‘The coast road was open when I came last night.’

‘You came last night?’

‘I booked a holiday cottage half a mile south of here.’

‘You’re supposed to be staying at the hospital.’

This was one crazy conversation. He was trying to take his mind off the pain until the morphine kicked in, she decided. OK. The least she could do was help.

‘I can’t stay at the hospital. I have a dog. What do you think caused this accident?’

‘You have a dog?’

‘How’s the pain level?’

‘Horrible. Tell me about your dog.’

‘Phoebe’s stupid.’ She touched his hand again, gave it a quick squeeze and then released it, aware as she did of a sharp stab of reluctance to let it go. This comfort business wasn’t all one way, she thought ruefully. She’d had a sickening shock. She needed his presence as much as he needed hers. ‘The morphine should have taken by now.’

‘Not enough.’

She glanced at her watch and winced. It wasn’t going to get any better than this. ‘I need to splint your leg. How are you at biting bullets?’

‘Do you have a supply of bullets?’

‘Maybe not,’ she conceded. ‘I have a Mars Bar.’

‘I’d throw up.’

‘You’re feeling nauseous?’

‘Horribly.’

‘Don’t throw up until we get your face out of the mud,’ she advised, but she had to move. She lifted her branch and laid it along the back of his leg. It was awful. Rolled up newspapers, the emergency manuals said. They were generally antiseptic and rigid enough to hold. So where were rolled-up newspapers when she needed them?