Page 67 of Deep Blue Lies

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I’ve seen dead bodies before. In medical school we were given a cadaver to learn anatomy.

There weren’t enough to go around, so me and two friends had to share one, a man in his sixties we called Doug – because he’d been dug up – though of course he hadn’t really.

I’ve seen people die too, in my hospital placements.

But that was different, there were qualified people there who took over, who knew what to do.

Here I’m alone. But after a few moments, something from those experiences kicks in: the first thing is to establish if the person really is dead.

Check for signs of life.

“Imogen?” It’s stupid, calling out to her, but I still feel that squeamish sense I had with Doug.

I don’t want to touch her, I don’t want to get near.

I look at her chest. Is it moving? I can’t see.

The carotid artery , it’s on the neck. It’s the surest place to find a pulse.

I hold my breath and press two fingers to the side of her neck.

She’s still warm to the touch, hot even – I register that – but I can’t feel anything.

And then I can. It’s faint, but there’s something there.

And then maybe my fingers slip, because I don’t feel it anymore.

Maybe I only imagined it the first time?

I look around, but there’s still no one here.

No one to help. In a panic I check her eyes.

They’re closed but I gently lift one lid.

If she’s dead the pupil will be fixed and dilated – wide and unresponsive to light – but at once I see it contract from the bright sunlight.

She’s alive. I rock back on my heels, still shocked and stunned, and I have no idea what to do next.

Help, I need help.

I look around. There’s no one else in this tiny cove, but I saw people in the one before.

I run back, a few steps away, already panicking that I’m doing the wrong thing in leaving her, but I push on, around the corner, where the couple I saw before are now laid one on top of the other.

They might even be having sex, but I don’t care.

“Help! Help me please!” I run halfway towards them, and the man jumps off the woman like they’re hit with a bolt of electricity. He rolls over, he still has his shorts on, thank God.

“Help! Please, help me.” Slowly the man climbs to his feet, looking at me, half-scared, half-angry.

“What?” His accent is heavily Greek, but he speaks in English. I didn’t even consider he might not be able to.

“There’s a woman. She’s been attacked, in the next bay. I need you to phone an ambulance.” I breathe out. “Please, hurry.”

He stares at me – does he understand? Can he speak English? I start to repeat myself. But he cuts me off, speaking quickly in Greek to the woman. She doesn’t move, and he speaks again, faster, more urgent.

“Please, you must phone an ambulance,” I begin, and he cuts me off again.

“Yes, she is doing. Where is this woman?”

Slowly – too slowly – the woman takes her phone and, her eyes on the man, she begins to dial. It’s strange, I see the keys she presses. In Greece the number is 112. Finally, I know.

I realise the man is still waiting for me.

“It’s this way.” I start back towards the narrow headland and to where I left Imogen.

It only takes a few moments, but I wonder in that time if I’ve imagined it, if I’m going to find Imogen there perfectly healthy, or if she’s not there at all.

But nothing has changed. Except maybe she looks worse somehow, the wound on her head still seeping blood that’s running through her hair, over her face and torso – and now I realise all over my hands as well.

The wetness on her dress. I smell it now, it’s urine.

“What happened?” the man asks, his eyes are wide open, his pupils flared.

“I don’t know. I just found her like this.”

He nods, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do. I hear a woman’s voice and realise the girl has followed us, she must be on the phone to the emergency services.

“Tell them it’s a head wound,” I spin to her.

“Possible brain injury. They have to come more quickly for that.” I have no idea if this is true in Greece, but I remember being told this back home.

The woman doesn’t react though, I realise maybe she doesn’t understand me.

So I say it again, turning to the man this time.

“It’s a head wound. Brain injury, they need to come quickly.”

He translates it, then nods at me when his girlfriend has relayed the message.

His face is sickly white now and I hope he’s not going to throw up.

Somehow this helps me though, and I start looking around for something to help control the bleeding.

There isn’t anything except a scarf where Imogen’s bag has been emptied.

I grab and fold it, shaking off the sand, before pressing it gently against the wound, just enough to stem the flow of blood, but not to press against her brain, some of which – I now see – is visible through the mess of her hair. This is horrible. Awful.

“They are coming,” the man tells me. “The doctors are coming. They say they will come by boat, because is difficult to get here by car.”

I nod, thinking. What else should I do? Now I’m so close to her, I can see the rise and fall of her chest, hear the air flowing in and out. I need to keep the airways open. Talk to her, try to get a response.

“Imogen? Can you hear me?”

Nothing .

I have no idea how much time passes. I can’t remember how long the man told me the ambulance would be, or even whether he did.

I feel like I’ve been here for ever, holding the scarf against Imogen’s head, just enough to stop the flow of blood, feeling my hands pressing against her actual brain.

There are more people around us now. I suppose it’s the people from the first bay, where the cafe was.

Some people are asking questions, but most are just watching.

Then another man squats down, he’s middle aged, he tells me he’s a doctor, gently he takes over from me.

His hands move across her body with more confidence.

“What’s your name?” he asks me, and I tell him.

“You’ve done well, Ava, you’ve done really well. Take a step back now.”

So I do, and a space opens out in the little crowd around me, as if no one wants to stand too close to the English girl with blood all over her hands and top.

I glance at my watch, it’s eleven fifty-five.

I’ve been here nearly an hour. Time flies when you’re having fun, even more when you’re terrified.

I look at my hands, my blouse, stained red with Imogen’s blood.

Still I’m not really thinking, I’m just being , reacting.

Here in this impossible space on this beach, with the world spinning out of control around me.

A boat arrives, causing a buzz among the watchers on the beach.

It’s similar to Kostas’ dive boats – I almost think at first that it is one of his, but I remember there were dozens of similar boats moored in the harbour in Kastria.

There’s two men sitting at the front in red uniforms, another man is driving.

They nudge the bow onto the shore, and the men in red step out and jog up the beach.

One’s carrying a medical bag. They kneel beside the doctor, and between the three of them I lose sight of Imogen’s body.

And then the magnitude of it all hits me.

I feel suddenly sick, like I might actually throw up, and I find myself moving towards the sea, to wash the blood from my hands.

I wade in, still with my shoes on, and scrub my hands, splashing water over my face and top.

Then I stagger back onto the sand and fall to my knees.

Another boat arrives. This one is obviously some sort of police boat.

It’s bigger, with actual blue lights and a siren.

Perhaps it ought to sharpen my mind, but it doesn’t.

I just watch it arrive, two officers jumping clear into the shallow water, even though they have boots on, which get wet before they wade up the shore.

They have radios and speak into them almost constantly while they assess the scene.

I’m apart from everything now, away from where Imogen is being transferred onto a type of sled thing.

I’m late in realising I can’t just sit here, watching from afar – they’re going to want to speak to me.

And then they do. I watch as the man I first called for help points me out.

Then one of the police officers strides over to me.