Ken McClure - Trauma

It was unlikely that McKirrop would recover from his injuries and, even if he did, society would not be finished with him for some time to come. Bella’s death had to be accounted for.

The ambulance slowed and turned sharply to the right; they had arrived at the Infirmary. Almost before the vehicle had come to a halt, the rear doors were flung open and McKirrop’s stretcher was slid out on to an Accident and Emergency trolley to be taken away indoors. The paramedic who had sat with McKirrop throughout the journey reeled off facts and figures to the A&E team as they disappeared inside leaving Lafferty feeling anonymous and alone.

The driver of the ambulance closed up the doors of the vehicle and said, “He’s still hanging on then.”

Lafferty nodded.

“Sometimes it’s bloody amazing how people can cling on to life,” said the man.

“Bloody,” agreed Lafferty as he started to walk towards the doors of A&E.

The receptionist affected a smile when she saw Lafferty’s collar; she seemed oblivious to the state of the rest of his clothes. “How can I help you, Father?” she asked.

“The man who has just been brought in, his name. His name is John McKirrop. He has no fixed abode. I’d like to wait and hear how he is, if that’s all right.”

“Perfectly all right, Father. If you’d like to take a seat through there, I’m sure one of the doctors will speak to you soon.”

Lafferty was joined within minutes by two of the policeman who had been down on the canal bank. When they had finished telling the receptionist their business, they came over to speak to Lafferty.

“I didn’t realise we had a police escort,” said Lafferty.

“We drew the short straw,” said one of them. “We’ve to wait to see if he comes round.”

Lafferty drew in breath. “Could be some time.”

“That’s what we’re afraid of,” replied the policeman. “We spend half our lives waiting around hospitals and court rooms. Did you know this man, Father?”

Lafferty shrugged and said, “Not exactly but I thought I’d wait and hear how he is. It’s a terrible thing to have no one care about you.”

“Strikes me, if he’d just die it would save us all a lot of trouble,” said the second policeman. “If a couple of wasters decide to do each other in, it’s fine by me- and anyone else with any common sense.”

“Kevin’s a bit touchy about having his leave cancelled,” explained the first policeman with a sensitivity that obviously wasn’t shared by his colleague.

“Really,” answered Lafferty drily.

“Well, what’s the point?” ‘Kevin’ grumbled on. “All this time, trouble and expense over some drunken sod who, when he leaves here, will get smashed out of his mind and do the same thing all over again or worse next time. What’s the point?”

Lafferty’s philosophical-roller coaster started out on a downward slope again.

As time went on, the policeman drifted away from Lafferty as they all ran out of things to say to each other. The hospital had segregated waiting areas for patients and their relatives. The policeman had access to both being part of the scenery in a large A&E department. But Lafferty felt obliged to remain with the relatives, not wishing to get in the way of the medical staff and knowing that there was very little he could do in a practical way. He tried reading one of the old magazines that were supplied on a table by the door, but the lighting was so poor in the room that he gave up as he felt a headache threaten.

There were several other people waiting in the room. A mother and daughter who huddled together for comfort and kept up a constant whisper of reassurance to each other, creating their own private island in a sea of adversity. There were two teenagers who drank from cans of Cola from the drinks machine in the hallway. They didn’t say much to each other and constantly flicked through the pages of magazines without apparently reading anything. An elderly man in a raincoat sat with his hands in his pockets staring at the floor as if deep in thought. A group of four people, three men and a woman, who looked as if they came from the rougher side of town, kept muttering to each other about ‘getting their story straight’. One man did most of the talking. He was in his forties and wore a light blue shell suit with yellow diamonds on the sleeves and sides of the trousers. His black hair was slicked back like a rock star of the fifties and his teeth had several gaps in the front. On his feet, he had a pair of white trainers with fluorescent green laces.

The man got off his seat to kneel down in front of the other three and lecture them with the aid of a nicotine stained index finger. Lafferty heard him say in a stage whisper, “If we all tell the same story there’s nothing they can do. Nothing. We’ve just got to stick together. Right?” The two men nodded but the woman looked frightened and doubtful. Lafferty reckoned that she was probably no older than thirty, but the lankness of her hair and the sallowness of her complexion made her look much older. He sometimes wondered why no research had been done on poverty-induced aging. In his experience half the women living in the tower block flats suffered from it. So many beautiful brides became hollow-cheeked hags by the time they were thirty. “Right?” the man repeated for the woman’s benefit. She nodded nervously and didn’t argue.

The man looked up and caught Lafferty looking at him. He gave a slight smile and pretended to look past him before sitting back down again in his seat. Occasionally he would glance over his shoulder to see if he was still being watched. Lafferty did not attract any smiles or nods from the others — not that he sensed any hostility, just the feeling that his collar was out of place. Those present did not expect him to be waiting there like an ordinary member of the public. He was part of the establishment. He should be ‘doing’ not ‘waiting’.

A nurse appeared in the doorway and looked down at the clip-board she held in her hand. “Mrs Simmonds?” she inquired.

The mother and daughter duo responded and the nurse approached them with some news. When she’d finished, Lafferty saw the mother break into tears, her shoulders silently heaving. He got up and walked towards them. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked the daughter quietly.

“No, thank you,” replied the daughter sharply. She wrapped her arm further round her mother as if shielding her from Lafferty.

Lafferty retired gracefully and sat down again. But his head felt as though it was full of broken glass.

An Indian doctor came into the room, white coat flapping open and stethoscope protruding from his right-hand pocket. He looked around, saw Lafferty and came towards him. He exuded a faint aura of sweat. “I understand you are waiting for news of McKirrop,” he said.

Lafferty noted the absence of any ‘mister’. Society was putting ‘McKirrop’ back in his place already. “Yes,” he replied. “How is he?”

“Not so good, I’m afraid. It’s pretty amazing he survived at all after that kind of head wound. He’s stable for the moment and we’ll be transferring him to the Head Trauma Unit as soon as he can be moved. But as for when he might, if at all, regain consciousness, that’s in the lap of the gods, I’m afraid.”

Lafferty wanted to ask, “Yours or mine?” but didn’t. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, “I’ll phone in the morning if that’s all right?”

“Of course.”

As he prepared to leave, Lafferty saw one of the policemen at the tea vending machine and stopped to speak to him. “You’re staying?” he asked.

“Yep,” answered the policeman with an air of resignation. “Once they have him on one of these machines we could be here for the next six months, on the off chance he’ll come round.”