900!

It seems incredible to me that this is the 900^th post on Siren Voices! A huge thank you to everyone for reading & commenting over the years. I know it’s quite a banal thing to say, but it’s absolutely true – I couldn’t possibly have done it without you!

To celebrate, I thought I’d do something a little different, but still in the voices theme: a list of 900 9 random ambulance cab conversations.

1.    ghosts
My Dad said he saw the ghost of an old woman on the stairs of the block he lived in as a kid.
– Did she look ghostly?
No.
– A glowing skull – you know – all Scooby Doo?
No.
– Did she disappear suddenly, walk through a wall?
No.
– Did she hover in mid-air? Cackle a lot?
No.
– So how’d he know she was a ghost then, and not just some random old woman?
Well he hadn’t seen her before.

2.    comets
That Rosetta probe’s landing on a comet sometime soon.
– What comet?
Not one anyone’s heard of. Apparently it looks like a duck.
– What are comets? What are they made of?
I think basically what they are is a loose bunch of gas, rock and ice
– How can you land on that?
It’s difficult. That’s why everyone’s so excited about it
– If the comet’s just a bunch of gas and ice, how come it’s stayed together all this time? How come it doesn’t fly apart?
Gravity
– How does that work?
Gravity? No-one knows
– And how come something loose like a comet has got enough gravity to keep it together? Why not the whole universe? Why’s that still expanding?
– Is it? I don’t know
But the probe’s landing on this comet sometime soon you say?
– Apparently. Oh, and it’s shaped like a duck.

3.    dragons
I’m going to set up my own business and make a million.
– That’s a good idea
Go on Dragon’s Den
– Yep
All you’ve got to do is ask yourself: what’s the one thing everyone needs?
– Okay.
Go on then.
– All right. A sense of purpose.
Nope.
– Health and well-being.
Nope.
– Food and water. Security. I don’t know. A bike.
Nope.
–  Go on then. I give up.
Personalised underwear.

4.    granddad
My granddad went all through the first world war without a scratch.
– That was lucky.
Once, he was in the trenches and he came to this junction, and he thought Do I go right or left? And he heard this voice in his head saying Go left! Go left! So he went left, and the very next thing, a shell lands in the trench to his right. Killed everyone in it.
– His guardian angel.
Yeah. And then a few months later he was fighting in the ruins of this chateau, and he suddenly realised it was his mum’s family home. She’d eloped with the gardener, and they disinherited her.
–  The gardener, your great-grandad?
Yeah. They cut her off and she never went back. And all those years later, there was granddad, fighting in the ruins.
– If he’d never been back, how’d he know it was his mum’s old house?
I don’t know. How’d he know to turn left and not right?
– A bit psychic, was he?
Yeah. And the weird thing was, he went all through the war, the Somme, you name it, not a scratch. Guess what killed him in the end?
– I don’t know. A whale?
No. Angina.

5.    klutz
Have you ever fallen over in front of a crowd of people?
– Yep. At school, having my photo taken.
What happened?
– The photographer was set-up on stage in the assembly hall. They had this system. Each class was called up in turn, you went on stage, sat down, had your picture taken, and then walked off down the stairs at the back, where everyone was hanging round in the corridor. I hate having my picture taken anyway. I was convinced I couldn’t smile properly, so I always ended up tilting my head on the side and smiling with my lips pressed tightly over my teeth. Like a serial killer, basically. And to make things worse, there was a girl I wanted to impress who’d just had her picture taken before me and I knew she’d be waiting at the bottom of the steps in the corridor with everyone else. So anyway – as soon as the camera flashed and the photographer shouted next, I got up, went to the head of the stairs, and I gave a little skip that was supposed to show everyone what a cool and crazy kid I was – except I didn’t take into account the fact that the stairs had a concrete lintel above them. I cracked my head on that, went all the way down the stairs on my arse and landed flat out in the corridor with everyone standing over me and laughing.
Did you ask her out?
– Eventually.
Did she say yes?
–  She said she was washing her hair.
What about later?
– Well, no. Apparently she was washing her hair all week.

6.    arañas
What are you like with spiders?
–  Me? Pretty good. I think. Depends on the spider.
I used to be terrible. Mind you, it’s not surprising, the childhood I had. Whenever Mum found a spider in the bath it was like that scene in Psycho.
–  It’s not so bad in this country, though, is it? At least you know there aren’t any really badass spiders. Not like Australia, where you get killed just putting the washing out. Although I did read somewhere those gangly leg ones you see in the garden here have got more venom pound for pound than a cobra. It’s just they’re so small you don’t notice.
Anyway, I’ve been trying to cure myself of the spider thing. I know they have their uses, and you shouldn’t just whack them with a slipper. So I’ve been gradually working up in size, picking them up in my hands, throwing them out the window. It’s not too bad. But we were over in Spain a few weeks ago...
–  How was that?
Great – except for this one thing that happened. We were back in the villa. I was cooking in the kitchen when all the girls started screaming. And I mean, screaming! It made my hairs stand up. Hannah came running down the hall shouting It’s the biggest spider in the world, Dad! Get rid of it! Spider? What spider? I said, trying to be brave, but I must admit all that screaming put the wind up me. I wasn’t sure about Spain. Do they have poisonous spiders? It’s warm enough. I thought I’d better play it safe, so I tipped the cheese out of a Tupperware box and went down the hall to sort it out. Well. I have to say, I almost screamed when I saw it. It wasn’t a spider, though. It was a cockroach, bold as you like, sitting right in the middle of the tiles like it owned the place. And it was huge. I mean, bigger than huge. It was so big, you could’ve thrown a saddle over it and ridden into town. It didn’t even seem that bothered it was causing all this fuss. One of its front legs was crooked up, like this, just like it was on the phone or something. So anyway, I moved a bit closer, got the Tupperware box in position – when it gave a little twitch and started forwards. Everyone screamed, including me. I panicked and dropped the box. Luckily it still landed on top of it, right way up. There was a pause whilst we all got our breath and wondered what to do next, maybe get a gun or something. We were all staring down at the box, when suddenly – it began to move! And it was the weirdest thing, watching a Tupperware box leave the room and slide off down the corridor.
–  So then what did you do?
I was tempted just to open the front door and let it go. But then I thought that wasn’t neighbourly, and anyway it was a shame to lose a good box. What would we put the cheese in? So I grabbed a laminate sheet of instructions from the kitchen, slid that underneath, then carried the whole thing out to the yard. When I took the sheet away the cockroach dropped out and immediately came running my way. I had to jump up in the air to get over it. And you know what? Not a word of a lie. It was like jumping over a Volkswagen.

7.    first names
I had a girlfriend whose first name was Princess.
– Princess! That’s pretty weird. You have to wonder about the parents.
Her dad was the worst. He’d served time for handling stolen property and had a lock-up in the back garden. He had these big, staring eyes, and long fingers. Like a bush baby.
– So what happened with Princess?
She never used her first name. Except on official papers and things. One time I went with her to the dole office. We were sitting in the waiting room when a voice came over the tannoy: Princess Michaels? Princess Michaels to cubicle one, please. Of course, everyone looks round. You could see they were all thinking the same thing. Blimey – times ARE hard.

8.    random noises
I had to drive my dad to the hospital the other day. Nothing too serious, thank god. Anyway, for one reason or another I haven’t had him in the front seat of the car with me in about five years. It was nice to spend some time with him. Anyway, we were driving along, chatted for a bit but then it went quiet. Which I didn’t mind, you know. Companionable silences and all that. I know he was anxious about his appointment. That’s when I became aware of this tick, tick, tick noise. And I thought, great! I’d only just got the car back from the garage. Cam belt and clutch. About a million pounds – and still not right! So I pulled over, got out, put the bonnet up, got Dad to rev the engine. Nothing. It all sounded nice and sweet. So I thought, maybe it was just a passing glitch and I won’t hear anything more. I get back in, we’re making up the time, and there it was again: TICK, TICK, TICK. Louder this time. So I pull over again. Get the bonnet up. And I’m scratching my head trying to figure out what’s wrong when Dad gets out to have a look himself. And it’s when he’s leaning over the engine next to me I find out where the noise is coming from.
– Where?
Him! It was Dad, sucking his top plate because he was anxious about missing the appointment! I didn’t mind though. At least it wasn’t the car. At least I didn’t have to go back to that garage. I mean, I don’t know about overalls; what they really need is hats, guns and horses.

9.    buzz
We had to have our eldest dog Buzz put down over the weekend.
–  I’m sorry to hear that.
Yeah, well. He was getting pretty old and knackered. He was fifteen and he’d been good up until last year. Then his back legs started to go, and on the Sunday he collapsed and started to be incontinent. The emergency vet said he reckoned it was a spinal lesion.
–  At least he didn’t suffer much.
No. It was all pretty quick. We buried him in the garden.
–  Wasn’t he a bit of an escape artist?
Buzz? He was amazing. I never knew a dog that had such a good head for heights, enclosed spaces, storms – you name it. Good swimmer, too. Terrible with other dogs for a while, but that’s another story. He had a real talent for disappearing. Hundreds of times. Once for a couple of days. We called the dog pound, the RSPCA, everyone we could think of, but nothing, no trace. He’ll turn up the warden said, but I wasn’t so sure. Next thing you know, though, there he was at the front door, covered in soil. He’d been stuck down some badger set somewhere. That was the thing with Buzz. He was a master of escapes, but then he was a master of getting back home, too. Often we wouldn’t know he’d gone until the neighbours brought him back. Or one time, there was a knock at the door and it was the bin men. Here’s Buzz they said. We knew where he lived, so after he helped us finish the round we gave him a ride back in the cab.

rosa alone

Three times now I’ve called Rosa to the intercom. She knows enough to answer, but not enough to buzz the door and let me in. Luckily another resident arrives back from the shops and lets me in.

‘Number fourteen?’ she says.

‘I can’t really say,’ I tell her.

‘It’s Rosa’ says the woman, holding the door open for me whilst I struggle in with all my bags. ‘It’s always Rosa. I’m in number six. Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

Up on the second floor Rosa’s door is standing open, propped with a chair. Rosa herself is standing in the doorway, half-dressed, wringing her hands.

‘What should I do? I know there are thousands of people dying all over the world but I just can’t bear feeling like this a minute longer.’

‘Come and sit down Rosa and let’s have a chat about what’s happening.’

She studies me with empty grey eyes for a moment, then straightens and turns back into the flat.

‘Just a minute’ she says, her tone of voice suddenly brisk and capable. ‘I’ll get my skirt on.’

It’s an extraordinary change, an abrupt flip from existential terror to domestic routine.

‘Are you all right?’ I say to her. She seems perfectly mobile though. The door to her bedroom is open and she’s putting on her skirt, standing on one leg to get the other through.

‘I’ll be in the sitting room,’ I tell her, and go through.

I look for a care folder and medication in all the usual places, but can’t find them. The flat is perfectly warm and tidy, nothing to indicate that anyone with any chronic health problems lives there.

Rosa walks in.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she says.

‘That’s very kind, Rosa. But first of all I’d like to find out why we’ve been called today.’

‘Who called you?’

‘I don’t know. I thought you did.’

‘Oh no!’ she says, putting one hand up to the pearls around her throat, as if they’d suddenly got tight and she was struggling to loosen them. ‘I haven’t done it again, have I?’

‘It’s okay, Rosa. Don’t worry. I just want to find out what’s been going on. So – do you think you might have called but don’t have any memory of it?’

‘I hope I’m not being a nuisance’

‘Don’t worry about that, Rosa. First things first. Do you have any pain at all?’

‘No.’

‘Do you feel sick? Dizzy? Short of breath?’

‘No – thank goodness!’

‘What’s your past medical history? What do you suffer with? Anything?’

‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Stella, my daughter in law.’

‘Okay. Shall I give her a call?’

‘Be my guest!’

She gestures to the phone, where the names of four contacts are written in block capitals on a pad of paper.

Stella seems to know it’s the ambulance calling even as she answers.

‘What’s happened now?’ she says.

I start to tell her as much as I know, but Stella interrupts.

‘Look – I can’t understand what you’re doing there. They have specific instructions. You shouldn’t be going. Have you met Rosa before? I’d be amazed if you haven’t. I think everyone knows her – police, fire brigade, the army for all I know. Rosa has Alzheimer’s. We’re trying to get her a live-in carer, but for the moment she has someone in twice a day. Once between ten and three and once between five and nine. The problem we have is that outside of those hours she gets distressed and starts calling for help. Ultimately I think she can’t go on living at home any more. It’s not safe and it’s causing so much disruption. We get calls throughout the day almost and it’s beginning to tell on our health, too. Poor Rosa. She’s perfectly healthy other than this. But look – I really can’t understand why you’re there. We’ve had this discussion time and time again, with everyone you can think of, including the ambulance. You’re supposed to ring us if ever she calls 999. There’s a Samsonite suitcase with all her medication and information in, hidden behind an armchair. The padlock number is 9292 – but don’t let her see you work it. She’s perfectly able to write it down somewhere, and if she gets hold of it who knows what she’ll do....’

It’s difficult talking to Stella. I think she’s naturally pretty chatty anyway, but the stress of the situation has pushed her into overdrive. I have to talk over her and carry on talking before she stops to listen to what I have to say.

‘Stella? Stella? I think the problem from the ambulance point of view is that if anyone rings and says they have breathing problems or chest pain or something serious like that, they will always send an ambulance, regardless of any other notes on the system.’

‘Well. I don’t know then. I don’t know what else to do. As soon as you go she’ll be on the phone calling for help again...’

‘Let’s see what we can do. Shall I pass you over to speak to Rosa?’

I hand the phone across, and write up my notes as the two of them speak.

*

Rosa watches me as I finish writing, smiling as I look up. She takes a sip of her tea, carefully replaces the cup, then says: ‘What brought you here today? Not that I’m complaining – it’s nice to have a bit of company.‘

‘It looks as if you got a bit upset and rang 999 for help, Rosa.’

The smile fades and her eyes shine with tears.

‘Oh no, I didn’t! Please say it’s not true.’

‘Sorry, Rosa. Unfortunately I think memory loss is a symptom of your condition. But don’t worry. Everything’s in hand. Your son and daughter in law are both on the case. You’ve got a carer coming in any minute, so it’s not too bad.’

‘But I can’t carry on like this, can I? I don’t know my own mind. How can you carry on if you don’t know your own mind?’

I take a sip of the tea she’s made me – perfectly presented in a china cup, a biscuit balanced on the saucer.

‘Thanks for the tea’ I tell her. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Well – thank you for coming!’ she says. And smiling warmly again, she contentedly folds her hands in her lap.

blower

‘Everything’s going wrong. The whole day. And to make matters worse we’re finishing late. We end up at this residential care home miles out of town. Turns out the patient isn’t at death’s door. In fact not only is he not at death’s door, he’s sitting up in bed drinking tea and watching Pointless. So we leave him with a GP referral and head back out to the truck. I’d been putting off going to the loo for the last couple of hours and there’s no way I’m making it all the way back to base with a bladder the size of a space hopper. I see there’s a visitor’s toilet in the lobby so I nip in quick, do the do, wash my hands, and then I’m looking round for a paper towel. But all they’ve got is one of those hand blowers on the wall. Great. I hate those things. Noise like a 747 and you still walk out rubbing your hands on your trousers. But anyway, I go through the motions. I put my hands underneath. Nothing. I look for a switch on the wall but can’t find one. I put my hands under again, a bit closer. Further away. I slap the side of it. Put my hands back really slowly. Nothing. Great. If there’s one thing I hate more than a blower it’s a blower that doesn’t work. Then the door opens and this guy comes in. He sees me standing there with my hands underneath the thing, about to rip it off the wall, throw it through the window and then drown myself in the toilet. And he says, really quietly, like he’s talking to a psycho: It’s actually a towel dispenser.’

a cold conductor

The cohort area is so crowded with people and trolleys and relatives and ambulance personnel, moving a patient anywhere is like moving squares in a cheap plastic puzzle – one space at a time, sideways, backwards, this piece then this – until you reach the other side, or make the picture, which in this case would be a simple, black & white word: Failing. But even though it’s difficult, everyone is keen to do what they can to let Arnold through. His sudden bursts of wild laughter, screams and incoherent singing have only heightened the End of Days atmosphere in the department. When conditions are as bad as they are, a little peace is worth almost as much as a chair, or a cup of water.

Poor Arnold has vascular dementia. Normally his carer says he’s pretty calm, but since a fall a few days ago his behaviour has become more erratic. The GP referred him in for a CT scan.

‘Mind your backs,’ I call as we negotiate the final hurdle and make the clear water of the corridor that leads to the CT suite. ‘Coming through!’

Arnold starts singing again, a gummy, open-throated bellowing, making panicked sweeps with his arms, like a conductor leading an orchestra in hell.

‘He’s a musician’ says the carer, soothing Arnold’s hands down as we negotiate another narrow gap. ‘Who knows what’s playing in his head?’

In contrast to the sweated atmosphere of the cohort area, the CT suite is cool and quiet.

‘I love this air con!’ I tell the radiographer.

‘You wouldn’t if you worked here all the time,’ she says, as we manoeuvre Arnold into position. ‘Five minutes and you’ll be snapping icicles off your nose.’

She smiles at Arnold as he starts waving his arms about and singing.

‘He’s a musician’ the carer says to her, easing his hands down again.

‘Is he? How interesting!’ says the radiographer, producing a couple of wide, Velcro straps. ‘Sorry Maestro. Just for the scan.’

She adjusts a grid of bright red lines over his head, and then with everything set, leads us into the control room. We stand behind her and watch as she operates the scanner, scrolling through section views of Arnold’s brain.

‘Ah-ha!’ she says, tapping the keys.

‘What have you found?’

‘It’ll need a consultant, of course. But just there – look.’

‘A bleed?’

‘No. Crotchets and quavers.’

She laughs, shakes her head, and stands up again.

‘Come on!’ she says. ‘Let’s get poor Arnold out of the fridge.’

the nice day

‘Well we had a nice day really. All this has come very much after the event as you might say. Yes, a nice day. We went up town and strolled around a bit. Agnes wanted a new pair of slippers, so we had a look at a few. Come lunch time we were a bit peckish so we went into that Prett Ah Mangger. And I tell you what – I had the nicest sandwich I ever had in my entire life. Guess what was in it?’

‘I don’t know. Gold?’

‘No. Crayfish and rocket. Crayfish and rocket. I tell you what. Once you had one of them you won’t want any of your old cheese and pickle no more.’

Agnes lies on the trolley between us, contentedly waggling her leopard print slippers from side to side. Every now and then she leans forward, squeezes her eyes shut, and gives a congested little gasp, like a cat stuck with a furball. But it passes as quickly as it comes, and she settles back happily enough. We haven’t been able to see anything. Her obs are normal. It’s all a bit of a mystery, so we’ve had to bring her in.

‘I hope they took the claws off’ I say to Agnes’ husband, Ron.

‘Oh, ye-es. It’s all proper stuff there. You ought to try it. Prett Ah Mangger. As I say, a very nice day, apart from all this business.’

He pats Agnes on the leg.

‘And we’d just settled down to watch our film, hadn’t we?’ he says.

‘Sorry, love,’ she says.

‘What film was that?’ I ask him.

‘Guess.’

‘I don’t know. Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’

‘Ratatouille?’ says Rae, taking the blood pressure cuff from Agnes’ arm.

‘Julie and Julia?’

‘The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and her Lobster?’

‘No. Full Metal Jacket.’

charlotte's dinner

What little light the moon might have given us is lost behind a spread of low cloud. Even the street lamps are struggling, their muted orange glow lending a kind of hectic, orange sweat to everything. The houses are set back from the road; that and the poor light make it difficult to read any of the numbers. We cruise along slowly, me with my window down, prodding about with a torch.

Just up ahead there’s a man standing underneath a porch light, smoking.

I turn off my torch as we draw alongside.

‘Are you thirty-nine?’ I ask him.

He scratches his bare chest but doesn’t say anything.

Does he think I’ve asked him his age?

‘No,’ he says, then flicks the cigarette away, steps back inside and firmly closes the door.

But at least I can see his number – from that we count to the house we want, and I hit At Scene.

A house just like any other in this road, except a security light snaps on the moment we open the front gate. Artificial flowers in a gravel enclosure, with plastic dragonflies and butterflies on sticks. The crick-croak of a frog – plastic, motion sensor. A black and yellow notice on the front door: CCTV in operation.

‘Not the most welcoming house front,’ says Rae. ‘Oh – look!’

A black cat has hopped down from its perch on some recycling bins and begun wrapping itself around her legs.

‘Yep’ she says, stroking its back. ‘I can feel batteries.’

The house is as dark as any of its neighbours. Certainly no indication that a male, overdose is inside. The call came from a mental health line, so it could be they’ve confused the address. After knocking and ringing for a while, we let Control know. They tell us to wait until they can find out some more information.

We look round the back. Another blinding security light.

A side door, as secure as the front, with a patch of intense smoke damage, as if someone had tried to break in with an oxy-acetylene torch. Beyond that, a high and solid gate, with barbed wire along the top.

‘Breaking in won’t be easy.’

Just then we hear the  plastic frog speak again. Crick-Croak. Crick-Croak. Someone coming down the steps from the road. We go round the side to meet them, saying Hello. Ambulance, ahead of us, just to underline the fact that we’re not burglars and good for shooting or something.

The back-lit silhouette of a doughy, hunched man in his forties.

‘Oh God!’ he says. ‘Don’t tell me! He’s done it again.’

The cat has wrapped itself round his legs now, in an ecstasy of greeting.

‘Hello pud-pud!’ he says, bending down and tickling her sides. ‘Who’s a clever pud-pud?’

‘We haven’t been told much’ I say to the man. ‘Just that someone at this address may have taken an overdose.’

‘Well I can tell you now that’s a lot of …’ He mimes the word bullshit fully and emphatically, turning sideways slightly and  leaning forwards like a pantomime dame sharing a naughty confidence across the footlights.  ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s done this. The police know all about it. It’s been going on for years and quite frankly I’ve had enough. But look – where are my manners? Would you like to come inside like civilised adults? I can tell you the whole sorry saga in comfort.’

He double, triple, quadruple unlocks the front door with a bunch of keys on an extendable chain.

‘Better safe than sorry’ he simpers.

It’s like stepping into a pet shop. There are vivariums, fish tanks, scratching posts and bird cages in every corner of the place.

‘My weakness’ he says. ‘Just call me Saint Francis. Aren’t I, Charlotte? Hey? Now then! Who’s got a delicious mousie-wowsie for Schnucka-Lucka?’

He picks up a silvery packet of something and goes over to a red-lit glass tank with a curving branch of wood and a large, plastic skull. Coiling out of the skull’s eye sockets is a long, dusty-coloured snake, who lifts its head and tastes the air as the man walks over with the packet. ‘Din-dins’ says the man, tearing the packet open. A tail flops out of the top as he puts the strip on the table. ‘Daddy’s got you something fur-licious.’

The man grips the tail and pulls out a dead, white mouse.

‘Would you like to see how Charlotte eats?’ he says, the mouse swinging between his pinched fingers as he puts the empty packet on the table along with the strip.

We line up on the other side of the table and watch as the man reaches into the vivarium and carefully places the mouse upside down between a V in the branch.

‘Charlotte’s such a clever little thing’ he breathes. ‘She has to take the mouse head first, and I can’t resist teasing her a little. Watch how she moves.’

At first the snake is slow to get going – so slow I’m tempted to ask whatever questions we need to ask and clear off. But I’m fascinated to watch the snake eat the mouse, and probably more than that, to watch the man watch the snake eat the mouse.

He leans forward as the snake finally gets going, sliding forwards without any discernible effort, its sinuous body flexing and pulsing, instinctively making exactly the required level of accommodation to negotiate the wood and the gravel, the water dish and the foliage, sliding closer and closer to the mouse. Without any hesitation it cuts underneath the branch.

‘See? Now watch!’ says the man.

The snake has decided to approach from above, the tail end. I can’t understand how this is a good idea. Surely it would’ve been better to take it from underneath? But the snake is up on the limb of the branch now, its head angled down to take in the full prospect of the mouse beneath it. After a few, delicate flickerings of its tongue – flickerings that the man himself seems to copy – and in one clean and easy movement, it grips the mouse by a paw, swivels it around, and then unhinging its jaw with a convulsive jerk, begins to thread itself over the mouse, the V of the branch acting as a kind of brace.  

‘There!’ he says. ‘Isn’t that the best? She won’t need to eat again for ten days.’

We ask the man about the overdose. He tells us there’s a long history. ‘For attention. It’s pathetic really.’

‘Is he here now?’

‘No. God knows where he’ll be. Your guess is as good as mine. Up to no good, though, you can count on that.’

‘Would you do us a favour and just check upstairs?’ says Rae. ‘Maybe he came back while you were out.’

‘Okay. But I know he’s not in.’

We stay in the kitchen whilst the man goes upstairs.

The snake has fully engulfed the mouse by the time he comes back down. Just a fat lump, back of the head.

‘No. Just as I thought. There’s nobody in.’

We thank the man and then turn to go.

Suddenly there’s a crash from upstairs.

The man smiles at us. Doesn’t even blink.

‘The cat’ he says.

clubbed

Three o’clock in the morning. Outside one of the nightclubs down on the promenade, a crowd of clubbers is reaching critical mass; shifting, breaking at the margins, reforming, drawn by the thumping beats to one small gap in a safety barrier. A luminous cloud hangs above the crowd, the smoke and heat and animal press of it all rising up into the night beneath a bank of halogen spots.

 We make our way through as best we can, resting hands on shoulders, ambulance, excuse me, mind your backs, until we’re far enough forward to catch the bouncer’s eye. Without any change of expression he sweeps a few people aside, unhooks the rope behind him, nods us through. Another bouncer is waiting at an open fire exit off to the right; he waves us to go that way, and we enter a corridor at the side of the club.

Vittorio is sitting on a chair with his head tipped back, whilst a bouncer dabs at his eye with a wet gauze.

‘Oh, hi chaps,’ says the bouncer, stepping back, hands crooked up in front, the artist interrupted. He looks like a rockabilly on steroids, his quiff shiny and black in the harsh emergency lighting, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over great ropes of muscle intricately covered in tattoos. ‘What you see in front of you is a twenty-year-old fella, took a punch to the right eye, no loss of consciousness, neck pain or so on, no vomiting, neurological deficit or other concerns. GCS fifteen throughout. Small but deep laceration lower orbital region, no damage to the eye as far as I can see. Needs a trip up the hospital for further assessment and some max-fax, but I’ll leave that up to you. Shall I continue?’

‘Fine. Good job.’

‘Okay then, fella. Tip your head back.’

Throughout all this Vittorio chats excitedly to a guy called Sam, standing off to his left. At first I think Sam’s simply a friend giving him support, but it gradually becomes apparent that Sam is the one who punched Vittorio in the first place.

‘Here’s twenty quid’ says Sam, trying to press the notes into Vittorio’s hand. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

‘I wasn’t looking at her like that. You know I wouldn’t,’ says Vittorio. He turns to look at me, and when the bouncer corrects him with a knuckle to the chin, he slides his eyes sideways instead.

‘I ducked when I should’ve dodged’ he says. ‘I’ve done martial arts. But let me tell you – it’s always the ones you don’t see that do you the most damage. I’m fine, really. It’s nothing. A few stitches and I’ll be good as new.’

‘Mate! Let me know when you get out and I’ll come pick you up,’ says Sam, texting something at the same time.

‘No worries,’ says Vittorio, standing up when the bouncer lets him, and grasping the bloody shirt that Sam passes to him. ‘Okay. Ready? Let’s go!’ 

the forgetful spy

At first I completely miss the house, taking a right turn into an uneven, unadopted road, thickly overhung with trees and shrubs, the ditches either side threatening to turn the ambulance over if I misjudge the width. But the road runs out with nothing more beyond than wild and open country. I struggle to turn round, come back out onto the main road, park up on the left as close to the wall as I can. It’s only then we notice there’s an old house set back from the corner of the junction. We go to take a look.

The Clutterby residence must once have been a fine and imposing Georgian country house. The arc of its gravel drive is thickly overgrown now, so the feeling is one of walking into some dark and elliptical cave. The house rises up in front of us, the main door reached by a series of steeply-banked steps whose terracotta tiles are patchily green with moss now, weeds struggling up through the cracked joints. An elegant porch at the top, a wide front door, whose leaded windows are protected behind a delicate filigree of fleur de lys.

We’ve just reached the very top step when the door opens.

‘Can I help you?’ says Mr Clutterby.

‘Hello. It’s the ambulance.’

‘Yes. May I ask what this is concerning?’

‘Did you call for help?’

‘No. I did not.’

‘We had a call to this address. An eighty-seven-year-old man with chest pain.’

‘Who did?’

‘We did. The ambulance.’

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head sadly.

‘I hardly see how this concerns me.’

‘Is there anyone else who lives here?’

‘No. I live alone. Who did you say called you?’

‘Well – if it’s not you, then... we’re sorry to have troubled you.’

‘Please. Do come in. I’m curious to know what all this is about.’

‘Are you unwell? Do you have chest pain?’

‘Look. Please – do come inside and sit down. I’m fascinated to know more about this. You say somebody called you?’

‘It could be a mistake. Have you had the ambulance out to you before?’

‘No. Why would I? Please – do come inside and let’s discuss this further.’

He shuffles back into the gloom.

There’s something vague about Mr Clutterby, beyond the usual distractions of old age. Something indistinct, drifting, poorly-held, like smoke in a sealed jar. If it wasn’t for his beautifully pressed three-piece suit and tie, he might not be there at all.  

We follow him inside.

The house is cavernous. A long hallway leading off into darkly shuttered rooms, draped chandeliers, the dull glimmer of gilt frames on walls. Cobwebs in unreachable corners. And a grand staircase that over the centuries must have resounded with a thousand buckled shoes, riding boots, school slippers and polished brogues; now, the only sound it knows is the hum of Mr Clutterby’s stair-lift, slowly following the curving rail to the silent rooms on the first floor.

Mr Clutterby has established himself in the drawing room, in a plush, scallop-backed chair, his legs folded, his elbows planted on the armrests and his liver-spotted hands linked together in a pensive arch beneath his nose. Through the window behind him the leaves of great shrubs crowd up against the glass; the room is furnished with ancient, elegantly veneered furniture; above the grand fireplace, the oval portrait of a lady in a plump silk dress and a floppy hat, a closed fan in her lap, a spaniel sitting at her feet looking up at her whilst she stares back at the painter with a languorous smile. There’s a resemblance between her and Mr Clutterby. I can imagine him putting out his hand, helping the woman out of the picture, and the two of them walking slowly out to the empty ballroom across the hall.

‘Now, tell me again what this is all about,’ he says.

The situation is suddenly clear to us, though. On a bow-legged table in the middle of the room is a yellow folder, stuffed full of ambulance report forms and ECGs.

‘May I?’

‘Of course. Be my guest. Now – I’m slightly confused by all this, but I have to say it’s nice to have a bit of company.’

The forms are all dated this year, some thirty or forty, all reporting the same thing. STML: short term memory loss, along with vascular dementia and some other, more minor ailments. Some of the forms describe the personal situation in great detail – how the family have been trying to persuade Mr Clutterby to move, the different care arrangements they’ve tried, none particularly effective or long-lasting. He’s at risk, of course. They’ve set up a CCTV camera in the hall, pointing at the door. Alarm buttons, carefully worded notices pinned up here and there.

‘This is the family home,’ says Mr Clutterby, unlacing his fingers to gesture around him. ‘We brought the children up here – when we weren’t travelling, of course. I was in the diplomatic service and we lived abroad a good deal. The middle east and so on. I used my contacts to gather information for the government, which of course is another way of saying I was a spy. An unlikely one, it has to be said. Six feet two in broad moustaches, suits from Savile Row. But there you are. My wife helped considerably. She was much less conspicuous. She looked more Germanic.’

 We run through some obs and take an ECG, all of which Mr Clutterby accepts with a slightly sad,  saintly passivity.

‘If you think it necessary’ he says. ‘It’s awfully good of you to bother. But as you can see, I’m on my own here. Ever since my wife died. We brought the children up here – when we weren’t abroad, of course. The diplomatic service,’ he says. ‘Six feet two in broad moustaches, suits from Savile Row, gathering information for the government. A spy, if you will. My wife helped, behind the scenes. She had a more Germanic look to her, you see. We met when I was a simple gunner.’

‘A gunner?’

‘Yes. In the artillery. We met at some sort of dance. In Kensington. But then I transferred over to military intelligence, learned a spot of Arabic. Enough to get by, and so on. I was in the diplomatic service. Six feet two in broad moustaches. Suits from Savile Row.’

Rae interrupts him to ask some medical questions; he waves them away impatiently.

‘Yes, yes, this is all very well,’ he sniffs. ‘But what I really want to know is – who sent you? Why are you here? It’s awfully nice of you to come and see me, and of course I do appreciate your company. But I fail to see what the problem is.’

‘It says in your records you suffer from short term memory loss.’

‘Well, my dear girl,’ he laughs. ‘When one has lived as long as I have, one tends to be a little forgetful. I’ve always prided myself on my powers of recall. I worked for the diplomatic service, gathering information for the government. A spy, to put it rather baldly....’

‘It looks like you called for help because you had chest pain, but then forgot about it. Do you think that sounds likely?’

‘No. I think it sounds highly unlikely.’

‘Do you have chest pain at the moment?’

‘No. I’m quite all right, thank you. Now look. What’s this all about?’

‘You see – I think people are worried about you living here all on your own, Mr Clutterby. If you can’t remember things from moment to moment, you’re at risk from unscrupulous people coming to the door and taking advantage of you.’

‘There was a chap the other day.’

‘What chap?’

‘I don’t know who he was. I certainly hadn’t called him. A sallow, shifty-looking individual. When I asked him what he wanted he said he’d come to see that the carpets matched. I said I wasn’t interested. He said he was coming in anyway. I said not a chance and I closed the door. He swore at me. He called me a fucking old dinosaur or some such, and sloped off down the drive. But you see, I’m not afraid of these people. I had training in self-defence.’

‘In the diplomatic service?’

‘Yes. They taught me how to stop a fellow in his tracks. Like this...’

He makes a palsied karate chop in the air.

‘Hah! Across the throat. Most effective, because they don’t see it coming, d’you see?’

‘Wow.’

‘You shouldn’t look so surprised. I was in the diplomatic service, you know. A spy, if you will. Gathering information for the government. Six feet two in broad moustaches. My wife helped, too. She looked more Germanic.’

the worst thing

When Vera tripped over the pavement and pitched head-first into the road – narrowly avoiding a passing taxi – the only thing she broke was the wrist of the hand she put out to save herself. A few people stopped, helping her up, fetching a chair, gathering her shopping together, calling for an ambulance. And now she sits on the truck cradling her arm, as frail and tremulous as a mouse that’s been rescued from a hawk.

‘Why do these things happen?’ she says, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘Ted’s due back from the day centre in half an hour and I won’t be there to meet him.’

A rummage through her handbag produces a scrunched up piece of paper with a couple of emergency numbers. I ring her son Keith to let him know what’s happened, and to organise something for Ted.

‘Keith’s had his problems, too. This is the last thing he needs. His wife left him the other day and ran off with his best friend. Oh, why do these things have to happen?’

‘You’ve got a lot going on, Vera. Let’s just take it one step at a time and take care of you for now. We can think about the rest in a minute.’

I put her arm in a sling along with a cool pack to reduce the swelling, and we set off for hospital.

After crying for a few minutes, she seems to settle down.

‘I’m seventy-eight,’ she says. ‘My husband’s got dementia and he’s going into a home for respite care. It’s all so unfair. These things shouldn’t happen to you when you get old. They just shouldn’t. I don’t have the energy anymore.’

I pass her some fresh tissues. She dabs at her nose.

‘What do you think?’ she says.

‘I think it’s a stressful time, Vera. And then breaking your wrist like that. It’s no wonder you’re upset.’

‘It is stressful,’ she says.

She looks down at her injured arm, and wiggles the fingers a little. ‘

How long do you think it’ll be in plaster?’

‘It’s hard to say. It depends what they find with the x-ray. I should think at least three weeks, though.’

She clicks her tongue, and then blows her nose again.

‘It’s just so unfair. I’m seventy-eight, you know.’

‘It’s a hard thing to say, but fairness doesn’t really come into it. Don’t you think? Bad things happen, young, old, who knows why? It’s just chance, I suppose. It never gets any easier. I mean, I heard this thing on the news the other day, about all the refugees crossing over into Turkey from Syria because of all the fighting. And this journalist said one of them was an old woman of a hundred. Imagine that! A hundred years old and running for your life.’

‘That’s terrible!’

‘It is terrible. So I suppose there’s always someone worse off. Not that it helps your situation, of course. You’ve still got a lot on your plate. But it’s worth thinking about from time to time.’

‘She was a hundred?’

‘A refugee.’

‘It’s a cruel world.’

‘Can be.’

‘I just don’t understand it.’

‘Anyway, let’s think about you for now. Let’s get a doctor to examine your wrist and see what needs doing. Keith’s taking care of things at home. And you’ve got a few weeks coming up with your husband in respite to rest and recover from your accident. Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.’

We ride to the hospital in silence for a while.

Eventually she looks at me again, a little more brightly.

‘Will it be busy up there? Will I have to wait a long time?’

‘There may be a little bit of a wait, it’s hard to say. The hospital’s been pretty hectic lately. Not just here – all over the country. It’s a national problem.’

‘All us old crocks,’ she says.

I laugh and shake my head.

‘It’s a number of things. But they’re working on it.’

‘I was up there a few months ago. With something else. I was waiting for hours in the waiting room.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’

‘Hours, it was. And then this pregnant lady came and sat down, and they called her straight in. Five minutes later she was walking out the door!’

‘I know. It’s confusing sometimes. But what happens is they triage the patients, so the ones who are potentially more serious get seen first. I don’t know about that pregnant lady, but it could be they referred her on to maternity.’

‘The worst thing is, she was black.’

I’ve come across this casual racism before, of course, quite often in older patients. It’s a chilling, disorienting experience. You think things are one way, suddenly they’re completely reversed. And all the empathetic feeling you’d built up vanishes, with as much of a lurch as if the floor had fallen away taking everything with it, and you’re left struggling to hold on to anything but the barest social nicety.

‘I don’t think that’s got anything to do with it,’ I say. ‘We’re all people, Vera.’

She detects a shift in the air, and wipes her nose on the tissue again.

‘It’s not right,’ she says after a moment or two. ‘I’m seventy-eight, you know.’

‘Yep.’

The ambulance rocks from side to side.

‘We’ll be there in a minute’ I say, and start gathering things together for a quick exit.

dear stan

There’s a statue in the centre of town, some minor nobility, a seventeenth century general perhaps, dressed in robes, the garland on his head counterbalanced by the substantial nose, one hand at his side with a scroll, the other outstretched – pointing in the direction of something important, glory, perhaps, or maybe a greater allowance from the public purse. The statue has a rich patina of copper green, supplemented by generous splashes of white; the hand and the nose and the garland are an ideal perches for gulls, keeping watch on the human traffic that flows beneath them right and left along the pavement.

Today, just after twelve, they’re watching an elderly man slumped on the shallow steps around the plinth, a sports bag off to the side, and a younger, cleaner looking guy on a mobile phone glancing up and down the street. Their attention is drawn not so much to the man or the young guy (although you never know what might come of these things), more to the scattering of liquorice allsorts around the old man. There’s too much activity at the moment to jump down and claim the sweets, but they know how to wait.

I’ve met Stanley before. Ex-army. Street drinker. Punchy, creatively obnoxious. I’ve always been struck by the tidiness of his moustache. His coat and trousers may be shiny from sleeping rough, his hands scuffed and filthy, but his moustache still has a parade-ground clip to it.

‘He says he needs help,’ says the young guy, putting his phone away. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter, but he looks in a bad way. I think he’s wet himself.’

‘Okay. Thanks for calling. We’ll be fine now.’

‘Did I do the right thing? I wasn’t sure...’

‘You absolutely did the right thing. It’s kind of you. Thanks for your help.’

He walks off.

‘Hello, Stanley. What’s going on with you today? Do you have any pain?’

We help him sit upright.

‘Yah fuppin’ conks. Ah’ll punch yah fuppin’ brains out. Ah’ll...’

‘Now, now, Stanley. There’s no need for that. We’re here to help you. We’re the ambulance – do you see? The ambulance. Now try to relax your fists and tell me what’s wrong today.’

‘Yah mutha-fuppin’ conk. Ah’ll cut yah. Ah’ll eat yah fuppin’ eyeballs.’

‘Stanley? Look at me? We’re not going to help you if you behave like this. Do you understand? Do not swear at us, please. Just tell us what’s wrong.’

He starts to cry.  

‘Mah boys’ he sobs. ‘Mah boys r’all dead. DEAD, yah fuppin’ bandstand. Yah don’ undersand. D’yous? D’yous?’

‘I’m sorry to hear it, Stanley. First things, first, though. It’s all a bit public here. Why don’t we get you on the ambulance and have a chat about it there? Yes? Come on. We’ll carry your bag.’

We help him up. He walks heavily, dragging his feet and pitching forwards, so we have to take a firm hold of his arms and shoulders. People make way for us, some of them looking horrified, some of them laughing. I know it must look as if we’re arresting the guy, but we can’t help it. He needs firm handling or he’ll have us all in the flowerbed.

‘Three steps up.’

Rae just has time to put a couple of inco pads down on the trolley before Stanley lands himself there. He seems to fall asleep instantly, and gives me an evil look when I prod him awake again.

‘Tell us what’s going on today, Stanley.’

He stares at me without talking.

‘Come on, Stanley. Enough with the Paddington Bear act. How are you feeling?’

He starts to laugh, a phony, pantomime-villain chuckle.

‘Don’t mess about, Stanley. Let’s have your arm out of your coat and we’ll do your blood pressure at least. Sit forwards for me.’

It’s a struggle. We’re both conscious of his fists as we work.

‘There. Thank you. Now then. Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Yah fuppin’ conk. Yah think yah sah brave, doncha? Yah mutha-fuppin’ conk. Ahm gonna rip yah heart out an’ feed it ta ma dog.’

‘What dog? Look – do you need our help, Stanley? If not, we’ll just release you back into the wild. Is that what you want? Do you want to get off the ambulance?’

‘Fine. Let me go.’

We undo the cuff and help him to sit up. He starts to fumble around in the pockets of his coat, eventually pulling out a wad of old letters, bus tickets and about thirty pounds cash.

‘Is tha’ enough to get some food?’ he says, holding it out.

‘Yes. You’ve got plenty there. So off you go and get yourself something nice.’

‘Fine. Okay. Yah fuppin’ conks, yous.’

We help him back down the steps and watch as he staggers back in the direction of the statue.

Five minutes later, the back of the ambulance cleaned up, we’re just about to climb in the cab and drive off when we see a young couple with a husky dog standing over Stanley at the foot of the statue. He’s sprawled there again, one arm raised up to the foot of the statue in a heroic attitude of suffering.

We go over to see what’s happening.

‘Oh! Hello! That was quick!’ says the young guy, taking the phone away from his ear. His girlfriend, the one with the dog, smiles at us. They’re both so incredibly cool – the dog, too, who pants and smiles benignly and seems ready to offer whatever help it can.

‘I think he’s having a heart attack or something. He said for me to call,’ says the young guy. ‘I hope I did the right thing.’

‘Yep. Absolutely. It’s kind of you to stop like this. We’ll sort things out from here.’

‘Thanks guys,’ he says.

‘We should totally work for the ambulance’ says the girl. ‘We made a call yesterday, too.’

‘I’ll give you a cut of my wages’ I tell her. ‘I think that’s only fair.’

She laughs, and they all wander off.

I pull on some fresh gloves and lean over Stanley. The gulls have cleaned up most of the liquorice allsorts.

I reach out and squeeze his shoulder, and say his name in a weary, sing-song kind of way: ‘Stanley, Stanley, Stanley’

He turns and squints up at me.

‘Yah fuppin conk’ he says.

the truth about john wayne

Even though it’s only half past six in the morning, Eloise is outside waiting to meet us. Immaculately dressed in a floral print jacket and tweed skirt, sensible leather flats, and a mustard yellow handbag hung with geometric precision over her left arm, she is as bright and neat and pressed as any picture you’d find in a catalogue.

She waves as we turn into the drive.

‘Are you the patient?’ says Rae, winding in the window down. It hardly seems possible – a ninety-four year old female with chest pain.

‘Yes’ she says, giving a little shrug, and turning the corners of her mouth down. ‘It’s probably nothing. I hope I’m not wasting your time.’

She steps up onto the ambulance with a neat little bob of the shoulders, and settles down on the trolley.

We set about taking a history, recording her obs, doing an ECG.  Eloise tells us the chest pain started yesterday, a niggly feeling in the centre of her chest. She thought it would ease off by itself so she didn’t do anything about it. Last night was uncomfortable though. She didn’t get any sleep, restlessly alternating between the bed and the chair. By dawn she was sure something was seriously wrong. She got herself ready, and made the call.

‘I tried talking to the pain. In my mind. D’you know? I do that where I can and it often does the trick. But unfortunately it wouldn’t let me go, so eventually I had to admit defeat and call on your good selves. Thank you for coming so promptly. I hope I haven’t disturbed your morning.’

I tell her it’s a pleasure.

Rae tears off the ECG strip.

‘Fast AF’ she says. ‘No wonder you’ve been having these niggles.’

‘I’m afraid it’s a trip up the hospital, Eloise,’ I tell her. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

‘My bag, my medications,’ she says, reaching out, touching each in turn. ‘Everything else,’ tapping the side of her head. ‘all the most important things, I keep up here.’

We set off.

* * *

‘I’m fascinated by birds,’ says Eloise. ‘Big ones, little ones. Birds of prey. In fact, I’m writing a story about a bird. A falcon.’

‘That sounds great. What happens to this falcon?’

‘Oh – I’ve no idea. I’ve got to do some research. Follow him around and see what he does, where he goes. But I read another book just yesterday about the stars and planets and so on. By that young professor, you know the one? Who’s lovely and enthusiastic and throws his arms about? Apparently he says there are two universes now. No doubt they’ll find more. Everything changes so quickly it’s difficult to keep up. Before that I was reading quite a trashy book about films. Do you like films?’

‘Yes. I love films.’

‘Do you know John Wayne? The cowboy? You know he’s very tall and wobbles about quite a bit? Well, do you know why he wobbles?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Tiny feet! Size six!’

‘My god! I’m amazed he could stay upright at all’

‘And do you know what they used to say about Paul Newman?’

‘I can guess.’

‘They said he was the perfect salesman. He could sell you anything. But despite that, he wasn’t able to talk himself into the navy as a young man. And do you know why?’

‘Small hands?’

‘Colour blind! But I like reading lots of different things. I must admit I was a bit disappointed in the last novel I read. Jilly Cooper. Quite a racy thing about horses. Oh – it was all right for a while, but then I turned one particular page and – goodness! I couldn’t possibly tell you what I read there, it was just too disgusting for words. So do you know what I did?’

‘Marked the page?’

‘No. I chucked the whole thing in the bin. Even though it was a hardback and cost me nine pounds ninety-nine. I know these things go on. I just don’t know why anyone would see fit to write about it. The next book was better, though.’

‘Jilly Cooper?’

‘No. James Patterson. Now he’s a writer. A few grisly murders, but not so many it gets you down. Most of the time he’s actually quite funny.’