had been rushed straight into theatre on arrival and undergone emergency surgery. His attacker’s bullet had struck the sternum and deflected internally, clipping the top of one lung before lodging itself deep inside his chest cavity. His breastbone remained intact due to the angle of penetration but several splinters of bone had torn away at his insides, one lodging barely a centimetre from his aorta.
Miraculously no major organs were damaged. Even more miraculous was the presence, on the day, of a renowned thoracic specialist; on a personal visit to colleagues at the hospital. She had undertaken his surgery herself. Without her expertise in gunshot wounds, gained from several years serving in the Israeli army, Pace might easily have died on the table.
It had taken her an hour longer than even she expected to retrieve the missile, so awkwardly was it placed. The only bonus was the absence of an exit wound. After surgery the only visible sign was a neatly stitched vertical incision, about six inches long, running straight down the centre line of his chest. Pace had to trust their word because his entire chest was encased in a sheath of bandaging.
Political response to the shooting was swift. Gun laws would be tightened further and increased sentences for firearms offences would accompany the public inquiry. European protests over plans to allow children to stand trial as adults in firearms related cases were quashed by a furious Parliament who warned against any further meddling in affairs of British law and sovereignty.
Pandemonium, to be precise, led to the highly significant move on the part of the government to bow to years of pressure and finally issue firearms to all serving police officers. The only thing they didn’t do was catch the culprits.
Then they started a fund for him.
Pace couldn’t believe it. Either the newspapers were sorely short of other stories or his misfortune had triggered a deep-rooted social fear across the country. Whichever it was, and he suspected a bit of both, he was an overnight celebrity. Illicit photographs of him, taken as he lay in critical condition immediately after the operation, were published. Source of the photographs was unknown but he had to admit he looked ghastly, plumbed as he was with several tubes and lines, and completely surrounded by machinery. He definitely looked more dead than alive.
All press contact was barred save for the daily progress report by the hospital. On the eighth day Pace gave his first interview and it totally exhausted him despite it lasting barely five minutes. Three photographs were taken before the two reporters and photographer were firmly ushered out by Sally, his highly efficient nurse.
Pace was very grateful and slept, with the help of an intravenous infusion of tranquillizer, like the dead. It was another three days before he felt ready to give his next interview.
This time he wanted to give a full account of himself so he could be left alone and forgotten. The single journalist had obviously been primed and was careful not to overtax him. For his patience he went away with all the comments and pictures he needed.
Sally, Pace’s wonderful Mauritian angel, was in her mid-twenties and apparently the youngest sister in the hospital. Normally she wouldn’t have had time to care for patients herself. That had all fallen by the wayside to be replaced by an increasingly administrative role. Apparently he was a special case and the hospital management had assigned her and a team of junior nurses expressly to his care. Who was he to argue?
It was seven o’clock on Tuesday morning, twelve days after the shooting, when she came into his room, as usual, to see if everything had been okay overnight. Pace grumbled it had been as well as could be expected.
‘You have a visitor coming to see you later this morning,’ she told him breezily, opening the floral print curtains and flooding the room with the
Miraculously no major organs were damaged. Even more miraculous was the presence, on the day, of a renowned thoracic specialist; on a personal visit to colleagues at the hospital. She had undertaken his surgery herself. Without her expertise in gunshot wounds, gained from several years serving in the Israeli army, Pace might easily have died on the table.
It had taken her an hour longer than even she expected to retrieve the missile, so awkwardly was it placed. The only bonus was the absence of an exit wound. After surgery the only visible sign was a neatly stitched vertical incision, about six inches long, running straight down the centre line of his chest. Pace had to trust their word because his entire chest was encased in a sheath of bandaging.
Political response to the shooting was swift. Gun laws would be tightened further and increased sentences for firearms offences would accompany the public inquiry. European protests over plans to allow children to stand trial as adults in firearms related cases were quashed by a furious Parliament who warned against any further meddling in affairs of British law and sovereignty.
Pandemonium, to be precise, led to the highly significant move on the part of the government to bow to years of pressure and finally issue firearms to all serving police officers. The only thing they didn’t do was catch the culprits.
Then they started a fund for him.
Pace couldn’t believe it. Either the newspapers were sorely short of other stories or his misfortune had triggered a deep-rooted social fear across the country. Whichever it was, and he suspected a bit of both, he was an overnight celebrity. Illicit photographs of him, taken as he lay in critical condition immediately after the operation, were published. Source of the photographs was unknown but he had to admit he looked ghastly, plumbed as he was with several tubes and lines, and completely surrounded by machinery. He definitely looked more dead than alive.
All press contact was barred save for the daily progress report by the hospital. On the eighth day Pace gave his first interview and it totally exhausted him despite it lasting barely five minutes. Three photographs were taken before the two reporters and photographer were firmly ushered out by Sally, his highly efficient nurse.
Pace was very grateful and slept, with the help of an intravenous infusion of tranquillizer, like the dead. It was another three days before he felt ready to give his next interview.
This time he wanted to give a full account of himself so he could be left alone and forgotten. The single journalist had obviously been primed and was careful not to overtax him. For his patience he went away with all the comments and pictures he needed.
Sally, Pace’s wonderful Mauritian angel, was in her mid-twenties and apparently the youngest sister in the hospital. Normally she wouldn’t have had time to care for patients herself. That had all fallen by the wayside to be replaced by an increasingly administrative role. Apparently he was a special case and the hospital management had assigned her and a team of junior nurses expressly to his care. Who was he to argue?
It was seven o’clock on Tuesday morning, twelve days after the shooting, when she came into his room, as usual, to see if everything had been okay overnight. Pace grumbled it had been as well as could be expected.
‘You have a visitor coming to see you later this morning,’ she told him breezily, opening the floral print curtains and flooding the room with the
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