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‘This woman’s been shot,’ Doc said. He looked at me and Margaret as if we were the culprits. ‘What happened?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ I said.

‘For Christ’s sake, Cook, this isn’t the time. Hold her hand, this is going to hurt.’

Miriam squeezed my hand as Doc cut back her blouse around the wound. It was ugly, as all wounds are.

‘She needs a hospital,’ he said.

‘Can’t do that,’ I said. ‘She needs to be mobile.’

‘You’re gambling with her life, Cook,’ he said. He bent close to Miriam, looked her in the eye.

‘If you don’t get to a hospital, there’s a good chance you’ll die,’ he said. ‘I can patch you up, but I don’t know how much bleeding there is inside.’

‘No hospital,’ she said, giving my hand another squeeze.

Doc poured antiseptic onto a pad and pressed it against the wound. Miriam gasped in pain.

‘This is a bad business, Cook,’ Doc said.

*

I drove to the farm, trying to avoid potholes on the road, wincing every time we hit a bump. Miriam was spread out on the back seat, her head on Margaret’s lap.

I didn’t fancy Miriam’s chances of walking across the fields, so I drove through the yard, and took the track down to the lower meadow. It was rutted from the tractor, and the under-carriage of the car scraped worryingly against the high ground between the ruts.

With a hundred yards to go to the river, I gave it up as a bad job, and stopped the car.

‘We’ll have to walk from here,’ I said.

*

I carried Miriam like a child, holding her in my arms. She was deathly pale.

Margaret was standing in shallow water. She’d uncovered the rowing boat, and had it ready. The riverbank was muddy, and I slipped, almost going backwards and dropping -Miriam. I held her, and fought to keep my balance.

I waded into the river and laid her in the boat, like a -Viking princess ready for her last rites.

I climbed into the boat and took the oars from Margaret.

‘If you see Doc before he leaves, tell him I said thanks,’ I said.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Margaret said. ‘You won’t be able to make it through the lock by yourself.’