CHAPTER 35
I was still reliving that break a month later, realising that we had a high bar indeed for good food now, thanks to Madame Boucher, and just as high a set of standards for fantastic places to stay. We had settled on one of those other ideas for our post-nuptial break, flying to Rome for a few days and then taking the train to Florence, Venice, Austria and Germany, flying home from Cologne, where there was apparently a chocolate museum. I joked that it would be an excuse to get her into her ‘barmaid’ uniform, and see if she could yodel. She had slapped my arse and told me to behave, or rather only misbehave in ways she could enjoy.

“Yeah, well, wear that outfit, and we can both enjoy, hmmmm?”

Work continued, though. Another evening of lurking in Cardiff, and Tom was on full throttle with his mickey-taking.

“So how many bridesmaids, then? And is that Elf one of them? And Marlene?”

“Na, she’s Matron of Honour, obviously, and I’ve got Elf down as flower girl, as she would be a natural. Can’t you be serious for once?”

“This is me being serious, Jen. You not realise how you’ve been floating for the last few months?”

“Floating as in losing the plot or floating as in being happy?”

“The second, of course. You are so bloody obviously smitten, love”

“Well, anyone would be, given who she is, aye?”

“What are you doing about, you know, visas and shit? And, more to the point, how the hell with does something like this do you do Best Man or whatever? You have to realise that as your token absolutely straight man friend, I am completely lost here”

“Um, I might upset you there”

“In what way?”

“I was looking at Lil for that”

His voice softened, a gentle smile coming out for me.

“And you were worried I’d feel left out? That is so you, Jen, too soft for words, you are. And that’s not a complaint, not in any way. Where are you having it, anyway?”

“Oh, Registry Office, of course. Chapel’s a bit off the cards”

“And your parents?”

“Er, not a snowball’s chance in hell, I’d say. Men are men, women are women, et bloody cetera”

He gave me a searching look just then, but never mind; he clearly got my point.

We parked up outside Heidi’s for a lurk, loiter and nibble, and of course Tom was still going with the teasing. I held up a hand, in a no doubt vain attempt to shut him up.

“She’s not working tonight, okay? I’m still going in, though”

“Oh?”

“Cadging hot water, as usual, okay?”

I slipped out of the wagon, flasks in hand, and spent more time than expected talking to bar staff who all seemed to need to congratulate me, or give a hug, or both, and by the time I got back to the ambulance, Tom was already into his sandwiches.

“What’s Connie done for you tonight, butt?”

“Vintage cheddar and home-made pickle. And a couple of scotch eggs”

“Home-made?”

“No. Tesco”

“Standards are slipping, Thomas”

“Well, what has your missus made for you, then?”

“Angela does not live with me, so she does not make my meals, you sexist bastard”

“She spends enough time there, Jen, at your place”

I found my mood changing at that sally.

“Bit of a sore point, that. I wish she could, but the landlord’s a bit funny about extra tenants. We’re looking at buying, anyway. Just got to get the right mortgage deal, and that does depend on visa stuff. Then we need to find the right house. Working on it, but so much depends on what the Home Office says. Ange is always up the Newport Road place trying to get a firm answer. Apparently, it’s what they call ‘change of purpose’, but not the nasty kind”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, suppose she had come here with firm marriage plans, but applied for a working holiday visa, that would be fraud or something”

“But she didn’t, Jen. She came here fair and square and, well, people are allowed to fall in love”

He left it for a few seconds before adding, “And you do love her, and she you. And that wasn’t a question. The whole bloody world can see that. Anyway, what are you munching?”

“Salami, Emmental and cucumber”

“Swap some?”

“Yeah, okay”

“And Connie packed me a couple of chunky Kit-Kats, with strict instructions I was not to eat both”

“Go on then!”

We munched away in quiet contentment, only the odd bit of anodyne radio traffic breaking our near silence, as neither of us felt the need to break a comfortable, companionable silence. When he did break it, he was actually being more than nice.

“What are the honeymoon plans, Jen?”

“Ah, we had all sorts of ideas for our holiday, the French one, and we are rehashing one of the others”

“Which is?”

“Cheap flight to Rome, spend a few days doing the bucket list stuff there, ‘101 places to see before you die’, that shit. Then Florence, Venice, up to Innsbruck, then over to a German town we spotted, on a little island in a big lake. Up the Rhine to Cologne, fly home. And I’m looking at a surprise for her”

“Yeah?”

“Looking at one of those river cruise things. We’ll be going everywhere else by train, so I thought I’d see if I could book a cruise down the Rhine for that last bit”

He smiled, still gently.

“You do love her. I was right”

There was a series of clicks, and then, “Foxtrot One Five, Central”

Tom picked up the mike.

“Go ahead, Central”

“What’s your location, Tom?”

“Stationary, bottom end of Hayes”

“RTC Splott, junction of Walker Road and Adeline Street. Local police in attendance. One casualty”

There was a pause, before our despatcher came back.

“Sounds like a hit and run, Tom. Traffic are inbound. On the hurry-up, please”

He was as rapid as ever, and we were quickly off Canal Street, then carefully through a red light and onto Bute Street for the left into Herbert and then Tyndall. He took no prisoners on the two roundabouts, and as we approached the slight bend on Walker Road, I could see the blues splashing off the buildings opposite.

One local panda was there, along with a couple of PCSOs looking very out of their comfort zone, and I could already see the black lines of rubber that went along the road and then across the kerb and onto the footway, as well as a pair of feet where someone lay behind one of the PCSOS, who was holding up their waterproof jacket as if unsure whether to cover a corpse or warm a casualty.

Work head on, woman. This looked like a real piece of shit; as I approached, one of the PCSOs was repeatedly saying “Can you hear me, love?”, so I tried to tune that out till I was on my knees, the Big Green Bag open, getting a line in to try and compensate for what was clearly serious blood loss, while distantly registering the state of the lower legs (fucked) and checking the vital signs. It wasn’t till I wiped some of the blood away from the casualty’s face that I recognised my lover.

“Tom! Need you here now!”

He was at my shoulder, with a muttered “Shit!”, immediately followed by “You okay?”

“I need to be, don’t I? Watch me, butt. Make sure I’m getting it right. Got to get this right. Can’t…”

Work head on, woman, bloody work head. You’re the one on the spot. Do your job. Do it for Ange.

I dimly registered the Traffic boys working their way through witnesses, but I ignored them right until Sergeant Gould was at my shoulder, gently asking if I had found any ID on the casualty, obviously for potential next-of-kin door-knocking, but I was working, work head fully on, trust the training, Jen, so I didn’t tell him to fuck off, until we at least had the blood pressure back up from sweet fuck all and a backboard ready for lifting into the wagon.

Two of our regular Traffic boys were there to help us lift her, still unresponsive, pulse erratic, and I secured her to an oxygen line once I’d rolled her off the rear lift. Tom whispered something to Dai Gould, who mouthed ‘Fuck!’, and then we were off, me taking the role of calling in the long, long, fucking endless list of injuries so that they could be as ready as possible at Casualty.

There were two other ambulances queuing when we arrived, but Tom simply drove past them, and from the way the other crews reacted, they fully understood why. A trauma team was waiting as we pushed her in and I chanted the litany of numbers followed by physical description.

“Angela Meads, twenty-seven year old female, New Zealand national, next of kin informed. Struck by car, multiple lower limb fractures, possibly also pelvis. Concerned about spinal displacement. Probable skull fracture. Left pupil responsive, right pupil dilated, unresponsive. Rigidity to abdomen suggests possible internal bleeding. Casualty has been unconscious since incident”

We were almost trotting down a corridor now, heading for ICU’s trauma room, and one of the doctors turned to me and asked, “Where’s next of kin now?”

“Fucking right here beside you in this uniform!”

There was a tug at my arm, Tom pulling me back with surprising strength, calling out to the vanishing team, “They’re engaged, Doctor!”

The young woman concerned dipped her head and ran back to us to squeeze my shoulder.

“Sorry; didn’t realise. We’re on it, okay?”

She was gone again, sprinting to catch up with the rest of them, and I just stood watching them go, feeling utterly and completely useless.

Once again, Tom tugged me away, and I let him pull me towards the entrance to Casualty.

“Wait here. Going to park up and let Central know the score, and then it’s sit down with a brew”

“And do fucking what?”

“The only thing that’s left, Jen. We wait, and if you want to, we pray”

I didn’t pray, exactly, religion not being my thing, but it was as close as made no real difference. We sat through three rounds of tea, a crap slice of flan or quiche or whatever, and no news until Dai Gould came into the canteen, hat in hand.

“Tom, Jen… I know it’s a cliché, but I really can’t find any words”

I just nodded, as Tom asked the more obvious questions. Dai was more than a little flippant, which I worked out was his own stress flag.

“What we call a pool car, we thought. One of the houses on Walker Road has one of those doorbell cameras; caught the car just before the… Just before. Two cars, apparently racing. We managed to backtrack their route, and think we have them at a petrol station earlier. Traffic are going round to see if the place got any CCTV of them”

“Car registration?”

“Pool cars, most likely, Tom. Not registered, taxed, whatever. Scrote community runabout, no registered keeper. How are you doing, Jen?”

I looked him in the eye, finally.

“Not well, Sergeant. Not well”

Tom’s hand was on mine, yet again.

“You did well, Jen. By the book”

“I had a choice?”

“You could have folded, love. You didn’t. She needs that strength. We’re here for her as well, whatever she needs. Here for you”

Dai mumbled something about kicking some arse, made his apologies by way of a crushing hug, and was gone to move and shake bloody video recordings as I went to collect another round of tea.

Four hours later, wondering if I should head on down to the ICU and camp outside, the canteen door opened to admit our young woman doctor. She came to our table, pulling a chair with her, and then, oh god.

“I’m really sorry, Jennifer…”