LITMIR.BIZ

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parts.’

      ‘Are you a goldminer, Digger?’

      ‘Just a…hobby.’

      ‘Digger’s a man of many talents,’ Guy said quietly. ‘Sheep shearer, rodeo king, deer hunter, top-dressing pilot, tavern manager and more recently a tour guide. He knows this country better than anyone.’

      ‘Wish I…knew where…the bloody hell…we are…right…now…’

      The difficulty he had in speaking had increased markedly. As Digger forced out the last vehement word he made a gagging sound and was suddenly silent.

      ‘Digger?’ Jennifer twisted onto her knees, her head scraping the canvas above her. She had the earpieces of her stethoscope fitted and was pulling away the covering on Digger’s chest as Guy’s shadow loomed behind the bright beam of the torch.

      ‘We’ve lost any breath sounds on the left.’

      ‘Digger?’ Guy was unable to elicit any response. He swore under his breath.

      ‘Help me unbandage this arm,’ Jennifer directed. ‘And then find a needle. I think that pneumothorax has finally tensioned.’

      ‘I don’t have a chest decompression needle in this kit.’

      ‘A 12-gauge cannula will do. And a syringe.’

      Unwrapping Digger’s arm from where it was splinting his broken ribs was awkward enough in the cramped conditions. Shifting their patient so he was lying flat took precious seconds and finding the equipment she needed was frustratingly slow.

      ‘I said a 12-gauge.’

      ‘Fourteen’s the best I’ve got.’

      ‘I can’t see a damn thing.’

      ‘That’s because you’ve got your head in the way.’

      The canvas roof moved and Jennifer could hear a rock or two rolling away from anchoring their shelter as Guy moved further towards Digger’s head and pointed the torch straight down.

      Jennifer felt the ridges of Digger’s ribs, counting to find the second intercostal space. Then she moved sideways until the needle tip was under the midpoint of the clavicle.

      ‘OK, here we go.’ She let the needle scrape over the top of the lower rib to avoid the bundle of nerves and veins beneath the higher rib. The pop as the tip pierced tissue over the air space could be heard as well as felt. Escaping air that had been trapped in the chest cavity, crushing the lung, came out in a hiss. ‘Got it,’ Jennifer said in relief. ‘Let me have that syringe and I’ll make sure I aspirate any more air or blood that’s trapped.’

      ‘What are you going to do with the needle?’

      ‘I’ll take it out and leave the catheter in situ. We’ll cover it with an occlusive dressing but it may need aspirating again. He needs a tube thoracostomy as soon as possible.’ Jennifer reached for the stethoscope but she could see that the lung was starting to function. The window of broken ribs was showing the disconcerting paradoxical movement again.

      ‘We’d better get his arm splinting that again.’

      ‘Hang on just a second.’ Jennifer was positioning the disc of the stethoscope below Digger’s clavicle. ‘I’ll listen to his chest and check his abdomen quickly first. How’s his LOC looking?’’

      ‘He’s coming round.’

      Digger was conscious again by the time they had him propped back up, leaning towards his injured side. He was also in pain.

      ‘I’ll draw up another dose of morphine,’ Guy decided. ‘Your turn to hold the torch, Jenna.’

      ‘Sure.’ Jennifer flicked the beam upwards. ‘We need to hang another bag of saline as well.’

      Except it wasn’t just another bag. It was the last bag, and it was going to be totally inadequate to replace the blood volume being lost internally if the increasing tension of Digger’s abdomen was anything to go by. With the added stress of lacking oxygen due to respiratory distress, the shocked state Digger was already in would rapidly worsen. It was highly likely to become irreversible. And there wasn’t a damned thing either of them could do about it.

      The morphine made Digger a lot more comfortable, but his level of consciousness gradually decreased over the next hour or so. He could speak a little more freely now, but his thoughts were wandering and after a time of bitter self-recrimination for the accident and fatalities Digger seemed to forget where he was.

      ‘I’ll have a whisky, thanks, Di…Bloody cold tonight, eh?’

      ‘Sure is.’ Jennifer pulled the folds of the pale blue anorak more tightly around her and drew her knees up to her stomach. ‘What time do you think it is, Guy?’

      ‘I’ve no idea. I’ll check my watch the next time we use the torch.’

      ‘Ah…Diana,’ Digger murmured. ‘The goddess.’

      ‘Who’s he talking about?’ Jennifer whispered.

      ‘The woman he was in love with for years.’

      ‘Oh?’ Something in Guy’s tone left a question unanswered.

      ‘She was also my mother.’

      ‘Oh.’ Jennifer frowned in the darkness. ‘So, is Digger your father, then?’

      ‘Closest thing I ever had to one, anyway.’

      ‘Stepfather?’

      ‘No.’ The conversation was clearly over and silence fell until Digger’s voice startled them both.

      ‘Oi! What the hell…do you think you’re doing? Come here, you little bugger…and bring that back!’

      ‘It’s only us, Digger. Guy…and Jenna. We’re here with you.’ Guy’s voice was reassuring but Digger seemed oblivious.

      ‘I have to get up at sparrow’s fart…I don’t need some thieving kid…taking off with my smokes…’

      ‘Smoking’s bad for you, mate. You knew it was time to stop.’

      ‘Don’t need a snotty-nosed kid…telling me what to do…Just wait till I talk to…your mother…’

      ‘Did you steal Digger’s cigarettes?’ Jennifer found herself smiling. ‘Were you on a crusade or trying a life of crime?’

      ‘I was only twelve. A life of crime seemed a good idea at the time.’

      Guy was probably in his mid-thirties now, so he had known Digger for a very long time. A father figure. Jennifer remembered the glimpse of anguish she had seen on Guy’s face when he’d first confronted the extent of Digger’s injuries. Now he was lying close to someone he loved, and that person was dying. As if to emphasise her bleak thoughts, Digger mumbled something completely incoherent and lapsed into silence. Jennifer swallowed hard.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly into the darkness a minute or two later.

      ‘What for?’

      ‘That I can’t do more to help Digger.’

      There was a long hesitation before the response came. ‘Not half as sorry as I am.’

      Jennifer shrank a little further into the folds of her anorak as the depth of feeling in his words echoed in her head. Had that been a personal slight? Did he expect a consultant in emergency medicine to be able to perform some kind of miracle? She shook her head, dispelling the faintly paranoid notion. Given the bond that existed between these men, it was far more likely that the comment was a bitter reflection on his own inability to provide assistance.

      The sounds of Digger’s breathing filled the tiny tent. How long would his injured lungs manage to struggle on, trying to provide enough oxygen to keep cells alive? Jennifer looked upwards. She couldn’t see the

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