Trish ejected the shell calmly. It rolled with another on the floor. She tried to put down the shotgun, but it slipped from her hand and fell, ringing on the concrete. “Oh, shit,” she said, distantly. She was bloodied, too. A fine mist. “Oh, shit. Gary. Chris.”

“What happened?” Gary said from the doorway. He was holding a wadded-up rag to his head, and looked like he was going to throw up, but he was carrying the bolt cutters.

My throat and my head were burning; my ears rang.

“Tell me they’re alive,” mouthed Trish.

I dragged my feet from under Chris. He was too easy to move. Light.

“Tina?” said Gary, thinly. He reached my side and turned my face toward him. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

“I’m well, thank you,” I said. I shook my head to clear my ears. Gary let go, picked up the shotgun and turned to Trish. Sitting, I put the knife carefully into the pocket of my dress. It scraped the note I should have shown my mother. None of this would have happened.

“Don’t faint, either of you, or I’ll go too,” said Gary, more distinctly. He kept wincing, but with me out of the way, he cut the lock, put his shoulder to the gate and pushed it open, moving Mitch with it. Once he was inside, he bent unsteadily and touched Mitch’s neck. This wasn’t Gary’s job. Nor Trish’s. This was my family.

“They’re alive,” he said, but Trish, looking at the blood welling from the holes in Chris’s shirt, didn’t see Gary’s face.

“First aid,” I said, clearing my throat. “Help me, Gary.”

We dragged Chris from the narrow corridor of cages into Mitch’s large pen. I pulled off my cardigan and held it against his worst wounds. Blood quickly soaked it. I tried not to look at Mitch.

“He wouldn’t let go of her,” Trish said. “I had to shoot them both. Mitch wouldn’t let go.” She kept saying it.

Chris’s face was an awful colour. When he opened his mouth, his teeth were stained with blood; it trickled into his beard.

“He said Sergeant Aberdeen was looking for us,” I told Gary.

“Hear that, Trish?” said Gary, not heartily. “Your dad’s on his way. It’ll be okay.” But he stumbled as he picked up a length of dirty sacking. He put it under Chris’s head. Gary had been friends with my brothers, too, I remembered, although Mrs Damson hadn’t approved. We’d rattled around together. We.

Trish wrapped her arms around herself. She was shivering.

“You’ll be fine,” I said to Chris, and almost believed it. Not enough.

“You can’t fix everything with talking,” Chris said. “Even Old Dave couldn’t make it right.”

I looked at Gary, his freckles dark against his skin. “Who?” he mouthed.