Hassan is waiting for us in front of the department store window, lit from behind, looking up and down the high street with a mobile phone in one hand, one hand pressing a handkerchief to the side of his face, as if one of the mannequins had magically stepped through the glass and was standing there waiting to see what would happen next. When he sees us pull up he finishes his call and walks over.
‘Hi. Guys. Thanks for coming.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘Oh. These guys. They jumped me as I came past, punched me in the face, stole my bag. Fuck. I’m okay, though. I’m okay. I think.’
I open up the side door of the truck and he sits down on the forward seat.
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot,’ he says.
I turn on the examination light and check his injuries; a few scuffs and lumps, a line of blood running down the side of his face and congealing under his chin.
‘Were you knocked out?’
‘No. It’s fine. I’m okay.’
I carry on checking him over. There is a coolly competent air about him, something contained, that makes the whole job clean and quick, like opening up a car bonnet and checking the oil. I hand him some cleansing wipes.
‘Thanks.’
There is a knock on the door – a police officer, taking off his hat and smiling up into the truck.
‘Sorry it took a while,’ he says.
‘Ah. No worries,’ says Hassan. ‘I’m okay. Really.’
Frank has filled in most of the form. He hands me the clip board.
‘So. Are you working or studying?’
‘I’m a student at the university. I started my course a couple of weeks ago.’
‘What are you studying?’
He stops wiping his bloodied hands for a second and smiles.
‘Disaster management,’ he says.
Frank laughs and folds his arms.
‘What’s this, then? Homework?’
Monday, October 11, 2010
Saturday, October 09, 2010
another drinking thing
A stooped, liverish man with heavy framed glasses and a white stick meets us at the entrance.
‘It is Geri you’ve come for?’ he says, leaning forwards and tilting his head in an effort to eke out what vision he has with as much other information as he can. ‘Is it?’
‘Flat 93’ I say. ‘We don’t have a name.’
‘It is Geri,’ he says, confirmed, then turns round to hold his electronic key fob against the plate. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m Tom. Just a friend. We were all in the pub together, but Geri and Paul had another big fight, and she came back on her own. She gave me a call about an hour later to say she’d taken this overdose. Oh God I hope she’s okay.’
He leads us into the lobby, a resonant cube of cold green tiles, the air metalled with chlorine, wet denim and urine.
‘These damn lifts,’ he says, as we wait together.
‘Has Geri done this before?’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, quite matter of fact. And then: ‘Paul’s up there with her now. He’s had a skin full, so watch out.’
We ride up to the top floor together. The down lighters in the ceiling wash us of vitality; our reflections stare back at us as we rise up, a huddle of fish in a neglected aquarium. We judder to a halt.
‘This way.’
He shuffles along a corridor to a sudden turn at the end that brings us to a half-open door. He pushes it aside and calls out ‘Paul.’ We follow him in.
From one of the rooms that lead off inside a large man lurches out in front of us, a phone gripped in his fist. Tom steps neatly round him and on into a bedroom. We follow on, the man turning slowly as we pass.
Inside the bedroom a fried blond, middle-aged woman is lying flat on her back on the bed, her coat still on and damp from the rain, her hands stuffed in her pockets, puffing out her cheeks and snoring like a drunk on a bench. Frank goes over to assess her; just as he does, the large man comes into the bedroom behind me. I turn round to tell him what to expect, what our plan of action is at the moment. But before I say a word, he shouts at me.
‘Where the fuck were you?’
Without waiting for a reply he raises his chin, and fixes me with a contemptuous stare as he puts the phone back up to his mouth. ‘I hope you’re making a note of the time?’ he bellows, presumably to the ambulance call taker still on the line. ‘Half a fucking hour. Half an hour!’
It throws me so much I don’t say anything. I drove to the address as fast as I could, as soon as we took the job, because it was given as a Category A, and I had just eight minutes to make it from the far side of town. And despite the heavy rain and the dark and the traffic, I made it in eight. What could he mean?
‘Yeah! You go on, mate!’ he says. ‘You go on with your innocent looks,’ waving the phone at me. ‘I know what you’re like, you paramedics. I know how it is with you bastards. Leaving people to die you don’t like the look of.’
I had been completely wrong-footed by his hostility; in fact I had fully expected him to thank us for getting there so quickly. The injustice of it sparks me into a flare of my own.
‘Get out! You’re rude, you’re aggressive and I want you out. Out! Now! Or we’ll get the police up here and have you arrested for obstruction.’
Before he can say anything else I push him backwards and slam the door in his face. My heart is thumping and I find it hard to say anything more for a moment. I fully expect him to come crashing back through the door, but after a moment or two it seems he has gone off to some other room. I turn to the others. Tom lowers his head and taps the bed thoughtfully with his stick.
‘Like I said, they’ve had a skin full.’
Frank shrugs and directs his attention back to Geri.
***
The overdose isn’t as serious as all that, but we can’t leave her. She wants to sleep it off, but although she consistently bats away our efforts, Tom uses some leverage to coax her out of the flat and down to the ambulance.
Paul emerges as we head for the lift, but doesn’t say another word.
***
At the hospital whilst we’re waiting for Frank to come back from the desk with a cubicle number, I ask Tom how he came to be partially sighted.
‘Oh. Another drinking thing,’ he says. ‘I was in the pub. This guy fell off his stool and put his hands out to save himself. Unfortunately I was standing next to him. His fingers went up under my glasses and his dirty old nails dug into my eyes. They got infected. I lost all the sight in this one, and eighty per cent in this one.’
Geri coughs and retches on the trolley between us.
‘Anyway. Thanks for coming out tonight,’ he says, touching her on the hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. ‘Don’t pay any mind to what Paul says. He doesn’t mean it. It’s just the drink talking.’
‘It is Geri you’ve come for?’ he says, leaning forwards and tilting his head in an effort to eke out what vision he has with as much other information as he can. ‘Is it?’
‘Flat 93’ I say. ‘We don’t have a name.’
‘It is Geri,’ he says, confirmed, then turns round to hold his electronic key fob against the plate. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m Tom. Just a friend. We were all in the pub together, but Geri and Paul had another big fight, and she came back on her own. She gave me a call about an hour later to say she’d taken this overdose. Oh God I hope she’s okay.’
He leads us into the lobby, a resonant cube of cold green tiles, the air metalled with chlorine, wet denim and urine.
‘These damn lifts,’ he says, as we wait together.
‘Has Geri done this before?’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, quite matter of fact. And then: ‘Paul’s up there with her now. He’s had a skin full, so watch out.’
We ride up to the top floor together. The down lighters in the ceiling wash us of vitality; our reflections stare back at us as we rise up, a huddle of fish in a neglected aquarium. We judder to a halt.
‘This way.’
He shuffles along a corridor to a sudden turn at the end that brings us to a half-open door. He pushes it aside and calls out ‘Paul.’ We follow him in.
From one of the rooms that lead off inside a large man lurches out in front of us, a phone gripped in his fist. Tom steps neatly round him and on into a bedroom. We follow on, the man turning slowly as we pass.
Inside the bedroom a fried blond, middle-aged woman is lying flat on her back on the bed, her coat still on and damp from the rain, her hands stuffed in her pockets, puffing out her cheeks and snoring like a drunk on a bench. Frank goes over to assess her; just as he does, the large man comes into the bedroom behind me. I turn round to tell him what to expect, what our plan of action is at the moment. But before I say a word, he shouts at me.
‘Where the fuck were you?’
Without waiting for a reply he raises his chin, and fixes me with a contemptuous stare as he puts the phone back up to his mouth. ‘I hope you’re making a note of the time?’ he bellows, presumably to the ambulance call taker still on the line. ‘Half a fucking hour. Half an hour!’
It throws me so much I don’t say anything. I drove to the address as fast as I could, as soon as we took the job, because it was given as a Category A, and I had just eight minutes to make it from the far side of town. And despite the heavy rain and the dark and the traffic, I made it in eight. What could he mean?
‘Yeah! You go on, mate!’ he says. ‘You go on with your innocent looks,’ waving the phone at me. ‘I know what you’re like, you paramedics. I know how it is with you bastards. Leaving people to die you don’t like the look of.’
I had been completely wrong-footed by his hostility; in fact I had fully expected him to thank us for getting there so quickly. The injustice of it sparks me into a flare of my own.
‘Get out! You’re rude, you’re aggressive and I want you out. Out! Now! Or we’ll get the police up here and have you arrested for obstruction.’
Before he can say anything else I push him backwards and slam the door in his face. My heart is thumping and I find it hard to say anything more for a moment. I fully expect him to come crashing back through the door, but after a moment or two it seems he has gone off to some other room. I turn to the others. Tom lowers his head and taps the bed thoughtfully with his stick.
‘Like I said, they’ve had a skin full.’
Frank shrugs and directs his attention back to Geri.
***
The overdose isn’t as serious as all that, but we can’t leave her. She wants to sleep it off, but although she consistently bats away our efforts, Tom uses some leverage to coax her out of the flat and down to the ambulance.
Paul emerges as we head for the lift, but doesn’t say another word.
***
At the hospital whilst we’re waiting for Frank to come back from the desk with a cubicle number, I ask Tom how he came to be partially sighted.
‘Oh. Another drinking thing,’ he says. ‘I was in the pub. This guy fell off his stool and put his hands out to save himself. Unfortunately I was standing next to him. His fingers went up under my glasses and his dirty old nails dug into my eyes. They got infected. I lost all the sight in this one, and eighty per cent in this one.’
Geri coughs and retches on the trolley between us.
‘Anyway. Thanks for coming out tonight,’ he says, touching her on the hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. ‘Don’t pay any mind to what Paul says. He doesn’t mean it. It’s just the drink talking.’
Monday, October 04, 2010
big happy birthday
This junction is one of the busiest city intersections, dividing it cleanly east-west, north-south. On one quarter of the compass, the Red Hat, a trendy coffee bar with silver tables and chairs outside and crazy decals on the windows; on the point opposite, an ethnic grocery store, slanted tables stacked with beef tomatoes, okra, corn on the cob, garlic ropes, buckets of olives and a stretched canvas awning to keep it all dry; diagonally across, a row of smaller, less well-appointed businesses – Spirited Away, a cheap wine, beer and DVD shop, and its next door neighbour, a wire-mesh protected internet café (cheap international calls / SIM cards unlocked), and then, on the final quarter, a supermarket’s latest castle of occupation, slick and efficiently rendered, like an architect’s model instantly built to scale.
But it’s late now and everything – even the internet café – is dark.
Approaching along the high street from the east we can see a sparkle of blue lights cannoning off the buildings – a police van, parked on a skew, and on the pavement beside it, a man face down, his arms held behind his back by two police officers. A third waves to us. I hit the at scene button, and climb out.
‘We’ve got a chap here, don’t know his name, can’t get much sense out of him. He was involved in an altercation with some other people. There was a fight and this one hit the deck. Not exactly sure of his injuries, because he’s – erm – difficult to talk to. I should imagine he’s taken some kind of drug because he’s pretty fired up. Anyway, see what you think.’
The man would seem to be about thirty, dressed in a neat check suit and suede shoes, his shirt unbuttoned to his belt buckle and his wild black hair whipping round as he strains to lift his head and curse everyone within range.
I walk over, squat down. He whips his head round to look at me.
‘Fuck you, my friend. Yes, that’s right – fuck you. Who do you think you are? Hmm? Get off me! I’m going to kill you all.’
‘Just try and slow it down for a minute, will you? My name’s Spence. This is Frank. We’re with the ambulance.’
‘Oh. How nice. The ambulance, ay? Well you know what you fucking ambulance? Why don’t you go and fuck yourself, and when you’re done, why don’t I kill you and throw you on a heap with the rest of them? Hmm? Do you like the sound of that, ambulance? Hm?’
‘Well. No. Not particularly. Listen – what’s your name at least?’
‘My name? You want my name? Fuck you. How’s that name for you? Fuck you.’
I stand up. ‘Well he’s quite lucid at least.’
Suddenly he makes another crazed effort to wrest his arms away from the two police officers. But they have him under control and finally he gives up with a scream of unsuppressed rage. A crowd of clubbers try to walk around us and the other officer has to usher them to a safer distance.
‘Good luck to you mate,’ one shouts out to the man on the ground.
‘Leave him alone, you fascist.’
No-one pays them any attention. More people are gathering on the street corners, entertainment on a slow night.
‘What do you want us to do with him?’ one of the officers says.
‘Let’s stand him up and see if we can make out what’s going on.’
‘We’ve already called a van up, by the way. We’re quite happy to take him off to the cells on a D&D if you think there’s nothing medical.’
‘Let’s see.’
They explain to the man what they want him to do; he listens, breathing hard, obviously biding his time for an opportunity to escape.
‘Yes, sir,’ he says. ‘Of course, sir.’
Eventually they manage to get him back on his feet. He stands there, his arms behind his back, staggering from foot to foot, breathing hard, his long hair swinging in saturated coils and his eyes flicking around him like a bated animal in a pit.
‘What’s happened to you tonight?’ I ask him. ‘What’s brought you to this?’
Suddenly he seems to collect himself. He takes a deep breath, then raises his head up slowly to look me full in the face. I wonder for a moment if he’s about to spit; he has blood on him, and I don’t want to catch any in the eye. I can’t help but take a step back, which he reads with a sly smile.
‘Ah! Look at this doctor! Okay, Mr Doctor. I tell you what happen to me, Mr Doctor. It is my birthday. I come out tonight. I drink with friends. We have good time. This man fight with me. I fight with him. The police they come and throw me on the ground like a dog. Okay, Mr Doctor? Yeah? You fix me up? Yeah? You like that? Big Happy Birthday?’
He screws his face up and begins to cry.
‘First things first,’ I say to him. ‘Do you have any pain? Did you hurt your neck when you fell?’
I reach forward and feel the back of his neck. ‘Does that hurt?’
He looks up again.
‘What?’
‘Do you have any pain anywhere?’
‘My whole body is pain. My whole life is pain.’
‘What’s your medical history? Are you diabetic, for instance?’
‘Fuck you, Mr Doctor. Fuck you and your big idea. Fuck this shit. Let me go.’
He arches his back and drops down in an effort to wrong foot the officers and break free of their grip. But they anticipate his move, and use his momentum to put him back on the ground. Another police van pulls up.
‘I don’t think we’re going to get very far with this guy. If you’re happy to take him to the cells, I think that’s going to be the safest place for everyone. He’ll just be a liability down the hospital.’
We climb back into the truck and finish the paperwork, the screams of the man as a team of officers drag him into the truck fading as the ambulance window slides back up into the closed position.
But it’s late now and everything – even the internet café – is dark.
Approaching along the high street from the east we can see a sparkle of blue lights cannoning off the buildings – a police van, parked on a skew, and on the pavement beside it, a man face down, his arms held behind his back by two police officers. A third waves to us. I hit the at scene button, and climb out.
‘We’ve got a chap here, don’t know his name, can’t get much sense out of him. He was involved in an altercation with some other people. There was a fight and this one hit the deck. Not exactly sure of his injuries, because he’s – erm – difficult to talk to. I should imagine he’s taken some kind of drug because he’s pretty fired up. Anyway, see what you think.’
The man would seem to be about thirty, dressed in a neat check suit and suede shoes, his shirt unbuttoned to his belt buckle and his wild black hair whipping round as he strains to lift his head and curse everyone within range.
I walk over, squat down. He whips his head round to look at me.
‘Fuck you, my friend. Yes, that’s right – fuck you. Who do you think you are? Hmm? Get off me! I’m going to kill you all.’
‘Just try and slow it down for a minute, will you? My name’s Spence. This is Frank. We’re with the ambulance.’
‘Oh. How nice. The ambulance, ay? Well you know what you fucking ambulance? Why don’t you go and fuck yourself, and when you’re done, why don’t I kill you and throw you on a heap with the rest of them? Hmm? Do you like the sound of that, ambulance? Hm?’
‘Well. No. Not particularly. Listen – what’s your name at least?’
‘My name? You want my name? Fuck you. How’s that name for you? Fuck you.’
I stand up. ‘Well he’s quite lucid at least.’
Suddenly he makes another crazed effort to wrest his arms away from the two police officers. But they have him under control and finally he gives up with a scream of unsuppressed rage. A crowd of clubbers try to walk around us and the other officer has to usher them to a safer distance.
‘Good luck to you mate,’ one shouts out to the man on the ground.
‘Leave him alone, you fascist.’
No-one pays them any attention. More people are gathering on the street corners, entertainment on a slow night.
‘What do you want us to do with him?’ one of the officers says.
‘Let’s stand him up and see if we can make out what’s going on.’
‘We’ve already called a van up, by the way. We’re quite happy to take him off to the cells on a D&D if you think there’s nothing medical.’
‘Let’s see.’
They explain to the man what they want him to do; he listens, breathing hard, obviously biding his time for an opportunity to escape.
‘Yes, sir,’ he says. ‘Of course, sir.’
Eventually they manage to get him back on his feet. He stands there, his arms behind his back, staggering from foot to foot, breathing hard, his long hair swinging in saturated coils and his eyes flicking around him like a bated animal in a pit.
‘What’s happened to you tonight?’ I ask him. ‘What’s brought you to this?’
Suddenly he seems to collect himself. He takes a deep breath, then raises his head up slowly to look me full in the face. I wonder for a moment if he’s about to spit; he has blood on him, and I don’t want to catch any in the eye. I can’t help but take a step back, which he reads with a sly smile.
‘Ah! Look at this doctor! Okay, Mr Doctor. I tell you what happen to me, Mr Doctor. It is my birthday. I come out tonight. I drink with friends. We have good time. This man fight with me. I fight with him. The police they come and throw me on the ground like a dog. Okay, Mr Doctor? Yeah? You fix me up? Yeah? You like that? Big Happy Birthday?’
He screws his face up and begins to cry.
‘First things first,’ I say to him. ‘Do you have any pain? Did you hurt your neck when you fell?’
I reach forward and feel the back of his neck. ‘Does that hurt?’
He looks up again.
‘What?’
‘Do you have any pain anywhere?’
‘My whole body is pain. My whole life is pain.’
‘What’s your medical history? Are you diabetic, for instance?’
‘Fuck you, Mr Doctor. Fuck you and your big idea. Fuck this shit. Let me go.’
He arches his back and drops down in an effort to wrong foot the officers and break free of their grip. But they anticipate his move, and use his momentum to put him back on the ground. Another police van pulls up.
‘I don’t think we’re going to get very far with this guy. If you’re happy to take him to the cells, I think that’s going to be the safest place for everyone. He’ll just be a liability down the hospital.’
We climb back into the truck and finish the paperwork, the screams of the man as a team of officers drag him into the truck fading as the ambulance window slides back up into the closed position.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
okay
Night across town. A light rain sweeping in, but the air is warm, and the effect is of a feverish, humidifying spray in a hot house. The serious hours now, that gruelling stretch between midnight and dawn when the crowds re-form in the streets and migrate along well-worn routes to the hardcore party territories of the clubs and late licence bars along the front. We run from job to job; we need a different kind of ambulance, a Saturday night special, a cow-catcher at the front, a side-grabber for easy loading, nothing on board that can’t be jet-washed or thrown away.
Jake is led out of the club by an honour guard of arm-banded bouncers and police in fluorescent jackets. He is bloodied, ragged, his arms passively down at his sides, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, a strangely passive demeanour, that in this thumping element has the effect of a saint being led through a mob to the scaffold. We help him onto the ambulance; he bows his head when he sits on the chair.
‘So what happened?’
He looks up without expression.
‘Julie accidentally spilled her drink on another girl. She apologised, it all seemed okay. I’d gone to the loo, but when I came back the girl was there with a couple of her friends and they were screaming at her. So I just touched this girl on the arm and said something like just calm down or something. Next thing I know there were all these guys. One of them threw a glass in my face. I was punched and fell over. When I was on the floor someone was jabbing a glass in my face, and there were kicks and punches coming in from everywhere. I tried to curl up and protect myself as best I could.’
He has several cuts over his face and hands – a deep one behind his ear that somehow misses his major blood vessels.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
I pull up his shirt. Amongst everything else his back is patterned with a dreadful series of deep, strawberry coloured wheals, finger-width apart, as if someone has clawed at him with a garden rake.
‘Yeah. The girls joined in,’ he says. Even the police woman lowers her notepad.
‘Why would they do that?’ she says.
There’s a knock on the back door.
Frank opens it to see: a pale young girl who’s been crying so much her mascara is spread around her eyes in two watery patches. Jake slowly turns his head.
‘Come on in,’ says Frank.
But the girl doesn’t move. She stands outside in the rain, seems to ripple in and out of focus, slowly puts her hand to her mouth and stares.
Frank opens the dressings bag.
‘O-kay’ he says.
Jake is led out of the club by an honour guard of arm-banded bouncers and police in fluorescent jackets. He is bloodied, ragged, his arms passively down at his sides, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, a strangely passive demeanour, that in this thumping element has the effect of a saint being led through a mob to the scaffold. We help him onto the ambulance; he bows his head when he sits on the chair.
‘So what happened?’
He looks up without expression.
‘Julie accidentally spilled her drink on another girl. She apologised, it all seemed okay. I’d gone to the loo, but when I came back the girl was there with a couple of her friends and they were screaming at her. So I just touched this girl on the arm and said something like just calm down or something. Next thing I know there were all these guys. One of them threw a glass in my face. I was punched and fell over. When I was on the floor someone was jabbing a glass in my face, and there were kicks and punches coming in from everywhere. I tried to curl up and protect myself as best I could.’
He has several cuts over his face and hands – a deep one behind his ear that somehow misses his major blood vessels.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
I pull up his shirt. Amongst everything else his back is patterned with a dreadful series of deep, strawberry coloured wheals, finger-width apart, as if someone has clawed at him with a garden rake.
‘Yeah. The girls joined in,’ he says. Even the police woman lowers her notepad.
‘Why would they do that?’ she says.
There’s a knock on the back door.
Frank opens it to see: a pale young girl who’s been crying so much her mascara is spread around her eyes in two watery patches. Jake slowly turns his head.
‘Come on in,’ says Frank.
But the girl doesn’t move. She stands outside in the rain, seems to ripple in and out of focus, slowly puts her hand to her mouth and stares.
Frank opens the dressings bag.
‘O-kay’ he says.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
a close call
‘You know - the irony is, Evelyn was never meant to be here in the first place. We were all supposed to meet round at Clarice’s. But Clarice twisted her ankle in Sainsbury’s and stayed with me last night. So we had a bit of a last minute change around. Jane said she’d pick up Evelyn and the two of them would come down together, even though it’s a massive detour for her.’
‘I really wouldn’t have minded,’ says Jane, brightly.
‘You are good, dear. But then Jane’s car had something wrong with it...’
‘The differential.’
‘Or something, so she couldn’t manage it. So Evelyn said she’d pick Jane up and we’d all meet up here.’
‘Honestly, we’ve had such a run of it.’
Evelyn sits straight-backed and watchful in an armchair.
‘I’m sure these good people don’t need to know our every last movement, Vera,’ she says, plucking some invisible lint from her skirt and dropping it over the side.
‘But context is so important, isn’t it, officer? Or is that the police?’
Evelyn glitters dangerously.
‘Are you okay, Evelyn?’ I ask her.
‘Yes. Completely fine. Thank you,’ she says, then closes her eyes, giving a small, pale nod of the head, a queenly indication of the limitless depths of her embarrassment. ‘I came through it all quite unscathed, actually.’
Frank kneels down in the middle of the carpet and spreads out his obs kit like a salesman.
‘Well,’ he says, clapping his hands together and then selecting the BP cuff, ‘I must admit, when we turned into the close and saw those feet sticking out from under the car I thought – hello, this is going to be interesting.’
‘I bet it did give you a fright,’ says Jane, hugging her knees and almost bobbing up and down on the edge of the opposite sofa. ‘But Mr Jeffries was keen to see what the damage was down there.’
‘Yes. Well. Mr Jeffries should have thought of the impression he’d make when the emergency services pitched up.’
‘I called 999,’ says Clarice, her left ankle bandaged and up on a stool. ‘From my lonely vigil.’
‘So, Evelyn. Tell me again exactly what happened.’
She sighs, and kneads the back of one ancient hand with the desiccated fingers of the other.
‘I’ve driven automatics for years, so really I can’t think how this happened. I pulled up outside. I needed to park, so I put the car in reverse. I think I must have gone to look out of the window to see how much room I had left, when I banged my head.’
‘The window was still up,’ says Clarice.
‘It gave me such a shock. I put my hand up to my head like this, my foot slipped off the brake and onto the accelerator, and I shot backwards at a rate of knots.’
‘Into Mr Jeffries’ Rover.’
‘The blue one.’
‘With the dent in it.’
‘And then I think I must have been dazed or something, because I tried to drive forward again.’
‘The noise was unspeakable.’
‘Like a massacre.’
‘They all came running out.’
‘Especially Mr Jeffries.’
‘Until I came to a stop where you see me now.’
Suddenly a female police officer hallo’s in at the door and clumps into the lounge. A thrill runs through the four old women.
‘Everything all right, Ladies?’ she says, tucking her cap under her arm. She is such a towering figure of power, with her utility belt bristling with CS gas, baton, cuffs and flash light, her stab vest plumped up with notebooks, pens and a mobile phone, it’s like watching a storm trooper from some future law enforcement agency stepping through a time portal into an Edwardian luncheon party.
‘Shall I make some more tea?’ says Jane, jumping up and hurrying off into the kitchen.
‘I’d help..’ says Clarice, but leans forward and taps her bandaged foot solemnly.
Vera smiles up at the officer, and pats the cushion next to her for the officer to sit down on the sofa.
Evelyn says nothing at all.
‘I really wouldn’t have minded,’ says Jane, brightly.
‘You are good, dear. But then Jane’s car had something wrong with it...’
‘The differential.’
‘Or something, so she couldn’t manage it. So Evelyn said she’d pick Jane up and we’d all meet up here.’
‘Honestly, we’ve had such a run of it.’
Evelyn sits straight-backed and watchful in an armchair.
‘I’m sure these good people don’t need to know our every last movement, Vera,’ she says, plucking some invisible lint from her skirt and dropping it over the side.
‘But context is so important, isn’t it, officer? Or is that the police?’
Evelyn glitters dangerously.
‘Are you okay, Evelyn?’ I ask her.
‘Yes. Completely fine. Thank you,’ she says, then closes her eyes, giving a small, pale nod of the head, a queenly indication of the limitless depths of her embarrassment. ‘I came through it all quite unscathed, actually.’
Frank kneels down in the middle of the carpet and spreads out his obs kit like a salesman.
‘Well,’ he says, clapping his hands together and then selecting the BP cuff, ‘I must admit, when we turned into the close and saw those feet sticking out from under the car I thought – hello, this is going to be interesting.’
‘I bet it did give you a fright,’ says Jane, hugging her knees and almost bobbing up and down on the edge of the opposite sofa. ‘But Mr Jeffries was keen to see what the damage was down there.’
‘Yes. Well. Mr Jeffries should have thought of the impression he’d make when the emergency services pitched up.’
‘I called 999,’ says Clarice, her left ankle bandaged and up on a stool. ‘From my lonely vigil.’
‘So, Evelyn. Tell me again exactly what happened.’
She sighs, and kneads the back of one ancient hand with the desiccated fingers of the other.
‘I’ve driven automatics for years, so really I can’t think how this happened. I pulled up outside. I needed to park, so I put the car in reverse. I think I must have gone to look out of the window to see how much room I had left, when I banged my head.’
‘The window was still up,’ says Clarice.
‘It gave me such a shock. I put my hand up to my head like this, my foot slipped off the brake and onto the accelerator, and I shot backwards at a rate of knots.’
‘Into Mr Jeffries’ Rover.’
‘The blue one.’
‘With the dent in it.’
‘And then I think I must have been dazed or something, because I tried to drive forward again.’
‘The noise was unspeakable.’
‘Like a massacre.’
‘They all came running out.’
‘Especially Mr Jeffries.’
‘Until I came to a stop where you see me now.’
Suddenly a female police officer hallo’s in at the door and clumps into the lounge. A thrill runs through the four old women.
‘Everything all right, Ladies?’ she says, tucking her cap under her arm. She is such a towering figure of power, with her utility belt bristling with CS gas, baton, cuffs and flash light, her stab vest plumped up with notebooks, pens and a mobile phone, it’s like watching a storm trooper from some future law enforcement agency stepping through a time portal into an Edwardian luncheon party.
‘Shall I make some more tea?’ says Jane, jumping up and hurrying off into the kitchen.
‘I’d help..’ says Clarice, but leans forward and taps her bandaged foot solemnly.
Vera smiles up at the officer, and pats the cushion next to her for the officer to sit down on the sofa.
Evelyn says nothing at all.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
little john
‘He’s up there,’ says the woman with the Jack Russell, waving with her fag hand towards the top end of the dog walking area. She is as strung out as the dog, their long faces pale and quivering.
We walk on up the gently sloping bank to where a heavy looking guy called John is sitting, his right hand clutching his left wrist, a nub-headed, brindle coloured Staffordshire bull terrier panting at his feet. The two of them are a matching pair; if you put the man’s khaki beanie on the dog, the only thing to tell them apart would be the skull and sword tattoos on John’s arms.
‘All right?’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. He’s not the problem. It was that poxy little Jack Russell that bit me. Zac wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Me and Zac was walking along, everything cushty, nice day n’all, very nice, smoking a doobie do, all lovely like. All of a sudden this ratty little shit bag dog comes running over and starts in on Zac. I goes to pull ‘em apart – and I knew I had to be quick, because you know Staffies. Once they decide to lock-down, it’s Goodnight Vienna. The woman was hopeless. All over the place, screaming, carrying on. Anyway, I gets them apart. Yer woman there comes over swinging a lead, and jus’ before she gets it on, the dog sneaks in with a parting shot, bang, right here on the wrist. Bastard.’
There’s no sign of any blood anywhere, not from between his fingers, not on his jeans or shoes, no smears across his face. His hand looks pale, but he must have been sitting waiting for us at least half an hour, all things considered.
‘Can you move your fingers?’
‘Yep.’
‘Everything feel normal?’
‘Yep. Not bad.’
‘Are you up to date with your tetanus shots?’
‘Yep. And I’ve got a healthy supply of antibiotics at home, just in case.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘I’m a security contractor,’ he says. ‘I just got back from Afghanistan. You could say I’m used to dealing with death and destruction.’
‘Okay. And how’s your health?’
‘A-One, man. Except for some mental problems – you know, PTSD n’all. I’m taking Mirtazapine, Olanzapine, every ‘pine you can think of, really.’
‘Okay. Right. I’ll just move Zac over to the fence and tie him up there…’
Zac’s face splits into a fleshy smile when I untie his lead from around John’s ankle. I make him comfortable over by the fence, then come back to help Frank clean and dress the wound.
‘Let’s have a look at the damage, then. Slowly, slowly.’
We’re both expecting there to be a little pulse of blood at least, or to see some kind of appreciable injury. What we find, though, is a tiny little puncture wound, the kind you might get if you were gardening and snagged your hand on a rose bush.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep. I kept it elevated, lots of pressure.’
‘Good. Well… we can clean it up, put a dressing on…. were you expecting to go to hospital?’
‘With Zac? No. I’ll just head home if that’s okay with you fellas.’
‘No worries.’
I rip open a sterile water sachet, clean what there is to clean and tie on a small bandage.
‘Done.’
‘Grand. Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Come on then, Zac. Time for dinner.’
He stands up –six foot two, an urban version of Little John, with a Staffie rather than a staff.
‘No kickboxing for a week,’ he says, shakes our hand, and walks off down the field with Zac trotting happily beside him.
We walk on up the gently sloping bank to where a heavy looking guy called John is sitting, his right hand clutching his left wrist, a nub-headed, brindle coloured Staffordshire bull terrier panting at his feet. The two of them are a matching pair; if you put the man’s khaki beanie on the dog, the only thing to tell them apart would be the skull and sword tattoos on John’s arms.
‘All right?’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. He’s not the problem. It was that poxy little Jack Russell that bit me. Zac wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Me and Zac was walking along, everything cushty, nice day n’all, very nice, smoking a doobie do, all lovely like. All of a sudden this ratty little shit bag dog comes running over and starts in on Zac. I goes to pull ‘em apart – and I knew I had to be quick, because you know Staffies. Once they decide to lock-down, it’s Goodnight Vienna. The woman was hopeless. All over the place, screaming, carrying on. Anyway, I gets them apart. Yer woman there comes over swinging a lead, and jus’ before she gets it on, the dog sneaks in with a parting shot, bang, right here on the wrist. Bastard.’
There’s no sign of any blood anywhere, not from between his fingers, not on his jeans or shoes, no smears across his face. His hand looks pale, but he must have been sitting waiting for us at least half an hour, all things considered.
‘Can you move your fingers?’
‘Yep.’
‘Everything feel normal?’
‘Yep. Not bad.’
‘Are you up to date with your tetanus shots?’
‘Yep. And I’ve got a healthy supply of antibiotics at home, just in case.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘I’m a security contractor,’ he says. ‘I just got back from Afghanistan. You could say I’m used to dealing with death and destruction.’
‘Okay. And how’s your health?’
‘A-One, man. Except for some mental problems – you know, PTSD n’all. I’m taking Mirtazapine, Olanzapine, every ‘pine you can think of, really.’
‘Okay. Right. I’ll just move Zac over to the fence and tie him up there…’
Zac’s face splits into a fleshy smile when I untie his lead from around John’s ankle. I make him comfortable over by the fence, then come back to help Frank clean and dress the wound.
‘Let’s have a look at the damage, then. Slowly, slowly.’
We’re both expecting there to be a little pulse of blood at least, or to see some kind of appreciable injury. What we find, though, is a tiny little puncture wound, the kind you might get if you were gardening and snagged your hand on a rose bush.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep. I kept it elevated, lots of pressure.’
‘Good. Well… we can clean it up, put a dressing on…. were you expecting to go to hospital?’
‘With Zac? No. I’ll just head home if that’s okay with you fellas.’
‘No worries.’
I rip open a sterile water sachet, clean what there is to clean and tie on a small bandage.
‘Done.’
‘Grand. Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Come on then, Zac. Time for dinner.’
He stands up –six foot two, an urban version of Little John, with a Staffie rather than a staff.
‘No kickboxing for a week,’ he says, shakes our hand, and walks off down the field with Zac trotting happily beside him.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
then and now
The last time I was in this park, the sun had been high in the sky. Then, walking in through the sandstone arches had been like walking onto a wide, intensely animated canvas. Every available space on the lawns around the little café in the centre of the park was taken up by people - sunbathing, dozing, reading the paper, cradled in stripy deckchairs or sprawled on the grass, methodically working round ice cream cones, smoking or picking over the contents of a cooler bag, old people in brilliant whites bowling on the green, children chasing each other with water pistols, shouts of order numbers from the café, shrieks from the boating lake, the gentle pock-pocketing from the tennis courts, a chef in black and white check trousers running out to meet us with a dripping bag of ice, and everywhere around us the rich, cut-grass, honeysuckle sweetness of the summer air.
Now, the park is utterly silent and dark.
Frank pulls up just this side of the café. We wait for an update.
Can we get the police running on this one?
They should be there soon.
And the patient really can’t make it to the entrance?
He says he can’t move. He’s somewhere over by the children’s playground. He doesn’t sound aggressive.
I suppose we could take a look, then.
Proceed with caution.
Frank hands me a torch.
Outside the truck we stand for a moment exploring the darkness, the cut of our torch beams bright at first but dimming off into the gloomy reaches of the park.
We start walking.
The flickering, black and silver patterns of the branches and leaves.
A child’s hat on the railings.
A plastic bag.
A can beside a bench.
This is ridiculous.
It’ll kill a bit of time, though.
Another update on the radio.
The patient says he can't give us his name because he's in breach of his parole.
Parole? What do you mean, parole?
He says he's got a history of self-harm and violence. Maybe you should withdraw and wait for the police.
You think?
Every now and again I turn round suddenly to catch anyone creeping up behind me. At the far edges of the park I can see the lighted squares of windows and the passing of car lights along the street, but here in the middle the night is thick and close up and still.
Watch your back.
What’s that over there?
A wood pigeon crashes out of a bush right by our heads and we both almost throw our torches in the air with fright.
Shitting hell.
Let’s wait for the police.
We head back to the ambulance.
The radio rumbles.
The patient says he can see your lights.
And then: He’s up a tree.
Back in the ambulance we hit the central locking button. I have a sick feeling that someone has climbed into the back of the vehicle, so I have to unlock the doors and go out to check. The thunk of the locks re-engaging as I climb back into the cab again is as beautiful a sound as I’ve heard all night.
Another update.
The patient says he is going to hang himself.
I wind down my window and lean out with the torch.
What’s that? Is that something?
A branch. It just looks like something.
This is ridiculous.
I bet he’s not even in the park.
Frank tells Control he’s going to give a blast of the sirens to see if they can hear them on the patient’s phone.
No. Nothing. I think you can probably stand down, guys. We need to do a bit more exploratory work on this one.
Good – because we’ve done more than enough.
He makes a swift three-point turn, and the headlights sweep ahead of us through the empty park.
Now, the park is utterly silent and dark.
Frank pulls up just this side of the café. We wait for an update.
Can we get the police running on this one?
They should be there soon.
And the patient really can’t make it to the entrance?
He says he can’t move. He’s somewhere over by the children’s playground. He doesn’t sound aggressive.
I suppose we could take a look, then.
Proceed with caution.
Frank hands me a torch.
Outside the truck we stand for a moment exploring the darkness, the cut of our torch beams bright at first but dimming off into the gloomy reaches of the park.
We start walking.
The flickering, black and silver patterns of the branches and leaves.
A child’s hat on the railings.
A plastic bag.
A can beside a bench.
This is ridiculous.
It’ll kill a bit of time, though.
Another update on the radio.
The patient says he can't give us his name because he's in breach of his parole.
Parole? What do you mean, parole?
He says he's got a history of self-harm and violence. Maybe you should withdraw and wait for the police.
You think?
Every now and again I turn round suddenly to catch anyone creeping up behind me. At the far edges of the park I can see the lighted squares of windows and the passing of car lights along the street, but here in the middle the night is thick and close up and still.
Watch your back.
What’s that over there?
A wood pigeon crashes out of a bush right by our heads and we both almost throw our torches in the air with fright.
Shitting hell.
Let’s wait for the police.
We head back to the ambulance.
The radio rumbles.
The patient says he can see your lights.
And then: He’s up a tree.
Back in the ambulance we hit the central locking button. I have a sick feeling that someone has climbed into the back of the vehicle, so I have to unlock the doors and go out to check. The thunk of the locks re-engaging as I climb back into the cab again is as beautiful a sound as I’ve heard all night.
Another update.
The patient says he is going to hang himself.
I wind down my window and lean out with the torch.
What’s that? Is that something?
A branch. It just looks like something.
This is ridiculous.
I bet he’s not even in the park.
Frank tells Control he’s going to give a blast of the sirens to see if they can hear them on the patient’s phone.
No. Nothing. I think you can probably stand down, guys. We need to do a bit more exploratory work on this one.
Good – because we’ve done more than enough.
He makes a swift three-point turn, and the headlights sweep ahead of us through the empty park.
Monday, September 20, 2010
by the book
‘She’s taken all the meds in my bag,’ says Paula, standing quietly in the junked-up hallway, her features restrained and pale. ‘She’s upstairs with Jake. Neither of them should be here. I’m not supposed to have anyone else.’
Frank steps into the kitchen to retrieve the tablet packets, whilst Paula leads me up the steep staircase, dragging her feet slightly, like a depressed estate agent showing the worst house on the list; on the landing, she nods to the banister rail that guards against the drop.
‘She hanged herself from that a couple of weeks ago.’
When we push the bedroom door open a little more, Jake straightens up from where he has been hunched over the bed.
‘Treat her well,’ he says, ‘Or I’ll be angry.’
‘Of course we’ll treat her well,’ I say. ‘If we didn’t, you’d have every right.’
‘Just bear it in mind,’ he says, and shuffles a little further down the bed.
Eva is hiding under the duvet.
‘I can’t believe you called the ambulance,’ she cries. ‘Why did you call the ambulance?’
‘Because you’ve taken all my tablets,’ says Paula, in the same, measured tone. ‘You need help.’
‘I just want to die. Why can’t I just be left alone to die?’
Jake leans back in to hug her through the covers – It’s okay, babe. Nothing’s happening, babe - smothering her with platitudes whilst throwing glances at us over his shoulder that are much more to the point.
‘Jake? I’m sorry but - are you a relative?’
Eva snatches the duvet cover aside. Her young face is plump with crying, her long black hair in tangles around her face. ‘He’s a friend, okay? I love you, Jake. I’m not going anywhere without you, Jake. Or you, Paula. Or Gary. Where’s Gary?’
‘Who’s Gary?’
Paula folds her arms.
‘Gary’s downstairs,’ she says.
For a moment I worry about Frank who’s still down in the kitchen, but he appears round the door at that moment clutching a fistful of packets.
‘Gary’s all right,’ he says.
‘We’ll sort out who’s coming in a minute, Eva. For now, we just need to figure out exactly what you’ve taken.’
‘I haven’t taken anything.’
‘Well we’ve got a difference of opinion there. Eva reckons you’ve taken all these tablets,’ I say, showing her the packets that Frank hands to me. Jake stands up.
‘I was with her the whole time. We had a few drinks. She had a couple of Diazepam. Or those pink ones. That’s it. I don’t know what she’s talking about.’
‘You do need to come with us, Eva’ I say. ‘I can’t say if you have or haven’t taken these tablets. But from our point of view we can’t take the chance. We couldn’t possibly just leave you here wondering if you’d taken such a big overdose. This is dangerous stuff.’
‘I just want to die.’
‘So let’s go to hospital and get things sorted.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Paula. ‘I’m the only sober one here.’
‘Jake and Gary could come up later. I’m afraid we’ve only got room for one person to come in the back.’
Amazingly Jake seems to accept this, but I make sure he goes down the stairs ahead of me, just in case. By the front door he meets up with Gary – a stooped, bearded young guy with scabbed knuckles and a sideways manner – and the two of them share a cigarette as we get ready to go.
At the bottom of the stairs Eva stops and suddenly pulls her t-shirt off over her head, exposing her breasts.
‘Eva – cover yourself up, please. We’re going outside to the ambulance.’
‘But I’m hot. I’m burning up.’
‘You need to keep your top on though.’
Paula helps her back into the t-shirt and we carry on out.
***
We’re five minutes away from the hospital and I’m trying to get the essential details down: most importantly, what the drugs are that I have in this collection, a disparate range of prescription analgesics, anti-psychotics, sedatives and paracetamol products. Eva alternates between pseudo-unconsciousness and a rapid gabble that veers from extravagant expressions of love to an unpleasant kind of clamped-down, black hysteria. She keeps sitting up suddenly and trying to climb off the trolley. She is naked from the waist up, scratching herself and thrashing around.
‘Keep yourself covered,’ I say. ‘We’re almost at the hospital.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m burning up. They’re only tits,’ she says. ‘They’re not even real.’
‘You’ve got to try to keep the blanket on.’
‘I want a kiss,’ she says to Paula. ‘Kiss me,’ – and she throws her legs over the side of the trolley.
‘Come on, Eva. Settle back. I don’t want you falling off. We’re almost there.’
Paula leans in and gives Eva a kiss.
‘Is this what happened to you when you took your overdose?’ Eva says as she reluctantly lets her go.
‘Yes. Exactly the same.’
‘Have you got any of that cream?’
Before I can stop them, Eva is over the side of the trolley again and Paula is rubbing a thick, white cream all over her arms and chest.
‘That should help,’ she says.
Eva suddenly grabs her black hair, tugs it off and throws it across the ambulance where it lands by the back door. Her real hair is a brutally cropped ginger red, sticking up in tufted clumps. She shuffles quickly down to the end of the trolley, grabs the BP cuff and lead and wraps it around her neck, then leans backwards to pull it tight. I jump up, scattering the pill packets and clipboard onto the floor and push her back upright.
‘Come on, Eva. This is just silly.’
I unwrap the chord from around her neck and throw it aside just as the ambulance draws up outside A&E. Frank reverses into the bay, and comes round to the back. He opens the door.
‘Just a minute whilst we get sorted here,’ I say, breathing hard behind Eva.
Frank takes the scene in: Eva half naked on the bed covered in white cream, Paula with her arms folded, the tatty black wig on the floor in front of him.
‘Spence.’ He clears his throat. ‘Maybe later you could show me where exactly in the manual it talks about this particular treatment,’ he says.
Frank steps into the kitchen to retrieve the tablet packets, whilst Paula leads me up the steep staircase, dragging her feet slightly, like a depressed estate agent showing the worst house on the list; on the landing, she nods to the banister rail that guards against the drop.
‘She hanged herself from that a couple of weeks ago.’
When we push the bedroom door open a little more, Jake straightens up from where he has been hunched over the bed.
‘Treat her well,’ he says, ‘Or I’ll be angry.’
‘Of course we’ll treat her well,’ I say. ‘If we didn’t, you’d have every right.’
‘Just bear it in mind,’ he says, and shuffles a little further down the bed.
Eva is hiding under the duvet.
‘I can’t believe you called the ambulance,’ she cries. ‘Why did you call the ambulance?’
‘Because you’ve taken all my tablets,’ says Paula, in the same, measured tone. ‘You need help.’
‘I just want to die. Why can’t I just be left alone to die?’
Jake leans back in to hug her through the covers – It’s okay, babe. Nothing’s happening, babe - smothering her with platitudes whilst throwing glances at us over his shoulder that are much more to the point.
‘Jake? I’m sorry but - are you a relative?’
Eva snatches the duvet cover aside. Her young face is plump with crying, her long black hair in tangles around her face. ‘He’s a friend, okay? I love you, Jake. I’m not going anywhere without you, Jake. Or you, Paula. Or Gary. Where’s Gary?’
‘Who’s Gary?’
Paula folds her arms.
‘Gary’s downstairs,’ she says.
For a moment I worry about Frank who’s still down in the kitchen, but he appears round the door at that moment clutching a fistful of packets.
‘Gary’s all right,’ he says.
‘We’ll sort out who’s coming in a minute, Eva. For now, we just need to figure out exactly what you’ve taken.’
‘I haven’t taken anything.’
‘Well we’ve got a difference of opinion there. Eva reckons you’ve taken all these tablets,’ I say, showing her the packets that Frank hands to me. Jake stands up.
‘I was with her the whole time. We had a few drinks. She had a couple of Diazepam. Or those pink ones. That’s it. I don’t know what she’s talking about.’
‘You do need to come with us, Eva’ I say. ‘I can’t say if you have or haven’t taken these tablets. But from our point of view we can’t take the chance. We couldn’t possibly just leave you here wondering if you’d taken such a big overdose. This is dangerous stuff.’
‘I just want to die.’
‘So let’s go to hospital and get things sorted.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Paula. ‘I’m the only sober one here.’
‘Jake and Gary could come up later. I’m afraid we’ve only got room for one person to come in the back.’
Amazingly Jake seems to accept this, but I make sure he goes down the stairs ahead of me, just in case. By the front door he meets up with Gary – a stooped, bearded young guy with scabbed knuckles and a sideways manner – and the two of them share a cigarette as we get ready to go.
At the bottom of the stairs Eva stops and suddenly pulls her t-shirt off over her head, exposing her breasts.
‘Eva – cover yourself up, please. We’re going outside to the ambulance.’
‘But I’m hot. I’m burning up.’
‘You need to keep your top on though.’
Paula helps her back into the t-shirt and we carry on out.
***
We’re five minutes away from the hospital and I’m trying to get the essential details down: most importantly, what the drugs are that I have in this collection, a disparate range of prescription analgesics, anti-psychotics, sedatives and paracetamol products. Eva alternates between pseudo-unconsciousness and a rapid gabble that veers from extravagant expressions of love to an unpleasant kind of clamped-down, black hysteria. She keeps sitting up suddenly and trying to climb off the trolley. She is naked from the waist up, scratching herself and thrashing around.
‘Keep yourself covered,’ I say. ‘We’re almost at the hospital.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m burning up. They’re only tits,’ she says. ‘They’re not even real.’
‘You’ve got to try to keep the blanket on.’
‘I want a kiss,’ she says to Paula. ‘Kiss me,’ – and she throws her legs over the side of the trolley.
‘Come on, Eva. Settle back. I don’t want you falling off. We’re almost there.’
Paula leans in and gives Eva a kiss.
‘Is this what happened to you when you took your overdose?’ Eva says as she reluctantly lets her go.
‘Yes. Exactly the same.’
‘Have you got any of that cream?’
Before I can stop them, Eva is over the side of the trolley again and Paula is rubbing a thick, white cream all over her arms and chest.
‘That should help,’ she says.
Eva suddenly grabs her black hair, tugs it off and throws it across the ambulance where it lands by the back door. Her real hair is a brutally cropped ginger red, sticking up in tufted clumps. She shuffles quickly down to the end of the trolley, grabs the BP cuff and lead and wraps it around her neck, then leans backwards to pull it tight. I jump up, scattering the pill packets and clipboard onto the floor and push her back upright.
‘Come on, Eva. This is just silly.’
I unwrap the chord from around her neck and throw it aside just as the ambulance draws up outside A&E. Frank reverses into the bay, and comes round to the back. He opens the door.
‘Just a minute whilst we get sorted here,’ I say, breathing hard behind Eva.
Frank takes the scene in: Eva half naked on the bed covered in white cream, Paula with her arms folded, the tatty black wig on the floor in front of him.
‘Spence.’ He clears his throat. ‘Maybe later you could show me where exactly in the manual it talks about this particular treatment,’ he says.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
side effects
When I was four or five, I had a magnetic fishing game. In the battered old box was a cardboard screen printed with a coral reef. I’d stand that up, scatter the fish behind it – plastic yellow, red, orange; each with a little metal ring through its nose; each with the same stupefied expression – then dabble a stick with a magnet on a string over the side.
That blind and slightly hysterical click as a plastic fish kissed the magnet, that shaky draw up past the top of the reef - that’s how I felt at half past four this morning when the radio trembled and dragged me out to another job.
But the dawn helped. The sky was broad and clear, phasing blue through turquoise to deepest blue, like an alien metal warmed by the sun. No one but the birds saw us spark up the truck and leave the station. Even they hadn’t found their voices yet.
***
The flat is above a betting shop. The door is open and the hall light cuts across the pavement. As I step down out of the cab a tall guy comes to the doorway, mess of brown hair, features of undercooked dough.
‘Upstairs in the bedroom,’ he grunts. As we follow him inside he calls up the stairs: Ambulance people coming up. Make yourself decent, girls.
James, the tall guy, leads us into the room, and straightaway dumps himself back on the unmade bed that dominates the space. Below him there are two women sitting cross-legged on the floor: Shell, groaning, leaning over a bowl, Wanda behind her, talking quickly and happily even before we’ve introduced ourselves.
‘Two grams of Ketamine, four hours ago. Went to sleep quite happily then woke up with this pain. I’ve seen exactly the same thing with Tommy and he just drank lots of warm water to clear it. Didn’t he, Shell? And that worked out fine, didn’t it? So that’s what we’ve been doing. Hey, babe? But she’s still got this pain and we were running out of ideas, and then she said call you guys, so – we did. But we didn’t want to.’
She rubs her friend’s back and kisses her shoulder.
‘But it’s going to be fine, you know, Hun? There’s nothing to be scared about. You’ll be okay. We’re all good.’
She smiles up at me, her eyes a total eclipse.
‘But the paramedics are the experts.’
Shell groans again and rocks forwards and backwards.
‘Kill me. Kill me. I can’t stand it.’
I squat down and feel her pulse.
‘I don’t doubt you know more about this stuff than I do. I’ve come across people who’ve suffered K cramps before, a bit like this. I’ve no idea what causes it. But then you have to think it might not be that. You might have trouble with the purity of the gear. It gets cut with all kinds of things, so you never know how it might affect you. You don’t seem too bad at the moment, Shell, except for this abdo pain. The only thing we can do is to take you up the hospital so a doctor can assess you.’
Shell suddenly stands up, almost pitching the bowl over. She heads straight out of the door to the stairs.
‘Whoa, Babe!’ says Wanda, laughing and jumping up. ‘Wait for us. I need my make-up and phone.’
James sits up and wildly scratches his hair.
***
Out on the ambulance Shell is hyperventilating.
‘Shouldn’t you give her a bag or something?’ says Wanda.
‘Let the guy do his job,’ says James.
‘I’m just saying. I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’m loving it.’
She gets out her phone and starts to film everything.
‘Wanda? Can you put the phone away, please?’ I ask.
‘Why? This is experience. I want to get it down. I want to remember.’
James reaches over and places his huge hand over the phone.
‘Put it away,’ he says.
‘I just want to keep it for the future.’
‘So look around,’ he says.
Shell calms down and we head off for the hospital. Wanda tries to put her make-up on, but the ambulance pitches and jolts so much she keeps hitting her forehead with the mascara brush.
‘Oh my God!’ she screams. ‘It’s so bumpy. I thought ambulances were supposed to be for sick people. What if I had something wrong with my neck?’
Shell vomits into a cardboard bowl.
‘They’d drive a bit slower, babe,’ James says, and then he yawns so widely it’s like someone throwing open a trunk.
That blind and slightly hysterical click as a plastic fish kissed the magnet, that shaky draw up past the top of the reef - that’s how I felt at half past four this morning when the radio trembled and dragged me out to another job.
But the dawn helped. The sky was broad and clear, phasing blue through turquoise to deepest blue, like an alien metal warmed by the sun. No one but the birds saw us spark up the truck and leave the station. Even they hadn’t found their voices yet.
***
The flat is above a betting shop. The door is open and the hall light cuts across the pavement. As I step down out of the cab a tall guy comes to the doorway, mess of brown hair, features of undercooked dough.
‘Upstairs in the bedroom,’ he grunts. As we follow him inside he calls up the stairs: Ambulance people coming up. Make yourself decent, girls.
James, the tall guy, leads us into the room, and straightaway dumps himself back on the unmade bed that dominates the space. Below him there are two women sitting cross-legged on the floor: Shell, groaning, leaning over a bowl, Wanda behind her, talking quickly and happily even before we’ve introduced ourselves.
‘Two grams of Ketamine, four hours ago. Went to sleep quite happily then woke up with this pain. I’ve seen exactly the same thing with Tommy and he just drank lots of warm water to clear it. Didn’t he, Shell? And that worked out fine, didn’t it? So that’s what we’ve been doing. Hey, babe? But she’s still got this pain and we were running out of ideas, and then she said call you guys, so – we did. But we didn’t want to.’
She rubs her friend’s back and kisses her shoulder.
‘But it’s going to be fine, you know, Hun? There’s nothing to be scared about. You’ll be okay. We’re all good.’
She smiles up at me, her eyes a total eclipse.
‘But the paramedics are the experts.’
Shell groans again and rocks forwards and backwards.
‘Kill me. Kill me. I can’t stand it.’
I squat down and feel her pulse.
‘I don’t doubt you know more about this stuff than I do. I’ve come across people who’ve suffered K cramps before, a bit like this. I’ve no idea what causes it. But then you have to think it might not be that. You might have trouble with the purity of the gear. It gets cut with all kinds of things, so you never know how it might affect you. You don’t seem too bad at the moment, Shell, except for this abdo pain. The only thing we can do is to take you up the hospital so a doctor can assess you.’
Shell suddenly stands up, almost pitching the bowl over. She heads straight out of the door to the stairs.
‘Whoa, Babe!’ says Wanda, laughing and jumping up. ‘Wait for us. I need my make-up and phone.’
James sits up and wildly scratches his hair.
***
Out on the ambulance Shell is hyperventilating.
‘Shouldn’t you give her a bag or something?’ says Wanda.
‘Let the guy do his job,’ says James.
‘I’m just saying. I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’m loving it.’
She gets out her phone and starts to film everything.
‘Wanda? Can you put the phone away, please?’ I ask.
‘Why? This is experience. I want to get it down. I want to remember.’
James reaches over and places his huge hand over the phone.
‘Put it away,’ he says.
‘I just want to keep it for the future.’
‘So look around,’ he says.
Shell calms down and we head off for the hospital. Wanda tries to put her make-up on, but the ambulance pitches and jolts so much she keeps hitting her forehead with the mascara brush.
‘Oh my God!’ she screams. ‘It’s so bumpy. I thought ambulances were supposed to be for sick people. What if I had something wrong with my neck?’
Shell vomits into a cardboard bowl.
‘They’d drive a bit slower, babe,’ James says, and then he yawns so widely it’s like someone throwing open a trunk.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
dangling
Faith and Rose are in their late eighties and have lived together all their lives. A pair of little troll dolls, white hair sticking up as fine and fluffed as polyester stuffing, perfectly round eyes, a permanently surprised expression, as if our breezy ‘halloo’ was the most incredible thing they had ever heard.
‘You were quick,’ says Rose, momentarily stunned, but then giving herself a busy shake and hurrying about the flat, pushing clothes and things into what looks like a toy suitcase.
‘Don’t forget my slippers,’ says Faith.
‘They’re on your feet,’ says Rose.
The block is eerily quiet. Every door has gradually had its letter box sealed with parcel tape so the postman can see which flats are empty and which occupied. Even though the flats have only been up twenty years, the main sewers have collapsed, and under-pinning is too expensive. So all the elderly residents are gradually being re-housed around the county. There are ten left. When the last letter box is taped, they’ll tear the place down and start again.
‘The hip’s gone,’ says Faith. ‘I woke up like it.’
‘She’s in a lot of pain,’ says Rose, tossing the suitcase on the bed.
‘Watch it!’
‘Sorry.’
‘How’s the pain, Faith?’ I ask her.
‘Terrible. You’ve never known pain like it.’
‘We can give you something.’
‘I’ll ask for help when I need it,’ she says, but lets me take her by the arm to make the move from the bed to the carry chair.
There are two girls with silver party balloons laughing and fighting in the street outside. They stop and stand either side of the pavement as a guard of honour as we pass between them. Faith looks straight ahead, but Rose nods and smiles at them, and raises the little red suitcase like the Chancellor on Budget day.
***
‘So what line of work were you in before you retired?’ I ask them when all the paperwork’s done and we’re still miles from hospital. ‘What did you do for a living?’
‘During the war I made parts for Spitfires. Then after that was all done we changed over to barometers,’ says Faith. ‘I made it to supervisor, so I must’ve had something.’
‘I made locks,’ says Rose, leaning round the seat and smiling.
‘Do you remember, Faith? We used to finish work, go home for tea and then go straight back out fire watching.’
‘We had the energy then.’
‘It was terrible. Worse than you can imagine.’
‘A German bomber crashed just over the road, in the old cemetery.’
‘The pilot was dangling by some strings, but no-one could help him.’
‘The bombs hadn’t gone off.’
‘Dangling, like a puppet.’
‘There was nothing anyone could do. We thought the bombs were going off.’
‘So what happened to him?’ I ask.
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Rose, her eyes shining. ‘I can’t remember.’
The ambulance suddenly pitches from side to side.
‘Sorry!’ says Frank from the front.
‘Honestly,’ says Faith, pulling the blanket about her.
Rose sits back and hugs the suitcase.
‘You were quick,’ says Rose, momentarily stunned, but then giving herself a busy shake and hurrying about the flat, pushing clothes and things into what looks like a toy suitcase.
‘Don’t forget my slippers,’ says Faith.
‘They’re on your feet,’ says Rose.
The block is eerily quiet. Every door has gradually had its letter box sealed with parcel tape so the postman can see which flats are empty and which occupied. Even though the flats have only been up twenty years, the main sewers have collapsed, and under-pinning is too expensive. So all the elderly residents are gradually being re-housed around the county. There are ten left. When the last letter box is taped, they’ll tear the place down and start again.
‘The hip’s gone,’ says Faith. ‘I woke up like it.’
‘She’s in a lot of pain,’ says Rose, tossing the suitcase on the bed.
‘Watch it!’
‘Sorry.’
‘How’s the pain, Faith?’ I ask her.
‘Terrible. You’ve never known pain like it.’
‘We can give you something.’
‘I’ll ask for help when I need it,’ she says, but lets me take her by the arm to make the move from the bed to the carry chair.
There are two girls with silver party balloons laughing and fighting in the street outside. They stop and stand either side of the pavement as a guard of honour as we pass between them. Faith looks straight ahead, but Rose nods and smiles at them, and raises the little red suitcase like the Chancellor on Budget day.
***
‘So what line of work were you in before you retired?’ I ask them when all the paperwork’s done and we’re still miles from hospital. ‘What did you do for a living?’
‘During the war I made parts for Spitfires. Then after that was all done we changed over to barometers,’ says Faith. ‘I made it to supervisor, so I must’ve had something.’
‘I made locks,’ says Rose, leaning round the seat and smiling.
‘Do you remember, Faith? We used to finish work, go home for tea and then go straight back out fire watching.’
‘We had the energy then.’
‘It was terrible. Worse than you can imagine.’
‘A German bomber crashed just over the road, in the old cemetery.’
‘The pilot was dangling by some strings, but no-one could help him.’
‘The bombs hadn’t gone off.’
‘Dangling, like a puppet.’
‘There was nothing anyone could do. We thought the bombs were going off.’
‘So what happened to him?’ I ask.
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Rose, her eyes shining. ‘I can’t remember.’
The ambulance suddenly pitches from side to side.
‘Sorry!’ says Frank from the front.
‘Honestly,’ says Faith, pulling the blanket about her.
Rose sits back and hugs the suitcase.
Friday, September 10, 2010
a box of things
There are three children on BMXs in the middle of the playing field, circling in a pack, wondering what all the police patrol cars, the dog van and the ambulance could mean. They break apart, re-group and then cycle in our direction, but when they draw level they simply pile on the brakes and stare. I’m the first to speak.
‘All right?’ I say to them. ‘Have you seen a woman over this way? A bit upset?’
‘Why? Has she killed someone?’
‘Is she on the run from the police?’
‘Has she chopped someone up with an axe?’
‘So have you seen anyone?’
‘What do we get if we say yes?’
‘A thanks for your help and very well done.’
‘No then.’
They cycle away, turn, and then squat on their bikes in the penalty box to watch what happens next.
A couple of police officers are climbing over a wire fence to get into the woods that border the fields. A helicopter hovers overhead.
‘I suppose we could look the other side.’
Frank bends down and puts the flat of his hand on the grass, then squints off into the distance like a tracker in a corny western.
‘Woman pass. No shoe. Big hair. Half hour.’
As we get closer to our section of the fence, we see a pink and black Lycra top caught on the barbed wire. Just as I unhook it, a wood pigeon flies up out of the undergrowth.
‘Heap bad magic,’ says Frank.
***
Earlier that day we’d heard a call go out for a hanging in the city park. We’d had a steady procession of non-injury falls, non-specific abdo pains, non-conveyances – non-anything, really. So we listened jealously as the All Call went out. Later we heard the woman had pulled a knife on the crew that attended. Somehow, in all the chaos of the scene, she’d managed to disappear, and the police had been scouring the area ever since. A couple of hours later, a woman walking her dog on some fields about a mile from the first incident had reported seeing a woman – thirty years old, long blond hair, dirty sweat pants, vest – screaming and shouting, running across the fields and into the woods, trailing a length of rope behind her.
‘Stand off for police,’ Control told us.
Frank rubbed his hands together.
‘This is more like it.’
***
An hour later one of the police officers stands us down.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he says. ‘We don’t reckon she’s here now. I think we’ll just carry on in the area and hope something turns up. Her friends live nearby. She’ll probably pitch up there.’
We clear up. Onto the next job: a non-injury fall.
***
Three hours later we’re about to head back to base for our second break when Control apologises and gives us a job backing up a car just round the corner from our current position.
The custody suite is a forbidding block of buildings, set back from the road on a little rise, screened by a high brick wall and a green steel gate that slides back when we identify ourselves at the console. Frank parks up in one of the loading bays, and we go through a series of concrete pens with remotely locked doors into the centre of the operation – a wide, circular room with a hub of raised desks in the centre, protected by screens.
‘This way’ waves one of the white-shirted custody staff. He leads us along a corridor to an open cell at the far end. There is a woman lying on a mattress on the floor with her head to the door. Each arm and leg is being held by an officer. A paramedic comes out to see us.
‘Thanks for coming, chaps,’ he says, adjusting his gloves.
Behind him the woman starts screaming abuse at the officers, thrashing from side to side in an effort to get away from them. She is a wild storm of a person, threatening appalling violence one moment and cracking matey jokes the next, all the while trying to find the angle, the weak spot, any advantage that would allow her to break free and run out of the cell. But the four of them adjust their hold and position to accommodate every dip and turn, all the while chatting calmly to the woman, as if what was happening was just the normal kind of thing, something mildly embarrassing between friends, perhaps - but a grim set to their apparent savoir faire, as easy as the metal grille over the ceiling light.
The paramedic comes over to us.
‘I don’t know if you heard the story of this one,’ he says.
He nods in the direction of a gloved officer, sorting through a pile of clothes and things in a box just outside the cell door. As if on cue the officer holds up a length of frayed blue nylon rope. It hangs there in front of her for a moment, but then the screaming suddenly increases from the cell, some urgent shouts, which spur her on; she drops the rope neatly to one side, and starts patting down the pockets of a pair of dirty sweat pants.
‘All right?’ I say to them. ‘Have you seen a woman over this way? A bit upset?’
‘Why? Has she killed someone?’
‘Is she on the run from the police?’
‘Has she chopped someone up with an axe?’
‘So have you seen anyone?’
‘What do we get if we say yes?’
‘A thanks for your help and very well done.’
‘No then.’
They cycle away, turn, and then squat on their bikes in the penalty box to watch what happens next.
A couple of police officers are climbing over a wire fence to get into the woods that border the fields. A helicopter hovers overhead.
‘I suppose we could look the other side.’
Frank bends down and puts the flat of his hand on the grass, then squints off into the distance like a tracker in a corny western.
‘Woman pass. No shoe. Big hair. Half hour.’
As we get closer to our section of the fence, we see a pink and black Lycra top caught on the barbed wire. Just as I unhook it, a wood pigeon flies up out of the undergrowth.
‘Heap bad magic,’ says Frank.
***
Earlier that day we’d heard a call go out for a hanging in the city park. We’d had a steady procession of non-injury falls, non-specific abdo pains, non-conveyances – non-anything, really. So we listened jealously as the All Call went out. Later we heard the woman had pulled a knife on the crew that attended. Somehow, in all the chaos of the scene, she’d managed to disappear, and the police had been scouring the area ever since. A couple of hours later, a woman walking her dog on some fields about a mile from the first incident had reported seeing a woman – thirty years old, long blond hair, dirty sweat pants, vest – screaming and shouting, running across the fields and into the woods, trailing a length of rope behind her.
‘Stand off for police,’ Control told us.
Frank rubbed his hands together.
‘This is more like it.’
***
An hour later one of the police officers stands us down.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he says. ‘We don’t reckon she’s here now. I think we’ll just carry on in the area and hope something turns up. Her friends live nearby. She’ll probably pitch up there.’
We clear up. Onto the next job: a non-injury fall.
***
Three hours later we’re about to head back to base for our second break when Control apologises and gives us a job backing up a car just round the corner from our current position.
The custody suite is a forbidding block of buildings, set back from the road on a little rise, screened by a high brick wall and a green steel gate that slides back when we identify ourselves at the console. Frank parks up in one of the loading bays, and we go through a series of concrete pens with remotely locked doors into the centre of the operation – a wide, circular room with a hub of raised desks in the centre, protected by screens.
‘This way’ waves one of the white-shirted custody staff. He leads us along a corridor to an open cell at the far end. There is a woman lying on a mattress on the floor with her head to the door. Each arm and leg is being held by an officer. A paramedic comes out to see us.
‘Thanks for coming, chaps,’ he says, adjusting his gloves.
Behind him the woman starts screaming abuse at the officers, thrashing from side to side in an effort to get away from them. She is a wild storm of a person, threatening appalling violence one moment and cracking matey jokes the next, all the while trying to find the angle, the weak spot, any advantage that would allow her to break free and run out of the cell. But the four of them adjust their hold and position to accommodate every dip and turn, all the while chatting calmly to the woman, as if what was happening was just the normal kind of thing, something mildly embarrassing between friends, perhaps - but a grim set to their apparent savoir faire, as easy as the metal grille over the ceiling light.
The paramedic comes over to us.
‘I don’t know if you heard the story of this one,’ he says.
He nods in the direction of a gloved officer, sorting through a pile of clothes and things in a box just outside the cell door. As if on cue the officer holds up a length of frayed blue nylon rope. It hangs there in front of her for a moment, but then the screaming suddenly increases from the cell, some urgent shouts, which spur her on; she drops the rope neatly to one side, and starts patting down the pockets of a pair of dirty sweat pants.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
clara
Rowan Close is so dark and definitively shut up for the night it can’t possibly be real. It feels like one of those cute miniature streets in a petting zoo, one mouse per house; if I reached out through the ambulance window I could gently lift a roof and see a ball of fur curled up in a nest of grass. But instead we pass noisily down to the end of the Close and park outside the only bungalow here that could be expecting us: number thirty-seven, Clara’s house.
We can see her crashing around inside, the curtainless windows thrown open, the stark box of her front room cruelly lit by a unshaded bulb. A ginger cat is cleaning itself on the window ledge. It stops with its paw half to its face as we come to the garden gate, thinks for a moment, then drops away into the bushes.
‘Garfield!’ she shouts from inside. ‘Oh don’t let Garfield go!’ But before she can reach the window she topples head first onto the sofa.
The front door is half open. We knock once and go inside.
‘What do you want?’ she pants, struggling to right herself as we follow the only clear trail through all the boxes of books, kitchen equipment, bedding, bags of trash, piles of magazines and other heaps of anonymous and unsorted detritus that clutter up her home.
‘I don’t know, Clara. You called us.’
She rights herself on the sofa and studies us for a moment. Her face is as boozily pink as her blancmange coloured top, its plunging neckline open to the waist, barely covering a pair of breasts so vast she looks like some great fertility totem from the stone age: the Venus of Willendorf pissed on pear cider, her great bare feet resting on a pile of spilled copper coins.
‘Yes. I do feel strange.’
‘In what way, strange, Clara?’
‘I fell over. Outside.’ She delicately picks aside some greasy strands of hair that are sticking to her cheek, then gives her head a demur shake. ‘I don’t know why.’
Suddenly she deflates a little, sags into herself and seems to fall asleep for a second or two. But just as suddenly she jerks awake again.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she says. ‘I’m doing a spot of decorating.’
In a neat line by the sofa are four, one and a half litre bottles of Perry. Two of them are empty.
‘Oh I know what you’re thinking,’ she says, putting her hands down either side of her and bobbing her head forwards and back in an effort to build sufficient momentum to escape from the sofa – then settling back down again in defeat. ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking. The old bag’s drunk again. But I know what I can and can’t drink. I know what’s normal for me. And this…’ she sighs, gesturing to the room about her with a strange, spidery flip-flop motion of her hands. ‘..this falling over in the street business … this, is definitely, not normal.’
We can see her crashing around inside, the curtainless windows thrown open, the stark box of her front room cruelly lit by a unshaded bulb. A ginger cat is cleaning itself on the window ledge. It stops with its paw half to its face as we come to the garden gate, thinks for a moment, then drops away into the bushes.
‘Garfield!’ she shouts from inside. ‘Oh don’t let Garfield go!’ But before she can reach the window she topples head first onto the sofa.
The front door is half open. We knock once and go inside.
‘What do you want?’ she pants, struggling to right herself as we follow the only clear trail through all the boxes of books, kitchen equipment, bedding, bags of trash, piles of magazines and other heaps of anonymous and unsorted detritus that clutter up her home.
‘I don’t know, Clara. You called us.’
She rights herself on the sofa and studies us for a moment. Her face is as boozily pink as her blancmange coloured top, its plunging neckline open to the waist, barely covering a pair of breasts so vast she looks like some great fertility totem from the stone age: the Venus of Willendorf pissed on pear cider, her great bare feet resting on a pile of spilled copper coins.
‘Yes. I do feel strange.’
‘In what way, strange, Clara?’
‘I fell over. Outside.’ She delicately picks aside some greasy strands of hair that are sticking to her cheek, then gives her head a demur shake. ‘I don’t know why.’
Suddenly she deflates a little, sags into herself and seems to fall asleep for a second or two. But just as suddenly she jerks awake again.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she says. ‘I’m doing a spot of decorating.’
In a neat line by the sofa are four, one and a half litre bottles of Perry. Two of them are empty.
‘Oh I know what you’re thinking,’ she says, putting her hands down either side of her and bobbing her head forwards and back in an effort to build sufficient momentum to escape from the sofa – then settling back down again in defeat. ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking. The old bag’s drunk again. But I know what I can and can’t drink. I know what’s normal for me. And this…’ she sighs, gesturing to the room about her with a strange, spidery flip-flop motion of her hands. ‘..this falling over in the street business … this, is definitely, not normal.’
Thursday, September 02, 2010
little rumour girl
The stair lift was out of action. The engineers had been out earlier in the day to fix a broken switch, and now that they had gone, the thing would not move at all. Mrs Ellerman’s carer had tried to get them back, but what with one thing and another, the soonest they could fix the lift was midday the following day. As Mrs Ellerman’s knees lacked the chutzpah to make the climb to the first floor, the carer had made up a temporary bed in the lounge, dragging down the single mattress, layering it with a paisley, duck down quilt, a rainbow-coloured crochet throw, sheets, blankets and numerous pillows and cushions, all artfully arranged in the centre of the living room floor, looking like a thrift shop take on a Sheikh’s tent.
Mrs Ellerman sits on the carpet beside it all, her grey eyed stare falling strangely short, hanging somewhere in the quiet space between us.
‘Did I do the right thing?’
Physically she is in good health, apart from a pair of creaky knees. She looks up at us, like a child who suddenly found themselves sitting on the lounge floor in the dark hours of the morning, eighty years later.
‘My Phil caught that trout,’ she says, looking over to a silver framed portrait of a man holding up a fish. Phil supports the fish with both hands, emphasising the weight. He has a moon man smile, a big shining curve running from one side of his hat to the other. The fish stares out through his fingers.
‘I used to work in a typewriter factory,’ she says as we help her into a chair. ‘I went in to work one day and I says to the foreman “There you are, mate. That’s your lot. There’s my resignation. I’m off”. “Why’s that, then, Rene?” he says. “How come’s you’re off?” So I turns round and I says “You know full well why I’m off. It’s that little girl, always hanging round, spreading rumours, tittle-tattle. You ought to know better than listen to someone like that.” So the next day I goes to him and I says “Let’s have that job back then.” And he turns round and he says: “What about little rumour girl?” and I says “Never you mind about her, mate.”
‘Do you take any medications for anything, Mrs Ellerman?’
‘Only what they give me. I don’t know.’
She looks over by the table with the fish photograph. Underneath it is a silver suitcase with a combination lock.
‘In there,’ she says.
Mrs Ellerman sits on the carpet beside it all, her grey eyed stare falling strangely short, hanging somewhere in the quiet space between us.
‘Did I do the right thing?’
Physically she is in good health, apart from a pair of creaky knees. She looks up at us, like a child who suddenly found themselves sitting on the lounge floor in the dark hours of the morning, eighty years later.
‘My Phil caught that trout,’ she says, looking over to a silver framed portrait of a man holding up a fish. Phil supports the fish with both hands, emphasising the weight. He has a moon man smile, a big shining curve running from one side of his hat to the other. The fish stares out through his fingers.
‘I used to work in a typewriter factory,’ she says as we help her into a chair. ‘I went in to work one day and I says to the foreman “There you are, mate. That’s your lot. There’s my resignation. I’m off”. “Why’s that, then, Rene?” he says. “How come’s you’re off?” So I turns round and I says “You know full well why I’m off. It’s that little girl, always hanging round, spreading rumours, tittle-tattle. You ought to know better than listen to someone like that.” So the next day I goes to him and I says “Let’s have that job back then.” And he turns round and he says: “What about little rumour girl?” and I says “Never you mind about her, mate.”
‘Do you take any medications for anything, Mrs Ellerman?’
‘Only what they give me. I don’t know.’
She looks over by the table with the fish photograph. Underneath it is a silver suitcase with a combination lock.
‘In there,’ she says.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
gertie
Suddenly a curtain of fine water sweeps down from the night sky and closes across the world. I’m piloting a submarine, the headlamps straining forwards through the gloom; somebody clutching an umbrella glides past like a jellyfish; I see an elderly woman standing in a lighted doorway, clutching a dressing gown together at her chest with one hand and waving with the other; we turn out of the cab and swim across the pavement towards her.
‘What a night!’
‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m afraid Geoffrey isn’t too good. I just can’t seem to wake him.’
Her bungalow is a warm, yellow sanctuary. The water cascades noisily just behind us beyond the open door, but in here the air is quiet and bright, the walls neatly painted, hung with delicate portraits of people, and dogs, and people with dogs – on a low walnut table guarding the hallway is a marble statue of a Jack Russell, sitting on its haunches looking backwards over its shoulder, as if it had been turned to stone in the middle of a walk.
‘Through here.’
A black and white photograph of a young pilot; an oil painting of a young woman; a row of framed kennel club certificates.
And into a clinically white room where Geoffrey lies slumped on a pneumatic bed, his puffy face flushed red, breathing noisily. He has a nasal canula leading off to a cylinder of oxygen, and a catheter leading out from under the bed sheets to a bag hung on the side.
‘Geoffrey? Hello, Geoffrey – it’s the ambulance.’
He opens his eyes and grunts slightly. We sit him more upright and check him over.
Rae finds the care folder – emphysema, palliative care at home, no DNR.
Geoffrey’s wife Jean touches me on the arm.
‘I didn’t know what to do. I can’t cope if he’s as bad as this.’
It’s late at night. Despite the palliative care order, there’s nothing else available to us but to take him to hospital. We ask Geoffrey if he wants to go, and he nods.
‘Don’t worry, Jean. We’ll take good care of him.’
We can just fit the trolley into the house. I feel bad about the tracks the wheels make down the carpet, but Jean waves that aside. I have to move the table and the statue of the terrier to get along the hallway.
‘Ah, Gertie,’ says Jean, patting the statue on the head. ‘She was a good dog.’
I put the statue to one side, just by the doorway to the sitting room.
***
As we wheel Geoffrey back along the hallway, Jean asks us to wait a moment whilst she says goodbye to her husband. She pushes a few strands of white hair away from his eyes, looks at him intently, then kisses him lightly on the lips. He barely responds.
‘I hate to see him go to the hospital on his own, but I just can’t cope.’
‘It’s okay, Jean. No one will think badly of you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Get some rest tonight. Call the hospital in the morning.’
She gives him one last stroke on the arm and we carry on down the hallway.
Looking ahead out of the front door, it seems as if the rain has stopped. We pass the living room. Gertie is there, looking over her shoulder. I expect her to run after us as we manoeuvre the trolley over the front step and head out into the shining dark.
‘What a night!’
‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m afraid Geoffrey isn’t too good. I just can’t seem to wake him.’
Her bungalow is a warm, yellow sanctuary. The water cascades noisily just behind us beyond the open door, but in here the air is quiet and bright, the walls neatly painted, hung with delicate portraits of people, and dogs, and people with dogs – on a low walnut table guarding the hallway is a marble statue of a Jack Russell, sitting on its haunches looking backwards over its shoulder, as if it had been turned to stone in the middle of a walk.
‘Through here.’
A black and white photograph of a young pilot; an oil painting of a young woman; a row of framed kennel club certificates.
And into a clinically white room where Geoffrey lies slumped on a pneumatic bed, his puffy face flushed red, breathing noisily. He has a nasal canula leading off to a cylinder of oxygen, and a catheter leading out from under the bed sheets to a bag hung on the side.
‘Geoffrey? Hello, Geoffrey – it’s the ambulance.’
He opens his eyes and grunts slightly. We sit him more upright and check him over.
Rae finds the care folder – emphysema, palliative care at home, no DNR.
Geoffrey’s wife Jean touches me on the arm.
‘I didn’t know what to do. I can’t cope if he’s as bad as this.’
It’s late at night. Despite the palliative care order, there’s nothing else available to us but to take him to hospital. We ask Geoffrey if he wants to go, and he nods.
‘Don’t worry, Jean. We’ll take good care of him.’
We can just fit the trolley into the house. I feel bad about the tracks the wheels make down the carpet, but Jean waves that aside. I have to move the table and the statue of the terrier to get along the hallway.
‘Ah, Gertie,’ says Jean, patting the statue on the head. ‘She was a good dog.’
I put the statue to one side, just by the doorway to the sitting room.
***
As we wheel Geoffrey back along the hallway, Jean asks us to wait a moment whilst she says goodbye to her husband. She pushes a few strands of white hair away from his eyes, looks at him intently, then kisses him lightly on the lips. He barely responds.
‘I hate to see him go to the hospital on his own, but I just can’t cope.’
‘It’s okay, Jean. No one will think badly of you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Get some rest tonight. Call the hospital in the morning.’
She gives him one last stroke on the arm and we carry on down the hallway.
Looking ahead out of the front door, it seems as if the rain has stopped. We pass the living room. Gertie is there, looking over her shoulder. I expect her to run after us as we manoeuvre the trolley over the front step and head out into the shining dark.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
rock and roll
Even if we had no experience of the area we’d know this block was trouble; it takes Mr Jessop about a minute to let us in his front door, with a formidable scraping of bolts, catching of locks, rattling of chains, sliding of metal props. Finally he peeps round the opening, a frail, crinkle-cut old man in shiny trousers, button down shirt and a white wig so conspicuous it could be a nylon mop-head placed carefully on his head for a prank.
‘Come in,’ he smiles, and carefully shuts the door behind us.
‘This way.’
We follow him into the flat; he plops himself back down in his command chair, a patchy, corduroy affair quietly steaming in front of a cylindrical fire so old it’s a surprise to see it runs on electricity.
‘I’ve got this pain,’ Mr Jessop says, leaning to one side. ‘Just here.’ He rubs the right side of his abdomen. ‘The last lot checked me over and said they couldn’t find anything wrong, but it’s really no better.’
‘When were they here?’ I ask him, looking at his clock. Five in the morning. The room is so hot I feel myself being drawn down into a stifling pit of unconsciousness. ‘The ambulance,’ I add, suddenly opening my eyes wide and wondering for a moment if I’d actually passed out.
‘Early,’ he says. ‘About two.’
‘Did they leave a sheet?’
He points to the table.
Everything is lined up. A comb wrapped in a single sheet of kitchen towel; a pen, a pencil and a shopping list; a cardboard sign saying water off; a glasses case; a list of phone numbers; three packets of medication, and a German phrase book.
‘Do you have any relatives nearby?’
‘My sister and her husband live up in Scotland,’ he says, then adds: ‘She’s not well,’ as if she’d be round every day if she was.
I find the ambulance sheet and read through it.
‘It says here you did some vigorous dancing last night?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I was up at the community centre.’
‘What kind of vigorous dancing?’
‘Jive. It’s coming back, apparently.’
I try to imagine Mr Jessop jiving. His wig falling over his eyes.
‘Do you think you might have injured yourself – erm – jiving?’
‘It’s possible,’ he says, rubbing his side. ‘It was a bit sore after.’
‘Everything checks out,’ says Rae, taking off the BP cuff. ‘How old did you say you were, Mr Jessop?’
‘Eighty two.’
‘Well, your blood pressure’s better than mine.’
When he smiles his silvery teeth crackle audibly.
‘I look after myself,’ he says.
‘Come in,’ he smiles, and carefully shuts the door behind us.
‘This way.’
We follow him into the flat; he plops himself back down in his command chair, a patchy, corduroy affair quietly steaming in front of a cylindrical fire so old it’s a surprise to see it runs on electricity.
‘I’ve got this pain,’ Mr Jessop says, leaning to one side. ‘Just here.’ He rubs the right side of his abdomen. ‘The last lot checked me over and said they couldn’t find anything wrong, but it’s really no better.’
‘When were they here?’ I ask him, looking at his clock. Five in the morning. The room is so hot I feel myself being drawn down into a stifling pit of unconsciousness. ‘The ambulance,’ I add, suddenly opening my eyes wide and wondering for a moment if I’d actually passed out.
‘Early,’ he says. ‘About two.’
‘Did they leave a sheet?’
He points to the table.
Everything is lined up. A comb wrapped in a single sheet of kitchen towel; a pen, a pencil and a shopping list; a cardboard sign saying water off; a glasses case; a list of phone numbers; three packets of medication, and a German phrase book.
‘Do you have any relatives nearby?’
‘My sister and her husband live up in Scotland,’ he says, then adds: ‘She’s not well,’ as if she’d be round every day if she was.
I find the ambulance sheet and read through it.
‘It says here you did some vigorous dancing last night?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I was up at the community centre.’
‘What kind of vigorous dancing?’
‘Jive. It’s coming back, apparently.’
I try to imagine Mr Jessop jiving. His wig falling over his eyes.
‘Do you think you might have injured yourself – erm – jiving?’
‘It’s possible,’ he says, rubbing his side. ‘It was a bit sore after.’
‘Everything checks out,’ says Rae, taking off the BP cuff. ‘How old did you say you were, Mr Jessop?’
‘Eighty two.’
‘Well, your blood pressure’s better than mine.’
When he smiles his silvery teeth crackle audibly.
‘I look after myself,’ he says.
Monday, August 16, 2010
medusa from the bingo
When we pull up outside the smart block of flats, there are two patrol cars and a video surveillance unit double parked either side. Rae puts the ambulance where she can, and we hurry up the steps into the lobby, a neat little area with a leather sofa, a potted plant, and a table with a spread of pamphlets.
‘Just going in now,’ says the young buzz-cut officer into his shoulder radio; his black flak jacket, radio and tattoos all of a piece, like an outfit rented from a fancy dress shop.
The call had been dramatically concise: Female, 76. Collapse behind locked doors. Son on scene. Police en route.
The son, an extruded beard of a man in a tired blue jumper and sandals nods anxiously as we join the back of the queue outside his mother’s door.
‘Go for it!’
Buzz Cut draws his enormous boot back and starts kicking at the door. As he draws away each time and slams repeatedly into the panels, we all lean in to study the way the door shudders, passing comment on the locks and bolts that may or may not be employed on the other side.
‘She wasn’t well when I left her,’ the son says. ‘Puffing and blowing. I phoned to say goodnight and didn’t get an answer.’
We wait to one side as Buzz Cut redoubles his efforts. Another team comes through the lobby carrying an iron battering ram between them.
‘We’ve brought the key,’ one of them says.
Suddenly there is a shrill cry from the entrance.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
An outraged woman stands in the frame of the glass doors, her bag slack on her shoulder, her keys held up in mid-air, as if they held some power to make things explicable.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare do that!’
She hurries forward, brushing aside anyone not in direct contact with the carpentry.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
The son comes forward and puts his hands on her shoulders.
‘Mum. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’
‘I was at the bingo,’ she cries.
The buzz-cut officer wipes his forehead and presents himself to the woman.
‘Your son thought you may have collapsed,’ he said. ‘He was worried.’
‘I went to the bingo,’ she shouts. ‘Is that such a crime? Get away from my door.’
She puts her keys in the lock and begins rattling them speculatively.
‘She seems fine,’ I say to Buzz Cut. ‘We’ll be off.’
I pick up the resus bag and discreetly reverse down the hall.
Everyone leaves quickly; when I look back, the only people left standing there are Buzz Cut and Sandal Son, leaning back from Angry Woman, who is shaking her keys in their face, and swinging her tresses from side to side like a mop of blanched snakes.
‘Just going in now,’ says the young buzz-cut officer into his shoulder radio; his black flak jacket, radio and tattoos all of a piece, like an outfit rented from a fancy dress shop.
The call had been dramatically concise: Female, 76. Collapse behind locked doors. Son on scene. Police en route.
The son, an extruded beard of a man in a tired blue jumper and sandals nods anxiously as we join the back of the queue outside his mother’s door.
‘Go for it!’
Buzz Cut draws his enormous boot back and starts kicking at the door. As he draws away each time and slams repeatedly into the panels, we all lean in to study the way the door shudders, passing comment on the locks and bolts that may or may not be employed on the other side.
‘She wasn’t well when I left her,’ the son says. ‘Puffing and blowing. I phoned to say goodnight and didn’t get an answer.’
We wait to one side as Buzz Cut redoubles his efforts. Another team comes through the lobby carrying an iron battering ram between them.
‘We’ve brought the key,’ one of them says.
Suddenly there is a shrill cry from the entrance.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
An outraged woman stands in the frame of the glass doors, her bag slack on her shoulder, her keys held up in mid-air, as if they held some power to make things explicable.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare do that!’
She hurries forward, brushing aside anyone not in direct contact with the carpentry.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
The son comes forward and puts his hands on her shoulders.
‘Mum. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’
‘I was at the bingo,’ she cries.
The buzz-cut officer wipes his forehead and presents himself to the woman.
‘Your son thought you may have collapsed,’ he said. ‘He was worried.’
‘I went to the bingo,’ she shouts. ‘Is that such a crime? Get away from my door.’
She puts her keys in the lock and begins rattling them speculatively.
‘She seems fine,’ I say to Buzz Cut. ‘We’ll be off.’
I pick up the resus bag and discreetly reverse down the hall.
Everyone leaves quickly; when I look back, the only people left standing there are Buzz Cut and Sandal Son, leaning back from Angry Woman, who is shaking her keys in their face, and swinging her tresses from side to side like a mop of blanched snakes.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
a new ride
‘Hello? Is that Mrs Walters?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Hello, Mrs Walters. My name’s Spence. I’m with the ambulance. I’m calling about Mirabelle. Nothing to worry about, but Mirabelle had the ambulance out to her this afternoon and we’ve brought her to hospital.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep. Mirabelle. I understand from the card she’s carrying you’re the host family. Is that right?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Did you know Mirabelle had come in to town to visit the fair today?’
‘The fair?’
‘Yep. The fair. In town.’
‘But she’s down on the beach.’
‘Well – not any more. We picked her up at the fair. She was with a bunch of friends from the language school.’
‘Was she.’
‘Without an escort.’
‘Was she.’
‘I’m afraid so. Nothing radically wrong, Mrs Walters. She banged her knee on the walters – waltzers. Nothing serious, as far as we can tell. Everything’s fine. But for some reason she had to be carried off. And then when they took her to the manager’s office, she fainted. Or appeared to.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does any of this surprise you?’
There is a long pause; the crackles and scratches on the line sound like furies tearing up Mrs Walters’ head. Finally I’m driven to say: Mrs Walters?
‘No,’ she says. ‘She’s a difficult girl.’
***
The crowd moves sluggishly round the fair, coin corpuscles in an artery of colour and noise, the stalls and rides on every side harvesting the goodness from their pockets. Jump up, Cowboy – No Fear, No Limits, Come on people, Every one a winner, Two to a car, Hold very tight …. All the single ladies, All the single ladies … sirens, klaxons, a pulse of light around a tableau of skulls, cars in flames – screams from a sudden column of bodies thundering overhead – scorched rubber, static dust, doughnuts, chips and hydraulic fluid – stupefied babies with ice-cream beards – feral gangs, lost families – a head through a hole, a gypsy in a caravan, a man with a radio.
Follow me.
We fall in behind him as he machetes his way forward with the aerial; hostility on the faces turning round, slackening to curiosity when the uniform and equipment register. Another attraction. Something else to see.
The office is soundproofed, but the Plexiglas screen pulses and rattles with the noise; we can barely hear each other beneath the muted roar.
She’s unconscious.
Mirabelle lies in the recovery position on the hardboard floor, but even from here I can see her eyelids fluttering. I kneel down and shout in her ear, giving her fingertip a little tweak, too. She doggedly carries on the pretence; when I go to lift an eyelid, she holds it shut.
Did she fall?
Nope. She grazed her knee on the safety bar. When the ride stopped, she wouldn’t get out then went funny. So the guys carried her in here, and she collapsed on the floor.
Have we got someone who speaks French?
Danielle, her friend.
Danielle – can you ask Mirabelle if she’s in any pain?
Danielle looks at me, confused.
But she is unconscious.
No, she’s not. Just ask her.
Danielle kneels down and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.
It’s a slow process. Even if Mirabelle was prepared to talk to us, she has no English. Danielle translates everything reluctantly, as if she thinks we’re being overly cruel with our line of questioning. The fairground manager looks about set to have a stroke. I wonder how many hours he’s worked today; how many situations he’s dealt with.
Let’s just get her out to the ambulance.
You can go on the truck.
What truck?
We’ve got a little green truck. You’ll love it.
He slaps me on the shoulder, then gestures for radio man to fetch the truck.
A minute later he pulls up outside in a tiny green John Deere flatbed with a flashing amber light on a stalk. Rae opens the office door and radio man gestures to the back with his thumb.
All right in the back?
Between the four of us we half-walk, half-carry Mirabelle out to the truck. She moans bonelessly, like a sleeper dragged from her bed.
Come on Mirabelle. Allons-y.
We sit either side of her, our feet almost dragging along the ground as the truck moves off. The truck beeps a warning and radio man keeps punching the horn, but still our progress is slow. As the crowd parts it falls back together behind us. People stare. Whatever kind of ride is that?
***
‘So that’s where Mirabelle is at the moment, Mrs Walters. In minors at A&E.’
‘The hospital?’
‘Yep. The hospital.’
Another long pause.
‘The hospital in town?’
‘Yep. I’m afraid so.’
I doodle some hair on the smiling face I’ve drawn on the patient report form, but as the silence continues I add some fangs.
‘But she’s going to need someone to come and sit with her, Mrs Walters. Pick her up after she’s done, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes. She will, won’t she?’ says Mrs Walters. ‘And I suppose that’ll be me, then.’
‘So I can leave that with you? Mrs Walters?’
‘Ye-es,’ she says. And before I can add anything to sweeten the pill, the line goes click.
‘Ye-es.’
‘Hello, Mrs Walters. My name’s Spence. I’m with the ambulance. I’m calling about Mirabelle. Nothing to worry about, but Mirabelle had the ambulance out to her this afternoon and we’ve brought her to hospital.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep. Mirabelle. I understand from the card she’s carrying you’re the host family. Is that right?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Did you know Mirabelle had come in to town to visit the fair today?’
‘The fair?’
‘Yep. The fair. In town.’
‘But she’s down on the beach.’
‘Well – not any more. We picked her up at the fair. She was with a bunch of friends from the language school.’
‘Was she.’
‘Without an escort.’
‘Was she.’
‘I’m afraid so. Nothing radically wrong, Mrs Walters. She banged her knee on the walters – waltzers. Nothing serious, as far as we can tell. Everything’s fine. But for some reason she had to be carried off. And then when they took her to the manager’s office, she fainted. Or appeared to.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does any of this surprise you?’
There is a long pause; the crackles and scratches on the line sound like furies tearing up Mrs Walters’ head. Finally I’m driven to say: Mrs Walters?
‘No,’ she says. ‘She’s a difficult girl.’
***
The crowd moves sluggishly round the fair, coin corpuscles in an artery of colour and noise, the stalls and rides on every side harvesting the goodness from their pockets. Jump up, Cowboy – No Fear, No Limits, Come on people, Every one a winner, Two to a car, Hold very tight …. All the single ladies, All the single ladies … sirens, klaxons, a pulse of light around a tableau of skulls, cars in flames – screams from a sudden column of bodies thundering overhead – scorched rubber, static dust, doughnuts, chips and hydraulic fluid – stupefied babies with ice-cream beards – feral gangs, lost families – a head through a hole, a gypsy in a caravan, a man with a radio.
Follow me.
We fall in behind him as he machetes his way forward with the aerial; hostility on the faces turning round, slackening to curiosity when the uniform and equipment register. Another attraction. Something else to see.
The office is soundproofed, but the Plexiglas screen pulses and rattles with the noise; we can barely hear each other beneath the muted roar.
She’s unconscious.
Mirabelle lies in the recovery position on the hardboard floor, but even from here I can see her eyelids fluttering. I kneel down and shout in her ear, giving her fingertip a little tweak, too. She doggedly carries on the pretence; when I go to lift an eyelid, she holds it shut.
Did she fall?
Nope. She grazed her knee on the safety bar. When the ride stopped, she wouldn’t get out then went funny. So the guys carried her in here, and she collapsed on the floor.
Have we got someone who speaks French?
Danielle, her friend.
Danielle – can you ask Mirabelle if she’s in any pain?
Danielle looks at me, confused.
But she is unconscious.
No, she’s not. Just ask her.
Danielle kneels down and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.
It’s a slow process. Even if Mirabelle was prepared to talk to us, she has no English. Danielle translates everything reluctantly, as if she thinks we’re being overly cruel with our line of questioning. The fairground manager looks about set to have a stroke. I wonder how many hours he’s worked today; how many situations he’s dealt with.
Let’s just get her out to the ambulance.
You can go on the truck.
What truck?
We’ve got a little green truck. You’ll love it.
He slaps me on the shoulder, then gestures for radio man to fetch the truck.
A minute later he pulls up outside in a tiny green John Deere flatbed with a flashing amber light on a stalk. Rae opens the office door and radio man gestures to the back with his thumb.
All right in the back?
Between the four of us we half-walk, half-carry Mirabelle out to the truck. She moans bonelessly, like a sleeper dragged from her bed.
Come on Mirabelle. Allons-y.
We sit either side of her, our feet almost dragging along the ground as the truck moves off. The truck beeps a warning and radio man keeps punching the horn, but still our progress is slow. As the crowd parts it falls back together behind us. People stare. Whatever kind of ride is that?
***
‘So that’s where Mirabelle is at the moment, Mrs Walters. In minors at A&E.’
‘The hospital?’
‘Yep. The hospital.’
Another long pause.
‘The hospital in town?’
‘Yep. I’m afraid so.’
I doodle some hair on the smiling face I’ve drawn on the patient report form, but as the silence continues I add some fangs.
‘But she’s going to need someone to come and sit with her, Mrs Walters. Pick her up after she’s done, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes. She will, won’t she?’ says Mrs Walters. ‘And I suppose that’ll be me, then.’
‘So I can leave that with you? Mrs Walters?’
‘Ye-es,’ she says. And before I can add anything to sweeten the pill, the line goes click.
Monday, August 09, 2010
the wait
A man is lying on his side on the pavement outside the Beauty Clinic. A girl in a starched white coat stands over him, half in the shop and half out, both arms folded, absently sucking a red nail, staring out above the morning crowd as it flows around him. Suddenly she sees us approaching and waves enthusiastically.
‘What’s going on?’
‘This guy, he came staggering along the pavement. For some reason he stopped just there, knelt down in the doorway and then just sort of – went to sleep.’
The only thing more striking than the brilliant white of the girl’s coat is the contrast between her and the figure at her feet. Her face is so symmetrical, so carefully painted with foundation, blusher, lipstick, mascara, her eyebrows so perfectly cropped, every individual strand of her hair shining with product, she could have stepped fully formed from the head of an advertising executive. The man, on the other hand, is the brutal, unadorned animal, corrupt and cast down, his shaven and sun-burned head pitted with crescent scars, his battered face slack with drink. Lying at her feet like that, curled up on his side, he looks like the husk of something she sucked the vitality from to achieve her transcendent being.
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know.’
I crouch down by his side, discretely pinch his shoulder and shout in his ear. ‘Come on. Wake up, mate. You can’t lie here.’
He bats my hand away.
‘Come on.’
‘Leave me alone.’
There’s a cut to his voice that makes us all a little more wary.
‘Shall I leave you to it, then?’ the girl says.
‘Absolutely. We’ll get him on the ambulance out of your way.
‘Thanks, guys,’ she says. She really means it.
He wriggles back down in an effort to get comfortable again. Shoppers almost fall over us, frowning in a confused kind of way, only finding alternative routes at the last minute.
‘Are you sick? Have you hurt yourself?’
He motions for us to go away.
‘Come on. Let’s sit you up. Then we can have a chat on the ambulance, in private. This is no good, mate. Honestly.’
Finally, we persuade him to stand up, and help him on to the ambulance. He drops himself down into a chair and starts rubbing some life back into his face. A tall, lean man bulked out with several layers of track suit tops and t-shirts, he looks as if he put on his entire wardrobe before he came out.
‘Aren’t you hot in all this?’
He drops his hands.
‘What do you want from me?’ he says.
‘We just want to reassure ourselves you’re okay. You lay down on a pavement in the middle of the morning. People were worried. That’s all. Let’s do a few checks, then if everything’s okay you can go on with your day.’
He sits back in the chair and stares into mid-air.
‘I don’t care what you do,’ he says. ‘Only do it quickly.’
‘Great.’
Whilst Rae helps him bare an arm for the blood pressure cuff, I start writing out the sheet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tomasso. T tango, O oscar….’
‘And your address?’
‘Sardegna.’
‘Sardinia? Is that where you’re living now?’
‘That’s where I’m from.’
‘So what’s your address now?’
He gives us a postcode only, each letter phonetically again. When I ask him exactly where that is, he starts talking quickly in Italian.
‘I don’t understand you, Tommaso. I wish I did, but I don’t. You have to talk English.’
He closes his eyes and pulls his chin back as if I’ve insulted him.
‘What do you think?’ he says eventually. ‘What do you know?’
‘We’re just trying to understand what’s going on with you today, Tommaso.’
He straightens in the chair and struggles to put his arm back through all the sleeves.
‘I am a sniper,’ he says as he does it. ‘Do you know what that means? Do you know what it’s like to lie on the ground for twenty four, thirty six hours, not moving a muscle, for just one shot?’
‘Yep. That sounds difficult.’
‘You get bitten to pieces.’
‘Mosquitoes?’
‘Scorpions. Tah! Tah!’ He makes little stabbing movements in the air with a finger that make us both lean back a little.
‘Look here, my friend,’ he says, giving up on the jacket and bending down instead to roll up a trouser leg. There is a cluster of tiny scabs running up just over the sock line, like old bed bug scars.
‘Nasty,’ I say.
He drops the trouser leg and shrugs.
‘I’m a sniper. It’s what I do. But let me tell you. You walk a hundred miles, you lie down, you wait for days, you take your shot … (he smacks his hands together) … Tah! Then you wait whilst the rest of the unit clears out. You guard their back. Only then can you think about yourself. Only then can you take your chance and escape.’
He resumes his struggle with his clothing. I help him in to the last track suit sleeve. ‘But I love my country. I am a proud man. You – you don’t know what it means to fight for your country.’
Finally he’s done, and sits still in the chair.
‘Well. All your observations are fine, Tommaso. I don’t think you need to go up the hospital.’
‘Hospital? No way. Six hours on a plastic seat. For what?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘This guy, he came staggering along the pavement. For some reason he stopped just there, knelt down in the doorway and then just sort of – went to sleep.’
The only thing more striking than the brilliant white of the girl’s coat is the contrast between her and the figure at her feet. Her face is so symmetrical, so carefully painted with foundation, blusher, lipstick, mascara, her eyebrows so perfectly cropped, every individual strand of her hair shining with product, she could have stepped fully formed from the head of an advertising executive. The man, on the other hand, is the brutal, unadorned animal, corrupt and cast down, his shaven and sun-burned head pitted with crescent scars, his battered face slack with drink. Lying at her feet like that, curled up on his side, he looks like the husk of something she sucked the vitality from to achieve her transcendent being.
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know.’
I crouch down by his side, discretely pinch his shoulder and shout in his ear. ‘Come on. Wake up, mate. You can’t lie here.’
He bats my hand away.
‘Come on.’
‘Leave me alone.’
There’s a cut to his voice that makes us all a little more wary.
‘Shall I leave you to it, then?’ the girl says.
‘Absolutely. We’ll get him on the ambulance out of your way.
‘Thanks, guys,’ she says. She really means it.
He wriggles back down in an effort to get comfortable again. Shoppers almost fall over us, frowning in a confused kind of way, only finding alternative routes at the last minute.
‘Are you sick? Have you hurt yourself?’
He motions for us to go away.
‘Come on. Let’s sit you up. Then we can have a chat on the ambulance, in private. This is no good, mate. Honestly.’
Finally, we persuade him to stand up, and help him on to the ambulance. He drops himself down into a chair and starts rubbing some life back into his face. A tall, lean man bulked out with several layers of track suit tops and t-shirts, he looks as if he put on his entire wardrobe before he came out.
‘Aren’t you hot in all this?’
He drops his hands.
‘What do you want from me?’ he says.
‘We just want to reassure ourselves you’re okay. You lay down on a pavement in the middle of the morning. People were worried. That’s all. Let’s do a few checks, then if everything’s okay you can go on with your day.’
He sits back in the chair and stares into mid-air.
‘I don’t care what you do,’ he says. ‘Only do it quickly.’
‘Great.’
Whilst Rae helps him bare an arm for the blood pressure cuff, I start writing out the sheet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tomasso. T tango, O oscar….’
‘And your address?’
‘Sardegna.’
‘Sardinia? Is that where you’re living now?’
‘That’s where I’m from.’
‘So what’s your address now?’
He gives us a postcode only, each letter phonetically again. When I ask him exactly where that is, he starts talking quickly in Italian.
‘I don’t understand you, Tommaso. I wish I did, but I don’t. You have to talk English.’
He closes his eyes and pulls his chin back as if I’ve insulted him.
‘What do you think?’ he says eventually. ‘What do you know?’
‘We’re just trying to understand what’s going on with you today, Tommaso.’
He straightens in the chair and struggles to put his arm back through all the sleeves.
‘I am a sniper,’ he says as he does it. ‘Do you know what that means? Do you know what it’s like to lie on the ground for twenty four, thirty six hours, not moving a muscle, for just one shot?’
‘Yep. That sounds difficult.’
‘You get bitten to pieces.’
‘Mosquitoes?’
‘Scorpions. Tah! Tah!’ He makes little stabbing movements in the air with a finger that make us both lean back a little.
‘Look here, my friend,’ he says, giving up on the jacket and bending down instead to roll up a trouser leg. There is a cluster of tiny scabs running up just over the sock line, like old bed bug scars.
‘Nasty,’ I say.
He drops the trouser leg and shrugs.
‘I’m a sniper. It’s what I do. But let me tell you. You walk a hundred miles, you lie down, you wait for days, you take your shot … (he smacks his hands together) … Tah! Then you wait whilst the rest of the unit clears out. You guard their back. Only then can you think about yourself. Only then can you take your chance and escape.’
He resumes his struggle with his clothing. I help him in to the last track suit sleeve. ‘But I love my country. I am a proud man. You – you don’t know what it means to fight for your country.’
Finally he’s done, and sits still in the chair.
‘Well. All your observations are fine, Tommaso. I don’t think you need to go up the hospital.’
‘Hospital? No way. Six hours on a plastic seat. For what?’
Friday, August 06, 2010
doppelganger
Everyone develops an ambulance persona over time. It starts forming day one, filling out, drying and colouring as palpably as the wings of an insect crawling out on a leaf. Fed equally by experience and need, it is an expedient, semi-fictional character that feels out its correspondences with all the other characters it meets on the job - at the station, at the hospital, in the community; a curious hybrid character, rooted in your private self, nourished by your public self, sufficient, sustaining, protective and – hopefully - loved.
Marcus could hang his character on a peg marked ‘Carry On’. If a scientist tweezered off a thread of his shirt for DNA profiling, the report would come back five percent Kenneth Williams, five percent Charles Hautrey, ten percent Frankie Howerd – the rest, strange, less identifiable structures coiling back into the furthest recesses of British music hall tradition.
A paramedic for twenty years, Marcus has been everywhere, seen everything, and talked about it in tones rounder than a Christmas pudding. Outrageously fit and handsome, with his clear blue eyes, lean body and action figure head of silver hair, he could pull on a leather bomber jacket, throw a leg over a motorcycle and play Steve McQueen in a biopic. Except, he wouldn’t be able to resist pursing his lips, crossing his eyes and saying something like: ‘Ere, Jump on and I’ll let you squeeze me ‘orn, or maybe: I’m not used to having something this big between my legs.
In the Rec room, Graham, a young trainee paramedic, tells us about his three weeks in theatres. He describes what the consultants were like, how easy – or difficult – he found it, fitting in around them, learning how they work, acquiring the statutory number of intubations and cannulations he needs to complete that module.
‘And Marcus, mate, you’ve got an identical twin. I met an ODP there the absolute spit of you. Honestly – looks the same, sounds the same, the same mannerisms. It’s uncanny.’
‘Ooh. Good looking fella is he?’
Graham laughs, and almost spills his tea.
‘There you go. That proves it. When I told him about you, that’s exactly what he said.’
Marcus could hang his character on a peg marked ‘Carry On’. If a scientist tweezered off a thread of his shirt for DNA profiling, the report would come back five percent Kenneth Williams, five percent Charles Hautrey, ten percent Frankie Howerd – the rest, strange, less identifiable structures coiling back into the furthest recesses of British music hall tradition.
A paramedic for twenty years, Marcus has been everywhere, seen everything, and talked about it in tones rounder than a Christmas pudding. Outrageously fit and handsome, with his clear blue eyes, lean body and action figure head of silver hair, he could pull on a leather bomber jacket, throw a leg over a motorcycle and play Steve McQueen in a biopic. Except, he wouldn’t be able to resist pursing his lips, crossing his eyes and saying something like: ‘Ere, Jump on and I’ll let you squeeze me ‘orn, or maybe: I’m not used to having something this big between my legs.
In the Rec room, Graham, a young trainee paramedic, tells us about his three weeks in theatres. He describes what the consultants were like, how easy – or difficult – he found it, fitting in around them, learning how they work, acquiring the statutory number of intubations and cannulations he needs to complete that module.
‘And Marcus, mate, you’ve got an identical twin. I met an ODP there the absolute spit of you. Honestly – looks the same, sounds the same, the same mannerisms. It’s uncanny.’
‘Ooh. Good looking fella is he?’
Graham laughs, and almost spills his tea.
‘There you go. That proves it. When I told him about you, that’s exactly what he said.’
Thursday, August 05, 2010
three days
The Old Sword and Mitre – shabby little temple to the warrior, priest or whatever else beer and whisky will draw out of you – was put up on this corner when carts delivered the bricks. And although its windows have been ripped out a few times since, the doors re-hung, the fixtures and fittings shuffled about, thirty layers of paint slapped on; and although a thick flicker-book of managers have stood behind the bar, the bones of the pub have stayed exactly where they were set, stoically bearing the weight of a couple of hundred years or more. This threshold, beneath the black curlicued metalwork of the sign, has an old stone step scooped in the centre by the feet of countless shadows, toe to heel from the end of a night in the eighteenth century, to me and Frank, banging on the door at one o’clock in the morning, July twenty eighth, two thousand and ten.
Paul, a tall man in a crumpled white two piece suit, comes to the door, his stripy shirt unbuttoned to the belly. He opens it enough to slip outside, slopping half his glass of beer on the pavement in the process. But he doesn’t seem to notice, and after a comically exaggerated glance left and right up and down the street, leans in at a precarious angle.
‘My friend Victor here is having some problems tonight. You see, what happened was, he saw the doctor – well, we think he saw the doctor. He had an accident, you see, a day or so ago. A taxi or something. Clipped him in the High Street. He was fine. He was fine, he was okay. But he hurt his leg, you see. And then he saw this doctor, hopeless, but you see, quite broken or something or some such. But this doctor gave him some stuff. Like medicine, I suppose. And it seems to have made him go a bit woo-woo. I mean, he’s only had the weeniest, tiniest bit of beer, about a half I should say, but it’s upset him a bit, and he’s a bit out of sorts. You’ll see. You’re the doctor.’
He frowns, takes a pull on his glass, then tries to carry on with his monologue, resisting my attempts to get past him by putting his free hand on my chest and leaning in a bit closer, as if he has thought of something even more important to say. But I brush his hand away.
‘Let’s go in and see the patient. What’s his name?’
‘Victor. His name’s Victor. His friend Arseny’s – ah’m - with him at the moment.’
We go in.
Arseny has got Victor face down on the carpet, his left knee in the small of his back, his right arm hooked under Victor’s right arm, drawing it back and up at a terrible angle, the wrist splayed inwards in a professionally applied lock. Arseny nods at us as we come in, leaning back and waving nonchalantly with his right hand, a cocky rodeo rider on a bull.
‘I keep him for you. I make sure of him for no danger.’
Arseny pulls back on Victor’s arm and elicits a whimpering kind of scream.
‘No worries. I have him here ready for you. You safe. He is my good friend but I am professional bodyguard, security man and kick box champion.’
The rope-veined muscles of Arseny’s arms, the V-shaped bulk of his torso and shoulders, are barely contained by the tight second skin of his Adidas t-shirt; his body seems to have bulked up at the expense of his head, though, a minimal, solid-looking nub screwed on as an afterthought.
‘Are you telling me that Victor is violent?’ I say.
‘No. But I control for you.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t want you to control anyone. It looks like you’re half killing him. If he’s violent, we’ll go outside and wait for the police. If he’s not violent, you can get off him and we can talk to him like a normal person. Yeah?’
Arseny grunts, gives Victor’s arm one last affectionate twist, then jumps off and stands to one side.
‘I do this for living,’ he says, articulating his shoulders and rolling his neck. ‘It nothing for me. Really.’
I crouch down beside Victor, who is still growling and grimacing face down on the carpet. Paul taps me on the shoulder and when I look at him he makes as if to carry on his monologue of explanation, until Frank takes him off to one side.
‘Let him talk to Victor,’ he says. ‘You can tell me what you know.’
Victor rights himself, his head bobbing and swaying drunkenly.
‘Come and sit over here,’ I say to him. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
He lurches suddenly upright, and I take a few steps back in case he takes a swing. But he simply throws an ill-focused arc of blame around him, and then staggers over to a chair.
‘So. Are you ill, Victor? What’s the matter?’
He sees me for the first time and grimaces again.
‘Go away,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, go away? Your friends called us in because they were worried about you.’ I look over at Arseny and maybe we both feel the irony of that, but I carry on regardless. ‘Something must be up,’ I say.
Victor reaches down and rubs his leg.
‘Paul seems to think you were hit by a taxi at some point.’
He doesn’t answer, but makes as if to stand. Arseny unfolds his arms and takes a step over; Victor slumps back into his seat.
‘Tell me how you’re feeling.’
‘I’m okay. Leave me alone.’
His eyes are plate wide. There’s something about the way he veers from micro-sleeps to sudden animalistic growls and jerky movements that makes me think he’s taken something.
‘Have you used any drugs tonight, Victor?’
He stares at me, and then drops a sneer in his top pocket.
‘Victor? What’s your health like? Do you have any health problems? Diabetes, for instance?’
‘No. Nothing. I’m fine,’ he snarls. ‘Go please.’
‘This is all pretty strange,’ I say to Paul, who has broken away from Frank to lean over me again. He nods so emphatically he’s in danger of pitching head first onto us both.
‘I’m not sure what there is for us to do here, Victor. Where do you live?’
Victor nods upstairs.
‘Do you work here, then?’
Paul puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers:
‘He works behind the bar.’
It seems incredible.
‘Where’s the manager? Who’s supposed to be locking up tonight?’
Just then a woman pushes in through the front door and walks across the carpet with a purposeful stride.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Can I speak to you in private?’ I say, standing up and leading her over to the pool tables. Paul tries to follow us, but the woman directs him forcefully back to the end of the bar, pointing with a dog-trainer’s straight arm and finger.
‘A regular,’ she says. ‘Means well.’
‘So – Victor actually works here?’
She nods. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I wish I could say. I think it was Paul who called the ambulance. When we got here Arseny had Victor face down on the carpet in an arm-lock.’
She nods and winces, as if to say I can imagine.
‘I can’t figure out what’s gone on. Paul was saying that maybe Victor had been hit by a taxi and put on something by the GP, and that’s maybe interacted with the alcohol, but Victor can’t or won’t confirm or deny it. He’s not able to tell us what medication he’s on, how he’s feeling, or anything meaningful. He’s emotionally volatile, very uncooperative. He’s refusing help of any kind and we can’t force him. I’m quite happy to call the police if you feel worried about us leaving you here with them all.’
She shakes her head.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t know about this taxi story. My guess is he’s drunk a fair bit of alcohol and maybe taken something else, GHB maybe. Hard to say.’
I pause for a moment.
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Well. Thanks for coming. Sorry to waste your time.’
‘No worries.’
We go back over to the three of them, Victor groaning on the seat, Arseny standing guard and Paul tottering forwards and backwards, clutching his beer like a spirit level.
‘Last chance, Victor. Will you come to hospital with us?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘Come on then, Frank. We’re off. You guys keep an eye on him,’ I say to Arseny and Paul. ‘Or something.’
‘You take him to hospital?’
‘We can’t if he says no. He’s very clear about it.’
‘Then thank you for coming. Please.’
Arseny holds out a lumpen mitt. I shake it. Then Paul joins in, and everyone ends up shaking everyone else’s hand at least twice. The manager watches from over by the bar.
Outside, Frank shrugs and sparks up a cigarette.
‘Well, what a pointless mess that was.’
‘God knows what was going on.’
Frank blows smoke and leans against the truck. ‘You know, when you went to talk to that manager woman I got a couple of straight words out of Victor. I asked him how long he’d been working there and he said three days. Three days! He asked me if I thought he’d get the sack.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said three days? Three years and you could count on it.’
Paul, a tall man in a crumpled white two piece suit, comes to the door, his stripy shirt unbuttoned to the belly. He opens it enough to slip outside, slopping half his glass of beer on the pavement in the process. But he doesn’t seem to notice, and after a comically exaggerated glance left and right up and down the street, leans in at a precarious angle.
‘My friend Victor here is having some problems tonight. You see, what happened was, he saw the doctor – well, we think he saw the doctor. He had an accident, you see, a day or so ago. A taxi or something. Clipped him in the High Street. He was fine. He was fine, he was okay. But he hurt his leg, you see. And then he saw this doctor, hopeless, but you see, quite broken or something or some such. But this doctor gave him some stuff. Like medicine, I suppose. And it seems to have made him go a bit woo-woo. I mean, he’s only had the weeniest, tiniest bit of beer, about a half I should say, but it’s upset him a bit, and he’s a bit out of sorts. You’ll see. You’re the doctor.’
He frowns, takes a pull on his glass, then tries to carry on with his monologue, resisting my attempts to get past him by putting his free hand on my chest and leaning in a bit closer, as if he has thought of something even more important to say. But I brush his hand away.
‘Let’s go in and see the patient. What’s his name?’
‘Victor. His name’s Victor. His friend Arseny’s – ah’m - with him at the moment.’
We go in.
Arseny has got Victor face down on the carpet, his left knee in the small of his back, his right arm hooked under Victor’s right arm, drawing it back and up at a terrible angle, the wrist splayed inwards in a professionally applied lock. Arseny nods at us as we come in, leaning back and waving nonchalantly with his right hand, a cocky rodeo rider on a bull.
‘I keep him for you. I make sure of him for no danger.’
Arseny pulls back on Victor’s arm and elicits a whimpering kind of scream.
‘No worries. I have him here ready for you. You safe. He is my good friend but I am professional bodyguard, security man and kick box champion.’
The rope-veined muscles of Arseny’s arms, the V-shaped bulk of his torso and shoulders, are barely contained by the tight second skin of his Adidas t-shirt; his body seems to have bulked up at the expense of his head, though, a minimal, solid-looking nub screwed on as an afterthought.
‘Are you telling me that Victor is violent?’ I say.
‘No. But I control for you.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t want you to control anyone. It looks like you’re half killing him. If he’s violent, we’ll go outside and wait for the police. If he’s not violent, you can get off him and we can talk to him like a normal person. Yeah?’
Arseny grunts, gives Victor’s arm one last affectionate twist, then jumps off and stands to one side.
‘I do this for living,’ he says, articulating his shoulders and rolling his neck. ‘It nothing for me. Really.’
I crouch down beside Victor, who is still growling and grimacing face down on the carpet. Paul taps me on the shoulder and when I look at him he makes as if to carry on his monologue of explanation, until Frank takes him off to one side.
‘Let him talk to Victor,’ he says. ‘You can tell me what you know.’
Victor rights himself, his head bobbing and swaying drunkenly.
‘Come and sit over here,’ I say to him. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
He lurches suddenly upright, and I take a few steps back in case he takes a swing. But he simply throws an ill-focused arc of blame around him, and then staggers over to a chair.
‘So. Are you ill, Victor? What’s the matter?’
He sees me for the first time and grimaces again.
‘Go away,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, go away? Your friends called us in because they were worried about you.’ I look over at Arseny and maybe we both feel the irony of that, but I carry on regardless. ‘Something must be up,’ I say.
Victor reaches down and rubs his leg.
‘Paul seems to think you were hit by a taxi at some point.’
He doesn’t answer, but makes as if to stand. Arseny unfolds his arms and takes a step over; Victor slumps back into his seat.
‘Tell me how you’re feeling.’
‘I’m okay. Leave me alone.’
His eyes are plate wide. There’s something about the way he veers from micro-sleeps to sudden animalistic growls and jerky movements that makes me think he’s taken something.
‘Have you used any drugs tonight, Victor?’
He stares at me, and then drops a sneer in his top pocket.
‘Victor? What’s your health like? Do you have any health problems? Diabetes, for instance?’
‘No. Nothing. I’m fine,’ he snarls. ‘Go please.’
‘This is all pretty strange,’ I say to Paul, who has broken away from Frank to lean over me again. He nods so emphatically he’s in danger of pitching head first onto us both.
‘I’m not sure what there is for us to do here, Victor. Where do you live?’
Victor nods upstairs.
‘Do you work here, then?’
Paul puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers:
‘He works behind the bar.’
It seems incredible.
‘Where’s the manager? Who’s supposed to be locking up tonight?’
Just then a woman pushes in through the front door and walks across the carpet with a purposeful stride.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Can I speak to you in private?’ I say, standing up and leading her over to the pool tables. Paul tries to follow us, but the woman directs him forcefully back to the end of the bar, pointing with a dog-trainer’s straight arm and finger.
‘A regular,’ she says. ‘Means well.’
‘So – Victor actually works here?’
She nods. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I wish I could say. I think it was Paul who called the ambulance. When we got here Arseny had Victor face down on the carpet in an arm-lock.’
She nods and winces, as if to say I can imagine.
‘I can’t figure out what’s gone on. Paul was saying that maybe Victor had been hit by a taxi and put on something by the GP, and that’s maybe interacted with the alcohol, but Victor can’t or won’t confirm or deny it. He’s not able to tell us what medication he’s on, how he’s feeling, or anything meaningful. He’s emotionally volatile, very uncooperative. He’s refusing help of any kind and we can’t force him. I’m quite happy to call the police if you feel worried about us leaving you here with them all.’
She shakes her head.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t know about this taxi story. My guess is he’s drunk a fair bit of alcohol and maybe taken something else, GHB maybe. Hard to say.’
I pause for a moment.
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Well. Thanks for coming. Sorry to waste your time.’
‘No worries.’
We go back over to the three of them, Victor groaning on the seat, Arseny standing guard and Paul tottering forwards and backwards, clutching his beer like a spirit level.
‘Last chance, Victor. Will you come to hospital with us?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘Come on then, Frank. We’re off. You guys keep an eye on him,’ I say to Arseny and Paul. ‘Or something.’
‘You take him to hospital?’
‘We can’t if he says no. He’s very clear about it.’
‘Then thank you for coming. Please.’
Arseny holds out a lumpen mitt. I shake it. Then Paul joins in, and everyone ends up shaking everyone else’s hand at least twice. The manager watches from over by the bar.
Outside, Frank shrugs and sparks up a cigarette.
‘Well, what a pointless mess that was.’
‘God knows what was going on.’
Frank blows smoke and leans against the truck. ‘You know, when you went to talk to that manager woman I got a couple of straight words out of Victor. I asked him how long he’d been working there and he said three days. Three days! He asked me if I thought he’d get the sack.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said three days? Three years and you could count on it.’
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