I count, rapidly. The terrace beside me is about four feet tall and there are ….. sixteen of them from surface to floor….sixtyfour feet…shit.
“He hit some of them on the way down, smacked his head proper on one…” he gestures to the colossal lump thats bursting from the back of the patient’s head,
“and then he hit the floor flat on his chest.”
I peer down at the floor, shallow water over rough stone with little stubs of metal rebar protruding.
“I know you’re not meant to shift folk, I’m first aid, eh? But he was out cold.”
“He was unconscious when he hit the water?”
“Aye…and face down…we had to pull him out.”
And here his voice cracks as he justifies his instinct against his training.
“He would’ve drowned, eh?â€
How can I possibly argue with that?
“You’ve done the right thing, pal. Good job.”
One of the other workers gives me a look.
“Maybe Billy could get a cup of tea?”
“Sounds good. Go on, Billy, go get a seat, you’ve had a hell of a shock.”
He starts to object but I cut him off.
“You’ve done your bit, mate. I’ll look after your pal, ok?”