“She’s bleeding. Isabel’s bleeding.” Rob shifted under me so my arm was pinned even further into the door. “She’s banged up her head.”
“It’s my arm.” No one seemed to appreciate my poor hapless limb, which was being crushed past the point of no return. I squinted out of the window, but all I could see was grass and hedges. “We’re in a field?”
There was a blast of cold air as the boy sitting next to us opened the passenger door and scrambled out, pulling the seat forward so everyone could climb over. Each tiny movement sent a jolt of pain ricocheting through me, which was nothing compared to the OMG-I’m-going-to-fucking-die-ness of Rob beginning to wriggle out from under me.
“What are you doing? Keep still,” I whimpered, clamping my other hand around his wrist.
“Gotta get out,” he muttered. “We can’t stay here. Someone will have called the police.”
“I don’t care.”
There was a banging on my side of the car as Ratboy struggled to open the door, and Rob took advantage of my momentary distraction to slide himself free. I plunked down on the seat, jarring my arm just enough that if I’d had a big knife I’d have cut it off—it couldn’t have hurt any less.
The door was finally pried open, and I turned my head and tried to smile. Why was I trying to smile? Ella was still crying, but Nancy peered at me curiously before her eyes widened in alarm.
“Is, you need to get your hand out,” she said urgently. “Just pull it out.”
“That’s a good idea,” I muttered thickly. “Wonder why I didn’t think of that.”
“She’s covered in blood,” Ella sobbed, before Ratboy pushed her out of the way and peered in.
“Man, you look really fucked up,” he breathed.
“I’m fine. Just . . . I’ve got blood in my eyes—and could someone wipe my face? Please?”
He scrubbed at my forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, and I guess I was cut up because it felt like millions of tiny needles pricking into my skin. It took my mind off my arm for at least five seconds.
“We need to call an ambulance,” Ella spluttered, hiccuping gently. “She might need to be cut out.”
“She’s fine,” Rob insisted, coming up behind Ratboy. “I’m going to get your arm free.”
“Oh no, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me . . .”
“Look, it might be broken and she shouldn’t be moved.” Nancy tried to pull him back, but he shook her off.
“Right, Isabel, hold Sean’s hand,” he ordered me, and I frowned.
“Who the hell’s Sean? Do you mean Ratboy?”
“Bitch . . .”
“Just hold her hand, mate, and let me just . . . this might hurt a bit.”
No good ever comes out of those five words. It didn’t hurt a bit. It hurt a lot. It hurt so much that I squeezed Sean’s hand so hard that the bones crunched together, and then I threw up this acidic flurry of vomit all over myself as Rob pulled my arm free.
SNAP!
Your body shouldn’t make snapping noises. There should be a law against it. “Well, it’s broken now,” I said, and then their shocked faces were receding into the distance and the darkness was licking away at me.
Let'sGetLost
Let's Get Lost
25
I really didn’t want to, but someone was telling me to open my eyes and I was kinda curious to see what the afterlife was like.
Peeling my eyelids back took a considerable amount of effort, and I needn’t have bothered because the afterlife sucked. I was flat on my back on wet grass with Nancy and Ella looming anxiously above me.
All these things occurred to me at the same time: the ammonia stench of sick; the cold, wet feel of the grass penetrating through my coat; the aching cut on my forehead; the bruised tenderness down my right side. And I found that if I thought about all of them, then I didn’t have to think about my arm. It was like I could flick this switch and turn off the part of my brain that dealt with arm stuff. It was actually pretty cool.
“Get me up,” I croaked. “Get me out of my coat, it’s gross.”
“You shouldn’t move, you might have a concussion,” Nancy said hoarsely, but I was already groping with my good arm for Ella’s hand.
“I’m fine,” I repeated for about the seventieth time that night. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, Is, the boys have just left us!” Ella gasped indignantly.
“They got you out of the car and then they were worried about the police so they ran off, but Sean said we should call for a taxi but then we thought you might need an ambulance and then I got really worried that you were dead, and in the end we didn’t know what to do.”
I concentrated on her inane chatter as she and Nancy carefully pulled me upright. As I put all my weight on my feet, the blood rushed up and I staggered. Nancy’s arm shot around my waist to stop me from toppling back to the ground.
“Oooh, wow, head rush.” I shut my eyes and waited for the spinning to stop and wondered whether I should throw up again. I decided against it. “Let’s hear it for my endorphins, they rock.”
“Is, are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”
“So . . . God, look at the car.” I stumbled toward the buckled Nissan, which was leaning drunkenly against the wall we’d smashed into. My side of the car was completely dented in. “It’s always amazing when you see the wreck and you’re all, like, how did I manage to survive that? Can we take my coat off now?”
Nancy and Ella were in this little huddle, but I snapped my working fingers at them and they hurried over. At least they knew that I was back in charge.
“Coat. Off. Now! And don’t touch my right arm or I’ll puke all over you.”
I was actually starting to feel good about stuff. I hadn’t been killed, which was a definite plus in the pro column, and I couldn’t feel my arm and judging by the “ewwww’s,” Nancy and Ella got sick on their hands as they unbuttoned my red coat. I held myself very still as Nancy worked it over my arm, biting down hard on my lip as I felt something pop, but I was too fascinatedby what was emerging from my sleeve to worry about that.
“Okay, I’m calling an ambulance now, Is.” Nancy’s voice was operating at batlike sonar frequency. “What the fuck is that lump?”
It looked like my elbow had shifted about ten centimeters, because there was something that must have been a bone jutting out beneath my skin. “It’s all right, it doesn’t hurt,” I said breezily, letting my arm dangle. “So, hey, what’s the plan? And it had better not involve the emergency services because we’re wanted fugitives.”
“I don’t know,” Nancy said helplessly.
“Which is why you’re always destined to be the sidekick, Nance,” I told her kindly. “We’re in a field, so I guess no one can see us from the road. We need to call someone to take us back into town.”
I raised my eyebrows at them because did I have to do everything? “We could call Nancy’s brother, I s’pose,” Ella suggested. “And he could take us home.”
Nancy nodded. She seemed a bit subdued after my sidekick dig. “Yeah, we could do that.”
The stars, which I’d been staring at, morphed into a million pieces of fluttering paper. “I can’t go home. He’ll ship me off to God-botherers’ school.”
He would, too, wonky arm and all. After he’d made me glue every single one of his books back together. And when I thought about how my life had descended into this cruel practical joke, my mind turned to Smith as it invariably did because he was the only one who could explain the punch line.
Nancy already had her phone out. “Hang on! Wait . . . did you call him? Did you call Smith and tell him about me?”
“Is, I don’t . . . this isn’t the time, okay? Do you know how much I wish I could just take it back and . . .”
I cut right through the historical event that was Nancy actually trying to apologize. “Because if you did, you’ve still got his number in your phone, and I need him to put me back together again.”
r /> Nancy huddled into her coat and she seemed smaller, diminished. “I can’t get a signal.”
“Well, start walking until you can.”
“Yeah and I could just call an ambulance . . .”
“Which I don’t need, and if you do then they’ll call the police and I’ll . . . I’ll tell them it was all your idea—and my arm looks like there’s a freaking alien in it waiting to bust right through— and who do you think they’re going to believe? I want Smith! Call him right the hell now and get him to pick me up!”
“Whatever, Is,” Nancy snapped, and that was okay. I could handle her hating me more than her shop-soiled version of sympathy. “Christ, you’ve got a broken arm and a concussion and all you can do is order me around and be a bitch.”
“Why are you still here?” I asked her testily, and she turned away with a flounce, her phone held out in front of her like she was divining for water. “And my arm is not broken!”
She was gone for ages but, thankfully, Ella was far more conciliatory. I made her toss my coat in the back of the car and retrieve my bag.
“I found these, too!” she panted, running back to me with two cans of lager. “Maybe you should drink some for the shock, like brandy.”
I wasn’t in shock. I was thinking clearly—for the first time in ages—that all of this was some wonderful form of provenance to bring Smith back. But if I stopped concentrating on not concentrating about my arm, I could feel this sharp, angry throbbing that made me catch my breath.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I should have a toothbrush and some Colgate in my bag.”
Ella helped me brush my teeth with lager and toothpaste, which made me want to hurl again. Then I got her to hold up my mirror, even though it was practically pitch-dark, so we could try and lose a little of the car crash victim vibe.
“Maybe if I put some lipstick on you, he won’t notice the gash on your forehead,” Ella said helpfully.
I was all ready for my close-up and swigging back lager as fast as I could, when Nancy came back.
“He’s coming to get you,” she said before I could even form the question. “And no, he’s not happy about it, and yes, he’s still really pissed off with you and you shouldn’t be drinking!”
“I’m in shock,” I said smugly, but the throbbing was getting harder to ignore. If I got drunk again, it would help. Couldn’t hurt, anyway.
“If you die because you’ve been drinking alcohol while you’re concussed then don’t come crying to me,” Nancy said darkly.
“Then I’ll come and haunt your ugly arse and move your furniture about and scrawl things on your bedroom wall in blood,” I added. It was just like old times. Also, being vile to Nancy gave me something to do that didn’t involve wondering if my arm was, like, torn. “Someone light a cigarette for me.”
Climbing up the ditch that separated the field from the road was excruciating. I couldn’t see where to put my feet and nearly fell over. In the end, Ella pushed and Nancy pulled and they managed to get me up on to the pavement with the can of lager still upright.
That was more than can be said of me. The head-rush thing was happening again, but it didn’t feel quite so good. “I need to sit down.” My voice was coming from a long way away.
“You can’t. You need to stay on your feet until that freak of yours turns up,” Nancy snarled, folding her arms. “It’s bloody freezing.”
The cold was just one other thing to deal with that I couldn’t. “I could just lie down on the verge for a bit,” I murmured to myself.
“You look really weird, Is,” Ella said, glancing at me. “You’ve gone really pale. Maybe you should drink some more.”
Nancy snatched the can out of my hand. “She’s not drinking! Grab hold of her!”
They stood there, one on either side of me as I swayed unsteadily and groaned at the gnawing sensation, which traveled down from my armpit. There was nothing to do but look up expectantly each time we caught sight of a pair of headlights coming toward us. Only one car stopped, but that was just this old guy who wanted to know if we were okay, until Nancy told him to piss off.
I couldn’t bear it any longer—pulled under from pain and the certainty that Smith wouldn’t show up. Then I heard a faint put-put-put noise and we were lit up in the glow of headlights as a car crested the brim of the hill.
“He’s here,” I whispered, and saying it made it true because his little car was slowly coming toward us. “I look okay, right?”
Nancy snorted incredulously, but Ella was smoothing back my hair. “You look great,” she said without an ounce of sincerity.
I took a step forward—so it didn’t look like Nancy and Ella were holding me up—and waited patiently for him to open the door and uncoil himself from the driver’s seat.
“If this is one of your sick little jokes and you just need a lift back to town then I’m gonna leave you here,” he said savagely, walking around the car but not looking at me, like I was Medusa and the sight of me would turn him to stone.
I waggled the fingers of my good hand feebly. “Hey, hi, you.” I thought Ella and I had done a damn good job with our scene of the crime makeover, but he lifted his head when I spoke, then put one hand on the back of the car to steady himself.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, whipping around to glare at Nancy. “You said she was okay.”
“I said she was sort of okay,” Nancy replied haughtily. “Look, you have to persuade her to go to the hospital.”
“It’s, like, so rude to talk about me as if I’m not here,” I said to Ella, who patted my shoulder comfortingly.
“Get in the car,” Smith commanded, yanking open the passenger door.
“Why are you so angry with me?” I whined, shrinking back against Ella because his most withering expression was worse than when he wouldn’t look at me at all.
There was the toot of a horn and Nancy abruptly let go, so I had to cling to Ella. “It’s my brother—come on, Ell.”
Ella yelped in relief. “Gotta go, Is. Smith’s here now, and he’ll probably look after you,” she added doubtfully. “Can you come and get her, because I think she’s about to fall over?”
Smith’s face twisted darkly as he walked over. “You’re not going anywhere until you help me get her into the car,” he said in his most menacing voice, and Ella obviously wanted out because she was yanking me toward him with indecent haste, each step making me whimper in pain.
“Stop bumping her,” Smith hissed, lowering me onto the seat as gently as a doddery maiden aunt. Once he was sure that I was in, he shut the door very carefully, then said something to Ella, which made her burst into tears before she ran off.
I leaned back against the headrest, with a hand to my frantically beating heart, and shut my eyes as he opened the door and got in. There was a small click and I could feel the overhead light come on. Then his fingers on me, as he tilted my chin and brushed back my hair, which was sticking to my forehead.
“Looks pretty deep, I think you need stitches,” he said calmly. “Where else are you hurt?”
I opened my eyes with a superhuman effort and tried to lift my hand so I could touch him. He was too far away. “I just want to go back to your place and sleep. I’m so tired.”
“Where else are you hurt, Isabel?” he repeated mechanically, and I knew then that the only way to get him back was to be so broken that he’d be scared that he couldn’t make me right again.
“My arm,” I whispered, and it worked because he looked down at it in all its mangled glory and sucked in a breath. I couldn’t even look at it anymore—in fact, amputation was starting to seem like a valid lifestyle choice.
“It’s broken,” he said finally. “In about fifty different places, apparently. Right, I’m calling your dad, because I’m guessing that was pretty low on your list of things to do, and then I’m taking you to the hospital. Now remind me of your number.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“You are un-fucking-believable, you know tha
t?” He was leaning over me, trying to snag the end of my seat belt without putting any pressure on my arm, and his breath hit the side of my face like a kiss.
“I know I lied to you about practically everything, but when I said I loved you, I meant it. I still do.”
“I’m going to put this down to a concussion,” he said, winding the seat belt around me and under my arm. “I’m taking you to the hospital, which is nonnegotiable, and we’ll take the issue of calling home under advisement, right?”
“Right. But you promise you won’t be mad at me . . . hate it so much.”
He didn’t say anything, just turned the key in the ignition.