Page 36 of Never Tear Us Apart
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘Stand back,’ the doctor tells them, beckoning to Vittoria who hands the baby to an older lady, racing towards us with the bag. ‘Bring water. Vittoria, my bag.’
‘What can I do?’ I ask, refusing to move back with everyone else.
‘Be near – he knows you,’ she says. ‘He will be in shock. Take his hand. We need to check for injuries.’
I pick up Danny’s hand, pulling off his charred gloves.
Quickly and efficiently, the doctor opens his jacket and the shirt underneath. His torso is lean and tanned, no blood that I can see. Vittoria hands her a stethoscope, and she listens to his heart.
Then the two of them roll him onto one side, Vittoria keeping him in place as the doctor checks his back and legs for wounds, pulling off his scorched boot.
They repeat the process on the other side.
It takes some effort but I keep his limp hand in mine throughout this, unable to pinpoint the exact meaning of the swell of emotion tightening my chest. His fingers are bruised; one nail hangs loose.
‘Remarkable,’ the doctor mutters. ‘Hardly a scratch. Bring me water.’
Someone hands her a flask, and she promptly tips half of it over his face.
‘What the fu—?’ Danny splutters awake, sitting up abruptly. ‘Am I dead?’
‘Somehow, you are alive, and apart from smoke inhalation and the odd scratch, completely uninjured,’ the doctor tells him.
The passengers erupt into spontaneous applause as Danny looks at us with an expression of mild bemusement.
‘Stitches,’ he says, breaking into a lopsided grin as he realises that I’m holding his hand. ‘You sure I ain’t dead?’
‘You’re not dead.’ I squeeze his fingers a little too tightly, and he winces. ‘You made it out of there.’
‘The flying ace Danny Beauchamp!’ someone shouts.
‘The hero!’ another.
The small crowd of passengers hug one another, shaking hands and clasping arms. Somehow, from somewhere, someone produces a camera and tripod and sets it up to take a photo.
‘Whoa there.’ Danny holds up a hand when the would-be photographer approaches. ‘Let a man button his shirt and get his boots back on before you snap him for posterity.’
‘Get back!’ The doctor stands up, shooing the crowd away. ‘Give the man a moment.’ No one dares defy her.
I watch for a few painstaking seconds as Danny’s trembling hands attempt to button his shirt.
‘Let me,’ I say, gently pushing his hands out of the way.
He watches me as I do barely a better job than him, my own fingers clumsy and foolish. Between us, we dress him again. I put the heavy flying jacket back onto his shoulders and return the boots to his bare feet, pulling them on with some effort.
‘Awful embarrassing to admit I don’t got no socks,’ Danny says, a little sheepish.
‘Can you stand?’ I ask him, glancing at the milling crowd, in which a sort of festive air has broken out.
‘My legs ain’t broke,’ he says. ‘But I got a feeling they might be made of water.’
‘Then lean on me,’ I say. He hooks his arm through mine as he makes it slowly to his feet, tests first one and then the other.
‘I should be dead,’ he mutters. ‘Why the hell ain’t I dead?’
‘I’m glad you’re not,’ I whisper, turning to look at him. ‘Really glad.’
‘Maybe you are my lucky charm, Stitches.’
‘No such thing as luck,’ I say. ‘Your expertise got you out of that.’
Once we’ve managed to get to the line of passengers, all waiting to be photographed with the miracle pilot, Danny is walking unaided.
I watch as he shakes hands and thanks everyone there, before standing in the middle of the passengers to have his picture taken.
I tag on at the end, feeling like I don’t belong here but wanting to be part of the celebration.
Just as the photographer snaps, the kid hands Danny a battered old comic to look at. It’s Biggles .
Laughter and relief spread through each of us as we make our way back to the bus, Danny leading the way, holding forth on every exciting and dangerous detail of his crash landing.
It’s more than just his escape that has thrilled them, I realise. He has survived – he has cheated death. And if he can, then so can anyone. We all need to believe that.