Suddenly a curtain of fine water sweeps down from the night sky and closes across the world. I’m piloting a submarine, the headlamps straining forwards through the gloom; somebody clutching an umbrella glides past like a jellyfish; I see an elderly woman standing in a lighted doorway, clutching a dressing gown together at her chest with one hand and waving with the other; we turn out of the cab and swim across the pavement towards her.
‘What a night!’
‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m afraid Geoffrey isn’t too good. I just can’t seem to wake him.’
Her bungalow is a warm, yellow sanctuary. The water cascades noisily just behind us beyond the open door, but in here the air is quiet and bright, the walls neatly painted, hung with delicate portraits of people, and dogs, and people with dogs – on a low walnut table guarding the hallway is a marble statue of a Jack Russell, sitting on its haunches looking backwards over its shoulder, as if it had been turned to stone in the middle of a walk.
‘Through here.’
A black and white photograph of a young pilot; an oil painting of a young woman; a row of framed kennel club certificates.
And into a clinically white room where Geoffrey lies slumped on a pneumatic bed, his puffy face flushed red, breathing noisily. He has a nasal canula leading off to a cylinder of oxygen, and a catheter leading out from under the bed sheets to a bag hung on the side.
‘Geoffrey? Hello, Geoffrey – it’s the ambulance.’
He opens his eyes and grunts slightly. We sit him more upright and check him over.
Rae finds the care folder – emphysema, palliative care at home, no DNR.
Geoffrey’s wife Jean touches me on the arm.
‘I didn’t know what to do. I can’t cope if he’s as bad as this.’
It’s late at night. Despite the palliative care order, there’s nothing else available to us but to take him to hospital. We ask Geoffrey if he wants to go, and he nods.
‘Don’t worry, Jean. We’ll take good care of him.’
We can just fit the trolley into the house. I feel bad about the tracks the wheels make down the carpet, but Jean waves that aside. I have to move the table and the statue of the terrier to get along the hallway.
‘Ah, Gertie,’ says Jean, patting the statue on the head. ‘She was a good dog.’
I put the statue to one side, just by the doorway to the sitting room.
***
As we wheel Geoffrey back along the hallway, Jean asks us to wait a moment whilst she says goodbye to her husband. She pushes a few strands of white hair away from his eyes, looks at him intently, then kisses him lightly on the lips. He barely responds.
‘I hate to see him go to the hospital on his own, but I just can’t cope.’
‘It’s okay, Jean. No one will think badly of you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Get some rest tonight. Call the hospital in the morning.’
She gives him one last stroke on the arm and we carry on down the hallway.
Looking ahead out of the front door, it seems as if the rain has stopped. We pass the living room. Gertie is there, looking over her shoulder. I expect her to run after us as we manoeuvre the trolley over the front step and head out into the shining dark.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
rock and roll
Even if we had no experience of the area we’d know this block was trouble; it takes Mr Jessop about a minute to let us in his front door, with a formidable scraping of bolts, catching of locks, rattling of chains, sliding of metal props. Finally he peeps round the opening, a frail, crinkle-cut old man in shiny trousers, button down shirt and a white wig so conspicuous it could be a nylon mop-head placed carefully on his head for a prank.
‘Come in,’ he smiles, and carefully shuts the door behind us.
‘This way.’
We follow him into the flat; he plops himself back down in his command chair, a patchy, corduroy affair quietly steaming in front of a cylindrical fire so old it’s a surprise to see it runs on electricity.
‘I’ve got this pain,’ Mr Jessop says, leaning to one side. ‘Just here.’ He rubs the right side of his abdomen. ‘The last lot checked me over and said they couldn’t find anything wrong, but it’s really no better.’
‘When were they here?’ I ask him, looking at his clock. Five in the morning. The room is so hot I feel myself being drawn down into a stifling pit of unconsciousness. ‘The ambulance,’ I add, suddenly opening my eyes wide and wondering for a moment if I’d actually passed out.
‘Early,’ he says. ‘About two.’
‘Did they leave a sheet?’
He points to the table.
Everything is lined up. A comb wrapped in a single sheet of kitchen towel; a pen, a pencil and a shopping list; a cardboard sign saying water off; a glasses case; a list of phone numbers; three packets of medication, and a German phrase book.
‘Do you have any relatives nearby?’
‘My sister and her husband live up in Scotland,’ he says, then adds: ‘She’s not well,’ as if she’d be round every day if she was.
I find the ambulance sheet and read through it.
‘It says here you did some vigorous dancing last night?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I was up at the community centre.’
‘What kind of vigorous dancing?’
‘Jive. It’s coming back, apparently.’
I try to imagine Mr Jessop jiving. His wig falling over his eyes.
‘Do you think you might have injured yourself – erm – jiving?’
‘It’s possible,’ he says, rubbing his side. ‘It was a bit sore after.’
‘Everything checks out,’ says Rae, taking off the BP cuff. ‘How old did you say you were, Mr Jessop?’
‘Eighty two.’
‘Well, your blood pressure’s better than mine.’
When he smiles his silvery teeth crackle audibly.
‘I look after myself,’ he says.
‘Come in,’ he smiles, and carefully shuts the door behind us.
‘This way.’
We follow him into the flat; he plops himself back down in his command chair, a patchy, corduroy affair quietly steaming in front of a cylindrical fire so old it’s a surprise to see it runs on electricity.
‘I’ve got this pain,’ Mr Jessop says, leaning to one side. ‘Just here.’ He rubs the right side of his abdomen. ‘The last lot checked me over and said they couldn’t find anything wrong, but it’s really no better.’
‘When were they here?’ I ask him, looking at his clock. Five in the morning. The room is so hot I feel myself being drawn down into a stifling pit of unconsciousness. ‘The ambulance,’ I add, suddenly opening my eyes wide and wondering for a moment if I’d actually passed out.
‘Early,’ he says. ‘About two.’
‘Did they leave a sheet?’
He points to the table.
Everything is lined up. A comb wrapped in a single sheet of kitchen towel; a pen, a pencil and a shopping list; a cardboard sign saying water off; a glasses case; a list of phone numbers; three packets of medication, and a German phrase book.
‘Do you have any relatives nearby?’
‘My sister and her husband live up in Scotland,’ he says, then adds: ‘She’s not well,’ as if she’d be round every day if she was.
I find the ambulance sheet and read through it.
‘It says here you did some vigorous dancing last night?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I was up at the community centre.’
‘What kind of vigorous dancing?’
‘Jive. It’s coming back, apparently.’
I try to imagine Mr Jessop jiving. His wig falling over his eyes.
‘Do you think you might have injured yourself – erm – jiving?’
‘It’s possible,’ he says, rubbing his side. ‘It was a bit sore after.’
‘Everything checks out,’ says Rae, taking off the BP cuff. ‘How old did you say you were, Mr Jessop?’
‘Eighty two.’
‘Well, your blood pressure’s better than mine.’
When he smiles his silvery teeth crackle audibly.
‘I look after myself,’ he says.
Monday, August 16, 2010
medusa from the bingo
When we pull up outside the smart block of flats, there are two patrol cars and a video surveillance unit double parked either side. Rae puts the ambulance where she can, and we hurry up the steps into the lobby, a neat little area with a leather sofa, a potted plant, and a table with a spread of pamphlets.
‘Just going in now,’ says the young buzz-cut officer into his shoulder radio; his black flak jacket, radio and tattoos all of a piece, like an outfit rented from a fancy dress shop.
The call had been dramatically concise: Female, 76. Collapse behind locked doors. Son on scene. Police en route.
The son, an extruded beard of a man in a tired blue jumper and sandals nods anxiously as we join the back of the queue outside his mother’s door.
‘Go for it!’
Buzz Cut draws his enormous boot back and starts kicking at the door. As he draws away each time and slams repeatedly into the panels, we all lean in to study the way the door shudders, passing comment on the locks and bolts that may or may not be employed on the other side.
‘She wasn’t well when I left her,’ the son says. ‘Puffing and blowing. I phoned to say goodnight and didn’t get an answer.’
We wait to one side as Buzz Cut redoubles his efforts. Another team comes through the lobby carrying an iron battering ram between them.
‘We’ve brought the key,’ one of them says.
Suddenly there is a shrill cry from the entrance.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
An outraged woman stands in the frame of the glass doors, her bag slack on her shoulder, her keys held up in mid-air, as if they held some power to make things explicable.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare do that!’
She hurries forward, brushing aside anyone not in direct contact with the carpentry.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
The son comes forward and puts his hands on her shoulders.
‘Mum. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’
‘I was at the bingo,’ she cries.
The buzz-cut officer wipes his forehead and presents himself to the woman.
‘Your son thought you may have collapsed,’ he said. ‘He was worried.’
‘I went to the bingo,’ she shouts. ‘Is that such a crime? Get away from my door.’
She puts her keys in the lock and begins rattling them speculatively.
‘She seems fine,’ I say to Buzz Cut. ‘We’ll be off.’
I pick up the resus bag and discreetly reverse down the hall.
Everyone leaves quickly; when I look back, the only people left standing there are Buzz Cut and Sandal Son, leaning back from Angry Woman, who is shaking her keys in their face, and swinging her tresses from side to side like a mop of blanched snakes.
‘Just going in now,’ says the young buzz-cut officer into his shoulder radio; his black flak jacket, radio and tattoos all of a piece, like an outfit rented from a fancy dress shop.
The call had been dramatically concise: Female, 76. Collapse behind locked doors. Son on scene. Police en route.
The son, an extruded beard of a man in a tired blue jumper and sandals nods anxiously as we join the back of the queue outside his mother’s door.
‘Go for it!’
Buzz Cut draws his enormous boot back and starts kicking at the door. As he draws away each time and slams repeatedly into the panels, we all lean in to study the way the door shudders, passing comment on the locks and bolts that may or may not be employed on the other side.
‘She wasn’t well when I left her,’ the son says. ‘Puffing and blowing. I phoned to say goodnight and didn’t get an answer.’
We wait to one side as Buzz Cut redoubles his efforts. Another team comes through the lobby carrying an iron battering ram between them.
‘We’ve brought the key,’ one of them says.
Suddenly there is a shrill cry from the entrance.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
An outraged woman stands in the frame of the glass doors, her bag slack on her shoulder, her keys held up in mid-air, as if they held some power to make things explicable.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare do that!’
She hurries forward, brushing aside anyone not in direct contact with the carpentry.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
The son comes forward and puts his hands on her shoulders.
‘Mum. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’
‘I was at the bingo,’ she cries.
The buzz-cut officer wipes his forehead and presents himself to the woman.
‘Your son thought you may have collapsed,’ he said. ‘He was worried.’
‘I went to the bingo,’ she shouts. ‘Is that such a crime? Get away from my door.’
She puts her keys in the lock and begins rattling them speculatively.
‘She seems fine,’ I say to Buzz Cut. ‘We’ll be off.’
I pick up the resus bag and discreetly reverse down the hall.
Everyone leaves quickly; when I look back, the only people left standing there are Buzz Cut and Sandal Son, leaning back from Angry Woman, who is shaking her keys in their face, and swinging her tresses from side to side like a mop of blanched snakes.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
a new ride
‘Hello? Is that Mrs Walters?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Hello, Mrs Walters. My name’s Spence. I’m with the ambulance. I’m calling about Mirabelle. Nothing to worry about, but Mirabelle had the ambulance out to her this afternoon and we’ve brought her to hospital.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep. Mirabelle. I understand from the card she’s carrying you’re the host family. Is that right?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Did you know Mirabelle had come in to town to visit the fair today?’
‘The fair?’
‘Yep. The fair. In town.’
‘But she’s down on the beach.’
‘Well – not any more. We picked her up at the fair. She was with a bunch of friends from the language school.’
‘Was she.’
‘Without an escort.’
‘Was she.’
‘I’m afraid so. Nothing radically wrong, Mrs Walters. She banged her knee on the walters – waltzers. Nothing serious, as far as we can tell. Everything’s fine. But for some reason she had to be carried off. And then when they took her to the manager’s office, she fainted. Or appeared to.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does any of this surprise you?’
There is a long pause; the crackles and scratches on the line sound like furies tearing up Mrs Walters’ head. Finally I’m driven to say: Mrs Walters?
‘No,’ she says. ‘She’s a difficult girl.’
***
The crowd moves sluggishly round the fair, coin corpuscles in an artery of colour and noise, the stalls and rides on every side harvesting the goodness from their pockets. Jump up, Cowboy – No Fear, No Limits, Come on people, Every one a winner, Two to a car, Hold very tight …. All the single ladies, All the single ladies … sirens, klaxons, a pulse of light around a tableau of skulls, cars in flames – screams from a sudden column of bodies thundering overhead – scorched rubber, static dust, doughnuts, chips and hydraulic fluid – stupefied babies with ice-cream beards – feral gangs, lost families – a head through a hole, a gypsy in a caravan, a man with a radio.
Follow me.
We fall in behind him as he machetes his way forward with the aerial; hostility on the faces turning round, slackening to curiosity when the uniform and equipment register. Another attraction. Something else to see.
The office is soundproofed, but the Plexiglas screen pulses and rattles with the noise; we can barely hear each other beneath the muted roar.
She’s unconscious.
Mirabelle lies in the recovery position on the hardboard floor, but even from here I can see her eyelids fluttering. I kneel down and shout in her ear, giving her fingertip a little tweak, too. She doggedly carries on the pretence; when I go to lift an eyelid, she holds it shut.
Did she fall?
Nope. She grazed her knee on the safety bar. When the ride stopped, she wouldn’t get out then went funny. So the guys carried her in here, and she collapsed on the floor.
Have we got someone who speaks French?
Danielle, her friend.
Danielle – can you ask Mirabelle if she’s in any pain?
Danielle looks at me, confused.
But she is unconscious.
No, she’s not. Just ask her.
Danielle kneels down and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.
It’s a slow process. Even if Mirabelle was prepared to talk to us, she has no English. Danielle translates everything reluctantly, as if she thinks we’re being overly cruel with our line of questioning. The fairground manager looks about set to have a stroke. I wonder how many hours he’s worked today; how many situations he’s dealt with.
Let’s just get her out to the ambulance.
You can go on the truck.
What truck?
We’ve got a little green truck. You’ll love it.
He slaps me on the shoulder, then gestures for radio man to fetch the truck.
A minute later he pulls up outside in a tiny green John Deere flatbed with a flashing amber light on a stalk. Rae opens the office door and radio man gestures to the back with his thumb.
All right in the back?
Between the four of us we half-walk, half-carry Mirabelle out to the truck. She moans bonelessly, like a sleeper dragged from her bed.
Come on Mirabelle. Allons-y.
We sit either side of her, our feet almost dragging along the ground as the truck moves off. The truck beeps a warning and radio man keeps punching the horn, but still our progress is slow. As the crowd parts it falls back together behind us. People stare. Whatever kind of ride is that?
***
‘So that’s where Mirabelle is at the moment, Mrs Walters. In minors at A&E.’
‘The hospital?’
‘Yep. The hospital.’
Another long pause.
‘The hospital in town?’
‘Yep. I’m afraid so.’
I doodle some hair on the smiling face I’ve drawn on the patient report form, but as the silence continues I add some fangs.
‘But she’s going to need someone to come and sit with her, Mrs Walters. Pick her up after she’s done, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes. She will, won’t she?’ says Mrs Walters. ‘And I suppose that’ll be me, then.’
‘So I can leave that with you? Mrs Walters?’
‘Ye-es,’ she says. And before I can add anything to sweeten the pill, the line goes click.
‘Ye-es.’
‘Hello, Mrs Walters. My name’s Spence. I’m with the ambulance. I’m calling about Mirabelle. Nothing to worry about, but Mirabelle had the ambulance out to her this afternoon and we’ve brought her to hospital.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep. Mirabelle. I understand from the card she’s carrying you’re the host family. Is that right?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Did you know Mirabelle had come in to town to visit the fair today?’
‘The fair?’
‘Yep. The fair. In town.’
‘But she’s down on the beach.’
‘Well – not any more. We picked her up at the fair. She was with a bunch of friends from the language school.’
‘Was she.’
‘Without an escort.’
‘Was she.’
‘I’m afraid so. Nothing radically wrong, Mrs Walters. She banged her knee on the walters – waltzers. Nothing serious, as far as we can tell. Everything’s fine. But for some reason she had to be carried off. And then when they took her to the manager’s office, she fainted. Or appeared to.’
‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does any of this surprise you?’
There is a long pause; the crackles and scratches on the line sound like furies tearing up Mrs Walters’ head. Finally I’m driven to say: Mrs Walters?
‘No,’ she says. ‘She’s a difficult girl.’
***
The crowd moves sluggishly round the fair, coin corpuscles in an artery of colour and noise, the stalls and rides on every side harvesting the goodness from their pockets. Jump up, Cowboy – No Fear, No Limits, Come on people, Every one a winner, Two to a car, Hold very tight …. All the single ladies, All the single ladies … sirens, klaxons, a pulse of light around a tableau of skulls, cars in flames – screams from a sudden column of bodies thundering overhead – scorched rubber, static dust, doughnuts, chips and hydraulic fluid – stupefied babies with ice-cream beards – feral gangs, lost families – a head through a hole, a gypsy in a caravan, a man with a radio.
Follow me.
We fall in behind him as he machetes his way forward with the aerial; hostility on the faces turning round, slackening to curiosity when the uniform and equipment register. Another attraction. Something else to see.
The office is soundproofed, but the Plexiglas screen pulses and rattles with the noise; we can barely hear each other beneath the muted roar.
She’s unconscious.
Mirabelle lies in the recovery position on the hardboard floor, but even from here I can see her eyelids fluttering. I kneel down and shout in her ear, giving her fingertip a little tweak, too. She doggedly carries on the pretence; when I go to lift an eyelid, she holds it shut.
Did she fall?
Nope. She grazed her knee on the safety bar. When the ride stopped, she wouldn’t get out then went funny. So the guys carried her in here, and she collapsed on the floor.
Have we got someone who speaks French?
Danielle, her friend.
Danielle – can you ask Mirabelle if she’s in any pain?
Danielle looks at me, confused.
But she is unconscious.
No, she’s not. Just ask her.
Danielle kneels down and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.
It’s a slow process. Even if Mirabelle was prepared to talk to us, she has no English. Danielle translates everything reluctantly, as if she thinks we’re being overly cruel with our line of questioning. The fairground manager looks about set to have a stroke. I wonder how many hours he’s worked today; how many situations he’s dealt with.
Let’s just get her out to the ambulance.
You can go on the truck.
What truck?
We’ve got a little green truck. You’ll love it.
He slaps me on the shoulder, then gestures for radio man to fetch the truck.
A minute later he pulls up outside in a tiny green John Deere flatbed with a flashing amber light on a stalk. Rae opens the office door and radio man gestures to the back with his thumb.
All right in the back?
Between the four of us we half-walk, half-carry Mirabelle out to the truck. She moans bonelessly, like a sleeper dragged from her bed.
Come on Mirabelle. Allons-y.
We sit either side of her, our feet almost dragging along the ground as the truck moves off. The truck beeps a warning and radio man keeps punching the horn, but still our progress is slow. As the crowd parts it falls back together behind us. People stare. Whatever kind of ride is that?
***
‘So that’s where Mirabelle is at the moment, Mrs Walters. In minors at A&E.’
‘The hospital?’
‘Yep. The hospital.’
Another long pause.
‘The hospital in town?’
‘Yep. I’m afraid so.’
I doodle some hair on the smiling face I’ve drawn on the patient report form, but as the silence continues I add some fangs.
‘But she’s going to need someone to come and sit with her, Mrs Walters. Pick her up after she’s done, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes. She will, won’t she?’ says Mrs Walters. ‘And I suppose that’ll be me, then.’
‘So I can leave that with you? Mrs Walters?’
‘Ye-es,’ she says. And before I can add anything to sweeten the pill, the line goes click.
Monday, August 09, 2010
the wait
A man is lying on his side on the pavement outside the Beauty Clinic. A girl in a starched white coat stands over him, half in the shop and half out, both arms folded, absently sucking a red nail, staring out above the morning crowd as it flows around him. Suddenly she sees us approaching and waves enthusiastically.
‘What’s going on?’
‘This guy, he came staggering along the pavement. For some reason he stopped just there, knelt down in the doorway and then just sort of – went to sleep.’
The only thing more striking than the brilliant white of the girl’s coat is the contrast between her and the figure at her feet. Her face is so symmetrical, so carefully painted with foundation, blusher, lipstick, mascara, her eyebrows so perfectly cropped, every individual strand of her hair shining with product, she could have stepped fully formed from the head of an advertising executive. The man, on the other hand, is the brutal, unadorned animal, corrupt and cast down, his shaven and sun-burned head pitted with crescent scars, his battered face slack with drink. Lying at her feet like that, curled up on his side, he looks like the husk of something she sucked the vitality from to achieve her transcendent being.
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know.’
I crouch down by his side, discretely pinch his shoulder and shout in his ear. ‘Come on. Wake up, mate. You can’t lie here.’
He bats my hand away.
‘Come on.’
‘Leave me alone.’
There’s a cut to his voice that makes us all a little more wary.
‘Shall I leave you to it, then?’ the girl says.
‘Absolutely. We’ll get him on the ambulance out of your way.
‘Thanks, guys,’ she says. She really means it.
He wriggles back down in an effort to get comfortable again. Shoppers almost fall over us, frowning in a confused kind of way, only finding alternative routes at the last minute.
‘Are you sick? Have you hurt yourself?’
He motions for us to go away.
‘Come on. Let’s sit you up. Then we can have a chat on the ambulance, in private. This is no good, mate. Honestly.’
Finally, we persuade him to stand up, and help him on to the ambulance. He drops himself down into a chair and starts rubbing some life back into his face. A tall, lean man bulked out with several layers of track suit tops and t-shirts, he looks as if he put on his entire wardrobe before he came out.
‘Aren’t you hot in all this?’
He drops his hands.
‘What do you want from me?’ he says.
‘We just want to reassure ourselves you’re okay. You lay down on a pavement in the middle of the morning. People were worried. That’s all. Let’s do a few checks, then if everything’s okay you can go on with your day.’
He sits back in the chair and stares into mid-air.
‘I don’t care what you do,’ he says. ‘Only do it quickly.’
‘Great.’
Whilst Rae helps him bare an arm for the blood pressure cuff, I start writing out the sheet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tomasso. T tango, O oscar….’
‘And your address?’
‘Sardegna.’
‘Sardinia? Is that where you’re living now?’
‘That’s where I’m from.’
‘So what’s your address now?’
He gives us a postcode only, each letter phonetically again. When I ask him exactly where that is, he starts talking quickly in Italian.
‘I don’t understand you, Tommaso. I wish I did, but I don’t. You have to talk English.’
He closes his eyes and pulls his chin back as if I’ve insulted him.
‘What do you think?’ he says eventually. ‘What do you know?’
‘We’re just trying to understand what’s going on with you today, Tommaso.’
He straightens in the chair and struggles to put his arm back through all the sleeves.
‘I am a sniper,’ he says as he does it. ‘Do you know what that means? Do you know what it’s like to lie on the ground for twenty four, thirty six hours, not moving a muscle, for just one shot?’
‘Yep. That sounds difficult.’
‘You get bitten to pieces.’
‘Mosquitoes?’
‘Scorpions. Tah! Tah!’ He makes little stabbing movements in the air with a finger that make us both lean back a little.
‘Look here, my friend,’ he says, giving up on the jacket and bending down instead to roll up a trouser leg. There is a cluster of tiny scabs running up just over the sock line, like old bed bug scars.
‘Nasty,’ I say.
He drops the trouser leg and shrugs.
‘I’m a sniper. It’s what I do. But let me tell you. You walk a hundred miles, you lie down, you wait for days, you take your shot … (he smacks his hands together) … Tah! Then you wait whilst the rest of the unit clears out. You guard their back. Only then can you think about yourself. Only then can you take your chance and escape.’
He resumes his struggle with his clothing. I help him in to the last track suit sleeve. ‘But I love my country. I am a proud man. You – you don’t know what it means to fight for your country.’
Finally he’s done, and sits still in the chair.
‘Well. All your observations are fine, Tommaso. I don’t think you need to go up the hospital.’
‘Hospital? No way. Six hours on a plastic seat. For what?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘This guy, he came staggering along the pavement. For some reason he stopped just there, knelt down in the doorway and then just sort of – went to sleep.’
The only thing more striking than the brilliant white of the girl’s coat is the contrast between her and the figure at her feet. Her face is so symmetrical, so carefully painted with foundation, blusher, lipstick, mascara, her eyebrows so perfectly cropped, every individual strand of her hair shining with product, she could have stepped fully formed from the head of an advertising executive. The man, on the other hand, is the brutal, unadorned animal, corrupt and cast down, his shaven and sun-burned head pitted with crescent scars, his battered face slack with drink. Lying at her feet like that, curled up on his side, he looks like the husk of something she sucked the vitality from to achieve her transcendent being.
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know.’
I crouch down by his side, discretely pinch his shoulder and shout in his ear. ‘Come on. Wake up, mate. You can’t lie here.’
He bats my hand away.
‘Come on.’
‘Leave me alone.’
There’s a cut to his voice that makes us all a little more wary.
‘Shall I leave you to it, then?’ the girl says.
‘Absolutely. We’ll get him on the ambulance out of your way.
‘Thanks, guys,’ she says. She really means it.
He wriggles back down in an effort to get comfortable again. Shoppers almost fall over us, frowning in a confused kind of way, only finding alternative routes at the last minute.
‘Are you sick? Have you hurt yourself?’
He motions for us to go away.
‘Come on. Let’s sit you up. Then we can have a chat on the ambulance, in private. This is no good, mate. Honestly.’
Finally, we persuade him to stand up, and help him on to the ambulance. He drops himself down into a chair and starts rubbing some life back into his face. A tall, lean man bulked out with several layers of track suit tops and t-shirts, he looks as if he put on his entire wardrobe before he came out.
‘Aren’t you hot in all this?’
He drops his hands.
‘What do you want from me?’ he says.
‘We just want to reassure ourselves you’re okay. You lay down on a pavement in the middle of the morning. People were worried. That’s all. Let’s do a few checks, then if everything’s okay you can go on with your day.’
He sits back in the chair and stares into mid-air.
‘I don’t care what you do,’ he says. ‘Only do it quickly.’
‘Great.’
Whilst Rae helps him bare an arm for the blood pressure cuff, I start writing out the sheet.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tomasso. T tango, O oscar….’
‘And your address?’
‘Sardegna.’
‘Sardinia? Is that where you’re living now?’
‘That’s where I’m from.’
‘So what’s your address now?’
He gives us a postcode only, each letter phonetically again. When I ask him exactly where that is, he starts talking quickly in Italian.
‘I don’t understand you, Tommaso. I wish I did, but I don’t. You have to talk English.’
He closes his eyes and pulls his chin back as if I’ve insulted him.
‘What do you think?’ he says eventually. ‘What do you know?’
‘We’re just trying to understand what’s going on with you today, Tommaso.’
He straightens in the chair and struggles to put his arm back through all the sleeves.
‘I am a sniper,’ he says as he does it. ‘Do you know what that means? Do you know what it’s like to lie on the ground for twenty four, thirty six hours, not moving a muscle, for just one shot?’
‘Yep. That sounds difficult.’
‘You get bitten to pieces.’
‘Mosquitoes?’
‘Scorpions. Tah! Tah!’ He makes little stabbing movements in the air with a finger that make us both lean back a little.
‘Look here, my friend,’ he says, giving up on the jacket and bending down instead to roll up a trouser leg. There is a cluster of tiny scabs running up just over the sock line, like old bed bug scars.
‘Nasty,’ I say.
He drops the trouser leg and shrugs.
‘I’m a sniper. It’s what I do. But let me tell you. You walk a hundred miles, you lie down, you wait for days, you take your shot … (he smacks his hands together) … Tah! Then you wait whilst the rest of the unit clears out. You guard their back. Only then can you think about yourself. Only then can you take your chance and escape.’
He resumes his struggle with his clothing. I help him in to the last track suit sleeve. ‘But I love my country. I am a proud man. You – you don’t know what it means to fight for your country.’
Finally he’s done, and sits still in the chair.
‘Well. All your observations are fine, Tommaso. I don’t think you need to go up the hospital.’
‘Hospital? No way. Six hours on a plastic seat. For what?’
Friday, August 06, 2010
doppelganger
Everyone develops an ambulance persona over time. It starts forming day one, filling out, drying and colouring as palpably as the wings of an insect crawling out on a leaf. Fed equally by experience and need, it is an expedient, semi-fictional character that feels out its correspondences with all the other characters it meets on the job - at the station, at the hospital, in the community; a curious hybrid character, rooted in your private self, nourished by your public self, sufficient, sustaining, protective and – hopefully - loved.
Marcus could hang his character on a peg marked ‘Carry On’. If a scientist tweezered off a thread of his shirt for DNA profiling, the report would come back five percent Kenneth Williams, five percent Charles Hautrey, ten percent Frankie Howerd – the rest, strange, less identifiable structures coiling back into the furthest recesses of British music hall tradition.
A paramedic for twenty years, Marcus has been everywhere, seen everything, and talked about it in tones rounder than a Christmas pudding. Outrageously fit and handsome, with his clear blue eyes, lean body and action figure head of silver hair, he could pull on a leather bomber jacket, throw a leg over a motorcycle and play Steve McQueen in a biopic. Except, he wouldn’t be able to resist pursing his lips, crossing his eyes and saying something like: ‘Ere, Jump on and I’ll let you squeeze me ‘orn, or maybe: I’m not used to having something this big between my legs.
In the Rec room, Graham, a young trainee paramedic, tells us about his three weeks in theatres. He describes what the consultants were like, how easy – or difficult – he found it, fitting in around them, learning how they work, acquiring the statutory number of intubations and cannulations he needs to complete that module.
‘And Marcus, mate, you’ve got an identical twin. I met an ODP there the absolute spit of you. Honestly – looks the same, sounds the same, the same mannerisms. It’s uncanny.’
‘Ooh. Good looking fella is he?’
Graham laughs, and almost spills his tea.
‘There you go. That proves it. When I told him about you, that’s exactly what he said.’
Marcus could hang his character on a peg marked ‘Carry On’. If a scientist tweezered off a thread of his shirt for DNA profiling, the report would come back five percent Kenneth Williams, five percent Charles Hautrey, ten percent Frankie Howerd – the rest, strange, less identifiable structures coiling back into the furthest recesses of British music hall tradition.
A paramedic for twenty years, Marcus has been everywhere, seen everything, and talked about it in tones rounder than a Christmas pudding. Outrageously fit and handsome, with his clear blue eyes, lean body and action figure head of silver hair, he could pull on a leather bomber jacket, throw a leg over a motorcycle and play Steve McQueen in a biopic. Except, he wouldn’t be able to resist pursing his lips, crossing his eyes and saying something like: ‘Ere, Jump on and I’ll let you squeeze me ‘orn, or maybe: I’m not used to having something this big between my legs.
In the Rec room, Graham, a young trainee paramedic, tells us about his three weeks in theatres. He describes what the consultants were like, how easy – or difficult – he found it, fitting in around them, learning how they work, acquiring the statutory number of intubations and cannulations he needs to complete that module.
‘And Marcus, mate, you’ve got an identical twin. I met an ODP there the absolute spit of you. Honestly – looks the same, sounds the same, the same mannerisms. It’s uncanny.’
‘Ooh. Good looking fella is he?’
Graham laughs, and almost spills his tea.
‘There you go. That proves it. When I told him about you, that’s exactly what he said.’
Thursday, August 05, 2010
three days
The Old Sword and Mitre – shabby little temple to the warrior, priest or whatever else beer and whisky will draw out of you – was put up on this corner when carts delivered the bricks. And although its windows have been ripped out a few times since, the doors re-hung, the fixtures and fittings shuffled about, thirty layers of paint slapped on; and although a thick flicker-book of managers have stood behind the bar, the bones of the pub have stayed exactly where they were set, stoically bearing the weight of a couple of hundred years or more. This threshold, beneath the black curlicued metalwork of the sign, has an old stone step scooped in the centre by the feet of countless shadows, toe to heel from the end of a night in the eighteenth century, to me and Frank, banging on the door at one o’clock in the morning, July twenty eighth, two thousand and ten.
Paul, a tall man in a crumpled white two piece suit, comes to the door, his stripy shirt unbuttoned to the belly. He opens it enough to slip outside, slopping half his glass of beer on the pavement in the process. But he doesn’t seem to notice, and after a comically exaggerated glance left and right up and down the street, leans in at a precarious angle.
‘My friend Victor here is having some problems tonight. You see, what happened was, he saw the doctor – well, we think he saw the doctor. He had an accident, you see, a day or so ago. A taxi or something. Clipped him in the High Street. He was fine. He was fine, he was okay. But he hurt his leg, you see. And then he saw this doctor, hopeless, but you see, quite broken or something or some such. But this doctor gave him some stuff. Like medicine, I suppose. And it seems to have made him go a bit woo-woo. I mean, he’s only had the weeniest, tiniest bit of beer, about a half I should say, but it’s upset him a bit, and he’s a bit out of sorts. You’ll see. You’re the doctor.’
He frowns, takes a pull on his glass, then tries to carry on with his monologue, resisting my attempts to get past him by putting his free hand on my chest and leaning in a bit closer, as if he has thought of something even more important to say. But I brush his hand away.
‘Let’s go in and see the patient. What’s his name?’
‘Victor. His name’s Victor. His friend Arseny’s – ah’m - with him at the moment.’
We go in.
Arseny has got Victor face down on the carpet, his left knee in the small of his back, his right arm hooked under Victor’s right arm, drawing it back and up at a terrible angle, the wrist splayed inwards in a professionally applied lock. Arseny nods at us as we come in, leaning back and waving nonchalantly with his right hand, a cocky rodeo rider on a bull.
‘I keep him for you. I make sure of him for no danger.’
Arseny pulls back on Victor’s arm and elicits a whimpering kind of scream.
‘No worries. I have him here ready for you. You safe. He is my good friend but I am professional bodyguard, security man and kick box champion.’
The rope-veined muscles of Arseny’s arms, the V-shaped bulk of his torso and shoulders, are barely contained by the tight second skin of his Adidas t-shirt; his body seems to have bulked up at the expense of his head, though, a minimal, solid-looking nub screwed on as an afterthought.
‘Are you telling me that Victor is violent?’ I say.
‘No. But I control for you.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t want you to control anyone. It looks like you’re half killing him. If he’s violent, we’ll go outside and wait for the police. If he’s not violent, you can get off him and we can talk to him like a normal person. Yeah?’
Arseny grunts, gives Victor’s arm one last affectionate twist, then jumps off and stands to one side.
‘I do this for living,’ he says, articulating his shoulders and rolling his neck. ‘It nothing for me. Really.’
I crouch down beside Victor, who is still growling and grimacing face down on the carpet. Paul taps me on the shoulder and when I look at him he makes as if to carry on his monologue of explanation, until Frank takes him off to one side.
‘Let him talk to Victor,’ he says. ‘You can tell me what you know.’
Victor rights himself, his head bobbing and swaying drunkenly.
‘Come and sit over here,’ I say to him. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
He lurches suddenly upright, and I take a few steps back in case he takes a swing. But he simply throws an ill-focused arc of blame around him, and then staggers over to a chair.
‘So. Are you ill, Victor? What’s the matter?’
He sees me for the first time and grimaces again.
‘Go away,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, go away? Your friends called us in because they were worried about you.’ I look over at Arseny and maybe we both feel the irony of that, but I carry on regardless. ‘Something must be up,’ I say.
Victor reaches down and rubs his leg.
‘Paul seems to think you were hit by a taxi at some point.’
He doesn’t answer, but makes as if to stand. Arseny unfolds his arms and takes a step over; Victor slumps back into his seat.
‘Tell me how you’re feeling.’
‘I’m okay. Leave me alone.’
His eyes are plate wide. There’s something about the way he veers from micro-sleeps to sudden animalistic growls and jerky movements that makes me think he’s taken something.
‘Have you used any drugs tonight, Victor?’
He stares at me, and then drops a sneer in his top pocket.
‘Victor? What’s your health like? Do you have any health problems? Diabetes, for instance?’
‘No. Nothing. I’m fine,’ he snarls. ‘Go please.’
‘This is all pretty strange,’ I say to Paul, who has broken away from Frank to lean over me again. He nods so emphatically he’s in danger of pitching head first onto us both.
‘I’m not sure what there is for us to do here, Victor. Where do you live?’
Victor nods upstairs.
‘Do you work here, then?’
Paul puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers:
‘He works behind the bar.’
It seems incredible.
‘Where’s the manager? Who’s supposed to be locking up tonight?’
Just then a woman pushes in through the front door and walks across the carpet with a purposeful stride.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Can I speak to you in private?’ I say, standing up and leading her over to the pool tables. Paul tries to follow us, but the woman directs him forcefully back to the end of the bar, pointing with a dog-trainer’s straight arm and finger.
‘A regular,’ she says. ‘Means well.’
‘So – Victor actually works here?’
She nods. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I wish I could say. I think it was Paul who called the ambulance. When we got here Arseny had Victor face down on the carpet in an arm-lock.’
She nods and winces, as if to say I can imagine.
‘I can’t figure out what’s gone on. Paul was saying that maybe Victor had been hit by a taxi and put on something by the GP, and that’s maybe interacted with the alcohol, but Victor can’t or won’t confirm or deny it. He’s not able to tell us what medication he’s on, how he’s feeling, or anything meaningful. He’s emotionally volatile, very uncooperative. He’s refusing help of any kind and we can’t force him. I’m quite happy to call the police if you feel worried about us leaving you here with them all.’
She shakes her head.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t know about this taxi story. My guess is he’s drunk a fair bit of alcohol and maybe taken something else, GHB maybe. Hard to say.’
I pause for a moment.
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Well. Thanks for coming. Sorry to waste your time.’
‘No worries.’
We go back over to the three of them, Victor groaning on the seat, Arseny standing guard and Paul tottering forwards and backwards, clutching his beer like a spirit level.
‘Last chance, Victor. Will you come to hospital with us?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘Come on then, Frank. We’re off. You guys keep an eye on him,’ I say to Arseny and Paul. ‘Or something.’
‘You take him to hospital?’
‘We can’t if he says no. He’s very clear about it.’
‘Then thank you for coming. Please.’
Arseny holds out a lumpen mitt. I shake it. Then Paul joins in, and everyone ends up shaking everyone else’s hand at least twice. The manager watches from over by the bar.
Outside, Frank shrugs and sparks up a cigarette.
‘Well, what a pointless mess that was.’
‘God knows what was going on.’
Frank blows smoke and leans against the truck. ‘You know, when you went to talk to that manager woman I got a couple of straight words out of Victor. I asked him how long he’d been working there and he said three days. Three days! He asked me if I thought he’d get the sack.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said three days? Three years and you could count on it.’
Paul, a tall man in a crumpled white two piece suit, comes to the door, his stripy shirt unbuttoned to the belly. He opens it enough to slip outside, slopping half his glass of beer on the pavement in the process. But he doesn’t seem to notice, and after a comically exaggerated glance left and right up and down the street, leans in at a precarious angle.
‘My friend Victor here is having some problems tonight. You see, what happened was, he saw the doctor – well, we think he saw the doctor. He had an accident, you see, a day or so ago. A taxi or something. Clipped him in the High Street. He was fine. He was fine, he was okay. But he hurt his leg, you see. And then he saw this doctor, hopeless, but you see, quite broken or something or some such. But this doctor gave him some stuff. Like medicine, I suppose. And it seems to have made him go a bit woo-woo. I mean, he’s only had the weeniest, tiniest bit of beer, about a half I should say, but it’s upset him a bit, and he’s a bit out of sorts. You’ll see. You’re the doctor.’
He frowns, takes a pull on his glass, then tries to carry on with his monologue, resisting my attempts to get past him by putting his free hand on my chest and leaning in a bit closer, as if he has thought of something even more important to say. But I brush his hand away.
‘Let’s go in and see the patient. What’s his name?’
‘Victor. His name’s Victor. His friend Arseny’s – ah’m - with him at the moment.’
We go in.
Arseny has got Victor face down on the carpet, his left knee in the small of his back, his right arm hooked under Victor’s right arm, drawing it back and up at a terrible angle, the wrist splayed inwards in a professionally applied lock. Arseny nods at us as we come in, leaning back and waving nonchalantly with his right hand, a cocky rodeo rider on a bull.
‘I keep him for you. I make sure of him for no danger.’
Arseny pulls back on Victor’s arm and elicits a whimpering kind of scream.
‘No worries. I have him here ready for you. You safe. He is my good friend but I am professional bodyguard, security man and kick box champion.’
The rope-veined muscles of Arseny’s arms, the V-shaped bulk of his torso and shoulders, are barely contained by the tight second skin of his Adidas t-shirt; his body seems to have bulked up at the expense of his head, though, a minimal, solid-looking nub screwed on as an afterthought.
‘Are you telling me that Victor is violent?’ I say.
‘No. But I control for you.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t want you to control anyone. It looks like you’re half killing him. If he’s violent, we’ll go outside and wait for the police. If he’s not violent, you can get off him and we can talk to him like a normal person. Yeah?’
Arseny grunts, gives Victor’s arm one last affectionate twist, then jumps off and stands to one side.
‘I do this for living,’ he says, articulating his shoulders and rolling his neck. ‘It nothing for me. Really.’
I crouch down beside Victor, who is still growling and grimacing face down on the carpet. Paul taps me on the shoulder and when I look at him he makes as if to carry on his monologue of explanation, until Frank takes him off to one side.
‘Let him talk to Victor,’ he says. ‘You can tell me what you know.’
Victor rights himself, his head bobbing and swaying drunkenly.
‘Come and sit over here,’ I say to him. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
He lurches suddenly upright, and I take a few steps back in case he takes a swing. But he simply throws an ill-focused arc of blame around him, and then staggers over to a chair.
‘So. Are you ill, Victor? What’s the matter?’
He sees me for the first time and grimaces again.
‘Go away,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, go away? Your friends called us in because they were worried about you.’ I look over at Arseny and maybe we both feel the irony of that, but I carry on regardless. ‘Something must be up,’ I say.
Victor reaches down and rubs his leg.
‘Paul seems to think you were hit by a taxi at some point.’
He doesn’t answer, but makes as if to stand. Arseny unfolds his arms and takes a step over; Victor slumps back into his seat.
‘Tell me how you’re feeling.’
‘I’m okay. Leave me alone.’
His eyes are plate wide. There’s something about the way he veers from micro-sleeps to sudden animalistic growls and jerky movements that makes me think he’s taken something.
‘Have you used any drugs tonight, Victor?’
He stares at me, and then drops a sneer in his top pocket.
‘Victor? What’s your health like? Do you have any health problems? Diabetes, for instance?’
‘No. Nothing. I’m fine,’ he snarls. ‘Go please.’
‘This is all pretty strange,’ I say to Paul, who has broken away from Frank to lean over me again. He nods so emphatically he’s in danger of pitching head first onto us both.
‘I’m not sure what there is for us to do here, Victor. Where do you live?’
Victor nods upstairs.
‘Do you work here, then?’
Paul puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers:
‘He works behind the bar.’
It seems incredible.
‘Where’s the manager? Who’s supposed to be locking up tonight?’
Just then a woman pushes in through the front door and walks across the carpet with a purposeful stride.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Can I speak to you in private?’ I say, standing up and leading her over to the pool tables. Paul tries to follow us, but the woman directs him forcefully back to the end of the bar, pointing with a dog-trainer’s straight arm and finger.
‘A regular,’ she says. ‘Means well.’
‘So – Victor actually works here?’
She nods. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I wish I could say. I think it was Paul who called the ambulance. When we got here Arseny had Victor face down on the carpet in an arm-lock.’
She nods and winces, as if to say I can imagine.
‘I can’t figure out what’s gone on. Paul was saying that maybe Victor had been hit by a taxi and put on something by the GP, and that’s maybe interacted with the alcohol, but Victor can’t or won’t confirm or deny it. He’s not able to tell us what medication he’s on, how he’s feeling, or anything meaningful. He’s emotionally volatile, very uncooperative. He’s refusing help of any kind and we can’t force him. I’m quite happy to call the police if you feel worried about us leaving you here with them all.’
She shakes her head.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t know about this taxi story. My guess is he’s drunk a fair bit of alcohol and maybe taken something else, GHB maybe. Hard to say.’
I pause for a moment.
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Well. Thanks for coming. Sorry to waste your time.’
‘No worries.’
We go back over to the three of them, Victor groaning on the seat, Arseny standing guard and Paul tottering forwards and backwards, clutching his beer like a spirit level.
‘Last chance, Victor. Will you come to hospital with us?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘Come on then, Frank. We’re off. You guys keep an eye on him,’ I say to Arseny and Paul. ‘Or something.’
‘You take him to hospital?’
‘We can’t if he says no. He’s very clear about it.’
‘Then thank you for coming. Please.’
Arseny holds out a lumpen mitt. I shake it. Then Paul joins in, and everyone ends up shaking everyone else’s hand at least twice. The manager watches from over by the bar.
Outside, Frank shrugs and sparks up a cigarette.
‘Well, what a pointless mess that was.’
‘God knows what was going on.’
Frank blows smoke and leans against the truck. ‘You know, when you went to talk to that manager woman I got a couple of straight words out of Victor. I asked him how long he’d been working there and he said three days. Three days! He asked me if I thought he’d get the sack.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said three days? Three years and you could count on it.’
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
in like jack
It was the park warden who told me the pond was originally a Victorian roller skating rink. A hundred and twenty years ago there was a craze for it, apparently. The shallow concrete gradients of the rink would have resounded with the rumble of vulcanised rubber wheels and the shrieks of skaters holding on to their bonnets and dignity. But the fashion waned by the turn of the century, the rink was filled, a waterfall dropped out of the rockery at the northern end, and an island for geese and ducks set in the middle.
Now, the water is only ankle deep, thickly congested with duck weed, over there a litter bin lying half-sunk, as if it tore itself free from its mounting and threw itself in to chase the bottles and cans and crisp packets.
Jack is sitting on one of the benches that border the pond. His legs are crossed and his arms folded contemplatively across them. He smokes, poised and relaxed, and chats to a neater, younger guy standing near to him, who waves over to us. As we get closer we can see that Jack is covered from head to foot in duck weed, his old denim jacket and jeans plastered with the little green leaves.
‘So what’s the story, Jack? What happened to you?’
‘I’m fine. Honestly. I saw a duck in trouble. I went in to help it. That’s it. That’s all there is.’
The young man chips in.
‘He waded out there. I wondered what he was doing, so I called you guys. I hope that’s all right. I thought he was – you know.’
Jack smiles up at him.
‘You’re a good kid. Do you know?’
‘Did I do the right thing?’
‘Sure. So – Jack. Did you go under the water at any point?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hurt yourself at all?’
‘No.’
‘And you feel all right in yourself?’
‘Of course. Look – what would you have done? Would you have helped the duck?’
‘I don’t know. What was it doing?’
‘Struggling.’
He makes a drunken mime, vaguely waving his cigarette around in front of him.
‘And how’s the duck now?’
‘It flew off.’
‘I bet.’
The kid points to the pond.
‘You can see the route he took.’
He’s right. There’s a clear, meandering track through the otherwise unbroken surface of green, right out as far as the island.
‘So what do you intend to do now, Jack?’
‘Finish this, then go home.’
‘Where do you live?’
He says his address, a homeless hostel in the middle of town. I can’t imagine what people will think when they pass him in the street, a shuffling figure covered in drying weed.
Jack taps the ash from his cigarette off to one side, and looks up at us.
‘One does what one can,’ he sniffs.
Now, the water is only ankle deep, thickly congested with duck weed, over there a litter bin lying half-sunk, as if it tore itself free from its mounting and threw itself in to chase the bottles and cans and crisp packets.
Jack is sitting on one of the benches that border the pond. His legs are crossed and his arms folded contemplatively across them. He smokes, poised and relaxed, and chats to a neater, younger guy standing near to him, who waves over to us. As we get closer we can see that Jack is covered from head to foot in duck weed, his old denim jacket and jeans plastered with the little green leaves.
‘So what’s the story, Jack? What happened to you?’
‘I’m fine. Honestly. I saw a duck in trouble. I went in to help it. That’s it. That’s all there is.’
The young man chips in.
‘He waded out there. I wondered what he was doing, so I called you guys. I hope that’s all right. I thought he was – you know.’
Jack smiles up at him.
‘You’re a good kid. Do you know?’
‘Did I do the right thing?’
‘Sure. So – Jack. Did you go under the water at any point?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hurt yourself at all?’
‘No.’
‘And you feel all right in yourself?’
‘Of course. Look – what would you have done? Would you have helped the duck?’
‘I don’t know. What was it doing?’
‘Struggling.’
He makes a drunken mime, vaguely waving his cigarette around in front of him.
‘And how’s the duck now?’
‘It flew off.’
‘I bet.’
The kid points to the pond.
‘You can see the route he took.’
He’s right. There’s a clear, meandering track through the otherwise unbroken surface of green, right out as far as the island.
‘So what do you intend to do now, Jack?’
‘Finish this, then go home.’
‘Where do you live?’
He says his address, a homeless hostel in the middle of town. I can’t imagine what people will think when they pass him in the street, a shuffling figure covered in drying weed.
Jack taps the ash from his cigarette off to one side, and looks up at us.
‘One does what one can,’ he sniffs.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
crazy blue hand
Stepan answers the door. His eyes are hooded, and he speaks with the slurred precision of a bottle of vodka and five o’clock in the morning.
‘Come. You help me, please. Is having diabetic problem.’
With an audible effort of will Stepan turns his body – a plucked and rangy affair in the ruins of a business suit – and shuffles back through the flat into the kitchen, where a man lies slumped across a melamine table.
‘A relative of yours?’ I ask him as Rae checks the guy over.
Stepan throws himself down in the opposite chair, studies the man for a moment, then flops his head back and shakes his hair out.
‘Kevin? Oh, please! I don’t know, honey! It’s first date.’ Then he ducks his chin back down again and lowers his focus onto me. His blue eyes seem to be covered in translucent skin. ‘Do you have somebody, baby?’, he drawls.
‘1.6,’ says Rae, tossing the kit back in her opened bag. ‘Can you draw up some Glucagon?’
I prep the syringe, bunch up the flesh of Kevin’s upper arm and jab him.
Rae makes some more checks and starts filling in the form. She speaks briskly to Stepan.
‘So tell us what happened, Stepan. How long’s your friend been like this?’
But Stepan doesn’t answer the question. He continues to stare at me. After a moment he waves vaguely behind him: ‘His medication is in box on fridge.’
‘On a first date?’ I say, going over to it.
Stepan absorbs the comment, then says: ‘You wearing ring like married man. You like women, honey?’
‘Stepan, let’s concentrate on your friend for a moment, can we? He’s not at all well.’
‘I know. I call you.’
‘So when did you become concerned?’
‘He diabetic. He tell me.’
‘How much has he had to drink?’
Stepan smiles and makes a proud gesture around the flat. There are bottles standing, lying down, all over the place. Suddenly he starts pulling on an old pair of blue examination gloves.
‘Count,’ he says.
‘Why are you putting the gloves on, Stepan?’
‘Is my business.’
‘It’s peculiar.’
‘Is my business.’
‘The glucagon we gave him is a quick fix, Stepan. It won’t last long. Kevin needs something to eat to bring his blood sugar back up to scratch. Could you make him some toast, please?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ says Stepan, frowning as he struggles to get his fingers in the correct holes of the glove.
‘Like now,’ says Rae. ‘It’s important.’
‘Yes! God!’ says Stepan, still wrestling and snapping the blue rubber gloves.
‘Do you have any food in the house?’
‘Of course I have food.’
‘Your friend will need to eat when he perks up. Can you please make him some toast, or something?’
‘You don’t speak to me like this.’
He gives up trying to get the gloves on and stands up. The chair scrapes backwards and topples over, and Stepan has to grab the table to stop himself falling with it. Kevin groans and stirs.
‘Okay. This is hopeless,’ says Rae. ‘Can you get the carry chair please, Spence?’
This galvanises Stepan.
‘No! What you say? You are not to take him to hospital. I am lawyer. This is my house. You do not do this please.’
‘But Stepan. Your friend’s ill. You’re drunk and in no position to do anything to help him. He’s not safe, so we have no choice.’
‘I know law. This is my house and you leave now please.’
‘Of course. With pleasure. With Kevin.’
‘No! Look! I make toast.’
He staggers over to the fridge and throws the door open. Inside, pathetically illuminated on a plastic tray, a couple of tomatoes and a single, mummified cocktail sausage. Stepan stares at this for a moment, then slams the door shut again.
‘I go to shops.’
He struggles to push his deformed blue hands into his trouser pocket, looking for change.
‘It’s not happening, is it, Stepan? I’m afraid we’re taking Kevin with us, and that’s the end of the story.’
‘No! You leave my house now please.’
Suddenly a young woman appears in the doorway, her hair all knotted up and her Snoopy night-shirt slack with exhaustion.
‘Stepan,’ she whispers. ‘What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck is going on?’
‘Fuck you!’ he shouts.
‘No. Fuck you, Stepan. Do you know what time it is? You’re fucking crazy. You’re a madman. I want you out of this flat tomorrow. Do you understand? Jesus fucking Christ!’
‘No! Fucking Jesus Christ fucking you! I not go anywhere. You go anywhere.’
‘Fuck you, Stepan.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Can you call for some police assistance, Spence?’
The girl turns and silently withdraws, gliding like a sleepwalker back into the deeps of the night. Kevin sits upright suddenly and starts looking around. ‘What happened?’ he says.
‘You’ve had a hypo, Kevin, and we’d like to take you to hospital.’
‘Fine. Where are my trousers?’
‘No! You not call police! I cannot have scandals. I call you to help my friend, and now he’s better you can go, please. Thank you. Go. Go on.’
‘No. Stepan. Ssh now. It’s no good. Kevin is coming with us. We’ve called for police to make sure you don’t try to get in our way.’
Stepan produces a mobile phone from somewhere and struggles to hit 999 with his fingers bunched crazily in the glove.
‘I call police to have you thrown out.’
‘Fine. They’re coming anyway.’
‘No!’
He throws the phone across the flat.
‘What?’ says Kevin.
‘Why are you wearing the gloves anyway?’ I ask Stepan.
He stares at me again, breathing hard. But over the next moment or two his breaths slow and even out. He manages to right the chair, and when he sits back down, he tries to pick some strands of hair away from his face with a crazy blue hand.
‘One day I tell you,’ he smiles. And then playfully, he bites the slack blue rubber tip of his thumb.
‘Come. You help me, please. Is having diabetic problem.’
With an audible effort of will Stepan turns his body – a plucked and rangy affair in the ruins of a business suit – and shuffles back through the flat into the kitchen, where a man lies slumped across a melamine table.
‘A relative of yours?’ I ask him as Rae checks the guy over.
Stepan throws himself down in the opposite chair, studies the man for a moment, then flops his head back and shakes his hair out.
‘Kevin? Oh, please! I don’t know, honey! It’s first date.’ Then he ducks his chin back down again and lowers his focus onto me. His blue eyes seem to be covered in translucent skin. ‘Do you have somebody, baby?’, he drawls.
‘1.6,’ says Rae, tossing the kit back in her opened bag. ‘Can you draw up some Glucagon?’
I prep the syringe, bunch up the flesh of Kevin’s upper arm and jab him.
Rae makes some more checks and starts filling in the form. She speaks briskly to Stepan.
‘So tell us what happened, Stepan. How long’s your friend been like this?’
But Stepan doesn’t answer the question. He continues to stare at me. After a moment he waves vaguely behind him: ‘His medication is in box on fridge.’
‘On a first date?’ I say, going over to it.
Stepan absorbs the comment, then says: ‘You wearing ring like married man. You like women, honey?’
‘Stepan, let’s concentrate on your friend for a moment, can we? He’s not at all well.’
‘I know. I call you.’
‘So when did you become concerned?’
‘He diabetic. He tell me.’
‘How much has he had to drink?’
Stepan smiles and makes a proud gesture around the flat. There are bottles standing, lying down, all over the place. Suddenly he starts pulling on an old pair of blue examination gloves.
‘Count,’ he says.
‘Why are you putting the gloves on, Stepan?’
‘Is my business.’
‘It’s peculiar.’
‘Is my business.’
‘The glucagon we gave him is a quick fix, Stepan. It won’t last long. Kevin needs something to eat to bring his blood sugar back up to scratch. Could you make him some toast, please?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ says Stepan, frowning as he struggles to get his fingers in the correct holes of the glove.
‘Like now,’ says Rae. ‘It’s important.’
‘Yes! God!’ says Stepan, still wrestling and snapping the blue rubber gloves.
‘Do you have any food in the house?’
‘Of course I have food.’
‘Your friend will need to eat when he perks up. Can you please make him some toast, or something?’
‘You don’t speak to me like this.’
He gives up trying to get the gloves on and stands up. The chair scrapes backwards and topples over, and Stepan has to grab the table to stop himself falling with it. Kevin groans and stirs.
‘Okay. This is hopeless,’ says Rae. ‘Can you get the carry chair please, Spence?’
This galvanises Stepan.
‘No! What you say? You are not to take him to hospital. I am lawyer. This is my house. You do not do this please.’
‘But Stepan. Your friend’s ill. You’re drunk and in no position to do anything to help him. He’s not safe, so we have no choice.’
‘I know law. This is my house and you leave now please.’
‘Of course. With pleasure. With Kevin.’
‘No! Look! I make toast.’
He staggers over to the fridge and throws the door open. Inside, pathetically illuminated on a plastic tray, a couple of tomatoes and a single, mummified cocktail sausage. Stepan stares at this for a moment, then slams the door shut again.
‘I go to shops.’
He struggles to push his deformed blue hands into his trouser pocket, looking for change.
‘It’s not happening, is it, Stepan? I’m afraid we’re taking Kevin with us, and that’s the end of the story.’
‘No! You leave my house now please.’
Suddenly a young woman appears in the doorway, her hair all knotted up and her Snoopy night-shirt slack with exhaustion.
‘Stepan,’ she whispers. ‘What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck is going on?’
‘Fuck you!’ he shouts.
‘No. Fuck you, Stepan. Do you know what time it is? You’re fucking crazy. You’re a madman. I want you out of this flat tomorrow. Do you understand? Jesus fucking Christ!’
‘No! Fucking Jesus Christ fucking you! I not go anywhere. You go anywhere.’
‘Fuck you, Stepan.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Can you call for some police assistance, Spence?’
The girl turns and silently withdraws, gliding like a sleepwalker back into the deeps of the night. Kevin sits upright suddenly and starts looking around. ‘What happened?’ he says.
‘You’ve had a hypo, Kevin, and we’d like to take you to hospital.’
‘Fine. Where are my trousers?’
‘No! You not call police! I cannot have scandals. I call you to help my friend, and now he’s better you can go, please. Thank you. Go. Go on.’
‘No. Stepan. Ssh now. It’s no good. Kevin is coming with us. We’ve called for police to make sure you don’t try to get in our way.’
Stepan produces a mobile phone from somewhere and struggles to hit 999 with his fingers bunched crazily in the glove.
‘I call police to have you thrown out.’
‘Fine. They’re coming anyway.’
‘No!’
He throws the phone across the flat.
‘What?’ says Kevin.
‘Why are you wearing the gloves anyway?’ I ask Stepan.
He stares at me again, breathing hard. But over the next moment or two his breaths slow and even out. He manages to right the chair, and when he sits back down, he tries to pick some strands of hair away from his face with a crazy blue hand.
‘One day I tell you,’ he smiles. And then playfully, he bites the slack blue rubber tip of his thumb.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
the blue and the brown
The only person not to respond to our buzzing is the patient. His neighbours – draped out of various windows like so much washing – are more forthcoming.
‘That won’t do you any good, mate.’
‘He’s not in his flat.’
‘He’s out on the landing.’
‘As usual.’
‘Top floor, mate.’
‘Can’t miss him.’
‘But you might want to.’
One of them rouses sufficiently to duck back inside and release the door, then drifts back to the window to carry on with the vigil.
‘Thanks.’
We go in.
The block is a multicoloured stack of glass and brick, each floor strangely staggered, so that the whole building has the feel of a drunken experiment in Lego. We walk to the sixth floor up a floating concrete staircase.
Mr Sylvester is leaning with both arms on the balustrade, his lips pursed in an O. In his flat cap, blazer, tie and slacks, he looks like a retired Major taking his ease on the veranda.
He makes as if to touch the rim of his cap with his index finger as we rise up level with him.
‘Hello chaps,’ he puffs. ‘Sorry to trouble you. It’s the old asthma.’
He has a brown inhaler in his hand and as if to illustrate his condition, takes a couple of ineffective toots.
‘Where’s your blue inhaler, Mr Sylvester?’
‘My whatsit?’
‘Your blue inhaler? Where’s your Ventolin?’
He looks at Rae.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s asking where your blue inhaler is? Have you got one?’
‘No. I ran out.’
‘Well there’s a problem for a start.’
He stares at us for a moment, then says: ‘I suffer with asthma. It’s my asthma playing up.’
‘Let’s go inside the flat and have a chat.’
‘Righto.’
He pushes himself away from his perch and we follow him into a boxy flat so stuffed full of craft material it’s like stepping into a giant workbox: a work table whose sewing machine is stacked around with boxes of thread, bags of scrap material, tiny drawers of pins and buttons, and neatly stacked piles of books on sewing, doll making, embroidery; there are shelves and shelves of DVDs – from Pilates for beginners to Advanced Origami – with just enough room for a black cat asleep next to a book on quilt making; fat reference books, collections of craft magazines in gilt pressed binders, the history of furniture; a knitting machine with a pattern half finished, and bags and bags of yarn overflowing underneath; and then to finish the flat off, in a heaped tangle of colour, a balcony crowded to the panes with potted plants, spindly hanging baskets and trays of little green seedlings.
‘Someone’s good with their hands,’ I say.
‘Hey?’
‘I say someone’s good with their hands. Does a lot of craft.’
‘I don’t know about that. I don’t like to get involved.’
Mr Sylvester sits down in the chair that’s obviously his, a saggy, worn-bare throne with a copy of TV Quick and a half-finished pint mug of orange squash.
‘How’s your breathing?’
‘Terrible. Absolutely terrible.’
But there’s no wheeze, he has no trouble talking, and his complexion is as brown as the chair. The SATS probe reads 98 per cent.
To emphasise his plight he takes another couple of toots on the inhaler.
‘The thing is, Mr Sylvester, as I’m sure you know, there are two types of inhaler. There’s a blue one that you use when you get an acute attack. You can use it as much as you need, and it’s really good in the short term for helping you get your breath. And then there’s a brown one, which is longer-acting – good for building up your lungs over time, but not much good when you’re feeling puffed. So you really need to get yourself a repeat prescription for the blue inhaler, if you’ve run out.’
‘How am I supposed to do that, then?’
‘Do you not go out much, then?’
‘Go out?’
‘Do you go shopping?’
‘Yes. I get the bus into town.’
‘So you could make an appointment at the doctors and get yourself a repeat scrip, then?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
I give up and start taking some obs.
‘Do you live with someone?’ Rae asks him. ‘Who’s your next of kin?’
‘Next of kin? I share the house with Kathleen, if that’s what you mean. She’s not my wife. I don’t want to rock the boat. We’re happy as we are.’
‘That’s lovely. So – is Kathleen at work?’
‘Yes. She’s at work, yes. She’s a good woman. None better.’
‘Where does she work, then?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t like to pry. None of my business.’
‘Is she due back soon?’
‘That’s why I like Kathleen. She’s punctual.’
‘So when’s she due back, then?’
‘Due back? Three, four hours? I don’t know. I don’t like to ask.’
Then he reaches behind him on the mantelpiece, pulls a blue inhaler out from underneath a stack of paper that I realise is a pile of old ambulance forms, gives it a shake, and puts it in his mouth. But the thing just hisses empty. He gives it a couple more shakes, tries once more, then tosses it into a wastepaper basket.
‘That’s it. That’s the one you should be using!’ I say.
He stares at me, then slowly, without saying a word, raises up the brown again, and takes a couple more squirts of that.
‘That won’t do you any good, mate.’
‘He’s not in his flat.’
‘He’s out on the landing.’
‘As usual.’
‘Top floor, mate.’
‘Can’t miss him.’
‘But you might want to.’
One of them rouses sufficiently to duck back inside and release the door, then drifts back to the window to carry on with the vigil.
‘Thanks.’
We go in.
The block is a multicoloured stack of glass and brick, each floor strangely staggered, so that the whole building has the feel of a drunken experiment in Lego. We walk to the sixth floor up a floating concrete staircase.
Mr Sylvester is leaning with both arms on the balustrade, his lips pursed in an O. In his flat cap, blazer, tie and slacks, he looks like a retired Major taking his ease on the veranda.
He makes as if to touch the rim of his cap with his index finger as we rise up level with him.
‘Hello chaps,’ he puffs. ‘Sorry to trouble you. It’s the old asthma.’
He has a brown inhaler in his hand and as if to illustrate his condition, takes a couple of ineffective toots.
‘Where’s your blue inhaler, Mr Sylvester?’
‘My whatsit?’
‘Your blue inhaler? Where’s your Ventolin?’
He looks at Rae.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s asking where your blue inhaler is? Have you got one?’
‘No. I ran out.’
‘Well there’s a problem for a start.’
He stares at us for a moment, then says: ‘I suffer with asthma. It’s my asthma playing up.’
‘Let’s go inside the flat and have a chat.’
‘Righto.’
He pushes himself away from his perch and we follow him into a boxy flat so stuffed full of craft material it’s like stepping into a giant workbox: a work table whose sewing machine is stacked around with boxes of thread, bags of scrap material, tiny drawers of pins and buttons, and neatly stacked piles of books on sewing, doll making, embroidery; there are shelves and shelves of DVDs – from Pilates for beginners to Advanced Origami – with just enough room for a black cat asleep next to a book on quilt making; fat reference books, collections of craft magazines in gilt pressed binders, the history of furniture; a knitting machine with a pattern half finished, and bags and bags of yarn overflowing underneath; and then to finish the flat off, in a heaped tangle of colour, a balcony crowded to the panes with potted plants, spindly hanging baskets and trays of little green seedlings.
‘Someone’s good with their hands,’ I say.
‘Hey?’
‘I say someone’s good with their hands. Does a lot of craft.’
‘I don’t know about that. I don’t like to get involved.’
Mr Sylvester sits down in the chair that’s obviously his, a saggy, worn-bare throne with a copy of TV Quick and a half-finished pint mug of orange squash.
‘How’s your breathing?’
‘Terrible. Absolutely terrible.’
But there’s no wheeze, he has no trouble talking, and his complexion is as brown as the chair. The SATS probe reads 98 per cent.
To emphasise his plight he takes another couple of toots on the inhaler.
‘The thing is, Mr Sylvester, as I’m sure you know, there are two types of inhaler. There’s a blue one that you use when you get an acute attack. You can use it as much as you need, and it’s really good in the short term for helping you get your breath. And then there’s a brown one, which is longer-acting – good for building up your lungs over time, but not much good when you’re feeling puffed. So you really need to get yourself a repeat prescription for the blue inhaler, if you’ve run out.’
‘How am I supposed to do that, then?’
‘Do you not go out much, then?’
‘Go out?’
‘Do you go shopping?’
‘Yes. I get the bus into town.’
‘So you could make an appointment at the doctors and get yourself a repeat scrip, then?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
I give up and start taking some obs.
‘Do you live with someone?’ Rae asks him. ‘Who’s your next of kin?’
‘Next of kin? I share the house with Kathleen, if that’s what you mean. She’s not my wife. I don’t want to rock the boat. We’re happy as we are.’
‘That’s lovely. So – is Kathleen at work?’
‘Yes. She’s at work, yes. She’s a good woman. None better.’
‘Where does she work, then?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t like to pry. None of my business.’
‘Is she due back soon?’
‘That’s why I like Kathleen. She’s punctual.’
‘So when’s she due back, then?’
‘Due back? Three, four hours? I don’t know. I don’t like to ask.’
Then he reaches behind him on the mantelpiece, pulls a blue inhaler out from underneath a stack of paper that I realise is a pile of old ambulance forms, gives it a shake, and puts it in his mouth. But the thing just hisses empty. He gives it a couple more shakes, tries once more, then tosses it into a wastepaper basket.
‘That’s it. That’s the one you should be using!’ I say.
He stares at me, then slowly, without saying a word, raises up the brown again, and takes a couple more squirts of that.
Monday, July 12, 2010
the war of two belles
The flat feels like an adult space catastrophically overrun by children. On opposite walls, just out of reach, some club posters, framed rave artwork from the early nineties, and over in a corner, propped up by a computer station, a guitar and a keyboard, both in protective flight bags. But the rest of the room - it’s as if a river of toys has burst its banks and flooded the place; half-opened boxes of games, disassembled dolls, a great tidal line of brightly coloured plastic washed up on every surface when the day receded. There’s just enough clear space for Belle to sit on the edge of the sofa and cry, whilst her husband, Tom, picks through the wreckage in a hunt for tobacco.
‘I can’t do it,’ she says. ‘I just can’t do it anymore.’ Then adds almost immediately, in a strangely off-to-the-side voice, ‘Listen to her. What’s she got to moan about?’
Belle has only taken a small overdose. Six citalopram hardly counts, even with the bottle of wine she washed them down with. But the fact she took them, the fact she came to press the tablets out of their blister pack into her palm, this has flipped her upside down.
‘I’m not normally like this,’ she says. ‘But it’s just all too much for me.’ She smiles at us. ‘Sorry. You’ve got better things to be doing. I don’t want to waste your time.’
‘Come on, babe,’ says Tom, sitting down next to her and putting his arm round her shoulder. ‘I love you. Yeah?’
‘I love you, too, honey.’ But her shoulders are stiff, and very soon Tom gets back up. ‘Where’s the tin?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
Tom stays in the flat whilst Belle walks with us out to the ambulance.
‘Can I have a hug?’ she says.
‘Not from me, I’m afraid,’ I say, opening the ambulance door.
‘How embarrassing. Everyone’s looking.’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t suppose they’ll even notice.’
‘Really?’
She throws herself down on a seat, and folds her arms and legs.
I sit opposite, Rae next to her.
‘Tell us what happened tonight, Belle.’
She blows her nose, then looks at me with watery eyes.
‘I do my best. I really do. I try and try and try. But it’s hard. I don’t want to put the kids into nursery. They’re not small for long. I wanted to enjoy them, give them as much as I could. I take them to play groups, they get out and about. But Tom’s started a new business, he’s out all the time – and I mean, all the time. He’s never home. It feels like I’m bringing the kids up by myself. And I get so tired. The kids bicker and fight. They’re having a horrible time. All I do is shout at them. They’re so incredibly demanding. And I get absolutely no time for myself. None. I’ve lost sight of who I am. What I want. I don’t know who I am anymore. We went on a little holiday last week, down to see friends in Dorset, surfing. Well, actually I was looking after the kids. Tom did the surfing.’
Then again, she drops her hands and the other Belle speaks.
‘Hark at her and her poor little hard luck story. God, some people just don’t know when they’re well off.’
I put the clipboard down and rub my eyes.
‘It’s hard,’ I say. ‘Bringing up small children is very, very hard. It’s no wonder you’re struggling. Anyone would.’
‘Would they?’ she says. ‘Did you?’
‘Well for a start me and my partner put both our girls through nursery, even though it was a stretch. We couldn’t have managed if we didn’t. I’m not saying it’s wrong or right. It’s just how we did it. My mum would never have put any of us into nursery even if she could’ve afforded it. She wanted to stay at home and look after us, which isn’t better or worse. It’s just different. Although I think she’d say looking after kids at home is better. Whenever I spoke to her on the phone she’d always end up asking how long their day was, and then sound really shocked. But you have to look at your own circumstances and decide what suits you best.’
‘I don’t have to go to hospital, do I? I don’t want to be locked up and never see my kids again.’
‘No-one’s going to be locking you up tonight, Belle. The only reason to take you to hospital would be to get you to talk to someone about what happened. Our worry would be if you stayed at home you’d do something else to hurt yourself. But you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. We can think of something else.’
‘I feel so stupid. Such a fraud. You’ve got better things to do.’
‘Nope. Not at the moment.’
‘Tom doesn’t understand what it’s like. He’s never there. He comes home and all he wants is something to eat and then go to sleep. He’s exhausted – but so am I. I’m completely exhausted. I get up in the morning and it’s like I never went to bed.’ She looks down and speaks in the other voice. ‘Some wife. There’s her husband trying to make a go of it and the mad bitch brings him down.’
‘I think it’s very difficult to be clear about what you want, and to go about getting it. I think that can make you feel very guilty, which just adds to the pain.’
‘I am guilty,’ she says. ‘My poor kids. They deserve someone better.’
She cries some more. Rae gives her fresh tissues.
When the crisis passes she asks me if I’ve ever done something similar.
‘I’ve never taken an overdose,’ I say.
She laughs.
‘You could at least have lied about it to make me feel better.’
‘I was on anti-depressants for a while, when I got really stressed towards the end of my teaching career.’
‘Did they help?’
‘Yeah, they helped.’
‘How?’
‘They let me stand back from it all and realise that teaching was driving me crazy.’
‘I’m just terrified I’m going to get stuck on them for the rest of my life.’
‘Not this sort. I know what you mean, but they’re not like tranquilisers or sleeping pills. If your doctor’s any good they’ll be able to reassure you. Is your doctor any good?’
‘I don’t like to bother them. They’ve got more important things to be doing.’
There’s a knock on the side door and Tom climbs in.
‘I can’t be long ‘cos of the kids. You going to be all right, babe?’ he says.
She smiles, and accepts a kiss on her forehead.
‘You taking her up the hospital?’
I look at Belle and she nods.
‘Here’s your keys, then, your phone and your purse. Get a taxi back, hon,’ he says. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He kisses her again and jumps back out.
‘Let’s go,’ she says, this other, tougher Belle. ‘Take the crazy bitch away.’
‘I can’t do it,’ she says. ‘I just can’t do it anymore.’ Then adds almost immediately, in a strangely off-to-the-side voice, ‘Listen to her. What’s she got to moan about?’
Belle has only taken a small overdose. Six citalopram hardly counts, even with the bottle of wine she washed them down with. But the fact she took them, the fact she came to press the tablets out of their blister pack into her palm, this has flipped her upside down.
‘I’m not normally like this,’ she says. ‘But it’s just all too much for me.’ She smiles at us. ‘Sorry. You’ve got better things to be doing. I don’t want to waste your time.’
‘Come on, babe,’ says Tom, sitting down next to her and putting his arm round her shoulder. ‘I love you. Yeah?’
‘I love you, too, honey.’ But her shoulders are stiff, and very soon Tom gets back up. ‘Where’s the tin?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
Tom stays in the flat whilst Belle walks with us out to the ambulance.
‘Can I have a hug?’ she says.
‘Not from me, I’m afraid,’ I say, opening the ambulance door.
‘How embarrassing. Everyone’s looking.’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t suppose they’ll even notice.’
‘Really?’
She throws herself down on a seat, and folds her arms and legs.
I sit opposite, Rae next to her.
‘Tell us what happened tonight, Belle.’
She blows her nose, then looks at me with watery eyes.
‘I do my best. I really do. I try and try and try. But it’s hard. I don’t want to put the kids into nursery. They’re not small for long. I wanted to enjoy them, give them as much as I could. I take them to play groups, they get out and about. But Tom’s started a new business, he’s out all the time – and I mean, all the time. He’s never home. It feels like I’m bringing the kids up by myself. And I get so tired. The kids bicker and fight. They’re having a horrible time. All I do is shout at them. They’re so incredibly demanding. And I get absolutely no time for myself. None. I’ve lost sight of who I am. What I want. I don’t know who I am anymore. We went on a little holiday last week, down to see friends in Dorset, surfing. Well, actually I was looking after the kids. Tom did the surfing.’
Then again, she drops her hands and the other Belle speaks.
‘Hark at her and her poor little hard luck story. God, some people just don’t know when they’re well off.’
I put the clipboard down and rub my eyes.
‘It’s hard,’ I say. ‘Bringing up small children is very, very hard. It’s no wonder you’re struggling. Anyone would.’
‘Would they?’ she says. ‘Did you?’
‘Well for a start me and my partner put both our girls through nursery, even though it was a stretch. We couldn’t have managed if we didn’t. I’m not saying it’s wrong or right. It’s just how we did it. My mum would never have put any of us into nursery even if she could’ve afforded it. She wanted to stay at home and look after us, which isn’t better or worse. It’s just different. Although I think she’d say looking after kids at home is better. Whenever I spoke to her on the phone she’d always end up asking how long their day was, and then sound really shocked. But you have to look at your own circumstances and decide what suits you best.’
‘I don’t have to go to hospital, do I? I don’t want to be locked up and never see my kids again.’
‘No-one’s going to be locking you up tonight, Belle. The only reason to take you to hospital would be to get you to talk to someone about what happened. Our worry would be if you stayed at home you’d do something else to hurt yourself. But you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. We can think of something else.’
‘I feel so stupid. Such a fraud. You’ve got better things to do.’
‘Nope. Not at the moment.’
‘Tom doesn’t understand what it’s like. He’s never there. He comes home and all he wants is something to eat and then go to sleep. He’s exhausted – but so am I. I’m completely exhausted. I get up in the morning and it’s like I never went to bed.’ She looks down and speaks in the other voice. ‘Some wife. There’s her husband trying to make a go of it and the mad bitch brings him down.’
‘I think it’s very difficult to be clear about what you want, and to go about getting it. I think that can make you feel very guilty, which just adds to the pain.’
‘I am guilty,’ she says. ‘My poor kids. They deserve someone better.’
She cries some more. Rae gives her fresh tissues.
When the crisis passes she asks me if I’ve ever done something similar.
‘I’ve never taken an overdose,’ I say.
She laughs.
‘You could at least have lied about it to make me feel better.’
‘I was on anti-depressants for a while, when I got really stressed towards the end of my teaching career.’
‘Did they help?’
‘Yeah, they helped.’
‘How?’
‘They let me stand back from it all and realise that teaching was driving me crazy.’
‘I’m just terrified I’m going to get stuck on them for the rest of my life.’
‘Not this sort. I know what you mean, but they’re not like tranquilisers or sleeping pills. If your doctor’s any good they’ll be able to reassure you. Is your doctor any good?’
‘I don’t like to bother them. They’ve got more important things to be doing.’
There’s a knock on the side door and Tom climbs in.
‘I can’t be long ‘cos of the kids. You going to be all right, babe?’ he says.
She smiles, and accepts a kiss on her forehead.
‘You taking her up the hospital?’
I look at Belle and she nods.
‘Here’s your keys, then, your phone and your purse. Get a taxi back, hon,’ he says. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He kisses her again and jumps back out.
‘Let’s go,’ she says, this other, tougher Belle. ‘Take the crazy bitch away.’
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
thirty, thirty-two
Geoff is sitting on the edge of the sofa, his legs pressed together and a pillow clutched to his middle. What light there is spilling in through the sitting room window is absorbed by the pallor of his face, flat as cream.
Alan, his partner, stands over by the mantelpiece and folds his arms.
I go over to Geoff and squat down beside him.
‘What’s happened, then?’
‘I was sick,’ he whispers. ‘I threw up blood.’
‘He threw up loads of blood. Three times. I’m so worried,’ says Alan, unfolding his arms, then straightaway folding them again.
‘Have you been feeling unwell through the day?’ I ask Geoff, feeling his pulse. Regular, sufficient.
‘No. I was fine.’
‘Did you get any warning you were going to be sick?’
‘Some. We’d eaten, I felt a bit dizzy, and when I came in here to lie down on the sofa I had to rush into the bathroom.’
‘Have you flushed the toilet since?’
‘I left it in case you wanted to look.’
‘Let’s see.’
I leave Geoff sitting there and follow Alan into the bathroom.
It’s a startling effect: the bathroom brightly lit, scrubbed and neat, a linear pattern of clean grouting, bleached white shower curtains, chrome towel rails, cute trinkets and mirrors – and then a splattered brown and red mess around the rim of the toilet. Inside, the bowl is full and dark.
‘And Geoff has thrown up like this three times?’
‘Yes. God – what do you think it is?’
We go back into the sitting room.
‘Do you have any pain at the moment?’ I ask him, putting on a SATS probe.
‘No.’
‘Any other strange feelings anywhere?’
‘No. A bit dizzy still, that’s it.’
‘What medical problems do you have?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Any family history of anything? Stomach ulcers, digestive problems? Anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Any recent operations?’
‘No. Except for some root canal treatment. But that was two years ago.’
‘And your health has been okay recently?’
‘Fine.’
‘Let’s have a feel of your tummy.’
He lies back and pulls up his t-shirt. Everything looks okay.
‘Tell me if anything hurts.’
The only time he winces is when I press to the right of his abdomen, about where his liver is.
‘Eating and drinking okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about alcohol? How much would you say you got through a week?’
‘Nothing much. Hardly anything.’
‘Bowel movements all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And nothing out of the ordinary in any other respect?’
‘No. What’s wrong? What’s the matter with me?’
‘I don’t know, Geoff. It looks like you’ve had a significant bleed either from your stomach or high up in your digestive system, but I don’t know why. It’s a trip to hospital, I’m afraid.’
He starts to cry.
‘Why didn’t I listen? Why?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have to tell them everything, Geoff. They have to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘It’s so embarrassing,’ he sobs. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘What? What’s been happening?’
Alan sits down with him on the sofa and takes his hand.
‘He’s been using pain killers. Nurofen Plus.’
‘Okay. How many?’
Alan hands him a tissue. Geoff blows his nose, collects himself, then stares down at his hands as they gently tear the tissue into pieces.
‘Thirty, thirty two,’ he whispers.
‘A day?’
‘I knew it was bad but I just couldn’t help myself.’
‘For how long?’
‘Since the tooth operation.’
‘Two years?’
‘About that.’ He looks up. ‘I’ve done some damage, haven’t I? I knew I would but I couldn’t stop myself. What’s going to happen to me?’
‘First things first,’ I say. ‘Let’s get some shoes on, keys, phone, wallet. Let’s get you up the hospital where we can start to get you better.’
Alan gets the stuff together whilst Geoff sits quietly.
‘It’s so embarrassing,’ he says.
‘It’s an addiction, that’s all. It’s been a problem for a while, but today’s the day you start to do something about it.’
‘I’ve taken so many, though.’
‘You have. But it’s surprising how many people are in the same boat. One step at a time, though. Let’s get you to a doctor and see what they have to say. There’s lots to be done.’
He rolls the shredded tissue into a ball and tosses it into a bin.
Alan comes over with his slippers.
Alan, his partner, stands over by the mantelpiece and folds his arms.
I go over to Geoff and squat down beside him.
‘What’s happened, then?’
‘I was sick,’ he whispers. ‘I threw up blood.’
‘He threw up loads of blood. Three times. I’m so worried,’ says Alan, unfolding his arms, then straightaway folding them again.
‘Have you been feeling unwell through the day?’ I ask Geoff, feeling his pulse. Regular, sufficient.
‘No. I was fine.’
‘Did you get any warning you were going to be sick?’
‘Some. We’d eaten, I felt a bit dizzy, and when I came in here to lie down on the sofa I had to rush into the bathroom.’
‘Have you flushed the toilet since?’
‘I left it in case you wanted to look.’
‘Let’s see.’
I leave Geoff sitting there and follow Alan into the bathroom.
It’s a startling effect: the bathroom brightly lit, scrubbed and neat, a linear pattern of clean grouting, bleached white shower curtains, chrome towel rails, cute trinkets and mirrors – and then a splattered brown and red mess around the rim of the toilet. Inside, the bowl is full and dark.
‘And Geoff has thrown up like this three times?’
‘Yes. God – what do you think it is?’
We go back into the sitting room.
‘Do you have any pain at the moment?’ I ask him, putting on a SATS probe.
‘No.’
‘Any other strange feelings anywhere?’
‘No. A bit dizzy still, that’s it.’
‘What medical problems do you have?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Any family history of anything? Stomach ulcers, digestive problems? Anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Any recent operations?’
‘No. Except for some root canal treatment. But that was two years ago.’
‘And your health has been okay recently?’
‘Fine.’
‘Let’s have a feel of your tummy.’
He lies back and pulls up his t-shirt. Everything looks okay.
‘Tell me if anything hurts.’
The only time he winces is when I press to the right of his abdomen, about where his liver is.
‘Eating and drinking okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about alcohol? How much would you say you got through a week?’
‘Nothing much. Hardly anything.’
‘Bowel movements all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And nothing out of the ordinary in any other respect?’
‘No. What’s wrong? What’s the matter with me?’
‘I don’t know, Geoff. It looks like you’ve had a significant bleed either from your stomach or high up in your digestive system, but I don’t know why. It’s a trip to hospital, I’m afraid.’
He starts to cry.
‘Why didn’t I listen? Why?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have to tell them everything, Geoff. They have to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘It’s so embarrassing,’ he sobs. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘What? What’s been happening?’
Alan sits down with him on the sofa and takes his hand.
‘He’s been using pain killers. Nurofen Plus.’
‘Okay. How many?’
Alan hands him a tissue. Geoff blows his nose, collects himself, then stares down at his hands as they gently tear the tissue into pieces.
‘Thirty, thirty two,’ he whispers.
‘A day?’
‘I knew it was bad but I just couldn’t help myself.’
‘For how long?’
‘Since the tooth operation.’
‘Two years?’
‘About that.’ He looks up. ‘I’ve done some damage, haven’t I? I knew I would but I couldn’t stop myself. What’s going to happen to me?’
‘First things first,’ I say. ‘Let’s get some shoes on, keys, phone, wallet. Let’s get you up the hospital where we can start to get you better.’
Alan gets the stuff together whilst Geoff sits quietly.
‘It’s so embarrassing,’ he says.
‘It’s an addiction, that’s all. It’s been a problem for a while, but today’s the day you start to do something about it.’
‘I’ve taken so many, though.’
‘You have. But it’s surprising how many people are in the same boat. One step at a time, though. Let’s get you to a doctor and see what they have to say. There’s lots to be done.’
He rolls the shredded tissue into a ball and tosses it into a bin.
Alan comes over with his slippers.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
bogof
Lucy plucks at her nightie and grimaces.
‘It’s bothering me now, this pain,’ she says. ‘I woke up with it.’
‘Are you all right, Loo?’ says her identical twin sister Margery, leaning forward in the chair opposite. ‘Should I fetch the doctor?’
‘We’re taking Loo to the hospital,’ Frank tells her. ‘They’ve got doctors there.’
‘I’ll be fine, Moo,’ Lucy says. ‘Don’t fret.’
Ninety-five the pair, the only difference between them is their dress. Lucy is still in her nightie, a long and rigid thing that could well be made out of greaseproof paper. She has a handful of curlers carefully rolled up in her hair and kept in place by a hairnet, and a pair of clumping slippers like scooped white tin loaves on her feet. Margery has dressed herself already, though, even though it’s barely five in the morning, the sky a luminous aquamarine and the sea slopping gently over the shore just a zimmer’s throw from the kitchen window. Her red cardigan matches her lipstick, which she has put on as carefully as she can, most of the way across.
Standing here in their flat is like standing on the set of Poirot, every detail meticulously observed, from the Bakelite switches, the silvered mirror hung by a chain, to the mahogany standard lamp, the gramophone and the ceramic dancing girls wafting about on the mantelpiece.
‘Moo will have to come,’ says Lucy. ‘She can’t stay here on her own.’
‘No. That’s fine. Just so long as you realise that you may be in for some time and she’ll have to make her own way back.’
‘Well she obviously can’t do that. I shall have to bring her. How long did you say I’ll be in?’
‘Hard to say. Quite long. And then they might decide to keep you in.’
‘Keep me in? Why ever would they keep me in?’
‘I’m not saying they will. I’m saying they might.’
‘Well if I’m to be kept in, Moo will, too.’
‘How?’
‘In a bed, of course.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Why not? It’s a hospital, isn’t it? They have beds.’
‘Yes, but..’
‘If I can have a bed, so can she.’
‘Maybe hospitals used to do that, Lucy, but they don’t any more. They don’t have the room.’
‘You are taking me to the big hospital? In town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then they’ll have room. Moo can’t stay here on her own. Someone has to make sure she takes her medicine. She’s not well, you know.’
Whilst we talk we make steady but irresistible movements towards going. I put the carry chair together. We shepherd Lucy into it.
‘I need to take Moo’s medicine with me. It’s in a big green plastic bag in the second bedroom. Could you fetch it, please? And my address book. I shall need to make some calls once I’m there. You’ll find it on the hall table. And there’s a small blue bag of toiletries in the bathroom.’
‘Let’s get you on the ambulance, Lucy. We’ll come back for all this stuff in a minute.’
‘So long as you don’t forget.’
Margery stares vacantly as we click the strap around Lucy’s arms.
‘Where are you going?’ she says.
‘To the hospital.’
‘And you’re coming, too,’ says Frank.
‘Oh. Good. Just a minute,’ she says, making a tiny movement forwards, but then immediately stopping, and forgetting what she was about to do, settling back down in the chair.
***
A few moments later I’m climbing back into the ambulance after having fetched the bag of medicines, the address book, the bag of toiletries. Lucy is sitting on the trolley, with Margery holding her hand from the nearest seat.
‘Here you are,’ I say, handing her the bag.
‘That’s the wrong bag. And did you get the address book?’
‘Yes. Look. Here.’
Lucy takes it, flicks through, sighs heavily and tosses it back.
‘And that’s the wrong address book,’ she says. ‘It’s out of date.’
‘It was the only one on the phone table,’ I say pathetically.
But I flip it open, and it strikes me that not one of the spidery numbers written there has an area code.
‘It’s bothering me now, this pain,’ she says. ‘I woke up with it.’
‘Are you all right, Loo?’ says her identical twin sister Margery, leaning forward in the chair opposite. ‘Should I fetch the doctor?’
‘We’re taking Loo to the hospital,’ Frank tells her. ‘They’ve got doctors there.’
‘I’ll be fine, Moo,’ Lucy says. ‘Don’t fret.’
Ninety-five the pair, the only difference between them is their dress. Lucy is still in her nightie, a long and rigid thing that could well be made out of greaseproof paper. She has a handful of curlers carefully rolled up in her hair and kept in place by a hairnet, and a pair of clumping slippers like scooped white tin loaves on her feet. Margery has dressed herself already, though, even though it’s barely five in the morning, the sky a luminous aquamarine and the sea slopping gently over the shore just a zimmer’s throw from the kitchen window. Her red cardigan matches her lipstick, which she has put on as carefully as she can, most of the way across.
Standing here in their flat is like standing on the set of Poirot, every detail meticulously observed, from the Bakelite switches, the silvered mirror hung by a chain, to the mahogany standard lamp, the gramophone and the ceramic dancing girls wafting about on the mantelpiece.
‘Moo will have to come,’ says Lucy. ‘She can’t stay here on her own.’
‘No. That’s fine. Just so long as you realise that you may be in for some time and she’ll have to make her own way back.’
‘Well she obviously can’t do that. I shall have to bring her. How long did you say I’ll be in?’
‘Hard to say. Quite long. And then they might decide to keep you in.’
‘Keep me in? Why ever would they keep me in?’
‘I’m not saying they will. I’m saying they might.’
‘Well if I’m to be kept in, Moo will, too.’
‘How?’
‘In a bed, of course.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Why not? It’s a hospital, isn’t it? They have beds.’
‘Yes, but..’
‘If I can have a bed, so can she.’
‘Maybe hospitals used to do that, Lucy, but they don’t any more. They don’t have the room.’
‘You are taking me to the big hospital? In town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then they’ll have room. Moo can’t stay here on her own. Someone has to make sure she takes her medicine. She’s not well, you know.’
Whilst we talk we make steady but irresistible movements towards going. I put the carry chair together. We shepherd Lucy into it.
‘I need to take Moo’s medicine with me. It’s in a big green plastic bag in the second bedroom. Could you fetch it, please? And my address book. I shall need to make some calls once I’m there. You’ll find it on the hall table. And there’s a small blue bag of toiletries in the bathroom.’
‘Let’s get you on the ambulance, Lucy. We’ll come back for all this stuff in a minute.’
‘So long as you don’t forget.’
Margery stares vacantly as we click the strap around Lucy’s arms.
‘Where are you going?’ she says.
‘To the hospital.’
‘And you’re coming, too,’ says Frank.
‘Oh. Good. Just a minute,’ she says, making a tiny movement forwards, but then immediately stopping, and forgetting what she was about to do, settling back down in the chair.
***
A few moments later I’m climbing back into the ambulance after having fetched the bag of medicines, the address book, the bag of toiletries. Lucy is sitting on the trolley, with Margery holding her hand from the nearest seat.
‘Here you are,’ I say, handing her the bag.
‘That’s the wrong bag. And did you get the address book?’
‘Yes. Look. Here.’
Lucy takes it, flicks through, sighs heavily and tosses it back.
‘And that’s the wrong address book,’ she says. ‘It’s out of date.’
‘It was the only one on the phone table,’ I say pathetically.
But I flip it open, and it strikes me that not one of the spidery numbers written there has an area code.
Monday, July 05, 2010
in a passing place
Looking out through the ambulance window is like looking through the side of a spinning zoetrope, the dark countryside cut up, run off in rippling blue panels of detail. We’re a long way out now. The road leans and turns, banked up steeply on either side with trees, stone walls, the sudden shock of a lighted window, a figure pressed back in a hedge, everything snapped and gone before you’ve really seen it, whilst high around us, beyond the manic play of our lights, bearing down like a wave, the massy black curve of the downs.
‘Half a mile. Should have its hazards on.’
The notes tell us the baby’s head is crowning.
‘Five hundred yards.’
And then we see it, tucked over in a passing place, an estate car with its lights flashing, the front doors open.
Frank puts the ambulance behind it, shielding it from the bend, and leaves the scene lights on. I hurry out of the truck to the passenger side of the car, whilst he fetches out the maternity pack.
Melissa is half-lying back on the seat that her husband Seth has wound down as far as he can. She is holding a glistening baby to her breast, wrapped in a bath towel; Seth is sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, his arms outstretched around the two of them.
‘Thank God. Thank God,’ Melissa says, her lips cracked and dry. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ says Seth.
‘Let’s have a look. It’s a boy!’
‘Hello Eli,’ she says. ‘Welcome to the world.’
Eli squalls and hollers, bunching his wrinkled mitts in his face, blindly fumbling towards her breast.
More blue lights; a police car pulls up behind our ambulance.
‘A driver rang saying he’d heard screaming in a lay-by,’ says a police woman, striding over then hanging back, rising up on her toes for a peek, smiling.
‘Ahh!’ says her mate.
‘This is hilarious, ridiculous,’ says Seth. ‘I never imagined anything like this.’
‘Everything’s fine. You’re doing brilliantly.’
‘What happens now? I just don’t know what to do,’ says Melissa.
‘You’ve done it, Melissa. You’ve given birth to a beautiful little boy. All we need do is get ready to deliver the placenta. We’re ready to clamp the chord now - look. Would you like to cut it, Seth?’
I hand the scissors to him, he makes two or three snips, and the chord is through. I give him a couple of clean white blankets; he takes Eli out of the soiled towel, wraps him up snugly, then hands him back into Melissa’s arms again to suckle. After ten minutes I try to help the placenta along by rubbing up some contractions; Melissa begins to moan harder and push, and eventually in a slow gush of blood and liquor, the placenta flops out into my hands. I put it into a bowl and pass it back to Frank. I wave a bloody glove in the air at the two police women, and they wave back.
***
Five minutes later we’re posing for photos at the back of the ambulance. Seth’s camera gets passed around, variations on angles and backgrounds, but central to it all, Melissa and Eli enthroned on the trolley, the baby happily suckling, and a pale host of moths tumbling around us through the night.
A car drives past, slows briefly, speeds up.
‘What must they think?’ laughs Seth.
‘A major incident.’
‘A little miracle.’
‘We’d better get off.’
Whilst we load the trolley Seth packs the child seat back in the car and makes himself ready to follow.
We leave the police women standing by their patrol car, speaking into their radios, as we set off in convoy for the hospital.
‘Half a mile. Should have its hazards on.’
The notes tell us the baby’s head is crowning.
‘Five hundred yards.’
And then we see it, tucked over in a passing place, an estate car with its lights flashing, the front doors open.
Frank puts the ambulance behind it, shielding it from the bend, and leaves the scene lights on. I hurry out of the truck to the passenger side of the car, whilst he fetches out the maternity pack.
Melissa is half-lying back on the seat that her husband Seth has wound down as far as he can. She is holding a glistening baby to her breast, wrapped in a bath towel; Seth is sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, his arms outstretched around the two of them.
‘Thank God. Thank God,’ Melissa says, her lips cracked and dry. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ says Seth.
‘Let’s have a look. It’s a boy!’
‘Hello Eli,’ she says. ‘Welcome to the world.’
Eli squalls and hollers, bunching his wrinkled mitts in his face, blindly fumbling towards her breast.
More blue lights; a police car pulls up behind our ambulance.
‘A driver rang saying he’d heard screaming in a lay-by,’ says a police woman, striding over then hanging back, rising up on her toes for a peek, smiling.
‘Ahh!’ says her mate.
‘This is hilarious, ridiculous,’ says Seth. ‘I never imagined anything like this.’
‘Everything’s fine. You’re doing brilliantly.’
‘What happens now? I just don’t know what to do,’ says Melissa.
‘You’ve done it, Melissa. You’ve given birth to a beautiful little boy. All we need do is get ready to deliver the placenta. We’re ready to clamp the chord now - look. Would you like to cut it, Seth?’
I hand the scissors to him, he makes two or three snips, and the chord is through. I give him a couple of clean white blankets; he takes Eli out of the soiled towel, wraps him up snugly, then hands him back into Melissa’s arms again to suckle. After ten minutes I try to help the placenta along by rubbing up some contractions; Melissa begins to moan harder and push, and eventually in a slow gush of blood and liquor, the placenta flops out into my hands. I put it into a bowl and pass it back to Frank. I wave a bloody glove in the air at the two police women, and they wave back.
***
Five minutes later we’re posing for photos at the back of the ambulance. Seth’s camera gets passed around, variations on angles and backgrounds, but central to it all, Melissa and Eli enthroned on the trolley, the baby happily suckling, and a pale host of moths tumbling around us through the night.
A car drives past, slows briefly, speeds up.
‘What must they think?’ laughs Seth.
‘A major incident.’
‘A little miracle.’
‘We’d better get off.’
Whilst we load the trolley Seth packs the child seat back in the car and makes himself ready to follow.
We leave the police women standing by their patrol car, speaking into their radios, as we set off in convoy for the hospital.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
strawberry wedge
Marion is wedged tight, utterly filling the narrow concrete space, like a character balloon inflated to fit a shoebox.
‘I’ve made a right fool of myself,’ she gasps. ‘I’ve ruined your strawberries, Geoff.’
‘Never mind about the strawberries.’
Geoff is standing next to me, a big man himself, sweating in a plaid shirt. ‘We’ve tried everything but we ran out of ideas,’ he says.
Behind us on the unlit patio, the other party guests carry on drinking and smoking at a picnic table as if nothing of any note is happening. I feel like a magician in a downbeat club, his flashiest trick – freeing the lady from the box – falling flat. No one’s the least bit interested.
‘How long’s she been down there?’
‘About half an hour. We gave her a drink.’
I run the flashlight over her again.
Marion has fallen backwards into an unguarded light well – a narrow concrete box about a foot wide, three deep, five long. Her knees are crooked up and her arms pushed forwards at the shoulder. The only injury she appears to have is a sprained wrist, but that’s the least of her worries.
Frank shakes his head. ‘Let’s get another crew along,’ he says.
Whilst we wait for them to arrive, I climb down into the tiny space available at the head end, and explore the problem from close up.
‘I need to pee’ she says. ‘That’s where I was headed when I fell in.’
‘We’ll soon have you out,’ I say to her, but it’s not going to be easy.
I unhook a hanging basket of strawberries swinging from an ornate iron bracket over our heads.
‘I’m lying on the other one,’ she says. ‘Sorry Geoff.’
‘Never mind about that,’ he says. ‘I can grow more strawberries.’
Someone laughs in the group around the patio table, but I think it’s unconnected. Cigarette smoke drifts across. The night is tall and cool above us. ‘Good job you landed face up,’ I say to her. ‘Could be worse.’
‘Could be worse,’ she says, bug-eyed, her face congested in the flashlight. ‘Can’t think how, but I’m sure you’re right.’
Frank reappears with a big grey bag full of manual handling equipment. He takes out the Mangar Elk – an inflatable mattress designed to lift heavy people off the floor. I slide it as far as I can under her back, and we inflate a few layers. It helps raise her up a bit, but not enough to get her out, and the confined space stops it inflating any more. Frank produces a lifting belt around her waist, and we’re struggling to fit it into position just as the second crew arrives. It breaks when we all grab hold and pull.
‘Much more of this and we’ll have to get the Brigade in,’ says Frank.
‘What will they do?’ asks Geoff.
‘Smash up the concrete with jack hammers I should think.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are there any more crisps or have we run out?’ someone shouts over from the picnic table.
Frank produces a couple of detachable seat belts from the lifting bag. We slip them around her shoulders and hips, then tie off the loose ends down her middle, an arrangement that makes her look like a big punnet of fruit with an orange handle. But even with this we can’t get her up; the flesh of her sides and hips is pressed against the rough plaster of the box and won’t let her up.
‘Let’s get the brigade running,’ I say to Frank. ‘We can try with the sliding sheets whilst we’re waiting.’
He makes the call, then fetches out a sliding sheet. Between us we tuck it as best we can between Marion and the wall. When we’ve all got a good hold and our feet in position, we haul on the orange belts. She lets out an enormous fart.
‘Sorry!’ she says.
‘Well I think it made a bit of room,’ I say – and she does rise up an inch or two more. But there’s still just too much friction between her sides and the wall, so we relax her back down again.
‘Let’s try stuffing the sliding sheet down both sides. If that doesn’t work, the brigade’ll have to tear the place up.’
Geoff blanches.
‘In a controlled way,’ I tell him.
‘Let’s get her legs up and lying on the edge of the wall first. She can’t weight bear, so we may as well.’
I manage to pull her legs up and out. Marion moans; I ask her if she’s okay.
‘I just feel such a fool,’ she says. ‘And I’ve ruined your strawberries, Geoff.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t bang your head?’ I ask her.
‘Positive. The only thing I’ve hurt is my wrist and my dignity.’
We rearrange the sheets again, then take a fresh grip and count down to the final effort. Just as the fire brigade are coming through the house, we haul Marion out of the well and up onto the patio flagstones, where she lies panting and swearing.
‘Everything all right then, chaps?’ says the fire officer.
‘Yep. Just managed to get her out.’
‘Excellent.’
He looks down at the hole and frowns.
‘Oh dear. Doesn’t look all that safe. You should really have that covered. Someone could have an accident.’
Geoff slaps him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see to it in the morning.’
We help Marion into a sitting position. One of her friends hands her down a cigarette.
‘Can I have this?’ she says, already puffing away.
‘I think you’ve earned it.’
‘I bet you all think I’m a right fool.’
‘I’m the fool,’ says Geoff, wiping his face with a handkerchief. ‘All those hunky firemen and I didn’t get a single number.’
‘I’ve made a right fool of myself,’ she gasps. ‘I’ve ruined your strawberries, Geoff.’
‘Never mind about the strawberries.’
Geoff is standing next to me, a big man himself, sweating in a plaid shirt. ‘We’ve tried everything but we ran out of ideas,’ he says.
Behind us on the unlit patio, the other party guests carry on drinking and smoking at a picnic table as if nothing of any note is happening. I feel like a magician in a downbeat club, his flashiest trick – freeing the lady from the box – falling flat. No one’s the least bit interested.
‘How long’s she been down there?’
‘About half an hour. We gave her a drink.’
I run the flashlight over her again.
Marion has fallen backwards into an unguarded light well – a narrow concrete box about a foot wide, three deep, five long. Her knees are crooked up and her arms pushed forwards at the shoulder. The only injury she appears to have is a sprained wrist, but that’s the least of her worries.
Frank shakes his head. ‘Let’s get another crew along,’ he says.
Whilst we wait for them to arrive, I climb down into the tiny space available at the head end, and explore the problem from close up.
‘I need to pee’ she says. ‘That’s where I was headed when I fell in.’
‘We’ll soon have you out,’ I say to her, but it’s not going to be easy.
I unhook a hanging basket of strawberries swinging from an ornate iron bracket over our heads.
‘I’m lying on the other one,’ she says. ‘Sorry Geoff.’
‘Never mind about that,’ he says. ‘I can grow more strawberries.’
Someone laughs in the group around the patio table, but I think it’s unconnected. Cigarette smoke drifts across. The night is tall and cool above us. ‘Good job you landed face up,’ I say to her. ‘Could be worse.’
‘Could be worse,’ she says, bug-eyed, her face congested in the flashlight. ‘Can’t think how, but I’m sure you’re right.’
Frank reappears with a big grey bag full of manual handling equipment. He takes out the Mangar Elk – an inflatable mattress designed to lift heavy people off the floor. I slide it as far as I can under her back, and we inflate a few layers. It helps raise her up a bit, but not enough to get her out, and the confined space stops it inflating any more. Frank produces a lifting belt around her waist, and we’re struggling to fit it into position just as the second crew arrives. It breaks when we all grab hold and pull.
‘Much more of this and we’ll have to get the Brigade in,’ says Frank.
‘What will they do?’ asks Geoff.
‘Smash up the concrete with jack hammers I should think.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are there any more crisps or have we run out?’ someone shouts over from the picnic table.
Frank produces a couple of detachable seat belts from the lifting bag. We slip them around her shoulders and hips, then tie off the loose ends down her middle, an arrangement that makes her look like a big punnet of fruit with an orange handle. But even with this we can’t get her up; the flesh of her sides and hips is pressed against the rough plaster of the box and won’t let her up.
‘Let’s get the brigade running,’ I say to Frank. ‘We can try with the sliding sheets whilst we’re waiting.’
He makes the call, then fetches out a sliding sheet. Between us we tuck it as best we can between Marion and the wall. When we’ve all got a good hold and our feet in position, we haul on the orange belts. She lets out an enormous fart.
‘Sorry!’ she says.
‘Well I think it made a bit of room,’ I say – and she does rise up an inch or two more. But there’s still just too much friction between her sides and the wall, so we relax her back down again.
‘Let’s try stuffing the sliding sheet down both sides. If that doesn’t work, the brigade’ll have to tear the place up.’
Geoff blanches.
‘In a controlled way,’ I tell him.
‘Let’s get her legs up and lying on the edge of the wall first. She can’t weight bear, so we may as well.’
I manage to pull her legs up and out. Marion moans; I ask her if she’s okay.
‘I just feel such a fool,’ she says. ‘And I’ve ruined your strawberries, Geoff.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t bang your head?’ I ask her.
‘Positive. The only thing I’ve hurt is my wrist and my dignity.’
We rearrange the sheets again, then take a fresh grip and count down to the final effort. Just as the fire brigade are coming through the house, we haul Marion out of the well and up onto the patio flagstones, where she lies panting and swearing.
‘Everything all right then, chaps?’ says the fire officer.
‘Yep. Just managed to get her out.’
‘Excellent.’
He looks down at the hole and frowns.
‘Oh dear. Doesn’t look all that safe. You should really have that covered. Someone could have an accident.’
Geoff slaps him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see to it in the morning.’
We help Marion into a sitting position. One of her friends hands her down a cigarette.
‘Can I have this?’ she says, already puffing away.
‘I think you’ve earned it.’
‘I bet you all think I’m a right fool.’
‘I’m the fool,’ says Geoff, wiping his face with a handkerchief. ‘All those hunky firemen and I didn’t get a single number.’
Monday, June 28, 2010
sirens or seagulls
The church has been converted into a hostel for the homeless. The old, iron banded oak doors stand open, but the security doors at the far end of the lobby are controlled by staff from behind a Plexiglas control room. We’re buzzed through. A young female warden with a radio shows us up a wide steel staircase that leads up a couple of turns to the first mezzanine floor and its living quarters. But there is another female warden kneeling on the floor on that landing, beside the supine figure of a man. The bottom part of the central stained glass window of the church rises up beyond them; behind a dirty grill, crapped up, barely distinguishable, a huddle of angels looking up with dread towards the next steel joist.
‘Nick has had a lot to drink. He suffers from psychotic episodes, which the drink only makes worse, obviously. We were escorting him off the premises because he’d been aggressive to some of the other residents, and he fell down a couple of steps and landed with a bit of a thump. We just wanted you to reassure us he was all right, really. I think he is, but there you are. We’ve called the police but we’ve no idea when they’ll get here. Could you find out for us?’
Frank radios control whilst I check Nick over. He opens his eyes to look at me. He’s obviously drunk, but seems oriented and doesn’t have any obvious injuries. He hasn’t fallen far, and I’m not about to try to restrain a drunk psychotic patient on a back board. He sits up of his own accord, then pulls himself up to full height.
‘Take it easy, Nick.’
I move the bag and board off to one side, out of the way.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re just checking to make sure you’re all right, mate. You had a bit of a fall.’
‘I want to go to my room.’
The second warden puts her hand on his shoulder.
‘You can’t go back, Nick. You’re going to have to leave for the night. You know why.’
‘No. Why?’
‘We’ve been through all this.’
He looks around him with low-lidded vacancy. He’s wearing a denim cut off jacket but no shirt; his skin is covered with crude tattoos pricked out in blue black ink. Dragons, skulls – and the word GOD, with the O centred on his belly button.
‘I want to go to sleep. I want to go back to my room.
‘Why don’t you come with us to the hospital so someone can keep an eye on you, Nick?’
‘I don’t want no fuckin’ hospital.’
‘Okay mate.’
‘The police haven’t got any units to assign just yet,’ says Frank. ‘They’ll update us as soon as they can.’
The second woman looks at me.
‘What do you think? Do you think he’s all right? He went down with a crash, but he didn’t knock himself out or anything.’
‘I would think he’s probably okay, but I can’t say for sure because of the drink.’
‘We’ve got to have him out, I’m afraid.’
Nick turns slowly to look at her.
‘You throwing me out?’
‘Not throwing you out, Nick. You just can’t stay here tonight. You know why.’
‘You throwing me out?’
‘Tonight, yes.’
‘I have to go back and get my fags.’
‘You can’t go back to your room, Nick. I’ll get your fags for you if you go with these gentlemen down to the lobby. I’ll fetch your fags.’
‘I want my fags.’
‘We’ll get your fags. Just go with these kind people.
Frank steps in.
‘I’ll give you one of mine outside and we can have a smoke. Come on. Let’s go.’
Nick turns to walk down the stairs. I’m by his left side, with Frank and the two wardens going ahead. I hand one of them the board and bag. ‘Hold these for us, would you?’ I say.
Two steps down and Nick suddenly climbs up onto the railings and tries to launch himself down the stairwell. I just manage to grab the lapel of his waistcoat – enough to slow him up and for Frank to reach over and grab the belt of his jeans. We have him suspended over the drop, twenty feet down onto the tiled lobby below. Nick whips and turns, trying to free our grip, reaching out beyond himself and grabbing on to the railings the other side of the drop; he tries to pull himself out of our control, and then go. But with my other hand I manage to loosen his grip, and then with one main effort we haul him back over the railings and down onto the stairs. As soon as he lands he starts trying to get up, to punch Frank, kicking and writhing, but I’ve still got hold of his top half and block off his swing so he can’t connect; Frank kneels on his side and finally we manage to close down his options. We’re all sweating, and breathing hard.
‘Could you get the radio out of my pocket?’ Frank asks me. I alter my grip enough to free a hand up to do that. Frank makes a Code 20 emergency call.
‘Police back up urgently, please.’
One of the female wardens is sobbing in a corner of the staircase. The other one speaks to her and she runs off to the office.
‘Are you guys okay?’ she says to us.
‘Yep. We’re fine.’
‘My god.’
Nick lies beneath us breathing heavily. Then he slows down and starts to talk.
‘I’m a freak. I’m not afraid to die,’ he says. ‘I’m a freak and I’m going to find out where you live. I’m going to put you in so much pain. I’m going to put you in pain you wouldn’t believe, and then I’m going to kill you. Are you afraid to die, my friend? You will be.’
I try to counter his aggression with banality.
‘Dear oh dear,’ I say to him. ‘I think that’s a bit of an over-reaction? We’re only here to help, Nick. I think you’re being a bit silly.’
‘Silly?’ he says. ‘You’re silly, you cunt. You’re silly and I’m going to kill you.’
The remaining warden says: ‘I can hear sirens.’
We all listen.
‘Sirens – or seagulls,’ I say.
‘Don’t’ she says.
But it is sirens. A minute later two police officers come running up the staircase. Frank briefs them, and they take over control of Nick with brutal efficiency. When Nick is safely cuffed and trussed, we help them haul him down the stairs.
***
Outside in the street, we watch the van arrive and Nick get loaded up. Frank smokes his fag. The moon is full and bright in the sky.
‘So where are all these football jobs then?’ I say, arching my back, stretching my arms left and right.
Frank spits into the gutter.
‘They’re all too fucking depressed to be any trouble,’ he says.
‘Nick has had a lot to drink. He suffers from psychotic episodes, which the drink only makes worse, obviously. We were escorting him off the premises because he’d been aggressive to some of the other residents, and he fell down a couple of steps and landed with a bit of a thump. We just wanted you to reassure us he was all right, really. I think he is, but there you are. We’ve called the police but we’ve no idea when they’ll get here. Could you find out for us?’
Frank radios control whilst I check Nick over. He opens his eyes to look at me. He’s obviously drunk, but seems oriented and doesn’t have any obvious injuries. He hasn’t fallen far, and I’m not about to try to restrain a drunk psychotic patient on a back board. He sits up of his own accord, then pulls himself up to full height.
‘Take it easy, Nick.’
I move the bag and board off to one side, out of the way.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re just checking to make sure you’re all right, mate. You had a bit of a fall.’
‘I want to go to my room.’
The second warden puts her hand on his shoulder.
‘You can’t go back, Nick. You’re going to have to leave for the night. You know why.’
‘No. Why?’
‘We’ve been through all this.’
He looks around him with low-lidded vacancy. He’s wearing a denim cut off jacket but no shirt; his skin is covered with crude tattoos pricked out in blue black ink. Dragons, skulls – and the word GOD, with the O centred on his belly button.
‘I want to go to sleep. I want to go back to my room.
‘Why don’t you come with us to the hospital so someone can keep an eye on you, Nick?’
‘I don’t want no fuckin’ hospital.’
‘Okay mate.’
‘The police haven’t got any units to assign just yet,’ says Frank. ‘They’ll update us as soon as they can.’
The second woman looks at me.
‘What do you think? Do you think he’s all right? He went down with a crash, but he didn’t knock himself out or anything.’
‘I would think he’s probably okay, but I can’t say for sure because of the drink.’
‘We’ve got to have him out, I’m afraid.’
Nick turns slowly to look at her.
‘You throwing me out?’
‘Not throwing you out, Nick. You just can’t stay here tonight. You know why.’
‘You throwing me out?’
‘Tonight, yes.’
‘I have to go back and get my fags.’
‘You can’t go back to your room, Nick. I’ll get your fags for you if you go with these gentlemen down to the lobby. I’ll fetch your fags.’
‘I want my fags.’
‘We’ll get your fags. Just go with these kind people.
Frank steps in.
‘I’ll give you one of mine outside and we can have a smoke. Come on. Let’s go.’
Nick turns to walk down the stairs. I’m by his left side, with Frank and the two wardens going ahead. I hand one of them the board and bag. ‘Hold these for us, would you?’ I say.
Two steps down and Nick suddenly climbs up onto the railings and tries to launch himself down the stairwell. I just manage to grab the lapel of his waistcoat – enough to slow him up and for Frank to reach over and grab the belt of his jeans. We have him suspended over the drop, twenty feet down onto the tiled lobby below. Nick whips and turns, trying to free our grip, reaching out beyond himself and grabbing on to the railings the other side of the drop; he tries to pull himself out of our control, and then go. But with my other hand I manage to loosen his grip, and then with one main effort we haul him back over the railings and down onto the stairs. As soon as he lands he starts trying to get up, to punch Frank, kicking and writhing, but I’ve still got hold of his top half and block off his swing so he can’t connect; Frank kneels on his side and finally we manage to close down his options. We’re all sweating, and breathing hard.
‘Could you get the radio out of my pocket?’ Frank asks me. I alter my grip enough to free a hand up to do that. Frank makes a Code 20 emergency call.
‘Police back up urgently, please.’
One of the female wardens is sobbing in a corner of the staircase. The other one speaks to her and she runs off to the office.
‘Are you guys okay?’ she says to us.
‘Yep. We’re fine.’
‘My god.’
Nick lies beneath us breathing heavily. Then he slows down and starts to talk.
‘I’m a freak. I’m not afraid to die,’ he says. ‘I’m a freak and I’m going to find out where you live. I’m going to put you in so much pain. I’m going to put you in pain you wouldn’t believe, and then I’m going to kill you. Are you afraid to die, my friend? You will be.’
I try to counter his aggression with banality.
‘Dear oh dear,’ I say to him. ‘I think that’s a bit of an over-reaction? We’re only here to help, Nick. I think you’re being a bit silly.’
‘Silly?’ he says. ‘You’re silly, you cunt. You’re silly and I’m going to kill you.’
The remaining warden says: ‘I can hear sirens.’
We all listen.
‘Sirens – or seagulls,’ I say.
‘Don’t’ she says.
But it is sirens. A minute later two police officers come running up the staircase. Frank briefs them, and they take over control of Nick with brutal efficiency. When Nick is safely cuffed and trussed, we help them haul him down the stairs.
***
Outside in the street, we watch the van arrive and Nick get loaded up. Frank smokes his fag. The moon is full and bright in the sky.
‘So where are all these football jobs then?’ I say, arching my back, stretching my arms left and right.
Frank spits into the gutter.
‘They’re all too fucking depressed to be any trouble,’ he says.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
a triple alignment
2010. Midsummer in the Northern Hemisphere, six days past Summer solstice, 23° 26', the point of maximum inclination of the earth’s rotational axis towards the sun. The nights will lengthen, the days shorten. There will be a full moon on Sunday 27th June.
2010. FIFA World Cup. England will qualify as Group C runners up for the last 16. Through to the knockout stage, they will play Germany at the Free State Stadium, Bloemfontein at 3pm, Sunday 27th June.
2010. A weather system of high pressure will settle over the south, leading to a continuation and intensification of unusually high temperatures for the time of year. The hottest night of the year - light winds, clear skies - will be on Sunday 27th June.
Moon. Match. Mugginess: a triple alignment.
Working a night shift. [Holy crap]
2010. FIFA World Cup. England will qualify as Group C runners up for the last 16. Through to the knockout stage, they will play Germany at the Free State Stadium, Bloemfontein at 3pm, Sunday 27th June.
2010. A weather system of high pressure will settle over the south, leading to a continuation and intensification of unusually high temperatures for the time of year. The hottest night of the year - light winds, clear skies - will be on Sunday 27th June.
Moon. Match. Mugginess: a triple alignment.
Working a night shift. [Holy crap]
Thursday, June 24, 2010
imbalances
The house door is held open by an iron cat. We ring the bell and hear something like a rusty shop bell clattering deep within.
‘Hello? Ambulance?’
Frank pushes the door open a little further.
‘Someone’s not paid the bill.’
A long and narrow hallway leads off ahead of us, utterly dark, what little light there is from the street lamps unable to penetrate the dense gloom further than the threshold.
‘Hello?’
Frank fumbles around on the wall to his right trying to locate a switch. Suddenly a voice from the end of the corridor: ‘Hey guys. Come on in.’
There’s something coolly settled about the voice, like a birdwatcher speaking in a hide. Frank finds a switch and an overhead bulb snicks on, lighting up a tall man standing at the far end hugging a carrier bag of possessions to his chest. The man seems momentarily stunned, then says: ‘Did you guys want to come in and chat, or are you fixing to go straight off?’
‘Well seeing as you’re on your feet, let’s just go out to the vehicle.’
‘Sure. No problem.’ As he turns to lock his door we both go back outside.
‘Yeah – like I’m going down for a chat in there,’ says Frank to me out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Champagne service,’ the man says loudly, suddenly right behind us. He strides on ahead to the ambulance.
‘Right,’ says Frank.
***
Even though the man is sitting down, his long frame fills the ambulance to such an extent it seems to tip in his direction. He is wearing a knitted black suit and patterned blue shirt, with an expression on his face as heavy as his clothes: his widely-spaced brown eyes are strangely flattened out, and there is a slack fall to the cheeks beneath them, a smooth drop, livid as wet clay.
I offer to take his bag, but he grips on to it.
‘No. Thanks. I’m good with that.’
‘So,’ says Frank, sitting down on the trolley. ‘We haven’t been told very much.’
‘What’s to tell? Unless you know more’n you’re letting on – which wouldn’t surprise me. Do you?’
‘No. We were just told breathing problems?’
‘Breathing problems? No. That’s not it at all. Breathing problems? Why would they say that? Jeez. Now you really do have me worried.’
‘Never mind. Just tell us why we’re here tonight.’
‘I bet you’re thinking – damned Yankee! I wouldn’t blame you. But I’ve been here a while, just never lost the accent. So I s’pose I must qualify for something or other. I married a Brit, but she left me. I guess she had her reasons, nothing no rational person could identify.’
‘How are you in yourself?’
‘Me? Good. I’m good. Excepting for this damned infection I can’t seem to get on top of. I was in hospital with it, discharged, but now it looks like it’s flaring up again.’
‘And that’s why we’re here? You have an infection somewhere?’
‘That’s why you’re here, sir.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right.’
He looks at us.
‘I don’t want to be a nuisance,’ he says.
***
At the hospital he ducks quickly out of the ambulance like a marine sprinting out of a helicopter.
‘I gotta have a cigarette before I go in that place,’ he says, pulling a pack out of his jacket and shaking it. ‘You guys don’t mind, d’you?’
‘I’ll go on in and book you in.’
‘Thanks, man.’
He sparks up, and leaves the cigarette in his mouth as we talk. It bobs up and down at the corner of his lips.
‘So why were you sitting in the dark?’ I ask him.
‘Why was I sitting in the dark? Because I wanted to see that no-good son-of-a-bitch landlord if he came in. I wanted to have the drop on him.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. He’s crazy, s’all. He tried to have me killed.’
‘Why?’
‘When I first move in I pass him and his girlfriend in the hall. So I was nice and polite, say hi and how’re ya, looking straight at her – and there’s my mistake right there. Turns out he’s jealous. Next thing I know, he’s hiring three guys to whack me in the pub. But I’m pretty handy. I went to him next day and say “Hey, fella. What’s going on? What were you thinking?” Of course he said nothing, being a rather yellow livered individ’al. But from then on he’s been up to stuff.’
‘What like?’
‘Banging on the walls, constantly. All through the night.’
‘Can’t you move?’
He looks at me, takes the fag out of his mouth and spits off to the side.
‘Where?’ he says.
Silence. The A&E parking lot is filled with vehicles, but strangely there’s no-one about. It feels eerie, as if people have abandoned everything in a hurry.
‘Yeah,’ he continues. ‘My wife left me. I tried to find out why but there’s a point where logic and emotion separate. And you know what? I think there’s a whole area for research that’s being neglected because it ain’t PC and it don’t make for comfortable reading.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘The effect of hormonal imbalances on the female psyche. I’ve done some work on it myself, but you meet the same, stonewalling attitudes. I rang up this female neurologist. As soon as I started to ask about the effect of oestrogen on a woman’s ability to think rationally, she hung up on me. It’s obvious, but you’re just not allowed to even think it. Women are making bad decisions day in day out for no other reason than their hormones are up the shit, but nothing’s done about it, families suffer, marriages break down, all for what?’
Frank saunters over.
‘All booked in,’ he says. ‘Finished your cigarette?’
The man drops it and grinds it out beneath is boot.
‘Breathing difficulties!’ he laughs. ‘Well I reckon the smoking’s fixed that.’
‘Hello? Ambulance?’
Frank pushes the door open a little further.
‘Someone’s not paid the bill.’
A long and narrow hallway leads off ahead of us, utterly dark, what little light there is from the street lamps unable to penetrate the dense gloom further than the threshold.
‘Hello?’
Frank fumbles around on the wall to his right trying to locate a switch. Suddenly a voice from the end of the corridor: ‘Hey guys. Come on in.’
There’s something coolly settled about the voice, like a birdwatcher speaking in a hide. Frank finds a switch and an overhead bulb snicks on, lighting up a tall man standing at the far end hugging a carrier bag of possessions to his chest. The man seems momentarily stunned, then says: ‘Did you guys want to come in and chat, or are you fixing to go straight off?’
‘Well seeing as you’re on your feet, let’s just go out to the vehicle.’
‘Sure. No problem.’ As he turns to lock his door we both go back outside.
‘Yeah – like I’m going down for a chat in there,’ says Frank to me out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Champagne service,’ the man says loudly, suddenly right behind us. He strides on ahead to the ambulance.
‘Right,’ says Frank.
***
Even though the man is sitting down, his long frame fills the ambulance to such an extent it seems to tip in his direction. He is wearing a knitted black suit and patterned blue shirt, with an expression on his face as heavy as his clothes: his widely-spaced brown eyes are strangely flattened out, and there is a slack fall to the cheeks beneath them, a smooth drop, livid as wet clay.
I offer to take his bag, but he grips on to it.
‘No. Thanks. I’m good with that.’
‘So,’ says Frank, sitting down on the trolley. ‘We haven’t been told very much.’
‘What’s to tell? Unless you know more’n you’re letting on – which wouldn’t surprise me. Do you?’
‘No. We were just told breathing problems?’
‘Breathing problems? No. That’s not it at all. Breathing problems? Why would they say that? Jeez. Now you really do have me worried.’
‘Never mind. Just tell us why we’re here tonight.’
‘I bet you’re thinking – damned Yankee! I wouldn’t blame you. But I’ve been here a while, just never lost the accent. So I s’pose I must qualify for something or other. I married a Brit, but she left me. I guess she had her reasons, nothing no rational person could identify.’
‘How are you in yourself?’
‘Me? Good. I’m good. Excepting for this damned infection I can’t seem to get on top of. I was in hospital with it, discharged, but now it looks like it’s flaring up again.’
‘And that’s why we’re here? You have an infection somewhere?’
‘That’s why you’re here, sir.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right.’
He looks at us.
‘I don’t want to be a nuisance,’ he says.
***
At the hospital he ducks quickly out of the ambulance like a marine sprinting out of a helicopter.
‘I gotta have a cigarette before I go in that place,’ he says, pulling a pack out of his jacket and shaking it. ‘You guys don’t mind, d’you?’
‘I’ll go on in and book you in.’
‘Thanks, man.’
He sparks up, and leaves the cigarette in his mouth as we talk. It bobs up and down at the corner of his lips.
‘So why were you sitting in the dark?’ I ask him.
‘Why was I sitting in the dark? Because I wanted to see that no-good son-of-a-bitch landlord if he came in. I wanted to have the drop on him.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. He’s crazy, s’all. He tried to have me killed.’
‘Why?’
‘When I first move in I pass him and his girlfriend in the hall. So I was nice and polite, say hi and how’re ya, looking straight at her – and there’s my mistake right there. Turns out he’s jealous. Next thing I know, he’s hiring three guys to whack me in the pub. But I’m pretty handy. I went to him next day and say “Hey, fella. What’s going on? What were you thinking?” Of course he said nothing, being a rather yellow livered individ’al. But from then on he’s been up to stuff.’
‘What like?’
‘Banging on the walls, constantly. All through the night.’
‘Can’t you move?’
He looks at me, takes the fag out of his mouth and spits off to the side.
‘Where?’ he says.
Silence. The A&E parking lot is filled with vehicles, but strangely there’s no-one about. It feels eerie, as if people have abandoned everything in a hurry.
‘Yeah,’ he continues. ‘My wife left me. I tried to find out why but there’s a point where logic and emotion separate. And you know what? I think there’s a whole area for research that’s being neglected because it ain’t PC and it don’t make for comfortable reading.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘The effect of hormonal imbalances on the female psyche. I’ve done some work on it myself, but you meet the same, stonewalling attitudes. I rang up this female neurologist. As soon as I started to ask about the effect of oestrogen on a woman’s ability to think rationally, she hung up on me. It’s obvious, but you’re just not allowed to even think it. Women are making bad decisions day in day out for no other reason than their hormones are up the shit, but nothing’s done about it, families suffer, marriages break down, all for what?’
Frank saunters over.
‘All booked in,’ he says. ‘Finished your cigarette?’
The man drops it and grinds it out beneath is boot.
‘Breathing difficulties!’ he laughs. ‘Well I reckon the smoking’s fixed that.’
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
how do I look?
The scaffolders have taken their shirts off. The younger one has a smooth, wiry body, and the few tattoos he has up either arm look as fresh and unconvincing as stickers. The two older guys are tried and tougher versions, though. They parade the area of pavement between the truck and the building, great urban silverbacks, territorial grunts and shouts, low-slung bellies on lower-slung jeans, slopping the dregs of their tea into the gutter whilst scrappy England flags snap against the blue sky on poles stuck up behind the cab.
‘Oi oi! Here comes the cavalry!’ they shout as we walk towards the door with our bags. One of the bigger guys grabs the smaller one round the neck and rubs the top of his head with his knuckles. ‘Take him. He’s useless. I think his brain’s gone off in the heat.’
There’s a tray of tea things left on the little stone steps outside the house, china cups on a dark wooden tray, a stainless steel tea pot.
‘Where are our biscuits?’ Frank says back to them as I ring the buzzer.
‘Fackin’ hob nobs, mate. We scarfed the lot.’
Frank shakes his head.
‘You’re gonna need a bigger ladder.’
The tall Regency house rises up behind the scaffolding like an old weathered cake on a seaside theme, a lighthouse set against a cliff of butter cream. The central frontage is a delicate semi-circle, each floor marked with a sash window, the whole building more attractive for the battered face it presents. It looks like a well-loved toy; if the scaffolding was taken away, you could imagine a giant hand unclipping the front, swinging it out, and reaching in to arrange the furniture.
We’re buzzed through.
Inside the hallway a serpentine staircase rises up steeply through the core of the building, a dizzying six storeys, to a skylight visible through the centre, a bright cupola of glass and iron and the segmented sky beyond.
We begin the ascent.
Half way up we hear a woman calling down to us.
‘Keep coming. Don’t give up. Almost there.’
Diana is waiting for us on the top landing. A small, square woman in her eighties, she seems as well put together as the house, a formidable pastel construction, the light pink of her lipstick matching the darker pink of her skirt, her arms folded across a lavender silk chemise, her white hair tightly coiffed like a mother of pearl hat, each earlobe clipped with an ivory button.
‘The silly old fool’s through here,’ she says, turning. ‘He bished his head on the wall.’
We follow her into the flat.
Stanley is sitting on an Ottoman with a bloody tea towel tied around his forehead.
‘Are they here, darling?’ he says, turning his head awkwardly and seeing nothing. ‘Are they here?’
‘Hello, Stanley. We hear you’ve had a bit of a fall. Try not to move until we’ve had a look at you.’
‘Righto.’
He has a faded military bluster. Prominently displayed on a shelf behind him is a portrait of a man in uniform, straight-backed and serious with a young family beneath the protective wing of his outstretched arm. Time has moved on from that formal arrangement, effecting its usual blessings and depredations, but one thing that hasn’t changed over much is the moustache. Sixty years and still twitching, a bristling little Captain’s nose brush, ready for action.
Whilst I clean and dress the cut over his eye, Frank sits on the edge of a tasselled foot stool and asks him to tell us what happened.
‘This damned slipper,’ he says, stamping his right foot. ‘It tried to kill me.’
‘Darling. Please.’
‘Well honestly. It’s the stupidest thing. I was getting up to go to the lavatory when this damned slipper..’
‘Darling!’
‘Well it is! And I give you fair warning, this wretched article is headed straight for the bin. Followed by me, no doubt.’
‘I don’t think it’s that serious.’
‘No? Then why can’t I see out of my left eye?’
‘Because the tea towel has fallen down over it. There. Better?’
‘Oh. Right. Anyway. This damned slipper. It’s been waiting its moment for years and now this. Pitched me head first into a wall. Darling, did I damage anything?’
‘Your head do you mean?’
‘No. The wall.’
‘Darling there’s just the teensiest smudge of awfulness there but I can clean that up. It’s you we’re worried about.’
‘Me? You needn’t worry about me. Tough as old Harry.’
The living room has a studied air, discretely hung with framed prints and paintings of Georgian ladies strolling along the promenade; barges on the Thames; elongated horsemen riding to hounds; decorous skirmishes on the Hindu Kush. Tastefully arranged ceramic pigs ranked in strict height order to a tall floral lampshade and a bronze St George apparently pole vaulting over a dragon.
‘Are we done?’ he says, impatiently bobbing his head. ‘How do I look?’
‘You look an absolute fright,’ his wife tells him. ‘Now be quiet, darling. I have to phone and cancel my appointment with Dr Nick Nack or whatever he’s called.’
She hangs on the phone, playing with the white lead and tutting as she makes it through each of the automated options.
‘Really!’ she mutters. ‘I simply want to be connected.’
Stanley has to go in to have the cut above his eye properly cleaned and glued.
‘Will you be okay on the stairs?’
‘If I can hold on to you I’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘Lead on.’
At the top of the stairs he grips the banister and builds himself up for the descent. I stand in front of him, ready to walk down backwards and play catch if necessary, with Frank on his left holding on to his arm. We’re all set to go when Stanley suddenly shouts ‘Kelly! Kelly!’ as loud as he can down the stair well. Diana comes rushing out.
‘What on earth are you doing? You’ll have the whole building out. Be quiet!’ she says.
Stanley turns to look as far as he can over his shoulder.
‘I just wanted Kelly to see me in all these bandages,’ he says.
‘Oh darling,’ Diane says. ‘Do you really think she’s interested?’
‘Who’s Kelly?’ I ask him.
‘Kelly! The other love of my life.’
‘Come on, Casanova,’ says Frank. ‘One step at a time. Down we go.’
‘Oi oi! Here comes the cavalry!’ they shout as we walk towards the door with our bags. One of the bigger guys grabs the smaller one round the neck and rubs the top of his head with his knuckles. ‘Take him. He’s useless. I think his brain’s gone off in the heat.’
There’s a tray of tea things left on the little stone steps outside the house, china cups on a dark wooden tray, a stainless steel tea pot.
‘Where are our biscuits?’ Frank says back to them as I ring the buzzer.
‘Fackin’ hob nobs, mate. We scarfed the lot.’
Frank shakes his head.
‘You’re gonna need a bigger ladder.’
The tall Regency house rises up behind the scaffolding like an old weathered cake on a seaside theme, a lighthouse set against a cliff of butter cream. The central frontage is a delicate semi-circle, each floor marked with a sash window, the whole building more attractive for the battered face it presents. It looks like a well-loved toy; if the scaffolding was taken away, you could imagine a giant hand unclipping the front, swinging it out, and reaching in to arrange the furniture.
We’re buzzed through.
Inside the hallway a serpentine staircase rises up steeply through the core of the building, a dizzying six storeys, to a skylight visible through the centre, a bright cupola of glass and iron and the segmented sky beyond.
We begin the ascent.
Half way up we hear a woman calling down to us.
‘Keep coming. Don’t give up. Almost there.’
Diana is waiting for us on the top landing. A small, square woman in her eighties, she seems as well put together as the house, a formidable pastel construction, the light pink of her lipstick matching the darker pink of her skirt, her arms folded across a lavender silk chemise, her white hair tightly coiffed like a mother of pearl hat, each earlobe clipped with an ivory button.
‘The silly old fool’s through here,’ she says, turning. ‘He bished his head on the wall.’
We follow her into the flat.
Stanley is sitting on an Ottoman with a bloody tea towel tied around his forehead.
‘Are they here, darling?’ he says, turning his head awkwardly and seeing nothing. ‘Are they here?’
‘Hello, Stanley. We hear you’ve had a bit of a fall. Try not to move until we’ve had a look at you.’
‘Righto.’
He has a faded military bluster. Prominently displayed on a shelf behind him is a portrait of a man in uniform, straight-backed and serious with a young family beneath the protective wing of his outstretched arm. Time has moved on from that formal arrangement, effecting its usual blessings and depredations, but one thing that hasn’t changed over much is the moustache. Sixty years and still twitching, a bristling little Captain’s nose brush, ready for action.
Whilst I clean and dress the cut over his eye, Frank sits on the edge of a tasselled foot stool and asks him to tell us what happened.
‘This damned slipper,’ he says, stamping his right foot. ‘It tried to kill me.’
‘Darling. Please.’
‘Well honestly. It’s the stupidest thing. I was getting up to go to the lavatory when this damned slipper..’
‘Darling!’
‘Well it is! And I give you fair warning, this wretched article is headed straight for the bin. Followed by me, no doubt.’
‘I don’t think it’s that serious.’
‘No? Then why can’t I see out of my left eye?’
‘Because the tea towel has fallen down over it. There. Better?’
‘Oh. Right. Anyway. This damned slipper. It’s been waiting its moment for years and now this. Pitched me head first into a wall. Darling, did I damage anything?’
‘Your head do you mean?’
‘No. The wall.’
‘Darling there’s just the teensiest smudge of awfulness there but I can clean that up. It’s you we’re worried about.’
‘Me? You needn’t worry about me. Tough as old Harry.’
The living room has a studied air, discretely hung with framed prints and paintings of Georgian ladies strolling along the promenade; barges on the Thames; elongated horsemen riding to hounds; decorous skirmishes on the Hindu Kush. Tastefully arranged ceramic pigs ranked in strict height order to a tall floral lampshade and a bronze St George apparently pole vaulting over a dragon.
‘Are we done?’ he says, impatiently bobbing his head. ‘How do I look?’
‘You look an absolute fright,’ his wife tells him. ‘Now be quiet, darling. I have to phone and cancel my appointment with Dr Nick Nack or whatever he’s called.’
She hangs on the phone, playing with the white lead and tutting as she makes it through each of the automated options.
‘Really!’ she mutters. ‘I simply want to be connected.’
Stanley has to go in to have the cut above his eye properly cleaned and glued.
‘Will you be okay on the stairs?’
‘If I can hold on to you I’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘Lead on.’
At the top of the stairs he grips the banister and builds himself up for the descent. I stand in front of him, ready to walk down backwards and play catch if necessary, with Frank on his left holding on to his arm. We’re all set to go when Stanley suddenly shouts ‘Kelly! Kelly!’ as loud as he can down the stair well. Diana comes rushing out.
‘What on earth are you doing? You’ll have the whole building out. Be quiet!’ she says.
Stanley turns to look as far as he can over his shoulder.
‘I just wanted Kelly to see me in all these bandages,’ he says.
‘Oh darling,’ Diane says. ‘Do you really think she’s interested?’
‘Who’s Kelly?’ I ask him.
‘Kelly! The other love of my life.’
‘Come on, Casanova,’ says Frank. ‘One step at a time. Down we go.’
Friday, June 11, 2010
henry upstairs
The additional notes to the job are succinct: man, hates himself. We see a police car outside the entrance to the flats, so there’s no need asking for anything else. I park up behind it, slowing to a crawl to allow for the crowds of lunchtime shoppers to make room. We jump out and ring the intercom.
‘Has someone been murdered?’ asks the owner of the shop next door.
I shrug and smile. We’re buzzed through.
Dove Court has an out of time feel. The arcade of shops beneath the Thirties flats must once have been smart haberdasheries, milliners, gentleman’s outfitters. But those high end businesses have been superseded by charity shops, gift shops, everything under a pound shops, the arcade’s former glories detectable only in faint architectural traces – a fan of leaded glass there above a doorway, the elaborate black and white mosaic beneath our feet.
The lobby to Dove Court is protected by a substantial oak door. It has a besieged look, battered and scoured by the intervening years. There is an automatic closure arm above it, a mechanism so fierce it only allows us the minimum of width or time before it slams shut again.
In contrast to the bright high street, the lobby is cool and shadowed. There is a rounded oak desk to our left, but the last concierge must have palmed his last threepence fifty years ago. Now the office behind it is boarded up, and the counter littered with uncollected post. There is a cakey scent to the air, a spidery-footed mustiness that would have even the most negligent surveyor reaching for his damp meter. But at least the lift works. We head up to the fourth floor.
Incredibly, the first and second floors seem to be given over to offices – a furtive little import/export business, a herbalist with a human figure covered in arcane symbols and a name scrawled in thick green ink. The lift passes on up and then judders to a halt. We are confronted by an elegant wooden board with gilt arrows pointing left and right. The flat we need has no number but we could guess which one it is; the pane of glass in the front door has been put in and replaced by a rough piece of plywood; the lock edge of the door has recently been reinforced.
We knock once and step inside.
The tacky grab beneath our boots confirms what our noses already tell us: this is a filthy place. The carpet, such as it is, has a patchwork flowering of puce, brown and black stains; bin bags spilling with rubbish are placed here and there, clouds of flies bustling up as we pick our way around them; empty bottles of vodka are interspersed with two litre plastic milk cartons filled with urine; there is a half eaten plate of macaroni on the floor beneath the computer table, so dreadful even the flies seem to be erring on the side of caution.
A long, thin man in a shiny grey nylon shirt is sitting up on a camp bed. He pushes his filthy glasses back up his nose and smiles at us, a ghastly expression, involving a dropping of his scrubby white jaw and a generalised exposure of a rack of glistening teeth. A police officer is standing with his hands tucked inside his stab vest, looking at him. The contrast between the two is profound: the man, in a state of utter degradation, the police officer, fit and sharp and powerful. We nod and say hello to them both.
‘Guys, this is Henry. I’ve only just got here myself so I can’t tell you much. We got a call to a possible suicide, not sure where it originated. Your man Henry obviously has a few problems at the moment – I’ll leave you to get some more information whilst I just go over here – and open… this… window.’
We need to work quickly – for our benefit, not the patient. It doesn’t seem as if Henry has taken an overdose or hurt himself in any way, but he obviously can’t stay here.
Henry puts his hands together in an attitude of prayer.
‘Please help me,’ he says. ‘I’ve reached rock bottom.’
Rae sends me back down to the ambulance to get a chair.
I’m as quick as I can be. Back at the front door I try the ambulance trick of taking off my gloves and using them to stop the door closing, but the robotic arm is so fierce it spits them straight out onto the pavement. It’s just started to rain and the air is wonderfully clear and fresh. I look out for the inquisitive shop keeper, but he’s gone back inside. The crowds along the street are busy and bright and full of the affairs of the morning. The contrast is dizzying - the shoppers on one level, the destitute man on another, living in close proximity but as removed from each other as two entirely distinct species.
I troop back upstairs with the chair. Henry throws his arms and legs about in a panic about leaving his bed. It takes some firm persuasion and tactical manoeuvring to get him into the chair whilst maintaining minimal contact. Once he’s on board we wrap the blanket around him. We leave enough to make a little hood – ostensibly to guard against the rain, but in reality to put something between me and his fetid hair.
‘Bit of a fly problem you have here,’ I say as Rae straps him in.
‘I know,’ he says, struggling to free his arms. ‘It’s those bloody foreigners.’
The police officer shakes his head grimly, and holds the door.
‘Has someone been murdered?’ asks the owner of the shop next door.
I shrug and smile. We’re buzzed through.
Dove Court has an out of time feel. The arcade of shops beneath the Thirties flats must once have been smart haberdasheries, milliners, gentleman’s outfitters. But those high end businesses have been superseded by charity shops, gift shops, everything under a pound shops, the arcade’s former glories detectable only in faint architectural traces – a fan of leaded glass there above a doorway, the elaborate black and white mosaic beneath our feet.
The lobby to Dove Court is protected by a substantial oak door. It has a besieged look, battered and scoured by the intervening years. There is an automatic closure arm above it, a mechanism so fierce it only allows us the minimum of width or time before it slams shut again.
In contrast to the bright high street, the lobby is cool and shadowed. There is a rounded oak desk to our left, but the last concierge must have palmed his last threepence fifty years ago. Now the office behind it is boarded up, and the counter littered with uncollected post. There is a cakey scent to the air, a spidery-footed mustiness that would have even the most negligent surveyor reaching for his damp meter. But at least the lift works. We head up to the fourth floor.
Incredibly, the first and second floors seem to be given over to offices – a furtive little import/export business, a herbalist with a human figure covered in arcane symbols and a name scrawled in thick green ink. The lift passes on up and then judders to a halt. We are confronted by an elegant wooden board with gilt arrows pointing left and right. The flat we need has no number but we could guess which one it is; the pane of glass in the front door has been put in and replaced by a rough piece of plywood; the lock edge of the door has recently been reinforced.
We knock once and step inside.
The tacky grab beneath our boots confirms what our noses already tell us: this is a filthy place. The carpet, such as it is, has a patchwork flowering of puce, brown and black stains; bin bags spilling with rubbish are placed here and there, clouds of flies bustling up as we pick our way around them; empty bottles of vodka are interspersed with two litre plastic milk cartons filled with urine; there is a half eaten plate of macaroni on the floor beneath the computer table, so dreadful even the flies seem to be erring on the side of caution.
A long, thin man in a shiny grey nylon shirt is sitting up on a camp bed. He pushes his filthy glasses back up his nose and smiles at us, a ghastly expression, involving a dropping of his scrubby white jaw and a generalised exposure of a rack of glistening teeth. A police officer is standing with his hands tucked inside his stab vest, looking at him. The contrast between the two is profound: the man, in a state of utter degradation, the police officer, fit and sharp and powerful. We nod and say hello to them both.
‘Guys, this is Henry. I’ve only just got here myself so I can’t tell you much. We got a call to a possible suicide, not sure where it originated. Your man Henry obviously has a few problems at the moment – I’ll leave you to get some more information whilst I just go over here – and open… this… window.’
We need to work quickly – for our benefit, not the patient. It doesn’t seem as if Henry has taken an overdose or hurt himself in any way, but he obviously can’t stay here.
Henry puts his hands together in an attitude of prayer.
‘Please help me,’ he says. ‘I’ve reached rock bottom.’
Rae sends me back down to the ambulance to get a chair.
I’m as quick as I can be. Back at the front door I try the ambulance trick of taking off my gloves and using them to stop the door closing, but the robotic arm is so fierce it spits them straight out onto the pavement. It’s just started to rain and the air is wonderfully clear and fresh. I look out for the inquisitive shop keeper, but he’s gone back inside. The crowds along the street are busy and bright and full of the affairs of the morning. The contrast is dizzying - the shoppers on one level, the destitute man on another, living in close proximity but as removed from each other as two entirely distinct species.
I troop back upstairs with the chair. Henry throws his arms and legs about in a panic about leaving his bed. It takes some firm persuasion and tactical manoeuvring to get him into the chair whilst maintaining minimal contact. Once he’s on board we wrap the blanket around him. We leave enough to make a little hood – ostensibly to guard against the rain, but in reality to put something between me and his fetid hair.
‘Bit of a fly problem you have here,’ I say as Rae straps him in.
‘I know,’ he says, struggling to free his arms. ‘It’s those bloody foreigners.’
The police officer shakes his head grimly, and holds the door.
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