Sudden Deaths & Statements

This piece was shortlisted in the Failing Writers’ Podcast.

It’s a little bit bleak but the theme was ‘Failing’ and it is loosely based on real events which are sadly familiar for many emergency services workers.

I’m staring out of the window in a workshop about emotion. Down by the subway Tommy is hitting a fence with a traffic cone. Willow, who’s leading the session, asks how I feel. Like a dustpan and brush, I say. So much for joining up to make a difference.
Being part of a shift where everyone’s paired up means I get to patrol solo, so I don’t get the juicier jobs. I get sudden deaths and statements. I drink your tea and I listen. You tell me about the grandkids that never call you and the cost of your heating and by the time we’re done it doesn’t matter that we’re never going to find that burglar who stole your Royal Doulton or the cash in the biscuit tin in your pantry.
Sudden deaths are anything but sudden. I went out to this fella yesterday. He’d been gone so long he was becoming part of the carpet. No one knew his name. His room contained a rickety old wardrobe crammed full of tins of stewing steak, a hot plate and a fork. Not much for a life is it?
I found no letters, no photos, no rent book. I heard the landlord say there’d be no new carpet. They’d shampoo and scrub away the outline of the dead fella which seemed a fitting metaphor for a sad life. I wish I could scrub away his death smell that lingers in my nostrils and my uniform.
Later, I stop and give Tommy a banana from my lunch box. I’m glad there’s no one to witness this small act of kindness. He scoffs it greedily. Towards the end of shift I see him on the ring road, agitated as if a swarm of bees is plaguing him. I pull in, blue lights strobing his makeshift tent of coats and tarps. ‘Help me’ he says. My radio crackles and my call sign’s given. ‘Sorry I haven’t got time,’ I tell Tommy. He’s imploring me to stay but it’s an urgent assistance call.
I nail it across town, rushing red lights and swerving through a crossroads. When I turn into the Meadows estate Simmo is sitting on the bonnet of his car tapping his watch, shaking his head. He’s already made the arrest. I’m wanted for the statement. Last job is a guy who died climbing the stairs. I throw a duvet over him till the undertakers arrive. That’s five this week. Bring out your dead.
I’m on earlies next day. The sarge is waiting for me in the yard, arms folded. ‘Did you see Tommy yesterday?’
‘Why, what’s he done now?’
‘He’s dead son. And you had contact.’
Tommy was found hanging by the canal. I have to write it up, make it sound as if we didn’t fail him. There’s a flickering candle in a pasta jar by the subway. I wish Tommy was still here, but don’t know what I’d do differently.