The four men settle in to their well-choreographed routine, stationing themselves around the painting and extending their hands. With a swish they lift it clear, shuffle sideways, and deposit it gently on the free end of the packing table.

I look at the people in front of me, trying to gauge when it’s okay to step forward, then I hear Wayne.

‘Tommo? Thomas? Are you right mate?’ Wayne is staring across the table at Tommo, who has gone quite pale. Tommo has removed his gloves, which now lie like melting snow on the floor. One hand is braced on the table, veins popping, the other is clamped around the discarded chisel.

‘C’mere. Sit down.’ Wayne barrels around the table and puts an arm around Tommo’s shoulder, tries to ease him away from the table. ‘Bit of bloody help here!’ He shouts the last to the other two packers, who have moved on to another crate. They turn and start to hurry back.

Tommo straightens and half-turns under Wayne’s guiding arm, but then stops. Wayne must feel something change, because his eyes go wide.

‘Hey!’ The other packers start running and a couple of the curators step forward, but Tommo is already pitching forward. His face has gone blank, eyes rolling up. Even as more hands reach to support him he goes down, slumping forward across the newly exposed painting.

‘Shit!’ someone yells. It might be Giles.

Tommo is laid out on the floor, lips blue. Why is no one moving? Without thinking I push my way between the museum staff, who remain riveted in place. I drop down next to Tommo and look at Wayne, who is feeling for a pulse. He shakes his head.

‘Ambulance!’ I yell over my shoulder, then look at Wayne. ‘Do you know what to do?’

He nods. ‘Go!’

I start compressions, punctuated by mouth-to-mouth from Wayne. The world goes quiet except for our counting. It seems like an eternity before the ambulance arrives and the paramedics take over, but by then, Tommo has a pulse. Faint and thready, but it’s there. They work quickly and efficiently, setting up an IV, administering meds and finally wheeling Tommo away to bundle him into the back of an ambulance. The entire time, no one speaks. Not the blokes who helped Wayne and Tommo. Not the curators who have retreated into their tight group like a flock of frightened chickens. Not Giles and John who are standing off to one side, faces taut. Not Wayne and I, standing together but too exhausted to do more than give each other a nod.