Liz Trenow - The Poppy Factory

She slunk away and, as the anger dissipated, she was left feeling sick and ashamed, waiting in the ambulance and stinking of urine.

‘I’m sorry, Dave,’ she said when he returned. ‘It was so disgusting. I just lost it. How’s the girl?’

‘Come round now, and we got her into a taxi. The police have arrested him for abuse and assault.’ He laughed. ‘Can’t wait to read the police report: “detail of assault weapon: stream of stinking piss”. It’s gotta be a first.’

‘Thanks for the sympathy,’ she said, managing a smile.

Dave started up the engine and pulled off. ‘We’d better get you back to the station for a change – you don’t half smell.’ And then, after driving for a few moments, ‘In theory I ought to write this up, you know?’

She held herself still, heart in mouth.

He gave a deep sigh. ‘But it’s been a bloody awful night and you were under severe provocation, so I’ll keep it under my hat this time.’

She spent her days off cramming for the exams which were now just a couple of weeks away: anatomy, physiology, cardiology, pharmacology. Study had always come easy in the past but these days she found herself struggling to remember facts, vital information like drug dosages per weight for children; the exact position to insert the needle to reinflate a lung with needle chest compressions; the APGAR score calculation for newborns.

One morning as she went to take her tranquilliser pill, it dawned on her. Perhaps the drug was affecting her ability to retain facts? She felt fine now; surely she didn’t need them any more? She put the packet back into her bedside drawer. I’ll see how it feels for a few days, she thought to herself.

It seemed to work: she passed the exams with flying colours. Nate took her out to dinner to celebrate, and they ended up back at his flat for the first time since the party. They were tentative at first, circling each other warily as he made coffee and she wandered around, checking to see what had changed, looking for clues about the life he had spent without her, these past months.

But it was still the same old bachelor pad, with the broken blinds, the brimming waste bins, DVDs and Xbox paraphernalia scattered around the giant television. In the bathroom cabinet were shaving cream, deodorant, his familiar brand of cologne and a packet of paracetamol but, to her relief, no sign of any female occupation.

The wariness lasted only as long as it took them to finish their coffee and have their first proper kiss, and after that the weekend passed in making up for lost time. They left the bedroom only to eat and watch a bit of tv, and Nate dragged on a tracksuit once in a while to go out for takeaways and bottles of wine. He poured her drinks without a single enquiring glance, and she made sure that two glasses were her top limit – this weekend was too precious to spoil.

She knew she had to wait for him to say it, but she longed for him to reassure her, to talk about their future together once more. It wasn’t until Sunday evening was drawing on and she was preparing to leave, that he finally said, ‘I think we’re okay again, J. Don’t you?’

‘God, I love it when you get all romantic,’ she laughed, hugging him. ‘But “okay” will do me, for now.’

It started as a normal shift: 6am to 6pm, on the van with Dave and a new Emergency Care Assistant, a sweet kid called Emma. It was a blustery day with towering cumulus clouds like fantasy castles in the sky. Emma remarked how lucky they were, driving around the countryside amid the beauty of the autumn colours, and the two others agreed.

By coffee time they’d dealt with four shouts including one of their regulars, an old boy called Bert who kept a garrulous and foul-mouthed parrot. He’d fallen on the way to the toilet, so they just checked him out, cleaned him up and waited for the district nurse to arrive while the parrot hurled abuse from its cage: ‘ge’ me out of here, you ’uckers,’ it squawked, interspersed with a repetitive refrain of ‘stupid old git, stupid old git’. Emma giggled and blushed but Jess and Dave took it in their stride. They’d heard the parrot say much worse things in their time.

‘Let’s hope we get a decent break,’ Dave said, more in hope than expectation, as they pulled into the ambulance station. As usual, they’d just sat down when the next call came in: ‘Emergency RTC High Street. Two life-threatening, two walking wounded. Police on scene.’

Jess felt the welcome surge of adrenaline, more powerful than any caffeine rush, as they clambered back on board and the siren started its familiar wail. The incident was only ten minutes away but a sudden heavy downpour made the traffic even more of a nightmare than usual, with dopey drivers taking an age to move aside and let them past. When they reached the lights at the top of the High Street, it was jammed and at a standstill. Dave whooped the siren a couple of times but it made little difference – nothing was moving. In the distance, they could see the flashing blue lights of a police car.

‘Take the packs and run for it,’ Dave shouted. ‘I’ll get there soon as.’

It was still raining heavily as they panted down the slick pavement. I must be losing fitness, Jess thought to herself; she’d run much further with a heavy Army Bergen on her back with no problem at all in the past. They pushed their way through a crowd of gawpers with umbrellas to a scene of carnage: a car had obviously driven onto the narrow pavement at some speed and hit two people, both of them now on the ground. The driver was still in his seat, a very old man, his face ashen, and a baby buggy lay on its side near the front wheels. She looked around frantically to see where the child could be before spying it in the arms of a policewoman, apparently unhurt.

Over to her right, a policeman was doing CPR on a girl whose face already had that grey, hollowed-out look of a dying person. As she approached he shook his head grimly and gestured with a nod in the other direction, towards a shattered shop window behind the car. ‘There’s a guy over there who needs your help.’

‘I’ll get that one if you take over here,’ she told Emma.

Lying amid the shards of glass was a young man, moaning slightly, his legs in a pool of shocking red that was being washed across the pavement by the rain. Her stomach turned over as she approached, smelling that terrifying metallic stench of blood and fear. At first she thought the man’s leg was twisted beneath him but her stomach lurched again, even more violently, when she saw that the lower leg was completely missing.

Stop thinking. Get on with it, no time to waste. The checklist ran over and over in her head, like a mantra: C.A.B.C, C.A.B.C. Catastrophic haemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation.

Barely noticing the blood and glass, she kneeled down, tore open her medipack and grabbed a tourniquet. ‘My name’s Jess and I’m a paramedic,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt a bit. Just hang in there, we’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’ She secured the band swiftly and efficiently just above the knee and observed with satisfaction as the pumping gush of brilliant red arterial blood slowed to a dribble.

Lifting her head for a moment, desperate for Dave to arrive, she caught sight of the ankle and foot a couple of metres away near a litter bin. It looked just like part of a discarded shop dummy, still wearing a sock and trainer, the canvas type in show-off scarlet, just like Nate sometimes wore. She thrust a dressing towards a middle-aged woman standing nearby. ‘This is really important,’ she said, urgently. ‘Get that limb, wrap it up and get it somewhere cold. Find a shop with a drinks cooler or ice cream freezer, soon as you can.’