Carelyn?’
    â€˜Come on. We got him out, but his leg’s smashed up.’
    He felt the road beneath his feet. He was blinded by the light inside the ambulance—clean, white, drugged and bandaged, electrical equipment packed into bays; a spot for the sheets and a shelf for the rugs; little blue boxes full of dressings packed in plastic; a drip stand, a bag of clear fluid and a tube leading to his son’s arm; a catheter and his boy, bare-shouldered and flat-chested, lying on a chaotic bed of linen and torn plastic.
    â€˜Christ, Harry,’ he said to him, climbing into the ambulance, sitting on a seat that was half as wide as his arse, squeezing in beside a second paramedic. This man smiled at him and said, ‘Relax, it’s just his leg.’
    Trevor met his eyes. Right, he wanted to say. Nothing serious? But he looked at his son and wasn’t convinced. The paint on his arms and hands, his hair, wet with sweat, pushed back off his face by one of these strangers; the rug across his belly and the red cast clamped around his leg.
    He leaned forward and ran his hand across his face. ‘Harry, can you hear me?’ he asked, but the paramedic just said, ‘He was awake … but we’ve given him a sedative.’
    The back doors closed and they drove off, quickly picking up speed, switching on their lights and siren and hurtling down the highway.
    â€˜You the father?’ the driver called back.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    He held his son’s hand and stroked it. It was warm, and he could feel the bones and knuckles. He looked at his small lips, redder than usual, and his ski-jump nose with its little beads of sweat. His eyebrows, rising as they met in the middle of his face. ‘Christ … sorry,’ he said.
    The world had stopped. There was nothing beyond the ambulance, the road, the two little tabs stuck to Harry’s chest, the monitor and the numbers that meant nothing to him. ‘Christ.’ He cried, placing his son’s hand on his knees, dropping his head down onto it, smelling him, gasping.
    The paramedic touched his shoulder. ‘People have accidents. He’ll come good.’ He indicated the trace that described the boy’s will to live.
    Trevor took a deep breath. He wanted to thank him. To say, Enough of this and you might make me believe. Instead, he said, ‘What about my other son?’
    â€˜He went in the other ambulance. Seemed okay, but he’d knocked his head, so they put him in a brace.’
    Harry opened his eyes and saw his father. He smiled.
    â€˜It’s just your leg,’ Trevor said.
    â€˜Again,’ the paramedic said to Harry. ‘One to ten.’
    â€˜Nine.’
    â€˜We’re nearly there,’ Trevor said, and Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath from the mask over his nose and mouth.
    â€˜My wife?’ Trevor asked.
    The paramedic looked at him, thinking, deciding. ‘There was another ambulance.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜They’ve got her.’
    â€˜But she’s