Some girls crowded around are crying. Further along the Prom the hippies are drumming and singing, and the fireworks keep filling the sky with sparks of colour.

Unless Tim’s predictions have come true and it’s actual planes falling out of the sky.

‘What’s Kerry doing to him? Not a doctor yet, is she?’ I hear Louise Norman lisping to someone.

‘Is Joel dead?’ another girl asks.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Ant says. ‘He was running with the ball just now. Of course he’s not dead.’

Except Ant might be wrong. Joel doesn’t look dead – yet. But if I’m right, his heart has stopped, which means my hands are the only things keeping his blood flowing, my breath his only source of oxygen.

It can’t possibly be enough.

I don’t hear a siren, but the grass around me changes colour: blue, orange, blue, orange. The rhythm of the flashing light confuses me, breaks my own pattern, and I tune back into ‘Nellie the Elephant’, pushing, pushing, pushing . . .

For the first time, my arms are tired. When I reach thirty compressions and dip down to give Joel another rescue breath, I realize how ragged my own has become. But exhaustion is no excuse.

I seal my lips against Joel’s again. Exhale. Is it my imagination, or is his face colder now?

‘Kerry. Listen. I’ll take over the compressions after your two breaths.’ Tim’s voice.

Where the hell have you been?

I don’t look up. Can’t break the cycle. Every beat counts.

As I raise my head from the rescue breath, our bodies touch, and Tim slips into position.

Like me, he looks surprised at how much effort it takes to force down the ribcage. He pumps once. That’s not hard enough. Have I done the wrong thing, letting Tim take my place?

He pumps a second time.

‘Lads, come on. Let us through.’ A man’s voice, world-weary. The edge of my vision fills with the lemon brightness of a fluorescent jacket. I think – hope – it’s a paramedic.

‘What have we got here? One too many to see in the New Year or—’ The paramedic stops abruptly. I look up just as his frown turns to understanding. ‘Jeff!’ he shouts out, ‘I think we’ve got an arrest. Get the defib.’

He understands.

‘All right, mate,’ the paramedic is saying to Tim. ‘You’ve been doing a grand job. First-aid trained, are you?’

When Tim doesn’t answer, I speak for him. ‘He’s a St John cadet . . . So am I. The patient . . . we think . . . he’s in cardiac arrest.’ I sound as though I’ve been running cross-country. ‘He collapsed . . .’ I remember the fireworks. ‘Just before midnight. We’ve been giving . . . two rescue breaths every . . . thirty compressions.’

The paramedic nods. ‘All right, love, give us some space to do our work now.’

I have no strength left to move.