Cold in Hand

Twenty-three

Resnick had been kneeling beside her when the ambulance arrived. Blood on his shirt, his face, his mouth, his tongue. The first shot had struck Lynn in the chest; the second, fired from closer range, had torn away part of her face, exposing her jaw. Already there were no signs of breathing, no response. After calling emergency services, his voice cracked, wavering, unrecognisable, Resnick had knelt and tilted back her head, pinched her nose, and covered her mouth with his own. Breathed in twice, two seconds, watching for some movement; breathed again, harder, seeing the faintest rising of her chest. Another breath and her head jerked once against his hands, and she coughed blood into his mouth.

"Come on," he said. "Come on!"

Her eyes were open, staring, registering nothing.

Shifting his position and interlacing his fingers, Resnick pressed down on the centre of her chest. Blood oozed out over his hands as if he were leaning on a sponge.

Thirty compressions and then two breaths.

Thirty compressions more and the sound of sirens.

Keep going, keep going.

Sirens loud and louder in his ears, lights that flashed and circled like a fairground around his head; thirty compressions and two breaths, and they had to prise his hands away; halfdrag, half-pull him to his feet and lever him aside so that they could move in with their equipment, begin their work. One of the paramedics-Resnick would always remember this-was young, with a freckled face, freckled around the nose and cheeks even at that time of year, a freckled face and sandy, almost ginger hair-why did he notice that and not the light going from Lynn's eyes as they rolled back in her head?

More people now, more cars; someone pushed a glass of water towards him and it slipped and shattered on the path; someone else put a hand gently on his arm and he brushed it away. Several people spoke words he didn't understand. The paramedics were lifting her up and carrying her towards the ambulance and, stumbling once, Resnick hurried forward, calling after her, calling her name.

One of the paramedics helped him into the back of the ambulance and, breathing ragged and harsh, he sat beside her, leaning forward, her cold hand growing colder in his own.

He couldn't remember, later, leaving the ambulance or entering the hospital-just that he was suddenly there and in the corridor, and a doctor was standing in front of him, putting out both hands as if to restrain him, and speaking all the time, explaining, while behind him they were wheeling her away, not walking, hurrying, almost running.

A nurse led him to a place where he was supposed to wait.

Another brought a cup of hot, sweet tea and the smell and taste of the tea and the taste and smell of blood made him retch, and the nurse helped him to the men's room where he threw up into the lavatory bowl and then knelt there on the damp floor, his forehead resting against the cold, spattered edge of porcelain, listening to his own breathing as it slowed and slowed until he felt he could push himself to his feet, just, and turn, steadying himself for a moment against the cubicle door, before walking the four long paces to the sink and splashing cold water again and again in his face, a face that, in the mirror, looked more like a mask than it did his own.

"Lynn," he said. And again, "Lynn, Lynn!"

The nurse was waiting outside, anxious, and she led him back to where there were others, also waiting, faces he knew and vaguely recognised, faces showing sympathy, concern, and then the doctor stepped between them and Resnick knew what he had known ever since he had seen her body, one arm flung out, one leg folded beneath her on the path; ever since he had forced his breath into the cold, bloodied void of her mouth.

Lynn Alice Kellogg, pronounced dead, 23:35.