Then silence fell again, for long enough to alarm Jennifer.
Why hadn’t he come back? Was he coming back? Had venting her fear in such an aggressive manner made him decide to leave her where she was until a rescue team arrived? The comforting thought that an emergency locator beacon would have been activated by the crash, and help was probably already on the way, was enough to reassure Jennifer that she wasn’t totally dependent on the man moving around outside.
She didn’t give a damn what he thought of her or her vocabulary anyway. She could get herself out of here. With the weight of only one person on top of her now, it should be possible to inch her way clear, despite the sardine can of metal embracing her. She certainly wasn’t going to beg for help, that was for sure.
Twisting didn’t help. Neither did pushing. The limp arm Jennifer managed to shift flopped back, giving a muted thud as the hand hit the metal surface her cheek was pressed against. The gruesome reminder of just how serious this situation was punctured the renewed anger that had fuelled Jennifer’s efforts to extricate herself. The energising emotion dissipated, leaving a physical exhaustion that allowed fear a new foothold.
Her arm hurt. A lot. And it was still too hard to catch a deep enough breath. For one horrible moment Jennifer thought she was going to give up and burst into tears of despair.
‘You still OK in there?’
He had come back. Jennifer pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, using sheer will-power to strangle the weakness tears would have betrayed.
‘Hey…Dr Allen? Talk to me.’
So he did care whether she was still alive. The concern in the voice was almost her undoing and Jennifer couldn’t trust herself to answer without giving in to a sob…or pleading for help.
‘Jennifer? Can you hear me? Are you all right?’
‘I will be.’ Jennifer pushed each word out carefully, still fighting for control. ‘When I get the hell out of here. Are you going to help me or not?’
‘Right away, ma’am.’ The tone was dry enough to stop just short of sarcasm. ‘I’ve just got to get Shirley’s legs out from under what’s left of this door.’
It seemed to take far too long. The wreckage rocked and Jennifer heard grunts of exertion and the occasional oath, followed by loud hammering as though a rock was being used on a piece of uncooperative metal. And then, finally, the weight was being removed, inch by inch. Jennifer found she could turn onto her back and use one arm, then her legs, to help push the burden clear.
She twisted back onto her stomach to wriggle clear of her prison but froze as she felt a large, firm hand on her leg. Her thigh, of all places, on bare skin—well above the level that her skirt should have covered.
‘Watch out! There’s a sharp edge of metal right here. I can’t bend it back any more. I’ve already tried.’
Jennifer moved her leg away from the hand but it wasn’t letting go.
‘Stop!’ There was a rough edge to Guy’s voice that made obedience unquestionable.
‘What now?’ If Shirley’s body had fitted through the gap, there must be more than enough room for Jennifer to follow safely.
‘There’s a first-aid kit that should be in there somewhere. It was kept underneath your seat.’
‘I didn’t see it.’
‘It’s red. Looks like a large flat sports bag.’
Jennifer could see something red, close to where her head had been resting in the pocket behind the original position of her seat. She would have to crawl downhill to reach it now, and interrupting her path to freedom was the last thing she wanted to do.
‘We’re going to need it.’ Guy’s tone was firm. ‘And I’m not sure I can fit in there.’
After a long moment’s hesitation Jennifer gritted her teeth and forced herself to inch back. She hooked her fingers into the piece of synthetic red fabric showing and pulled. A wave of pain sharp enough to make her head spin shot up her arm. The sensation inside her arm was unmistakable. A broken bone had just moved, scraping against another piece of bone in the process.
Jennifer flexed her fingers. At least she wasn’t showing any signs of neurological compromise. It might be her left hand but she still needed it to function perfectly in the job she did. Her right hand felt fine so she used just that one to pull at the bag again.
A query floated in from behind. ‘What’s taking so long?’
‘It’s stuck,’ Jennifer said shortly. ‘I can’t get it out.’
‘Try harder.’
‘I’m doing my best, dammit!’ Nobody had ever had to tell Jennifer to try harder. Anger resurfaced and Jennifer took hold of the bag with both hands again. She was angry enough not to care how much it hurt and maybe if she pulled in a straight line she could exert enough pressure without passing out from pain. The subsequent tug was enough to move the bag several inches from where it was wedged beneath torn leather upholstery and broken springs. ‘OK…I think I’ve got it!’
‘Good girl!’
Good girl? That kind of approval hadn’t been bestowed on her since she was a child. Jennifer Allen was thirty-four years old now and sought respect from others, not a pat on the head. So why did she feel so ridiculously proud of this achievement? And so determined to keep hold of the awkward red bag and complete its delivery? Pulling in a straight line seemed to be working. The pain was still sharp but there was no sickening crunch of bones that would provoke a vagal reaction.
The question of why she felt so proud of herself was still unanswerable by the time she reached the verge of freedom, but at least it provided a distraction from the feel of Guy Knight’s hands as they held her legs, then her hips, as she wriggled past a mangled door and shredded metal to find herself standing on solid ground.
Well, almost standing. Her legs felt like jelly and the light was bright enough to make her eyes water furiously so Jennifer kept them tightly closed. She clutched the red bag to her chest and didn’t protest as she felt herself being eased into a sitting position.
‘Were you knocked out?’ Strong fingers were palpating her head and neck.
‘I must have been, I guess. I remember waking up.’
‘Can you remember what day it is?’
‘Sunday. And it must be around 5:00 p.m.’ Jennifer was quite confident that her level of consciousness was not impaired despite her mild headache. ‘We got on the plane at four o’clock and that pilot reckoned it would take over an hour to get anywhere near Fox Glacier.’
‘It’s just after 5:00 p.m. now. Are you having any trouble breathing?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Can you open your eyes?’
Jennifer complied, blinking and squinting as she tried to adjust to the glare of sunlight. The GP’s face was very close to her own. Dark eyes fringed with long, black lashes were assessing her from beneath a flop of equally dark hair. A minor laceration on his temple had stopped bleeding but had left a smear of blood now mixed with grime over rather angular features. A strong face, Jennifer thought distractedly. And not a particularly friendly one.
‘Does anything hurt?’
Jennifer felt as though she’d been run over by a train. Things ached and stung in all sorts of places but no single pain stood out as being unbearable. Even the arm she knew she had broken was just a dull throb now that she’d stopped putting stress on it. The man in front of her looked in worse shape. A nasty abrasion covered the side of one arm and bloodstains covered large areas of his white shirt and faded denim jeans.
‘I’m OK.’ Jennifer was still staring at Guy Knight’s legs. ‘Whose blood is that?’
‘Probably