Mr Neuberg stands in the doorway of his house, clutching a heavy blue cardigan around him like the figure for anxiety in the psychiatric version of a weather clock.
‘Come in, guys. Come in. I’m so sorry to call you but I was cold and shivering and I just couldn’t warm up. So I started to panic – I know I was panicking – I shouldn’t do it but it just got ahead of me. I’ve taken my medication but look at me! And I feel so cold. And clammy. Feel me! Look. Could the medication do that? Or maybe I have an infection? I took my temperature and it’s low. Thirty-five it said. That’s hypothermia, isn’t it? Can you have an infection and not a temperature? I don’t know these things. I just don’t know. My god. I’m sorry but I couldn’t cope. My girlfriend’ll kill me. Close the door. The rabbits.’
‘Rabbits?’
‘In there.’
He nods towards the front room where two tiny rabbits are busily inspecting the back wheel of a bicycle.
Two weeks ago I would have had no idea, but now I’m able to say with some authority: ‘Holland Lops?’
Mr Neuberg grimaces.
‘Holland lops? Dwarf Lops!’
He hurries on ahead, squats down at the bottom of the staircase and hugs his knees. A quivering gantry of a man, he tucks himself up into as small a space as possible, rocking a little backwards and forwards. On the wall to the side of the staircase is a giant canvas – a still life of sweet jars on a chequered tablecloth. On the opposite wall, a toy moose head. The eyes on the moose are small and dark and glassy with a hint of a spiral twist – much like Mr Neuberg’s.
‘You won’t tell my girlfriend, will you? Please. She’ll kill me.’
‘No. But let’s worry about that in a minute. Just tell us what’s happened today.’
‘Just lately I haven’t been getting much sleep. Or eating. I haven’t been eating. I lost my appetite and I shed seventeen pounds. Look at my arms. Look at that. They used to be out here, but now this. Some of that’s thyroid, I know. And I’m due some investigations for – you know. And that’s a worry. But I’m active. I move around a lot. Which is probably just as well because the house is so damned cold. Does it feel cold to you? I think it’s really cold. My girlfriend doesn’t think so. She won’t have the heating on during the day. She says it’s not the time of year. But I don’t know. What do you think? So anyway. I was sitting at my computer and I started to freeze up. My hands. My face. I got the shivers and shakes. So I put on loads of jumpers and t-shirts – layers, you know? I went for a walk in the sunshine. But nothing made any difference. I just could not get warm. So I started to think something was the matter. And I know I shouldn’t but I couldn’t help it and I just got more and more anxious. I couldn’t break out of it, which is when I called you guys. And I’m so sorry ‘cos I know you’ve got better things to do with your time and I do appreciate you coming out. But please don’t tell my girlfriend about this. Please. She’ll kill me.’
‘Let’s do a few checks, get a few details, then think about what to do next. Okay?’
‘Sure. I’m in your hands. You’re the experts.’
I get out my thermometer. When I put it into his ear Mr Neuberg frowns and swivels his eyes in that direction.
‘It goes in your ear? The one I got goes in your mouth. Look. I only bought it the other day. It cost eight pounds, so it should be accurate. It said thirty-five degrees. What’s yours say?’
I show him the little screen.
‘Thirty-seven? But that’s normal, isn’t it?’
‘Yep. Bang on normal.’
‘Mine said thirty-five. Look. I’ll show you.’
He pops it into his mouth and opens his eyes wide, as if he were trying to inflate a very thin balloon. I take advantage of him being still to take his blood pressure.
‘Normal,’ I say, folding the cuff back up.
Mr Neuberg takes out the thermometer.
‘What did I tell you. Thirty-six. Well – it’s gone up a bit but it’s still low. And you’re saying thirty-seven?’
I shrug.
He looks at his thermometer, gives it a shake, like an old mercury model, then looks at it again.
‘That’s going back,’ he says.
Suddenly the phone rings on the step next to him. Mr Neuberg leaps up and looks at it in horror. He leans in, checks the number on the receiver, blanches, carefully picks it up, then just before he presses the answer button, sights us both along the bony blade of his nose and raises his index finger in the manner of a Judge commanding silence. Only then - when he’s absolutely certain we have understood what’s expected of us - only then does Mr Neuberg answer.
‘Hi Poppy.’
His voice is completely changed. The hyper-anxious patter of the last five minutes has been replaced by the sweetly insipid tone of a man calling home in his lunch break.
‘What? No – I was in the bathroom. Yeah, I’m fine. How’re you? .... No – I ate already. Yeah - I finished off that salad. With some crisps and the rest of that seedy bloomer. I wasn’t all that hungry. Who? Oh - yeah – y’know. Fine. Fine.... No, I won’t.... I won’t....’
He holds his finger up and frowns at us again, as if he thinks we’re becoming restless.
‘Okay, Poppy? I’ve got to go. What? No – you know. The usual. Okay, Hun? Yeah. Okay? Love you. Love you too. Take care. Oh – and Poppy? Could you get some pellets on the way home? Okay? Thanks sweetheart. Love you. Bye. Bye. Bye.’
Very gently he squeezes the phone off, then deflates about an inch.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘That was Poppy.’
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
true story
Shortly after starting in the job I was sent on relief to work with Charlie, an old paramedic in a station the other side of town. A crotchety piece of work with a crumpled, disappointed look to him. I remember his face, waxy as a burned out candle.
It was a quiet start. I watched telly; Charlie read an old book, sighing every now and then.
It was going to be a long night.
Eventually we copped a job, a smoke inhalation down in Whitby Street. Fire brigade attending. Even though he was a lardy old duffer Charlie seemed to move pretty quick. He was in the cab waiting for me with his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest.
‘You drive,’ he said.
When we got there we found a woman in the house on her own with two kids. Seemed pretty freaked – said she could smell burning, something electrical, but she’d been all through the house and not found a thing. That’s when she’d called the brigade, and we’d been sent along as standard.
We had a quick look round. I say we. Charlie just stood there in the cellar - a nice enough kitchen conversion, lots of beech and pine - kind of drinking it in. But I was keen then. I wanted to do stuff. I couldn’t smell anything, and to be honest I thought maybe she was having a bit of an episode. To humour her, though, I had a good nose around, upstairs and down. Nothing. Back down in the kitchen, Charlie was still standing exactly as before, almost asleep on his feet.
Great, I thought. Brilliant.
The fire brigade arrived. Three hulking great uniforms coming down the stairs. I told them the story and they took it all very seriously. The Captain sent the Under Captain back to the truck to get a bit of kit – an infrared heat sensor.
‘If it’s electrical, it could be in a cavity behind a wall,’ he said.
Your man came hurrying back downstairs with the sensor – a camera-like thing in the middle of a steering wheel. The Captain held it out and started wandering round, steering himself as he looked through the lens, examining walls and floors and what have you.
‘I’m afraid I can’t find a thing,’ he said to the woman. ‘Maybe it’s coming in from the sewers outside. We’ll go out and check.’
Just before they went back upstairs I asked if I could have a look at the sensor. I’ve always liked kit.
‘Knock yourself out,’ he said.
So I took the sensor in my hands and began steering the lens around the kitchen. The flare from the Aga. Hot spots around water pipes. The woman and her children, hugging each other like beautiful lava people by the cold blue of the kitchen table.
And then I came to Charlie.
Held the sensor there a moment.
Looked over the top of it to check
Pointed it back.
I pointed it straight at him.
And there was nothing. There was nothing there at all.
I lowered the sensor.
He was standing there, like before.
Only this time he was smiling.
It was a quiet start. I watched telly; Charlie read an old book, sighing every now and then.
It was going to be a long night.
Eventually we copped a job, a smoke inhalation down in Whitby Street. Fire brigade attending. Even though he was a lardy old duffer Charlie seemed to move pretty quick. He was in the cab waiting for me with his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest.
‘You drive,’ he said.
When we got there we found a woman in the house on her own with two kids. Seemed pretty freaked – said she could smell burning, something electrical, but she’d been all through the house and not found a thing. That’s when she’d called the brigade, and we’d been sent along as standard.
We had a quick look round. I say we. Charlie just stood there in the cellar - a nice enough kitchen conversion, lots of beech and pine - kind of drinking it in. But I was keen then. I wanted to do stuff. I couldn’t smell anything, and to be honest I thought maybe she was having a bit of an episode. To humour her, though, I had a good nose around, upstairs and down. Nothing. Back down in the kitchen, Charlie was still standing exactly as before, almost asleep on his feet.
Great, I thought. Brilliant.
The fire brigade arrived. Three hulking great uniforms coming down the stairs. I told them the story and they took it all very seriously. The Captain sent the Under Captain back to the truck to get a bit of kit – an infrared heat sensor.
‘If it’s electrical, it could be in a cavity behind a wall,’ he said.
Your man came hurrying back downstairs with the sensor – a camera-like thing in the middle of a steering wheel. The Captain held it out and started wandering round, steering himself as he looked through the lens, examining walls and floors and what have you.
‘I’m afraid I can’t find a thing,’ he said to the woman. ‘Maybe it’s coming in from the sewers outside. We’ll go out and check.’
Just before they went back upstairs I asked if I could have a look at the sensor. I’ve always liked kit.
‘Knock yourself out,’ he said.
So I took the sensor in my hands and began steering the lens around the kitchen. The flare from the Aga. Hot spots around water pipes. The woman and her children, hugging each other like beautiful lava people by the cold blue of the kitchen table.
And then I came to Charlie.
Held the sensor there a moment.
Looked over the top of it to check
Pointed it back.
I pointed it straight at him.
And there was nothing. There was nothing there at all.
I lowered the sensor.
He was standing there, like before.
Only this time he was smiling.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
straight to voicemail
On summer nights the beach is spotted with little fires, groups of drinkers, dancers by moonlight, dogs in the water, couples dreaming at the strandline – a soft panorama of beach life running out into the dark from the shouts and the racing neon lights of the pier. But the summer has gone now; the pier closes early, the night is thick and dark, and a sharp wind is blowing in off the sea. Only the breakers stand out in the gloom, rough ribs of foam tumbling in with a roar.
‘There!’
Half way out across the shingle, a huddle of people faintly illuminated with a rectangle of light.
‘Whatever sort of torch is that?’
A little closer, and we can distinguish a huddle of three people kneeling, squatting and standing around a figure lying between them. The standing one is leaning in above the others, lighting the scene with his laptop. A couple of them have taken off their jackets to wrap around the patient. They’re relieved to see us.
As Frank checks the patient – conscious, breathing – a young woman gives us her account.
‘He was standing right at the water’s edge. I thought it was a bit odd, because his feet were getting wet and he didn’t seem bothered. Then he started running up and down, shouting – I don’t know what, I couldn’t really hear – and he started tearing his clothes off and throwing them down. By the time everyone caught up with me he’d stripped down to his boxers and run into the water. He was screaming and crying and thrashing around in the waves for a bit. Then he fell over, went under for a minute but not any longer. And that’s when Billy pulled him out.’
‘I’m okay. I’m okay,’ says Billy, pre-empting a fuss. His hair is spiky and wet.
‘Anyone know his name?’
‘No – but we retrieved his clothes and there’s a phone in his pocket.’
Frank sits back on his heels.
‘There’s nothing obviously wrong with him. He’s deliberately keeping his eyes shut, though – don’t know why. We need to get him on the truck, get him warmed up and have a better look in the light. Let’s get him in the chair and be off.’
‘We’ll help you carry him.’
‘Great.’
Everyone working together makes light work of loading the patient onto the chair and carrying him up the shingle beach to the promenade.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ says Frank. ‘Thanks for your help.’ The man shuts his laptop, they swap jackets around so they’re back to normal, and wave as we haul the patient up the steps to the ambulance.
On the truck, we can find nothing obviously wrong with him. But although he’s conscious, he still refuses to co-operate, flopping his arm out in the grand style.
I flip through his iPhone contacts and come across ICE – In Case of Emergency. A man’s name, and a number.
‘Shall I call it?’
‘Call it.’
‘Or shall I let the hospital take care of it?’
‘Call it.’
Straight to voicemail.
‘There!’
Half way out across the shingle, a huddle of people faintly illuminated with a rectangle of light.
‘Whatever sort of torch is that?’
A little closer, and we can distinguish a huddle of three people kneeling, squatting and standing around a figure lying between them. The standing one is leaning in above the others, lighting the scene with his laptop. A couple of them have taken off their jackets to wrap around the patient. They’re relieved to see us.
As Frank checks the patient – conscious, breathing – a young woman gives us her account.
‘He was standing right at the water’s edge. I thought it was a bit odd, because his feet were getting wet and he didn’t seem bothered. Then he started running up and down, shouting – I don’t know what, I couldn’t really hear – and he started tearing his clothes off and throwing them down. By the time everyone caught up with me he’d stripped down to his boxers and run into the water. He was screaming and crying and thrashing around in the waves for a bit. Then he fell over, went under for a minute but not any longer. And that’s when Billy pulled him out.’
‘I’m okay. I’m okay,’ says Billy, pre-empting a fuss. His hair is spiky and wet.
‘Anyone know his name?’
‘No – but we retrieved his clothes and there’s a phone in his pocket.’
Frank sits back on his heels.
‘There’s nothing obviously wrong with him. He’s deliberately keeping his eyes shut, though – don’t know why. We need to get him on the truck, get him warmed up and have a better look in the light. Let’s get him in the chair and be off.’
‘We’ll help you carry him.’
‘Great.’
Everyone working together makes light work of loading the patient onto the chair and carrying him up the shingle beach to the promenade.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ says Frank. ‘Thanks for your help.’ The man shuts his laptop, they swap jackets around so they’re back to normal, and wave as we haul the patient up the steps to the ambulance.
On the truck, we can find nothing obviously wrong with him. But although he’s conscious, he still refuses to co-operate, flopping his arm out in the grand style.
I flip through his iPhone contacts and come across ICE – In Case of Emergency. A man’s name, and a number.
‘Shall I call it?’
‘Call it.’
‘Or shall I let the hospital take care of it?’
‘Call it.’
Straight to voicemail.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
what he'll say
Ellen is waiting for us in the bedroom, so ravaged by cancer, her body so cadaverous, you would think a thousand year old woman had risen from the tomb, put on a fluffy white towelling bathrobe, and sat herself down at the dressing table to reapply her make-up. The skin of her face is tight across her skull, jaundiced and papery, her dry lips drawn back from teeth which seem too big for her head. She sits serenely, blessed by Zomorph, smiling on her family - her husband in a wheelchair, her daughter sitting on the bed, her son-in-law in the hallway, letting us in. We step inside and introduce ourselves.
She’s ready to go, her medications, clothes and things in two bright green plastic bags and a small, black wheeled suitcase with a handle. The daughter wants to travel with her in the ambulance, but Ellen says no, she’d rather they all followed in the car. They watch as we carry her out and make her comfortable on the trolley, then turn back inside to get ready to follow.
***
‘I’m sorry the ambulance rocks about so much, Ellen.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that, darling. They don’t make them comfortable because they don’t want people to like riding in them. But I don’t mind. I don’t mind a bit. So long as I’ve got someone to talk to and a hand to hold, I’m all right.’
‘I liked that photo in your bedroom, the one with the dog.’
‘Barney? Oh I miss Barney. He was a lovely dog. Lovely.’
‘What was he? An English Bull terrier?’
‘No! He was just a scrap of a thing – a Jack Russell! He just pushed his nose up against the camera and ended up looking bigger than he was. But he always was like that. Getting into mischief. He was a lovely dog. He’d curl up in his basket and wait until the lights were out, then he’d sneak on the bed and cuddle up. And Bill’d say “Can’t we do something about that dog, Ellie?” And I’d say “Well what do you suggest?”. He was a lovely dog. If I’m talking too much, just say.’
‘No. It’s nice to chat.’
‘I think so. I like to chat.’
The morphine takes her away to another place for a while and we travel in silence. But then she moves her head and carries on talking as if nothing had happened.
‘Do you have children?’
‘Yep. Two girls. Six and ten.’
‘Two girls! How lovely.’
‘I’m outnumbered. The only other male is Buzz, our oldest dog, and even he’s been done.’
‘Even he’s been done! Lovely. Still. I expect you’re all right.’
‘Yeah. I’m all right.’
‘I lost my first child.’
‘Did you? I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She was lovely, lovely. I had her, and then she was gone. You never get over something like that, you know. But I had her for a little while, and that was something.’
She rests her head back on the pillow as the ambulance tips and sways.
‘Can I get you some water, Ellen?’
‘No dear. No - I was just thinking. About a cousin I had once. A long time ago now. He was lovely. Lovely. All the girls loved him. And you know – after he loved them back ...’ She walks her fingers slowly across the blanket. Her fingers are so thin, it seems to perfectly animate the stroll of a man into the distance. ‘And then of course he was off for good. Australia. And we never saw hide nor hair of him again.’
She flattens her hand on the cover, smoothes out a crease there, pats the spot, and then holds her hand out to me. When I take it, she looks at me, and her eyes are dilute and indistinct.
‘Of course Bill will be there at the hospital’ she says. ‘And I know exactly what he’ll say when you open the doors.’
‘What’ll he say?’
She leans forward an inch, squeezes my hand and gives it a little shake.
‘He’ll say “How on earth did you put up with her? I’d have thrown her out at the traffic lights.”’
She’s ready to go, her medications, clothes and things in two bright green plastic bags and a small, black wheeled suitcase with a handle. The daughter wants to travel with her in the ambulance, but Ellen says no, she’d rather they all followed in the car. They watch as we carry her out and make her comfortable on the trolley, then turn back inside to get ready to follow.
***
‘I’m sorry the ambulance rocks about so much, Ellen.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that, darling. They don’t make them comfortable because they don’t want people to like riding in them. But I don’t mind. I don’t mind a bit. So long as I’ve got someone to talk to and a hand to hold, I’m all right.’
‘I liked that photo in your bedroom, the one with the dog.’
‘Barney? Oh I miss Barney. He was a lovely dog. Lovely.’
‘What was he? An English Bull terrier?’
‘No! He was just a scrap of a thing – a Jack Russell! He just pushed his nose up against the camera and ended up looking bigger than he was. But he always was like that. Getting into mischief. He was a lovely dog. He’d curl up in his basket and wait until the lights were out, then he’d sneak on the bed and cuddle up. And Bill’d say “Can’t we do something about that dog, Ellie?” And I’d say “Well what do you suggest?”. He was a lovely dog. If I’m talking too much, just say.’
‘No. It’s nice to chat.’
‘I think so. I like to chat.’
The morphine takes her away to another place for a while and we travel in silence. But then she moves her head and carries on talking as if nothing had happened.
‘Do you have children?’
‘Yep. Two girls. Six and ten.’
‘Two girls! How lovely.’
‘I’m outnumbered. The only other male is Buzz, our oldest dog, and even he’s been done.’
‘Even he’s been done! Lovely. Still. I expect you’re all right.’
‘Yeah. I’m all right.’
‘I lost my first child.’
‘Did you? I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She was lovely, lovely. I had her, and then she was gone. You never get over something like that, you know. But I had her for a little while, and that was something.’
She rests her head back on the pillow as the ambulance tips and sways.
‘Can I get you some water, Ellen?’
‘No dear. No - I was just thinking. About a cousin I had once. A long time ago now. He was lovely. Lovely. All the girls loved him. And you know – after he loved them back ...’ She walks her fingers slowly across the blanket. Her fingers are so thin, it seems to perfectly animate the stroll of a man into the distance. ‘And then of course he was off for good. Australia. And we never saw hide nor hair of him again.’
She flattens her hand on the cover, smoothes out a crease there, pats the spot, and then holds her hand out to me. When I take it, she looks at me, and her eyes are dilute and indistinct.
‘Of course Bill will be there at the hospital’ she says. ‘And I know exactly what he’ll say when you open the doors.’
‘What’ll he say?’
She leans forward an inch, squeezes my hand and gives it a little shake.
‘He’ll say “How on earth did you put up with her? I’d have thrown her out at the traffic lights.”’
Friday, October 21, 2011
the wrong hotel
Three o’clock in the morning, parked by the side of a deserted street. Dozing in the low-lit box of our cab whilst the belly of the moon bumps the roof and the ambulance freezes around us. If I half close my eyes, I can turn those streetlights into diatoms of colour; they ripple and stretch and fly apart in strands, swimming through the low voices of the radio.
But then something hooks me back from the brink of sleep: an estate car pulling up to the side of the road in front of us. A man gets out. I watch him as he goes round to the back, opens the boot and pulls out a silver chair. He sets it on the pavement, then goes back into the boot again. I wonder if he’s some kind of street artist ready to perform a bitterly ironic piece – Standby – about the despair of men paid to sit by the side of empty streets at night for no reason. But it turns out he’s just re-arranging the boot. He puts the chair back inside when he’s done, and drives off.
A job comes up on the screen.
Overdose, outside a hotel.
Frank groans, unfolds back into a driving position yawns like Chewbacca as he turns the engine over.
‘Back the other side of town,’ he says, reading the notes. ‘So that was worth sending us here, then.’
***
The night porter doesn’t wave as we approach. He hugs his arms around his mop and watches us without expression as we pull up.
‘Cold night’ I say.
As if that was all he needed to hear, the night porter unfolds his arms and bends down to pick up the bucket. He holds both – mop and bucket – in one hand, raising the other arm up and out as a counterbalance.
‘Was there a guy sitting out here? Rang for an ambulance? Something about an overdose?’
The night porter sighs.
‘Threw up all over the steps and fucked off. Is that who you mean?’
‘Could be.’
‘I’ve cleared it up.’ He stands there, frowning as if he thinks the whole thing was probably our idea, then turns to go back inside.
‘Speak to Mrs Adams.’
On the Reception desk, Mrs Adams has come out of the back office. She stands with her arms planted across the register like a priestess drawing power from a book of spells.
‘He left as soon as I said the ambulance was on its way,’ she says. ‘He said he’d taken an overdose because he had a row with his girlfriend. She wasn’t with him.’
‘What does he look like?’
She pauses, staring out across the empty lobby.
‘Tall. Thin. Gloomy.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Anything else I can help you with?’
‘No. Thanks very much. Good night.’
‘Good night to you.’
‘Don’t look back’ says Frank as we walk back across the lobby. But I do. Mrs Adams waves. I wave back, and almost end up in the same segment of the revolving door as Frank.
***
Control ring us up. Police are on scene with the patient at the Cumberland.
‘Who is this guy? Some kind of fucked-up hotel inspector?’
We drive round the corner and park up behind one of the patrol cars out in the street. As we climb out of the cab again, a police officer comes over.
‘What it is – this fella had a fight with his girlfriend and took some pills she had on her. Went away, came back, punched out a glass door in the lobby. He’s in there sitting on the naughty step with cuffs on. His girlfriend is being a bit difficult at the moment, but you should be all right.’
The Cumberland is a good but less expensive hotel than the first. Some of the letters are out on the name, the doors are thickly painted, whilst in the lobby, a chintz war rages between the repro tables, gilt mirrors, flowery prints and flock wallpaper. A handful of tourist pamphlets and glass shards are scattered across the runner.
Four police officers fill the hallway. Two are with the patient, who sits with his arms cuffed behind him at the bottom of the staircase at the far end. Two more are with the girlfriend, a young woman of twenty who seems even from this distance to have the same darkly wrought intensity as the wallpaper.
‘Don’t you lay a hand on me,’ she says. ‘You’re being completely horrendous. All I want is to make sure Jimmy’s okay. I can’t believe you’re not letting me.’
‘The paramedics are here,’ says one of the officer, glad to have some new angle. ‘Let them do their job, and we’ll see where we go from there.’
As we pass she leans out in front of us.
‘We had a row,’ she says. ‘He took six anti-psychotic pills I’d confiscated off a friend who shouldn’t have been taking them. I’m a reflexologist so I know about this stuff. He’s had some alcohol, he’s been sick a number of times. I’m worried he might go unconscious or have a fit.’
The police officer gently steers her out of the way.
‘Please!’ she says.
‘Let them do their job,’ he says.
‘Let go of me!’
‘Just give us a moment,’ says Frank. ‘It’ll be all right.’
Jimmy barely looks up as we approach. If it wasn’t for the early hour, the handcuffs, the police officers, the flashes of blue from outside, the buzz of radios and the loud protestations of his girlfriend, he could be a disappointed tourist waiting to go back to the airport.
‘How are you on your feet?’ says Frank.
Jimmy stands up, utterly neutral. We walk him out to the truck.
‘I’ll be there in a minute, baby,’ says his girlfriend, touching him on the arm as we pass. ‘Check his blood pressure and heart rate. And check in the manual for side-effects. I’m here baby. I’m here for you.’
‘Just a second,’ says one of the officers. ‘Who’s got the keys to your room?’
‘I know. I know where they are,’ says the girlfriend. ‘They landed in the big ceramic pot to the right of the sofa.’
‘What sofa?’
‘The sofa by the window.’
We all look in that direction.
‘Not this hotel. The other one,’ she says.
Everyone seems to tense up.
Jimmy discretely tests the slack of his cuffs.
‘Let’s get you out to the truck,’ says Frank.
But then something hooks me back from the brink of sleep: an estate car pulling up to the side of the road in front of us. A man gets out. I watch him as he goes round to the back, opens the boot and pulls out a silver chair. He sets it on the pavement, then goes back into the boot again. I wonder if he’s some kind of street artist ready to perform a bitterly ironic piece – Standby – about the despair of men paid to sit by the side of empty streets at night for no reason. But it turns out he’s just re-arranging the boot. He puts the chair back inside when he’s done, and drives off.
A job comes up on the screen.
Overdose, outside a hotel.
Frank groans, unfolds back into a driving position yawns like Chewbacca as he turns the engine over.
‘Back the other side of town,’ he says, reading the notes. ‘So that was worth sending us here, then.’
***
The night porter doesn’t wave as we approach. He hugs his arms around his mop and watches us without expression as we pull up.
‘Cold night’ I say.
As if that was all he needed to hear, the night porter unfolds his arms and bends down to pick up the bucket. He holds both – mop and bucket – in one hand, raising the other arm up and out as a counterbalance.
‘Was there a guy sitting out here? Rang for an ambulance? Something about an overdose?’
The night porter sighs.
‘Threw up all over the steps and fucked off. Is that who you mean?’
‘Could be.’
‘I’ve cleared it up.’ He stands there, frowning as if he thinks the whole thing was probably our idea, then turns to go back inside.
‘Speak to Mrs Adams.’
On the Reception desk, Mrs Adams has come out of the back office. She stands with her arms planted across the register like a priestess drawing power from a book of spells.
‘He left as soon as I said the ambulance was on its way,’ she says. ‘He said he’d taken an overdose because he had a row with his girlfriend. She wasn’t with him.’
‘What does he look like?’
She pauses, staring out across the empty lobby.
‘Tall. Thin. Gloomy.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Anything else I can help you with?’
‘No. Thanks very much. Good night.’
‘Good night to you.’
‘Don’t look back’ says Frank as we walk back across the lobby. But I do. Mrs Adams waves. I wave back, and almost end up in the same segment of the revolving door as Frank.
***
Control ring us up. Police are on scene with the patient at the Cumberland.
‘Who is this guy? Some kind of fucked-up hotel inspector?’
We drive round the corner and park up behind one of the patrol cars out in the street. As we climb out of the cab again, a police officer comes over.
‘What it is – this fella had a fight with his girlfriend and took some pills she had on her. Went away, came back, punched out a glass door in the lobby. He’s in there sitting on the naughty step with cuffs on. His girlfriend is being a bit difficult at the moment, but you should be all right.’
The Cumberland is a good but less expensive hotel than the first. Some of the letters are out on the name, the doors are thickly painted, whilst in the lobby, a chintz war rages between the repro tables, gilt mirrors, flowery prints and flock wallpaper. A handful of tourist pamphlets and glass shards are scattered across the runner.
Four police officers fill the hallway. Two are with the patient, who sits with his arms cuffed behind him at the bottom of the staircase at the far end. Two more are with the girlfriend, a young woman of twenty who seems even from this distance to have the same darkly wrought intensity as the wallpaper.
‘Don’t you lay a hand on me,’ she says. ‘You’re being completely horrendous. All I want is to make sure Jimmy’s okay. I can’t believe you’re not letting me.’
‘The paramedics are here,’ says one of the officer, glad to have some new angle. ‘Let them do their job, and we’ll see where we go from there.’
As we pass she leans out in front of us.
‘We had a row,’ she says. ‘He took six anti-psychotic pills I’d confiscated off a friend who shouldn’t have been taking them. I’m a reflexologist so I know about this stuff. He’s had some alcohol, he’s been sick a number of times. I’m worried he might go unconscious or have a fit.’
The police officer gently steers her out of the way.
‘Please!’ she says.
‘Let them do their job,’ he says.
‘Let go of me!’
‘Just give us a moment,’ says Frank. ‘It’ll be all right.’
Jimmy barely looks up as we approach. If it wasn’t for the early hour, the handcuffs, the police officers, the flashes of blue from outside, the buzz of radios and the loud protestations of his girlfriend, he could be a disappointed tourist waiting to go back to the airport.
‘How are you on your feet?’ says Frank.
Jimmy stands up, utterly neutral. We walk him out to the truck.
‘I’ll be there in a minute, baby,’ says his girlfriend, touching him on the arm as we pass. ‘Check his blood pressure and heart rate. And check in the manual for side-effects. I’m here baby. I’m here for you.’
‘Just a second,’ says one of the officers. ‘Who’s got the keys to your room?’
‘I know. I know where they are,’ says the girlfriend. ‘They landed in the big ceramic pot to the right of the sofa.’
‘What sofa?’
‘The sofa by the window.’
We all look in that direction.
‘Not this hotel. The other one,’ she says.
Everyone seems to tense up.
Jimmy discretely tests the slack of his cuffs.
‘Let’s get you out to the truck,’ says Frank.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
little rabbits
Alan’s flat is tucked round the side of the main house. Everything is nicely ordered – the roses have been pruned back early, the bark chippings on the soil swept back from the path, the fallen apples from the neighbour’s tree picked up and put in a plastic crate. Alan looks tidily put away, too. He sits waiting for us on an armchair in the centre of the room, a view of the garden off to the left, a large TV to the right. A low bookcase neatly filled with DVDs – Jarhead, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, The Good, The Bad & the Ugly. To the left of the armchair beneath a picture window is a large wire cage with two tiny rabbits, whose ears hang straight down like the flaps on a winter hat.
‘Did the doctor leave a letter?’ asks Frank. ‘Or was it done on the phone?’
‘On the phone. He said we shouldn’t mess about.’
‘Fair enough.’
I go back out to fetch a chair.
***
The hospital is as busy as ever. Whilst Frank stands and waits his turn to handover at the desk, I wait alongside the trolley with Alan. He watches the chaos with the same taut readiness as one of his rabbits; I half expect him to leap off the trolley and scamper out the door if I cough or shift my position unexpectedly.
‘So your carer will look after the rabbits?’ I say.
‘She’s very good. I couldn’t manage without her.’
‘How often does she come in?’
‘Every other day.’
‘Do you manage to get out much?’
‘A little. To the corner shop.’
‘How long does that take you?’
‘Half the morning. It’s a major expedition.’
‘I bet.’
Frank waves to us from the desk, then leans back into a semi-conscious slump. I’ve never seen so many nurses, doctors, junior doctors, porters, police, patients, relatives – it’s like a casting call for a disaster movie.
‘Busy today, isn’t it?’ says Alan, studying me intently with his dark eyes.
‘Sorry it’s taking so long.’
‘That’s okay. I’ve got time.’
As if to illustrate the point, he folds his hands neatly on the blanket and sighs.
‘So – tell me about your rabbits,’ I say.
‘What about them?’
‘Erm – they look like baby rabbits.’
‘No. They’re actually quite rare. They’re Holland Lops, a dwarf breed. House trained, of course. Great company. They’ll wander about, then all of a sudden do a complete flip in the air.’
‘I’m glad you’ve got two. I think rabbits get a rough deal sometimes. Kids want them, but they get bored and the rabbit ends up banished to some lonely old shed.’
‘Oh no. Mine are great company. They help me undress.’
‘They help you undress?’
‘Yes. I slip my shoes off, they take a sock each and tug.’
‘Wow.’
‘They they climb up on my shoulder and we watch a film together.’
‘And what do they eat? Popcorn?’
‘No. They have special pellets that my carer gets. Looks exactly like their poo, but they seem to enjoy it.’
Frank comes over.
‘Sorry it took a while. But we’ve found you a space.’
Mind your backs, please! he calls, Mind your backs! And we nudge the trolley slowly forwards like an ice-breaking ship.
‘Did the doctor leave a letter?’ asks Frank. ‘Or was it done on the phone?’
‘On the phone. He said we shouldn’t mess about.’
‘Fair enough.’
I go back out to fetch a chair.
***
The hospital is as busy as ever. Whilst Frank stands and waits his turn to handover at the desk, I wait alongside the trolley with Alan. He watches the chaos with the same taut readiness as one of his rabbits; I half expect him to leap off the trolley and scamper out the door if I cough or shift my position unexpectedly.
‘So your carer will look after the rabbits?’ I say.
‘She’s very good. I couldn’t manage without her.’
‘How often does she come in?’
‘Every other day.’
‘Do you manage to get out much?’
‘A little. To the corner shop.’
‘How long does that take you?’
‘Half the morning. It’s a major expedition.’
‘I bet.’
Frank waves to us from the desk, then leans back into a semi-conscious slump. I’ve never seen so many nurses, doctors, junior doctors, porters, police, patients, relatives – it’s like a casting call for a disaster movie.
‘Busy today, isn’t it?’ says Alan, studying me intently with his dark eyes.
‘Sorry it’s taking so long.’
‘That’s okay. I’ve got time.’
As if to illustrate the point, he folds his hands neatly on the blanket and sighs.
‘So – tell me about your rabbits,’ I say.
‘What about them?’
‘Erm – they look like baby rabbits.’
‘No. They’re actually quite rare. They’re Holland Lops, a dwarf breed. House trained, of course. Great company. They’ll wander about, then all of a sudden do a complete flip in the air.’
‘I’m glad you’ve got two. I think rabbits get a rough deal sometimes. Kids want them, but they get bored and the rabbit ends up banished to some lonely old shed.’
‘Oh no. Mine are great company. They help me undress.’
‘They help you undress?’
‘Yes. I slip my shoes off, they take a sock each and tug.’
‘Wow.’
‘They they climb up on my shoulder and we watch a film together.’
‘And what do they eat? Popcorn?’
‘No. They have special pellets that my carer gets. Looks exactly like their poo, but they seem to enjoy it.’
Frank comes over.
‘Sorry it took a while. But we’ve found you a space.’
Mind your backs, please! he calls, Mind your backs! And we nudge the trolley slowly forwards like an ice-breaking ship.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
about charlie
‘I think he’s had a stroke.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I know he’s had a drink or two, fair enough. But look at him. He can’t speak proper. He’s leant over to the side, his mouth’s all weird.’
‘How well do you know Charlie?’
‘Really well. I’ve not seen him like this before, man. I mean – sure he’s had a drink. But this is different, you know?’
Charlie is slumped over to his right on the bench. He has vomited – so productively, it would be easier to believe that Charlie, bench and rucksack had been swallowed whole by some urban monster who’d raged around town for a while then staggered back and thrown up man, bench and bag right back where it ate them.
A recycling truck pulls up on the street side and two council workmen jump out to haul a paladin of empty bottles to the hydraulic arms at the side. One of them stares over at us, laughs and says something to his friend, who carries on with barely a glance. The noise of the glass as it tips from the paladin into the maw of the truck is colossal, overwhelming.
‘Charlie?’ I shout and pinch his shoulder. ‘It’s the ambulance, Charlie.’
He opens his eyes; a second or two later he senses danger and bunches his fists Popeye-style.
‘I’ll fuck you’s,’ he says. ‘I’ll bust you up.’
‘What’s happened to you, Charlie? Do you have any pain?’
He swipes the air.
‘Calm down, Charlie. We’re here to help.’
‘Don’t think I won’t,’ he says.
I straighten up.
‘Trolley – blankets – pads. This is going to take some careful packaging.’
‘Do you think he’s had a stroke?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible. It looks that way.’
‘I’ll ring and tell the hostel what’s happened.’
‘Thanks.’
***
At the hospital later that day, I ask the Charge Nurse about Charlie.
‘Was it a stroke?’
‘Oh – yeah. Thanks for bringing that one in. I owe you.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. He was a bit messed up.’
‘A bit messed up? I don’t think a bit messed up comes anywhere close.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And no, it wasn’t a stroke. He had a BAC of point three something or other, so no, it wasn’t a stroke. Jesus – if I ever have that much to drink just drop me over the side with a bunch of flowers and be on your way.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I know he’s had a drink or two, fair enough. But look at him. He can’t speak proper. He’s leant over to the side, his mouth’s all weird.’
‘How well do you know Charlie?’
‘Really well. I’ve not seen him like this before, man. I mean – sure he’s had a drink. But this is different, you know?’
Charlie is slumped over to his right on the bench. He has vomited – so productively, it would be easier to believe that Charlie, bench and rucksack had been swallowed whole by some urban monster who’d raged around town for a while then staggered back and thrown up man, bench and bag right back where it ate them.
A recycling truck pulls up on the street side and two council workmen jump out to haul a paladin of empty bottles to the hydraulic arms at the side. One of them stares over at us, laughs and says something to his friend, who carries on with barely a glance. The noise of the glass as it tips from the paladin into the maw of the truck is colossal, overwhelming.
‘Charlie?’ I shout and pinch his shoulder. ‘It’s the ambulance, Charlie.’
He opens his eyes; a second or two later he senses danger and bunches his fists Popeye-style.
‘I’ll fuck you’s,’ he says. ‘I’ll bust you up.’
‘What’s happened to you, Charlie? Do you have any pain?’
He swipes the air.
‘Calm down, Charlie. We’re here to help.’
‘Don’t think I won’t,’ he says.
I straighten up.
‘Trolley – blankets – pads. This is going to take some careful packaging.’
‘Do you think he’s had a stroke?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible. It looks that way.’
‘I’ll ring and tell the hostel what’s happened.’
‘Thanks.’
***
At the hospital later that day, I ask the Charge Nurse about Charlie.
‘Was it a stroke?’
‘Oh – yeah. Thanks for bringing that one in. I owe you.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. He was a bit messed up.’
‘A bit messed up? I don’t think a bit messed up comes anywhere close.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And no, it wasn’t a stroke. He had a BAC of point three something or other, so no, it wasn’t a stroke. Jesus – if I ever have that much to drink just drop me over the side with a bunch of flowers and be on your way.’
Thursday, October 13, 2011
the haunted hotel
The manager of the hotel, a brisk woman with administrative hair, is waiting for us just the other side of the revolving doors.
‘We do provide shower mats,’ she says, leading us across the lobby to the lift. ‘I don’t know why she didn’t use it.’
She explains that Jean had rung the desk first thing to ask for a taxi to take her to the hospital. When they asked why, she said she’d fallen in the shower last night and hurt her side.
‘How does she seem to you?’ I ask her as the ancient metal doors of the lift slide shut. ‘Badly hurt?’
‘She has a lot of pain in her side. I should imagine she’s cracked a rib or something.’
The lift gives a little shake, slowly winds upwards, then after some false stops gives an arthritic judder and the doors open again. We step out onto a boxy landing with a warren of lopsided corridors leading off in all directions.
‘Even I get lost sometimes,’ says the manager, scurrying off ahead of us, dusting the low-ceiling with her hairdo as she goes.
‘Maybe the hotel ghost can show us out,’ says Frank.
She gives him a stern look over her shoulder, as if he’s letting out a secret she’d rather keep from the guests.
‘It’s over four hundred years old,’ she whispers. ‘It’s seen a lot in that time.’
She strides on, her tights swishing and the old boards creaking.
‘Here we are,’ she says at last, standing outside a door so tiny it wouldn’t look out of place in the side of a toadstool.
She knocks twice and we follow her in.
Jean is sitting in a wicker chair, leaning over to her right.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, hen,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to get the ambulance out but the staff here insisted.’
‘What’s happened to you, Jean?’
‘Ach – it’s stupid. I feel so cross with myself. I was taking a shower late last night and when I went to get out the floor was so slippery my feet just went and I landed on my side, here.’
She puts a hand to her left side and flinches with the pain. ‘It took me an hour to get up and dry and away back into bed. And then in the morning I could hardly move. I come down to see the family and look what I go and do.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Lifting up her pyjama top reveals a pattern of livid bruising.
‘Nasty. I think you might have fractured a rib or two, Jean. We should definitely take you up the hospital for some decent pain relief, and to make sure there’s no underlying tissue damage.’
‘Oh – bless you, hen,’ she says, patting my hand. ‘Bless you. I don’t want to be a trouble to you, but I know I’ve got to go. Eighty-two years and not a thing wrong, so I’m not doing so bad. I used to work for the hospital m’seln. And then we were over in Romania with the poor wee orphans. So now it’s my turn, I suppose.’
‘Do you think you can walk, Jean? We can get a chair if not.’
‘Ach – away with your fuss! I’m no getting carried out. Here – gis’ a hand up and let’s be on.’
The manager is standing in the bathroom holding a shower mat.
‘It was here, but someone had draped it over the rail for some reason.’
I half expect her to hand out witness statements and disclaimers, but instead she puts the mat down on the bathroom floor and opens the door for us.
‘I’m pretty sure the lift’s this way,’ she says, hurrying on.
‘I’m amazed they’re still allowed a ghost,’ whispers Frank, holding out his arm. 'Come on, Jean. Let's get you down to the ambulance.'
‘We do provide shower mats,’ she says, leading us across the lobby to the lift. ‘I don’t know why she didn’t use it.’
She explains that Jean had rung the desk first thing to ask for a taxi to take her to the hospital. When they asked why, she said she’d fallen in the shower last night and hurt her side.
‘How does she seem to you?’ I ask her as the ancient metal doors of the lift slide shut. ‘Badly hurt?’
‘She has a lot of pain in her side. I should imagine she’s cracked a rib or something.’
The lift gives a little shake, slowly winds upwards, then after some false stops gives an arthritic judder and the doors open again. We step out onto a boxy landing with a warren of lopsided corridors leading off in all directions.
‘Even I get lost sometimes,’ says the manager, scurrying off ahead of us, dusting the low-ceiling with her hairdo as she goes.
‘Maybe the hotel ghost can show us out,’ says Frank.
She gives him a stern look over her shoulder, as if he’s letting out a secret she’d rather keep from the guests.
‘It’s over four hundred years old,’ she whispers. ‘It’s seen a lot in that time.’
She strides on, her tights swishing and the old boards creaking.
‘Here we are,’ she says at last, standing outside a door so tiny it wouldn’t look out of place in the side of a toadstool.
She knocks twice and we follow her in.
Jean is sitting in a wicker chair, leaning over to her right.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, hen,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to get the ambulance out but the staff here insisted.’
‘What’s happened to you, Jean?’
‘Ach – it’s stupid. I feel so cross with myself. I was taking a shower late last night and when I went to get out the floor was so slippery my feet just went and I landed on my side, here.’
She puts a hand to her left side and flinches with the pain. ‘It took me an hour to get up and dry and away back into bed. And then in the morning I could hardly move. I come down to see the family and look what I go and do.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Lifting up her pyjama top reveals a pattern of livid bruising.
‘Nasty. I think you might have fractured a rib or two, Jean. We should definitely take you up the hospital for some decent pain relief, and to make sure there’s no underlying tissue damage.’
‘Oh – bless you, hen,’ she says, patting my hand. ‘Bless you. I don’t want to be a trouble to you, but I know I’ve got to go. Eighty-two years and not a thing wrong, so I’m not doing so bad. I used to work for the hospital m’seln. And then we were over in Romania with the poor wee orphans. So now it’s my turn, I suppose.’
‘Do you think you can walk, Jean? We can get a chair if not.’
‘Ach – away with your fuss! I’m no getting carried out. Here – gis’ a hand up and let’s be on.’
The manager is standing in the bathroom holding a shower mat.
‘It was here, but someone had draped it over the rail for some reason.’
I half expect her to hand out witness statements and disclaimers, but instead she puts the mat down on the bathroom floor and opens the door for us.
‘I’m pretty sure the lift’s this way,’ she says, hurrying on.
‘I’m amazed they’re still allowed a ghost,’ whispers Frank, holding out his arm. 'Come on, Jean. Let's get you down to the ambulance.'
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
getting about
When Geoffrey laughs – and he laughs a lot - he hangs it on the air in front of him like the cartoon of a man providing his own speech bubbles. If he were a cartoon, it would be something grimly ironic, an urban fairy tale about a ruined Santa retired from the trade through years of overwork and ill health, off his legs in a riser chair, his feathery beard plucked back to the stubbly butt of his chin, a cave of verminous yellow teeth, man boobs and a scurfy paunch spread above a giant nappy.
‘My father had no luck either. He used to hide his money in a little tin box he’d stick up inside the chimney. One day he came back unexpected and caught my mum with her hand up there. They had a fight and she pushed him backwards out the window. Three floors and that was that. Yur-hur-hur-hur.’
Geoffrey’s carer, as clipped and contained as his patient is exposed, puts some things together in a bag.
‘Now what else do you think you’ll need, Geoffrey?’
‘That clock,’ he says, pointing to an unfeasibly large alarm clock on the breakfast table. ‘ I want to take my clock with me. I want to know when my time’s up, yur-hur-hur-hur.’
‘Well you can’t very well take the clock, Geoffrey. There’ll be plenty of people around you can ask for the time. And I wouldn’t take your sticks, either. They’ll walk.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he says, contentedly draping his arms across his belly and linking his fingers in the middle like a gigantic buckle. ‘They can have it all as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need much.’
We managed to fit the trolley in the lift. I clear a space in the flat and Frank wheels it in from the corridor. He parks it alongside Geoffrey’s chair.
‘Whoa!’ he says. ‘Bloody ‘ell! Who ordered that?’
‘Your carriage awaits,’ I say, putting the back up and lowering the side.
‘You want me in that thing? You’ll be lucky, yur-hur-hur-hur.’
We fuss around him like elves.
‘Mind your language,’ says the carer. ‘And don’t forget, not everybody wants to hear your dreadful confessions.’
‘No? I haven’t even got started. Take my cousin, for instance...’
‘Please, spare us,’ says the carer.
‘...my cousin did twenty years. His wife came home unexpectedly and found the next door neighbour roped to the bed and my cousin on top of him. Yur-hur-hur-hur.’
‘That’s one punch line I think I missed,’ says Frank, negotiating the head of the trolley through the doorway. ‘Thankfully. Think thin, mate,’ he says.
‘But I come from good stock,’ says Geoffrey happily. ‘Especially with regard to legs. I used to cycle everywhere, you know.’
‘How do you mean? Getting to work?’ I say, grunting with the effort of moving the trolley.
Geoffrey smiles at me.
‘France, Germany, Russia...’
‘Russia?’
‘...Belgium, Holland – and what’s that place just near Gibraltar?’
‘I don’t know. Spain?’
‘North Africa!’ he says. I used to love getting about on the old bike, yur-hur-hur-hur.’
‘My father had no luck either. He used to hide his money in a little tin box he’d stick up inside the chimney. One day he came back unexpected and caught my mum with her hand up there. They had a fight and she pushed him backwards out the window. Three floors and that was that. Yur-hur-hur-hur.’
Geoffrey’s carer, as clipped and contained as his patient is exposed, puts some things together in a bag.
‘Now what else do you think you’ll need, Geoffrey?’
‘That clock,’ he says, pointing to an unfeasibly large alarm clock on the breakfast table. ‘ I want to take my clock with me. I want to know when my time’s up, yur-hur-hur-hur.’
‘Well you can’t very well take the clock, Geoffrey. There’ll be plenty of people around you can ask for the time. And I wouldn’t take your sticks, either. They’ll walk.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he says, contentedly draping his arms across his belly and linking his fingers in the middle like a gigantic buckle. ‘They can have it all as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need much.’
We managed to fit the trolley in the lift. I clear a space in the flat and Frank wheels it in from the corridor. He parks it alongside Geoffrey’s chair.
‘Whoa!’ he says. ‘Bloody ‘ell! Who ordered that?’
‘Your carriage awaits,’ I say, putting the back up and lowering the side.
‘You want me in that thing? You’ll be lucky, yur-hur-hur-hur.’
We fuss around him like elves.
‘Mind your language,’ says the carer. ‘And don’t forget, not everybody wants to hear your dreadful confessions.’
‘No? I haven’t even got started. Take my cousin, for instance...’
‘Please, spare us,’ says the carer.
‘...my cousin did twenty years. His wife came home unexpectedly and found the next door neighbour roped to the bed and my cousin on top of him. Yur-hur-hur-hur.’
‘That’s one punch line I think I missed,’ says Frank, negotiating the head of the trolley through the doorway. ‘Thankfully. Think thin, mate,’ he says.
‘But I come from good stock,’ says Geoffrey happily. ‘Especially with regard to legs. I used to cycle everywhere, you know.’
‘How do you mean? Getting to work?’ I say, grunting with the effort of moving the trolley.
Geoffrey smiles at me.
‘France, Germany, Russia...’
‘Russia?’
‘...Belgium, Holland – and what’s that place just near Gibraltar?’
‘I don’t know. Spain?’
‘North Africa!’ he says. I used to love getting about on the old bike, yur-hur-hur-hur.’
Thursday, October 06, 2011
doctors
Mrs Appleton is neatly arranged on her bed, a halo of silver hair on three plump and freshly laundered flowery pillows, legs straight out, arms by her sides. Her husband, a man as pale and soft as a button mushroom, ushers us into the room.
‘I’ve got these pains here – and here – all up here,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve been sick and dizzy with it.’
‘Sick and dizzy,’ echoes Mr Appleton. ‘Shall I get the diary?’
‘The doctors will want to see it,’ she says.
‘Okay, Mrs Appleton,’ Frank says, putting his bag down. ‘What’s been going on?’
‘Let me put you in the picture,’ she says, pushing herself a little further up onto the pillows and then sinking back into them and folding her arms across her chest. ‘In nineteen fifty five....’
‘No, I meant today. What led you to call the ambulance today?’
‘Well I had another episode.’
‘Of the sickness and dizziness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any chest pain?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you have any chest pain now?’
‘It’s more over this way. And round here. And here, but not so much.’
She hovers one of her hands across her middle, then places it quietly back beside her again.
‘Any shortness of breath?’
‘I’m always short of breath.’
‘Any pins and needles or numbness in your arms or hands or anywhere else?’
‘I do get that from time to time.’
‘How would you describe the pain? Is it a cramping sort of pain? A sharp stabbing thing? An ache?’
‘I couldn’t really say. But it’s there all right. On and off.’
‘And more in your abdomen than your chest, would you say?’
‘What do you mean by abdomen?’
‘I mean around here.’
‘Yes.’
‘What were you doing when it came on?’
‘Nothing. Just quietly lying here. Waiting for bed.’
Mr Appleton comes back in holding an old school exercise book.
‘Read this,’ he says. ‘It’ll explain everything.’
I briefly open the book. Its pages are stiff, crinkled up with age and the mass of close writing that covers them top to bottom, margin to spine. Diary entries, the first one back in the early seventies, detailing every ache and pain, giddy moment, bowel movement and vomiting episode.
‘There are more, but that’s the most up to date,’ says Mr Appleton. ‘Shall we take it with us?’
‘Yep,’ says Frank. ‘I know the doctors will be keen to see it.’
‘They’re wonderful,’ says Mrs Appleton. ‘Do you know – I called mine up the other day, just to tell him how well I felt.’
Frank raises his eyebrows and nods.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
***
Outside in the A&E car park, we lean back against the safety railing like two glum, green birds roosting on a branch.
‘Did you know – of all the health professionals – doctors have the highest rate of alcoholism?’ says Frank, swallowing the last of his coffee, then tipping the dregs out onto the ground. He sighs, then stands to put his cup in the bin. ‘Any bleeding wonder.’
‘I’ve got these pains here – and here – all up here,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve been sick and dizzy with it.’
‘Sick and dizzy,’ echoes Mr Appleton. ‘Shall I get the diary?’
‘The doctors will want to see it,’ she says.
‘Okay, Mrs Appleton,’ Frank says, putting his bag down. ‘What’s been going on?’
‘Let me put you in the picture,’ she says, pushing herself a little further up onto the pillows and then sinking back into them and folding her arms across her chest. ‘In nineteen fifty five....’
‘No, I meant today. What led you to call the ambulance today?’
‘Well I had another episode.’
‘Of the sickness and dizziness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any chest pain?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you have any chest pain now?’
‘It’s more over this way. And round here. And here, but not so much.’
She hovers one of her hands across her middle, then places it quietly back beside her again.
‘Any shortness of breath?’
‘I’m always short of breath.’
‘Any pins and needles or numbness in your arms or hands or anywhere else?’
‘I do get that from time to time.’
‘How would you describe the pain? Is it a cramping sort of pain? A sharp stabbing thing? An ache?’
‘I couldn’t really say. But it’s there all right. On and off.’
‘And more in your abdomen than your chest, would you say?’
‘What do you mean by abdomen?’
‘I mean around here.’
‘Yes.’
‘What were you doing when it came on?’
‘Nothing. Just quietly lying here. Waiting for bed.’
Mr Appleton comes back in holding an old school exercise book.
‘Read this,’ he says. ‘It’ll explain everything.’
I briefly open the book. Its pages are stiff, crinkled up with age and the mass of close writing that covers them top to bottom, margin to spine. Diary entries, the first one back in the early seventies, detailing every ache and pain, giddy moment, bowel movement and vomiting episode.
‘There are more, but that’s the most up to date,’ says Mr Appleton. ‘Shall we take it with us?’
‘Yep,’ says Frank. ‘I know the doctors will be keen to see it.’
‘They’re wonderful,’ says Mrs Appleton. ‘Do you know – I called mine up the other day, just to tell him how well I felt.’
Frank raises his eyebrows and nods.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
***
Outside in the A&E car park, we lean back against the safety railing like two glum, green birds roosting on a branch.
‘Did you know – of all the health professionals – doctors have the highest rate of alcoholism?’ says Frank, swallowing the last of his coffee, then tipping the dregs out onto the ground. He sighs, then stands to put his cup in the bin. ‘Any bleeding wonder.’
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
the last hot night of summer
An older part of town, where narrow streets of tall, bow-fronted houses and shops lead south from the high street and fade into complicated tributaries of mews cottages and alleyways. It has a backwater feel of silt and settlement, where the bones of scavenged bikes lie chained to streetlights, and railings are encrusted with thick black paint like the coral growth on a sunken ship.
A woman is standing by the entrance to some basement steps, clutching a cordless house phone.
‘Do you want me to go down with you?’ she says.
‘No. It’s probably best if you stay up here and wait for the police.’
She looks relieved.
A flight of worn stone steps pitch down at an alarming angle to the mossy flagstones of the courtyard below. A pile of detritus in an alcove, opposite a front door which, by the look of the temporary wooden batons and splintered panels, has obviously been put in several times before. It stands open.
‘Hello? Ambulance.’
Frank pushes through and I follow.
A long, dimly lit hallway, three rooms off to the right, a closed door at the end.
‘Hello?’
The smell of neglect – a wretched, spongy sweetness that thrums up from every surface, from the ragged Persian runner, the little wooden bookshelf of cassette tapes and books and empty bottles, the piles of magazines. The walls themselves have a Gallery of the Damned feel: an arrangement of family photographs, an intensely coloured portrait of a dog, a figurative line drawing, a gig poster from the seventies, torn articles from magazines, maps, a mandala – a disparate throw of images, some framed, some simply taped to the wall, all of them slowly cooking, curling and spotting in the fetid air.
A voice from the room at the end.
‘I’m in the kitchen.’
‘Can we come down and see you?’
He doesn’t answer, but we go anyway.
The sudden, sharp smell of white spirit as we near the door.
Frank knocks and carefully pushes it open.
Paul is sitting at the kitchen table with his back to us, his arms resting on his knees, his damp head bowed. Half a bottle of white spirit at his feet.
‘Hello Paul. My name’s Frank and this is Spence. How are you doing?’
He looks up.
‘I’m not a bad person. I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t want to hurt anyone.’
‘No. I know – I can see that. But what’s happened tonight, Paul?’
‘I’m not a bad person. The man upstairs said he was going to smash me. He said he was going to sort me out. But he can’t – I can’t – it’s not fair. These people. These people, in the world. And I’m not a bad person. I’m not.’
‘Paul? First of all – it smells really strongly of white spirit in here. Have you poured some over yourself?’
He nods.
‘I poured it over me.’
‘Why did you do that, Paul?’
‘I want to kill myself. I want to burn.’
‘Paul? Would you mind if I just moved that lighter away from you? Only I’m a bit worried about it. I know you don’t want to hurt us…’
‘I don’t! I don’t want to hurt you! I would never hurt you.’
‘I know that. So do you mind if I just… there we go … that’s better. Now I feel a bit safer. Thanks.’
Frank gives me the lighter. Whilst they talk, I’m glancing around the kitchen for a towel or something to throw over him should he go up. Just behind me to my right is the doorway to the bedroom. Maybe I could grab a blanket from there.
‘Paul? Can I ask you another favour? It’s just the smell in here’s so strong I can’t think straight. Would you mind coming out to the ambulance and having a chat there? It’d be so much nicer – you know, with the fumes and everything. A bit of fresh air. Would you mind? Only I’m getting such a sore throat.’
‘What’s the point?’ says Paul, leaning back down again.
I try to see if he has any other lighters within reach but his hands stay slack.
‘What’s the point? They all think I’m useless. They all think I’m a piece of shit. That man upstairs, he said he wanted to smash me, but it’s not fair! I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘You wouldn’t even have to come on the ambulance,’ says Frank. ‘We could just sit on the basement steps. It’s lovely out tonight. Isn’t it Spence? Really warm. I expect we could all use some fresh air.’
‘If you think,’ says Paul. ‘I don’t care. I just want to kill myself. I nearly did. I will. Just leave me. You can all read about it later.’
‘Come on, mate. Come outside for a chat. Have you got your keys?’
He stands up, a tall, stooped, middle-aged man in filthy denim.
‘This way,’ I say, as if he’d never walked outside down his own hallway before.
We walk up the basement steps.
The neighbour has gone.
The pub opposite seems even more active than before, its light and vitality spilling out across the street. A man is leaning against the wall, talking on his phone and smoking. He watches us as we lead up from the basement, along the pavement and onto the ambulance.
‘I’ll keep the back door open, so we get some air and you don’t feel hemmed in,’ I say.
Frank puts a seat down.
‘I’m not a bad person. I’m not,’ says Paul, sitting down, then combing and re-combing his bitten fingers back through his hair, shining with the damp of the white spirit.
Frank takes a seat at one end of the trolley; I crouch down at the foot of it. We all sit quietly for a moment, a strange triangulation, whilst out through the open door of the ambulance, the last hot night of the summer moves on.
A woman is standing by the entrance to some basement steps, clutching a cordless house phone.
‘Do you want me to go down with you?’ she says.
‘No. It’s probably best if you stay up here and wait for the police.’
She looks relieved.
A flight of worn stone steps pitch down at an alarming angle to the mossy flagstones of the courtyard below. A pile of detritus in an alcove, opposite a front door which, by the look of the temporary wooden batons and splintered panels, has obviously been put in several times before. It stands open.
‘Hello? Ambulance.’
Frank pushes through and I follow.
A long, dimly lit hallway, three rooms off to the right, a closed door at the end.
‘Hello?’
The smell of neglect – a wretched, spongy sweetness that thrums up from every surface, from the ragged Persian runner, the little wooden bookshelf of cassette tapes and books and empty bottles, the piles of magazines. The walls themselves have a Gallery of the Damned feel: an arrangement of family photographs, an intensely coloured portrait of a dog, a figurative line drawing, a gig poster from the seventies, torn articles from magazines, maps, a mandala – a disparate throw of images, some framed, some simply taped to the wall, all of them slowly cooking, curling and spotting in the fetid air.
A voice from the room at the end.
‘I’m in the kitchen.’
‘Can we come down and see you?’
He doesn’t answer, but we go anyway.
The sudden, sharp smell of white spirit as we near the door.
Frank knocks and carefully pushes it open.
Paul is sitting at the kitchen table with his back to us, his arms resting on his knees, his damp head bowed. Half a bottle of white spirit at his feet.
‘Hello Paul. My name’s Frank and this is Spence. How are you doing?’
He looks up.
‘I’m not a bad person. I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t want to hurt anyone.’
‘No. I know – I can see that. But what’s happened tonight, Paul?’
‘I’m not a bad person. The man upstairs said he was going to smash me. He said he was going to sort me out. But he can’t – I can’t – it’s not fair. These people. These people, in the world. And I’m not a bad person. I’m not.’
‘Paul? First of all – it smells really strongly of white spirit in here. Have you poured some over yourself?’
He nods.
‘I poured it over me.’
‘Why did you do that, Paul?’
‘I want to kill myself. I want to burn.’
‘Paul? Would you mind if I just moved that lighter away from you? Only I’m a bit worried about it. I know you don’t want to hurt us…’
‘I don’t! I don’t want to hurt you! I would never hurt you.’
‘I know that. So do you mind if I just… there we go … that’s better. Now I feel a bit safer. Thanks.’
Frank gives me the lighter. Whilst they talk, I’m glancing around the kitchen for a towel or something to throw over him should he go up. Just behind me to my right is the doorway to the bedroom. Maybe I could grab a blanket from there.
‘Paul? Can I ask you another favour? It’s just the smell in here’s so strong I can’t think straight. Would you mind coming out to the ambulance and having a chat there? It’d be so much nicer – you know, with the fumes and everything. A bit of fresh air. Would you mind? Only I’m getting such a sore throat.’
‘What’s the point?’ says Paul, leaning back down again.
I try to see if he has any other lighters within reach but his hands stay slack.
‘What’s the point? They all think I’m useless. They all think I’m a piece of shit. That man upstairs, he said he wanted to smash me, but it’s not fair! I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘You wouldn’t even have to come on the ambulance,’ says Frank. ‘We could just sit on the basement steps. It’s lovely out tonight. Isn’t it Spence? Really warm. I expect we could all use some fresh air.’
‘If you think,’ says Paul. ‘I don’t care. I just want to kill myself. I nearly did. I will. Just leave me. You can all read about it later.’
‘Come on, mate. Come outside for a chat. Have you got your keys?’
He stands up, a tall, stooped, middle-aged man in filthy denim.
‘This way,’ I say, as if he’d never walked outside down his own hallway before.
We walk up the basement steps.
The neighbour has gone.
The pub opposite seems even more active than before, its light and vitality spilling out across the street. A man is leaning against the wall, talking on his phone and smoking. He watches us as we lead up from the basement, along the pavement and onto the ambulance.
‘I’ll keep the back door open, so we get some air and you don’t feel hemmed in,’ I say.
Frank puts a seat down.
‘I’m not a bad person. I’m not,’ says Paul, sitting down, then combing and re-combing his bitten fingers back through his hair, shining with the damp of the white spirit.
Frank takes a seat at one end of the trolley; I crouch down at the foot of it. We all sit quietly for a moment, a strange triangulation, whilst out through the open door of the ambulance, the last hot night of the summer moves on.
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
twenty four weeks
Below the curtain window a lava stream of traffic nudges along the front. The curtains hang straight down, already exhausted by the day. The hotel room is so thick with heat I wouldn’t be surprised to see a tray of uncooked pizzas pushed through the window.
The room is economically arranged with a double bed set between an en-suite and a wardrobe of equal size. At the foot of the bed, a plasma TV flashes with news images – protests in hot streets somewhere else on this hot planet – whilst an urgent strip of headlines scrolls along the bottom.
Svetlana stares at the screen. She is propped up on pillows, the sheets rucked up around her, the metallic blue sheen of her silk nightdress picked out by the light from outside.
Her husband leads us into the room. He turns the volume down on the TV, then stands over by the window. I expect him to take off his rock star bottle-black sunglasses, but he leaves them on and folds his arms.
‘What is matter with me?’ she says. ‘I woke up in this sweating. I have the pains here and here. I feel – erm – like…’ She pats her throat, then lays her palm forwards, almost like the signing for speech, but probably a mime for nausea.
‘I understand you’re pregnant?’
‘Erm – yes. I am having baby now twenty four weeks.’
‘All good so far?’
‘Yes. Is good so far. Normal.’
‘And do you have the pain now?’
‘No. No pain now. I am just feeling hot and – erm – not good.’
‘In what way not good?’
‘Is just not good. Erm – is werry tired and werry – erm - floppy.’
Her husband unfolds his arms and goes to pull some documents out of his pocket. I expect him to be Russian, too, but when he speaks it’s with a London accent. He carries himself quietly, carefully, like a man trying to walk through a forest without snapping any twigs.
‘The hotel gave us a number to call for a doctor to come and visit,’ he says. ‘But they said it would be a couple of hours.’
Svetlana sits up.
‘Two hours! Is that what you said? Two hours? Do you think that is appropriate? Is that what you want for your sick wife and baby? Two hours?’
‘No. I was just trying to explain..’
‘You were just explaining. Yes. Go on. You just explain. Let’s hear it.’
But he keeps quiet. Eventually, and without breaking eye contact, she settles back down on the pillows.
‘I am sick, he wait two hours,’ she says. ‘What good he is?’
We examine her, but all her observations are normal.
‘These sweats,’ I say. ‘In some ways you can understand it. What with the exceptional heat, and being pregnant. But you haven’t actually got a temperature.’
‘Then why I feel like this?’
‘Well. I don’t know. If you want to go to hospital, we can take you. Or you could wait to see a doctor.’
She sighs and rubs her swollen belly.
‘Where doctor? In hospital doctor?’
‘Or at a walk-in centre, as you’re not registered here.’
‘Walk-in centre? What is this walk-in centre?’
‘There’s one up by the station.’
The husband puts his mobile and wallet in his pocket.
‘I think I know where it is,’ he says. ‘We could get a taxi.’
‘You want put mother of your child in taxi cab? Is that it? Put her in taxi cab and take her to station? My God. Yes. This is brilliant idea for me, the pregnant woman sick with sweating and everything pain and you want to put me in taxi cab? I can’t believe how stupid this man is.’
‘Or we could just take you up the hospital,’ I say, hugging my clipboard.
She looks at me and the change is immediate.
‘Okay,’ she says, as solemnly as a little girl with a sick doll. ‘I think you take me to hospital.’
She swings her legs out to the side and scurries about looking for a dressing gown and slippers. Her husband has the slippers; she snatches them from him.
‘How long I wait for doctor in hospital?’ she says as she puts them on.
I smile at the husband and raise my eyebrows.
***
In fact, the hospital is a baked hive only Hieronymus Bosch could draw inspiration from. I stand at the back of a ragged queue of trolleys with Svetlana by my side. I watch her anxiously for any sign of fire, but she seems calm enough. Her husband had been sent off for water; whilst he is away she sighs and waits as steadily as a train in the sidings.
‘I think I call my parent,’ she says. ‘This is no good. I not happy.’
‘Oh?’
She turns to face me.
‘He said he have nice flat but his friend give nice flat to different friend and now we have bad flat. He promise he fix it up nice but is not nice.’
She faces forward again, chews her lip and bleakly surveys the hospital scene. ‘Is box,’ she says finally. ‘Is old broken box. With the door. You know?’ She smiles at me, and scans my face to see if I understand. ‘A box,’ she says, ‘no window, no light, just old door that go flap.’
She turns back to face forwards, and her eyes are shining.
Eventually she whispers: ‘I not give birth to baby in box.’
The room is economically arranged with a double bed set between an en-suite and a wardrobe of equal size. At the foot of the bed, a plasma TV flashes with news images – protests in hot streets somewhere else on this hot planet – whilst an urgent strip of headlines scrolls along the bottom.
Svetlana stares at the screen. She is propped up on pillows, the sheets rucked up around her, the metallic blue sheen of her silk nightdress picked out by the light from outside.
Her husband leads us into the room. He turns the volume down on the TV, then stands over by the window. I expect him to take off his rock star bottle-black sunglasses, but he leaves them on and folds his arms.
‘What is matter with me?’ she says. ‘I woke up in this sweating. I have the pains here and here. I feel – erm – like…’ She pats her throat, then lays her palm forwards, almost like the signing for speech, but probably a mime for nausea.
‘I understand you’re pregnant?’
‘Erm – yes. I am having baby now twenty four weeks.’
‘All good so far?’
‘Yes. Is good so far. Normal.’
‘And do you have the pain now?’
‘No. No pain now. I am just feeling hot and – erm – not good.’
‘In what way not good?’
‘Is just not good. Erm – is werry tired and werry – erm - floppy.’
Her husband unfolds his arms and goes to pull some documents out of his pocket. I expect him to be Russian, too, but when he speaks it’s with a London accent. He carries himself quietly, carefully, like a man trying to walk through a forest without snapping any twigs.
‘The hotel gave us a number to call for a doctor to come and visit,’ he says. ‘But they said it would be a couple of hours.’
Svetlana sits up.
‘Two hours! Is that what you said? Two hours? Do you think that is appropriate? Is that what you want for your sick wife and baby? Two hours?’
‘No. I was just trying to explain..’
‘You were just explaining. Yes. Go on. You just explain. Let’s hear it.’
But he keeps quiet. Eventually, and without breaking eye contact, she settles back down on the pillows.
‘I am sick, he wait two hours,’ she says. ‘What good he is?’
We examine her, but all her observations are normal.
‘These sweats,’ I say. ‘In some ways you can understand it. What with the exceptional heat, and being pregnant. But you haven’t actually got a temperature.’
‘Then why I feel like this?’
‘Well. I don’t know. If you want to go to hospital, we can take you. Or you could wait to see a doctor.’
She sighs and rubs her swollen belly.
‘Where doctor? In hospital doctor?’
‘Or at a walk-in centre, as you’re not registered here.’
‘Walk-in centre? What is this walk-in centre?’
‘There’s one up by the station.’
The husband puts his mobile and wallet in his pocket.
‘I think I know where it is,’ he says. ‘We could get a taxi.’
‘You want put mother of your child in taxi cab? Is that it? Put her in taxi cab and take her to station? My God. Yes. This is brilliant idea for me, the pregnant woman sick with sweating and everything pain and you want to put me in taxi cab? I can’t believe how stupid this man is.’
‘Or we could just take you up the hospital,’ I say, hugging my clipboard.
She looks at me and the change is immediate.
‘Okay,’ she says, as solemnly as a little girl with a sick doll. ‘I think you take me to hospital.’
She swings her legs out to the side and scurries about looking for a dressing gown and slippers. Her husband has the slippers; she snatches them from him.
‘How long I wait for doctor in hospital?’ she says as she puts them on.
I smile at the husband and raise my eyebrows.
***
In fact, the hospital is a baked hive only Hieronymus Bosch could draw inspiration from. I stand at the back of a ragged queue of trolleys with Svetlana by my side. I watch her anxiously for any sign of fire, but she seems calm enough. Her husband had been sent off for water; whilst he is away she sighs and waits as steadily as a train in the sidings.
‘I think I call my parent,’ she says. ‘This is no good. I not happy.’
‘Oh?’
She turns to face me.
‘He said he have nice flat but his friend give nice flat to different friend and now we have bad flat. He promise he fix it up nice but is not nice.’
She faces forward again, chews her lip and bleakly surveys the hospital scene. ‘Is box,’ she says finally. ‘Is old broken box. With the door. You know?’ She smiles at me, and scans my face to see if I understand. ‘A box,’ she says, ‘no window, no light, just old door that go flap.’
She turns back to face forwards, and her eyes are shining.
Eventually she whispers: ‘I not give birth to baby in box.’
Saturday, September 24, 2011
a grinding
‘Does your son have far to come?’
‘No. He lives just the other side of town. He said he’d be over right away.’
‘That’s good.’
‘He is good. I’m lucky.’
Peter stands in the doorway of his lounge, next to the portrait his son made of him back in the Seventies: a sombre, charcoal and chalk three-quarter length study of a monolithic figure meeting the future in an open neck shirt. It’s a close resemblance; apart from a certain hollowing and softening over time, it’s still the man himself framed in the doorway now, looking straight at us.
‘So. Have you got everything you need, Peter? Did you want to put a jacket on?’
‘No.’
Peter has taken an overdose of paracetamol. We’ve had so many of them lately, it’s like we’re standing in a field trying to hold back a rag-tag militia whose shuffling advance is beaten out on a big white drum marked 500mg.
‘I talked to Simon,’ he says. ‘He’ll meet us there.’
***
The ambulance tips and sways. The bright morning light cuts in through the window blinds and rakes the interior. Peter sits neatly in his seat, making only the smallest, most economical compensations to maintain his balance.
‘I just wanted to sleep,’ he says, resting his eyes on me. ‘I’m tired of all the effort. You know – getting up, eating breakfast…’ he breaks off, faced with a great channel of despair. Then he sighs and links his fingers neatly in his lap. ‘Let’s just say I was tired,’ he says.
‘Are you getting any help?’
‘Everyone’s been more than kind. I couldn’t have had better support. And Simon, he’s wonderful. But really – at the end of the day – what can anyone say? If it’s not working, it’s not working, and with the best will in the world there’s not anything anyone can do about it.’ A band of light scans his face; he closes his eyes and lets it. ‘I’m a disaster area,’ he says, opening his eyes as we suddenly move into the darker zone of an underpass. ‘Everything I touch falls to pieces.’
***
‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He sits quite still and contained, despite the massive dose of paracetamol, the years that led to it, the hours he lay staring up at the ceiling from the early morning to the moment he picked up the phone and called his son – despite all these things, he maintains an impressive air of competence.
‘What line of work were you in before you retired?’ I ask him.
‘I was a diamond cutter,’ he says.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I’ve met people from about every other profession I can think of, but you’re my first diamond cutter.’
‘It’s a specialised field.’
‘I bet.’
I remember an article on the news recently about the discovery of a planet on the furthest reaches of the galaxy, a little planet so densely packed with carbon a good part of it must be pure diamond. I hesitate to mention it, for some reason.
‘So. How do you cut a diamond? I suppose you’d have to use another diamond.’
‘Diamonds do cut diamonds,’ he says. Then, after a pause: ‘But of course much of the process would be better described as a grinding.’
‘No. He lives just the other side of town. He said he’d be over right away.’
‘That’s good.’
‘He is good. I’m lucky.’
Peter stands in the doorway of his lounge, next to the portrait his son made of him back in the Seventies: a sombre, charcoal and chalk three-quarter length study of a monolithic figure meeting the future in an open neck shirt. It’s a close resemblance; apart from a certain hollowing and softening over time, it’s still the man himself framed in the doorway now, looking straight at us.
‘So. Have you got everything you need, Peter? Did you want to put a jacket on?’
‘No.’
Peter has taken an overdose of paracetamol. We’ve had so many of them lately, it’s like we’re standing in a field trying to hold back a rag-tag militia whose shuffling advance is beaten out on a big white drum marked 500mg.
‘I talked to Simon,’ he says. ‘He’ll meet us there.’
***
The ambulance tips and sways. The bright morning light cuts in through the window blinds and rakes the interior. Peter sits neatly in his seat, making only the smallest, most economical compensations to maintain his balance.
‘I just wanted to sleep,’ he says, resting his eyes on me. ‘I’m tired of all the effort. You know – getting up, eating breakfast…’ he breaks off, faced with a great channel of despair. Then he sighs and links his fingers neatly in his lap. ‘Let’s just say I was tired,’ he says.
‘Are you getting any help?’
‘Everyone’s been more than kind. I couldn’t have had better support. And Simon, he’s wonderful. But really – at the end of the day – what can anyone say? If it’s not working, it’s not working, and with the best will in the world there’s not anything anyone can do about it.’ A band of light scans his face; he closes his eyes and lets it. ‘I’m a disaster area,’ he says, opening his eyes as we suddenly move into the darker zone of an underpass. ‘Everything I touch falls to pieces.’
***
‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He sits quite still and contained, despite the massive dose of paracetamol, the years that led to it, the hours he lay staring up at the ceiling from the early morning to the moment he picked up the phone and called his son – despite all these things, he maintains an impressive air of competence.
‘What line of work were you in before you retired?’ I ask him.
‘I was a diamond cutter,’ he says.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I’ve met people from about every other profession I can think of, but you’re my first diamond cutter.’
‘It’s a specialised field.’
‘I bet.’
I remember an article on the news recently about the discovery of a planet on the furthest reaches of the galaxy, a little planet so densely packed with carbon a good part of it must be pure diamond. I hesitate to mention it, for some reason.
‘So. How do you cut a diamond? I suppose you’d have to use another diamond.’
‘Diamonds do cut diamonds,’ he says. Then, after a pause: ‘But of course much of the process would be better described as a grinding.’
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
only me
Veronica’s flat is round to the side. There is a discrete number to guide us there – a metal square held out on a bracket, picked out in white and black. An aggregate concrete path, where the breeze block wall on the right has broken down over the years, yielding to a steep drop and a scrub patch of garden. At the front of it, a circle has been cleared and flattened with black plastic sheeting, weighed down with gravel like dried peas on a pie crust ready for baking, a deckchair in the middle of it all, screened from the road by a wild and straggling buddleia.
Veronica opens the door after a few minutes of persistent knocking. She stands holding onto the handle, dreaming us.
‘Can we come in and have a chat?’ I ask her.
She considers the question, but at last the door seems to answer for her, shucking her hand away, releasing her to drift back into the gloom. We follow her inside - a cramped flat with just enough room in the hallway to make the turn you require: sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. Veronica has come to rest in the galley kitchen; she leans against the worktop with her arms folded.
‘My name’s Spence. This is Frank. We were told you may have taken an overdose. Of paracetamol. Is that right?’
She nods.
‘How much did you take, Veronica?’
But I can see for myself. Across the worktop is a scattering of torn pill envelopes, the large, soluble kind, and over in the sink, an empty bottle of vodka.
‘Did you take all these?’
She gives me a Stan Laurel look, a sad little thin-lipped, loose-necked waggle of achievement.
‘We need to take you down the hospital to get some treatment for this, Veronica. You’ve taken quite a bit.’
A shrug that almost puts her on the floor.
‘Let’s get your shoes and coat and things and head out to the ambulance, shall we?’
She shakes her head.
‘No. They don’t want me there. They can’t do nothing.’
‘Yes they can, Veronica. But one thing at a time. Let’s get your stuff together and go out to the ambulance. When did you take all these pills?’
‘I didn’t take enough.’
She starts to rip open another pack and I reach over and take it from her.
‘When did you take these, Veronica?’
‘Just now. An hour, maybe.’
‘OK. So the sooner we go the sooner we can get things started. All right? Let me get your bag for you.’
‘Don’t rush me. Okay? Just don’t – rush me.’
She pushes herself clear of the worktop and drifts downhill out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. When she bends over to grab a pair of shoes from under the bed it’s a miracle of gravity that she keeps her feet.
‘Easy there, Veronica,’ says Frank. ‘Here’s your phone, look.’
‘Thanks. Thank you.’
We help her sit on the bed. Suddenly she looks absolutely defeated. She points to a flowery brass frame with a sepia photo of a smiling young girl.
‘Tha’s my mum, that is,’ she says. ‘She died at Christmas.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I miss her.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘And my dad’s just gone in to a home.’
‘You’ve obviously had a tough time of it, recently.’
‘What?’
‘It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with. A lot on your plate.’
‘I have. I have had a lot on my plate.’
She bends forward to pull on a shoe, but we prop her up again.
‘Let me get that for you,’ says Frank. ‘I used to work in a shoe shop. There. Try that on. We sell a lot of those.’
Veronica shakes her head.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she says. ‘I know you’ve got a lot better things to be doing.’
‘Nope. You’re our patient now. That’s all we’re worried about. There. Let’s get you up and out to the ambulance.’
But she stays sitting.
‘I’ve got two brothers,’ she says. ‘One younger, one older, both equally useless. Do you know what? Not one of them will change one little thing about their lives to help. They haven’t even been to see Dad yet and he’s been there a month.’
‘That’s no good,’ I say. ‘They’ve got to do their share.’
Veronica shakes her head.
‘It’s just me,’ she says, smacking her lips drily. ‘Only me.’
She puts her hands down flat either side of her and closes her eyes. The room ticks quietly. A sudden void of silence opens up around her, and even though the double bed almost completely fills the space, the walls of the little bedroom fly out, and the floor and ceiling spin away, and the bed drops into a great black pit of nothing, with Veronica the centre of nothing, a breath at the vanishing centre.
We prod her awake.
‘Come on Veronica,’ says Frank. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Make sure you pull the handle up before you turn the lock,’ she says.
Veronica opens the door after a few minutes of persistent knocking. She stands holding onto the handle, dreaming us.
‘Can we come in and have a chat?’ I ask her.
She considers the question, but at last the door seems to answer for her, shucking her hand away, releasing her to drift back into the gloom. We follow her inside - a cramped flat with just enough room in the hallway to make the turn you require: sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. Veronica has come to rest in the galley kitchen; she leans against the worktop with her arms folded.
‘My name’s Spence. This is Frank. We were told you may have taken an overdose. Of paracetamol. Is that right?’
She nods.
‘How much did you take, Veronica?’
But I can see for myself. Across the worktop is a scattering of torn pill envelopes, the large, soluble kind, and over in the sink, an empty bottle of vodka.
‘Did you take all these?’
She gives me a Stan Laurel look, a sad little thin-lipped, loose-necked waggle of achievement.
‘We need to take you down the hospital to get some treatment for this, Veronica. You’ve taken quite a bit.’
A shrug that almost puts her on the floor.
‘Let’s get your shoes and coat and things and head out to the ambulance, shall we?’
She shakes her head.
‘No. They don’t want me there. They can’t do nothing.’
‘Yes they can, Veronica. But one thing at a time. Let’s get your stuff together and go out to the ambulance. When did you take all these pills?’
‘I didn’t take enough.’
She starts to rip open another pack and I reach over and take it from her.
‘When did you take these, Veronica?’
‘Just now. An hour, maybe.’
‘OK. So the sooner we go the sooner we can get things started. All right? Let me get your bag for you.’
‘Don’t rush me. Okay? Just don’t – rush me.’
She pushes herself clear of the worktop and drifts downhill out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. When she bends over to grab a pair of shoes from under the bed it’s a miracle of gravity that she keeps her feet.
‘Easy there, Veronica,’ says Frank. ‘Here’s your phone, look.’
‘Thanks. Thank you.’
We help her sit on the bed. Suddenly she looks absolutely defeated. She points to a flowery brass frame with a sepia photo of a smiling young girl.
‘Tha’s my mum, that is,’ she says. ‘She died at Christmas.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I miss her.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘And my dad’s just gone in to a home.’
‘You’ve obviously had a tough time of it, recently.’
‘What?’
‘It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with. A lot on your plate.’
‘I have. I have had a lot on my plate.’
She bends forward to pull on a shoe, but we prop her up again.
‘Let me get that for you,’ says Frank. ‘I used to work in a shoe shop. There. Try that on. We sell a lot of those.’
Veronica shakes her head.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she says. ‘I know you’ve got a lot better things to be doing.’
‘Nope. You’re our patient now. That’s all we’re worried about. There. Let’s get you up and out to the ambulance.’
But she stays sitting.
‘I’ve got two brothers,’ she says. ‘One younger, one older, both equally useless. Do you know what? Not one of them will change one little thing about their lives to help. They haven’t even been to see Dad yet and he’s been there a month.’
‘That’s no good,’ I say. ‘They’ve got to do their share.’
Veronica shakes her head.
‘It’s just me,’ she says, smacking her lips drily. ‘Only me.’
She puts her hands down flat either side of her and closes her eyes. The room ticks quietly. A sudden void of silence opens up around her, and even though the double bed almost completely fills the space, the walls of the little bedroom fly out, and the floor and ceiling spin away, and the bed drops into a great black pit of nothing, with Veronica the centre of nothing, a breath at the vanishing centre.
We prod her awake.
‘Come on Veronica,’ says Frank. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Make sure you pull the handle up before you turn the lock,’ she says.
Friday, September 16, 2011
fag in one hand, can in the other
I’m guessing that the window three floors above me is the window to flat fifty-one. They’d said in the notes it was difficult to understand the patient because of the loud music in the background; even from down here, his Sounds from the Seventies album is horribly clear.
Getting in should be simple: press the button, ask for access, get buzzed into the foyer, wait for the safe to be opened remotely, retrieve the pass key.
‘Hello, Red Line Remote Care Facility Jeremy speaking how may I be of assistance?’
‘Hello. It’s Spence from the ambulance here on a call to flat fifty-one. Could you let me in please?’
‘Just confirming – ambulance attendance to flat fifty one – requesting remote access. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘One moment please, Vince.’
I stand back. A series of piercing electronic squawks, until finally the door clicks and I go through.
‘Thanks,’ I shout over my shoulder.
‘You’re welcome. Anything else I can help you with this evening?’
But the door has shut behind me and I can’t reply.
I wait in the foyer for the safe to open.
Nothing happens.
Terry Jacks is playing now. I let him get as far as saying goodbye to his Papa before I give up, go back outside and press the buzzer again.
‘Hello, Red Line Remote Care Facility Jeremy speaking how may I be of assistance?’
‘It’s me again, Jeremy. The safe didn’t open.
‘Can I just confirm who I am speaking to?’
‘Yep. It’s Spence, the ambulance man from just a second ago.’
‘I see. Thank you, Vince. How can I help?’
‘The safe didn’t open. I need the key to fifty-one.’
‘Thank you. Buzzing you through now.’
‘Thanks.’
The door clicks and I go back into the little foyer.
Flat fifty-one. It’s a wonder all his neighbours aren’t massing outside with firebrands and pitchforks.
Sweet. Are you ready Steve? Uh-huh. Andy? Yeah….
The safe remains closed.
… well all right fellas. Let’s go!
I go back outside and buzz.
‘Hello, Red Line Remote Care Facility Jeremy speaking how may I be of assistance?’
‘Yeah – Jeremy? Spence. Nothing’s happening, mate.’
‘Can I just confirm…’
‘Yep. Flat fifty-one. Look - I need the key otherwise I’ll have to kick the door in.’
‘You must let the front door close properly before the safe will open. Are you doing that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Okay. Sorry for the inconvenience, Vince. I’ll clear the call and re-send the signal. Try it now.’
He buzzes open the door. I walk through and close it firmly behind me.
Once the door is closed I can hear him on the intercom asking me if the safe is open, but he can’t hear my reply because the door is closed. By the time I get back to the intercom, jamming the front door open with my bag, he has gone.
I snatch up the bag and head for the lifts.
Of course the door’s open anyway.
‘Hello? Ambulance?’
The room is lit by a large plasma TV and a feeble yellow lamp on a table scattered with encrusted dishes, scattered cans and a littering of papers and letters. The air has a greasy rub to it; the floor is dark and sticky underfoot, as if he’d decided to skim the lino with burnt toffee.
‘Hello?’
A man emerges from the kitchen. He is an extraordinary sight – an adult sized chicken in a dirty parka, a can of lager in one hand, a spitty-little roll-up in the other. He has an astonished look to his face, as if a giant caterpillar had just materialised in front of him.
‘Can you turn the music off, please?’
‘What? Hurumph. I say – who?’
‘I said can you turn the music off? I need to talk to you. Look. I’ll do it for you.’
Leo Sayer, chopped off mid-need.
‘There. That’s better. My name’s Spence. I understand you called Red Line and said you needed help.’
‘Did I? Well – harrumph. Who-ha! What a turn up? Hey? Who’d have thought it?’
And he begins strutting around the bare flat, picking up his feet just exactly like a cockerel parading around the yard. Even his arms are bent and pulled back at the elbow like stubby wings. If it wasn’t for the intense set of his eyes and the grimly realistic chaos of the scene, I’d think we were being filmed.
He high-steps over to the window, rests both arms on the ledge and then raises one of his legs up behind him like a dancer warming up before a ballet about Care in the Community.
‘Who-oo! Harrumph! There. Look. Shit – what? A fag? A can? That’s a can, isn’t it? Faak! Mazing!’
I get his name from a blister pack that I exhume with my fingertips from a heap on the sofa.
‘Mick? My name’s Spence. What’s happened tonight?’
‘Wha’s happened? Nuffing’s happened? Hey? Who-ha. Harrumph. Wha?’
The TV is showing Cameron and Sarkozy in Tripoli.
‘Look at that! Wow! Mazing. Fag! Can! It’s all there. What?’
‘Mick – I’ve never met you before, but I’m guessing this isn’t normal for you. Have you got any pain at the moment?’
‘Pain? Wha’y’say? Faak n’ell. Tha’s a bit of luck, mate. Who?’
He carries on striding about. He reminds me of a music hall turn – someone like Max Wall, with the same kind of intonation, lopping off his words with an under bite, cluttering his dialogue with random questions, non sequiturs, and a periodic amazement that he should find himself here, now, in this flat, with a fag in one hand and a can of lager in the other.
‘Do you have a CPN, Mick?’
‘What? Mm? A CPN? Yes mate. Harrumph. I’m CPN’d up to here, mate. Lovely. Who? Ah-hum. They smoke hookahs, don’t they? Faak.’
‘Who do?’
‘The Arabs’
‘Mick? Did they give you a number you can call when things get a bit out of hand?’
‘Out of hand? Harrumph. Ah-hoo. Tell you what, mate …’
He struts over and stands right up close, his globe grey eyes flickering slightly like miniature versions of the TV behind me. He looks stage right, stage left, then smiles, spins around and chickens it back over to the window.
‘Fag in one hand. Can in the other. Faak. What? Harrumph.’
Getting in should be simple: press the button, ask for access, get buzzed into the foyer, wait for the safe to be opened remotely, retrieve the pass key.
‘Hello, Red Line Remote Care Facility Jeremy speaking how may I be of assistance?’
‘Hello. It’s Spence from the ambulance here on a call to flat fifty-one. Could you let me in please?’
‘Just confirming – ambulance attendance to flat fifty one – requesting remote access. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘One moment please, Vince.’
I stand back. A series of piercing electronic squawks, until finally the door clicks and I go through.
‘Thanks,’ I shout over my shoulder.
‘You’re welcome. Anything else I can help you with this evening?’
But the door has shut behind me and I can’t reply.
I wait in the foyer for the safe to open.
Nothing happens.
Terry Jacks is playing now. I let him get as far as saying goodbye to his Papa before I give up, go back outside and press the buzzer again.
‘Hello, Red Line Remote Care Facility Jeremy speaking how may I be of assistance?’
‘It’s me again, Jeremy. The safe didn’t open.
‘Can I just confirm who I am speaking to?’
‘Yep. It’s Spence, the ambulance man from just a second ago.’
‘I see. Thank you, Vince. How can I help?’
‘The safe didn’t open. I need the key to fifty-one.’
‘Thank you. Buzzing you through now.’
‘Thanks.’
The door clicks and I go back into the little foyer.
Flat fifty-one. It’s a wonder all his neighbours aren’t massing outside with firebrands and pitchforks.
Sweet. Are you ready Steve? Uh-huh. Andy? Yeah….
The safe remains closed.
… well all right fellas. Let’s go!
I go back outside and buzz.
‘Hello, Red Line Remote Care Facility Jeremy speaking how may I be of assistance?’
‘Yeah – Jeremy? Spence. Nothing’s happening, mate.’
‘Can I just confirm…’
‘Yep. Flat fifty-one. Look - I need the key otherwise I’ll have to kick the door in.’
‘You must let the front door close properly before the safe will open. Are you doing that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Okay. Sorry for the inconvenience, Vince. I’ll clear the call and re-send the signal. Try it now.’
He buzzes open the door. I walk through and close it firmly behind me.
Once the door is closed I can hear him on the intercom asking me if the safe is open, but he can’t hear my reply because the door is closed. By the time I get back to the intercom, jamming the front door open with my bag, he has gone.
I snatch up the bag and head for the lifts.
Of course the door’s open anyway.
‘Hello? Ambulance?’
The room is lit by a large plasma TV and a feeble yellow lamp on a table scattered with encrusted dishes, scattered cans and a littering of papers and letters. The air has a greasy rub to it; the floor is dark and sticky underfoot, as if he’d decided to skim the lino with burnt toffee.
‘Hello?’
A man emerges from the kitchen. He is an extraordinary sight – an adult sized chicken in a dirty parka, a can of lager in one hand, a spitty-little roll-up in the other. He has an astonished look to his face, as if a giant caterpillar had just materialised in front of him.
‘Can you turn the music off, please?’
‘What? Hurumph. I say – who?’
‘I said can you turn the music off? I need to talk to you. Look. I’ll do it for you.’
Leo Sayer, chopped off mid-need.
‘There. That’s better. My name’s Spence. I understand you called Red Line and said you needed help.’
‘Did I? Well – harrumph. Who-ha! What a turn up? Hey? Who’d have thought it?’
And he begins strutting around the bare flat, picking up his feet just exactly like a cockerel parading around the yard. Even his arms are bent and pulled back at the elbow like stubby wings. If it wasn’t for the intense set of his eyes and the grimly realistic chaos of the scene, I’d think we were being filmed.
He high-steps over to the window, rests both arms on the ledge and then raises one of his legs up behind him like a dancer warming up before a ballet about Care in the Community.
‘Who-oo! Harrumph! There. Look. Shit – what? A fag? A can? That’s a can, isn’t it? Faak! Mazing!’
I get his name from a blister pack that I exhume with my fingertips from a heap on the sofa.
‘Mick? My name’s Spence. What’s happened tonight?’
‘Wha’s happened? Nuffing’s happened? Hey? Who-ha. Harrumph. Wha?’
The TV is showing Cameron and Sarkozy in Tripoli.
‘Look at that! Wow! Mazing. Fag! Can! It’s all there. What?’
‘Mick – I’ve never met you before, but I’m guessing this isn’t normal for you. Have you got any pain at the moment?’
‘Pain? Wha’y’say? Faak n’ell. Tha’s a bit of luck, mate. Who?’
He carries on striding about. He reminds me of a music hall turn – someone like Max Wall, with the same kind of intonation, lopping off his words with an under bite, cluttering his dialogue with random questions, non sequiturs, and a periodic amazement that he should find himself here, now, in this flat, with a fag in one hand and a can of lager in the other.
‘Do you have a CPN, Mick?’
‘What? Mm? A CPN? Yes mate. Harrumph. I’m CPN’d up to here, mate. Lovely. Who? Ah-hum. They smoke hookahs, don’t they? Faak.’
‘Who do?’
‘The Arabs’
‘Mick? Did they give you a number you can call when things get a bit out of hand?’
‘Out of hand? Harrumph. Ah-hoo. Tell you what, mate …’
He struts over and stands right up close, his globe grey eyes flickering slightly like miniature versions of the TV behind me. He looks stage right, stage left, then smiles, spins around and chickens it back over to the window.
‘Fag in one hand. Can in the other. Faak. What? Harrumph.’
Thursday, September 15, 2011
mrs norbutt
Mrs Norbutt can’t cope at home. Despite a small militia of carers, district nurses, physio and occupational therapists, a CPN and a social worker, she still keeps falling out of her wheelchair. Another bout of respite care is arranged, with a view to something more permanent.
‘My neighbour will look after the house whilst I’m gone. If she remembers. If I ever come back,’ she says. ‘Don’t forget my bags.’
Mrs Norbutt sits like a ball of imploded matter, a dark star of misfortune. Being in her presence for any amount of time is like being an astronaut fighting with the controls of his ship to escape the Event Horizon of her gloom.
‘It’s a beautiful day today, Mrs Norbutt.’
‘Is it? I suppose it might be if you can enjoy that kind of thing.’
‘Have you been getting out much?’
‘Out much? If you mean tipping out onto the floor, then yes.’
‘Have you had lunch today?’
‘They came round. Late again.’
‘What did you have?’
‘I haven’t got much of an appetite. I had some toast.’
‘I love toast. It really hits the spot sometimes. What did you have on it? Jam? Marmite?’
‘Nothing,’ she says.
I wheel her outside.
The air is brisk and bright with an autumnal zest to it. A scattering of golden leaves across the lawn. On the other side of the road, a man is affectionately soaping down his car. He stops and waves in our direction; Mrs Norbutt sinks lower in the chair.
‘What’s he want?’ she says.
Frank is waiting with the ramp down. He’s met Mrs Norbutt before, and treats her with professional circumspection.
‘All right, Mrs Norbutt?’ he says. ‘Up we go.’
‘Mind my leg,’ she says. ‘I’ve got enough trouble as it is.’
‘Right you are.’
We help her out of the chair – not an easy thing, as she insists on doing it her way, which means no brakes, footrest turned in, wrong angle, wrong height.
‘It might be better if you…’
‘I think I might know what I’m doing by now, don’t you?’
She makes it into the ambulance seat and folds her arms.
‘I can’t do the seatbelt.’
‘Allow me.’
‘How long will this take? I get sick.’
‘Not long, Mrs Norbutt. It’s a busy time of day, though.’
‘Typical.’
‘Still – lovely day for a drive.’
‘You can’t see out.’
‘No – but..’
‘Where are we going anyway?’
‘The Bedlington Residential Home.’
‘I prefer the other one.’
‘Which one was that?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘All set to go?’ says Frank brightly. He smiles at me as he slams the door.
‘Sorry we have to slam the door like that, Mrs Norbutt. It’s just the door sensor’s dodgy and the alarm keeps sounding.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘No.’
As we move along I try all the usual routes into conversation. Nothing works. I feel like Pollyanna on Prozac, skipping anxiously through a maze, struggling to be bright despite all the wrong turns, all the blind alleys.
I sweat, and look at my watch, but the minute hand is backing-up along with all the commuter traffic we seem to have hit along the front.
‘Where does your daughter live?’ I ask her.
‘Miles away. Too far to visit.’
‘Does she ever make it over to see you?’
‘Jenny? No. She’s not well herself.’
‘Oh? Sorry to hear that. What’s up with Jenny?’
Mrs Norbutt turns her head to give it to me straight.
‘All the nerves are breaking off her spine. It won’t be long before she’s just a jelly with a brain.’
‘Oh.’ And then: ‘That sounds bad.’
‘You have no idea,’ she says. ‘Do you mind if I put my foot up on the trolley?’
‘No. Go ahead.’
She raises it up.
‘I’d put them both up but they cut the other one off.’
‘Sorry about the traffic,’ shouts Frank from the cab. ‘Shouldn’t be too much longer now.’
‘How long exactly?’
‘Ooh - not long,’ he says.
Just then a song he likes comes on the radio, and he turns it up to sing along. I have an overwhelming urge to push myself through the little serving hatch window and bathe in the sunny warmth and vitality of the cab, but I fold my arms and smile at Mrs Norbutt instead.
‘So. Not long now,’ I tell her, breezily. I put both my feet up on the trolley. She keeps quiet, and after a moment I get the feeling she is staring at my feet. And though I try not to, I find myself pushing back into a more upright position, and slowly dropping the left one.
‘My neighbour will look after the house whilst I’m gone. If she remembers. If I ever come back,’ she says. ‘Don’t forget my bags.’
Mrs Norbutt sits like a ball of imploded matter, a dark star of misfortune. Being in her presence for any amount of time is like being an astronaut fighting with the controls of his ship to escape the Event Horizon of her gloom.
‘It’s a beautiful day today, Mrs Norbutt.’
‘Is it? I suppose it might be if you can enjoy that kind of thing.’
‘Have you been getting out much?’
‘Out much? If you mean tipping out onto the floor, then yes.’
‘Have you had lunch today?’
‘They came round. Late again.’
‘What did you have?’
‘I haven’t got much of an appetite. I had some toast.’
‘I love toast. It really hits the spot sometimes. What did you have on it? Jam? Marmite?’
‘Nothing,’ she says.
I wheel her outside.
The air is brisk and bright with an autumnal zest to it. A scattering of golden leaves across the lawn. On the other side of the road, a man is affectionately soaping down his car. He stops and waves in our direction; Mrs Norbutt sinks lower in the chair.
‘What’s he want?’ she says.
Frank is waiting with the ramp down. He’s met Mrs Norbutt before, and treats her with professional circumspection.
‘All right, Mrs Norbutt?’ he says. ‘Up we go.’
‘Mind my leg,’ she says. ‘I’ve got enough trouble as it is.’
‘Right you are.’
We help her out of the chair – not an easy thing, as she insists on doing it her way, which means no brakes, footrest turned in, wrong angle, wrong height.
‘It might be better if you…’
‘I think I might know what I’m doing by now, don’t you?’
She makes it into the ambulance seat and folds her arms.
‘I can’t do the seatbelt.’
‘Allow me.’
‘How long will this take? I get sick.’
‘Not long, Mrs Norbutt. It’s a busy time of day, though.’
‘Typical.’
‘Still – lovely day for a drive.’
‘You can’t see out.’
‘No – but..’
‘Where are we going anyway?’
‘The Bedlington Residential Home.’
‘I prefer the other one.’
‘Which one was that?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘All set to go?’ says Frank brightly. He smiles at me as he slams the door.
‘Sorry we have to slam the door like that, Mrs Norbutt. It’s just the door sensor’s dodgy and the alarm keeps sounding.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘No.’
As we move along I try all the usual routes into conversation. Nothing works. I feel like Pollyanna on Prozac, skipping anxiously through a maze, struggling to be bright despite all the wrong turns, all the blind alleys.
I sweat, and look at my watch, but the minute hand is backing-up along with all the commuter traffic we seem to have hit along the front.
‘Where does your daughter live?’ I ask her.
‘Miles away. Too far to visit.’
‘Does she ever make it over to see you?’
‘Jenny? No. She’s not well herself.’
‘Oh? Sorry to hear that. What’s up with Jenny?’
Mrs Norbutt turns her head to give it to me straight.
‘All the nerves are breaking off her spine. It won’t be long before she’s just a jelly with a brain.’
‘Oh.’ And then: ‘That sounds bad.’
‘You have no idea,’ she says. ‘Do you mind if I put my foot up on the trolley?’
‘No. Go ahead.’
She raises it up.
‘I’d put them both up but they cut the other one off.’
‘Sorry about the traffic,’ shouts Frank from the cab. ‘Shouldn’t be too much longer now.’
‘How long exactly?’
‘Ooh - not long,’ he says.
Just then a song he likes comes on the radio, and he turns it up to sing along. I have an overwhelming urge to push myself through the little serving hatch window and bathe in the sunny warmth and vitality of the cab, but I fold my arms and smile at Mrs Norbutt instead.
‘So. Not long now,’ I tell her, breezily. I put both my feet up on the trolley. She keeps quiet, and after a moment I get the feeling she is staring at my feet. And though I try not to, I find myself pushing back into a more upright position, and slowly dropping the left one.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
one under
Ricky sweeps the door aside, strides into the crew room and drops down into a nearby computer chair in a melodramatic swoon.
‘What a day! Too tired to fuck, so you’re bang out of luck. You, boy – rub my shoulders or something and be quick about it. In fact, just rub my something.’
Ricky is so flamboyantly debauched he could have stepped straight out of a cartoon by Gillray. He’d look utterly convincing, dressed as an eighteenth century gentleman, the buttons of his frock coat straining over his gym-pumped arms, the seams of his breeches straining to hold back the playful, uninhibited exuberance of his sexuality.
‘Honestly, I don’t know how I do it,’ he says, laughing at the effect he always has on the room.
Ricky is one of an elite band of paramedics that specialise in trauma and critical care. As a result of their extra skills and experience, Control keep them in reserve until significant trauma or resus jobs come up; consequently, their trauma quotient is higher than normal. If this were a Gillray cartoon, it would feature Ricky dressed as a dragoon guard in knee length riding boots and scarlet coat covered in braid and medals, banging his knife and fork on the table as an endless line of servants hurried in from a hellish kitchen with plate after plate of crashed cars, buildings on fire, piles of corpses and other miniaturised horrors. His speech bubble might say something like: Let me assure you gentlemen, I’m sodding well good for twice whatever you can bring me! And the caption: Anatomy of a Public Servant for Health on the Front Line – or – The best place to get a decent chop nowadays.
And like Gillray, Ricky would be rampant with innuendo.
‘I just can’t seem to get it up like I used to– the website, darling, the website. I’m not talking about my cock. Did you think I was talking about my cock? Did you want me to?’
Ambulance vocabulary is often tough, its common terms of reference every bodily function, variation, degradation and perversion possible to imagine. Once you’ve worked in the field for a while, you become inured to the effect, though, and it takes more awfulness - more dreadful specifics, more refinement of awfulness - to provoke a response. But of the people guaranteed to push the limits of what you thought you could bear, Ricky is in the extreme, experimental tip of the cutting edge of the vanguard. He has an exuberant way of describing the awful jobs he’s been to, segued neatly in with the details of his own sexual adventures, that would have The Marquis de Sade shrieking for the exit.
Except yesterday.
Yesterday even Ricky seemed more subdued than normal, like a trapeze artist that for once almost failed to make the catch.
‘Are you okay, mate?’ I asked him when he walked quietly into the room and sat down in a chair.
‘Yeah – well. Jesus,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t know why they send us to these jobs. I mean – what are we supposed to do? The guy jumped off a bridge under a train. Pretty much obliterated. Nothing left to speak of. I was never very good at puzzles, anyway.’
He links his hands together behind his head and frowns at the air in front of him.
‘Still,’ he says after a long pause. ‘They won’t have any trouble identifying him.’
‘Why’s that, Ricky? Did he leave a note?’
He closes his eyes.
‘No – for some reason his face was still intact. We found it sticking to the front electric shoe.’
‘What a day! Too tired to fuck, so you’re bang out of luck. You, boy – rub my shoulders or something and be quick about it. In fact, just rub my something.’
Ricky is so flamboyantly debauched he could have stepped straight out of a cartoon by Gillray. He’d look utterly convincing, dressed as an eighteenth century gentleman, the buttons of his frock coat straining over his gym-pumped arms, the seams of his breeches straining to hold back the playful, uninhibited exuberance of his sexuality.
‘Honestly, I don’t know how I do it,’ he says, laughing at the effect he always has on the room.
Ricky is one of an elite band of paramedics that specialise in trauma and critical care. As a result of their extra skills and experience, Control keep them in reserve until significant trauma or resus jobs come up; consequently, their trauma quotient is higher than normal. If this were a Gillray cartoon, it would feature Ricky dressed as a dragoon guard in knee length riding boots and scarlet coat covered in braid and medals, banging his knife and fork on the table as an endless line of servants hurried in from a hellish kitchen with plate after plate of crashed cars, buildings on fire, piles of corpses and other miniaturised horrors. His speech bubble might say something like: Let me assure you gentlemen, I’m sodding well good for twice whatever you can bring me! And the caption: Anatomy of a Public Servant for Health on the Front Line – or – The best place to get a decent chop nowadays.
And like Gillray, Ricky would be rampant with innuendo.
‘I just can’t seem to get it up like I used to– the website, darling, the website. I’m not talking about my cock. Did you think I was talking about my cock? Did you want me to?’
Ambulance vocabulary is often tough, its common terms of reference every bodily function, variation, degradation and perversion possible to imagine. Once you’ve worked in the field for a while, you become inured to the effect, though, and it takes more awfulness - more dreadful specifics, more refinement of awfulness - to provoke a response. But of the people guaranteed to push the limits of what you thought you could bear, Ricky is in the extreme, experimental tip of the cutting edge of the vanguard. He has an exuberant way of describing the awful jobs he’s been to, segued neatly in with the details of his own sexual adventures, that would have The Marquis de Sade shrieking for the exit.
Except yesterday.
Yesterday even Ricky seemed more subdued than normal, like a trapeze artist that for once almost failed to make the catch.
‘Are you okay, mate?’ I asked him when he walked quietly into the room and sat down in a chair.
‘Yeah – well. Jesus,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t know why they send us to these jobs. I mean – what are we supposed to do? The guy jumped off a bridge under a train. Pretty much obliterated. Nothing left to speak of. I was never very good at puzzles, anyway.’
He links his hands together behind his head and frowns at the air in front of him.
‘Still,’ he says after a long pause. ‘They won’t have any trouble identifying him.’
‘Why’s that, Ricky? Did he leave a note?’
He closes his eyes.
‘No – for some reason his face was still intact. We found it sticking to the front electric shoe.’
Monday, September 12, 2011
the little cabin boy
Mr Stanchion is sitting on a kitchen chair, a washing up bowl balanced on his lap, vomit stains on his shirt sleeve. Mrs Stanchion scurries around in the background, stuffing essentials into a bag – wash kit, dressing gown, book of great naval battles.
‘Good gracious,’ he says. ‘It’s a while since I was sick like that.’
The two of them had been for lunch at their usual spot, The Endeavour, a pub with a rotten bay window but a view nonetheless. Mr Stanchion had plumped for the curry, Mrs Stanchion a cheese salad.
‘I think it was the curry,’ he says, then retches some more.
After we check him over we help tidy him up, freshen the bowl, make him comfortable on the sofa. We drape a fleece round his shoulders and he sits there looking like a ruined earl, pale and bilious. He doesn’t want to go to hospital, but we have no immediate concerns. Despite his eighty four years, he only takes an aspirin a day, and the whole thing looks pretty straightforward.
‘You can always call us back if you get worried,’ we say to Mrs Stanchion.
‘Lovely,’ she says, taking her coat off and settling down with The Puzzler.
‘My word,’ says Mr Stanchion. ‘Fifty years at sea and never been sick.’
‘I was five hours at sea and I was begging for someone to shoot me,’ I tell him as Frank finishes the paperwork. ‘We went five miles out to do some fishing and it wasn’t too bad, motoring out, even though it was quite rough. But when we pitched the anchor the boat started rocking like this, side to side to side, and that was it.’
‘Yes. Jolly unfortunate,’ he says, dabbing at his mouth with a kitchen towel, then taking a sip of water. ‘Luckily I was never affected. But I knew people who were. I remember we had this little Chinese cabin boy. Excellent chap, always there when you needed him. But at the start of every voyage, he only had to hear the bosun shout to cast off the dock and he was up in the fo’c’sle, heaving over the side.’
‘Didn’t Nelson used to get sick like that?’
‘A little before my time but yes, I think he did. Mind you, those days – the ships were made of wood and one shudders to think how they must have pitched about. Do excuse me. I must, erm…’
I help him to his feet, and he hobbles off to the toilet.
‘I had the salad,’ says Mrs Stanchion.
‘Good gracious,’ he says. ‘It’s a while since I was sick like that.’
The two of them had been for lunch at their usual spot, The Endeavour, a pub with a rotten bay window but a view nonetheless. Mr Stanchion had plumped for the curry, Mrs Stanchion a cheese salad.
‘I think it was the curry,’ he says, then retches some more.
After we check him over we help tidy him up, freshen the bowl, make him comfortable on the sofa. We drape a fleece round his shoulders and he sits there looking like a ruined earl, pale and bilious. He doesn’t want to go to hospital, but we have no immediate concerns. Despite his eighty four years, he only takes an aspirin a day, and the whole thing looks pretty straightforward.
‘You can always call us back if you get worried,’ we say to Mrs Stanchion.
‘Lovely,’ she says, taking her coat off and settling down with The Puzzler.
‘My word,’ says Mr Stanchion. ‘Fifty years at sea and never been sick.’
‘I was five hours at sea and I was begging for someone to shoot me,’ I tell him as Frank finishes the paperwork. ‘We went five miles out to do some fishing and it wasn’t too bad, motoring out, even though it was quite rough. But when we pitched the anchor the boat started rocking like this, side to side to side, and that was it.’
‘Yes. Jolly unfortunate,’ he says, dabbing at his mouth with a kitchen towel, then taking a sip of water. ‘Luckily I was never affected. But I knew people who were. I remember we had this little Chinese cabin boy. Excellent chap, always there when you needed him. But at the start of every voyage, he only had to hear the bosun shout to cast off the dock and he was up in the fo’c’sle, heaving over the side.’
‘Didn’t Nelson used to get sick like that?’
‘A little before my time but yes, I think he did. Mind you, those days – the ships were made of wood and one shudders to think how they must have pitched about. Do excuse me. I must, erm…’
I help him to his feet, and he hobbles off to the toilet.
‘I had the salad,’ says Mrs Stanchion.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
lifestyle changes
Keith is sitting half on, half off the ambulance seat, one hand on the Entonox mouthpiece and one hand on the arm rest. When the pain in his right flank comes on strong again he bows his head, clamps down on the mouthpiece and takes several deep draughts.
‘Is this like them helium balloons?’ he says as the pain subsides. ‘Is this gonna make me go all Mickey Mouse?’
‘It lowers your voice a bit.’
‘Yeah? Well, so long as it eases the pain I don’t care what I sound like.’
‘Good. I’m glad it’s helping.’
A tall, powerfully built man in his early forties, the only thing that stopped the ambulance wheels lifting up at the front as he clumped up the back steps was the weight of his thickly gelled quiff acting as a counterbalance.
‘I’m stressed. I know I’m stressed,’ he gasps, struggling to find a comfortable position between the chair and the floor, his face pale and his eyes rimmed silver with the pain of it all. ‘Would that bring this on, d’you think?’
‘No, not really. Not if it’s renal colic or something like that.’
‘What else could it be then?’
‘Some kind of infection – don’t know. You need to see a doctor.’
He tokes on the Entonox and then studies me for a second.
‘Are you married?’ he says.
‘Yep. Married. Two kids.’
‘I was. We just split up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘No.’
He takes some more Entonox.
‘Could it be the old Hong Kong Flu, do you think?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You know. The clap. An STD.’
‘It’s possible. Why?’
‘I saw this woman up town last week. Fifteen years, that’s the first time I done it.’
‘D’you mean a prostitute?’
‘I don’t know. I met her online. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was. Anyway, I seem to remember someone telling me it takes five days, then you can’t piss, and it feels like a donkey kicked you in the kidneys.’
‘Did you have unprotected sex?’
‘No. ‘Course not. I took a flick-knife.’
He laughs, but then the pain grabs hold of him again and he dives down into it with the mouthpiece clamped in his teeth and the demand valve hissing. When this bout ends, he slowly surfaces.
‘It’s good stuff, this,’ he says, waving the mouthpiece in the air. ‘Where can I get myself some?’
‘And it doesn’t give you a hangover.’
He hands me the mouthpiece.
‘No. You’re all right,’ I say.
‘Fair play.’
He takes some more as the ambulance moves off.
‘I’ve just changed my line of work,’ he says, shifting his position again. ‘That’s stress for you, right there.’
‘You’re not kidding. What did you use to do, then?’
‘I was in the house clearance game. Twenty years of it. It got so I could tell everything there was to know about a person, just by what they had around them in their house.’
‘I bet.’
‘I was good. I used to get all the best stuff.’
‘What about the relatives?’
‘Oh sure they’d circle overhead quick as you like. But I knew the tricky little places, you see. I knew where people liked to put things. I did all right. But it weren’t all plain sailing though. Sometimes we’d get called in to some terrible places. This couple I remember – hoarders, they were. Didn’t throw nothing away. I took three tonnes of paper out of that house. Piled up, great columns of the stuff, floor to ceiling. They’d made little alleyways – runs, you know, like rats - to move about. And of course the drains had packed in years ago, so you can imagine what the carsey was like. Hell on earth. After that job, my partner Malcolm, he burned all his clothes, shaved his head and took to wearing the strongest cologne you could imagine, but I could still smell it on him three weeks later. Made a profit, though.’
He pauses to draw on the Entonox again.
‘I could get used to this,’ he says when the pain has eased again. ‘But I know I’m stressed. I can feel it. What do you do about that, then? What do you do about stress?’
‘I don’t know. Talk to your doctor for one thing. There’s lots you can do.’
‘Like what? Pills, I suppose.’
‘Yeah – pills to help you sleep, calm you down, help you through the bad patch. But they could refer you on for some talking therapies – you know, counsellors who could help you with any lifestyle changes you might need to make.’
‘Lifestyle changes?’ he snorts. ‘Listen, mate. I’ve had enough of them already.’
‘Is this like them helium balloons?’ he says as the pain subsides. ‘Is this gonna make me go all Mickey Mouse?’
‘It lowers your voice a bit.’
‘Yeah? Well, so long as it eases the pain I don’t care what I sound like.’
‘Good. I’m glad it’s helping.’
A tall, powerfully built man in his early forties, the only thing that stopped the ambulance wheels lifting up at the front as he clumped up the back steps was the weight of his thickly gelled quiff acting as a counterbalance.
‘I’m stressed. I know I’m stressed,’ he gasps, struggling to find a comfortable position between the chair and the floor, his face pale and his eyes rimmed silver with the pain of it all. ‘Would that bring this on, d’you think?’
‘No, not really. Not if it’s renal colic or something like that.’
‘What else could it be then?’
‘Some kind of infection – don’t know. You need to see a doctor.’
He tokes on the Entonox and then studies me for a second.
‘Are you married?’ he says.
‘Yep. Married. Two kids.’
‘I was. We just split up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘No.’
He takes some more Entonox.
‘Could it be the old Hong Kong Flu, do you think?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You know. The clap. An STD.’
‘It’s possible. Why?’
‘I saw this woman up town last week. Fifteen years, that’s the first time I done it.’
‘D’you mean a prostitute?’
‘I don’t know. I met her online. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was. Anyway, I seem to remember someone telling me it takes five days, then you can’t piss, and it feels like a donkey kicked you in the kidneys.’
‘Did you have unprotected sex?’
‘No. ‘Course not. I took a flick-knife.’
He laughs, but then the pain grabs hold of him again and he dives down into it with the mouthpiece clamped in his teeth and the demand valve hissing. When this bout ends, he slowly surfaces.
‘It’s good stuff, this,’ he says, waving the mouthpiece in the air. ‘Where can I get myself some?’
‘And it doesn’t give you a hangover.’
He hands me the mouthpiece.
‘No. You’re all right,’ I say.
‘Fair play.’
He takes some more as the ambulance moves off.
‘I’ve just changed my line of work,’ he says, shifting his position again. ‘That’s stress for you, right there.’
‘You’re not kidding. What did you use to do, then?’
‘I was in the house clearance game. Twenty years of it. It got so I could tell everything there was to know about a person, just by what they had around them in their house.’
‘I bet.’
‘I was good. I used to get all the best stuff.’
‘What about the relatives?’
‘Oh sure they’d circle overhead quick as you like. But I knew the tricky little places, you see. I knew where people liked to put things. I did all right. But it weren’t all plain sailing though. Sometimes we’d get called in to some terrible places. This couple I remember – hoarders, they were. Didn’t throw nothing away. I took three tonnes of paper out of that house. Piled up, great columns of the stuff, floor to ceiling. They’d made little alleyways – runs, you know, like rats - to move about. And of course the drains had packed in years ago, so you can imagine what the carsey was like. Hell on earth. After that job, my partner Malcolm, he burned all his clothes, shaved his head and took to wearing the strongest cologne you could imagine, but I could still smell it on him three weeks later. Made a profit, though.’
He pauses to draw on the Entonox again.
‘I could get used to this,’ he says when the pain has eased again. ‘But I know I’m stressed. I can feel it. What do you do about that, then? What do you do about stress?’
‘I don’t know. Talk to your doctor for one thing. There’s lots you can do.’
‘Like what? Pills, I suppose.’
‘Yeah – pills to help you sleep, calm you down, help you through the bad patch. But they could refer you on for some talking therapies – you know, counsellors who could help you with any lifestyle changes you might need to make.’
‘Lifestyle changes?’ he snorts. ‘Listen, mate. I’ve had enough of them already.’
Friday, September 09, 2011
why this thing happened
I pull alongside the scene and put the side lights on. They illuminate Taz, lying on his side on the pavement, his legs drawn up, his bloodied head pillowed on his arm. A young girl is shouting and pulling at his jacket: Don’t do this to me, Taz; Come on breathe, mate. Stay awake.
A large woman in a wide brimmed hat is parked alongside on a mobility scooter. She backs up a little so her shadow doesn’t overlie the scene, then rests forward on her handlebars, smoking a fag and taking in the action with the equanimity of a frontier Marshall.
‘It was one of Sam’s in-laws,’ she says as we walk in. ‘Weren’t it, Taz?’
‘Yeah. Something like that,’ he mutters. ‘Just leave me alone.’
Frank taps the girl on the shoulder and asks her to step aside.
‘The paramedics’ll take care of you now, Taz. Let them do their stuff. They’ll fix you up.’
‘I don’t want nothing,’ he says. ‘I just want to be left alone.’
Frank squats down.
‘Keep nice and still, mate’, he says, placing his blue gloved hands around Taz’ head. ‘Just in case you’ve hurt your neck. Now – no, no, quite still – whilst we give you the once over. Tell me what happened.’
‘Fuck knows. I was coming out of the party. And the next thing I know this geezer starts battering me. I went down, and he kicked me in the head.’
‘He’s an animal,’ says the girl. ‘A fucking animal. No way he deserved that. No way.’
The woman on the scooter laughs and flicks her cigarette away.
‘I’m off home, Taz,’ she says. ‘Good luck mate. See you later.’
‘Yeah, later.’
‘Were you knocked out, d’you think?’ says Frank.
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t remember.’
‘He was completely out of it,’ says the girl. ‘I thought he was dead.’
Frank sends me back to the truck to get together the trolley, scoop, vacuum mattress, head blocks – all the kit for immobilising a trauma patient.
‘Now Taz,’ says Frank. ‘You’ve had a lot to drink, you’ve been assaulted, fallen to the floor, maybe lost consciousness. All of that means we have to keep you nice and straight for the ride in to hospital, so the doctors there can see if you’ve damaged anything. Okay?’
‘You’re joking,’ spits Taz. ‘I just want to go home.’
‘Maybe later,’ says Frank. ‘But you need some attention in hospital.’
‘He’s a paramedic,’ says the girl, ‘Don’t you give him no trouble and do what he says. I’m gonna call Sam to meet us up there.’
‘No – don’t. I’ll see her later.’
But the girl turns away with her phone.
‘Oh man!’ says Taz. ‘This is fucking unreal. I can’t believe he did that. One minute it’s all happy, happy, falling out of the party, the next he’s like a fucking mentalist. I tell you what, mate – first thing I’m doing when I leave hospital is go straight round there and rip his head off.’
‘Yeah? Well if you keep waving your head around your ripping days are over,’ says Frank. ‘So keep still. I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s for your own good.’
‘Yeah, easy mate – whatever.’
The police are on scene now. Two of them interview the girl and some bystanders; one helps us parcel Taz up and get him onto the stretcher.
‘Fuck me,’ says Taz. ‘This is too fucking weird.’
Whilst we strap him to the trolley the police officer who helped us takes off his bloodied glove, pulls out a notebook and leans in.
‘All right, Taz?’ he says. ‘Who did this?’
‘Ask Kelly. She’ll tell you,’ he says. ‘Wanker. I weren’t doing nothing.’
‘So why did he start, then?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got no idea. I was coming out of the party, messing about, then suddenly he comes up, stands next to me and he’s like: Oh, so – that’s how it goes, is it? and he lamps me as hard as he can and I go down. He’s fucking dead, mate. I tell you that much for free.’
Frank sighs and shakes his head.
‘Who knows why these things happen?’ he says. ‘Come on, mate. A few bumps.’
We load Taz onto the ambulance. Kelly finishes her phone call, but just before she climbs up into the back she pauses and bends her leg back to look at the sole of her shoe.
‘I think I’ve stood in dog shit,’ she says.
‘Here. Put some gloves on and wipe them with this,’ I say to her.
‘Nah. Cheap Primark specials.’ She slips them off and chucks them out behind her where they clatter away into the dark street. She climbs in barefoot and plumps herself down in a seat facing the trolley.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ she says, crossing her legs, resting her phone on her knee and flicking through the screen.
‘I expect so. This is all precautionary.’
‘What d’you mean? I’m always all right,’ says Taz. ‘I’m better than superman.’
‘Show us your pants then, darling,’ she says, her laugh as light and sharp as her ear-rings.
‘I’m not showing you no fucking pants.’
‘Thank god for that,’ says Frank. ‘Now, Taz. It’ll feel a bit weird riding like this in to hospital, but it’s important we keep you flat. If you feel like you’re going to be sick, let me know and we’ll deal with it. Okay?’
‘Okay boss.’
‘Okay.’
‘This is dead exciting,’ says Kelly, flicking her fringe. ‘I’ve never been on an ambulance before.’ Then she bends back over her phone, scrolling through options, searching for something.
Frank nods to me and I turn to jump out and drive. But just as I’m pulling my gloves off, Kelly says: ‘I knew you shouldn’t have done it, Taz, mate.’
‘Done what?’ he says.
‘Booted that hedgehog.’
‘It was a joke,’ he says. ‘And anyway - what the fuck it’s got to do with him, I don’t know.’
A large woman in a wide brimmed hat is parked alongside on a mobility scooter. She backs up a little so her shadow doesn’t overlie the scene, then rests forward on her handlebars, smoking a fag and taking in the action with the equanimity of a frontier Marshall.
‘It was one of Sam’s in-laws,’ she says as we walk in. ‘Weren’t it, Taz?’
‘Yeah. Something like that,’ he mutters. ‘Just leave me alone.’
Frank taps the girl on the shoulder and asks her to step aside.
‘The paramedics’ll take care of you now, Taz. Let them do their stuff. They’ll fix you up.’
‘I don’t want nothing,’ he says. ‘I just want to be left alone.’
Frank squats down.
‘Keep nice and still, mate’, he says, placing his blue gloved hands around Taz’ head. ‘Just in case you’ve hurt your neck. Now – no, no, quite still – whilst we give you the once over. Tell me what happened.’
‘Fuck knows. I was coming out of the party. And the next thing I know this geezer starts battering me. I went down, and he kicked me in the head.’
‘He’s an animal,’ says the girl. ‘A fucking animal. No way he deserved that. No way.’
The woman on the scooter laughs and flicks her cigarette away.
‘I’m off home, Taz,’ she says. ‘Good luck mate. See you later.’
‘Yeah, later.’
‘Were you knocked out, d’you think?’ says Frank.
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t remember.’
‘He was completely out of it,’ says the girl. ‘I thought he was dead.’
Frank sends me back to the truck to get together the trolley, scoop, vacuum mattress, head blocks – all the kit for immobilising a trauma patient.
‘Now Taz,’ says Frank. ‘You’ve had a lot to drink, you’ve been assaulted, fallen to the floor, maybe lost consciousness. All of that means we have to keep you nice and straight for the ride in to hospital, so the doctors there can see if you’ve damaged anything. Okay?’
‘You’re joking,’ spits Taz. ‘I just want to go home.’
‘Maybe later,’ says Frank. ‘But you need some attention in hospital.’
‘He’s a paramedic,’ says the girl, ‘Don’t you give him no trouble and do what he says. I’m gonna call Sam to meet us up there.’
‘No – don’t. I’ll see her later.’
But the girl turns away with her phone.
‘Oh man!’ says Taz. ‘This is fucking unreal. I can’t believe he did that. One minute it’s all happy, happy, falling out of the party, the next he’s like a fucking mentalist. I tell you what, mate – first thing I’m doing when I leave hospital is go straight round there and rip his head off.’
‘Yeah? Well if you keep waving your head around your ripping days are over,’ says Frank. ‘So keep still. I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s for your own good.’
‘Yeah, easy mate – whatever.’
The police are on scene now. Two of them interview the girl and some bystanders; one helps us parcel Taz up and get him onto the stretcher.
‘Fuck me,’ says Taz. ‘This is too fucking weird.’
Whilst we strap him to the trolley the police officer who helped us takes off his bloodied glove, pulls out a notebook and leans in.
‘All right, Taz?’ he says. ‘Who did this?’
‘Ask Kelly. She’ll tell you,’ he says. ‘Wanker. I weren’t doing nothing.’
‘So why did he start, then?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got no idea. I was coming out of the party, messing about, then suddenly he comes up, stands next to me and he’s like: Oh, so – that’s how it goes, is it? and he lamps me as hard as he can and I go down. He’s fucking dead, mate. I tell you that much for free.’
Frank sighs and shakes his head.
‘Who knows why these things happen?’ he says. ‘Come on, mate. A few bumps.’
We load Taz onto the ambulance. Kelly finishes her phone call, but just before she climbs up into the back she pauses and bends her leg back to look at the sole of her shoe.
‘I think I’ve stood in dog shit,’ she says.
‘Here. Put some gloves on and wipe them with this,’ I say to her.
‘Nah. Cheap Primark specials.’ She slips them off and chucks them out behind her where they clatter away into the dark street. She climbs in barefoot and plumps herself down in a seat facing the trolley.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ she says, crossing her legs, resting her phone on her knee and flicking through the screen.
‘I expect so. This is all precautionary.’
‘What d’you mean? I’m always all right,’ says Taz. ‘I’m better than superman.’
‘Show us your pants then, darling,’ she says, her laugh as light and sharp as her ear-rings.
‘I’m not showing you no fucking pants.’
‘Thank god for that,’ says Frank. ‘Now, Taz. It’ll feel a bit weird riding like this in to hospital, but it’s important we keep you flat. If you feel like you’re going to be sick, let me know and we’ll deal with it. Okay?’
‘Okay boss.’
‘Okay.’
‘This is dead exciting,’ says Kelly, flicking her fringe. ‘I’ve never been on an ambulance before.’ Then she bends back over her phone, scrolling through options, searching for something.
Frank nods to me and I turn to jump out and drive. But just as I’m pulling my gloves off, Kelly says: ‘I knew you shouldn’t have done it, Taz, mate.’
‘Done what?’ he says.
‘Booted that hedgehog.’
‘It was a joke,’ he says. ‘And anyway - what the fuck it’s got to do with him, I don’t know.’
Monday, September 05, 2011
overdose
Barbara speaks on the intercom with a strangely conversational tone, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for an ambulance to be calling by at six in the morning.
‘Ye-es?’
‘Ambulance.’
‘I suppose you’d better come up. But please - be very careful not to slam the door.’
We trudge up a neatly carpeted flight of stairs to her front door, a single pane of security glass with a floor-length cream curtain hung behind it. Barbara meets us at the door, a pale and pouchy, middle-aged woman whose dark bob of hair seems to accentuate the bitter fall of her mouth. Despite her comfortable clothes and polite speech there is an edge to her that glimmers beneath the bright hall light.
‘Hello. Ambulance,’ I manage to say. It’s been a long night. My lips are fat and my boots dipped in concrete. Any vitality I had has been rolled flat by the relentless passage of the shift, but this must surely be our last patient. That happy thought gives me just enough power to say: ‘Can we come in and chat?’
‘Oh. Okay. If you think.’
She lets go of the door and we drift after her into the sitting room.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she says. ‘Organised chaos. But at least I know where everything is.’
In fact, the flat is as tidy as you could want. There is a laptop on an antique pine blanket chest, a large art book on the sofa, a blue bowl of fruit as tastefully set as the charcoal and pastel study of the nude above it. From the polished brown leather sofa to the tie-backs on the floral curtains, everything has the brisk domestic sheen of a Sunday Supplement article – except it feels off, as if, despite all the care, someone had come along and spoiled the photo by writing a terrible sentence – a bad thought, a dreadful curse - in small print somewhere.
‘Please. Have a seat,’ she says, taking one herself, perching on the edge and folding her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Now. What’s all this about?’
‘I understand you’ve taken an overdose. Is that right?’
She pauses, and self-consciously moves a few strands of hair away from her face. When she does speak again, she speaks in a close, low whisper, a slightly fussy tone, like a stressed teacher counselling difficult parents. She does not look up, but addresses the carpet between us.
‘Now. This is how things are, as I see it,’ she says. ‘Please – bear with me. I’ve had an awful lot of experience in these matters, both as a patient and as a friend of mental health professionals.’
‘Okay.’
‘I – well – from the beginning, I suppose. Last night I decided, for reasons I won’t go into now, because you’ve got better things to do, and so have I, and these things are complicated enough – and I know you’ve got a job to do, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I already am. I am in good health. I only suffer with a couple of things, one of them being depression. As you could no doubt have guessed.’
‘That’s the information we were given.’
‘Really? Fine.’ Her mouth seems dry, and she forms her words with that overly precise articulation you get with alcohol or drugs.
‘Firstly, yes, it’s true. I have taken an overdose. I have taken a packet of anti-depressants. Yes – I told this to the people on the phone, presumably part of your – erm – network. But as I explained, there’s nothing I want from anyone. It’s a decision I have made, and I’m perfectly within my rights to make it. So I don’t know what papers you’ve been reading, or to what rule you think you might be operating. But this is my house, these are my rights, and I know exactly what I can or can’t do. Let’s be clear on this before we go any further, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Barbara – I’ve not met you before, so I’m completely in the dark about what’s happened today.’
‘Are you? Completely? Well that’s not much use.’
‘No. So let’s start with the basics. We need to know exactly what you’ve taken, how much of it, and when.’
‘Hm. This is interesting. So you want me to tell you exactly what it is I’ve overdosed on? Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And on what study have you based this – erm – conclusion?’
‘It’s not really based on any study, Barbara. It’s a basic fact we need to establish before we can carry on. We just need to know the nature of the overdose.’
‘Yes. I can see what you’re getting at. But before we come to that, let me just go over a few things. Because as you know this is my house and I’m perfectly entitled to do or say whatever I want in my house without fear of you or anyone else telling me what I should or shouldn’t say. Is that clear? I didn’t want you here. I didn’t ask for you to come, I didn’t want you to come. I simply phoned the helpline for some information – information that I wasn’t managing to find myself. The person on the helpline offered to send me your good selves, acting as their representative, who might be able to help me understand a few things and if not make things better, at least move things forward to a more satisfactory outcome for all concerned. Now, if you’re telling me that you’re unable for whatever reason to keep your end of the bargain, I think I would have to apologise for calling you out like this, say good morning and draw this interview to a conclusion.’
‘Barbara. Let me be as clear as I can. We work for the ambulance service.’
‘Yes. I am aware of that.’
‘Our job is to make sure you’re okay. We were told you may have taken an overdose. If you have, we need to know what you’ve taken, when you took it, and how much.’
‘Yes. Go on. I follow.’
‘But the fact is, we can’t treat you here. It’ll invariably mean a trip up the hospital.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘We haven’t the equipment or the skills to treat you for any of the harmful side effects that you might suffer.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Plus there’s the reason you took the overdose in the first place. Can I ask – was it to do yourself harm?’
‘No – it was to kill myself. I was looking up on-line at the thing to take, and that was why I phoned the helpline.’
‘Well you see, Barbara – the fact that you’re quite clear about wanting to kill yourself is another reason why we’d like to take you to hospital, quite apart from any tablets you may have taken.’
‘I am not going to hospital. I have wasted too many months of my life in awful places like that and I don’t intend to waste any more. If all you can do is threaten to cart me off to some unspeakable ward somewhere, you can forget it.’ She stands up and starts looking around for something. ‘If I’d thought that’s all you were going to do, I’d never have agreed to let you in. You’ve made me feel quite anxious and upset. I’d like you to leave, please.’
‘Of course. But Barbara – just let me say this before we go. If you were diabetic and your blood sugar was low, you’d be distressed and out of sorts, wouldn’t you? You might well struggle to stop us helping you.’
‘You’re making me extremely anxious now. What do you mean “struggle”? Just what are you planning?’
‘Nothing. I’m not planning anything, Barbara. I’m just trying to be clear and open with you. I’m trying to find an example that might help you see things from our point of view. The fact is, you suffer with depression. And depression is just as much an illness as diabetes. I don’t have a problem with you accepting or refusing help, but I do have a problem if I think you’re not making that decision rationally, because of your illness. We’re supposed to act as the advocate for your healthy self, Barbara. We’re supposed to look after your best interests. And if you’re so depressed that you’re thinking of killing yourself and taking an overdose, I’d have to say that doesn’t look like a rational decision.’
‘Please. I’d like you to go.’
‘Do you have a CPN, Barbara?’
She snorts derisively.
‘CPN! The last place I lived virtually all my friends were CPNs. And if you think I’m going to offer up my life for them to dissect and gossip about endlessly you have another thing coming. Please. I think it’s high time you were going. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
‘We will go, Barbara, but I wish you’d come with us.’
‘No. Thank you.’
She flashes me a look and wets her lips.
‘What will you do now?’ she says.
‘I’ll contact the out of hours doctor, tell them what happened, and leave it up to them to decide what to do next.’
‘Fine. Let them. Good bye.’
She holds the door open as we go out, then comes to the top of the stairs as we descend.
‘And please don’t slam the door on the way out,’ she says.
‘Ye-es?’
‘Ambulance.’
‘I suppose you’d better come up. But please - be very careful not to slam the door.’
We trudge up a neatly carpeted flight of stairs to her front door, a single pane of security glass with a floor-length cream curtain hung behind it. Barbara meets us at the door, a pale and pouchy, middle-aged woman whose dark bob of hair seems to accentuate the bitter fall of her mouth. Despite her comfortable clothes and polite speech there is an edge to her that glimmers beneath the bright hall light.
‘Hello. Ambulance,’ I manage to say. It’s been a long night. My lips are fat and my boots dipped in concrete. Any vitality I had has been rolled flat by the relentless passage of the shift, but this must surely be our last patient. That happy thought gives me just enough power to say: ‘Can we come in and chat?’
‘Oh. Okay. If you think.’
She lets go of the door and we drift after her into the sitting room.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she says. ‘Organised chaos. But at least I know where everything is.’
In fact, the flat is as tidy as you could want. There is a laptop on an antique pine blanket chest, a large art book on the sofa, a blue bowl of fruit as tastefully set as the charcoal and pastel study of the nude above it. From the polished brown leather sofa to the tie-backs on the floral curtains, everything has the brisk domestic sheen of a Sunday Supplement article – except it feels off, as if, despite all the care, someone had come along and spoiled the photo by writing a terrible sentence – a bad thought, a dreadful curse - in small print somewhere.
‘Please. Have a seat,’ she says, taking one herself, perching on the edge and folding her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Now. What’s all this about?’
‘I understand you’ve taken an overdose. Is that right?’
She pauses, and self-consciously moves a few strands of hair away from her face. When she does speak again, she speaks in a close, low whisper, a slightly fussy tone, like a stressed teacher counselling difficult parents. She does not look up, but addresses the carpet between us.
‘Now. This is how things are, as I see it,’ she says. ‘Please – bear with me. I’ve had an awful lot of experience in these matters, both as a patient and as a friend of mental health professionals.’
‘Okay.’
‘I – well – from the beginning, I suppose. Last night I decided, for reasons I won’t go into now, because you’ve got better things to do, and so have I, and these things are complicated enough – and I know you’ve got a job to do, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I already am. I am in good health. I only suffer with a couple of things, one of them being depression. As you could no doubt have guessed.’
‘That’s the information we were given.’
‘Really? Fine.’ Her mouth seems dry, and she forms her words with that overly precise articulation you get with alcohol or drugs.
‘Firstly, yes, it’s true. I have taken an overdose. I have taken a packet of anti-depressants. Yes – I told this to the people on the phone, presumably part of your – erm – network. But as I explained, there’s nothing I want from anyone. It’s a decision I have made, and I’m perfectly within my rights to make it. So I don’t know what papers you’ve been reading, or to what rule you think you might be operating. But this is my house, these are my rights, and I know exactly what I can or can’t do. Let’s be clear on this before we go any further, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Barbara – I’ve not met you before, so I’m completely in the dark about what’s happened today.’
‘Are you? Completely? Well that’s not much use.’
‘No. So let’s start with the basics. We need to know exactly what you’ve taken, how much of it, and when.’
‘Hm. This is interesting. So you want me to tell you exactly what it is I’ve overdosed on? Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And on what study have you based this – erm – conclusion?’
‘It’s not really based on any study, Barbara. It’s a basic fact we need to establish before we can carry on. We just need to know the nature of the overdose.’
‘Yes. I can see what you’re getting at. But before we come to that, let me just go over a few things. Because as you know this is my house and I’m perfectly entitled to do or say whatever I want in my house without fear of you or anyone else telling me what I should or shouldn’t say. Is that clear? I didn’t want you here. I didn’t ask for you to come, I didn’t want you to come. I simply phoned the helpline for some information – information that I wasn’t managing to find myself. The person on the helpline offered to send me your good selves, acting as their representative, who might be able to help me understand a few things and if not make things better, at least move things forward to a more satisfactory outcome for all concerned. Now, if you’re telling me that you’re unable for whatever reason to keep your end of the bargain, I think I would have to apologise for calling you out like this, say good morning and draw this interview to a conclusion.’
‘Barbara. Let me be as clear as I can. We work for the ambulance service.’
‘Yes. I am aware of that.’
‘Our job is to make sure you’re okay. We were told you may have taken an overdose. If you have, we need to know what you’ve taken, when you took it, and how much.’
‘Yes. Go on. I follow.’
‘But the fact is, we can’t treat you here. It’ll invariably mean a trip up the hospital.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘We haven’t the equipment or the skills to treat you for any of the harmful side effects that you might suffer.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Plus there’s the reason you took the overdose in the first place. Can I ask – was it to do yourself harm?’
‘No – it was to kill myself. I was looking up on-line at the thing to take, and that was why I phoned the helpline.’
‘Well you see, Barbara – the fact that you’re quite clear about wanting to kill yourself is another reason why we’d like to take you to hospital, quite apart from any tablets you may have taken.’
‘I am not going to hospital. I have wasted too many months of my life in awful places like that and I don’t intend to waste any more. If all you can do is threaten to cart me off to some unspeakable ward somewhere, you can forget it.’ She stands up and starts looking around for something. ‘If I’d thought that’s all you were going to do, I’d never have agreed to let you in. You’ve made me feel quite anxious and upset. I’d like you to leave, please.’
‘Of course. But Barbara – just let me say this before we go. If you were diabetic and your blood sugar was low, you’d be distressed and out of sorts, wouldn’t you? You might well struggle to stop us helping you.’
‘You’re making me extremely anxious now. What do you mean “struggle”? Just what are you planning?’
‘Nothing. I’m not planning anything, Barbara. I’m just trying to be clear and open with you. I’m trying to find an example that might help you see things from our point of view. The fact is, you suffer with depression. And depression is just as much an illness as diabetes. I don’t have a problem with you accepting or refusing help, but I do have a problem if I think you’re not making that decision rationally, because of your illness. We’re supposed to act as the advocate for your healthy self, Barbara. We’re supposed to look after your best interests. And if you’re so depressed that you’re thinking of killing yourself and taking an overdose, I’d have to say that doesn’t look like a rational decision.’
‘Please. I’d like you to go.’
‘Do you have a CPN, Barbara?’
She snorts derisively.
‘CPN! The last place I lived virtually all my friends were CPNs. And if you think I’m going to offer up my life for them to dissect and gossip about endlessly you have another thing coming. Please. I think it’s high time you were going. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
‘We will go, Barbara, but I wish you’d come with us.’
‘No. Thank you.’
She flashes me a look and wets her lips.
‘What will you do now?’ she says.
‘I’ll contact the out of hours doctor, tell them what happened, and leave it up to them to decide what to do next.’
‘Fine. Let them. Good bye.’
She holds the door open as we go out, then comes to the top of the stairs as we descend.
‘And please don’t slam the door on the way out,’ she says.
Saturday, September 03, 2011
the real thing
The fog has really come down now. It slides through the park, an implacable wall of grey, wiping the form and substance from everything, absorbing the shouts of the children, the muted chatter of the diners at the outside tables of the restaurant, the candles in their red glass bowls pulsing like the hearts of strange flowers with ragged petals of dark.
The ambulance thrums into place by the bins and boxes at the back of the café. A shadowy figure is there to meet it, the manager of the place, hugging his arms against the chill, smoking a cigarette.
‘He was sitting on a bench opposite for ages, then I saw him stagger off up the hill a little way and lay down on the path.’ He takes a generous pull of smoke, exhales, and for a second you could imagine here was the source of the fog. He smiles and taps the glowing end out to the side. ‘I think he must be pretty whacked out on something or other, but you’re the experts. You can just make out his shape – there!’
‘Thanks. Do you know who he is? Is there anyone with him?’
‘I haven’t seen him before and no, I think he’s alone.’
We walk up the path.
Children stop playing on the green in front of the restaurant. They stand strangely still, turning their whole bodies along with their eyes to watch us as we go.
Jez is lying on his back, his right hand across his forehead. As we approach he shouts out:
‘I’m not a bad person! I haven’t hurt anyone! Please! I haven’t done anything!’
‘It’s okay. We’ve only come here because people are worried about you. What’s your name?’
‘I’m not violent! I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘No-one’s said you have. But you can understand how worried they were when they saw you lie down on the path. They think you’re not well.’
‘I’m not well. I’m mentally ill. Look!’
He bunches up the sleeves on both arms and even in this light you can make out the thickened stripes of white flesh where he’s cut himself in the past.’
‘That looks bad,’ I say. ‘You’ve obviously had a lot to put up with. But first things first. What’s your name?’
‘Jez. Jez. They know me there. They know me at the hospital.’
‘Okay, Jez. My name’s Spence and this is Frank. Our ambulance is parked just behind the café there. Will you come with us and have a chat about what’s going on tonight? It’s perfectly safe. There’s nothing to worry about. But you can’t be very comfortable down there. It’s a bit chilly to be lying on the floor.’
‘Help me up!’ he says, raising his left hand. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Come on then.’
We help him up.
As soon as he’s upright he grimaces and pushes the heels of both his hands into his face. We both take a step back.
‘I’m not a violent person!’ he shouts. Then makes an incoherent growl of a noise, flecks of saliva playing about his small, white teeth.
‘Jez! Jez! Just try to ease off a bit, mate. Look. I believe you when you say you wouldn’t hurt anyone. But when you shout and carry on like this, you do come across as violent. I want you to try really hard to calm down.’
‘I’d never hurt you! I just want to hurt myself! I want to die!’
‘Jez. Look – there are lots of children in the park. Can you see - just about! All the children? You’ll scare them if you carry on like this. I know you don’t want to scare the children, do you? Hey?’
‘No. I don’t want to scare the children. But I’m losing my mind!’
He looks around him, a strangely melodramatic movement, sweeping his arms out and to the side, arching his back and throwing wide-eyed looks to the right and left. ‘The fog!’ he gasps. ‘It makes everything so – different!’
We manage to calm him down and head back to the ambulance. As we walk along the path, a child stops bouncing a ball and clutches it to her, staring at the strange procession. Jez twitches and makes a turn as if to shout something to her, but we discretely lead him away, all the time finding the kind of bland encouragements you might make to a jittery horse. Frank opens the side door of the truck; the bright light from within spilling out suddenly, cutting a square of yellow in the cool, grey air around us. Jez draws back.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
He looks at me, and I feel myself tense up, anticipating an attack. But instead he smiles, puts a hand on my shoulder and starts singing: You to me are everything, the sweetest song that I can sing, oh baby. Oh baby….
‘The Real Thing,’ says Frank. ‘Nineteen seventy six.’
We climb into the ambulance, and he shuts the door as gently as he can behind us.
The ambulance thrums into place by the bins and boxes at the back of the café. A shadowy figure is there to meet it, the manager of the place, hugging his arms against the chill, smoking a cigarette.
‘He was sitting on a bench opposite for ages, then I saw him stagger off up the hill a little way and lay down on the path.’ He takes a generous pull of smoke, exhales, and for a second you could imagine here was the source of the fog. He smiles and taps the glowing end out to the side. ‘I think he must be pretty whacked out on something or other, but you’re the experts. You can just make out his shape – there!’
‘Thanks. Do you know who he is? Is there anyone with him?’
‘I haven’t seen him before and no, I think he’s alone.’
We walk up the path.
Children stop playing on the green in front of the restaurant. They stand strangely still, turning their whole bodies along with their eyes to watch us as we go.
Jez is lying on his back, his right hand across his forehead. As we approach he shouts out:
‘I’m not a bad person! I haven’t hurt anyone! Please! I haven’t done anything!’
‘It’s okay. We’ve only come here because people are worried about you. What’s your name?’
‘I’m not violent! I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘No-one’s said you have. But you can understand how worried they were when they saw you lie down on the path. They think you’re not well.’
‘I’m not well. I’m mentally ill. Look!’
He bunches up the sleeves on both arms and even in this light you can make out the thickened stripes of white flesh where he’s cut himself in the past.’
‘That looks bad,’ I say. ‘You’ve obviously had a lot to put up with. But first things first. What’s your name?’
‘Jez. Jez. They know me there. They know me at the hospital.’
‘Okay, Jez. My name’s Spence and this is Frank. Our ambulance is parked just behind the café there. Will you come with us and have a chat about what’s going on tonight? It’s perfectly safe. There’s nothing to worry about. But you can’t be very comfortable down there. It’s a bit chilly to be lying on the floor.’
‘Help me up!’ he says, raising his left hand. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Come on then.’
We help him up.
As soon as he’s upright he grimaces and pushes the heels of both his hands into his face. We both take a step back.
‘I’m not a violent person!’ he shouts. Then makes an incoherent growl of a noise, flecks of saliva playing about his small, white teeth.
‘Jez! Jez! Just try to ease off a bit, mate. Look. I believe you when you say you wouldn’t hurt anyone. But when you shout and carry on like this, you do come across as violent. I want you to try really hard to calm down.’
‘I’d never hurt you! I just want to hurt myself! I want to die!’
‘Jez. Look – there are lots of children in the park. Can you see - just about! All the children? You’ll scare them if you carry on like this. I know you don’t want to scare the children, do you? Hey?’
‘No. I don’t want to scare the children. But I’m losing my mind!’
He looks around him, a strangely melodramatic movement, sweeping his arms out and to the side, arching his back and throwing wide-eyed looks to the right and left. ‘The fog!’ he gasps. ‘It makes everything so – different!’
We manage to calm him down and head back to the ambulance. As we walk along the path, a child stops bouncing a ball and clutches it to her, staring at the strange procession. Jez twitches and makes a turn as if to shout something to her, but we discretely lead him away, all the time finding the kind of bland encouragements you might make to a jittery horse. Frank opens the side door of the truck; the bright light from within spilling out suddenly, cutting a square of yellow in the cool, grey air around us. Jez draws back.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
He looks at me, and I feel myself tense up, anticipating an attack. But instead he smiles, puts a hand on my shoulder and starts singing: You to me are everything, the sweetest song that I can sing, oh baby. Oh baby….
‘The Real Thing,’ says Frank. ‘Nineteen seventy six.’
We climb into the ambulance, and he shuts the door as gently as he can behind us.
Friday, September 02, 2011
ruth
The job comes through as an adult / male, hit by car, giving as the location an estate agent in the high street. We’re not far from the scene; as Frank turns into the road, we expect to catch the tail end of the jam and see flashes of blue ahead. But the traffic is flowing as smoothly as ever, and the concourses free of the usual thrill of incident. The update comes through just as we pull up outside the shop: injury longer than two days, followed by a lower grade response code. There’s no time to call Control up for a chat about this; someone is waving to us from between all the housing cards in the window.
As we cross the threshold there is a low, rumbling growl off to our right, where a man is bent over a telephone on the desk by the window. The paws and snout of a giant Alsatian poke out from between the legs of his chair. It growls again, and I can almost feel it through the floor.
The estate agent, a glossy blond efficiently packaged in scarlet blouse and grey two piece, smiles wanly and backs away to the safety of the photocopier at the rear of the shop.
‘He just - came in,’ she says, and nods towards the man.
The subject of her horror is obviously still on the phone to the call-taker. I tap him on the shoulder; he almost leaps out of the chair.
‘We’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You can hang up now.’
He lurches round and faces us from the chair. A rheumy scoop of a guy, he flicks his head as he blinks, struggling to locate the can of super strength right in front of him on the desk. His hair quivers in clumps like the last remaining feathers on a stressed fowl, and his jacket and jeans are so spattered and filthy they could have been dredged from a swamp.
‘Hello Tony,’ I say.
‘Hello Tony?’ he says, slopping the can between us. ‘Hello Tony? I’ve had an accident. I’ve been run over. And that’s all you can say, Hello Tony? I can’t walk! I’m badly injured. I was hit by a car and I can’t do anything.’
It’s always difficult to keep pace with Tony. His speech pattern is as chaotic as his appearance, lurching from one state to another, one moment the traumatised patient, the next, pleasantly conversational.
‘So, where’re you from?’ he says, crossing his legs. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Tony – I want you to slow everything down for a minute and try to concentrate. No – just listen and answer my questions. How did you get here?’
‘Well I walked, obviously. The dog’s not mine. I’m looking after her. And now this! Don’t do this to me. Please. I’m badly hurt. I can’t feel my legs.’
He dry-cries, and then pushes the can up into his nose.
‘Let’s have that,’ I say, taking it off him. I hand it to Frank, who smiles and hands it back to the woman, who takes it with two fingers and arms a mile long in the direction of the bin.
‘Tell me about the accident, Tony.’
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a crumpled square of yellow card.
‘Ring Sheila. There – that number. She knows what’s what.’
‘Yep, I will ring her, Tony but first I want you to tell me why we’re here. What’s all this about you being hit by a car?’
He leans forward and puts his face in his hands.
‘Why won’t you listen?’ he moans. ‘You don’t care. You’re heartless and horrible. I’ve told you everything I know. What do you want from me? Why won’t you do anything?’
‘When did you have this accident?’
‘Yesterday. The day before. I can’t remember.’
‘Did you go to hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have the ambulance out to you?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Look I just need help but you don’t seem willing to give it for some reason. I can’t walk and someone has to get the dog back home. Ring Sheila. That number – there.’
I look back at the estate agent, who has sat down at her desk and buried her head in her computer.
‘Can I use your phone?’
She looks up, nods, gives her head a little shake, and ducks back down again.
Sheila answers on the third ring. A pleasant voice, kind and calm.
‘Tony lives a couple of doors down from me,’ she says. ‘I’ve known him for years, but I must admit he’s getting worse. It’s the drinking, more than anything. Don’t worry about the accident story. It’s – how shall I put it? – one of the aspects of his problem. I expect you’ve seen him before, have you? He’s often up at the hospital. Discharges himself after an hour. I’m so sorry to waste your time.’
‘Whose dog is this, Sheila?’
‘Oh – has he got his dog, Ruth, with him?’
‘I must admit I’m more worried about the dog. We can’t take her in the ambulance with us, and he’s quite a way from home.’
‘I’d come and get her but I’m out of town working. I won’t be back till this afternoon.’
‘Never mind, Sheila. We’ll sort something out. Thanks for your help.’
I hang up.
‘Who was that?’ says Tony.
‘That was Sheila. She says this is your dog. Ruth.’
‘Of course this is my dog. I told you.’
I turn to Frank.
‘How far away are we from Mannings Crescent? I can’t remember.’
And then to the estate agent.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a map book handy, have you?’
She gives me a look that’s barely one degree warmer than the look she’s been giving Tony, and it’s only then that I notice the gigantic map of the city centre spread across the wall facing me.
‘Oh. Good. That’s handy.’
Frank reaches out and taps Mannings Crescent, about two miles up the road.
‘You ought to get yourself a saddle,’ he says to Tony. ‘She’s so big you could ride her home.’
‘Fine!’ he says, standing up and lurching off towards the door. ‘If that’s all you think I’m worth. Come on, Ruthie. Thanks for nothing.’
He clatters out of the door.
‘Sorry about all that,’ I say to the woman. She smiles and stands up.
‘I think he might have spilled a little of his beer over here, so watch out. If he comes back in, call the police.’
She reaches out and steadies herself on the computer screen.
Outside, we both look up and down the street. Tony is immediately apparent, sitting on a table outside a tatty pub a few doors along, waving his arms and talking energetically to a couple of drinkers who, even though they are as derelict as you could wish to see, are appalled at their new companion, and shift uncomfortably on their seats. Ruth is already stretched out on the pavement in front of them; Tony doesn’t see us go, but Ruth – she raises her dark and massive head, and watches us intently all the way back to the ambulance.
As we cross the threshold there is a low, rumbling growl off to our right, where a man is bent over a telephone on the desk by the window. The paws and snout of a giant Alsatian poke out from between the legs of his chair. It growls again, and I can almost feel it through the floor.
The estate agent, a glossy blond efficiently packaged in scarlet blouse and grey two piece, smiles wanly and backs away to the safety of the photocopier at the rear of the shop.
‘He just - came in,’ she says, and nods towards the man.
The subject of her horror is obviously still on the phone to the call-taker. I tap him on the shoulder; he almost leaps out of the chair.
‘We’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You can hang up now.’
He lurches round and faces us from the chair. A rheumy scoop of a guy, he flicks his head as he blinks, struggling to locate the can of super strength right in front of him on the desk. His hair quivers in clumps like the last remaining feathers on a stressed fowl, and his jacket and jeans are so spattered and filthy they could have been dredged from a swamp.
‘Hello Tony,’ I say.
‘Hello Tony?’ he says, slopping the can between us. ‘Hello Tony? I’ve had an accident. I’ve been run over. And that’s all you can say, Hello Tony? I can’t walk! I’m badly injured. I was hit by a car and I can’t do anything.’
It’s always difficult to keep pace with Tony. His speech pattern is as chaotic as his appearance, lurching from one state to another, one moment the traumatised patient, the next, pleasantly conversational.
‘So, where’re you from?’ he says, crossing his legs. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Tony – I want you to slow everything down for a minute and try to concentrate. No – just listen and answer my questions. How did you get here?’
‘Well I walked, obviously. The dog’s not mine. I’m looking after her. And now this! Don’t do this to me. Please. I’m badly hurt. I can’t feel my legs.’
He dry-cries, and then pushes the can up into his nose.
‘Let’s have that,’ I say, taking it off him. I hand it to Frank, who smiles and hands it back to the woman, who takes it with two fingers and arms a mile long in the direction of the bin.
‘Tell me about the accident, Tony.’
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a crumpled square of yellow card.
‘Ring Sheila. There – that number. She knows what’s what.’
‘Yep, I will ring her, Tony but first I want you to tell me why we’re here. What’s all this about you being hit by a car?’
He leans forward and puts his face in his hands.
‘Why won’t you listen?’ he moans. ‘You don’t care. You’re heartless and horrible. I’ve told you everything I know. What do you want from me? Why won’t you do anything?’
‘When did you have this accident?’
‘Yesterday. The day before. I can’t remember.’
‘Did you go to hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have the ambulance out to you?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Look I just need help but you don’t seem willing to give it for some reason. I can’t walk and someone has to get the dog back home. Ring Sheila. That number – there.’
I look back at the estate agent, who has sat down at her desk and buried her head in her computer.
‘Can I use your phone?’
She looks up, nods, gives her head a little shake, and ducks back down again.
Sheila answers on the third ring. A pleasant voice, kind and calm.
‘Tony lives a couple of doors down from me,’ she says. ‘I’ve known him for years, but I must admit he’s getting worse. It’s the drinking, more than anything. Don’t worry about the accident story. It’s – how shall I put it? – one of the aspects of his problem. I expect you’ve seen him before, have you? He’s often up at the hospital. Discharges himself after an hour. I’m so sorry to waste your time.’
‘Whose dog is this, Sheila?’
‘Oh – has he got his dog, Ruth, with him?’
‘I must admit I’m more worried about the dog. We can’t take her in the ambulance with us, and he’s quite a way from home.’
‘I’d come and get her but I’m out of town working. I won’t be back till this afternoon.’
‘Never mind, Sheila. We’ll sort something out. Thanks for your help.’
I hang up.
‘Who was that?’ says Tony.
‘That was Sheila. She says this is your dog. Ruth.’
‘Of course this is my dog. I told you.’
I turn to Frank.
‘How far away are we from Mannings Crescent? I can’t remember.’
And then to the estate agent.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a map book handy, have you?’
She gives me a look that’s barely one degree warmer than the look she’s been giving Tony, and it’s only then that I notice the gigantic map of the city centre spread across the wall facing me.
‘Oh. Good. That’s handy.’
Frank reaches out and taps Mannings Crescent, about two miles up the road.
‘You ought to get yourself a saddle,’ he says to Tony. ‘She’s so big you could ride her home.’
‘Fine!’ he says, standing up and lurching off towards the door. ‘If that’s all you think I’m worth. Come on, Ruthie. Thanks for nothing.’
He clatters out of the door.
‘Sorry about all that,’ I say to the woman. She smiles and stands up.
‘I think he might have spilled a little of his beer over here, so watch out. If he comes back in, call the police.’
She reaches out and steadies herself on the computer screen.
Outside, we both look up and down the street. Tony is immediately apparent, sitting on a table outside a tatty pub a few doors along, waving his arms and talking energetically to a couple of drinkers who, even though they are as derelict as you could wish to see, are appalled at their new companion, and shift uncomfortably on their seats. Ruth is already stretched out on the pavement in front of them; Tony doesn’t see us go, but Ruth – she raises her dark and massive head, and watches us intently all the way back to the ambulance.
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