Then he had backed away to a safe distance and held the child in his arms while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. He seemed to be holding the girl for a long time, and he realized straight away that she was badly injured. He could feel the bones of her pelvis shift and bulge under his hand, and an unnatural swelling in her abdomen that seemed to grow and tighten under his fingers as he waited, not knowing what else to do. The child’s body felt like a flimsy plastic bag that was no longer able to support the weight of its contents. At any moment it was in danger of splitting open and leaking its liquids, spilling soft, glistening objects on the ground.

Owen had held the child gently, willing her to survive, trying to pour his own life into her through his hands to help her fight the shock of her injuries. He found his fingers becoming extraordinarily sensitive, as all his attention concentrated on his sense of touch, on the close physical contact with another human being. He held a small, fragile life in his hands, and the sensations were like nothing he had ever known. He was aware of the faint beating of her heart, the pulsing of her blood, the slow lift and fall of her chest and the living warmth of her skin against his own.

Then Owen had become conscious of other feelings as he held the girl. He had noticed the soft flesh of her upper thighs where her dress was torn and pulled up to her waist. He noticed the white smoothness of her belly; and he saw the shape of her genitals, tiny and clear through the fabric of her knickers.

He stood frozen in confusion at his own reactions, frightened to move, praying for the ambulance to arrive soon and take his burden away. Yet a few minutes later he continued to hold on to the girl, oblivious to the sound of sirens and the voices that followed, clustering around him, asking questions. He held the girl desperately to his chest, feeling her softness in his hands, her weight pulling on his shoulders, conscious of his fingers staining her pale innocence.

Finally, the girl had opened her eyes and focused on his face. In a moment of consciousness, she had seen his red jacket and his Peak Park badge.

‘Oh, you’re a Ranger,’ she said. And Owen remembered even now the rush of senseless, guilty pride he had felt that the girl could recognize who he was, and had felt secure in his arms.

Then the child’s eyes had closed, and a trickle of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth. And a warm flood of urine seeped from her and ran down the front of his red jacket, as she died.

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