Parts of my skin are lacerated with the shrapnel from glass; I try not to wince when the nurse with Bambi eyes carefully pulls each shard out. Christ it hurts though. I feel like my head has been pounded off a brick wall about a dozen times, and I can feel a small egg-shaped bruise at the front on my hair line. My ribs feel as though I’ve gone twenty rounds with Muhammad Ali – who am I kidding? I’d only last about two, and even that’s if I did a lot of running. I glance over at Mack. He’s taken a beating just like me; the full, normally ruddy face is pale, almost whitewashed. Two vivid scars run down his left cheek, like a woman’s talons have left their mark. His trousers are covered in impaled glass and his breathing comes slow, but steady; he’s still in shock. Davies looks the worst; he’s laid out on a trolley while a team of nurses hook him up to IVs, heart monitors and try patching up his ribs. It looks like he has a punctured lung, judging by the rasping, rippling noise coming from the back of his throat.
