PAUL WAS ALWAYS the first person to be killed. I met him at his practical exam. The trainees were waiting for their names to be called.

Scenes of carnage outside – trainers lying around pretending to have broken legs, blocked airways, bleeding organs. Trucks parked at unusual angles, planks piled up like sculptures: the set of a theatrical catastrophe. Whenever I supervised the trainees I remembered my first exam. It was uncanny how real it felt. I could almost smell the burning rubber of braked tyres, the smoke from a chemical fire. As I knelt down to check an airway my hand would shake; I would convince myself a life was ebbing away in front of my eyes. Once I was about to simulate a glucagon injection. The trainer, who was supposed to be unconscious, coughed. I was so surprised I dropped the syringe. The trainer was kind. I went to pick up the syringe and she moved her shoulder slightly, to make it look as though I was checking her vein. I don’t think I’m quite so merciful.