‘They’re not like your usual anti-social neighbours. They know how to do it without getting caught. They come out at night. They do it at night, creeping around, squirting bug spray over the fence, soaking the fence with their disgusting chemicals, drilling holes so they can peek through. That’s why I had the CCTV installed, because otherwise you’d only imagine what they were doing and you’d go mad. But now I can catch them at it. They come round the front, lift the flap of the letterbox, and look through - spray through, they’re so vindictive. So spiteful. We’re terrified to go out or do anything. I’ve had rocks thrown into the garden. I daren’t let the cat out, and the dog I have to accompany out back when he needs the loo. We’re prisoners in our own house. They know it’s just me and my son. Thank god James spends half the week with his Dad. At least he gets some sort of break. They know what it’s doing to our health. We’ve been hospitalised with it. We’ve had the environmental health, the housing team, the police. Everyone knows about it but no-one seems willing or able to do anything and it’s absolutely destroying us.’
Mrs Enderby grasps the two hems of her dressing gown tightly together with both hands.
‘I’ve got a headache, shooting pains in the backs of my eyes, down my arms, my ears are ringing, my spine feels as if it’s on fire. I’m sick, dizzy, my chest is tight.’
She sits on the arm of the sofa. ‘But it’s James I’ve called you about.’
James Enderby is neatly arranged on the sofa, his long fair hair partially obscuring the sides of his face; he looks down at the scruffy little terrier lying with its head in his lap, and slowly strokes the fur between its ears.
‘And how are you feeling, James?’
He looks up.
‘I’ve got a headache and my breathing feels a bit tight.’
He holds his hands up; the dog opens its eyes, wondering why the stroking has stopped.
‘Pins and needles,’ he says, then lowers them back down, and carries on with the stroking.
‘We can’t go on like this,’ says Mrs Enderby, struggling not to cry. ‘It’s impossible. It’s a nightmare. I don’t know why no-one’s doing anything.’
The sitting room is so perfectly ordered, a tiny particle of wood I inadvertently walked onto the carpet from outside may as well have a police line around it; the fabric of the sofa has been hoovered to the ticking; a glass-fronted bookcase glints in a corner, each glass shelf with a central display of three figurines, precisely angled in, winged by dustless knick-knacks. A huge Swiss cheese plant rises up to the ceiling, holding a spread of dark, waxy leaves above our heads. There is an ancient cat asleep on a red and gold embroidered cushion beside the pot. It sneezes, then puts a paw over its face.
‘Everyone’s affected,’ says Mrs Enderby, getting up when she hears a car in the street outside and the motion detection lights snap on. The police.
‘They’re out in the front garden spraying all day and night,’ she says, dropping the curtain and moving to the hall. ‘They know what it’s doing to our health. We’ve had the windows shut all summer.’
She lets in two police officers. We hear her going through the latest developments in the hallway, her voice rising and falling in a monotonous sine wave of horror.
James carries on stroking the dog.
‘How’s your breathing now?’
‘A little better,’ he says.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
cold comfort
In the late 1980s I applied to half a dozen universities to study English. In the end, the only place that made me an offer was Exeter, primarily because I’d applied to study English and Drama combined. Even though I’d given yet another shaky interview, my audition for the drama department had gone well, and it was this, coupled with the fact I was in my twenties, and the admissions department were on a drive to recruit mature students, that swung it for me. Plus my girlfriend Stella was already there. So all in all, I scraped a place.
One weekend in February my old friend Simon came down to stay for a while. To clear our heads that Sunday morning, Simon, Stella and I had a late fry-up in town and then headed out to walk it off in the country. It was a stropped razor of a day; the world hard and blue around us. But it was good to walk; our lives felt as increasingly clear and outwardly bound as the empty road.
We headed North. The road gradually lost its suburban character, rising steadily out of town through open fields and woods, until about an hour later, on a whim, we took a track through an old stand of trees, and found ourselves stumbling up an overgrown track to an abandoned farmhouse.
‘Look at this.’
Stella struck a terrified pose beside a roughly nailed sign in red paint: Keep Out.
Beyond it, angled like so many cartoon warnings: Private Property. You have been warned. Trespassers will be.
‘Trespassers will be what?’
‘Shot.’
‘Stabbed.’
‘Disembowelled.’
‘He was so furious when he painted that one he bit it in half.’
‘What a psycho.’
But the house was definitively empty. All the panes in the windows were smashed. The front door hung inwards off the top hinge, revealing a dark and destructed interior.
‘I’m not going in there,’ said Simon. ‘Fuck that.’
‘Come on. Let’s carry on round.’
Stella led the way, ducking through a broken up post and stile fence, the timber of which was green with a dusty kind of mould.
As soon as we were through to the field beyond the farmhouse, Simon started. He dropped his face into a Karloff-style deadpan.
‘I’m afraid you’ve treth-pathed on my land and I am going to have to kill you.’
‘Arrrggghh.’
Stella ran with her arms straight up in the air, screaming. She pretended to trip and stretched herself out in the grass. I picked up a stick and machine-gunned Simon as he zombied towards her; he jerked with each bullet but wouldn’t go down. Finally he turned to me, snapped the machine gun in half, grabbed me by the neck and hurled me aside.
I lay still in the grass for a second or two, then sat up, laughing.
I heard Stella say: ‘What’s this?’ in her normal voice. When I looked over, I saw them both standing together, Simon holding out a black dinner jacket at arm’s length.
‘What’s that?’
I went over to have a look.
‘Somebody’s jacket.’
‘That’s quite smart.’
‘It’s soaking wet.’
‘Check the pockets.’
‘You check the pockets.’
‘All right.’
I pulled each one open and looked inside first, then carefully pulled out the contents by fingertip.
‘Any bullet holes?’ said Simon. ‘Any blood?’
‘It’s that crazy farmer,’ said Stella. ‘This is all that’s left of the last guy who trespassed.’
I pulled out a wallet, a pencil, a cotton handkerchief and a ball of rubber bands. The wallet had an out of date bus pass, a library card and a dry cleaning receipt. The bus pass carried the blurry photo of a smart elderly man, peering up into the camera on a photo booth chair he hadn’t been able to wind higher. The cotton handkerchief was stiff with spots of dark matter.
‘Well that certainly looks like blood to me.’
‘Oh.’
‘And look over there.’
Stella took a few steps on, bent down and picked up a shoe. And then seeing something else, hurried over, and slowly lifted up a pair of black trousers.
We stood there for a minute or two. Stella and Simon were casting nervous glances back at the farmhouse, but my attention had been caught by something else.
‘What’s that?’
‘Where?’
‘Over by the fence.’
‘Oh my god. It’s jacket guy.’
‘I think you might be right.’
I walked over, leaving Stella and Simon behind.
‘Be careful,’ she called out.
I smiled back at her, then directed all my attention to the figure.
‘Hello?’
He was lying on his right side with his back to me, wearing only a white shirt. His legs were obscured by the dip in the ground between the field and the fence; his shoulders looked folded in, like someone so deeply asleep they had moulded themselves to the terrain.
‘Hello?’
I took a few more steps forward. If it wasn’t for the freezing weather and the fact the man only had on a shirt, it would’ve looked like the most natural thing in the world to be taking a nap on his side in a field like this. But the warm glow from the walk and all our messing about had faded quickly, and even in my fleece I could feel the advancing chill of the afternoon.
‘Hello?’
Then I noticed something. Bird droppings on his hair. How long had he been there?
‘Hello? Are you all right?’
I reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. It was like rapping on a dense papier mache figure. I pulled him gently towards me, and as he collapsed back further into the dip I saw his decomposed face, spotted and dark, folded in on itself like a rotten apple.
‘He’s dead,’ I called back to the others.
‘Dead?’
‘Very.’
‘We’ve got to call the police.’
Simon pointed out a little cluster of cottages the far side of the field, behind a tall hedge.
‘They’ll have a phone.’
It took us five minutes to reach them. We didn’t say much as we trudged across the grass. Now and again, we’d look back towards the farmhouse, half expecting to see a crazed figure with a shotgun making up the distance between us.
When we reached the hedge, Simon climbed up onto a tree stump and looked over. We peered through beneath him.
An elderly woman was on her knees just the other side, weeding.
‘Hello?’ Simon said. The woman stopped weeding and looked around. ‘Hello! Up here! The hedge. That’s it. Hi. We wondered if you could help us? We came out for a walk and we found a body – a dead one – lying in the field behind me. I wonder if you could do us a favour and call the police?’
The woman stood up, kept hold of her trowel and backed away into the house.
After a while with nothing happening, Simon said: ‘Is she going to phone or what?’
Just then an elderly man came out.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Ah. Hello. We just wondered – could you call the police for us? Only we came out for a walk and we found a dead body.’
‘I certainly will call the police,’ the man said, frowning.
‘Right. Thanks.’
Simon jumped down.
We all went back through the grounds of the old farmhouse to flag the police down on the road. We stood there, stamping our feet and blowing on our fingers. I looked around to see if there was a warning sign we’d missed: Caution, corpse in field.
Three patrol cars turned up, and about a hundred officers got out. One of them was so tall, watching him get out of the car was like watching a magician pull a ladder out of a hat. When he was finally unfolded in front of us, he stretched about six feet six, his uniform pressed and perfect, silver on his epaulettes, a medal strip across his breast. He paused to put on his cap, adjusting it to the absolute angle, then stepped briskly over to us.
‘Are you the people who found a body?’ he said, chinning the air. ‘Could you take us to it, please?’
We turned and led them all past the warning signs and over to the post and stile fence. I waited for the Chief Inspector to say something about all the signs and why we’d chosen to ignore them, but he seemed content for us simply to retrace our steps and take us straight to the body. Simon and Stella ducked through the gap in the fence, I stood aside for the Chief Inspector to follow.
‘Thank you,’ he said. As he went through, he scraped his back on the panel, leaving a hideous green trail across his uniform. I fully expected to get in trouble for that, too. I followed after, the rest of the posse on my tail.
‘We found his jacket first,’ I said, as we came to the first spot. ‘Then his shoes, then his trousers.’
‘His trousers?’
‘I assume they’re his trousers.’
‘Is the body naked below the waist then?’
I thought about what I’d seen, how it was lying.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘No.’
We arrived at the fence, and hung back like naughty kids whilst the Chief Inspector and a couple of his colleagues walked over and prodded about for a moment. After a little while he gave some instructions, then came back.
‘You’ll need to come with us to the station to make a statement,’ he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his hands. ‘Separate cars. Purely routine.’
***
‘So you decided to go for a walk in the country?’ said the policeman in charge of interviewing me.
‘Spur of the moment thing, really. To clear our heads.’
‘Why were your heads not clear?’
‘Ah. You know. Late night. Cheap beer. You know.’
He made a note of it, then clicked his pen and settled back into his chair to review what he had so far. The interview room, a functional box with a high window and a security door, felt super-heated after the frigid winter afternoon. I took off my fleece and slung it over the back of my chair. The policeman looked at me.
‘Seasoned walker, are you?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Didn’t think so. I couldn’t help noticing your gear. Or lack of it. Your shoes, for example. Not what you’d call walking boots.’
I looked down at my trainers, then tucked my feet under the chair.
‘They’re all I have,’ I said, pathetically.
‘And you didn’t take a packed lunch?’
‘No. Like I said. Spur of the moment. We’d only just had breakfast.’
‘No maps or any way of telling where you were or where you were going?’
‘No.’
‘Protective clothing, it being mid-winter and all?’
‘No. Travelling light.’
The more we went over it, the more ridiculous it sounded.
The policeman screwed up his eyes and was quiet again, clicking his pen. Finally he said: ‘Why did you decide to walk in that particular field? The field where the body was?’
‘Why? No reason.’
‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. Yes - I suppose it was.’
‘It’s the middle of winter and you decide to take a walk, even though you don’t normally do that kind of thing and don’t have any equipment. You go randomly into any old field. And lo and behold there’s a dead body in it.’
‘That’s it.’
He clicked his pen again and leaned forward, ready to write.
‘Okay. I think we’d better get this all down so you can sign it.’
***
I was there two hours. Stella and Simon had been dealt with in half the time. They were sitting on their hands in the waiting room, blowing their cheeks out with boredom.
‘Finally,’ they said as I was let through the security door.
‘I’m going down,’ I said.
***
Weeks later, I was called down to the phone by my flat mate. The coroner’s office. A pleasant, administrative voice. The inquest had been held – all pretty straightforward, no need to have dragged me away from my studies to give evidence. The victim had been an in-patient of a unit for the elderly and mentally infirm. He had absconded one night before Christmas and disappeared. Who knows why he made his way out to that field? Probably succumbed to hypothermia, which would account for the shedding of the clothes. He had hurt his hand on barbed wire or something. His decay had been arrested by the cold weather. Very distressing, etcetera, and so on.
I thanked her for letting me know, put the phone down, stayed sitting on the bottom step for a while. I pictured the three of us, our walk out of town, the farmhouse, throwing ourselves down in the field; the Chief Inspector, catching his uniform on the fence; the old man, stumbling through the freezing dark, tearing off his black suit, ripping his hand, laying by the fence. I reached out to touch his shoulder.
I picked up the phone again.
One weekend in February my old friend Simon came down to stay for a while. To clear our heads that Sunday morning, Simon, Stella and I had a late fry-up in town and then headed out to walk it off in the country. It was a stropped razor of a day; the world hard and blue around us. But it was good to walk; our lives felt as increasingly clear and outwardly bound as the empty road.
We headed North. The road gradually lost its suburban character, rising steadily out of town through open fields and woods, until about an hour later, on a whim, we took a track through an old stand of trees, and found ourselves stumbling up an overgrown track to an abandoned farmhouse.
‘Look at this.’
Stella struck a terrified pose beside a roughly nailed sign in red paint: Keep Out.
Beyond it, angled like so many cartoon warnings: Private Property. You have been warned. Trespassers will be.
‘Trespassers will be what?’
‘Shot.’
‘Stabbed.’
‘Disembowelled.’
‘He was so furious when he painted that one he bit it in half.’
‘What a psycho.’
But the house was definitively empty. All the panes in the windows were smashed. The front door hung inwards off the top hinge, revealing a dark and destructed interior.
‘I’m not going in there,’ said Simon. ‘Fuck that.’
‘Come on. Let’s carry on round.’
Stella led the way, ducking through a broken up post and stile fence, the timber of which was green with a dusty kind of mould.
As soon as we were through to the field beyond the farmhouse, Simon started. He dropped his face into a Karloff-style deadpan.
‘I’m afraid you’ve treth-pathed on my land and I am going to have to kill you.’
‘Arrrggghh.’
Stella ran with her arms straight up in the air, screaming. She pretended to trip and stretched herself out in the grass. I picked up a stick and machine-gunned Simon as he zombied towards her; he jerked with each bullet but wouldn’t go down. Finally he turned to me, snapped the machine gun in half, grabbed me by the neck and hurled me aside.
I lay still in the grass for a second or two, then sat up, laughing.
I heard Stella say: ‘What’s this?’ in her normal voice. When I looked over, I saw them both standing together, Simon holding out a black dinner jacket at arm’s length.
‘What’s that?’
I went over to have a look.
‘Somebody’s jacket.’
‘That’s quite smart.’
‘It’s soaking wet.’
‘Check the pockets.’
‘You check the pockets.’
‘All right.’
I pulled each one open and looked inside first, then carefully pulled out the contents by fingertip.
‘Any bullet holes?’ said Simon. ‘Any blood?’
‘It’s that crazy farmer,’ said Stella. ‘This is all that’s left of the last guy who trespassed.’
I pulled out a wallet, a pencil, a cotton handkerchief and a ball of rubber bands. The wallet had an out of date bus pass, a library card and a dry cleaning receipt. The bus pass carried the blurry photo of a smart elderly man, peering up into the camera on a photo booth chair he hadn’t been able to wind higher. The cotton handkerchief was stiff with spots of dark matter.
‘Well that certainly looks like blood to me.’
‘Oh.’
‘And look over there.’
Stella took a few steps on, bent down and picked up a shoe. And then seeing something else, hurried over, and slowly lifted up a pair of black trousers.
We stood there for a minute or two. Stella and Simon were casting nervous glances back at the farmhouse, but my attention had been caught by something else.
‘What’s that?’
‘Where?’
‘Over by the fence.’
‘Oh my god. It’s jacket guy.’
‘I think you might be right.’
I walked over, leaving Stella and Simon behind.
‘Be careful,’ she called out.
I smiled back at her, then directed all my attention to the figure.
‘Hello?’
He was lying on his right side with his back to me, wearing only a white shirt. His legs were obscured by the dip in the ground between the field and the fence; his shoulders looked folded in, like someone so deeply asleep they had moulded themselves to the terrain.
‘Hello?’
I took a few more steps forward. If it wasn’t for the freezing weather and the fact the man only had on a shirt, it would’ve looked like the most natural thing in the world to be taking a nap on his side in a field like this. But the warm glow from the walk and all our messing about had faded quickly, and even in my fleece I could feel the advancing chill of the afternoon.
‘Hello?’
Then I noticed something. Bird droppings on his hair. How long had he been there?
‘Hello? Are you all right?’
I reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. It was like rapping on a dense papier mache figure. I pulled him gently towards me, and as he collapsed back further into the dip I saw his decomposed face, spotted and dark, folded in on itself like a rotten apple.
‘He’s dead,’ I called back to the others.
‘Dead?’
‘Very.’
‘We’ve got to call the police.’
Simon pointed out a little cluster of cottages the far side of the field, behind a tall hedge.
‘They’ll have a phone.’
It took us five minutes to reach them. We didn’t say much as we trudged across the grass. Now and again, we’d look back towards the farmhouse, half expecting to see a crazed figure with a shotgun making up the distance between us.
When we reached the hedge, Simon climbed up onto a tree stump and looked over. We peered through beneath him.
An elderly woman was on her knees just the other side, weeding.
‘Hello?’ Simon said. The woman stopped weeding and looked around. ‘Hello! Up here! The hedge. That’s it. Hi. We wondered if you could help us? We came out for a walk and we found a body – a dead one – lying in the field behind me. I wonder if you could do us a favour and call the police?’
The woman stood up, kept hold of her trowel and backed away into the house.
After a while with nothing happening, Simon said: ‘Is she going to phone or what?’
Just then an elderly man came out.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Ah. Hello. We just wondered – could you call the police for us? Only we came out for a walk and we found a dead body.’
‘I certainly will call the police,’ the man said, frowning.
‘Right. Thanks.’
Simon jumped down.
We all went back through the grounds of the old farmhouse to flag the police down on the road. We stood there, stamping our feet and blowing on our fingers. I looked around to see if there was a warning sign we’d missed: Caution, corpse in field.
Three patrol cars turned up, and about a hundred officers got out. One of them was so tall, watching him get out of the car was like watching a magician pull a ladder out of a hat. When he was finally unfolded in front of us, he stretched about six feet six, his uniform pressed and perfect, silver on his epaulettes, a medal strip across his breast. He paused to put on his cap, adjusting it to the absolute angle, then stepped briskly over to us.
‘Are you the people who found a body?’ he said, chinning the air. ‘Could you take us to it, please?’
We turned and led them all past the warning signs and over to the post and stile fence. I waited for the Chief Inspector to say something about all the signs and why we’d chosen to ignore them, but he seemed content for us simply to retrace our steps and take us straight to the body. Simon and Stella ducked through the gap in the fence, I stood aside for the Chief Inspector to follow.
‘Thank you,’ he said. As he went through, he scraped his back on the panel, leaving a hideous green trail across his uniform. I fully expected to get in trouble for that, too. I followed after, the rest of the posse on my tail.
‘We found his jacket first,’ I said, as we came to the first spot. ‘Then his shoes, then his trousers.’
‘His trousers?’
‘I assume they’re his trousers.’
‘Is the body naked below the waist then?’
I thought about what I’d seen, how it was lying.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘No.’
We arrived at the fence, and hung back like naughty kids whilst the Chief Inspector and a couple of his colleagues walked over and prodded about for a moment. After a little while he gave some instructions, then came back.
‘You’ll need to come with us to the station to make a statement,’ he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his hands. ‘Separate cars. Purely routine.’
***
‘So you decided to go for a walk in the country?’ said the policeman in charge of interviewing me.
‘Spur of the moment thing, really. To clear our heads.’
‘Why were your heads not clear?’
‘Ah. You know. Late night. Cheap beer. You know.’
He made a note of it, then clicked his pen and settled back into his chair to review what he had so far. The interview room, a functional box with a high window and a security door, felt super-heated after the frigid winter afternoon. I took off my fleece and slung it over the back of my chair. The policeman looked at me.
‘Seasoned walker, are you?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Didn’t think so. I couldn’t help noticing your gear. Or lack of it. Your shoes, for example. Not what you’d call walking boots.’
I looked down at my trainers, then tucked my feet under the chair.
‘They’re all I have,’ I said, pathetically.
‘And you didn’t take a packed lunch?’
‘No. Like I said. Spur of the moment. We’d only just had breakfast.’
‘No maps or any way of telling where you were or where you were going?’
‘No.’
‘Protective clothing, it being mid-winter and all?’
‘No. Travelling light.’
The more we went over it, the more ridiculous it sounded.
The policeman screwed up his eyes and was quiet again, clicking his pen. Finally he said: ‘Why did you decide to walk in that particular field? The field where the body was?’
‘Why? No reason.’
‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. Yes - I suppose it was.’
‘It’s the middle of winter and you decide to take a walk, even though you don’t normally do that kind of thing and don’t have any equipment. You go randomly into any old field. And lo and behold there’s a dead body in it.’
‘That’s it.’
He clicked his pen again and leaned forward, ready to write.
‘Okay. I think we’d better get this all down so you can sign it.’
***
I was there two hours. Stella and Simon had been dealt with in half the time. They were sitting on their hands in the waiting room, blowing their cheeks out with boredom.
‘Finally,’ they said as I was let through the security door.
‘I’m going down,’ I said.
***
Weeks later, I was called down to the phone by my flat mate. The coroner’s office. A pleasant, administrative voice. The inquest had been held – all pretty straightforward, no need to have dragged me away from my studies to give evidence. The victim had been an in-patient of a unit for the elderly and mentally infirm. He had absconded one night before Christmas and disappeared. Who knows why he made his way out to that field? Probably succumbed to hypothermia, which would account for the shedding of the clothes. He had hurt his hand on barbed wire or something. His decay had been arrested by the cold weather. Very distressing, etcetera, and so on.
I thanked her for letting me know, put the phone down, stayed sitting on the bottom step for a while. I pictured the three of us, our walk out of town, the farmhouse, throwing ourselves down in the field; the Chief Inspector, catching his uniform on the fence; the old man, stumbling through the freezing dark, tearing off his black suit, ripping his hand, laying by the fence. I reached out to touch his shoulder.
I picked up the phone again.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I show you beautiful
Amira is sitting on the edge of her divan bed, walking stick alongside her, hands palm up in her lap, an inhaler resting in the left, awaiting salvation. The raincoat she has somehow rolled on over the three or four layers of multi-coloured, knitted cardigans and jumpers strains dangerously at the buttons. Beneath the stifling layers, Amira’s legs are planted resolutely apart in brown ribbed stockings and a stiffly woven forest green skirt. Her feet are stuffed into two leather moccasins with homemade slits along the side for extra comfort, looking like two exotic fruit gone to seed. Amira tips her head from side to side, her eyes shut, wheezing out a prayer, whilst her daughter Farah, a twenty year old woman in jeans and t-shirt sets out two chairs for us to sit on the moment we enter the room.
‘Now then. What we can we do for you?’ says Frank, settling himself on the nearest chair and reaching out to feel her wrist.
‘I hurt breathe.’
Farah hovers respectfully. She translates for Frank when Amira lapses into Arabic.
I put together a nebuliser and gently ease it over Amira’s head, then sit back down with the board to write up the observations Frank calls out, along with other information I take from the numerous scripts Farah hands to me. Amira pats her daughter on the arm and speaks rapidly behind the mask.
‘Mama says she does not want to go to hospital. She has a doctor coming later this morning and wants to stay here to speak with him.’
‘Our advice is that she comes with us, of course. Tell her we’ll do a few more checks and decide what to do after that.’
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ says Amira, and reaches out to pat Frank on the cheek.
‘You’re welcome.’
The room itself is simply furnished, a strange mixture of religious icons, cosmetics, a laptop on a pile of college books, a gilt frame of ancient photographs and a Robert Pattinson poster. Amira’s camp bed is so out of place in the middle of the room I imagine it flying in through the window and whumping down in a cloud of scented handkerchiefs onto the stripped wooden floor.
Amira tugs Farah by the t-shirt and speaks urgently to her through the mask again.
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Farah. ‘May I offer you some coffee?’
Amira nods her head emphatically, and gestures towards the little studio kitchen.
‘Well – that would be lovely,’ says Frank.
‘Where are you from?’ he asks Amira.
‘Iraq. Baghdad.’
‘A beautiful city,’ he says. ‘Used to be.’
Amira waggles her head and tilts her palms to the ceiling.
‘Ah! Poor Baghdad. What happen is terrible, terrible. No good. P’ah.’
‘I was there in 2003,’ he says. ‘Dreadful.’
She pats his cheek again and admires him at arm’s length.
Farah comes back in carrying a silver tray with two intricately patterned china coffee cups and a couple of miniature Snickers. I clear a space on a footstool, she sets it down, then retreats back to her mother’s side.
The cardamom scented coffee lifts me out of the chair with its sweetness and strength.
‘Wow. That’s amazing.’
They both smile and nod.
Frank raises his cup to me. ‘This’ll straighten you out,’ he says. Then he knocks back the coffee, wipes his moustache, and takes hold of Amira’s hand again.
‘Habibti. Your breathing’s a little better but we’re still worried,’ he says, Farah speaking quickly and quietly over him in Arabic. ‘You’ve got high blood pressure and your temperature is up as well. When I listened to your chest just now I heard a few noises I’d like to get checked out further. I think we’d better take you to the hospital. And don’t worry about the doctor. We’ll ring to cancel.’
Amira follows each phrase carefully, animating each phrase with another turn of the hand, a tilt and shake of the head.
‘You beautiful,’ she says when he finishes. ‘Thank you. Thank you. When I better, you come Baghdad see me. I show you beautiful.’
‘One day,’ he says. ‘That’d be great. One day.’
Farah quietly collects our cups and empty wrappers onto the tray, then goes into the kitchen to make Frank another coffee. I haul our equipment back outside, stow it, prep the trolley and come back with a carry chair.
Amira greets me like a lost son.
‘Now then. What we can we do for you?’ says Frank, settling himself on the nearest chair and reaching out to feel her wrist.
‘I hurt breathe.’
Farah hovers respectfully. She translates for Frank when Amira lapses into Arabic.
I put together a nebuliser and gently ease it over Amira’s head, then sit back down with the board to write up the observations Frank calls out, along with other information I take from the numerous scripts Farah hands to me. Amira pats her daughter on the arm and speaks rapidly behind the mask.
‘Mama says she does not want to go to hospital. She has a doctor coming later this morning and wants to stay here to speak with him.’
‘Our advice is that she comes with us, of course. Tell her we’ll do a few more checks and decide what to do after that.’
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ says Amira, and reaches out to pat Frank on the cheek.
‘You’re welcome.’
The room itself is simply furnished, a strange mixture of religious icons, cosmetics, a laptop on a pile of college books, a gilt frame of ancient photographs and a Robert Pattinson poster. Amira’s camp bed is so out of place in the middle of the room I imagine it flying in through the window and whumping down in a cloud of scented handkerchiefs onto the stripped wooden floor.
Amira tugs Farah by the t-shirt and speaks urgently to her through the mask again.
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Farah. ‘May I offer you some coffee?’
Amira nods her head emphatically, and gestures towards the little studio kitchen.
‘Well – that would be lovely,’ says Frank.
‘Where are you from?’ he asks Amira.
‘Iraq. Baghdad.’
‘A beautiful city,’ he says. ‘Used to be.’
Amira waggles her head and tilts her palms to the ceiling.
‘Ah! Poor Baghdad. What happen is terrible, terrible. No good. P’ah.’
‘I was there in 2003,’ he says. ‘Dreadful.’
She pats his cheek again and admires him at arm’s length.
Farah comes back in carrying a silver tray with two intricately patterned china coffee cups and a couple of miniature Snickers. I clear a space on a footstool, she sets it down, then retreats back to her mother’s side.
The cardamom scented coffee lifts me out of the chair with its sweetness and strength.
‘Wow. That’s amazing.’
They both smile and nod.
Frank raises his cup to me. ‘This’ll straighten you out,’ he says. Then he knocks back the coffee, wipes his moustache, and takes hold of Amira’s hand again.
‘Habibti. Your breathing’s a little better but we’re still worried,’ he says, Farah speaking quickly and quietly over him in Arabic. ‘You’ve got high blood pressure and your temperature is up as well. When I listened to your chest just now I heard a few noises I’d like to get checked out further. I think we’d better take you to the hospital. And don’t worry about the doctor. We’ll ring to cancel.’
Amira follows each phrase carefully, animating each phrase with another turn of the hand, a tilt and shake of the head.
‘You beautiful,’ she says when he finishes. ‘Thank you. Thank you. When I better, you come Baghdad see me. I show you beautiful.’
‘One day,’ he says. ‘That’d be great. One day.’
Farah quietly collects our cups and empty wrappers onto the tray, then goes into the kitchen to make Frank another coffee. I haul our equipment back outside, stow it, prep the trolley and come back with a carry chair.
Amira greets me like a lost son.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
sea ghosts
Eighteen year old male, overdose/poisoning.
As we drive along the section of road indicated by the Satnav, we see two young men, one leaning back on the other. He manages to free a hand and wave to us; I pull alongside. Frank jumps out, and I follow.
‘What’s the problem?’ Frank says.
Our patient is dressed in a t-shirt and waistcoat and a pair of pink tights. The tights are stained and holed; he hasn’t any shoes, and his toes poke out onto the pavement.
‘He needs the hospital,’ says the patient’s friend.
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘He’s drunk.’
‘Apart from being drunk, is there anything else wrong?’
The patient bridles.
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he says, suddenly standing upright. ‘I just need some fish and chips. Take me to them.’
‘That’s not really our job, is it, mate? We’re not in the catering business.’
‘Come on,’ says the friend, looking over his shoulder. ‘You can see he’s had too much to drink. How am I supposed to get him home like this?’
‘Why don’t you talk about that whilst you get warm in the fish and chip shop?’
‘He can’t feel his feet.’
‘I would think that’s because he has no shoes on and it’s cold tonight.’
‘So you’re not going to do anything?’
Frank looks down at the pavement for a moment. When he looks back up, he is wearing a smile forged from pure steel.
‘Have you got a phone?’
‘Rupert? Where’s your phone?’
The patient puts his hands up in the air and closes his eyes as his friend kneels down in front of him and starts rummaging around in the front of his tights.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ says Frank, turning round. ‘Let’s go.’
I drive off far enough to keep us out of trouble and park by the side of the road. Frank finishes off his paperwork and we listen to the radio. When he finishes, he climbs out to have a cigarette before we clear up. I join him, the two of us quietly leaning against the bonnet. Night is coming down quickly now and the seagulls are heading out to sea. Blanched in the diffuse margins of light along the main drag, they swoop and call and then atomise above us through the deepening dark like ghosts.
As we drive along the section of road indicated by the Satnav, we see two young men, one leaning back on the other. He manages to free a hand and wave to us; I pull alongside. Frank jumps out, and I follow.
‘What’s the problem?’ Frank says.
Our patient is dressed in a t-shirt and waistcoat and a pair of pink tights. The tights are stained and holed; he hasn’t any shoes, and his toes poke out onto the pavement.
‘He needs the hospital,’ says the patient’s friend.
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘He’s drunk.’
‘Apart from being drunk, is there anything else wrong?’
The patient bridles.
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he says, suddenly standing upright. ‘I just need some fish and chips. Take me to them.’
‘That’s not really our job, is it, mate? We’re not in the catering business.’
‘Come on,’ says the friend, looking over his shoulder. ‘You can see he’s had too much to drink. How am I supposed to get him home like this?’
‘Why don’t you talk about that whilst you get warm in the fish and chip shop?’
‘He can’t feel his feet.’
‘I would think that’s because he has no shoes on and it’s cold tonight.’
‘So you’re not going to do anything?’
Frank looks down at the pavement for a moment. When he looks back up, he is wearing a smile forged from pure steel.
‘Have you got a phone?’
‘Rupert? Where’s your phone?’
The patient puts his hands up in the air and closes his eyes as his friend kneels down in front of him and starts rummaging around in the front of his tights.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ says Frank, turning round. ‘Let’s go.’
I drive off far enough to keep us out of trouble and park by the side of the road. Frank finishes off his paperwork and we listen to the radio. When he finishes, he climbs out to have a cigarette before we clear up. I join him, the two of us quietly leaning against the bonnet. Night is coming down quickly now and the seagulls are heading out to sea. Blanched in the diffuse margins of light along the main drag, they swoop and call and then atomise above us through the deepening dark like ghosts.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
the ventriloquists
There is a little girl working her way up to the top of the spider web climbing frame in the playground behind us, carefully picking a route through the intersecting ropes to the red and blue plastic cap at the top. I wonder if she’s climbing up there to get a better view of the scene: the middle aged woman standing on the pavement speaking urgently into a mobile phone, the three paramedics conferring behind an ambulance, a wild-haired old woman peering out through the window of a neat little corner cottage. But the girl on the climbing frame seems oblivious to all the fuss; once she reaches the top, she waves to a friend who is running over from the far side of the park, then turns and starts to make her way carefully back down again.
‘Betty’s next door neighbour says it’s all very uncharacteristic,’ says Geoff, the paramedic who was first on scene, his ambulance car standing off further off down the street.
‘Let’s hope so,’ says Frank.
‘Apparently she had a fall over the weekend, bished her head, hasn’t been herself since. When I got here she was running up and down the street in her nightie, screaming and carrying on. I tried to talk to her but she picked up half a brick and lobbed it at me, saying she was going to kill me. Then she ran back inside.’
‘What’s she doing now?’
‘I knocked on the door and she came running out again with her nails out like this.’ Geoff extends his hands into two claws, and snarls like a pantomime bear. ‘Wouldn’t listen to reason. So I thought I’d wait for back-up before I did anything else. I didn’t want her to get hurt.’
‘And the police?’
‘Should be here soon.’
‘Let’s go have a look then.’
Frank leads the way.
When Mary, the next door neighbour, sees us coming across, she finishes her phone call and waits, holding the phone up to her chest, gripped tightly, like a talisman.
‘I’ve just spoken to Betty’s son. He’s coming straight over, but he lives quite a way away. He says can you call him back?’
Geoff stays with Mary whilst Frank and I walk up the sheltered little path to Betty’s front door. He reaches out and knocks.
‘Betty? Betty – it’s the ambulance. Could we have a word?’
There is a scraping of chairs from inside, as if someone were making such a rush at the door they came straight through the furniture.
‘I’ve told them! I’ll kill you! Let me – leave me – will you...’
The door is thrown open and Betty stands there, breathing heavily, her loose and mottled flesh showing through the holes in her nightclothes. She is the very model of a crazy old lady, her hair blown out in a tufted shock of white, her eyes two points of black on a narrowing horizon. ‘You!’ she says, turning to look at me and letting go her hold on the door. ‘They said – it’s not – I’ll kill you!’ She steps outside onto the stone flags of the patio, the toes of her bare feet blue and swollen. She tries to rake at my arms, but I step to the side and manage to catch hold of her wrist. Frank catches the other.
‘Betty. Betty. Listen, love,’ he says. ‘Easy. We’re not here to hurt you. We just want to talk. People are worried about you.’
‘Let me go! Let me go!’ she spits, wrestling wildly with us, then suddenly giving up and leaning forwards. She begins sobbing in an awful way, dry and forced, without any natural root. ‘Let me go! Let me go!’
‘This won’t look great,’ says Frank, over the top of her hair. ‘Two grown men wrestling an old lady.’
‘Come on, Betty,’ I say, in the tone of a favourite nephew to an aunt. ‘Why don’t we go onto the ambulance and have a chat there? We’ve got some nice warm blankets.’
She suddenly changes again, straightening up and letting her arms go loose.’
‘I didn’t think,’ she says, looking squarely into my face. ‘They said – what if – why are you doing this?’ It’s a ripped and random monologue, poisonous wisps bubbling up through the vents in her rage.
‘Ha!’ she shouts, then lunges at me in an effort to take a bite out of my face. I’m forced to twist out of the way, and both Frank and I struggle to maintain control. She flops forwards again.
The police arrive; two officers hurry over to where we stand struggling on the patio.
‘This is Betty,’ says Frank. ‘Betty is eighty four.’
‘Hello Betty,’ says one of the officers, frowning at us, reaching out to touch her on the shoulder. But when she jerks upright again like a ghastly ventriloquist’s dummy, he flinches, and I can see he understands.
‘Betty’s next door neighbour says it’s all very uncharacteristic,’ says Geoff, the paramedic who was first on scene, his ambulance car standing off further off down the street.
‘Let’s hope so,’ says Frank.
‘Apparently she had a fall over the weekend, bished her head, hasn’t been herself since. When I got here she was running up and down the street in her nightie, screaming and carrying on. I tried to talk to her but she picked up half a brick and lobbed it at me, saying she was going to kill me. Then she ran back inside.’
‘What’s she doing now?’
‘I knocked on the door and she came running out again with her nails out like this.’ Geoff extends his hands into two claws, and snarls like a pantomime bear. ‘Wouldn’t listen to reason. So I thought I’d wait for back-up before I did anything else. I didn’t want her to get hurt.’
‘And the police?’
‘Should be here soon.’
‘Let’s go have a look then.’
Frank leads the way.
When Mary, the next door neighbour, sees us coming across, she finishes her phone call and waits, holding the phone up to her chest, gripped tightly, like a talisman.
‘I’ve just spoken to Betty’s son. He’s coming straight over, but he lives quite a way away. He says can you call him back?’
Geoff stays with Mary whilst Frank and I walk up the sheltered little path to Betty’s front door. He reaches out and knocks.
‘Betty? Betty – it’s the ambulance. Could we have a word?’
There is a scraping of chairs from inside, as if someone were making such a rush at the door they came straight through the furniture.
‘I’ve told them! I’ll kill you! Let me – leave me – will you...’
The door is thrown open and Betty stands there, breathing heavily, her loose and mottled flesh showing through the holes in her nightclothes. She is the very model of a crazy old lady, her hair blown out in a tufted shock of white, her eyes two points of black on a narrowing horizon. ‘You!’ she says, turning to look at me and letting go her hold on the door. ‘They said – it’s not – I’ll kill you!’ She steps outside onto the stone flags of the patio, the toes of her bare feet blue and swollen. She tries to rake at my arms, but I step to the side and manage to catch hold of her wrist. Frank catches the other.
‘Betty. Betty. Listen, love,’ he says. ‘Easy. We’re not here to hurt you. We just want to talk. People are worried about you.’
‘Let me go! Let me go!’ she spits, wrestling wildly with us, then suddenly giving up and leaning forwards. She begins sobbing in an awful way, dry and forced, without any natural root. ‘Let me go! Let me go!’
‘This won’t look great,’ says Frank, over the top of her hair. ‘Two grown men wrestling an old lady.’
‘Come on, Betty,’ I say, in the tone of a favourite nephew to an aunt. ‘Why don’t we go onto the ambulance and have a chat there? We’ve got some nice warm blankets.’
She suddenly changes again, straightening up and letting her arms go loose.’
‘I didn’t think,’ she says, looking squarely into my face. ‘They said – what if – why are you doing this?’ It’s a ripped and random monologue, poisonous wisps bubbling up through the vents in her rage.
‘Ha!’ she shouts, then lunges at me in an effort to take a bite out of my face. I’m forced to twist out of the way, and both Frank and I struggle to maintain control. She flops forwards again.
The police arrive; two officers hurry over to where we stand struggling on the patio.
‘This is Betty,’ says Frank. ‘Betty is eighty four.’
‘Hello Betty,’ says one of the officers, frowning at us, reaching out to touch her on the shoulder. But when she jerks upright again like a ghastly ventriloquist’s dummy, he flinches, and I can see he understands.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
two bears
Each floor of the block has an open balcony running the length of the building; here and there a porch light cuts the general gloom, but mostly the place is as warm and inviting as a gun emplacement. Up on the top floor I can see the figure of a man standing in silhouette, smoking, leaning over the parapet, watching as we lock the ambulance and walk across the grass to the front entrance.
Our patient answers immediately; was he waiting by the door?
‘Come on up. Second landing.’
We find Harry standing in the middle of the sitting room in his coat and slippers, a hospital property carrier bag of medication and night things in his hand.
‘Shall we be off, then?’ he says.
‘Hang on a minute. Let’s just get some idea of the problem first.’
‘Righto.’
He goes over to the armchair that dominates the room, a worn corduroy throne facing the TV, a spindly Ercol table by the side of it with a glass of milk, a TV guide, a pen and a remote control. He sits on the edge of the seat, and begins nervously turning his wedding ring round and round.
‘I’m not well,’ he says. ‘I can’t stay here tonight. Not like this.’
‘We were told in our notes that you discharged yourself from a respite centre this morning.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It was too noisy. I couldn’t get any sleep.’
‘Why were you at the respite centre in the first place?’
‘I’d been in hospital for a couple of weeks with a chest infection.’
‘And how is that now?’
‘Bad. Very bad.’
As if to illustrate, he purses his lips and puffs out his cheeks slightly with each breath.
‘Very bad.’
‘Do you have any pain anywhere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the pain?’
‘All over. I’ve got pain all over my body.’
‘Any new pain?’
‘No. I’ve had it for years. But it’s bad. Very bad.’
The room has a reduced feel to it, like someone had decided to dress a set with the smallest number of clues to the occupant’s life: a framed military badge, a boomerang, a toy steam train on a specially constructed shelf, and taking up half of the sofa that faces the armchair, a giant chocolate-coloured teddy bear.
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘My wife’s in a special home. Dementia.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
‘I’m trying to get there myself. You couldn’t take me, could you?’
‘I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight, Harry.’
‘Oh.’
Frank places an oriental style pouffe by the side of Harry’s chair and runs through the usual observations. Harry offers out his arm with the compliance of the habitual patient. Everything seems fine.
‘So. We need to figure out what’s the best course of action, Harry. Especially given the late hour.’
‘Hospital then, is it?’
‘Not necessarily. Do you have carers coming in to help?’
‘Four times a day. But they’re no good. You see – the thing is – I just can’t sleep. I’ve tried and tried but I just can’t get off.’
‘If that’s the only problem, Harry, maybe we could think of something better and more comfortable than simply dragging you off to hospital. Maybe we could get the out of hours doctor to prescribe you something to help.’
‘I’d rather go to hospital.’
‘It’s highly unlikely they’ll do anything for you. You’ll be monitored on a trolley for a few hours, then sent back home. In the early hours. Freezing cold.’
‘At least I could get some sleep.’
‘It’s even noisier at the hospital, though, Harry. All those bright lights. All that – commotion.’
‘I’d rather go, thanks.’
I put the clipboard on the floor and settle back on the sofa.
Harry stares across at me.
I reach out and scratch the teddy behind the ears.
‘I like your bear, Harry.’
‘Do you? My wife bought it. Two of them, actually. A matching pair. She’s got the other one.’
From outside the flat, the sound of shrieking, a car door slamming.
Harry reaches down, picks up the carrier bag of stuff and stands up.
‘Shall we be going then?’ he says.
Our patient answers immediately; was he waiting by the door?
‘Come on up. Second landing.’
We find Harry standing in the middle of the sitting room in his coat and slippers, a hospital property carrier bag of medication and night things in his hand.
‘Shall we be off, then?’ he says.
‘Hang on a minute. Let’s just get some idea of the problem first.’
‘Righto.’
He goes over to the armchair that dominates the room, a worn corduroy throne facing the TV, a spindly Ercol table by the side of it with a glass of milk, a TV guide, a pen and a remote control. He sits on the edge of the seat, and begins nervously turning his wedding ring round and round.
‘I’m not well,’ he says. ‘I can’t stay here tonight. Not like this.’
‘We were told in our notes that you discharged yourself from a respite centre this morning.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It was too noisy. I couldn’t get any sleep.’
‘Why were you at the respite centre in the first place?’
‘I’d been in hospital for a couple of weeks with a chest infection.’
‘And how is that now?’
‘Bad. Very bad.’
As if to illustrate, he purses his lips and puffs out his cheeks slightly with each breath.
‘Very bad.’
‘Do you have any pain anywhere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the pain?’
‘All over. I’ve got pain all over my body.’
‘Any new pain?’
‘No. I’ve had it for years. But it’s bad. Very bad.’
The room has a reduced feel to it, like someone had decided to dress a set with the smallest number of clues to the occupant’s life: a framed military badge, a boomerang, a toy steam train on a specially constructed shelf, and taking up half of the sofa that faces the armchair, a giant chocolate-coloured teddy bear.
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘My wife’s in a special home. Dementia.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
‘I’m trying to get there myself. You couldn’t take me, could you?’
‘I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight, Harry.’
‘Oh.’
Frank places an oriental style pouffe by the side of Harry’s chair and runs through the usual observations. Harry offers out his arm with the compliance of the habitual patient. Everything seems fine.
‘So. We need to figure out what’s the best course of action, Harry. Especially given the late hour.’
‘Hospital then, is it?’
‘Not necessarily. Do you have carers coming in to help?’
‘Four times a day. But they’re no good. You see – the thing is – I just can’t sleep. I’ve tried and tried but I just can’t get off.’
‘If that’s the only problem, Harry, maybe we could think of something better and more comfortable than simply dragging you off to hospital. Maybe we could get the out of hours doctor to prescribe you something to help.’
‘I’d rather go to hospital.’
‘It’s highly unlikely they’ll do anything for you. You’ll be monitored on a trolley for a few hours, then sent back home. In the early hours. Freezing cold.’
‘At least I could get some sleep.’
‘It’s even noisier at the hospital, though, Harry. All those bright lights. All that – commotion.’
‘I’d rather go, thanks.’
I put the clipboard on the floor and settle back on the sofa.
Harry stares across at me.
I reach out and scratch the teddy behind the ears.
‘I like your bear, Harry.’
‘Do you? My wife bought it. Two of them, actually. A matching pair. She’s got the other one.’
From outside the flat, the sound of shrieking, a car door slamming.
Harry reaches down, picks up the carrier bag of stuff and stands up.
‘Shall we be going then?’ he says.
Friday, October 15, 2010
whatever you call it
A woman waves to us from the entrance to a partially grassed alleyway, then turns and hurries back along it. We follow her halfway up to where her partner Craig is lying flat on his back, groaning and clutching his arm, his dispatch bike lying on its side nearby.
‘Don’t move your head at all, Craig,’ I say as I crouch down beside him. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
Between strangled gasps of pain he describes how he was coming out from the garage at the back, riding the bike at a walking pace; how a cat had jumped down off a fence in front of him; how he’d touched the front brake, the wheel had slid out into a deep furrow, pitching him over onto his side, and his left arm.
‘I think I’ve broken it,’ he says.
The villain of the piece, a rough, square cut, ginger and white tom cat, sits on top of a low wall to our right, innocently licking a paw.
The arm seems to be Craig’s only injury; everything else checks out. We give him Entonox to dull the pain, then set about helping him up. It takes all three of us. With Craig bulked out in all his biker gear - t-shirt, sweat shirt, wax jacket, fluorescent jerkin, leather trousers, buckled boots – we’re like three feeble villagers struggling to right a statue that’s fallen off its plinth. Once he’s upright, Craig pauses for a moment to take a few more trembling intakes of gas, then with a series of groans and swearwords, staggers between us to the ambulance. We sit him on the trolley.
‘I have to cut your jacket off.’
He starts to laugh, the gas making the intensity of his predicament – the grinding pain, the sickeningly disjointed sensation in his upper arm, the confined space of the ambulance and who knows what else - profoundly unsettling. He closes his eyes and clenches his face, to ride out the laugh, to escape the pain.
‘Jesus God it hurts,’ he says.
‘Keep going with the gas.’
We cut the jacket off and the layers beneath it, exposing the site of the injury. Gross mobility in the centre of his upper arm; the skin bulging dangerously when he repositions himself on the trolley. We immobilise his arm as best we can with a vacuum splint, then set off.
***
Back at the nurse’s station later that day a doctor obliges us by tapping Craig’s name into the computer and bringing up his x-ray.
‘That’s the fellow. Ouch.’
Through the translucent ghost of Craig’s flesh the outline of his fractured humerus, the central section neatly punched out in a ragged, trapezoid shape.
‘Is that what you’d call a comminuted fracture, then?’
‘Yep. That’s it.’
Another doctor who’d been standing alongside him at the counter writing up a report looks up, leans across, and taps the screen with his pen.
‘Actually, no. Not anymore. We’re supposed to call them multi-fragmentary fractures these days.’
‘Multi-fragmentary? Since when?’
‘Since – forever.’
‘Why did they change it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says, going back to his report. ‘Maybe they thought comminuted was too obscure.’
‘It took me ages to remember comminuted.’
‘Multi-fragmentary’s more descriptive.’
‘Well, hello! Welcome to the world of medicine! The whole thing’s founded on obscure words no-one can remember.’
The other doctor shrugs again.
The first one looks back at the screen.
After studying the screen for a second or two more he sighs, shuts the window down and says: ‘It’s going to hurt, whatever you call it.’
‘Don’t move your head at all, Craig,’ I say as I crouch down beside him. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
Between strangled gasps of pain he describes how he was coming out from the garage at the back, riding the bike at a walking pace; how a cat had jumped down off a fence in front of him; how he’d touched the front brake, the wheel had slid out into a deep furrow, pitching him over onto his side, and his left arm.
‘I think I’ve broken it,’ he says.
The villain of the piece, a rough, square cut, ginger and white tom cat, sits on top of a low wall to our right, innocently licking a paw.
The arm seems to be Craig’s only injury; everything else checks out. We give him Entonox to dull the pain, then set about helping him up. It takes all three of us. With Craig bulked out in all his biker gear - t-shirt, sweat shirt, wax jacket, fluorescent jerkin, leather trousers, buckled boots – we’re like three feeble villagers struggling to right a statue that’s fallen off its plinth. Once he’s upright, Craig pauses for a moment to take a few more trembling intakes of gas, then with a series of groans and swearwords, staggers between us to the ambulance. We sit him on the trolley.
‘I have to cut your jacket off.’
He starts to laugh, the gas making the intensity of his predicament – the grinding pain, the sickeningly disjointed sensation in his upper arm, the confined space of the ambulance and who knows what else - profoundly unsettling. He closes his eyes and clenches his face, to ride out the laugh, to escape the pain.
‘Jesus God it hurts,’ he says.
‘Keep going with the gas.’
We cut the jacket off and the layers beneath it, exposing the site of the injury. Gross mobility in the centre of his upper arm; the skin bulging dangerously when he repositions himself on the trolley. We immobilise his arm as best we can with a vacuum splint, then set off.
***
Back at the nurse’s station later that day a doctor obliges us by tapping Craig’s name into the computer and bringing up his x-ray.
‘That’s the fellow. Ouch.’
Through the translucent ghost of Craig’s flesh the outline of his fractured humerus, the central section neatly punched out in a ragged, trapezoid shape.
‘Is that what you’d call a comminuted fracture, then?’
‘Yep. That’s it.’
Another doctor who’d been standing alongside him at the counter writing up a report looks up, leans across, and taps the screen with his pen.
‘Actually, no. Not anymore. We’re supposed to call them multi-fragmentary fractures these days.’
‘Multi-fragmentary? Since when?’
‘Since – forever.’
‘Why did they change it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says, going back to his report. ‘Maybe they thought comminuted was too obscure.’
‘It took me ages to remember comminuted.’
‘Multi-fragmentary’s more descriptive.’
‘Well, hello! Welcome to the world of medicine! The whole thing’s founded on obscure words no-one can remember.’
The other doctor shrugs again.
The first one looks back at the screen.
After studying the screen for a second or two more he sighs, shuts the window down and says: ‘It’s going to hurt, whatever you call it.’
Monday, October 11, 2010
homework
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?’
‘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?’
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.
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