The late night, mini-supermarket security guard is too big for his shirt. The collar squeezes his neck so hard it seems to distort his head, like someone has taken a partially deflated pink balloon, nipped it half way and drawn a face on the bulge.
‘He was all right when he came in. Well – drunk,’ he says, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand and staring down at the man who is lying half in and half out of the doorway. ‘You couldn’t just drag his feet inside a bit, could you? Then I can shut the doors.’
The moment after we do that a small crowd of zombied clubbers run up against the glass. ‘Let us in. Come on, man. We only want a few things. It’s not eleven yet.’
The guard glares at them and gestures with his hand.
‘Piss off. Can’t you see it’s an emergency?’
They move away, but one of them stays to press her face up against the window, making a shielding bridge with her hand to see inside. Then she takes a step back, and clatters off to catch up with the others.
Meanwhile I’m attending to the patient. He lies on the floor like a washing machine tipped on its side with the door open, a prodigious mess of blood, beer and noodles emptying out of him, fanning in noxious waves across the floor and on into the store. He snores horribly, ropes of blood and what looks like wallpaper paste spattering out of his nose.
‘Tell me what happened again?’ I ask the guard as I fiddle around trying to get an airway in. I could be James Herriott in a barn; any minute now I expect to land a bloody calf on the anti-static mat, but then he vomits copiously again and feebly tries to bat me away.
The guard takes a step back.
‘Jesus Christ. Okay. Yep. He wandered in, headed for the booze aisles, obviously drunk. I politely turned him round by the shoulders and led him back to the door. We even had a little laugh and a joke. Then he seemed to stumble at the entrance, slid down the wall, passed out, and started being sick.’
‘Did he have a fit at all?’
‘You mean did he shake? No. Not that I saw.’
‘Have you seen him before? Do you know his name?’
‘No idea.’
I’m on the car, so I strip off my gloves, stand up and radio for back-up.
‘There’ll be an ambulance along in a minute,’ I tell the guard as I clip the radio back on my belt. ‘Whilst we’re waiting, I’m just going to get a couple more bits of kit. Are you all right here for a second?’
‘Yes. Yes. You get what you need, son.’
He pulls a bunch of keys out of his pocket with a silver chain, then shakily activates the door again. I’m parked right outside, so I don’t have to go far.
When I come back, the guard is arguing with a young guy who wants to go in to the supermarket.
‘I only want one thing,’ says the guy.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? We’re closed.’
‘But it’s not eleven yet.’
‘It’s a medical emergency.’
‘What emergency?’
I come up next to him and for a second there’s the guard, me with a squawking radio, the body on the floor surrounded by a lake of bloody vomit, and the guy. He looks at all three of us, hesitates, then goes to step over the body. The guard grabs him by the shoulder, hauls him back, and shoves him outside again.
‘Out you go.’
‘But I only want one thing,’ he says, then stands back on the pavement, breathing heavily, flexing and bunching his fingers, like a stunt man screwing himself up to take a long, running jump.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
two plates
Vera’s sitting room is a refuge for soft toys: a child-sized bunny in pinafore and bonnet collapsed in the corner, mobbed by a hundred smaller rabbits; a teddy bear ghetto crammed into an armchair – from eyeless, older bears through to cheap, foam-filled, fairground bears, Pudsey, Paddington and a fairy bear in wings and tiara, clutching a velvet heart that reads I wuv you; a sofa devoted like a hefty, brown leather ark to every duck in a lab coat, tiger in a flying hat, monkey in a space suit, pig in a tutu or giraffe in pyjamas that had ever been stuffed, stitched and put out for sale – whilst above them all, on a special shelf set high up on the picture wall, Minnie and Mickey Mouse, toy royals waving with fixed enthusiasm to the crowds below.
Vera is sitting slumped over to the left in her own chair, her own stuffing depleted by the high temperature she has been running these past few days.
‘Do you always keep it so hot in here, Vera?’ says Frank, throwing off his jacket. ‘Even Minnie’s got a sweat on.’
Vera smiles.
‘I feel the cold,’ she says. ‘Always have. Would you like something to drink?’
‘No. We’re okay, thanks. But look – I think we need to take you to the hospital. You’ve got a bit of a fever and I don’t think you can cope here on your own.’
‘I don’t think I can, either.’
‘We’ve got a chair here for you.’
‘I’m very heavy.’
‘But look how strong we are.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Come on then.’
We help Vera into our carry chair, the air almost rippling around her.
‘You’re like a little furnace.’
‘I wish someone would put me out.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
I hold the back of the chair whilst Frank gathers her medication together and puts it into a plastic bag. Vera watches him quietly, then says:
‘Can a high temperature make you hallucinate?’
‘I think it can, sometimes. Why? Have you been seeing things?’
‘Last night I woke up, and there was a woman standing at the bottom of the bed, staring at me.’
‘What did she look like, this woman?’
‘She was very tall and elegant, in an old style Empire line dress. And she had long grey hair that went all the way down to her hips.’
‘Did you recognise her from anywhere?’
‘No. I’d never seen her before in my life. I wasn’t frightened. I was just curious. She stood there for a long while, looking at me. Then she held up two plates. Just like that – two, plain white dinner plates. Up in front of her, and smiled at me.’
‘Did she say anything?’
Frank is standing there now with the medication bag.
‘How much for these?’ he says, and places the bag on Vera’s lap.
Vera is sitting slumped over to the left in her own chair, her own stuffing depleted by the high temperature she has been running these past few days.
‘Do you always keep it so hot in here, Vera?’ says Frank, throwing off his jacket. ‘Even Minnie’s got a sweat on.’
Vera smiles.
‘I feel the cold,’ she says. ‘Always have. Would you like something to drink?’
‘No. We’re okay, thanks. But look – I think we need to take you to the hospital. You’ve got a bit of a fever and I don’t think you can cope here on your own.’
‘I don’t think I can, either.’
‘We’ve got a chair here for you.’
‘I’m very heavy.’
‘But look how strong we are.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Come on then.’
We help Vera into our carry chair, the air almost rippling around her.
‘You’re like a little furnace.’
‘I wish someone would put me out.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
I hold the back of the chair whilst Frank gathers her medication together and puts it into a plastic bag. Vera watches him quietly, then says:
‘Can a high temperature make you hallucinate?’
‘I think it can, sometimes. Why? Have you been seeing things?’
‘Last night I woke up, and there was a woman standing at the bottom of the bed, staring at me.’
‘What did she look like, this woman?’
‘She was very tall and elegant, in an old style Empire line dress. And she had long grey hair that went all the way down to her hips.’
‘Did you recognise her from anywhere?’
‘No. I’d never seen her before in my life. I wasn’t frightened. I was just curious. She stood there for a long while, looking at me. Then she held up two plates. Just like that – two, plain white dinner plates. Up in front of her, and smiled at me.’
‘Did she say anything?’
Frank is standing there now with the medication bag.
‘How much for these?’ he says, and places the bag on Vera’s lap.
Friday, January 21, 2011
stevie wonder
The streets are shining with all the rain that’s fallen tonight. The front desk of the police station closed at twelve, so we drive round the back. It’s bigger than you think. Once you come in off the road – slowly, checking the large reflective screens positioned high on the walls, gently across the speed humps, between the chicanes of parked response cars, vans, civilian cars and unmarked pursuit vehicles – the building rises up around you, a hulking letter C, alternating lines of long, narrow windows and yellow PVC cladding, stacked like the layers of a cake, capped with a roof of concrete icing and a cluster of aerials.
A police officer is waiting for us by the back door. He waves us into position, then comes round to the passenger door and holds it open as I climb out.
‘What it is – we sectioned this sixteen year old girl this evening. Found in the street, very distressed. She’s cut her arms up some, and then the other thing – she’s tied off her right hand with some cloth, really, really tightly and it’s looking bad. We would’ve taken her up the hospital ourselves, but to cap it all she says she’s taken some pills, so we had to call you.’
‘No worries. Where is she?’
‘I’ll take you there. Her name’s Casey.’
We follow him along a series of anonymous corridors to an interview room. He opens the door.
‘I think they just took her to the loo. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘What do we know about Casey, then?’
‘Registered as missing from a home for disturbed teenagers up country. Some previous – petty theft, shoplifting, drugs.’
Frank perches on the corner of the only table in the room. There is the sound of a slamming door and then voices approaching from further along the corridor. I move over to the window.
‘Here she is.’
He stands aside, and two, blue gloved police officers come in holding Casey upright by either arm. She has a sulky, smudged look to her, a school disco casualty in black halter neck top and crudely painted eyeliner. There is a thick stud in her lip, an agricultural thing, as if the authorities had decided to start tagging teenagers like cattle.
‘Not more police,’ she says, dragging her feet.
‘Casey, this is the ambulance. They’re here to help you.’
‘I don’t need no help. I just want to be left alone.’
Frank gestures to one of the chairs.
‘Have a seat, Casey and let’s have a chat.’
‘You sure you’re not police?’
‘Yep. Look at me. Do I look like police? They’d never have me.’
She grunts, the police officers release her arms, and she throws herself down in the chair.
Both of her bare arms are striped with cuts, some of them gaping and needing stitches. But the most compelling thing about Casey is her right hand. She has used a strip of cotton material to tie off the circulation to her hand at the wrist. The hand balloons inertly beyond the tourniquet, puce-red and ghastly.
‘Why have you tied-off your hand like that, Casey?’
‘Don’t you touch it! Don’t you come near it!’
‘I just want to know why you’ve done that.’
‘If I tell you, you won’t do anything about it, will you?’
‘All I want to do is find out what’s going on with you tonight, Casey. That’s it. That’s all I’m interested in. So come on. Why have you tied off your hand?’
She cradles it in her lap.
‘It had to be punished. It stole things. It has to come off.’ She looks up at him. ‘It’s like the Arabs. If you steal, you lose your hand.’
‘Have you hurt yourself anywhere else? Apart from your hand and your cuts?’
‘No.’
‘How long’s that tourniquet been on, do you think?’
‘You’re not taking it off!’
‘I just want to know how long it’s been on, that’s all.’
‘About two hours.’
‘Okay, Casey. Okay.’
Frank stands up. He turns his back to Casey and looks at me intently, quietly slipping out a pair of shears from an inside pocket and handing them to me.
‘It’s coming off,’ he whispers. I nod.
He turns back to Casey and we both walk quickly over to her.
‘What are you doing? Fuck off.’
‘You’ll lose your hand, Casey. I’m sorry, darling, but the bandage is coming off.’
‘No! No! Don’t! Please!’
He has hold of her shoulders. I’m standing close in now so she can’t draw up her legs and kick me. The other two police officers hold her arms. She wrests beneath our control so violently it’s difficult to cut through the tourniquet without hurting her, but somehow I manage to work my way through the layers of material; one final cut, and it springs apart. We all relax our hold; she cradles her arm to her chest, crying and catching her breath in great, wretched sobs.
‘You promised! You promised you wouldn’t!’
‘I didn’t promise, Casey. I’m sorry we had to do it, but we were worried about your hand.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Sorry, Casey.’
Over the next few minutes she gradually regains control of herself. Frank speaks to the police officers about arrangements to take her to hospital.
‘I’m not going,’ she says. ‘Forget it.’
One of the police officers kneels down beside her.
‘Casey? You’ve got to go to hospital and that’s the end of it. You have two choices. Either you go with these ambulance guys, or you go in the back of a horrible old police van. That’s just the way things are. So – what’s it going to be?’
She thinks for a second, then slowly raises her eyes to look at me.
‘I’ll go’ she says. ‘But not with him.’
***
Outside, there has been a fresh shower of rain and the night seems colder. I walk on ahead of the group and make the back of the ambulance ready. As they approach, I make sure I’m out of the way as Frank and the police officer with Casey between them climb inside. I slam the door shut and go round to the driver’s side of the cab. When I turn the engine over, the radio comes on: You are the sunshine of my life.
I call backwards over my shoulder through the partition window.
‘Ready to go?’
‘Yeah, mate.’
I check the mirrors and turn the wheel.
A police officer is waiting for us by the back door. He waves us into position, then comes round to the passenger door and holds it open as I climb out.
‘What it is – we sectioned this sixteen year old girl this evening. Found in the street, very distressed. She’s cut her arms up some, and then the other thing – she’s tied off her right hand with some cloth, really, really tightly and it’s looking bad. We would’ve taken her up the hospital ourselves, but to cap it all she says she’s taken some pills, so we had to call you.’
‘No worries. Where is she?’
‘I’ll take you there. Her name’s Casey.’
We follow him along a series of anonymous corridors to an interview room. He opens the door.
‘I think they just took her to the loo. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘What do we know about Casey, then?’
‘Registered as missing from a home for disturbed teenagers up country. Some previous – petty theft, shoplifting, drugs.’
Frank perches on the corner of the only table in the room. There is the sound of a slamming door and then voices approaching from further along the corridor. I move over to the window.
‘Here she is.’
He stands aside, and two, blue gloved police officers come in holding Casey upright by either arm. She has a sulky, smudged look to her, a school disco casualty in black halter neck top and crudely painted eyeliner. There is a thick stud in her lip, an agricultural thing, as if the authorities had decided to start tagging teenagers like cattle.
‘Not more police,’ she says, dragging her feet.
‘Casey, this is the ambulance. They’re here to help you.’
‘I don’t need no help. I just want to be left alone.’
Frank gestures to one of the chairs.
‘Have a seat, Casey and let’s have a chat.’
‘You sure you’re not police?’
‘Yep. Look at me. Do I look like police? They’d never have me.’
She grunts, the police officers release her arms, and she throws herself down in the chair.
Both of her bare arms are striped with cuts, some of them gaping and needing stitches. But the most compelling thing about Casey is her right hand. She has used a strip of cotton material to tie off the circulation to her hand at the wrist. The hand balloons inertly beyond the tourniquet, puce-red and ghastly.
‘Why have you tied-off your hand like that, Casey?’
‘Don’t you touch it! Don’t you come near it!’
‘I just want to know why you’ve done that.’
‘If I tell you, you won’t do anything about it, will you?’
‘All I want to do is find out what’s going on with you tonight, Casey. That’s it. That’s all I’m interested in. So come on. Why have you tied off your hand?’
She cradles it in her lap.
‘It had to be punished. It stole things. It has to come off.’ She looks up at him. ‘It’s like the Arabs. If you steal, you lose your hand.’
‘Have you hurt yourself anywhere else? Apart from your hand and your cuts?’
‘No.’
‘How long’s that tourniquet been on, do you think?’
‘You’re not taking it off!’
‘I just want to know how long it’s been on, that’s all.’
‘About two hours.’
‘Okay, Casey. Okay.’
Frank stands up. He turns his back to Casey and looks at me intently, quietly slipping out a pair of shears from an inside pocket and handing them to me.
‘It’s coming off,’ he whispers. I nod.
He turns back to Casey and we both walk quickly over to her.
‘What are you doing? Fuck off.’
‘You’ll lose your hand, Casey. I’m sorry, darling, but the bandage is coming off.’
‘No! No! Don’t! Please!’
He has hold of her shoulders. I’m standing close in now so she can’t draw up her legs and kick me. The other two police officers hold her arms. She wrests beneath our control so violently it’s difficult to cut through the tourniquet without hurting her, but somehow I manage to work my way through the layers of material; one final cut, and it springs apart. We all relax our hold; she cradles her arm to her chest, crying and catching her breath in great, wretched sobs.
‘You promised! You promised you wouldn’t!’
‘I didn’t promise, Casey. I’m sorry we had to do it, but we were worried about your hand.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Sorry, Casey.’
Over the next few minutes she gradually regains control of herself. Frank speaks to the police officers about arrangements to take her to hospital.
‘I’m not going,’ she says. ‘Forget it.’
One of the police officers kneels down beside her.
‘Casey? You’ve got to go to hospital and that’s the end of it. You have two choices. Either you go with these ambulance guys, or you go in the back of a horrible old police van. That’s just the way things are. So – what’s it going to be?’
She thinks for a second, then slowly raises her eyes to look at me.
‘I’ll go’ she says. ‘But not with him.’
***
Outside, there has been a fresh shower of rain and the night seems colder. I walk on ahead of the group and make the back of the ambulance ready. As they approach, I make sure I’m out of the way as Frank and the police officer with Casey between them climb inside. I slam the door shut and go round to the driver’s side of the cab. When I turn the engine over, the radio comes on: You are the sunshine of my life.
I call backwards over my shoulder through the partition window.
‘Ready to go?’
‘Yeah, mate.’
I check the mirrors and turn the wheel.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
in the garden
Mrs Givens points to an empty parking space, then stands respectfully on the pavement as we climb out of the ambulance.
‘Thanks for being so quick,’ she says.
Her neighbour and friend, Mrs Hutchens, stands across the way, by the side entrance to number four, a stone tub of lavender between her and a little black metal gate; she smiles and nods as we walk across, swinging the gate open then making a sweeping invitation through it with her other hand, like an usher at an outdoor event.
‘He’s in the garden. We couldn’t get him up.’
The two women tuck in behind us along the narrow path that leads round the back. We pass a large green plastic storage bin, the lid propped open, a stock of gardening equipment neatly cleaned and stored away inside.
‘So what happened?’
‘It’s such a problem. We’ve tried to get things sorted.’
‘He’s so independent.’
‘Stubborn.’
‘He won’t accept any help.’
‘Turned away umpteen carers.’
‘They’ve never been good enough.’
‘His family are spread all over.’
‘Miles away.’
‘Never puts his hearing aid in.’
‘The telly’s on all hours, top volume.’
‘You can’t hear yourself think.’
‘We’ve tried everything but he just wants to be left alone to get on with it.’
‘Now look.’
Mr Richardson is lying on his side in the middle of the lawn. He is propped up on his right arm; with his left, he reaches feebly into the air, straining his head up, too, like a giant tortoise collapsed on its side, defeated, but sensing change.
‘He’s ninety four.’
‘We couldn’t get him up.’
Frank squats down beside him and assesses the damage.
‘How long do you think he’s been on the ground?’ I ask Mrs Givens.
‘I came back from work and I was upstairs getting out of my things when I though I heard someone calling. I looked out of the window and that’s when I saw him. He’s been out doing the gardening again. We’ve told him to be careful, but he just can’t help himself.’
‘So how long, do you reckon?’
‘Two hours? Maybe more.’
Mr Richardson is cold and wet, but otherwise uninjured. We need to get him warmed up as soon as possible, so we help him to his feet and walk him slowly out to the truck. Once he’s on board, the heater on full and his jacket and cardigan off, we wrap him in blankets, looping one over his head.
Whilst we check him over, Mrs Givens comes back with a tray of tea and shortbread biscuits; Mrs Hutchens has all Mr Richardson’s medications in a cracker box. She hands it up to Frank, then goes off to try to find some contact numbers. Mrs Givens takes a seat in the back, and we all sit around him, sipping our tea and discussing the situation. Frank helps Mr Richardson drink from his cup. He has to speak loudly and support his words with little mimes to make himself understood.
‘Where are your dentures? Your teeth?’ He tugs at his own. ‘I’d give you mine but I need them later. You’ll just have to dunk your biscuit,’ he says. ‘Dunk it.’
Mr Richardson shakily dabbles the biscuit in the tea, then slowly raises it up to his leathery mouth, gumming it unproductively, like a baby with a rusk. But when he lowers it again he makes appreciative smacking noises, and his faded gray eyes crinkle up. He tries to speak, but the words are thin and drawn together, an abstracted, strangely musical sound, like an ancient wizard chanting fragments of a spell.
‘Sorry Mr Richardson. I can’t understand what you’re saying.’
He reaches out from under the blankets, his hand a mottled, brick-red colour, the heavy nails rounded and pale; his touch is so cold it’s as if a garden statue had come to life and touched me on the hand.
‘You’re a little what, Mr Richardson?’
He repeats the phrase; it’s only by relaxing and letting the sound wash over me that I get it.
‘Little Lord Fauntleroy?’
He nods and smiles – then something else occurs to him, and he leans forward again. I have to grab the cup before he tips the tea in his lap.
‘You lost your glasses when you fell? He lost his glasses when he fell. I’ll go and see if I can find them.’
I step back outside the ambulance. The evening has moved on; the sky is indigo blue and the air is cut with frost.
Mrs Hutchens comes out of the house.
‘I’ve got those numbers,’ she says.
‘Thanks. I’ve just got to go round the back and look for his glasses.’
She heads over to the ambulance. I walk through the gate again, click on my torch and retrace our steps.
I close the lid to the equipment store as I pass.
The path leads me through to the back garden. The beam of my torch picks out the scene: a darkening muddle of shrubs and trees around the perimeter, cold frames at the foot of the wall, a bird bath, an upturned wheel barrow, the little pile of leaves he raked together before he fell, a tipped, white metal bench, a garden rake and a pair of open shears – and there, glinting dully in the torchlight, a pair of silver framed specs. I walk over to pick them up. Suddenly, from somewhere in the woods beyond the wall, the urgent craik-craik-craik of a pheasant. It cuts through the silence as I swing the light in that direction, moving quickly away, out into the growing deeps of the night.
‘Thanks for being so quick,’ she says.
Her neighbour and friend, Mrs Hutchens, stands across the way, by the side entrance to number four, a stone tub of lavender between her and a little black metal gate; she smiles and nods as we walk across, swinging the gate open then making a sweeping invitation through it with her other hand, like an usher at an outdoor event.
‘He’s in the garden. We couldn’t get him up.’
The two women tuck in behind us along the narrow path that leads round the back. We pass a large green plastic storage bin, the lid propped open, a stock of gardening equipment neatly cleaned and stored away inside.
‘So what happened?’
‘It’s such a problem. We’ve tried to get things sorted.’
‘He’s so independent.’
‘Stubborn.’
‘He won’t accept any help.’
‘Turned away umpteen carers.’
‘They’ve never been good enough.’
‘His family are spread all over.’
‘Miles away.’
‘Never puts his hearing aid in.’
‘The telly’s on all hours, top volume.’
‘You can’t hear yourself think.’
‘We’ve tried everything but he just wants to be left alone to get on with it.’
‘Now look.’
Mr Richardson is lying on his side in the middle of the lawn. He is propped up on his right arm; with his left, he reaches feebly into the air, straining his head up, too, like a giant tortoise collapsed on its side, defeated, but sensing change.
‘He’s ninety four.’
‘We couldn’t get him up.’
Frank squats down beside him and assesses the damage.
‘How long do you think he’s been on the ground?’ I ask Mrs Givens.
‘I came back from work and I was upstairs getting out of my things when I though I heard someone calling. I looked out of the window and that’s when I saw him. He’s been out doing the gardening again. We’ve told him to be careful, but he just can’t help himself.’
‘So how long, do you reckon?’
‘Two hours? Maybe more.’
Mr Richardson is cold and wet, but otherwise uninjured. We need to get him warmed up as soon as possible, so we help him to his feet and walk him slowly out to the truck. Once he’s on board, the heater on full and his jacket and cardigan off, we wrap him in blankets, looping one over his head.
Whilst we check him over, Mrs Givens comes back with a tray of tea and shortbread biscuits; Mrs Hutchens has all Mr Richardson’s medications in a cracker box. She hands it up to Frank, then goes off to try to find some contact numbers. Mrs Givens takes a seat in the back, and we all sit around him, sipping our tea and discussing the situation. Frank helps Mr Richardson drink from his cup. He has to speak loudly and support his words with little mimes to make himself understood.
‘Where are your dentures? Your teeth?’ He tugs at his own. ‘I’d give you mine but I need them later. You’ll just have to dunk your biscuit,’ he says. ‘Dunk it.’
Mr Richardson shakily dabbles the biscuit in the tea, then slowly raises it up to his leathery mouth, gumming it unproductively, like a baby with a rusk. But when he lowers it again he makes appreciative smacking noises, and his faded gray eyes crinkle up. He tries to speak, but the words are thin and drawn together, an abstracted, strangely musical sound, like an ancient wizard chanting fragments of a spell.
‘Sorry Mr Richardson. I can’t understand what you’re saying.’
He reaches out from under the blankets, his hand a mottled, brick-red colour, the heavy nails rounded and pale; his touch is so cold it’s as if a garden statue had come to life and touched me on the hand.
‘You’re a little what, Mr Richardson?’
He repeats the phrase; it’s only by relaxing and letting the sound wash over me that I get it.
‘Little Lord Fauntleroy?’
He nods and smiles – then something else occurs to him, and he leans forward again. I have to grab the cup before he tips the tea in his lap.
‘You lost your glasses when you fell? He lost his glasses when he fell. I’ll go and see if I can find them.’
I step back outside the ambulance. The evening has moved on; the sky is indigo blue and the air is cut with frost.
Mrs Hutchens comes out of the house.
‘I’ve got those numbers,’ she says.
‘Thanks. I’ve just got to go round the back and look for his glasses.’
She heads over to the ambulance. I walk through the gate again, click on my torch and retrace our steps.
I close the lid to the equipment store as I pass.
The path leads me through to the back garden. The beam of my torch picks out the scene: a darkening muddle of shrubs and trees around the perimeter, cold frames at the foot of the wall, a bird bath, an upturned wheel barrow, the little pile of leaves he raked together before he fell, a tipped, white metal bench, a garden rake and a pair of open shears – and there, glinting dully in the torchlight, a pair of silver framed specs. I walk over to pick them up. Suddenly, from somewhere in the woods beyond the wall, the urgent craik-craik-craik of a pheasant. It cuts through the silence as I swing the light in that direction, moving quickly away, out into the growing deeps of the night.
Monday, January 17, 2011
what patty says
The business fuss of our visit is over. Nell has refused hospital despite everything, every threat, blandishment, trick and treat we know. The carer has gone, Nell is propped up on a dozen rotten pillows contentedly spooning a yogurt. Frank is on the phone in the sitting room talking to the out of hours doctor.
I look round the room.
‘Where are you from originally, Nell?’
‘Liverpool. I’m a scouser. D’you know what? When my sister Patty rings, she says “Are you okay, our wack?”
‘Our wack. I like that.’
‘She’s always said it.’
There are several photographs, framed or otherwise, spread across the walls. I point to one, a luminously pretty woman in a tightly buttoned uniformed, her lipstick mouth in a formal forties cupid. She has tried to control her hair, but it still looks as though someone filled her cap with springs and then dumped it on her head.
‘So is this you in the uniform, Nell?’
‘Is this what?’
‘Is this you during the war?’
‘WRAF, Carlisle. Nineteen forty two.’
‘Very smart.’
‘I went all over the place. Norway. Sweden. London.’
She points at me with the spoon.
‘Intake, compression, power, exhaust.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘I was a mechanic. I fixed the trucks. They said to me “Nell, what do you know about the workings of it all?” And I told them. Intake, compression, power, exhaust. The internal combustion engine. In a nutshell.’
She hangs on the memory for a moment, then dives back into her fruit corner.
‘Did you do it after the war?’
‘Wha’d’you say?’
‘Did you do it after the war? Mechanics?’
‘I was Head Usherette at the Hippodrome. See that one there?’
‘This one?’
‘That one there. He came and sang there once and he gave me that.’
‘He’s a fine looking feller.’
‘He’s a fool. He had a sack of them. Everyone got a picture, whether they wanted one or not.’
Frank comes back into the room.
‘The doctor says you’re to come to hospital with us, Nell.’
‘Well the doctor can mind her own business.’
‘You’re not yourself.’
‘There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m not going to hospital, and you can’t make me.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘I just want to be left alone.’
She scrapes round the yogurt carton then chucks it to the side.
‘That’s me Dad,’ she says, wiping her mouth on her cardigan then pointing at the wardrobe. For a moment I think Poor Nell. She really is confused. But then I realise there is a framed picture of a man on the very top of the wardrobe, the top edge of the frame almost touching the ceiling.
‘Lovely.’
Frank rearranges the pillows behind her.
‘Have you got everything you need, Nell? Can we make you a tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Nell - the doctor says she’s coming straight over to have a word. We’ll wait in the sitting room till she gets here.’
‘Righto. But I’m not going to the hospital.’
‘Talk to the doctor about it.’
We go next door, into a low-ceilinged room sparsely furnished with a display cabinet of dusty trinkets, a TV, a threadbare Ercol settee and coffee table, everything strewn with toffees, celebrity magazines and random scraps of paper. One of them has shaky handwriting covering one side, notes that Nell had obviously made for a letter to a newspaper: I fought for my country, she writes. This green and pleasant land, so called. And now what do I see out the window? Students marching in the street because they can’t go to college because the government won’t give them any money. I never had the chance of an education so I got it where I could and that was that and I don’t complain. But I didn’t go through a war just to see kids not given a fair chance. Something must be done. This old woman supports the students.
There is a photo book there too – A Day in the Life of Norway. The cover shows a young couple sprawled on a grassy bank beneath a pine tree. The girl is smiling as the boy points something out across the fjord. Behind them, two tethered horses are grazing – except for some reason the horse in the foreground is arching its back and neck, its mouth wide open, just as if it were about to be sick all over the boy. I show Frank.
‘What the hell is this one doing?’
‘I don’t know, Spence. A hairball.’
‘Why would you put a picture like that on a book about Norway, Frank?’
‘They’re trying to tell you something. Norway’s all right if you go by bike.’
Suddenly Nell shouts out from the bedroom. We both go back in.
‘I need the loo.’
‘Okay mate.’
We help her up. Even with her stick she wobbles about.
‘Are you okay?’ I say. She stops, plants herself as firmly as she’s able, and looks right at me.
‘You know all that business about Wayne Rooney? You know what Patty says?’
‘What does she say?’
‘She says if I was his wife I’d cut his nob off.’
I look round the room.
‘Where are you from originally, Nell?’
‘Liverpool. I’m a scouser. D’you know what? When my sister Patty rings, she says “Are you okay, our wack?”
‘Our wack. I like that.’
‘She’s always said it.’
There are several photographs, framed or otherwise, spread across the walls. I point to one, a luminously pretty woman in a tightly buttoned uniformed, her lipstick mouth in a formal forties cupid. She has tried to control her hair, but it still looks as though someone filled her cap with springs and then dumped it on her head.
‘So is this you in the uniform, Nell?’
‘Is this what?’
‘Is this you during the war?’
‘WRAF, Carlisle. Nineteen forty two.’
‘Very smart.’
‘I went all over the place. Norway. Sweden. London.’
She points at me with the spoon.
‘Intake, compression, power, exhaust.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘I was a mechanic. I fixed the trucks. They said to me “Nell, what do you know about the workings of it all?” And I told them. Intake, compression, power, exhaust. The internal combustion engine. In a nutshell.’
She hangs on the memory for a moment, then dives back into her fruit corner.
‘Did you do it after the war?’
‘Wha’d’you say?’
‘Did you do it after the war? Mechanics?’
‘I was Head Usherette at the Hippodrome. See that one there?’
‘This one?’
‘That one there. He came and sang there once and he gave me that.’
‘He’s a fine looking feller.’
‘He’s a fool. He had a sack of them. Everyone got a picture, whether they wanted one or not.’
Frank comes back into the room.
‘The doctor says you’re to come to hospital with us, Nell.’
‘Well the doctor can mind her own business.’
‘You’re not yourself.’
‘There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m not going to hospital, and you can’t make me.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘I just want to be left alone.’
She scrapes round the yogurt carton then chucks it to the side.
‘That’s me Dad,’ she says, wiping her mouth on her cardigan then pointing at the wardrobe. For a moment I think Poor Nell. She really is confused. But then I realise there is a framed picture of a man on the very top of the wardrobe, the top edge of the frame almost touching the ceiling.
‘Lovely.’
Frank rearranges the pillows behind her.
‘Have you got everything you need, Nell? Can we make you a tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Nell - the doctor says she’s coming straight over to have a word. We’ll wait in the sitting room till she gets here.’
‘Righto. But I’m not going to the hospital.’
‘Talk to the doctor about it.’
We go next door, into a low-ceilinged room sparsely furnished with a display cabinet of dusty trinkets, a TV, a threadbare Ercol settee and coffee table, everything strewn with toffees, celebrity magazines and random scraps of paper. One of them has shaky handwriting covering one side, notes that Nell had obviously made for a letter to a newspaper: I fought for my country, she writes. This green and pleasant land, so called. And now what do I see out the window? Students marching in the street because they can’t go to college because the government won’t give them any money. I never had the chance of an education so I got it where I could and that was that and I don’t complain. But I didn’t go through a war just to see kids not given a fair chance. Something must be done. This old woman supports the students.
There is a photo book there too – A Day in the Life of Norway. The cover shows a young couple sprawled on a grassy bank beneath a pine tree. The girl is smiling as the boy points something out across the fjord. Behind them, two tethered horses are grazing – except for some reason the horse in the foreground is arching its back and neck, its mouth wide open, just as if it were about to be sick all over the boy. I show Frank.
‘What the hell is this one doing?’
‘I don’t know, Spence. A hairball.’
‘Why would you put a picture like that on a book about Norway, Frank?’
‘They’re trying to tell you something. Norway’s all right if you go by bike.’
Suddenly Nell shouts out from the bedroom. We both go back in.
‘I need the loo.’
‘Okay mate.’
We help her up. Even with her stick she wobbles about.
‘Are you okay?’ I say. She stops, plants herself as firmly as she’s able, and looks right at me.
‘You know all that business about Wayne Rooney? You know what Patty says?’
‘What does she say?’
‘She says if I was his wife I’d cut his nob off.’
Saturday, January 15, 2011
fire family
The hollow zone between late and early, and the streets are deserted. We keep our sirens off. Gradually, a growing fuzz of blue in the distance. As we approach it, I feel the low thrum of fire trucks shaking up the houses and flats either side. We come to a stop, and the lights of our vehicle add to those already there, racing across the faces of the people standing behind the cordon, evacuated from the block, or drawn outside to witness.
A Fire fighter in a white tabard waves us over.
‘So. Gentlemen. Three casualties. Two adults, one baby, exposed to quite a high level of smoke. Especially the adults – their faces are pretty black with it. The baby doesn’t seem too bad. They’re all on oxygen up in that cab.’
‘What was the fire like?’
‘It looks like an oven went into meltdown with a plastic kettle on the hob. Quite a bit of toxicity there, I should think. But not much flame, and no burns.’
‘Great. Let’s see them.’
He leads us up to the foot of the cab, its door standing open, and points up at the occupants.
‘That’s Rachel, the baby’s Mae or Rae or something, the man’s called Mick.’
‘Thanks. Hello.’
Rachel is sitting with the baby on her lap in the passenger seat, an oxygen mask between the two of them. Rachel’s face is sooty and black, with circles of pale flesh around each eye like graffiti glasses. Mae’s face is clear, except for a few black finger marks across her cheek. She wriggles about on her mum’s lap; when she sees me, she stretches out her arms as if she’s suddenly ready to fling herself out onto the night.
‘Whoa there squirrel,’ says Rachel, tightening her grip round Mae’s waist. Then laughs at me: ‘She’s a real stunt baby.’
‘Pass her down and then let’s all go to the ambulance. We’ll treat you there.’
She hands Mae to me, kicking and wriggling, then climbs out backwards unsteadily. Her partner Mick follows, looking as blackened and blasted as a miner climbing out of the pit after a long shift. Whilst Rachel is chatty and alert, Mick almost falls asleep on the short walk to the ambulance.
‘Are you okay?’ I say, poking him in the shoulder.
‘Wha? Oh. Yeah. Just tired, me.’
His eyes begin to close again and his chin drops.
‘How long were you exposed to the smoke, Mick?’
He doesn’t answer. We almost have to walk him up the steps. I sit him on the trolley and the woman with the baby on the chair facing. As soon as his legs are up, he lolls his head back and falls asleep.
‘Hey. Wake up,’ I say to him. ‘What’s the matter?’
Rachel leans across and pinches his arm.
‘It’s the baby. Keeping him up. He’s tired out.’
‘Is that what it is, Mick? Is that what’s making you so drowsy?’
‘Wha?’
‘Open your eyes for me, mate. Open your eyes.’
I have to open them for him. The pupils are constricted.
‘Mick? Have you been using tonight?’
I pull his oxygen mask away from his face so I can hear what he has to say.
‘Wha? No. I’m just sleepy – from the baby. You know.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah. I had some vallies yesterday. Tha’s it.’
He immediately nods back onto the trolley; I put the hissing mask back onto his face.
As I’m writing down some obs Rachel jiggles Mae up and down on her lap.
‘He was supposed to be making me something to eat,’ she says finally. ‘Something hot. He must have forgotten he put the oven on.’
‘Right.’
‘We won’t have to go to hospital will we?’ says Rachel, jiggling the baby up and down on her leg. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
‘It could be. All that stuff on your face – you were breathing it in as well. Who knows what’s in it.’
‘It’s just smoke.’
‘Still.’
‘She’ll be all right though, won’t she?’
‘Was she in another room?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’ll help, then. Sooner we get off, the sooner we’ll all feel better.’
‘Okay then.’
Rachel fumbles around behind her for the seat belt.
‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘I’m still in my underwear.’
‘Never mind about that.’
She pulls the red chenille dressing gown more snugly around her shoulders, then kisses Mae on the head. I give Frank the nod to go.
**
Outside the resus room, we’re cleaning up the trolley when one of the nurses comes out with a clipboard.
‘Were you the crew that brought in the fire family?’
‘Yep.’
‘What was the situation?’
‘Mick was supposed to be cooking but forgot what he was doing and left the oven on.’
‘What was your impression of him? Has he had some heroin tonight?’
‘I think so. He’s grouching out all over the place.’
‘So maybe a child protection element, then?’
‘Rachel seems all right, but who knows.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
The nurse goes back into resus. As the doors swing apart I catch a glimpse of Mae sitting on Rachel’s lap, with Mick flat out on a trolley behind them. As the nurse walks over, Mae laughs, jerks up into a stand, throws her arms wide, ready to fly through the air into his arms. The doors swing shut again. I wheel the trolley outside.
A Fire fighter in a white tabard waves us over.
‘So. Gentlemen. Three casualties. Two adults, one baby, exposed to quite a high level of smoke. Especially the adults – their faces are pretty black with it. The baby doesn’t seem too bad. They’re all on oxygen up in that cab.’
‘What was the fire like?’
‘It looks like an oven went into meltdown with a plastic kettle on the hob. Quite a bit of toxicity there, I should think. But not much flame, and no burns.’
‘Great. Let’s see them.’
He leads us up to the foot of the cab, its door standing open, and points up at the occupants.
‘That’s Rachel, the baby’s Mae or Rae or something, the man’s called Mick.’
‘Thanks. Hello.’
Rachel is sitting with the baby on her lap in the passenger seat, an oxygen mask between the two of them. Rachel’s face is sooty and black, with circles of pale flesh around each eye like graffiti glasses. Mae’s face is clear, except for a few black finger marks across her cheek. She wriggles about on her mum’s lap; when she sees me, she stretches out her arms as if she’s suddenly ready to fling herself out onto the night.
‘Whoa there squirrel,’ says Rachel, tightening her grip round Mae’s waist. Then laughs at me: ‘She’s a real stunt baby.’
‘Pass her down and then let’s all go to the ambulance. We’ll treat you there.’
She hands Mae to me, kicking and wriggling, then climbs out backwards unsteadily. Her partner Mick follows, looking as blackened and blasted as a miner climbing out of the pit after a long shift. Whilst Rachel is chatty and alert, Mick almost falls asleep on the short walk to the ambulance.
‘Are you okay?’ I say, poking him in the shoulder.
‘Wha? Oh. Yeah. Just tired, me.’
His eyes begin to close again and his chin drops.
‘How long were you exposed to the smoke, Mick?’
He doesn’t answer. We almost have to walk him up the steps. I sit him on the trolley and the woman with the baby on the chair facing. As soon as his legs are up, he lolls his head back and falls asleep.
‘Hey. Wake up,’ I say to him. ‘What’s the matter?’
Rachel leans across and pinches his arm.
‘It’s the baby. Keeping him up. He’s tired out.’
‘Is that what it is, Mick? Is that what’s making you so drowsy?’
‘Wha?’
‘Open your eyes for me, mate. Open your eyes.’
I have to open them for him. The pupils are constricted.
‘Mick? Have you been using tonight?’
I pull his oxygen mask away from his face so I can hear what he has to say.
‘Wha? No. I’m just sleepy – from the baby. You know.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah. I had some vallies yesterday. Tha’s it.’
He immediately nods back onto the trolley; I put the hissing mask back onto his face.
As I’m writing down some obs Rachel jiggles Mae up and down on her lap.
‘He was supposed to be making me something to eat,’ she says finally. ‘Something hot. He must have forgotten he put the oven on.’
‘Right.’
‘We won’t have to go to hospital will we?’ says Rachel, jiggling the baby up and down on her leg. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
‘It could be. All that stuff on your face – you were breathing it in as well. Who knows what’s in it.’
‘It’s just smoke.’
‘Still.’
‘She’ll be all right though, won’t she?’
‘Was she in another room?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’ll help, then. Sooner we get off, the sooner we’ll all feel better.’
‘Okay then.’
Rachel fumbles around behind her for the seat belt.
‘Look at me,’ she says. ‘I’m still in my underwear.’
‘Never mind about that.’
She pulls the red chenille dressing gown more snugly around her shoulders, then kisses Mae on the head. I give Frank the nod to go.
**
Outside the resus room, we’re cleaning up the trolley when one of the nurses comes out with a clipboard.
‘Were you the crew that brought in the fire family?’
‘Yep.’
‘What was the situation?’
‘Mick was supposed to be cooking but forgot what he was doing and left the oven on.’
‘What was your impression of him? Has he had some heroin tonight?’
‘I think so. He’s grouching out all over the place.’
‘So maybe a child protection element, then?’
‘Rachel seems all right, but who knows.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
The nurse goes back into resus. As the doors swing apart I catch a glimpse of Mae sitting on Rachel’s lap, with Mick flat out on a trolley behind them. As the nurse walks over, Mae laughs, jerks up into a stand, throws her arms wide, ready to fly through the air into his arms. The doors swing shut again. I wheel the trolley outside.
Friday, January 14, 2011
land of the great anglo saxon kings
With his vast belly, exuberant white beard and rumbling laugh, this could be Father Christmas relaxing on the sleigh after a tough night – except his chest is stuck with ECG dots, his arm in a blood pressure cuff, his finger in a SATS probe.
‘Do you drive the ambulance?’ he says, squinting at me from beneath a tangle of eyebrows like a frosted hedgerow. ‘Or do you always get to sit in the back with old farts like me?’
‘We change round at the hospital.’
‘Do you? Ah. Well that makes for a more interesting day, then.’
‘It breaks it up.’
‘Ah.’
Outside the road hisses wetly.
‘I should think it’ll take us half an hour to get there.’
‘More like an hour, this time of night.’
‘You could be right.’
‘I know I could be right. I could be wrong, n’all.’
I finish writing up the notes, unwind the cuff from his arm, take the probe off his finger and settle back into the seat. We are taking Mr Carrington back to his original hospital, post op. He seems well enough, comfortable, chatty. He smiles at me.
‘Like what you do, do you?’
‘Yeah, often. It’s like any job. It has its ups and downs. Mostly ups.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘What about you? I suppose you’re retired now?’
‘Had to, ‘cause of me health. I’d have carried on if I could, but events, you know. They overtake.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, n’all.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I did my National Service, discharged, called up again for Suez. Got made a sergeant, five pound a week, good money in them days. Should’ve stayed on after that, but my wife wanted me home, so I got a job as an auxiliary nurse and did that on and off forty years until my heart attack.’
‘That’s pretty good going.’
‘Not bad. I should’ve been a nurse, but I never had the writing.’
‘There’s a lot of that.’
‘I can see. I don’t envy you.’
He folds his fleshy hands over his belly and closes his eyes. After a while I think he must have fallen asleep, but then he opens his eyes again and stares up at the ceiling. The ambulance sways and rattles.
‘My first wife died after ten years,’ he says eventually. ‘Never did know why.’
‘Oh.’
‘Lived on my own for a bit, married again.’
‘That’s good.’
‘She died after eight years.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Cancer.’
‘That’s hard.’
‘It was hard. I’ve lived on my own ever since. Not that I mind it, really. I get to do what I want, when I want. Which isn’t much. Fishing’s my thing. I like to get out. But these legs, you see. They’re not what they were. I used to be able to skip over a fence and not break wind, but now, getting into bed’s like climbing the bleedin’ Matterhorn.’
‘They do look swollen.’
‘Still get out down the Quay, though. I ride my scooter out with all my rods, set up there, lovely. Mackerel and what not. An easy fish to gut, mackerel. Hungry man like you, two of them would be a meal. All beautiful and crisp from the fire.’
‘I used to go fishing with my Dad. Down by the river, opposite the brewery. We’d watch the swallows swooping over the water. It was beautiful. We didn’t catch all that much. Dab, roach. Mostly eels.’
‘Eels is good eating. Fried up in a pan with a little oil and garlic. Lovely.’
‘We never ate them. Seemed a shame. ‘
‘Fishing’s good for wildlife. I had a kingfisher perch on the end of my pole once. What an animal. I do not have the words to describe the colours of that bird. Wouldn’t know where to start. Sparkling blues. Orange. Incredible.’
We both fall silent, and the sounds of the ambulance’s progress along the road dominates the space again. After a while he turns his massive head and looks at me.
‘Where was that? Where you fished?’
‘Cambridgeshire Norfolk border.’
‘Oh. Lovely. Lots of wildlife there. The salt marshes and dykes. Bitterns out on the Fen. You’d see it all there. Me, I’m from Essex.’
‘I don’t know Essex, but I went to Sutton Hoo once. That was great.’
‘East Anglia. Essex, it’s all the same. They’re the places. Land of the Great Anglo Saxon kings.’
‘Fantastic.’
And he folds his hands across his belly again, and closes his eyes, as the ambulance slows and turns into the hospital, and comes to a halt by the main entrance, ready to unload.
‘Do you drive the ambulance?’ he says, squinting at me from beneath a tangle of eyebrows like a frosted hedgerow. ‘Or do you always get to sit in the back with old farts like me?’
‘We change round at the hospital.’
‘Do you? Ah. Well that makes for a more interesting day, then.’
‘It breaks it up.’
‘Ah.’
Outside the road hisses wetly.
‘I should think it’ll take us half an hour to get there.’
‘More like an hour, this time of night.’
‘You could be right.’
‘I know I could be right. I could be wrong, n’all.’
I finish writing up the notes, unwind the cuff from his arm, take the probe off his finger and settle back into the seat. We are taking Mr Carrington back to his original hospital, post op. He seems well enough, comfortable, chatty. He smiles at me.
‘Like what you do, do you?’
‘Yeah, often. It’s like any job. It has its ups and downs. Mostly ups.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘What about you? I suppose you’re retired now?’
‘Had to, ‘cause of me health. I’d have carried on if I could, but events, you know. They overtake.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, n’all.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I did my National Service, discharged, called up again for Suez. Got made a sergeant, five pound a week, good money in them days. Should’ve stayed on after that, but my wife wanted me home, so I got a job as an auxiliary nurse and did that on and off forty years until my heart attack.’
‘That’s pretty good going.’
‘Not bad. I should’ve been a nurse, but I never had the writing.’
‘There’s a lot of that.’
‘I can see. I don’t envy you.’
He folds his fleshy hands over his belly and closes his eyes. After a while I think he must have fallen asleep, but then he opens his eyes again and stares up at the ceiling. The ambulance sways and rattles.
‘My first wife died after ten years,’ he says eventually. ‘Never did know why.’
‘Oh.’
‘Lived on my own for a bit, married again.’
‘That’s good.’
‘She died after eight years.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Cancer.’
‘That’s hard.’
‘It was hard. I’ve lived on my own ever since. Not that I mind it, really. I get to do what I want, when I want. Which isn’t much. Fishing’s my thing. I like to get out. But these legs, you see. They’re not what they were. I used to be able to skip over a fence and not break wind, but now, getting into bed’s like climbing the bleedin’ Matterhorn.’
‘They do look swollen.’
‘Still get out down the Quay, though. I ride my scooter out with all my rods, set up there, lovely. Mackerel and what not. An easy fish to gut, mackerel. Hungry man like you, two of them would be a meal. All beautiful and crisp from the fire.’
‘I used to go fishing with my Dad. Down by the river, opposite the brewery. We’d watch the swallows swooping over the water. It was beautiful. We didn’t catch all that much. Dab, roach. Mostly eels.’
‘Eels is good eating. Fried up in a pan with a little oil and garlic. Lovely.’
‘We never ate them. Seemed a shame. ‘
‘Fishing’s good for wildlife. I had a kingfisher perch on the end of my pole once. What an animal. I do not have the words to describe the colours of that bird. Wouldn’t know where to start. Sparkling blues. Orange. Incredible.’
We both fall silent, and the sounds of the ambulance’s progress along the road dominates the space again. After a while he turns his massive head and looks at me.
‘Where was that? Where you fished?’
‘Cambridgeshire Norfolk border.’
‘Oh. Lovely. Lots of wildlife there. The salt marshes and dykes. Bitterns out on the Fen. You’d see it all there. Me, I’m from Essex.’
‘I don’t know Essex, but I went to Sutton Hoo once. That was great.’
‘East Anglia. Essex, it’s all the same. They’re the places. Land of the Great Anglo Saxon kings.’
‘Fantastic.’
And he folds his hands across his belly again, and closes his eyes, as the ambulance slows and turns into the hospital, and comes to a halt by the main entrance, ready to unload.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
blocked
Lou is sitting on the bottom step, forearms resting on his knees, hands slack, head bowed, in the posture of a man waiting for an axe to fall. His wife Belle is so frantic, when we come in through the open door a more terrifying version of her seems to tear itself from her body and come running up to us. But she stays where she is, gently combing the sweated hairs of his head with trembling fingers.
‘Hang on, Lou. Hang on.’
Frank turns me straight back out to prep the vehicle and fetch a chair. Outside the chill night air is heavy and damp; the red terracotta tiles are mined with snails.
We help Lou onto the chair. His face looks like a waxworks mask left outside for a year, deeply lined, grey and deathly. He groans through the oxygen mask.
Attached to the ECG machine and the tracings reel off what we expected to see.
‘Oh God. Is it bad?’ says Belle, frantically pulling a mobile phone out of her bag, then putting it straight back in again. ‘Please God don’t let it be bad.’
‘Lou? I’m afraid it does look as if you’re having problems with your heart,’ says Frank, handing me the strip. Belle is so abstracted with anxiety she almost stuffs herself into the bag after the phone. I manage her as positively as I can whilst helping Frank go through the protocols for MI. In a matter of moments I’m driving off to the Cath Lab, our blue lights turning and dancing in the fog.
***
The Cath Lab is a brisk, bright environment. Despite the late hour a PCI team is already assembling, shuffling into the pre op room in their rubber sandals, looking as crumpled and comfortable as their loose red scrubs, cheerful, rough about the edges, like a hockey team meeting for a pre-match rumble in the changing rooms. Lou sits up on the trolley, dizzy with the pain and pace of events. Twenty minutes ago he was sitting on the bottom step of his house, asking his wife to call the doctor; now he finds himself magically transported in the same passive posture, to a strange white place bristling with clinicians, reeking of cleanliness, stripped and gowned, as a seemingly teenage registrar smiles through a list of death and disability. His wife sobs, her arm around Lou’s shoulder. Eventually a nurse lets her kiss him goodbye, then leads her away to the relative’s room.
We take Lou through into theatre and help load him on the trolley. The team divides into those who will do the procedure and those who will monitor from behind the big glass control screen with its banks of computers. From behind the screen we watch as they cover Lou with sheets of blue paper, and swing a large white metal gantry elegantly into position around him.
‘Keep your hands to your sides now, Lou,’ says the Registrar, efficiently prepping the catheter and introducing equipment. ‘This area is sterile.’
The Radiographer begins hauling on her heavy green protective apron, waistcoat and neck guard, like a clinical marine going into combat. ‘Lead up boys. Unless you’ve had the snip, I don’t know. Maybe you don’t care about this stuff.’
‘I’m allergic to babies.’
‘They’re bad for your wealth.’
‘Put some music on. Pronto.’
One of the ODPs pulls a box of loose CDs out of a cupboard and after shuffling through them like a pack of cards tosses the others back and sticks his choice into the system. Seconds later ABBA fills the room, Dancing Queen.
‘Are you gay?’
‘Bi-curious.’
‘Bi-polar.’
‘God – where d’you get this junk from?’
‘It comes free with the pizza.’
‘Hey! Pizza. Call out for pizza. Pronto.’
‘I’ve got pepperoni-itis.’
‘Stop the clock, people.’
‘We haven’t started yet.’
The theatre doors swing open again and the consultant hurries in, breathing hard.
‘Sorry. The route the taxi took was blocked for some reason. How far have you got?’
‘Just in now. You should be getting it.’
‘Well it would help to have the pictures up. Can we get the pictures up, please?’
‘Oops.’
As the consultant unbuttons her gilet and unwinds the flowery silk scarf from her neck, the screen fills with the lucent picture of Lou’s beating heart. The harder, synthetic line of the catheter stands out as it gradually works in from the top. Every so often a puff of marker fluid picks out the delicate blood vessels, the major and minor vessels, tributaries and bifurcations, elegantly branching arterioles like the whorls of a pea plant.
‘Right coronary. I’ll scrub up and we’ll get going,’ she says, then turns to me and Frank. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Hello. I’m Emma, the consultant. Thanks for bringing us the patient. Nice to have you in to watch.’
She hurries out – and before we’ve had a chance to point to a couple of things on the screen and ask the significance, she bustles back in scrubbed up and ready to go, so quickly she must have stripped and changed in the corridor.
‘Good God,’ she says as she takes her place at the table and picks up her instruments ready to begin. ‘Who the hell chose this music?’
‘Hang on, Lou. Hang on.’
Frank turns me straight back out to prep the vehicle and fetch a chair. Outside the chill night air is heavy and damp; the red terracotta tiles are mined with snails.
We help Lou onto the chair. His face looks like a waxworks mask left outside for a year, deeply lined, grey and deathly. He groans through the oxygen mask.
Attached to the ECG machine and the tracings reel off what we expected to see.
‘Oh God. Is it bad?’ says Belle, frantically pulling a mobile phone out of her bag, then putting it straight back in again. ‘Please God don’t let it be bad.’
‘Lou? I’m afraid it does look as if you’re having problems with your heart,’ says Frank, handing me the strip. Belle is so abstracted with anxiety she almost stuffs herself into the bag after the phone. I manage her as positively as I can whilst helping Frank go through the protocols for MI. In a matter of moments I’m driving off to the Cath Lab, our blue lights turning and dancing in the fog.
***
The Cath Lab is a brisk, bright environment. Despite the late hour a PCI team is already assembling, shuffling into the pre op room in their rubber sandals, looking as crumpled and comfortable as their loose red scrubs, cheerful, rough about the edges, like a hockey team meeting for a pre-match rumble in the changing rooms. Lou sits up on the trolley, dizzy with the pain and pace of events. Twenty minutes ago he was sitting on the bottom step of his house, asking his wife to call the doctor; now he finds himself magically transported in the same passive posture, to a strange white place bristling with clinicians, reeking of cleanliness, stripped and gowned, as a seemingly teenage registrar smiles through a list of death and disability. His wife sobs, her arm around Lou’s shoulder. Eventually a nurse lets her kiss him goodbye, then leads her away to the relative’s room.
We take Lou through into theatre and help load him on the trolley. The team divides into those who will do the procedure and those who will monitor from behind the big glass control screen with its banks of computers. From behind the screen we watch as they cover Lou with sheets of blue paper, and swing a large white metal gantry elegantly into position around him.
‘Keep your hands to your sides now, Lou,’ says the Registrar, efficiently prepping the catheter and introducing equipment. ‘This area is sterile.’
The Radiographer begins hauling on her heavy green protective apron, waistcoat and neck guard, like a clinical marine going into combat. ‘Lead up boys. Unless you’ve had the snip, I don’t know. Maybe you don’t care about this stuff.’
‘I’m allergic to babies.’
‘They’re bad for your wealth.’
‘Put some music on. Pronto.’
One of the ODPs pulls a box of loose CDs out of a cupboard and after shuffling through them like a pack of cards tosses the others back and sticks his choice into the system. Seconds later ABBA fills the room, Dancing Queen.
‘Are you gay?’
‘Bi-curious.’
‘Bi-polar.’
‘God – where d’you get this junk from?’
‘It comes free with the pizza.’
‘Hey! Pizza. Call out for pizza. Pronto.’
‘I’ve got pepperoni-itis.’
‘Stop the clock, people.’
‘We haven’t started yet.’
The theatre doors swing open again and the consultant hurries in, breathing hard.
‘Sorry. The route the taxi took was blocked for some reason. How far have you got?’
‘Just in now. You should be getting it.’
‘Well it would help to have the pictures up. Can we get the pictures up, please?’
‘Oops.’
As the consultant unbuttons her gilet and unwinds the flowery silk scarf from her neck, the screen fills with the lucent picture of Lou’s beating heart. The harder, synthetic line of the catheter stands out as it gradually works in from the top. Every so often a puff of marker fluid picks out the delicate blood vessels, the major and minor vessels, tributaries and bifurcations, elegantly branching arterioles like the whorls of a pea plant.
‘Right coronary. I’ll scrub up and we’ll get going,’ she says, then turns to me and Frank. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Hello. I’m Emma, the consultant. Thanks for bringing us the patient. Nice to have you in to watch.’
She hurries out – and before we’ve had a chance to point to a couple of things on the screen and ask the significance, she bustles back in scrubbed up and ready to go, so quickly she must have stripped and changed in the corridor.
‘Good God,’ she says as she takes her place at the table and picks up her instruments ready to begin. ‘Who the hell chose this music?’
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
interesting prescription
Maude is sitting hunched and watchful in her seat like some kind of geriatric astronaut. The armchair, an ancient piece of furniture perfectly moulded to her shape, has all the necessaries to hand – cup and saucer, Tupperware of biscuits, box of tissues, emollients, blister packs, inhalers and eye drops, remote control and TV guide – heaped around her on a put-you-up table and breakfast stand, her puffy legs propped up on a battered old brown leather pouffe.
‘Wait a minute,’ she pants. ‘Just a minute.’
‘You’re breathing’s bad today, Maude.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’
‘And the carer says you’re not really yourself.’
‘I’m what?’
‘Not really yourself?’
‘Well who am I then?’
‘A bit confused.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’
I stand up again.
‘She’s pretty clear about it.’
The carer, a vigorously empathetic woman in red ski pants and a fried mass of crimped, crow-black hair, squats down in my place. She rubs Maude on the arm.
‘Come on chuck,’ she says. ‘We’re worried about you.’ But she sneaks a look back up at me. ‘Everyone but the son. What a piece of work.’
‘I’m not going to hospital,’ says Maude, levitating with outrage. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘No. We’d be arrested for kidnap,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get the doctor over instead. Maybe she can persuade you.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve just got to do the paperwork.’
Maude settles back into the chair again, and after a moment begins rooting through the piles of stuff around her.
‘What are you looking for, Maude?’
‘I want my bisexuals.’
‘Your what?’
‘I’m not signing till I’ve read it through properly, and I can’t read a thing without my bisexuals.’
The carer looks at me and smiles.
‘She’s not herself,’ she says.
‘Wait a minute,’ she pants. ‘Just a minute.’
‘You’re breathing’s bad today, Maude.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’
‘And the carer says you’re not really yourself.’
‘I’m what?’
‘Not really yourself?’
‘Well who am I then?’
‘A bit confused.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’
I stand up again.
‘She’s pretty clear about it.’
The carer, a vigorously empathetic woman in red ski pants and a fried mass of crimped, crow-black hair, squats down in my place. She rubs Maude on the arm.
‘Come on chuck,’ she says. ‘We’re worried about you.’ But she sneaks a look back up at me. ‘Everyone but the son. What a piece of work.’
‘I’m not going to hospital,’ says Maude, levitating with outrage. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘No. We’d be arrested for kidnap,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get the doctor over instead. Maybe she can persuade you.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve just got to do the paperwork.’
Maude settles back into the chair again, and after a moment begins rooting through the piles of stuff around her.
‘What are you looking for, Maude?’
‘I want my bisexuals.’
‘Your what?’
‘I’m not signing till I’ve read it through properly, and I can’t read a thing without my bisexuals.’
The carer looks at me and smiles.
‘She’s not herself,’ she says.
Saturday, January 08, 2011
whatever
The housing estate feels so desolate it may as well be swept by searchlights. What light there is – from the hundreds of tiny halogen dots marking out the landings and aerial walkways; the rows upon rows of dimly lit windows or darker, curtainless rooms flickering grey and blue by the TV; the emergency lighting globes guarding the stairwells, and the hard spikes of orange light thrown down from the street lamps – all these things join together, point through point, like a pattern of lines on a star chart: sink estate, in the Constellation of Despair.
‘Over there.’
Frank pulls the ambulance to the side. Over on a patch of grass between two buildings, a figure sprawled, another standing over him, on the phone. We hurry up the steep bank towards them.
‘What’s happened?’
‘What d’you think? He’s had the shit kicked out of him. I didn’t see nothing.’
The man on the floor is unconscious, breathing with the stertorous rattle of the deeply unconscious. The side of his face is grossly misshapen, both eyes swollen shut; his right arm is bent mid-humerus, and his legs splayed. Despite the freezing night, he is only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, his trainers torn off and thrown against the wall. His body is profoundly cold to the touch.
‘We’ll need back-up, Frank. Can you get that running, and bring up the spinal board and stuff?’
‘Right.’
Frank strides back down the bank, talking into his radio.
‘What’s your friend’s name?’
‘He ain’t no friend.’
‘Do you know what his name is?’
‘Stu.’
‘And what’s your name?’
The man smiles.
‘Er – let’s say Bill. Yeah. Bill.’
‘Bill – Thanks for calling us. We’re going to need your help.’
‘Sure. Whatever. I don’t care what I do. Not like those cunts up there,’ he says, thumbing the air behind him. ‘They couldn’t give a shit. Leave him, they said.’
‘Bill – You did the right thing. I don’t care what you have or haven’t done tonight. How you help us now is all that matters.’
‘Whatever.’
He points the phone at the figure on the ground. It looks as if he’s about to take a picture.
‘Bill – you can put your phone away now. Frank’s coming up with the stuff and we’re going to need you to help us get Stu packaged up double quick. Is that okay?’
‘Yeah, man. Hey - this is good.’
Frank drops the gear next to us.
‘They haven’t got anyone to back us up. We’re on our own.’
‘Great.’
‘Police should be here any minute.’
‘Excellent.’
Bill straightens up.
‘Whoa! What d’you mean, the police?’
‘It’s an assault, Bill. They have to come.’
He hesitates, looks back up to one of the flats, then out along the road. For a second I think he’s winding himself up to run, but he relaxes again and squats down beside Stu.
‘Whatever,’ he says.
‘Over there.’
Frank pulls the ambulance to the side. Over on a patch of grass between two buildings, a figure sprawled, another standing over him, on the phone. We hurry up the steep bank towards them.
‘What’s happened?’
‘What d’you think? He’s had the shit kicked out of him. I didn’t see nothing.’
The man on the floor is unconscious, breathing with the stertorous rattle of the deeply unconscious. The side of his face is grossly misshapen, both eyes swollen shut; his right arm is bent mid-humerus, and his legs splayed. Despite the freezing night, he is only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, his trainers torn off and thrown against the wall. His body is profoundly cold to the touch.
‘We’ll need back-up, Frank. Can you get that running, and bring up the spinal board and stuff?’
‘Right.’
Frank strides back down the bank, talking into his radio.
‘What’s your friend’s name?’
‘He ain’t no friend.’
‘Do you know what his name is?’
‘Stu.’
‘And what’s your name?’
The man smiles.
‘Er – let’s say Bill. Yeah. Bill.’
‘Bill – Thanks for calling us. We’re going to need your help.’
‘Sure. Whatever. I don’t care what I do. Not like those cunts up there,’ he says, thumbing the air behind him. ‘They couldn’t give a shit. Leave him, they said.’
‘Bill – You did the right thing. I don’t care what you have or haven’t done tonight. How you help us now is all that matters.’
‘Whatever.’
He points the phone at the figure on the ground. It looks as if he’s about to take a picture.
‘Bill – you can put your phone away now. Frank’s coming up with the stuff and we’re going to need you to help us get Stu packaged up double quick. Is that okay?’
‘Yeah, man. Hey - this is good.’
Frank drops the gear next to us.
‘They haven’t got anyone to back us up. We’re on our own.’
‘Great.’
‘Police should be here any minute.’
‘Excellent.’
Bill straightens up.
‘Whoa! What d’you mean, the police?’
‘It’s an assault, Bill. They have to come.’
He hesitates, looks back up to one of the flats, then out along the road. For a second I think he’s winding himself up to run, but he relaxes again and squats down beside Stu.
‘Whatever,’ he says.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
jasper
I glance over the notes that Control send through, but I hardly need to. We’re both very well aware who Jasper is.
The radio buzzes.
‘Sorry guys. We tried to deal with this one our end, but he started speaking in riddles, so we had to pass it to you.’
‘Yep. No worries. We like a good riddle.’
‘Control out.’
The last time I saw Jasper he was roaring like an outraged banker, face down in the A&E car park, Geoff the security guard sitting on his legs. Geoff had waved pleasantly as we parked, comfortable enough. Apparently Jasper had attacked one of the nurses with his stick – an ineffectual attempt, but unpleasant nonetheless - and then run off. Geoff had rugby tackled him just before the ramp.
‘So much for the Parkinsons or whatever it is he claims to have.’
‘Munchausens’
‘Bless you.’
Frank pulls up outside the address.
‘Here we are then. This should finish us off nicely.’
There is a finely needled drift of rain in the air; a Christmas tree lies next to a shining black paladin, one red bauble and a few scraps of tinsel hanging from its branches, as if the thing hadn’t been dumped so much as jumped out of the tub and run away. The whole street has a post-event feel; the half-drawn blinds of the house make it look hung-over.
Jasper lives in the basement, down a dark and precipitous drop of stairs.
‘Just right for a patient with mobility problems,’ says Frank, clicking on his torch.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
I knock on the door – a scarred and battered affair with the number painted on in black with a decorator’s brush. I ring the bell, too. After a long pause, I knock again.
‘He’s working on his laptop,’ says Frank. ‘I can see him through the curtains.’
I bang on the window.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘It’s the ambulance, Jasper. Can you open the door please?’
‘But I called to cancel. Look this is simply ridiculous. Are you sure you need to see me?’
‘Well you rang to say you had chest pain. Is that right?’
‘Yes, I do have chest pain, but look – this is outrageous.’
‘Are you saying you don’t want to see us? Because that’s fine, Jasper. We just need you to sign our paperwork.’
‘Oh for goodness sake.’
He carries on talking, a bitter and bothered kind of mumble, but the shadow behind the curtain finally draws back and we can’t hear anything else. Eventually we hear a shuffling coming towards us along the hallway, and the door opens.
‘What do you want?’
‘Hello, Jasper.’
‘Hello.’
He stands swaying in the gloomy light from the hallway, immaculately dressed in a formal white shirt and dark trousers, and a pair of slip on shoes with fancy silver buckles. In his right hand he clutches an ornate black walking stick and a plastic yellow grabber. His face is doughy and unremarkable, with an affronted hang to his eyes and mouth, like a sulky child called in too early.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘How am I feeling? How do you think I’m feeling? I’ve got excruciating pains in my chest. I can’t breathe. My doctor couldn’t care less. I’ve got business to attend to and now this. What did you want?’
‘If you’ve got pains in your chest, Jasper, you should let us check you out.’
‘Check me out? Whatever do you mean?’
‘You should come up to the ambulance and let us do an ECG. And really you should come up to the hospital to see a doctor.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘But you don’t have to do any of that if you don’t want to. It’s a free country. Sign the paperwork and we’ll leave you alone.’
‘Oh – come in, then. If you must.’
‘You only need to get your keys, wallet and a jacket, Jasper. Then we’ll go straight back out to the vehicle.’
‘But can’t you do all your checks here?’
‘We can form an impression of what’s wrong, but the only definitive way to rule out any heart problems is to come to hospital for a blood test. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to risk anything happening tonight.’
‘No. Of course not. But they all hate me up at the hospital.’
‘I’m sure they don’t.’
‘They’re all tenants. They’ve all got their little axes to grind.’
He shuffles back along the corridor and I follow reluctantly.
‘Just get the essentials,’ I say.
‘Don’t rush me,’ he snaps over his shoulder. ‘I’m not so sure this is a good idea. I don’t know what you think you’ve got to achieve by making me do all of this.’
Frank loiters in the hallway. Above him, a tangle of electrical wires and heating ducts run exposed along the top of the wall; the flat feels half-finished, an abandoned project. Inside, Jasper is living in one room, an unmade double bed in the centre, a pine kitchen table over by the window covered with letters and magazines, a laptop whirring in the middle of it all.
‘It’s not my flat,’ he says, rootling around in the paperwork. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘Just your keys, phone and some money for a cab home,’ I say, checking my watch.
‘Just a minute, just a minute,’ he says. ‘Now. Where are my cuff links?’
As he dresses he huffs and sniffs; now and again he seems to stagger – an unconvincing detail, like a poor actor forgetting his limp.
‘How’s that chest pain?’
‘Like I keep telling you, it’s absolutely crushing. I can’t breathe, I feel sick.’
‘All the more reason to come to hospital.’
‘Yes. Yes. Look. Could you hold these, please?’
He dumps into my hands a Blackberry, a glasses case, a packet of chewing gum, five pounds in loose change and a letter from his doctor. Frank smiles at me and delicately extracts the letter.
‘It says here you refused an ambulance yesterday, and ignored the doctor’s advice to go to hospital for investigations.’
Jasper tips his head back and with his eyes half closed seems to sniff the air, like a snake exploring the size of a mouse by the heat it gives off.
‘Well that’s my useless doctor for you,’ he says finally. ‘What does she know?’
‘You don’t have to come with us,’ Frank says, placing the letter carefully back on my precarious pile. ‘You’re perfectly at liberty to refuse treatment.’
But Jasper has found his cuff links. He snaps them on expertly, then swings his jacket over his shoulders.
‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘You first.’
The radio buzzes.
‘Sorry guys. We tried to deal with this one our end, but he started speaking in riddles, so we had to pass it to you.’
‘Yep. No worries. We like a good riddle.’
‘Control out.’
The last time I saw Jasper he was roaring like an outraged banker, face down in the A&E car park, Geoff the security guard sitting on his legs. Geoff had waved pleasantly as we parked, comfortable enough. Apparently Jasper had attacked one of the nurses with his stick – an ineffectual attempt, but unpleasant nonetheless - and then run off. Geoff had rugby tackled him just before the ramp.
‘So much for the Parkinsons or whatever it is he claims to have.’
‘Munchausens’
‘Bless you.’
Frank pulls up outside the address.
‘Here we are then. This should finish us off nicely.’
There is a finely needled drift of rain in the air; a Christmas tree lies next to a shining black paladin, one red bauble and a few scraps of tinsel hanging from its branches, as if the thing hadn’t been dumped so much as jumped out of the tub and run away. The whole street has a post-event feel; the half-drawn blinds of the house make it look hung-over.
Jasper lives in the basement, down a dark and precipitous drop of stairs.
‘Just right for a patient with mobility problems,’ says Frank, clicking on his torch.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
I knock on the door – a scarred and battered affair with the number painted on in black with a decorator’s brush. I ring the bell, too. After a long pause, I knock again.
‘He’s working on his laptop,’ says Frank. ‘I can see him through the curtains.’
I bang on the window.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘It’s the ambulance, Jasper. Can you open the door please?’
‘But I called to cancel. Look this is simply ridiculous. Are you sure you need to see me?’
‘Well you rang to say you had chest pain. Is that right?’
‘Yes, I do have chest pain, but look – this is outrageous.’
‘Are you saying you don’t want to see us? Because that’s fine, Jasper. We just need you to sign our paperwork.’
‘Oh for goodness sake.’
He carries on talking, a bitter and bothered kind of mumble, but the shadow behind the curtain finally draws back and we can’t hear anything else. Eventually we hear a shuffling coming towards us along the hallway, and the door opens.
‘What do you want?’
‘Hello, Jasper.’
‘Hello.’
He stands swaying in the gloomy light from the hallway, immaculately dressed in a formal white shirt and dark trousers, and a pair of slip on shoes with fancy silver buckles. In his right hand he clutches an ornate black walking stick and a plastic yellow grabber. His face is doughy and unremarkable, with an affronted hang to his eyes and mouth, like a sulky child called in too early.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘How am I feeling? How do you think I’m feeling? I’ve got excruciating pains in my chest. I can’t breathe. My doctor couldn’t care less. I’ve got business to attend to and now this. What did you want?’
‘If you’ve got pains in your chest, Jasper, you should let us check you out.’
‘Check me out? Whatever do you mean?’
‘You should come up to the ambulance and let us do an ECG. And really you should come up to the hospital to see a doctor.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘But you don’t have to do any of that if you don’t want to. It’s a free country. Sign the paperwork and we’ll leave you alone.’
‘Oh – come in, then. If you must.’
‘You only need to get your keys, wallet and a jacket, Jasper. Then we’ll go straight back out to the vehicle.’
‘But can’t you do all your checks here?’
‘We can form an impression of what’s wrong, but the only definitive way to rule out any heart problems is to come to hospital for a blood test. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to risk anything happening tonight.’
‘No. Of course not. But they all hate me up at the hospital.’
‘I’m sure they don’t.’
‘They’re all tenants. They’ve all got their little axes to grind.’
He shuffles back along the corridor and I follow reluctantly.
‘Just get the essentials,’ I say.
‘Don’t rush me,’ he snaps over his shoulder. ‘I’m not so sure this is a good idea. I don’t know what you think you’ve got to achieve by making me do all of this.’
Frank loiters in the hallway. Above him, a tangle of electrical wires and heating ducts run exposed along the top of the wall; the flat feels half-finished, an abandoned project. Inside, Jasper is living in one room, an unmade double bed in the centre, a pine kitchen table over by the window covered with letters and magazines, a laptop whirring in the middle of it all.
‘It’s not my flat,’ he says, rootling around in the paperwork. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘Just your keys, phone and some money for a cab home,’ I say, checking my watch.
‘Just a minute, just a minute,’ he says. ‘Now. Where are my cuff links?’
As he dresses he huffs and sniffs; now and again he seems to stagger – an unconvincing detail, like a poor actor forgetting his limp.
‘How’s that chest pain?’
‘Like I keep telling you, it’s absolutely crushing. I can’t breathe, I feel sick.’
‘All the more reason to come to hospital.’
‘Yes. Yes. Look. Could you hold these, please?’
He dumps into my hands a Blackberry, a glasses case, a packet of chewing gum, five pounds in loose change and a letter from his doctor. Frank smiles at me and delicately extracts the letter.
‘It says here you refused an ambulance yesterday, and ignored the doctor’s advice to go to hospital for investigations.’
Jasper tips his head back and with his eyes half closed seems to sniff the air, like a snake exploring the size of a mouse by the heat it gives off.
‘Well that’s my useless doctor for you,’ he says finally. ‘What does she know?’
‘You don’t have to come with us,’ Frank says, placing the letter carefully back on my precarious pile. ‘You’re perfectly at liberty to refuse treatment.’
But Jasper has found his cuff links. He snaps them on expertly, then swings his jacket over his shoulders.
‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘You first.’
Monday, January 03, 2011
pauli
‘There’s no reply from number sixteen, but there is a key safe just round the corner. We wondered if you had the number for it.’
‘Stand by.’
I tap the radio aerial in the centre of my forehead waiting for the call back, idly watching my feet as they shuffle a hundred miles or so beneath me on the pavement. Frank yawns noisily, slapping his arms to warm up, like a restless yellow bird, dreaming of migration. It’s not that cold – all the snow has melted and gone - but at three o’clock in the morning your fire burns dangerously low and anything can put it out – the dismal fall of light from a streetlamp, the shadowy recess of a door.
‘834?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Ring seventeen, eighteen or nineteen and ask for Pauli.’
‘Seriously? It’s three o’clock in the morning. You want us to ring every bell in the block?’
‘Seventeen, eighteen or nineteen. Ask for Pauli.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘Control out.’
I re-holster my radio like a dumb-ass gunslinger, then reach out and press seventeen. Pause. Then eighteen. Pause. Then nineteen. I’m just pressing seventeen again when the door suddenly buzzes open. I drift through the magical opening, and Frank floats along in my wake.
The lobby is a chlorinated blue lino vacuum of institutional living. We ride up the stairs on the steely clean stink of it all.
Number sixteen is locked, of course. Shawn is on the floor, so how would he open it? I bend down, open the flap of the letter box and peer through.
‘Hello? Ambulance?’
A voice from somewhere inside.
‘I’m on the floor.’
‘Where can we get a key?’
‘I’ll let you in.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll shuffle along the floor. Just a minute.’
Then I hear him carrying on a conversation.
‘Shawn? Are you on the phone?’
‘Yeah. The ambulance.’
‘Well tell them we’re in. We made it inside. You can put the phone down now. Just concentrate on getting yourself to the door.’
‘They’re telling me to hang up.’
‘Just hang up.’
‘Right. Right. Okay.’
‘Shawn?’
‘What?’
‘Just hang up.’
But he carries on talking on the phone. I straighten up and let the flap of the letter box spring shut again.
‘I’m not getting this at all,’ I say to Frank, who’s standing with his arms folded and his eyes shut, leaning over at an unnatural angle.
‘Mm?’
There is the sound of shuffling and puffing from behind the door, like a huge seal making its way across an ice flow. I sigh, bob down and lift the flap again. In the dim interior of the hallway I can make out Shawn’s bulky shape dragging itself towards me.
‘I’m coming,’ says Shawn. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Are you hurt, Shawn?’
‘Me? No.’
‘But you can’t get up?’
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Shawn? Hang up the phone, mate. We’re here now. It’s only complicating things.’
‘I’m dragging myself across the floor.’
I stand up again. The door to number eighteen suddenly opens and a huge black man is there, staring at us with bulging eyes veined red with sleeplessness. He doesn’t say anything, but slowly scratches his chest and stares, his plump mouth hanging open, his hair so dishevelled it would take an industrial team a week to bring it under control.
‘What the fuck you doing?’ he says at last, the recoil from that fuck tipping his head back a foot.
‘Pauli?’
‘Yeah, Pauli.’
‘Shawn’s fallen over and we need to get in.’
Pauli doesn’t blink for a full year. The hallway is silent, save for the dragging sounds behind the door, and Shawn’s endless prattling on the phone.
Eventually it comes back to me – our mission – what I needed, what I wanted. I came here to do something.
‘I don’t suppose you have a key?’
Pauli grunts, and suddenly what looks like a joke key appears in his hand. His huge feet slap on the lino as he comes across to open the door.
‘Thanks.’
But he’s gone before Shawn has even acknowledged that the door stands open.
‘Oh. Hi guys,’ he says, beaming up at us and breathing hard. ‘I was watching Air Wolf and I fell out the chair.’
‘Stand by.’
I tap the radio aerial in the centre of my forehead waiting for the call back, idly watching my feet as they shuffle a hundred miles or so beneath me on the pavement. Frank yawns noisily, slapping his arms to warm up, like a restless yellow bird, dreaming of migration. It’s not that cold – all the snow has melted and gone - but at three o’clock in the morning your fire burns dangerously low and anything can put it out – the dismal fall of light from a streetlamp, the shadowy recess of a door.
‘834?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Ring seventeen, eighteen or nineteen and ask for Pauli.’
‘Seriously? It’s three o’clock in the morning. You want us to ring every bell in the block?’
‘Seventeen, eighteen or nineteen. Ask for Pauli.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘Control out.’
I re-holster my radio like a dumb-ass gunslinger, then reach out and press seventeen. Pause. Then eighteen. Pause. Then nineteen. I’m just pressing seventeen again when the door suddenly buzzes open. I drift through the magical opening, and Frank floats along in my wake.
The lobby is a chlorinated blue lino vacuum of institutional living. We ride up the stairs on the steely clean stink of it all.
Number sixteen is locked, of course. Shawn is on the floor, so how would he open it? I bend down, open the flap of the letter box and peer through.
‘Hello? Ambulance?’
A voice from somewhere inside.
‘I’m on the floor.’
‘Where can we get a key?’
‘I’ll let you in.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll shuffle along the floor. Just a minute.’
Then I hear him carrying on a conversation.
‘Shawn? Are you on the phone?’
‘Yeah. The ambulance.’
‘Well tell them we’re in. We made it inside. You can put the phone down now. Just concentrate on getting yourself to the door.’
‘They’re telling me to hang up.’
‘Just hang up.’
‘Right. Right. Okay.’
‘Shawn?’
‘What?’
‘Just hang up.’
But he carries on talking on the phone. I straighten up and let the flap of the letter box spring shut again.
‘I’m not getting this at all,’ I say to Frank, who’s standing with his arms folded and his eyes shut, leaning over at an unnatural angle.
‘Mm?’
There is the sound of shuffling and puffing from behind the door, like a huge seal making its way across an ice flow. I sigh, bob down and lift the flap again. In the dim interior of the hallway I can make out Shawn’s bulky shape dragging itself towards me.
‘I’m coming,’ says Shawn. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Are you hurt, Shawn?’
‘Me? No.’
‘But you can’t get up?’
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Shawn? Hang up the phone, mate. We’re here now. It’s only complicating things.’
‘I’m dragging myself across the floor.’
I stand up again. The door to number eighteen suddenly opens and a huge black man is there, staring at us with bulging eyes veined red with sleeplessness. He doesn’t say anything, but slowly scratches his chest and stares, his plump mouth hanging open, his hair so dishevelled it would take an industrial team a week to bring it under control.
‘What the fuck you doing?’ he says at last, the recoil from that fuck tipping his head back a foot.
‘Pauli?’
‘Yeah, Pauli.’
‘Shawn’s fallen over and we need to get in.’
Pauli doesn’t blink for a full year. The hallway is silent, save for the dragging sounds behind the door, and Shawn’s endless prattling on the phone.
Eventually it comes back to me – our mission – what I needed, what I wanted. I came here to do something.
‘I don’t suppose you have a key?’
Pauli grunts, and suddenly what looks like a joke key appears in his hand. His huge feet slap on the lino as he comes across to open the door.
‘Thanks.’
But he’s gone before Shawn has even acknowledged that the door stands open.
‘Oh. Hi guys,’ he says, beaming up at us and breathing hard. ‘I was watching Air Wolf and I fell out the chair.’
Saturday, January 01, 2011
guttering
Mrs Ellery slowly descends on the stair lift, an enamelled Chinoiserie walking stick propped between her legs, her hands resting on the handle, her face as set as her hair, her gray eyes counting down the pastoral scenes on the opposite wall. Her husband William, a loose affiliation of braces and whiskers, stands to attention at the bottom of the run with a coat and hat, carrier bag of prescription medicines, toiletries and a crook to his back from the weight of it all.
‘Have you got everything?’
‘It’s all here. I think.’
‘What about the doctor’s letter?’
‘Oh.’
He shuffles off into the kitchen as the chair judders to a halt. We help her dismount.
‘Is it cold?’
‘The snow’s gone.’
‘Well.’
Mr Ellery hurries back in.
‘The letter!’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Just a minute.’
She swaps the stick from one hand to another, then raises her chin as magnificently as a prisoner being led to the firing squad.
‘Onwards.’
**
I wave goodbye to Mr Ellery and slam the ambulance door shut.
Mrs Ellery winces.
‘Sorry. I have to slam it otherwise the alarm sounds.’
She says nothing, but smoothes the blanket down in front of her as we lurch off the pavement and set off.
**
With the paperwork all done I settle in to the chair and smile at Mrs Ellery.
‘So. How long have you and William been married?’
‘Five years.’
‘Oh.’ I had expected her to say fifty. But the response is primed and goes off anyway: ‘That’s wonderful.’
The pause is a tragic acknowledgement of conversations the world over. Eventually – graciously – she picks it up again.
‘Of course, he’s not my first husband.’
‘Oh.’
‘I lived on my own for thirty years.’
‘Thirty years? So your first husband died young, then?’
She frowns.
‘He was eighty five. He died last week.’
‘Oh.’
‘We divorced after ten years.’
‘I see. Children?’
‘Three boys.’
My attempt at working out the maths is almost audible. I give up.
‘So – did you learn about your ex-husband’s death through your sons?’
‘Through the youngest. I hadn’t seen the eldest in thirty years. He’s in his fifties.’
‘So..?’
‘So when we divorced my eldest son went off with my ex and the other two stayed with me. I heard nothing more from them – until last week, when he turned up at the funeral.’
She looks at me. ‘The eldest – not the ex. You have got the doctor’s letter, haven’t you?’
‘Yep.’ I wave it in the air, Lame Chamberlain-style.
The ambulance yaws and staggers.
‘Oops,’ I say. ‘I think the bad weather’s broken up the roads.’
‘Really?’ She sniffs, and grips her stick more tightly. I seek shelter in the paperwork. Eventually I peek out again: ‘That must have been awkward, seeing your eldest son again like that.’
‘Like what again?’
‘At your ex’s funeral.’
‘Not at all.’
She takes the stick in her hand and pokes at her feet through the blanket like an arctic explorer sensing a crevasse.
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Guttering, mostly. That’s what he does apparently – fascias, soffits, guttering.’
‘Ah ha. And were the other two there?’
‘The youngest. Not the middle one. Who knows where he is.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘I gave him some cheques to pay in. Which he did, of course. His own account. Then cleared off.’
‘But you’ve kept things up with the youngest?’
‘Charles? Oh Charles is fine. He lives round the corner. Didn’t approve when I married William, though.’
‘How did you two meet?’
‘An old friend of mine. She was coming round for dinner. She’d got problems with her hip, so a friend of a friend offered to drive. She told him to wait in the car. But I said: ‘Audrey. The man can’t just sit there whilst we eat. You’ll have to fetch him in. So she did – and he’s been there ever since.’
‘Have you got everything?’
‘It’s all here. I think.’
‘What about the doctor’s letter?’
‘Oh.’
He shuffles off into the kitchen as the chair judders to a halt. We help her dismount.
‘Is it cold?’
‘The snow’s gone.’
‘Well.’
Mr Ellery hurries back in.
‘The letter!’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Just a minute.’
She swaps the stick from one hand to another, then raises her chin as magnificently as a prisoner being led to the firing squad.
‘Onwards.’
**
I wave goodbye to Mr Ellery and slam the ambulance door shut.
Mrs Ellery winces.
‘Sorry. I have to slam it otherwise the alarm sounds.’
She says nothing, but smoothes the blanket down in front of her as we lurch off the pavement and set off.
**
With the paperwork all done I settle in to the chair and smile at Mrs Ellery.
‘So. How long have you and William been married?’
‘Five years.’
‘Oh.’ I had expected her to say fifty. But the response is primed and goes off anyway: ‘That’s wonderful.’
The pause is a tragic acknowledgement of conversations the world over. Eventually – graciously – she picks it up again.
‘Of course, he’s not my first husband.’
‘Oh.’
‘I lived on my own for thirty years.’
‘Thirty years? So your first husband died young, then?’
She frowns.
‘He was eighty five. He died last week.’
‘Oh.’
‘We divorced after ten years.’
‘I see. Children?’
‘Three boys.’
My attempt at working out the maths is almost audible. I give up.
‘So – did you learn about your ex-husband’s death through your sons?’
‘Through the youngest. I hadn’t seen the eldest in thirty years. He’s in his fifties.’
‘So..?’
‘So when we divorced my eldest son went off with my ex and the other two stayed with me. I heard nothing more from them – until last week, when he turned up at the funeral.’
She looks at me. ‘The eldest – not the ex. You have got the doctor’s letter, haven’t you?’
‘Yep.’ I wave it in the air, Lame Chamberlain-style.
The ambulance yaws and staggers.
‘Oops,’ I say. ‘I think the bad weather’s broken up the roads.’
‘Really?’ She sniffs, and grips her stick more tightly. I seek shelter in the paperwork. Eventually I peek out again: ‘That must have been awkward, seeing your eldest son again like that.’
‘Like what again?’
‘At your ex’s funeral.’
‘Not at all.’
She takes the stick in her hand and pokes at her feet through the blanket like an arctic explorer sensing a crevasse.
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Guttering, mostly. That’s what he does apparently – fascias, soffits, guttering.’
‘Ah ha. And were the other two there?’
‘The youngest. Not the middle one. Who knows where he is.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘I gave him some cheques to pay in. Which he did, of course. His own account. Then cleared off.’
‘But you’ve kept things up with the youngest?’
‘Charles? Oh Charles is fine. He lives round the corner. Didn’t approve when I married William, though.’
‘How did you two meet?’
‘An old friend of mine. She was coming round for dinner. She’d got problems with her hip, so a friend of a friend offered to drive. She told him to wait in the car. But I said: ‘Audrey. The man can’t just sit there whilst we eat. You’ll have to fetch him in. So she did – and he’s been there ever since.’
Thursday, December 30, 2010
the baby or the girl
Street names, synonyms for illness, difficulty, death. Shorthand scrawls for a pratfall in a swimming pool, an entrapment, a G5 in the lobby. Have I been here before? I’m sure I’ve been here before. If not here, then somewhere.
Tour guides on the Big Black Seaside Tour of Misfortune.
‘People don’t like to see us, Frank.’
‘Maybe we should change our uniform.’
‘Did you ever see pictures of the stuff they wore during the Black Death? A big black cape and a leather beak stuffed with herbs.’
‘I’d wear it.’
It’s late afternoon, my birthday, and I think the fog in the streets has invaded my heart.
‘If I don’t get a coffee in the next ten minutes I’m a dead man.’
I have been here before. Except the geometrically dour council block is surrounded by scaffolding. It coalesces out of the mist like a grotesque puzzle toy, a musical box. I imagine giant hands ripping it from its foundations, turning it over and over, eventually finding the pressure points and the whole thing springing apart to reveal – what? A dancing angel? Or a woman spinning round and round with a bottle of vodka?
There are tyres tracks on the triangular grass verge out front; probably from the last ambulance that parked here, probably yesterday. Getting out in slow motion. One small step for man, one giant waste of time. Reaching for the bell. And the long pause. I’ve definitely been here before.
Sandra is waiting for us on the sofa. She is a stop-motion, grey clay animation of a lonely drunk. Her cigarette burns in a different time zone. The flat is cold and poorly lit, a scattering of ripped bills, energy drinks, a plasma TV with teeth marks, the wretched galley kitchen a stub corridor to hell.
We spend time.
A pain in her side she’s had for a week. Hasn’t called the doctor because he’s shut, hasn’t any credit on her phone, can’t get there, doesn’t have the number, other reasons. She just wants reassurance she’s all right. She doesn’t want to come to hospital.
Ticks in boxes. Scrawled assessments.
‘We’ll log this call with your doctor so he knows what’s happened. What’s your number?’
She hands me the phone. After a while going through various menus I hand it back.
‘I can’t find it, Sandra.’
She shrugs.
The walls of the flat are darkening damp and bare, except for a small cluster of family photos, framed. The oldest one, a baby in a frilly white jump suit lying happily in front of a two year old who has one hand on the baby’s head, as if she’s taking its temperature, or like a stall holder proudly describing her most valuable offering.
‘Which one’s you, Sandra? The baby or the girl?
She shrugs.
***
Outside the fog is thickening. It runs noiselessly around us, shifting and cooling and flowing through, magically on and down to the barest atomic matrix of existence, where everything is everything, and anything is possible, where a man can stand still and be a lamppost, and a lamppost can go into a petrol station for a coffee.
Tour guides on the Big Black Seaside Tour of Misfortune.
‘People don’t like to see us, Frank.’
‘Maybe we should change our uniform.’
‘Did you ever see pictures of the stuff they wore during the Black Death? A big black cape and a leather beak stuffed with herbs.’
‘I’d wear it.’
It’s late afternoon, my birthday, and I think the fog in the streets has invaded my heart.
‘If I don’t get a coffee in the next ten minutes I’m a dead man.’
I have been here before. Except the geometrically dour council block is surrounded by scaffolding. It coalesces out of the mist like a grotesque puzzle toy, a musical box. I imagine giant hands ripping it from its foundations, turning it over and over, eventually finding the pressure points and the whole thing springing apart to reveal – what? A dancing angel? Or a woman spinning round and round with a bottle of vodka?
There are tyres tracks on the triangular grass verge out front; probably from the last ambulance that parked here, probably yesterday. Getting out in slow motion. One small step for man, one giant waste of time. Reaching for the bell. And the long pause. I’ve definitely been here before.
Sandra is waiting for us on the sofa. She is a stop-motion, grey clay animation of a lonely drunk. Her cigarette burns in a different time zone. The flat is cold and poorly lit, a scattering of ripped bills, energy drinks, a plasma TV with teeth marks, the wretched galley kitchen a stub corridor to hell.
We spend time.
A pain in her side she’s had for a week. Hasn’t called the doctor because he’s shut, hasn’t any credit on her phone, can’t get there, doesn’t have the number, other reasons. She just wants reassurance she’s all right. She doesn’t want to come to hospital.
Ticks in boxes. Scrawled assessments.
‘We’ll log this call with your doctor so he knows what’s happened. What’s your number?’
She hands me the phone. After a while going through various menus I hand it back.
‘I can’t find it, Sandra.’
She shrugs.
The walls of the flat are darkening damp and bare, except for a small cluster of family photos, framed. The oldest one, a baby in a frilly white jump suit lying happily in front of a two year old who has one hand on the baby’s head, as if she’s taking its temperature, or like a stall holder proudly describing her most valuable offering.
‘Which one’s you, Sandra? The baby or the girl?
She shrugs.
***
Outside the fog is thickening. It runs noiselessly around us, shifting and cooling and flowing through, magically on and down to the barest atomic matrix of existence, where everything is everything, and anything is possible, where a man can stand still and be a lamppost, and a lamppost can go into a petrol station for a coffee.
Monday, December 27, 2010
brenda
A woman in a pastel pink terry towelling bath robe waves enthusiastically from the side of the road, a strange, bare-legged, marshmallow figure amongst the early morning commuters in their heavy coats and scarves, the piles of snow spread all around like spilled suds from a bath. Her legs are lobster red, and her hair has been roughly towelled dry, sticking out in tangled clumps. She smiles and jumps up and down in her slippers.
‘He’s down at the bottom of the basement stairs. I thought I heard someone calling.’ She turns and dog-slippers her way back across an icy yard, adding over her shoulder: ‘I was in the bath.’
She leads us to the top of a steep flight of worn stone stairs. A tall, elderly man is standing looking up at us from the bottom. His face is bloody, and the front of his old blue windcheater glistening.
‘Down here,’ he says, raising his arm.
‘Is he all right?’ says the woman, dropping the phone into the baggy pocket of her bath robe and then gathering the fluffy collar of it tightly around her neck. ‘I thought I’d better ring before I did anything else.’
‘Well let’s see. I think you should get inside, though. Thanks ever so much for your help’
‘That’s all right,’ she says, pushing her hair back.’ Then she waves down at the man. ‘Hope it goes well, Mr Chapman.’
‘Thank you, Brenda.’
Then she turns and hurries up the icy steps back into the house.
We pick our way down to Mr Chapman.
‘What’s happened to you, then?’
‘I was just bringing my car battery down for a charge and I slipped on the last step. I’m okay though. I wasn’t knocked out or anything.’
‘Any pain anywhere? Funny feelings in your arms or legs?’
‘Not a thing. My head stings where I scraped it on the wall, but that’s it. I don’t want to waste your time. I’m fine.’
‘Let’s just get you on to the vehicle, give you the once over and see what’s what,’ I tell him. ‘Are you sure you can make it up the steps?’
‘Yes, yes. Just move my battery into that alcove though, would you?’
Frank puts it out of the way and we head slowly back up the stairs.
‘How old are you, Mr Chapman?’
‘Eighty four.’
‘And how’s your health?’
‘Fine. Nothing wrong with me.’
He smiles, and his teeth have the usual bloodied definition of head injuries, each individual tooth highlighted with a dark line. ‘No pills or potions.’
‘And still driving, obviously.’
‘It’s my life,’ he says. We reach the ambulance. ‘I used to drive one of these, just after the war.’
‘Really? Well it’s an honour to have you aboard. Shame it’s not happier circumstances, but never mind. There you go. Make yourself comfortable on the trolley.’
‘Look, are you sure this is necessary? I could just go indoors and tidy myself up. You’ve got better things to be doing with your time.’
‘Right now, this is the most important thing for us, Mr Chapman. Let’s just get that jacket off. And – have – a – look at you.’
I start exploring his matted hair. It’s quickly apparent he has a significant wound – a palm sized skin flap exposing his skull.
‘This is quite serious, Mr Chapman,’ I tell him, soaking the area with saline and doing my best to bring it all together and tidy it up. ‘It’s pretty deep.’
‘Really? I don’t think so. I think I just need to go home.’
‘No, no. You’ll have to go to hospital with this one.’
‘Hospital?’ He swings his legs off the trolley. ‘I don’t think I need hospital. Can’t you just put a plaster on it? I’ve had worse.’
‘Absolutely not. This goes right down to the bone.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. You’ll need stitches. Some proper looking after.’
He mutters something, then settles himself back on the trolley again. I carry on cleaning him up. After a moment he says: ‘I only wanted to put the battery on charge.’
‘You can do that later.’
‘I don’t want my car running down.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve always taken good care of my cars.’
‘Excellent.’
I toss the bloody gauzes into a bag and Frank helps me bandage the wound up.
‘Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?’ Mr Chapman says, folding his arms.
‘We wouldn’t do it otherwise,’ I tell him.
There’s a pause. Eventually he says: ‘Can’t I just go back down and put the battery on charge?’
‘We need to get you to hospital, Mr Chapman.’
‘Brenda seems nice,’ says Frank, tidying up around us. ‘Jumping out of the bath like that. Running down the street.’
Mr Chapman looks up, tentatively patting the dressing on his head.
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ he says.
‘He’s down at the bottom of the basement stairs. I thought I heard someone calling.’ She turns and dog-slippers her way back across an icy yard, adding over her shoulder: ‘I was in the bath.’
She leads us to the top of a steep flight of worn stone stairs. A tall, elderly man is standing looking up at us from the bottom. His face is bloody, and the front of his old blue windcheater glistening.
‘Down here,’ he says, raising his arm.
‘Is he all right?’ says the woman, dropping the phone into the baggy pocket of her bath robe and then gathering the fluffy collar of it tightly around her neck. ‘I thought I’d better ring before I did anything else.’
‘Well let’s see. I think you should get inside, though. Thanks ever so much for your help’
‘That’s all right,’ she says, pushing her hair back.’ Then she waves down at the man. ‘Hope it goes well, Mr Chapman.’
‘Thank you, Brenda.’
Then she turns and hurries up the icy steps back into the house.
We pick our way down to Mr Chapman.
‘What’s happened to you, then?’
‘I was just bringing my car battery down for a charge and I slipped on the last step. I’m okay though. I wasn’t knocked out or anything.’
‘Any pain anywhere? Funny feelings in your arms or legs?’
‘Not a thing. My head stings where I scraped it on the wall, but that’s it. I don’t want to waste your time. I’m fine.’
‘Let’s just get you on to the vehicle, give you the once over and see what’s what,’ I tell him. ‘Are you sure you can make it up the steps?’
‘Yes, yes. Just move my battery into that alcove though, would you?’
Frank puts it out of the way and we head slowly back up the stairs.
‘How old are you, Mr Chapman?’
‘Eighty four.’
‘And how’s your health?’
‘Fine. Nothing wrong with me.’
He smiles, and his teeth have the usual bloodied definition of head injuries, each individual tooth highlighted with a dark line. ‘No pills or potions.’
‘And still driving, obviously.’
‘It’s my life,’ he says. We reach the ambulance. ‘I used to drive one of these, just after the war.’
‘Really? Well it’s an honour to have you aboard. Shame it’s not happier circumstances, but never mind. There you go. Make yourself comfortable on the trolley.’
‘Look, are you sure this is necessary? I could just go indoors and tidy myself up. You’ve got better things to be doing with your time.’
‘Right now, this is the most important thing for us, Mr Chapman. Let’s just get that jacket off. And – have – a – look at you.’
I start exploring his matted hair. It’s quickly apparent he has a significant wound – a palm sized skin flap exposing his skull.
‘This is quite serious, Mr Chapman,’ I tell him, soaking the area with saline and doing my best to bring it all together and tidy it up. ‘It’s pretty deep.’
‘Really? I don’t think so. I think I just need to go home.’
‘No, no. You’ll have to go to hospital with this one.’
‘Hospital?’ He swings his legs off the trolley. ‘I don’t think I need hospital. Can’t you just put a plaster on it? I’ve had worse.’
‘Absolutely not. This goes right down to the bone.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. You’ll need stitches. Some proper looking after.’
He mutters something, then settles himself back on the trolley again. I carry on cleaning him up. After a moment he says: ‘I only wanted to put the battery on charge.’
‘You can do that later.’
‘I don’t want my car running down.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve always taken good care of my cars.’
‘Excellent.’
I toss the bloody gauzes into a bag and Frank helps me bandage the wound up.
‘Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?’ Mr Chapman says, folding his arms.
‘We wouldn’t do it otherwise,’ I tell him.
There’s a pause. Eventually he says: ‘Can’t I just go back down and put the battery on charge?’
‘We need to get you to hospital, Mr Chapman.’
‘Brenda seems nice,’ says Frank, tidying up around us. ‘Jumping out of the bath like that. Running down the street.’
Mr Chapman looks up, tentatively patting the dressing on his head.
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ he says.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
tigers and lillies
The entrance to the sauna is via a discrete L-shaped screen; a man could quite easily be walking along the pavement on his way into town, not thinking about anything in particular, perhaps in his innocence a little too close to the shop fronts there – the gallery, the tatty sports shop, the cheap hotel - and suddenly find himself turning sharply to the left into a small reception area, a red and black themed room, with black rubber tiles on the floor, prints of naked male torsos around the walls, and a Plexiglas kiosk with a slot to slip your money through.
‘He’s in the locker room,’ says the man behind the screen, a young guy, bare-chested, his earlobes stretched by large black washers, his nipples pierced, his shoulders tattooed left and right with a tiger and a bouquet of lilies.
He buzzes a security door and we struggle through with our bags to a staircase, the kind of sharp edged affair you might find leading down to the kitchens of a restaurant. At the bottom is a changing area, wooden benches and lockers, and beyond it, a low-ceilinged corridor. There is a sign on the wall, a rack of arrows pointing in different directions: sun deck, cafe, hot and cold showers, plunge pool, solarium, play room, glory holes. The air is moist, vaguely sweet, vaporous with detergent, cologne and other, earthier flavours. Silent figures in the same institutional towel pad to and fro along the corridor. I’m conscious only of feet, legs and lower abdomen; I don’t want to embarrass anyone by making eye contact. But it seems to me that quite a few of the men find a reason to scratch their face, cough, or look in the other direction as they pass.
‘In here.’
The receptionist stands in front of a middle aged man almost completely dressed now, leaning forwards to slip on his shoes.
‘Would you go outside to talk to him in the ambulance? It’ll be a bit more discrete.’
The man doesn’t look at us, but stands up and hurriedly slips his rucksack over his shoulder.
‘I understand you had a fainting episode just now?’
He looks down to the side and shakes his head.
‘No,’ he says.
‘What do you mean? We’d like to make sure you’re okay.’
‘No. No thank you.’
He starts to leave.
The receptionist smiles at us and shrugs his tiger and lilies.
‘Sorry to have called you out for nothing, guys.’
By the time he has finished talking, the man is up the stairs and away.
‘He’s in the locker room,’ says the man behind the screen, a young guy, bare-chested, his earlobes stretched by large black washers, his nipples pierced, his shoulders tattooed left and right with a tiger and a bouquet of lilies.
He buzzes a security door and we struggle through with our bags to a staircase, the kind of sharp edged affair you might find leading down to the kitchens of a restaurant. At the bottom is a changing area, wooden benches and lockers, and beyond it, a low-ceilinged corridor. There is a sign on the wall, a rack of arrows pointing in different directions: sun deck, cafe, hot and cold showers, plunge pool, solarium, play room, glory holes. The air is moist, vaguely sweet, vaporous with detergent, cologne and other, earthier flavours. Silent figures in the same institutional towel pad to and fro along the corridor. I’m conscious only of feet, legs and lower abdomen; I don’t want to embarrass anyone by making eye contact. But it seems to me that quite a few of the men find a reason to scratch their face, cough, or look in the other direction as they pass.
‘In here.’
The receptionist stands in front of a middle aged man almost completely dressed now, leaning forwards to slip on his shoes.
‘Would you go outside to talk to him in the ambulance? It’ll be a bit more discrete.’
The man doesn’t look at us, but stands up and hurriedly slips his rucksack over his shoulder.
‘I understand you had a fainting episode just now?’
He looks down to the side and shakes his head.
‘No,’ he says.
‘What do you mean? We’d like to make sure you’re okay.’
‘No. No thank you.’
He starts to leave.
The receptionist smiles at us and shrugs his tiger and lilies.
‘Sorry to have called you out for nothing, guys.’
By the time he has finished talking, the man is up the stairs and away.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
changeable
The street is in the older part of town, a one way stub of workers’ cottages so tightly packed the occupants must sleep standing up. But Frank manages to find room to park the ambulance without blocking the street. Incredibly, this apartment block has been shoe-horned into the housing continuum, with parking spaces at street level between the struts and legs of the upper storeys. The sheer concrete lines and halogen spots of its balcony walkways is in contrast to the mullion windowed chintz of the rest of the street; it stands in the middle of it all like some grand, alien ship, ready for take-off.
All the notes tell us: a fifty-nine year old woman called Barbara, unwell at number fifteen.
Frank pushes the at scene button, grabs a bag from the side, we find number fifteen, and knock. After a minute or two, the door opens, and a slack faced woman with coral pink lips and a pan scourer hairdo sniffs cautiously round the edge.
After a moment Barbara says: ‘Yes, it’s the ambulance,’ into the phone she has pressed to her ear, then turns round and retreats back into the house without acknowledging us; we follow her inside anyway.
‘Should I hang up now?’ she says, we’re not sure to whom.
‘Yes. Just hang up.’
‘I’m hanging up now,’ she says into the phone, then presses it off without saying anything further.
‘Okay,’ says Frank. ‘Hello. My name’s Frank, this is Spence. What can we do for you tonight?’
She stands on the other side of the room, a dimly-lit space that could be a showroom at Past Times; there are framed prints of Aubrey Beardsley drawings, art deco mirrors and figurines, tapestry cushions, candle holders, faerie prints, and scattered strategically about the place, a hundred soft toys – from Jemima Puddle-Duck, Bagpuss and Peter Rabbit, to an audience of variously graded teddy bears, some in overcoats, some in cowboy outfits or homemade doily wraps, or simply naked, tagged in the ear like prize cattle, looking on from the margins.
‘What seems to be the problem?’
Barbara flutters a hand just below her chin.
‘I’ve never felt so unwell,’ she squeaks. ‘I feel dreadful.’
‘In what way?’
‘What?’
‘In what way do you feel unwell?’
The question seems to disorientate her; she pauses whilst it disperses through the air, then she continues.
‘I’ve been on these pills from the doctor for a week. He gave them to me because I was so ill.’
‘These here?’
She stares at him.
‘Well what do you think? Yes – those there.’
‘Okay. Antibiotics, I see. Was this for some kind of chest infection?’
She pauses again, then sits down on the sofa and rolls up her sleeve.
‘I’m so worried,’ she says. ‘I’ve come out in this rash. What do you think this rash is?’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Her arm appears to have no more than a light bruise by the elbow and a couple of spots of eczema. The light in the room is poor, so I click on my pocket torch to give Frank something better to work by.
Barbara glares – and when she speaks, her voice has dropped an octave.
‘I do pay my electricity bills you know. You can put another light on.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. It’s just so Frank can get a better look.’
‘Mm. Well – I can’t really see anything here,’ says Frank. ‘Do you have any pain anywhere?’
Her voice rises again, a quivering, reedy tone, and her hand flutters up into the air.
‘I’ve never felt so ill. I’m sorry to waste your time. I just didn’t know what else to do. I called my daughter, and she said if I was as bad as that I should call the ambulance. But I know you’ve got better things to be doing with your time.’
‘Don’t worry. Do you have any health problems?’
The strange drop of tone again.
‘Of course I’ve got health problems. What do you think?’
‘Okay. Any medication for anything?’
‘Over there.’
Barbara is extraordinarily volatile, switching suddenly from one character to another like some grotesque, topsy-turvy doll - anguished child’s face on one side, angry, middle-aged woman’s face on the other.
Both Frank and I tiptoe around her with our questions, but it’s difficult to get much sense from her.
‘I don’t know what the problem is, Barbara. But you’re obviously very concerned. So perhaps the best thing would be for you to come with us to hospital.’
Angry woman.
‘I’m not going there. People go there to die.’
‘It’s not as bad as that, Barbara.’
‘It is. My daughter’s a doctor and she’s told me all about it. Left in the corridor for hours. Left to die.’
‘No, no. They really do their best.’
Anguished child.
‘I think it’s terrible what’s happening today.’
‘In what way?’
‘People falling ill. Having to wait hours and hours to see anyone.’
‘But we came out right away. We came to help.’
‘What can you do? You’re not doctors. I’ve never felt so unwell.’
‘Which is why you should come with us to the hospital.’
‘No. I’m not going there. What’s going to happen to me?’
Frank sits next to her on the sofa.
‘Barbara? What do you think your daughter would want you to do? She suggested you called the ambulance because you didn’t feel well. And that’s what you did. Now that we’re here, we think you we should take you to the hospital. So don’t you think your daughter would tell you to go with us?’
Barbara sniffs, draws out a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jersey.
‘I’ll just get my things.’
‘Good. Good! We’ll just stand over there by the door to give you a little space. A couple of minutes and we’ll be off. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
We go over to the door, and whilst Barbara mutters to herself, gathering things together and stuffing them into a floral bag, we pass the time, talking quietly.
‘So where were you the other week?’
‘I took a couple of days off with my back. We did a dodgy lift and it made my old problem flare up again. Just here,’ I say, pressing him between his shoulders. ‘I scored some decent painkillers off the doctor, though, so it’s not all bad.’
‘My back’s been pretty bad recently.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I went to see this Osteopath, and she said....’
‘What are you talking about?’
Barbara has stopped getting her things together and walked right up to us.
‘Oh, we were just swapping horror stories about our backs.’
‘Your what?’
‘Our backs. We’ve both had back problems.’
‘Oh. Have you. Did you know I’ve had back problems?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘Yes. I had an MRI. I’m under Mr Coltishall.’
‘Right.’ An awkward pause. ‘Sometimes I think I could do with an MRI. Might not like what I find, though.’
I smile at Barbara, but it crashes up against the sheer wall of her face.
‘What’s your name?’ she says.
‘Spence.’
‘No. Your last name.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not really policy to give out last names.’
‘Actually it doesn’t matter. Because I have a daughter who works for the Met police in London. And she can find out your name like that. And she will find it out. Because I’m going to put in an official complaint about you. And d’you know what? I’m going to make your night. I am not going to the hospital. And I want you out of my house, right now.’
‘Barbara..?’
‘Right now!’
We turn and leave.
We climb back into the cab. Frank phones control to put them in the picture. Whilst he’s explaining the situation they interrupt to tell him that Barbara has called again.
‘Where are you at the minute?’
‘Still outside the property.’
‘I don’t suppose...’
All the notes tell us: a fifty-nine year old woman called Barbara, unwell at number fifteen.
Frank pushes the at scene button, grabs a bag from the side, we find number fifteen, and knock. After a minute or two, the door opens, and a slack faced woman with coral pink lips and a pan scourer hairdo sniffs cautiously round the edge.
After a moment Barbara says: ‘Yes, it’s the ambulance,’ into the phone she has pressed to her ear, then turns round and retreats back into the house without acknowledging us; we follow her inside anyway.
‘Should I hang up now?’ she says, we’re not sure to whom.
‘Yes. Just hang up.’
‘I’m hanging up now,’ she says into the phone, then presses it off without saying anything further.
‘Okay,’ says Frank. ‘Hello. My name’s Frank, this is Spence. What can we do for you tonight?’
She stands on the other side of the room, a dimly-lit space that could be a showroom at Past Times; there are framed prints of Aubrey Beardsley drawings, art deco mirrors and figurines, tapestry cushions, candle holders, faerie prints, and scattered strategically about the place, a hundred soft toys – from Jemima Puddle-Duck, Bagpuss and Peter Rabbit, to an audience of variously graded teddy bears, some in overcoats, some in cowboy outfits or homemade doily wraps, or simply naked, tagged in the ear like prize cattle, looking on from the margins.
‘What seems to be the problem?’
Barbara flutters a hand just below her chin.
‘I’ve never felt so unwell,’ she squeaks. ‘I feel dreadful.’
‘In what way?’
‘What?’
‘In what way do you feel unwell?’
The question seems to disorientate her; she pauses whilst it disperses through the air, then she continues.
‘I’ve been on these pills from the doctor for a week. He gave them to me because I was so ill.’
‘These here?’
She stares at him.
‘Well what do you think? Yes – those there.’
‘Okay. Antibiotics, I see. Was this for some kind of chest infection?’
She pauses again, then sits down on the sofa and rolls up her sleeve.
‘I’m so worried,’ she says. ‘I’ve come out in this rash. What do you think this rash is?’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Her arm appears to have no more than a light bruise by the elbow and a couple of spots of eczema. The light in the room is poor, so I click on my pocket torch to give Frank something better to work by.
Barbara glares – and when she speaks, her voice has dropped an octave.
‘I do pay my electricity bills you know. You can put another light on.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. It’s just so Frank can get a better look.’
‘Mm. Well – I can’t really see anything here,’ says Frank. ‘Do you have any pain anywhere?’
Her voice rises again, a quivering, reedy tone, and her hand flutters up into the air.
‘I’ve never felt so ill. I’m sorry to waste your time. I just didn’t know what else to do. I called my daughter, and she said if I was as bad as that I should call the ambulance. But I know you’ve got better things to be doing with your time.’
‘Don’t worry. Do you have any health problems?’
The strange drop of tone again.
‘Of course I’ve got health problems. What do you think?’
‘Okay. Any medication for anything?’
‘Over there.’
Barbara is extraordinarily volatile, switching suddenly from one character to another like some grotesque, topsy-turvy doll - anguished child’s face on one side, angry, middle-aged woman’s face on the other.
Both Frank and I tiptoe around her with our questions, but it’s difficult to get much sense from her.
‘I don’t know what the problem is, Barbara. But you’re obviously very concerned. So perhaps the best thing would be for you to come with us to hospital.’
Angry woman.
‘I’m not going there. People go there to die.’
‘It’s not as bad as that, Barbara.’
‘It is. My daughter’s a doctor and she’s told me all about it. Left in the corridor for hours. Left to die.’
‘No, no. They really do their best.’
Anguished child.
‘I think it’s terrible what’s happening today.’
‘In what way?’
‘People falling ill. Having to wait hours and hours to see anyone.’
‘But we came out right away. We came to help.’
‘What can you do? You’re not doctors. I’ve never felt so unwell.’
‘Which is why you should come with us to the hospital.’
‘No. I’m not going there. What’s going to happen to me?’
Frank sits next to her on the sofa.
‘Barbara? What do you think your daughter would want you to do? She suggested you called the ambulance because you didn’t feel well. And that’s what you did. Now that we’re here, we think you we should take you to the hospital. So don’t you think your daughter would tell you to go with us?’
Barbara sniffs, draws out a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jersey.
‘I’ll just get my things.’
‘Good. Good! We’ll just stand over there by the door to give you a little space. A couple of minutes and we’ll be off. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
We go over to the door, and whilst Barbara mutters to herself, gathering things together and stuffing them into a floral bag, we pass the time, talking quietly.
‘So where were you the other week?’
‘I took a couple of days off with my back. We did a dodgy lift and it made my old problem flare up again. Just here,’ I say, pressing him between his shoulders. ‘I scored some decent painkillers off the doctor, though, so it’s not all bad.’
‘My back’s been pretty bad recently.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I went to see this Osteopath, and she said....’
‘What are you talking about?’
Barbara has stopped getting her things together and walked right up to us.
‘Oh, we were just swapping horror stories about our backs.’
‘Your what?’
‘Our backs. We’ve both had back problems.’
‘Oh. Have you. Did you know I’ve had back problems?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘Yes. I had an MRI. I’m under Mr Coltishall.’
‘Right.’ An awkward pause. ‘Sometimes I think I could do with an MRI. Might not like what I find, though.’
I smile at Barbara, but it crashes up against the sheer wall of her face.
‘What’s your name?’ she says.
‘Spence.’
‘No. Your last name.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not really policy to give out last names.’
‘Actually it doesn’t matter. Because I have a daughter who works for the Met police in London. And she can find out your name like that. And she will find it out. Because I’m going to put in an official complaint about you. And d’you know what? I’m going to make your night. I am not going to the hospital. And I want you out of my house, right now.’
‘Barbara..?’
‘Right now!’
We turn and leave.
We climb back into the cab. Frank phones control to put them in the picture. Whilst he’s explaining the situation they interrupt to tell him that Barbara has called again.
‘Where are you at the minute?’
‘Still outside the property.’
‘I don’t suppose...’
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year!
 |
| (c) Innis McAllister |
Thanks to everyone for reading Siren Voices over the past year. It’s been fantastic to have such warm and encouraging feedback.
I hope you all have a great Christmas break, and that 2011 is filled with love, luck and happiness.
SK <:0) x
the frequent flyer's* advent calendar
*frequent flyer – noun phrase: regular caller without good cause
The picture: A snowy street scene. An ambulance skidding along between iced cars, its headlamps wic-wacking, its emergency lights rippling blue and red, front and back. A generous scattering of glitter.
Hidden around the picture: twenty four numbered panels. Each one has a tiny scene behind it, with a little clip of dialogue as the panel is opened.
1 The lobby of a run-down hotel. Pete, the cowardly lion, sitting in a ruined tub chair with a couple of crutches propped against it. He is wearing a spivvy black leather jacket, dirty jeans, smoking a roll-up the size of a matchstick.
‘I can’t walk.’
‘How did you get down to the lobby?’
‘I can’t walk very far.’
2 A cold, curtainless room lit by a bare light bulb. A ginger tom delicately licking its paw over on the window ledge. Below him, such a scattering of rubbish it could be a sorting room at the recycling depot. Clara, staggering around with a half empty bottle of Perry cider.
‘The door! Don’t let Garfield out! Is he out? Don’t let him out!’
3 The landing of a concrete housing block. Mr Sylvester, rattling around in a dilapidated blue blazer and slacks, propped up against the railings, shaking a brown inhaler.
‘Hello chaps. I need another one of these. But Kathleen should be home soon.’
‘When?’
‘Oh I don’t know. I don’t like to pry.’
4 A long and narrow lift, sheet steel and graffiti tags, a fold-down chair in the corner. Mary, shuffling out in a leopard-pattern fur coat and red slippers, fag smoke billowing around her.
‘Oh hallo boys. Is it cold out? Will I need a hat?’
5 Dolly, Queen of the Wallop, swearing and cursing in her chair, as easy as an elephant that accidentally sat back in a laundry basket.
‘How are you, Dolly?’
‘Fantabulosa, darling. What do you think?’
6 Zachary, walking out of a seafront bar, escorted by a doorman. He casts sharp looks left and right along the street, a strip of fluorescent orange hair draped across the centre of his bald head, his combat jacket zipped right up, collar up, a Chad Valley chess box tucked under his arm.
‘I will speak with you in the language you know. If I revert, I apologise. But there are certain secrets I cannot reveal to you, many of them connected with this ancient box. You’ve heard of the Knights Templar? Then you’ll understand. Dark times, my friend. Strange, dark times.’
7 Ella Mae – careening forwards on her mobility scooter, her cowboy hat slipped back on her head and her eye patch folded up, a fag trembling in her lips. She tugs it out with yellowing fingers and smiles, revealing a dental graveyard of blackened stumps.
‘The bastards have banned me from Waitrose.’
8 Stanley, standing with one hand on the door, his tousled head turned back into the flat where a beautiful springer spaniel leaps from sofa to armchair.
‘Dookie! Decorum!’
9 Miranda, swaying in the hallway of a Glade-drenched bungalow, her eyes swimming in and out of focus behind the dirty lenses of her glasses. Josh Groban emoting on the DVD
‘We understand you’ve taken an overdose.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Will you be coming to hospital?’
‘No. Fuck off.’
10 Mrs Jessom, standing in the middle of a plush lounge, seemingly aghast to find herself in a quilted, leaf-patterned housecoat. In the corner of the room, beneath a display shelf of porcelain fairies, the life-sized mannequin of a small child in a red raincoat, her face to the wall.
‘I look a fright.’
‘No, no.’
‘I do. I look a fright.’
11 Janice, simpering in a WWF bed beneath a wall of WWF posters and WWF DVDSs. The quilt - Bret Hart, golden belt over his shoulder - has been artfully arranged to reveal teasing flashes of naked shank and brisket.
‘I was just getting ready to take a flannel bath when the cat head butted me and I fell backwards onto the bed.’
12 Jose, sitting on the steps of the entrance way, devouring a cigarette. In the half-light of the courtyard he could be a Spanish movie star, but close inspection reveals such a slack and dissolute face it’s all you can do not to bite your knuckle.
‘I see espiders. Everywhere. Espiders.’
13 Ralph, enthroned on a ruined chair amongst the detritus of his basement flat, his friend Bobby bustling about like a large, solicitous woodlouse.
‘He was knocked clean out.’
‘Clean out.’
‘And that’s some of his hair in the ashtray.’
14 Joy, a frail woman of indeterminate age in teddy bear PJs, mouthing instructions from round the corner of her curtains.
‘Whatever you do, don’t say you’ll look at her chinchillas.’
15 Michael, a falling down, fag butt Father Christmas in a foetid raincoat, slumped on a bench outside the Co-op, a festive carrier bag hanging on his zimmer with a packet of sandwiches and a litre of vodka.
‘Fuck off.’
16 Jenny, perched on the edge of her sofa like an Egyptian mummy unexpectedly reanimated, reaching down to where an equally ancient and over-stuffed black Labrador Maisy lies sleeping on her side.
‘ Maisy, Maisy, Maisy. Just look at you now. You dear and lovely little thing.’
17 Sonia, lying on the pavement beneath the bright department store display, shaking her arms and legs in a psychogenic fit, a small crowd watching from the taxi rank alongside.
18 Susan, a young, tidily dressed girl sitting patiently on the platform bench with a flowery bag by her side and a couple of fluorescent jacketed staff standing with radios right and left.
‘Hello Susan.’
She smiles pleasantly - ‘How are you?’ - and then slips the strap of her bag over her shoulder ready to go.
19 Kevin, sitting with his head in his hands at the kitchen table, a Tupperware box of medication in front of him.
‘I simply need you to write me out a prescription for the drugs I need.’
‘We’re not doctors, Kevin. That’s not what we do.’
‘Then I have no further use for you. Good day.’
20 Connor, bare-chested and exultant in the bedroom of a devastated squat, swigging from a carton, a white moustache of milk beading his upper lip.
‘I swallowed a razor blade.’
21 Jeannie, sitting cross legged on the double bed that takes up most of the floor space of the bedsit. Behind her, almost covering that wall, a spread of A4 photos printed off the computer - hazy, pixelated family shots of babies in prams and on laps, a sister and brother, school photos, a beach holiday.
‘And see that one there? Isn’t he gorgeous? My brother’s baby, such a cutie.’
22 Michaela, immaculately tragic in chiffon, taffeta and Maybelline gloss, one great hairy foot up on a Moroccan pouffe beside the Ottoman.
‘I’ve been such a fool.’
23 Cynthia, crying as she opens the door, waving us quickly inside, her Jack Russell skittering at insane speed around the room like an over-wound toy. Cynthia’s image is reflected a dozen times in the seventies-style hang of little round mirrors on the far wall.
‘I may have had a little bit to drink. It’s not a crime.’
24 Burt, a generously proportioned character balloon from the derelict collection, occupying three quarters of a four person settee, his t-shirt ridden up beyond the dreadful horizon of his abdomen. Above him, a wall of clocks begins chiming the midnight hour.
‘The pain? I don’t know. It’s there all the time. Sometimes I hardly notice it. Sometimes it’s completely gone. I don’t know. It’s just a pain-type pain.’
‘Have you seen your doctor?’
‘Him? Well, he’s not interested.’
All the panels stand open now.
I faxed my annual leave request through at midnight on September 1st last year.
This year, I get to be home for Christmas.
The picture: A snowy street scene. An ambulance skidding along between iced cars, its headlamps wic-wacking, its emergency lights rippling blue and red, front and back. A generous scattering of glitter.
Hidden around the picture: twenty four numbered panels. Each one has a tiny scene behind it, with a little clip of dialogue as the panel is opened.
1 The lobby of a run-down hotel. Pete, the cowardly lion, sitting in a ruined tub chair with a couple of crutches propped against it. He is wearing a spivvy black leather jacket, dirty jeans, smoking a roll-up the size of a matchstick.
‘I can’t walk.’
‘How did you get down to the lobby?’
‘I can’t walk very far.’
2 A cold, curtainless room lit by a bare light bulb. A ginger tom delicately licking its paw over on the window ledge. Below him, such a scattering of rubbish it could be a sorting room at the recycling depot. Clara, staggering around with a half empty bottle of Perry cider.
‘The door! Don’t let Garfield out! Is he out? Don’t let him out!’
3 The landing of a concrete housing block. Mr Sylvester, rattling around in a dilapidated blue blazer and slacks, propped up against the railings, shaking a brown inhaler.
‘Hello chaps. I need another one of these. But Kathleen should be home soon.’
‘When?’
‘Oh I don’t know. I don’t like to pry.’
4 A long and narrow lift, sheet steel and graffiti tags, a fold-down chair in the corner. Mary, shuffling out in a leopard-pattern fur coat and red slippers, fag smoke billowing around her.
‘Oh hallo boys. Is it cold out? Will I need a hat?’
5 Dolly, Queen of the Wallop, swearing and cursing in her chair, as easy as an elephant that accidentally sat back in a laundry basket.
‘How are you, Dolly?’
‘Fantabulosa, darling. What do you think?’
6 Zachary, walking out of a seafront bar, escorted by a doorman. He casts sharp looks left and right along the street, a strip of fluorescent orange hair draped across the centre of his bald head, his combat jacket zipped right up, collar up, a Chad Valley chess box tucked under his arm.
‘I will speak with you in the language you know. If I revert, I apologise. But there are certain secrets I cannot reveal to you, many of them connected with this ancient box. You’ve heard of the Knights Templar? Then you’ll understand. Dark times, my friend. Strange, dark times.’
7 Ella Mae – careening forwards on her mobility scooter, her cowboy hat slipped back on her head and her eye patch folded up, a fag trembling in her lips. She tugs it out with yellowing fingers and smiles, revealing a dental graveyard of blackened stumps.
‘The bastards have banned me from Waitrose.’
8 Stanley, standing with one hand on the door, his tousled head turned back into the flat where a beautiful springer spaniel leaps from sofa to armchair.
‘Dookie! Decorum!’
9 Miranda, swaying in the hallway of a Glade-drenched bungalow, her eyes swimming in and out of focus behind the dirty lenses of her glasses. Josh Groban emoting on the DVD
‘We understand you’ve taken an overdose.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Will you be coming to hospital?’
‘No. Fuck off.’
10 Mrs Jessom, standing in the middle of a plush lounge, seemingly aghast to find herself in a quilted, leaf-patterned housecoat. In the corner of the room, beneath a display shelf of porcelain fairies, the life-sized mannequin of a small child in a red raincoat, her face to the wall.
‘I look a fright.’
‘No, no.’
‘I do. I look a fright.’
11 Janice, simpering in a WWF bed beneath a wall of WWF posters and WWF DVDSs. The quilt - Bret Hart, golden belt over his shoulder - has been artfully arranged to reveal teasing flashes of naked shank and brisket.
‘I was just getting ready to take a flannel bath when the cat head butted me and I fell backwards onto the bed.’
12 Jose, sitting on the steps of the entrance way, devouring a cigarette. In the half-light of the courtyard he could be a Spanish movie star, but close inspection reveals such a slack and dissolute face it’s all you can do not to bite your knuckle.
‘I see espiders. Everywhere. Espiders.’
13 Ralph, enthroned on a ruined chair amongst the detritus of his basement flat, his friend Bobby bustling about like a large, solicitous woodlouse.
‘He was knocked clean out.’
‘Clean out.’
‘And that’s some of his hair in the ashtray.’
14 Joy, a frail woman of indeterminate age in teddy bear PJs, mouthing instructions from round the corner of her curtains.
‘Whatever you do, don’t say you’ll look at her chinchillas.’
15 Michael, a falling down, fag butt Father Christmas in a foetid raincoat, slumped on a bench outside the Co-op, a festive carrier bag hanging on his zimmer with a packet of sandwiches and a litre of vodka.
‘Fuck off.’
16 Jenny, perched on the edge of her sofa like an Egyptian mummy unexpectedly reanimated, reaching down to where an equally ancient and over-stuffed black Labrador Maisy lies sleeping on her side.
‘ Maisy, Maisy, Maisy. Just look at you now. You dear and lovely little thing.’
17 Sonia, lying on the pavement beneath the bright department store display, shaking her arms and legs in a psychogenic fit, a small crowd watching from the taxi rank alongside.
18 Susan, a young, tidily dressed girl sitting patiently on the platform bench with a flowery bag by her side and a couple of fluorescent jacketed staff standing with radios right and left.
‘Hello Susan.’
She smiles pleasantly - ‘How are you?’ - and then slips the strap of her bag over her shoulder ready to go.
19 Kevin, sitting with his head in his hands at the kitchen table, a Tupperware box of medication in front of him.
‘I simply need you to write me out a prescription for the drugs I need.’
‘We’re not doctors, Kevin. That’s not what we do.’
‘Then I have no further use for you. Good day.’
20 Connor, bare-chested and exultant in the bedroom of a devastated squat, swigging from a carton, a white moustache of milk beading his upper lip.
‘I swallowed a razor blade.’
21 Jeannie, sitting cross legged on the double bed that takes up most of the floor space of the bedsit. Behind her, almost covering that wall, a spread of A4 photos printed off the computer - hazy, pixelated family shots of babies in prams and on laps, a sister and brother, school photos, a beach holiday.
‘And see that one there? Isn’t he gorgeous? My brother’s baby, such a cutie.’
22 Michaela, immaculately tragic in chiffon, taffeta and Maybelline gloss, one great hairy foot up on a Moroccan pouffe beside the Ottoman.
‘I’ve been such a fool.’
23 Cynthia, crying as she opens the door, waving us quickly inside, her Jack Russell skittering at insane speed around the room like an over-wound toy. Cynthia’s image is reflected a dozen times in the seventies-style hang of little round mirrors on the far wall.
‘I may have had a little bit to drink. It’s not a crime.’
24 Burt, a generously proportioned character balloon from the derelict collection, occupying three quarters of a four person settee, his t-shirt ridden up beyond the dreadful horizon of his abdomen. Above him, a wall of clocks begins chiming the midnight hour.
‘The pain? I don’t know. It’s there all the time. Sometimes I hardly notice it. Sometimes it’s completely gone. I don’t know. It’s just a pain-type pain.’
‘Have you seen your doctor?’
‘Him? Well, he’s not interested.’
All the panels stand open now.
I faxed my annual leave request through at midnight on September 1st last year.
This year, I get to be home for Christmas.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
mr petersen
Mr Petersen’s short red hair stands up in spikes; with his soft round nose, widow’s peak, raisin eyes and tiny mouth, he looks like an illustration from a tougher Beatrix Potter: Mr Tiggy Winkle on the Social, his paws stuffed in the zipper pockets of a black puffa-jacket, trembling in the hallway of a sheltered housing project in the early hours.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’m having a stroke.’
‘Let’s go inside and have a chat.’
He turns and shuffles ahead of us into the shared living space, a spare, functionally lit cube with a synthetic Christmas tree subsiding under a pile of tinsel in the window. Mr Petersen settles himself neatly on the edge of a battered armchair and waits for us to begin.
‘So. What’s happened tonight?’
‘I was just going to bed when I had this funny feeling. A numbness, spreading down from the right side of my face, round my mouth, and then on into my arms. I’d been reading about strokes and how to spot them. F – Face. A – Arms. S – Something. And T – erm - Trembling. So I thought I’d better call for an ambulance.’
‘Okay. Any pain anywhere? Nausea? Shortness of breath?’
‘No. Just this funny feeling.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
We run through the protocol.
‘Everything seems fine, Mr Petersen. But the fact remains you’ve got this funny feeling, so we need to check it out. Why don’t we go out to the vehicle and carry on there?’
‘Yes. I think that’s probably best.’
‘Any other health problems?’
‘Asperger’s Syndrome, Generalised Anxiety Disorder.’
‘Right. Have you got your keys, then? Phone – the usual stuff?’
‘I need to get them from my room. Will you come with me?’
‘Sure.’
We follow him back across the hallway to a scuffed white door. He smiles as he pushes it open.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ he says. ‘It’s not normally like this.’
The room is quite bare, except for isolated heaps of clothes piled up on the floor; the bed itself is a bare divan, with a lumpy, yellowing pillow at the far end.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ he says.
He scuffles across the room to sweep a bunch of keys from off a pine sideboard.
‘Do you watch The Bill?’ he says.
‘I thought it wasn’t on any more.’
‘Well – technically no. But are you familiar with one of the main characters, PC Amber Johannsen?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Well – she’s been visiting me, helping me out.’
‘What – do you mean the actress?’
‘No, no. PC Amber Johannsen, not her spirit, but her character, from the spirit side. She comes and helps me in various ways.’ He gives me a shy smile. ‘Satisfies me in others. She said to tell you sorry she couldn’t take me up the hospital herself, but now she’s just a spirit she’s no longer able to drive the patrol car.’
‘Right.’
He nods, then busies himself looking for his mobile phone, picking speculatively through the mounds of clothes like a bird through piles of raked leaves.
‘Mr Petersen? Have you been up to A&E before?’
He pauses momentarily and looks across at me.
‘Yes. About two months ago.’
‘Was it for something similar?’
‘No. It was – for something else.’
He carries on hunting for his phone.
I pause for him to tell me, but he seems reluctant.
‘What was wrong that time?’ I say.
‘I tied a boot lace round my organ, rather too tightly,’ he says, suddenly straightening up. ‘Ah! Here it is!’ He holds up the mobile phone, and gives it a triumphant little wiggle in the air.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’m having a stroke.’
‘Let’s go inside and have a chat.’
He turns and shuffles ahead of us into the shared living space, a spare, functionally lit cube with a synthetic Christmas tree subsiding under a pile of tinsel in the window. Mr Petersen settles himself neatly on the edge of a battered armchair and waits for us to begin.
‘So. What’s happened tonight?’
‘I was just going to bed when I had this funny feeling. A numbness, spreading down from the right side of my face, round my mouth, and then on into my arms. I’d been reading about strokes and how to spot them. F – Face. A – Arms. S – Something. And T – erm - Trembling. So I thought I’d better call for an ambulance.’
‘Okay. Any pain anywhere? Nausea? Shortness of breath?’
‘No. Just this funny feeling.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
We run through the protocol.
‘Everything seems fine, Mr Petersen. But the fact remains you’ve got this funny feeling, so we need to check it out. Why don’t we go out to the vehicle and carry on there?’
‘Yes. I think that’s probably best.’
‘Any other health problems?’
‘Asperger’s Syndrome, Generalised Anxiety Disorder.’
‘Right. Have you got your keys, then? Phone – the usual stuff?’
‘I need to get them from my room. Will you come with me?’
‘Sure.’
We follow him back across the hallway to a scuffed white door. He smiles as he pushes it open.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ he says. ‘It’s not normally like this.’
The room is quite bare, except for isolated heaps of clothes piled up on the floor; the bed itself is a bare divan, with a lumpy, yellowing pillow at the far end.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ he says.
He scuffles across the room to sweep a bunch of keys from off a pine sideboard.
‘Do you watch The Bill?’ he says.
‘I thought it wasn’t on any more.’
‘Well – technically no. But are you familiar with one of the main characters, PC Amber Johannsen?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Well – she’s been visiting me, helping me out.’
‘What – do you mean the actress?’
‘No, no. PC Amber Johannsen, not her spirit, but her character, from the spirit side. She comes and helps me in various ways.’ He gives me a shy smile. ‘Satisfies me in others. She said to tell you sorry she couldn’t take me up the hospital herself, but now she’s just a spirit she’s no longer able to drive the patrol car.’
‘Right.’
He nods, then busies himself looking for his mobile phone, picking speculatively through the mounds of clothes like a bird through piles of raked leaves.
‘Mr Petersen? Have you been up to A&E before?’
He pauses momentarily and looks across at me.
‘Yes. About two months ago.’
‘Was it for something similar?’
‘No. It was – for something else.’
He carries on hunting for his phone.
I pause for him to tell me, but he seems reluctant.
‘What was wrong that time?’ I say.
‘I tied a boot lace round my organ, rather too tightly,’ he says, suddenly straightening up. ‘Ah! Here it is!’ He holds up the mobile phone, and gives it a triumphant little wiggle in the air.
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