In a
floral-patterned dress and flats appropriate to the summer, and with her hair
just this past hour cut and coloured, ache1 loops her arm through Brother Skunk’s, himself in
habitual 501s and a pale grey shirt featuring the Levi’s two-horse logo, as
they make their way through mid-morning, the Saturday slowly warming into
itself. They are heading for the local botanic gardens when above their own
carefree chatter comes a voice from the doorway of a tenement building, a loud
whisper audibly fraught with its urgency, at source of which a man of
indeterminate age, appearing at once both older and not, his voice itself
likewise definably ageless.
ache1: Do we what do we know what sorry?
Skunk: Does she need an ambulance?
cog: I think she will, yes. Yes.
Skunk tells ache1 to run to the phonebox.
shouting the address after her.
Alone, Skunk finds himself suddenly terrified, and borne only on adrenaline follows the back of the man’s shabby grey cardigan into the building’s dark entrance, up its stairwell to the first floor, with simultaneous both no and every sense of self-preservation, nerves roaring with fear, understanding but unable to quite believe he is in motion, the while the man informing him how his wife had fallen, the injury sustained.
As his exit route Brother Skunk tries to memorise every door through which they pass, consciously and un-necessarily manoeuvring himself to keep unblocked his access to each. The discrepancy between that bright and fresh outdoors and this airless vacuum impacts upon him like a sucker punch, being swallowed as he is by the stench of fried food, of pets and undried laundry, all as if to render visible the very air itself, stepping now into an open room, a combination kitchen and lounge, colours which would elsewhere appear vivid register here dull, their any saturation in retreat, collapsed back upon itself. Through the cheap furniture and fixtures stumbles a large middle-aged woman, off-balance, her head wrapped in a faded pale blue towel. Forgetting his own safety Brother Skunk immediately goes to her, takes her arm to sit her down upon a kitchen chair; the side of her face is badly swollen, discoloured, and he can see some little blood dried into the folds of her neck, more on the collar of her shapeless patterned dress.
Her partner sustains his residual chatter of their need for assistance, she sits in her quiet dignity, not unused to this.
From the stairwell Skunk hears ache1 shouting his name.
hoping for her to follow his voice, his relief as she joins them with a police officer found nearby.
cog: They’re on their way.
the police himself too going straight to the seated woman, lightly touching her arm, reassuringly to explain the ambulance is coming, and for her to just hold on.
cog: What’s your name?
The man tells him it’s Linda.
cog: Linda have you been drinking this morning? Linda?
looking directly into her eyes
cog: Linda look at me, have you been drinking this morning?
This time the man does not answer for her, nor does the police ask him.
cog: Have you taken any pills this morning Linda?
met with her unbroken silence, then her pawing at the table for a pair of ear-rings she moves to insert.
cog: Just, don’t do that Linda, just set them aside, that’s it
gently releasing each from out her slowly moving fingers, setting them down beyond her reach.
She fidgets now to button her blouse unaware it is already fully fastened, before attempting to collect up a plastic hairbrush, all part of some sudden and automatic reaction to unexpected company, the imperative to somehow redeem her appearance with the others subject to a nervy small-talk until minutes later they hear the paramedics enter the stairwell, Skunk running out to marshal them through.
While disburdening themselves of their various kit both speak quietly to the woman, one gingerly lifting away from her head the towel, the thin inner folds of which are soaked in blood, her hair beneath thickly matted and coloured with it.
Their subsequent attempt to dress her wound she bats away. Too that she accompany them to the hospital she refuses by shaking her head, blinking at the attendant pain, her partner’s witless and revelatory interjection
cog: She’s always like this.
drawing the attention of all present.
cog: Linda if you don’t want to come with us that’s okay, we can’t force you, but we will need you to sign a form; it’s called a patient refusal form, can you do that for us?
Nodding, wincing, her empty hands begin to move, stop.
A clipboard, the pen gently placed within the outline of her hand, now moving again, and at almost the exact same time Brother Skunk and ache1 both notice the breadboard hidden alongside the greasy cooker, its thick wooden edge spattered with blood. Arriving simultaneous at their same conclusion, they remonstrate with police and both paramedics, these latter already packing their apparatus back into its cases.
cog (looking across, engaging the police): Legally...
sighs
cog: ..we have no
Skunk: Yeah, okay, even if she’s
glancing across at the couple, whispering
Skunk: even if she’s not in her right mind. Jesus Christ. Even if, can you really trust her to be making that decision for herself?
ache1: Can you trust him?
ache1: What can you do, though? What can you do? I mean, if she doesn’t wan-
ache1 (shocked): Skunk you’ve her blood on your shirt.
ache1 only now realising the woman’s blood on her fingers, unsure how it came to be there.
cog: You okay pal? You’re you’re, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.
Skunk pulls out his wallet, no cash, nothing in his pockets,
cog: On me, what’ll you have...
indicating the optics
cog: ..the bar is your oyster.
Skunk (sighing): Thank you. Thank you, ehm, Jack Daniel’s no ice no mixer.
cog: It’s yours.
reaching down for a glass.
Skunk (tentative, indicating ache1‘s abandoned jacket alongside): Two?
Skunk: Each?
ache1: Do we what do we know what sorry?
Skunk: Does she need an ambulance?
cog: I think she will, yes. Yes.
Skunk tells ache1 to run to the phonebox.
shouting the address after her.
Alone, Skunk finds himself suddenly terrified, and borne only on adrenaline follows the back of the man’s shabby grey cardigan into the building’s dark entrance, up its stairwell to the first floor, with simultaneous both no and every sense of self-preservation, nerves roaring with fear, understanding but unable to quite believe he is in motion, the while the man informing him how his wife had fallen, the injury sustained.
As his exit route Brother Skunk tries to memorise every door through which they pass, consciously and un-necessarily manoeuvring himself to keep unblocked his access to each. The discrepancy between that bright and fresh outdoors and this airless vacuum impacts upon him like a sucker punch, being swallowed as he is by the stench of fried food, of pets and undried laundry, all as if to render visible the very air itself, stepping now into an open room, a combination kitchen and lounge, colours which would elsewhere appear vivid register here dull, their any saturation in retreat, collapsed back upon itself. Through the cheap furniture and fixtures stumbles a large middle-aged woman, off-balance, her head wrapped in a faded pale blue towel. Forgetting his own safety Brother Skunk immediately goes to her, takes her arm to sit her down upon a kitchen chair; the side of her face is badly swollen, discoloured, and he can see some little blood dried into the folds of her neck, more on the collar of her shapeless patterned dress.
Her partner sustains his residual chatter of their need for assistance, she sits in her quiet dignity, not unused to this.
From the stairwell Skunk hears ache1 shouting his name.
hoping for her to follow his voice, his relief as she joins them with a police officer found nearby.
cog: They’re on their way.
the police himself too going straight to the seated woman, lightly touching her arm, reassuringly to explain the ambulance is coming, and for her to just hold on.
cog: What’s your name?
The man tells him it’s Linda.
cog: Linda have you been drinking this morning? Linda?
looking directly into her eyes
cog: Linda look at me, have you been drinking this morning?
This time the man does not answer for her, nor does the police ask him.
cog: Have you taken any pills this morning Linda?
met with her unbroken silence, then her pawing at the table for a pair of ear-rings she moves to insert.
cog: Just, don’t do that Linda, just set them aside, that’s it
gently releasing each from out her slowly moving fingers, setting them down beyond her reach.
She fidgets now to button her blouse unaware it is already fully fastened, before attempting to collect up a plastic hairbrush, all part of some sudden and automatic reaction to unexpected company, the imperative to somehow redeem her appearance with the others subject to a nervy small-talk until minutes later they hear the paramedics enter the stairwell, Skunk running out to marshal them through.
While disburdening themselves of their various kit both speak quietly to the woman, one gingerly lifting away from her head the towel, the thin inner folds of which are soaked in blood, her hair beneath thickly matted and coloured with it.
Their subsequent attempt to dress her wound she bats away. Too that she accompany them to the hospital she refuses by shaking her head, blinking at the attendant pain, her partner’s witless and revelatory interjection
cog: She’s always like this.
drawing the attention of all present.
cog: Linda if you don’t want to come with us that’s okay, we can’t force you, but we will need you to sign a form; it’s called a patient refusal form, can you do that for us?
Nodding, wincing, her empty hands begin to move, stop.
A clipboard, the pen gently placed within the outline of her hand, now moving again, and at almost the exact same time Brother Skunk and ache1 both notice the breadboard hidden alongside the greasy cooker, its thick wooden edge spattered with blood. Arriving simultaneous at their same conclusion, they remonstrate with police and both paramedics, these latter already packing their apparatus back into its cases.
cog (looking across, engaging the police): Legally...
sighs
cog: ..we have no
Skunk: Yeah, okay, even if she’s
glancing across at the couple, whispering
Skunk: even if she’s not in her right mind. Jesus Christ. Even if, can you really trust her to be making that decision for herself?
ache1: Can you trust him?
ache1: What can you do, though? What can you do? I mean, if she doesn’t wan-
ache1 (shocked): Skunk you’ve her blood on your shirt.
ache1 only now realising the woman’s blood on her fingers, unsure how it came to be there.
cog: You okay pal? You’re you’re, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.
Skunk pulls out his wallet, no cash, nothing in his pockets,
cog: On me, what’ll you have...
indicating the optics
cog: ..the bar is your oyster.
Skunk (sighing): Thank you. Thank you, ehm, Jack Daniel’s no ice no mixer.
cog: It’s yours.
reaching down for a glass.
Skunk (tentative, indicating ache1‘s abandoned jacket alongside): Two?
Skunk: Each?
