Artwork by Andreea Paduraru
The mess of a person freaks him out, panic grips his heart. What happened to him? Is he dying? Is he just some drunk like the tramp? Above all he is a stranger and on the streets, you never let people enter your consciousness, the bubble of anonymity as we move through the city. People who try to enter that bubble are invariably after something and it’s never to your benefit. Now he feels anger, that some idiot has put him in this position. Someone who’s drank too much or filled his system with too many illegal substances.
He takes a breath, his chest burns with the strain and his limbs seem tight and sluggish, his mind still races a mile a minute. Attackers, an animal part of his subconscious chimes in, and suddenly he is alert, wide-eyed and looking around. The street is empty. There is a main road not far away and the urban din of cars, bass-heavy music and people, a constant companion. There is a distant click, click, click of someone walking away in healed shoes, though he can’t see the person. A glance left and right, he is alone apart from the sleeping tramp and the meek-looking dog at his side.
“Fuck-sake,” he grumbles and kneeling on the wet pavement pushes the floundering human onto its back, then tries to remember the recovery position, rolling the body onto its side, head resting on arm and leg bent to stop him from rolling back. It will do. Check the air passageway, his memory nudges. He feels revulsion at the idea of putting his fingers near the drooling orifice that is the man’s mouth, but his arms and fingers seem to work of their own accord. Looking down into the pink pit of the throat there is nothing to stop the breath from going in and out. His saliva-covered fingers begin to cool. The man’s teeth are yellowed by coffee and cigarettes, his molars a mass of mercury filling. Two of the front teeth are freshly chipped and one canine is bent backwards, blood mixing with white frothy saliva. Aids, nudges his subconscious, the stranger’s blood is like creeping poison that could seep through his skin and waste him to one of the husks you see on television. His hands shoot back, wiping them on his already wet clothing, his rational mind battling to dispel the sense of corruption on his hands.
A shadow looms overhead and the wind picks up. It feels icy, his running clothes are wet, it is like being grasped by a giant cold hand and the rain begins to spit again. Even the city seems eerily quieter, like something is about to happen. The lump on the floor gurgles and tries to roll out of the position, but it gives up just as quickly. Call an ambulance, comes the logical thought. But that makes him responsible, to stay until they arrive, to stay and talk to the police. He can’t be bothered, he has things to do, the man doesn’t seem worth it. How many other people have just walked on?
They could even think he is something to do with it, that he has assaulted him. His rational mind dismisses this. What if the man dies before they get here? Manslaughter. He had put him into a recovery position, what if that was wrong? The sense of self-doubt now floods his heart. He could be arrested and locked up, even just for a while or the man’s relatives could sue. People will do anything for money, especially when there is a whiff of fault.
Fat rain now washes his face and his limbs are appendages of fatigue and cold. As before, his hand moves of their own accord, pulling the mobile out of his pocket and the headphone cable from the port, freeing the device to play music aloud. He kills the sound and dials nine, nine, nine on the touch pad.
Time stands still for the next 21 minutes and every second by the roadside is painful. He is soaked through, cold and sick of the distant voice on his mobile reading first aid instructions from a computer, keeping him in the wet. Other people have come. They hurry through the rain past him like nothing is happening. Some pay minimal attention, just to hurry on before they feel obliged to help. Worst of all though is the growing audience across the road, sticking to the cover from the rain and the safe distance of un-involvement.
A short female PC is the first on the scene and she immediately takes charge of the situation, checking the still groaning body and rolling through the routine questions. It is hard to make out the woman under the body armour and the hat. She is also entirely matter-of-fact. At the back of his mind he questions whether he is being sexist in any way.
He doesn’t keep track of the time for the next bit. The ambulance arrives and a whirlwind of medical activity surrounds the man on the floor. In a head brace and strapped to a body board he seems to gain some kind of dignity. The man is a victim and others are caring for him now. The police take a statement along with his details. Since he doesn’t know anything it’s over fairly quickly.
“Thanks”, the female police officer says unexpectedly as she gets back into the police car.
“Oh, no problem”, he replies without thought. She smiles and shuts the door. The rain has come and gone several times. He finds his phone in his hand again: ‘Pub, twenty minutes!’ his thumb taps out in seconds and the message is gone.
Patrick O’Brien
