He picked her up. Shep said, “Bring her here.” He had tossed Clive on to the floor. Clive lay flat. Shep had smacked him hard on the chin.
Duffy put her on the divan. He said urgently, “Get some water and dressing. She’s bleeding like hell.”
Shep went out of the room. Duffy could hear him pulling drawers open and hunting about in the next room. He took his pocket-knife and ripped away her clothes round the wound. “Hurry, damn you,” he shouted to Shep when he saw where she was shot.
Shep came back in a lumbering run. He had a handful of small towels and a jug of water. Duffy took them from him. “’Phone English, and tell him,” he said. “Get going, this is urgent.”
While he was fixing the wound, she opened her eyes again. She looked at him. She saw the sweat glistening on his face and she said, “Am I going to die?”
He couldn’t do anything to stop the bleeding. He said rather helplessly, “It’s the best way for you, I think.”
She said, “I think so, too,” and she began to cry again.
He tied a pad over the wound, but he knew it was useless. She said, “Give me a drink.”
He had to hold her head to give her the Scotch. She said, “I’m sorry about everything.”
Duffy’s face was very hard. “You little girls are always sorry when it’s too late.”