‘It’s me, Mrs Miller, from next door.’
He ran from his room, to the door. Patrick was a few steps behind, rubbing his eyes.
‘Mrs Miller?’
‘Look.’ She pointed.
He saw his father lying on the driveway.
‘I was up doing my ironing,’ she said. ‘I heard someone calling… I looked out and saw him lying there.’
Moy jumped from the porch, followed by Thea and Patrick. He knelt beside George, gently shook him and said, ‘Dad.’
The old man’s eyes were closed, the lids covered with fine capillaries. His nose was flaring, chest rising and falling, fingers digging into the dirt beside the drive, clawing, gathering a fistful of soursobs.
‘Righto,’ Moy said, thinking. ‘Airway.’ He dropped his ear to his father’s mouth. Then he looked up at them. ‘He’s breathing.’
‘That’s a good sign,’ Thea replied.
‘Circulation.’ He placed two fingers on his father’s carotid artery. ‘Thank Christ,’ he said, feeling a pulse. ‘Everything seems in order.’
‘He’s unconscious,’ Thea said.
‘Yes. What is it?’ He looked at her, imploring.
‘A heart attack, or maybe a stroke? He might have just fainted.’
‘What was he doing out here?’
‘He often wanders in the garden at night, talking to himself.’
‘So…’ Moy tried to think what to do.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Thea said.
Moy looked at his father. ‘No…I mean…’ He looked up. ‘Where does it come from?’
‘They’re volunteers. They have a pager.’
‘Fuck.’
She flushed, but did not comment. ‘They’re pretty quick. They’re used to getting to road accidents and—’
‘Patrick, grab my keys from the buffet.’
Thea wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t think you’re meant to move them.’
‘Go on,’ Moy insisted, and Patrick ran inside.
‘You might make things worse,’ she said.
‘Worse than dying?’
‘No, I mean—’
‘It’s not likely to be a spinal injury, is it?’ he asked, half-sarcastic. Then he realised what she’d done for him. ‘You were ironing?’
‘I can never sleep anymore.’
Patrick sprinted from the house, handed Moy the keys and asked, ‘What should I do?’
Moy could see the terror in his face. ‘Watch him while I get the car.’
As he went further up the drive, opened and started the car, Patrick knelt beside George, holding his hand, wiping hair from his forehead. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Thea said, sensing his fear. ‘He’s still functioning.’ As if George was an old mower that could still cut.
Patrick stared at the old man’s face. ‘Come on, George. You can hear me, can’t you?’ He squeezed his hand.
‘He can hear you,’ Thea said. ‘But he won’t be able to speak… give him a minute.’ The old professional manner buoyed her voice. ‘Come on, George. We’re going to get you some help. Patrick… that’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Patrick’s going to make sure you’re okay.’
Moy backed up, applied the handbrake and got out. There was exhaust, and red light on their faces. After opening the back door of his car he returned to his father and said, ‘Don’t worry, Dad, five minutes.’ He took him under the arms, lifted and dragged him towards the car.
‘Can I help?’ Thea asked.
‘I’ve got him.’
Moy sat on the back seat and dragged his father in. When most of his body was lying across the seat he got out the other side and closed the doors. ‘Come on,’ he said to Patrick. ‘You’re gonna have to watch him.’
Patrick got in the car. Moy turned to Thea. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how long he’d been there.’
‘Not long, I’d have seen him.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘Yes.’
He got in the car and they backed out. Changing gears, they flew down Clyde Street. Thea stood watching them, her arms crossed, her eyes adjusting to the street lights.
Patrick strapped himself in, turned around and held George’s hand.
‘Can you feel a pulse?’ Moy asked.
The boy did what he’d seen them do on telly. Surprisingly, it worked. ‘Yes.’
Moy looked at the clock on the dash: 2.58 a.m. He wondered if there was an allotted time, and if he’d exceeded it. He pushed the accelerator to the floor. They became airborne and as he braked before a dip the car ground its bumper into the bitumen. He flipped on the warning lights. ‘Dad, can you hear me?’