Honour

There is no honour in a so-called "honour killing." 

These horrendous pieces of news reach our eyes and ears all too often, streaming in from media the world over, yet for as many of these horrendous news items that make it to the front pages, there are so many others stories that never see the light of day. The trauma affects only those closely connected to the victim and the world can't share the pain, even if only for a brief, fleeting moment of reading a hastily clicked-away internet screen. 

I know these cases exist. I have seen them, or at least their results. A woman lies dead in the street. A man she chose to live her life with was found not far away. Their families, disapproving of their relationship, made an unholy union in order to sever theirs. Calm is restored. At least until the next victim in the cycle finds themselves at the wrong end of a knife or gun or blunt instrument; harbingers of doom; revokers of life; restorers of so-called honour. 

The cycle continued. One death led to another, each family seeking the upper hand, the glory. There would be news of a shooting, or a stabbing, or an inexplicable car accident. Then there would be quiet. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks or longer, but still the air was filled with the constant threat of the next retaliation. 

We were traveling through one of the tougher parts of town. The roads have more holes and fewer rules, housing is a mish-mash of prefabricated buildings and run-down apartment blocks, street signs and street lights are almost non-existent and the numbering system no better than guesswork. 

Only a few days had passed since the last honour killing. The latest in the neverending cycle of deaths that proved nothing except that yet another gun had tried to restore its owner's pride, yet at the same time now made him, or those closest to him, the next likely target. In the darkness, we could see the hazard lights of a car parked a few hundred metres ahead. The driver's door and the rear door directly behind it were both open, and all we could see was a pair of legs sticking out. As he heard us approach, he jumped out. 

He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. No shoes, no trousers, no shirt, nothing. As we pulled up behind the car, the first thing we noticed was that he was covered in blood. 

"She's in here! I don't know if she's breathing!" It seemed as though the latest victim of honour was in the back of an almost-naked man's car. 

We jumped out of the ambulance, grabbed the bed so that we could at least move her into the ambulance and be able to see to start treating whatever gruesome injury was about to reveal itself to us. The man who greeted us jumped over the clots of blood that were lying on the floor by the passenger door and looked as though he was about to faint. He sat back down in the driver's seat with his head between his knees and his hands on his face. 

"Just help her. Please. Just help her." 

Two steps later, we could see that our victim was no victim at all, sitting as she was, cradling the baby boy that she had just delivered. 

Putting Their Lives on the Line

I was at home enjoying some family time when it happened. But just hours after the horrendous incident in north-west London that left four police officers with serious injuries after being stabbed, I was back on duty, and this time, not a million miles away from the scene.

At a totally unrelated call, an RTC, the police had to block the road for a few minutes so that we could treat our patient safely. A driver caught up in the traffic approached one of the officers, stood toe-to-toe, and through gritted teeth and a with a horrible snarl commented: "It's no wonder you lot get stabbed."

I'm not sure I would have been as restrained as this officer was.

The police have to put up with a lot more abuse than we do, and take greater risks too. If there's a call that sounds a little suspect, we'll ask for police attendance and hide around the corner until we know it's safe. Yesterday's incident proves once again how big that risk often is. I have a great deal of respect and admiration for the police, what they do, and what they sometimes have to put up with, especially as they've saved me from a serious pounding on numerous occasions.

I hope and pray that those injured make a full and speedy recovery, both of body and soul. They deserve it.

And as far as the idiot driver who had been inconvenienced for a few minutes, well, I can't really tell you what I hope and pray for him. But I'm sure you can well imagine.

Lives

Some, over the years, have been badly hurt. 

Some, over the years, have been only lightly grazed. 

I guess they're the lucky ones. 

Assuming it's lucky to be stabbed.

Some had a wound so deep, they needed surgery right away. 

Some had a wound so shallow, the hospital sent them straight home, 

with a stitch or two and a warning. 

Some, bravado and ego getting the better of them, 

refused any treatment at all and ran off.

Two died. In front of me. 

When there was nothing I could do.

Others may have died later, but I'll never know.

Drop the damned knives, people. 

Stop destroying lives, people. 

Go live your lives, people, 

and stop tearing those lives apart. 

Nurse In Charge

The nurse in charge sees us walking Martha into the department. 

"Stop right there!" She shouts. "She's not coming in here unless she's been searched!" 

Back at Martha's house, we had spent an hour negotiating with her, at first through a closed door, and then, finally, face to face after she agreed to let us in. She seemed pleased with her achievements, proudly listing the cocktail of drugs and alcohol that she'd ingested over the previous hour or two. If what she told us was accurate, or even close to it, she would need some serious medical attention, and quickly. 

"Of course she's been searched. The police even stopped her bringing a large kitchen knife with her." 

As we were about to leave, Martha asked if she could go back to the kitchen to get her packet of cigarettes. I waited by the front door as a police officer accompanied her back into the house. Suddenly, he shouted at her to "Put that down!" at which point I saw Martha return a knife to the kitchen drawer. Grinning manically, she put the cigarettes in her hand bag, and we all made our way to the ambulance.

"I don't care. She's not coming in here until she's searched again. Check everything and everywhere. Last time, she'd hidden a knife in her boot." I looked again. She was wearing knee-high boots over a pair of jeans. The two officers who had accompanied us looked at each other, and then at Martha. We all moved into a side room, the eagle-eyed nurse in charge watching every move. 

As she was searched again, Martha started a search of her own. 

"Where's my handbag?" 

I had a quick glance around the room and just outside too. The bag was nowhere to be seen. 

"Must still be in the ambulance. I'll go get it."

The handbag had been in the kitchen, the cigarettes were shoved inside, and Martha had turned her back to us for a second to pick up a lighter too. "No point having ciggies and no fire to light 'em with!" she'd said at the time. "You coppers need to lighten up a little!"


I think that all men struggle to know what to do when asked to hold a lady's handbag. We struggle to look at ease, for fear of looking, too, well, at ease, really. I walked back in to the department, looking and feeling a little uncomfortable, clutching the handbag at the top and letting the handles hang loose by the sides. Stepping back in to the side room, I attempt to hand the bag back to Martha.

"Oh. No. You. Don't... Not. Before. It's searched!" The emphasis of every word, every syllable did the trick, and I gave the bag to the officer. He opened it up, and blue-gloved hands rummaged through the contents. There were dozens of pieces of paper, chocolate wrappers, lipsticks, a packet of cigarettes and lighter. Right at the bottom, hidden by everything that had been thrown on top, was a serrated kitchen knife, with a six inch blade.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm in charge, and Martha isn't."

And to think how close I was to that knife, all the way to hospital...

Sisters

At the risk of having posts on my blog that are better than my own, this is a guest post from PenguinEMT - one of the people at the top of my list of friends whom I've never met. Yet.

_____________________

She lay in a barren field, the blood from her face and knees mixing with the dirt and grime to hold her together as a sheath of discolored glue. I heard no sound, save that of the vehicles racing by. As I came closer, I heard some slight gurgling and moaning. The officers stood back as we surveyed what has become a scene that haunts my dreams.

I spoke to her softly, trying to encourage a response. Nothing. Once in the ambulance she roused, shielding her face with her hands, screaming in absolute terror. My voice calm, I assured her we were there to help. With every procedure, every move we made, she recoiled and screamed, her voice hoarse. 

We weren't to touch her, she said. She belonged to her husband. Only he could touch her. 

We couldn't. 

He would be angry. 

*****

He lay curled up on the basement floor, the blood soaking the carpet. A crimson mist coated the walls. From upstairs I could hear the sounds of anger. Downstairs, however, it was eerily quiet. 

A faint pulse, but no response. Four occlusive dressings and two packs of gauze. I spoke loudly, attempting to garner a reaction. Any reaction. Finally, at the hospital, I heard a faint whisper. 

"Thank you," he mouthed, eyes still closed. 

*****

She stood in the kitchen, a mere wisp of a thing. The anger was palpable, her face mottled with tears. The knife block was empty, its contents scattered on the counter-tops and in the sink. All of them covered in blood. 

My exhausted mind traveled back in time, just an hour. 

Sisters. 

Central Locking

Before the old ambulances could be completely replaced, we were treated to a smattering of new vehicles. Shiny yellow, with a trendy battenberg design all the way round, and as an extra confusion, diesel engines rather than the lawn-mower type petrol ones. Many a medic would be caught out in the first few months by feeding the engines with the wrong fuel.

They were hardly loved, those old LDV's. Nothing more than vans that had been given blue flashing lights for the roof and the front grill. Meat wagons. Loud, growling engines that would wake an entire street at three in the morning, but which you had no choice sometimes but to leave running, just to make sure that you still had some battery power by the time the patient had been recovered from the scene and placed on board. The three battery lights on the front would give the cab a disco feeling as they would all start off a tired red, change through slumbering amber and on their way to eager green, each individually, each moving backwards and forwards through the sequences depending on what the driver tried to get out of the engine.

At least the temperature control was reliable. The heating would completely fail in the winter, and work whether you liked it or not on the hottest days of summer. The air-conditioning never worked - there simply wasn't any. Anything that broke, fell apart or went missing was fixed with tape, a staple of any medic's armoury, along with all the medical stuff, and in fact probably higher on the priority list than most of the real kit.

In their final days, as they sensed the day of judgement and their own demise, they mounted a rebellion. They had a knack for trying to poison the occupants by filling the cab with noxious gases that would leave crews needing oxygen therapy themselves. Finally, not so long ago, and at least five years past their best, the last of the old fleet were mothballed.

In the early days of the new Mercedes ambulances there would be fights as to which crew would have the privilege of owning it for the shift. Those on the longest shift thought they were entitled to it, or those who were taking the longest transfer. The lure of the softer suspension, gentler ride, and most importantly the ability to control the internal temperature were cause for more than one disagreement. Yet, as the younger members of staff would argue over the newest, shiniest ambulances, the old guard would reminisce about the wondrous days of sliding doors, scoop-and-run, and were often mocked about their memories of the horse-and-cart. Finally, after several weeks of watching others enjoy the pleasures of the new arrival, it was my turn, and as I tried to climb in the passenger side door, I discovered one more novelty that the old trucks lacked - central locking.

Dean took the keys and control of the vehicle for the day, I never even got a look-in, not that I minded particularly. Even from the earliest days in this job I've preferred to attend rather than drive. Dean, however, was like a kid in a sweet shop who'd been given free run of the shelves, and loved every minute of finally driving a vehicle that responded as an emergency ambulance should. After a few routine calls, we were tasked to a call given as a man with a serious laceration to his arm caused by broken glass.

Arriving at the call a few minutes later, we took out the normal bags, as well as an extra bag of bandages. A trail of blood stretched across the pavement by where we'd parked, down the paved driveway and into the house that was about thirty metres away. Dean locked the ambulance. We started to walk towards the house and as we opened the porch door, a figure started to run towards us and stopped us in our tracks. As he came nearer, we saw that he wasn't alone, but carrying what looked to be a knife behind his back. We could just see the handle and a glint of metal, but that was enough. 

We stepped back out, backpedalling at speed, and Dean had the presence of mind to slide the porch door shut in a hurry. Still carrying all our kit, we ran back to the ambulance, and tried to climb back in, only to find that the doors, for the first time ever, were locked. Our "patient" had almost caught up with us, and now all I saw was the knife, which turned out to be a samurai sword being waved menacingly above his head and coming ever closer. I dropped the bags.

"Open the doors!" I screamed to Dean. 

"I can't! The bloody things won't open!"

"IT'S THE CENTRAL LOCKING!!! USE THE KEY!!!" 

Dean fumbled in his pocket for the unfamiliar key, whilst we both ran round and round the ambulance trying to avoid being sliced in half. Dean yelled to a neighbour to call the police, as this was before the days when we had personal radios, and our only means of communication were, like our safe haven, locked inside the ambulance. Eventually there was a standoff, where we stood at 180 degrees to each other - us on one side - and a sword wielding maniac on the other, but all three of us standing by doors. If we unlocked the ambulance, he could get inside just as quickly as we could. We worked out a plan where we could hold him away from an access for just long enough to unlock the doors, climb inside and re-lock the ambulance before he'd climb in. Another couple of circuits of the ambulance and we'd finally positioned ourselves as per the plan, and miraculously managed to pull it off. 

"Control, this is Z321, we need urgent police assistance!"

"Z321, received. Can you tell us what's happening?" 

As I tried to catch my breath, I told them in half sentences what had happened and they promised to arrange for the police to attend. Our sword-swinging friend had finally realised he couldn't get in, and instead took to trying to smash the windscreen, which thankfully held fast. Any interested bystanders had quickly seen sense and fled back into the safety of their own homes, and as he turned away to pick up one of our discarded pieces of kit, we had just enough time for Dean to beat a hasty retreat, far enough to be safe, but close enough to still see the scene. Ninety seconds later, the first of the police units arrived, closely followed by several more. 

We watched from afar as our patient was quickly bundled to the ground by half a dozen officers, the sword wrenched from his grip, and he was placed in the back of a police car. Not without a struggle, but it wasn't a very long one. Slowly, Dean turned the ambulance round and we headed back to the scene, safe in the knowledge that neither assailant nor weapon were now of any threat. Stopping alongside one of the officers, I wound down the window and briefly explained again what had happened. 

"We'll need a full statement," said the officer, "we can do it here or back at the nick." 

"Might as well do it here. At least we've got air-conditioning." I climbed through the door between the cab and the back of the ambulance as the officer tried to open the back door from the outside. 

"Can't open it!" he said, "Must be jammed!" 

"Oh. Yeah. That'll be the central locking..." 

Dean pressed the button that magically unlocked every door to the ambulance. 

"Must remember not to lock these in future, especially on samurai-sword calls. Too bloody dangerous!" 

Zapped

The alleyway's smell would linger for a long time. It seemed to cling to my uniform, my boots, the ambulance, and in particular, my nostrils. Boxes of discarded food, bags of waste, animal waste, probably human waste too. And in amongst it all stood Larry.

"Come one step nearer, and I'll kill you. Then I'll kill myself!"

The machete in his hand proved the seriousness of his threat. I'd met Larry before, only once, at a nearby bus garage. Just another homeless man in the sea of misery and despair that still shocks me in a first-world city such as ours. Looking twenty years older than the early forties he really was, all he wanted then was somewhere warm and dry to spend the night, and we obliged. Much to the disgust but resigned acceptance of the local hospital. They placed him in the waiting room where he slept the night away, awkwardly perched on one of the wooden seats.

This time was different. He was angry, frustrated by the cards that life had dealt him. He was desparate.

"I just want to end it all. You can't help me, and I don't want you to try!"

I didn't dare open my mouth yet. There was a line of police officers between Larry and us, each carrying a shield and covered in body armour. The absurdity that the only people who regularly carry weapons in this country are the criminals, seemed all the more frightening as we waited for the armed response unit to arrive. One of the officers, taking on the role of negotiator tried to talk to Larry, eliciting nothing more than threats that were becoming more real by the minute. We heard more sirens in the distance, the distinctive sound of the armed unit's cars speeding their way through the streets, and as they arrived, there was a definite change in the atmosphere around us.

We had no idea he was armed until we turned up on scene. All we had was a call to a distressed male threatening passers by. No one bothered to tell us that the threats were more than just verbal, and when we were told that the police were on scene, we expected nothing more than a panda car and a couple of local officers.

The police seemed to have a little more information, but it never reached us, and as we pulled up to see several vehicles and a dozen officers dressed ready for battle, we realised that the call was a little more than the initial disturbance we'd assumed. As he started swinging his arms at the cordon, we finally saw what we were dealing with. The alleyway was a dead end, but humans when frightened and cornered, just like animals, will try to battle their way out. Larry could only see one way out, and he seemed determined enough to take it.

He took one swing with the machete towards the line of officers, more a threatening gesture than a real attempt at causing harm. The entire line shuffled a step backwards and erupted into loud calls to put the knife down. Larry laughed. A manic, full-bodied laugh that turned unexpectedly to tears.

"Go away," he sobbed, "and leave me alone to get on with it! I don't want to hurt anybody. I just want to die!"

Two armed officers had joined the ranks, with several others a row behind, using the shields already present for their protection. The standoff tensed, and the sight of a dozen armoured personnel standing over a lone, tormented soul, protected by nothing more than a t-shirt and frenzied arm-waving, turned almost surreal. Negotiations continued, Larry shouted some of his replies, whispered others, and intermittently threatened to put the knife to its intended use.

We stood there for over an hour, a dozen or so paces behind the front line. Crowds of people had gathered at all the police tapes, trying to catch a voyeuristic glimpse of the drama unfolding on their streets. Dozens of police cars and vans were both inside and on the edges of the cordon, along with a solitary ambulance. The presence of the large yellow box on wheels looked almost symbolic rather than functional in the sea of silvery-blue.

In an instant, the mood changed. A chorus of voices yelled at Larry, and two red laser dots appeared on his chest. Over the top of the line of officers, a glint of steel reflected the blue LED lights from the police cars and seemed to come a little nearer. Larry screamed back, frantically flailing and warning the police to stay back. A combination of stupidity and curiosity made us take a few steps forwards, just in time to hear more warnings in both directions, hear a crackle through the air, and see Larry's torso get hit by two spikes. 

The moment he was hit, Larry let out an almost primeval shriek, his body stiffened, the machete fell one way, and he the other. Seconds later, it was all over. Half a dozen officers were on top of Larry, securing him, ensuring his safety and theirs. The knife was removed and placed in a large plastic tube, and Larry was carried face down onto the back of the ambulance. I'd only had the training two days earlier on how to remove Taser barbs, and was probably inappropriately pleased to get the chance to use the training so soon after.  

Larry was sat up on the trolley bed, restraints in place around his legs, handcuffs holding his wrists behind his back. He was no threat to anyone now, least of all and most importantly to himself. We removed the barbs from his chest, at which he flinched but hardly made a sound. Two officers were stood by the top of the bed, ready to pounce in case he made an unlikely and frankly impossible dash for freedom. Once the barbs had been removed, we lowered the head of the bed down a little, allowing Larry to lay on there a little more comfortably, on his side facing us, easing the pressure off his cuffed hands.

As we took Larry to hospital with what seemed like a battalion of police officers accompanying us, there was an eerie quiet, each of us mulling over everything that had just happened. I was writing notes, the officers were standing guard. Only the noise of the sirens made any impression on the surroundings. Finally, Larry broke the silence, as he turned to one of the officers.

"Are you the guy that zapped me with that thing?"

The reply was gruff, pointed, matter of fact. "Yeah, it was me. What of it?"

He broke down again. "Thank you for saving my life."

And I thought that was our job.