CHAPTER 17
I made sure I got our bosses to let me go to court for that one. I wasn’t needed as a witness, but the sight of a paramedic, in working rig, with a shiner, might help gee up the Bench.

Affray, assault, ABH times three, assault on an emergency worker, oh, and possession of a Class B drug, amphetamine to be precise; guilty, to all. He at least had the good grace to mouth ‘Sorry’ at me from the dock. Unfortunately for him, he was already on licence for burglary, so off he went to Cardiff for an en-suite holiday at someone else’s expense, and I got two hundred pounds in compensation.

My next trip to the Smugglers was a trial in its own right, as people I knew, or was steadily coming to know, passed comments on my bruise. Most were supportive, but Marlene simply had to make a series of comments about making up both sides, and toning the eye shadow down a touch, the bitch.

Things changed the next week, as Angie was off to work through her paramedic courses and I was given a new partner, Tom. He was shorter than me, which, to be honest, isn’t uncommon given my buggered-up body, but he had a sense of humour that clicked with mine. We settled into another week of NHS Taxi work, and I grilled him about his domestics once we had got the inevitable bloody explanation of PCOS out of the way. He was a full paramedic rather than an EMT, and not only accepted my dislike of driving, but insisted, as he put it, on “Taking conTROL!”. He even added a ‘mwahaha’ cackle after those words. Suited me

“Where are you from, mate?”

“Splott boy, me. Wife’s from, er, Newport. And no, you don’t need to ask If I would have preferred to live near the in-laws. It is indeed a hole of a place”

Given what I knew about Splott, I held my tongue. I did notice, though, that Tom preferred setting our lurking point more to the West of the city.

“What’s your missus called, butt?”

“Connie”

“Any kids?”

“Er… no. Issues, health-wise. Can’t have kids. Wouldn’t mind, but we sort of sublimated it. Got dogs instead”

“How many?”

“Four. Mixture of breeds…”

He was off, clearly besotted with both hounds and wife, and I was left feeling more than a touch of envy.

“How about you, Jen?”

“Ah, completely single. Still in the hostel by St Dai’s”

“Jen?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s no problem. I think most of the station knows which bus you’re on”

He suddenly laughed out loud.

“Look at it this way: neither of us fancies men, we both fancy women, so where’s the argument?”

Fair point, fairly made.

We shared our first nasty a couple of days later, and it was at the back of the Greyfriars multi-story. The weather had been very Welsh for weeks, with non-stop rain and a nasty chill in the air, and at seven o’clock one morning, we were tasked with something I really grew to hate.

Good old Sergeant Gould was on scene, along with the duty Doc, and our job, in essence, was a simple one. Drag away soaked brown mulch that was once a pile of cardboard boxes, unwrap the pallet film, wipe off as much of the grey mulch that had once been newspapers, and bag the body. No ligature marks, no needle tracks, no works of any kind, just cold, damp, hunger and fucking neglect. And two or three hundred yards away, they were selling posh coffees and fancy cakes.

It was a job I became far too familiar with, and it was so widespread, including the odd working girl out at Splott, but there were little centres of despair, and too many of them were right behind the places full of people with money to spare.

That was my first victim of that despair, and that night I cried myself to sleep in my little bed in my tiny room, and wished I had a Connie, or anyone, just to hold me and tell me it would get better.

I stayed with Tom for the next few shift changes, and then, after a brief chat, we applied to stay as a settled crew. It was working well, we each seemed to lack any rough edges that might need a skim, and we did indeed share that sense of humour. One quiet afternoon, returning from a hospital transfer run, I mentioned the hairy ginge at the karaoke, and Tom laughed happily.

“The Bard of Harvard! Professor Lehrer! I kneel humbly in awe of his wondrous talent”

“You’re a fan, then?”

“God, aye! Did your mate just do ‘Poisoning Pigeons’?”

“I don’t know him, but yes. I suppose it’s the only song on that disc”

“Yeah, it’s his most famous, I would say. He wrote one about Newport, you know”

“No!”

“No; not really, but it could have been. ‘My Home Town’, it’s called”

Tom started to sing, in a surprisingly high tenor, nothing at all like ‘Tiger’. The song was, well, it was funny, in a really sick way.

“The guy that took a knife
And monogrammed his wife
Then dropped her in the pond and watched her drown…”

I don’t know why, especially given that scene by the rubbish skips, but I found myself roaring with laughter. Dark humour for a dark job. Tom was partway through another song, about holding someone’s hand, when our radio came to life.

“What’s your position at the moment, Tom?”

“Neath Tesco’s”

“Make to the A4138 Pontarddulais Road, south of M4 junction. Multi-vehicle RTC, one known fatality, at least one person trapped in vehicle, multiple other injuries. Police on scene, fire on the way. Quick as you can, please. This is a real all hands to the pumps shout”

I barely had time to bin my coffee before I was struggling to get my belt clipped as I discovered exactly how quick Tom could drive our wagon. We were full-on lights and sounds, including several horn blasts at the usual collection of deaf-blind idiots who had somehow managed to gain a driving licence. We only really slowed as we hit the curve of the exit slip, but we passed a police car coming from the other direction.

They were Dyfed-Powys, well out of area. I was really starting to worry now, but we were just arriving at the wreckage, and it was indeed a mess. Another crew was already on scene, helping a woman into the back of their wagon, but she was struggling and shit, she could scream.

The sole copper on scene was a motorcyclist, and he talked us through the immediately urgent stuff, before saying, “I need to sit down. Sorry. But fatality… over there”

He settled on a barrier support pillar as soon as he had briefed the newly-arrived South Wales traffic unit, pulled off his lid, and to my shock started to sob. Tom called me over to where the lad had pointed, and oh fuck.

I didn’t need to ask whose he had been, for I knew she was the one alternately sobbing and screaming in the other ambulance, but what was left of the baby was still strapped into a high-priced child seat. Its passage through the windscreen had not been kind, nor had the number of times it had clearly rolled before ending up in the middle of the carriageway, upright. I grabbed a blanket from our wagon to cover the little boy, for he was in blue, as well as red, and tried to pull my work head on. Multiple people with minor injuries: ignore. Trapped driver with neck pain: ours. I grabbed a brace as Tom checked his stats, and then there was a fire engine and a swarm of coppers, clearing the way for the hydraulic cutter that would get the roof off the Transit.

“What we got, Tom?”

“Not now, Jen”

I understood immediately: don’t want to scare the patient. Tom put his right hand on what was left of the steering wheel and mimed a push. Ah. I stepped away from the van and collared the leading cop and fireman.

“Colleagues worried about spinal injuries to the van driver, but doesn’t want to alarm him. Looking at the damage to the vehicle, there may also be abdominal injuries, probably thoracic. Hang on, my phone…”

Tom was texting.

Lung, ribs pnmthx. Probable lumber displacement. Necks just whiplash, probs. Blood on lips.

“Right, gents. Tom thinks he has a punctured lung, possible displaced spine, and he’s spitting blood. Can we have stuff cut away as quick as possible, and can somebody help me with a few bits of kit? I’d like to get a specialist team out asap; I’ll be thirty seconds”

I passed a willing copper an oxy tank and mask for delivery to Tom, and cranked up the radio.

“What you got, Jen?”

“One dead infant, on scene. Multiple blunt and sharp trauma; windscreen. One trapped driver, pneumothorax, probable other thoracic injuries, and believe spine displaced somewhere near L3. Could we have the trauma team as soon as possible, along with any suitable lifting gear? Subject is in the driving seat of a Ford Transit, so not at normal level, and I do not want to risk moving him without specialist kit”

“Understood, Jen. Trauma team tasked with air ambulance”

“Thanks. I’ll see Tom’s sorted, then start triage. There are a lot of minor injuries, but you know some nasties can hide well”

I set up some analgaesia for our van driver, but it was difficult to find a vein as his bloody BP was dropping, so I did a canular and double-loaded it with plasma as well as the painkiller, then moved away as the Brigade started to disassemble the van around Malcolm, the driver, and Tom. Come on, chopper.

The coppers were busy questioning the other drivers, so I drifted through the crowd, sorting the healthy from the not-quite-sure and the “You’ll need to get that treated” cases, when one of them suddenly grabbed his left arm and grunted, slumping to the ground.

“OFFICER!”

A WPC trotted across, and I pointed at another ambulance that had just arrived, thank god.

“Grab them for me, please. Heart attack”

I got the man as well-positioned as I could solo, and did a rapid handover to the other crew.

“Left arm pain, sudden chest pain. Suspect coronary. I have no other history”

“Budge over, love. You’ve already got your hands full. Helicopter’s just arriving”

I rose, grateful, and left them to it. The woman’s screaming died down as what was probably a sedative took hold.

Once the Super Team was in place, Tom was able to relax a little, but still stayed with Malcolm until he had been secured for travel, that friendly face we all need when the shit-gates open on us. The man was transferred to the air ambulance, it buggered off, my new friends bluelit the heart attack to Swansea, and I finally got a chance to breathe as a variety of low loaders and tow trucks appeared to start clearing the wreckage. Our bike bobby was gone, apparently spirited away in the back of a police car, his bike leaving on one of the low loaders.

I was actually impressed, to be honest. He had obviously turned up solo, secured the scene, called out the rest of us and managed the crowd until help arrived, when he had done a decent handover. Only then had he broken, and for fuck’s sake, wouldn’t that have broken anyone with a soul?

I realised he would be crying himself to sleep that night, and he wasn’t the only one.