The fireys have folded away their cutting gear, the traffic cops have swept up the glass and I’m standing in A&E writing in my notebook, taking notes of names and ages. Dezzy and I were first on scene, before the call even came in, the car smashing head first into a victorian stone wall.
Three patients, two trapped, one critically injured.
The untrapped girl screamed at me to give her “a fucking painkiller” to address her broken foot. The rear seat passenger was blacked out and gurgling. The driver pinned to her seat by the steering wheel folded against her pelvis.
By the end of the incident I was swapping numbers and details with police and fire chiefs.
The driver four times the limit, I dropped into resus to confirm her address and was about to leave when she called me back.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Will the police charge me, do you think?”
“I can’t comment on that, sorry.”
She starts to cry, softly, silently.
I squeeze her shoulder and she whispers to me.
“I’m starting my police training next week…”
I leave her with her shortlived present tense.