“Pussy,” she said.
I downed the shot glass to raucous laughter.
“Location, A 5-6?”
“On scene. R4-7-7.”
“Nature of emergency, Ky,” Gregg pressed, standing at my shoulder, watching my screen like a hawk.
There were more people in the room. Delta 10 for one. The medical director for another.
Everyone was silent.
“Ambulance. A 5-6,” I said. “Nature of R4-7-7?”
“Patient has a machete. R25.”
“On it,” Gregg said, stepping back to his desk to call the cops.
“Injuries?” Delta 10 asked.
“Ambulance. A 5-6,” I said, feeling sweat trickle down my spine. “Are you hurt?”
There was no reply.
The good thing was, I told myself as I wiped my mouth and stood up from the toilet bowl, that I’d just puked out most of what I’d recently drunk.
I washed my mouth out with water from the tap and swerved my way down the hall to the lounge.
Mark met me as I entered.
“You OK, Ky?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, because it was expected.
But Mark was a fireman not an ambo.
“Come have a ciggie out on the deck,” he suggested.
I followed behind him feeling lost.
“This is Ambulance Communications,” Gregg said into his headset. “One of our trucks is in danger at a job in Devonport. We’re requesting urgent police backup.”
“Ambulance calls A 5-6,” I said over the radio. No other ambulances were making a sound.
No one was talking out there.
Not even A 5-6.
“I’m going to head in that direction,” Delta 10 advised.
“I’ll drop the job on your pager,” I said.
“Machete,” Gregg told the cops. “Two man crew. Uncertain of injuries.”
“Ambulance calls A 5-6,” I repeated and got nothing.
Mark inhaled and blew out a ring of smoke.
“Tough day, huh?” he said.
I said nothing, just shrugged.
“You wanna talk about it?”
I shook my head.
“He’ll be alright, Ky. You got him help before it went too far.”
“The patient had a machete,” I said.
“Shit,” was all the support Mark could give me.
“R25 is responding,” Gregg told me. “ETA four minutes.”
I nodded.
“Ambulance. A 5-6. R25 responding; ETA four minutes.”
Nothing.
“Do we have any other ambulances nearby?” Gregg asked.
“LSU 4-2 clearing North Shore Hospital.”
“Send them to a staging point at the corner of Fleet Street and Victoria.”
“Ambulance calls LSU 4-2.”
“LSU42. North Shore Hospital. Clear.”
“Priority One, LSU 4-2. Corner of Fleet and Victoria Streets, Devonport. Details on your pager.”
“LSU 4-2 copies. Are we backing up 5-6?”
“Affirmative. Details to follow.”
“Responding.”
The room spun lazily. Cathy was curled up in Mark’s arms. Tayla had left for home hours ago. The TV was on but muted.
My cell phone buzzed.
I pulled it out and had to blink to clear my vision; Sean’s text too small for my blurry eyes to manage.
Hey, hon. Just heard from Delta 10. Kevin is gonna be alright. They saved his arm.
I lowered the cell phone, turning the screen upside down, and stared at nothing.
“Was that Sean?” Mark asked in a whisper.
“Yeah. The ambo’s gonna be OK.”
“Thank fuck,” Cathy said, blearily.
I nodded.
“A 5-6 on priority! Officer down! Officer down!”
“Shit,” someone said.
“Is he in danger?” Gregg asked.
“Ambulance. A 5-6. Are you safe?”
“Negative, Comms. I am not safe. R25. R25.”
I closed my eyes.
Gregg’s hand landed on my shoulder and squeezed softly.
“Tell him to hang on,” he said.
“A 5-6,” I said, my throat dry. “R25 is almost there. Hang on, 5-6. Hang on.”
Silence.
And then, “I hear them, Comms. They’re here. R25 is on scene. R25 is here.”
I sat back in my chair and breathed through a tight throat.
“Good work, Kylee,” the medical director said.
“Nicely done, Ky,” Gregg agreed.
“Shit,” someone said.
I stared at the detritus of last night’s decompression session as it lay scattered over Cathy and Mark’s lounge room floor. Full ashtrays and empty beer bottles. The tacky residue of tequila shots. Sucked on lemon pieces discarded like broken promises.
And I wondered when my reactions had become so extreme; so uncontrolled.
10
And The Blood Came Down In Sheets Of Rain All Around Me
The birdbath was full and the birds were having a field day. I sat on my parents’ back deck, swinging on my father’s swing seat, watching their feathered wings fluttering as water fell all around them like sheer curtains or glass walls.
“You seem tired,” Dad said as he sat quietly at my side.
“Twelve hour shifts can be long,” I told him.
“Are you OK, honey?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Dad,” I told him.
“If you need to talk…”
“I don’t. It’s OK. I’m fine.”
He said nothing as we both watched the birds.
“Have you set a date yet, Kylee?” my mother asked.
She was in her pyjamas. It was half past four.
“Not yet, Mum,” I said, pulling out things from a shopping bag I’d just bought. “I got you this,” I said, showing her the bubble bath. “How about I run one for you?”
“You have to set a date, Kylee,” she said in a monotone.
“There’s no rush.”
“Kylee,” she said, “you’re not getting any younger.”
I lowered the bubble bath to the bench.
“Besides,” she added, oblivious to my feelings or reaction to her words. “Everyone is asking. You don’t want everyone to start talking about you, do you?”
“What if I told you, I’m not sure,” I whispered.
“Nonsense,” she said, suddenly sounding more awake than she’d been for days. “You won’t get a better catch than Sean.”
I looked down at the bubble bath and said nothing.
“Set a date,” my mother said, grabbing the bottle and heading toward the bathroom.
“You set a date,” Sharon said when she walked in.
“Thought it was about time,” I told her.
“I reckon,” she said, laughing. “Mum’s cock-a-hoop.”