Page 125 of The Other Side

Then another voice echoed down the shaft. “Drum! Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“This is Grant. Mountain Rescue. We’ve got a team coming down to you now. They’ll be with you shortly.”

Minutes later, bright headlamps spilled into the chamber. Three rescuers emerged from the darkness in orange helmets and mud-spattered overalls.

“All right, Drum,” the first said, kneeling beside him. “My name’s Doug. We’re going to look after you.”

Warm hands checked his pulse. Another rescuer slipped an oxygen mask gently over his face. The cool rush of oxygen felt heavenly.

“I think…ribs.”

“We know,” Doug said. “Don’t worry about anything now. We’ve got you.”

They worked with practised efficiency. A cervical collar. Vacuum splints. Wide straps were secured carefully around his hips and legs, avoiding his chest as much as possible.

“On my count,” Doug said. “One…two…three.”

The rescue stretcher lifted. Even with six pairs of careful hands, pain lanced through him and he groaned.

“Sorry, mate.”

“Not…your fault.”

“No, but I still don’t like hurting people.”

Drum managed the ghost of a smile beneath the oxygen mask. He wasn’t aware of them getting him over that plank of wood. But he was aware when the stretcher rose vertically and the rock wall was inches from his face.

Then suddenly there was more light and sky and stars and cold wind across his face. Someone shouted that he was clear. Another team took hold of the stretcher.

For the first time since he’d been thrown into the mine, Drum truly believed he was going to live. He was carried back to the road and his eyes found Osian once. Their gazes met for the briefest heartbeat. Osian pressed a trembling hand to his chest.

Exhaustion finally claimed Drum, and the world slipped away.

It came back, only to fade again, until he heard a whisper in his ear. Osian. Telling him he wasn’t far away. Apparently, there was now a police officer stationed outside his hospital room.

When Drum became more aware, he learned he’d broken several ribs. Lucky, they’d said, that none had punctured an organ. He hadn’t even realised he’d been stabbed in the chest. Lucky again that the knife had missed his heart and lungs. Stitches pulled across his chest, his scalp and his leg. There wasn’t much of him that wasn’t covered in cuts, bruises or scrapes. The IV had finally been removed and, thanks to a generous dose of painkillers, he felt almost human.

Then Purbeck and Ruskin arrived.

“How are you doing?” Purbeck asked.

“Okay, sir.”

“Think you’re up to making a statement?”

“To me,” DI Waterford said as he walked into the room.

Purbeck shot him a glare. “No. I’m legally responsible for taking it. We’ll handle the case file and deal with the CPS.”

“You.” Waterford pointed at Ruskin. “Out.”

Ruskin looked to Purbeck, waited for a nod, then slipped out of the room.

“This is a sensitive matter,” Waterford said. “Drummond has—”

“He knows,” Drum said, his voice rough.