Stay with me, Eve. I'm here. Daddy's here... How a father simply refused to let ... trends now

Enthralled by Ariana Grande’s concert at Manchester Arena, my 14-year-old daughter Eve and I had been bopping to the fast songs and waving our arms aloft during the ballads for 90 minutes.

At one point, I stood behind Eve and took her hands in mine, swaying her playfully from side to side. If she was embarrassed by my dad dancing, she didn’t show it.

After singing One Last Time, one of her best-known hits, the star exited the stage to prepare for the encore and that was our cue to leave because Eve was revising for her mock GCSEs and we wanted to beat the traffic.

As we chattered and clattered down the largely empty steps to the outside corridors, around a hundred parents milled about in the City Room, the open lobby leading from the arena to the car park and railway station.

They were waiting patiently for their teenage kids to emerge, flushed and exuberant, from the show.

With a pang, I realised it was just a matter of time before Eve announced that she’d like to attend her next concert with her friends rather than her old dad. I’d be the one waiting for her, glancing at my phone screen, ­jangling my car keys.

I don’t remember walking past a young man stooping under the weight of a large rucksack on his back or what happened next but I imagine Eve calling out ‘Daddy, Daddy, slow down,’ as I trotted ahead, forgetting her legs were shorter than mine.

‘Sorry, love,’ I’d have said, ushering her ahead and falling in behind her, a move which saved her life.

I kept my eye on the car park door. A few steps further on and then... BOOM!

A high-pitched, deafening noise roared through my ears and surged inside my brain. My feet left the ground. Just ahead of me, the steps ­juddered then turned onto their side. It took me a few seconds to realise that I was lying on the floor, dazed and winded.

What the... I tried to move but nothing happened.

Through the jumble of possibilities — runaway truck, car, train, one word flashed inside my head. Bomb. That’s all it could be.

We all know now, of course, that the man we had hurried past a few seconds earlier was suicide bomber Salman Abedi.

His heavy rucksack contained more than 3,000 nuts and bolts packed tightly around a homemade explosive device.

Individually, these small bits of metal are harmless enough. But blasted through the air at speed they become deadly weapons.

They left golf ball-sized holes in concrete walls and metal doors. So you can imagine what they did to human flesh.

Eve. EVE! I raised my head an inch off the ground before it sank, heavily, back into position. Where is she?

With my head pillowed against my outstretched arm, my nostrils twitched, my brain trying to make sense of the stench now filling my nasal passages. Fire, acrid, shocking smoke, burned clothes, singed hair, charred flesh, hot tar. Nausea stirred the depths of my stomach as it dawned on me. Death. It was the smell of death.

‘Eve,’ I croaked. She was just a few metres ahead. Just out of reach. Lying on her front, on her left cheek. Her eyes were closed. Blood trickled from her gaping mouth as she gasped for breath, a horrifying hole around her right temple exposing brain tissue.

Instinctively, I tried to move towards her but nothing happened. It felt like I’d been encased in cement. Stay calm, stay calm, I urged myself.

‘You’re OK,’ I wheezed. ‘I’m here. Daddy’s here.’ She continued to gasp. Like a fish out of water.

I became aware of a clammy wetness seeping through the front of my body. It was my blood, the speckled pattern on the floor tiles disappearing as it spread like a silent cloak. This is bad.

I’d been blasted by 22 pieces of deadly shrapnel, one lodging in my spine, another rupturing a major artery in my neck, causing massive blood loss. There were footsteps and voices. A flash of a hi-vis jacket. A crackle of radio. Shoes appeared in front of me. Hands reached under my head.

A voice, in a strong Mancunian accent, kept up a continual stream of chatter.

‘What’s your name? Where do you live? Who do you support?’ His voice was strong, calm and reassuring. It took all my effort to gasp each one-word answer.

‘Please,’ I whimpered, trying to gesture towards her with my eyes. ‘My daughter.’

He asked: ‘How old are you?’ I grimaced and tried again. He wasn’t listening. ‘Help. My. Daughter,’ I rasped.

Frustration welled up. A movement caught my eye, turning what little blood was left in my veins to ice. I could see Eve’s hoodie, her jeans, her trainers. But someone had placed a white covering over her head. They think she’s dead.

A furious strength erupted up through my oesophagus and out through my mouth. ‘Nnnngggg,’ I gasped to get my helper’s attention. ‘She’s alive, she’s breathing,’ I panted, staring intently at my daughter’s covered body.

Nothing happened. No one had heard me. I tried again. Louder this time. ‘She’s ALIVE!’

The effort drained me. Another flurried movement and the covering was pulled back. I could see Eve’s beautiful, torn face once more. ‘Stay,’ I gasped, praying she could hear me. ‘Stay with me, Eve. I’m here.’

Time crawled by. In the distance, I heard sirens. Suddenly, there was another flurry near Eve. Once again, she disappeared from view. Consumed by rage, I grunted my protests. For the love of God, stop covering her. She’s alive!

The effort exhausted me. After each blissful blink, it took colossal energy to force open my eyelids again. I had to stay conscious for Eve. What if someone covered her up yet again? I was the only one who could save her. A cold, calm thought resonated through the confusion: I’m dying. I had one job to do before I went. To get Eve out. ‘We’re taking you outside to the ambulances,’ said my saviour. ‘Hold tight.’

‘Take Eve. Please, save my daughter,’ I begged as my head was lifted clear of the blood.

Words were exchanged above me then, thank God, I was back on the wet floor. Through drooping eyelids, like a curtain lowering on a darkened stage, I watched Eve being scooped onto a piece of hoarding from a merchandise stand and carried away.

‘Eve is safe,’ a voice said in my head. ‘She’ll be OK. You can go now.’ ‘Martin?’ my saviour called.

‘Tell my wife,’ I groaned. ‘Tell Gabby I love her.’

A soft, snowy whiteness engulfed me like a

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