Page 6 - Sample Flip Builder Project

‘What would’ve happened, if you hadn’t cut him open?’

‘Oh, the skin would have burst, and then of course it would have started
necrotising. There’s a place on his foot where it is dying, but I didn’t cut it away. I think it

might come right. People can lose limbs, amputation and all that.’ He pauses, focuses
on me. ‘I shouldn’t be frightening you. But it’s so interesting. You can get the same thing

from a certain spider bite. The flesh dies all around the bite and keeps dying, working its

way backwards.’ His beeper goes off and he pats it absently. ‘And all from this little
graze on his thumb. We think that’s where it got in. It has to have a portal to enter the

body. And he says he fell over in the street on the first night — probably had a few
drinks, you know what young lads are like — and, oops, he’s got gunk on his hands.

And then it was only a matter of time before it reached the site of the injury. We just

have to wait now. We just have to wait and see. But as I said, I’m quietly optimistic.’

On day three they take Tristan back into surgery to remove the bandages and flush out
the wounds. The whole procedure leaves him in agony again. And when a nurse

appears to ask if his bowels have moved I have to stop myself from shouting at her. I’m
no good to anyone in this state. I leave the hospital and walk aimlessly outside. I don’t

put my hands in my pockets and I leave my coat unbuttoned. I want to feel the icy wind.

I want my fingers to go numb. I want to feel something other than despair.

On another day, I volunteer to shave him — the stubble is itchy — but I don’t tell him
I’ve never shaved a man before. He helps with his good hand and I’m gentle around his

neck where the tubing is. Afterwards he slumps back against the pillows, eyes closed,
face pale against his curly dark hair. He looks so young without the beard, so

vulnerable, and so much more like a little boy.

He’s forgotten to put his nasal prongs back in and I ease the elastic band over
his head. I put away the razor and shaving cream. I fill his water bottle, tidy the trolley

table, tiptoeing around the bed so I don’t bump it. I do motherly things until there’s

nothing left but to look at the screen with the coloured squiggly lines again. His heart
rate is still too fast, his breathing too shallow, his blood pressure too low.

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