Mr
Weston lies on his back on the trolley, staring up at the lights in the
hospital ceiling as we wheel him through. A large, fleshy man in his seventies,
he’s been here a couple of days post-fall; now we’ve been asked to transfer him
to a specialist neurological centre.
Just
before we go into the lift, a woman and her young son appear in the lobby.
‘Is it
all right if we…?’
‘Plenty
of room.’
She
hesitates, but everyone knows how slow these lifts are; it’ll be a while before
the next one. She comes on, hugging the boy to her, occupying as little space
as possible up near the buttons.
Suddenly,
for the first time since loading him on the trolley, Mr Weston stirs.
‘…and the
trajectory of the bullet was such that enormous
trauma was experienced…. given the size and
velocity of the round… massive
cavitation….fully investigated, of course…’
The
woman hugs her boy, one arm round his body, one round his head to cover his
ears. I try to catch her eye, to reassure her they’ll be all right, but
actually I’ve no idea what Mr Weston will say next.
She
keeps her head down, staring at the floor as we descend.
Mr
Weston is in a strange, dreamlike state. If you ask him a direct question he’ll
answer, but then quickly trail off into some ongoing lecture about ballistic
trauma.
‘Were
you in the army before you retired?’ I ask him.
He rolls
his eyes, his fattened senses trying to locate the source of the question.
Without actually seeing me, he smiles and lifts a heavy hand.
‘Yes,
sir. Twenty-five years a soldier.’
He moistens
his lips, then sinks again.
‘…but
then after the impact, the collateral damage… of course subsequent studies have
borne this out… trauma volumes, kinetics… the pathways aren’t always easily anticipated,
the geometry of these things is often complicated…’
It’s late at night. I wait with Mr Weston as
Rae ducks outside to the ambulance to put the ramp down and open the doors. The
wind cuts around her, barrelling through the great artificial valley of these
hospital buildings; when we wheel Mr Weston out, the blankets we’ve so
carefully tucked around him are pulled aside.
‘Soon
have you in the warm.’
‘Yes. Of
course,’ he says. ‘This is the problem.’
*
Mr
Weston is lulled by the gentle rocking of the ambulance and the low-lit cabin.
Now and again his eyes flicker open and he frowns, as if he’s mildly surprised
to find himself on his back. I read his notes, make some observations, but with
everything stable and not much to do, the warmth of the cabin, the gentle light
and the hushing and splashing of the tyres along the wet road, it’s a struggle not
to fall asleep myself. At one point the ambulance seems to jolt, and when I put
my hand out I’m temporarily disoriented. Did the ambulance go over a bump, or
was it me jerking awake?
Mr
Weston has his eyes open as well. He makes vague alterations to his blankets as
he stares up at the ceiling.
‘Almost
there,’ I say. ‘Not long now.’
‘I was a
teacher,’ he says, unexpectedly. ‘In civvy street.’
‘Oh? Really?
What was your specialty?’
He pauses,
then seems to melt away into the word:
‘Engineering…’
2 comments:
Amazing what floats around in our brains Spence,most of it not for public consumption of course,but occasionally it comes tumbling out.
It was amazing that his interior monologue was so coherent - almost as if in his mind he was with other people, talking about this technical stuff. I must admit I was relieved he didn't launch into anything more graphic with the little boy in the lift.
God knows what I'd ramble on about if I was in a similar position. (Probably not much different to how I am now, I expect).
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