You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (best fiction novels .TXT) 📕

Megan cuts open the man’s clothes to assess his wounds. One entry point in the right-hand side of the chest and one in the abdomen. Two exit points in his back. Blood clotted on the skin and clothing. Distension of the abdomen.

‘When did he become unresponsive?’

‘After a couple of minutes,’ Sarah says. ‘He was moaning and muttering, then he just faded away.’

Lucas packs the abdominal wound with haemostatic dressing, in an attempt to arrest the bleeding. Megan checks the head, feeling for skull deformities with her fingers. Appearance and alignment of trachea and jugular veins seem okay. She inserts an oropharyngeal airway. Next priority is oxygen.

A second squad car arrives. Two male local-area detectives.

Megan supplies them with a brief update. ‘External and internal haemorrhaging. Need to get his blood pressure up before he goes into irreversible shock.’

The fact that he’s already unconscious is a sign that he’s lost huge amounts of blood.

Megan and Lucas work quickly, issuing abrupt instructions to each other.

‘Here’s a vein.’

The IV has Hartmann’s Solution, a temporary fix until his blood type is cross-matched at the hospital.

‘Keep applying pressure.’

Extensive bandaging, trying to stem further loss of blood, probably futile considering the extent of internal bleeding.

‘Blanket. Keep him warm.’

This man’s life is in the balance. Time is of the essence, yet they can’t cut corners. If he dies – and that seems likely – their actions will be analysed to the very last detail.

His blood pressure is improving as a result of the crystalloid fluids. A small window of time: another deterioration is likely en route to the hospital. Load and go. Lucas hurries to get the stretcher.

‘One, two, three.’ The patient is on, and they’re mobile, the stretcher bumping over the stencilled concrete of the driveway.

‘I hate when we don’t know their name,’ Lucas says.

Megan knows what he means: it’s hard to reach the patient if you don’t have a name to use as an anchor. But she’s only half listening. In her head she is planning the quickest route to the hospital. She’ll call ahead as soon as she gets behind the wheel. Warn them of myriad internal injuries and the need to have the right resources standing by for immediate surgery.

The rear doors of the ambulance are open, bright light spilling out. The stretcher is ready on the hydraulic lift and it’s only then – in those few seconds as the stretcher is rising and the patient is fully illuminated – Megan realises that she knows his face. She knows it from a different world, a different life. This face has haunted her, belittled her, broken her. Those thin lips, the hateful words they spat out: lies, terrible lies. Behind those eyelids are eyes that are pale blue, cold and contemptuous.

She checked this man’s body from head to toe, trying to envisage the bullets’ trajectory through his tissue, bones and internal organs, all without properly looking at his face. His hair has whitened; his skin is the colour of death; the poor lighting on the driveway: these are the reasons she failed to recognise him. And she never imagined she’d see him again.

Her conscience wrestles with her deep hatred. The reinvented Megan wrestles with the old, devastated one. This man doesn’t deserve comfort. He doesn’t deserve Lucas’s murmured reassurances, trying to reel him back to consciousness.

‘His name is William Newson,’ she blurts out, against all her instincts.

Then she shuts the doors on Lucas’s questioning face.

Members of the jury, this trial has revealed some harsh truths about Jessica Foster. In courtrooms we talk a lot about character, so we can understand and judge behaviour in a wider and fairer context. This young lady is not as innocent or indeed as vulnerable as she maintains. This young lady was engaging in provocative and risk-taking behaviour.

2

JESS

Tuesday nights are reserved for the serious fighters. They warm up with stretches, skipping and some work on the punching bags, before being paired off in the ring.

The first pair tonight – Billy and Lachlan – are in their mid-twenties and have similar ability. The purpose of sparring is to practise punching, positioning, posture and footwork, without hurting one another.

‘Go easy,’ Jess reminds Billy, as she helps him on with his gloves. ‘Save the aggression for the real fights.’

She loves being a coach. Teaching better technique, eradicating weaknesses, giving praise when it’s been earned. She loves it, and the members love it too. Some of them are like family to Jess.

Billy adjusts his headgear, patches of sweat under each armpit from the warm-up. Tones and I’s ‘Dance Monkey’ is playing on the sound system. Vince, her boss, is in Lachlan’s corner. The buzzer emits five rapid-fire beeps to indicate the start of the round.

‘Billy, you’re too straight on the front leg. Bounce. Knee over foot.

‘Sit. Sit. He’s putting pressure on you. You’re giving him too much time.

‘Jab only. Find your range. You’re coming up too late. Jab to the body. Set it up. Good shot, mate.’

Vince calls out similar advice from the opposite corner. Twelve years ago, Jess arrived at this gym, spitting with rage and the desire to hurt someone as profoundly as she’d been hurt. Her rage earned her three Australian titles and two split-decision losses on the world circuit.

The most rewarding part was fighting battles she at least had some chance of winning.

The sparring finishes at 8.30 p.m. The boys unwrap their hands before starting core work on the exercise mat. There’s a strong smell of sweat, probably the only thing Jess doesn’t like about her job.

‘That’s it for tonight. Good work.’

‘Billy is coming along well,’ Vince comments, as the boys pack up their things. His wiry physique and skewed nose provide clues to his former career as a professional boxer. His hair was charcoal when Jess first met him, now it’s fully grey.

‘Yep. He just needs to bend those knees when he’s punching. He’s still not sitting low enough. I’ll tape his knee next time.’

‘He’s nearly ready,