Lights and Sirens

by Lisa Henry

Matt pressed his lips together tightly, and waited until the sting of humiliation receded. He could put it out of his mind. He’d been called worse, hadn’t he? Jesus, it happened on a daily fucking basis. What the hell did it matter where the insult came from?

  He sighed again, and wondered how many hours it would be until he could get back to the station and change his uniform.

  This was going to be a long day.

  The showers were in the basement of the station. Matt showered and changed and bagged his uniform in a bright blue garbage bag he begged off the cleaner. Even then, he still felt like the stench of decay was clinging to him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to take his uniform home to wash it or burn it.

  He trudged up the steps again, holding the bag at arm’s length.

  Sean was at the back of the station, fiddling with the lock on his bike chain.

  “You okay?” Matt asked him.

  “Yeah.” Sean made a face. “About, um, about throwing up…”

  “It happens to everyone at least once,” Matt assured him.

  “Yeah?” Sean looked like he didn’t know whether to be comforted by that or not.

  “Absolutely.”

  A car rolled to a stop. The officer in the passenger seat got out and opened the back door. A woman and a teenager got out. The girl was sullen, her face blotchy and tear-stained. Her mother was flustered, distressed, ready to break down.

  Matt recognised the police officer as one of the blokes from Mundingburra. He was holding a shopping bag from Myers. He tucked it under his arm as he ushered the teenager and her mother toward the back of the station.

  Matt held the door open for them.

  The driver parked the car in a space further up in the car park.

  “…what you were thinking!” the mother hissed under her breath she passed Matt.

  Matt exchanged a wry look with the officer from Mundingburra.

  Not the worst thing, he wanted to tell the mother. A little shoplifting is so, so far away from being the worst thing your kid can do.

  Matt had seen kids at that age who’d done things there was no coming back from. Kids who’d raped, and kids who’d killed. When he’d started in the job, he’d thought the worst thing would be talking to kids who’d been victims of unspeakable crimes. Turns out the worst thing had been talking to the kids who’d been the perpetrators.

  A part of him wanted to say something like that to Sean now. To tell him that there were worse things than seeing a body that was so rancid it wasn’t even a body anymore. That there was something much, much worse in seeing something fresh. Something stark and blood-stained and violent. At least the guy today had been old. At least he’d lived a life. But what sort of pep talk would that be?

  “Do you want to grab a beer?” he asked instead.

  “Nah.” Sean rolled his shoulders. “I’ve got a couple of mates coming over.”

  That was good. Sean was new to the job, and he’d had a bad day, and he was single and lived alone. And Matt could remember when he could tick all of those boxes. He knew what it felt like to go home and have nothing to do except replay every damn detail of a shitty job over and over again. Talking it out, even if it meant a gentle ribbing from his mates over a couple of beers, was better than sitting in silence and letting it build.

  “How about tomorrow night?” Matt asked.

  “I was thinking about it,” Sean said, shrugging his backpack on and fastening the clips across his chest. “City Lane, right?”

  “Yeah. I think Linda said at seven.”

  It was a regular thing. The team met up for drinks every time they knocked over a week of morning starts, and every time they finished night work. A combination of morale building and the week’s debriefing, Matt supposed. It kept everyone working well together. They’d pushed it back to tomorrow instead of tonight because it was Rawiri’s birthday.

  Sean looked hesitant.

  “Come tomorrow night,” Matt said. “I’ll shout the first round.”

  Sean nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I’ll see you there at seven.”

  Matt headed for the street, still holding his blue garbage bag at arm’s length. He could use some beers tomorrow himself.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Hayden hoped he still didn’t stink like decay when he entered the club on Thursday night, moving easily between the patrons in the now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t flash of strobe lights. It had been a few weeks since he had been here but it looked like nothing much had changed: the guys were on the dance floor and the girls were in the beer garden, and all was right with the world. He squeezed in at the bar, ordering a vodka and Coke to start the night. He wanted someone sickly sweet to chase the smell of death out of his throat, just like he wanted to be surrounded by people tonight—people that were alive, sweaty, loud, and exuberant—to chase the memory of that maggot-ridden corpse out of his mind.

  Getting laid had always been Hayden’s go-to pick-me-up in the past.

  He stepped away from the bar, and found a wall to lean against where he could watch the guys on the dance floor. There were a few faces that seemed familiar. The regulars. And it didn’t take long for somebody to approach him.

  “Hey,” the guy said, and looked him up and down.

  “Hey,” Hayden said.

  Thank God for sure things, because Hayden had work tomorrow, and he didn’t want to be out all night. He wasn’t on the road tomorrow at least, but he still needed to be reasonably alert. He was technically on a day off, but he’d agreed months ago to fill in for Jocelyn, who was on one of those river cruises in Europe with her husband. Hell if Hayden knew why. Jocelyn didn’t seem to like spending time with her husband. There was a bet going around the station that she was probably going to push him overboard and collect his superannuation money. Hayden wasn’t sure if they were joking or not.

  Fucking relationships. They made no sense to Hayden. Never had, really. Because on one hand, sure, there was Kate and Jimmy, but on the other hand there was Jocelyn and whatever her husband’s name was. Did people not notice when they started to hate their partner, or did they just want to stick it out to the bitter end? It made no sense to him. Then again, he hadn’t exactly grown up surrounded by examples of healthy relationships, had he?

  “I’m saying this as kindly as I can,” Kate had told him once, “but you, my love, are fucked in the head.”

  “Jesus. I’d hate to hear what it sounds like when you’re being blunt then.”

  Though she’d had a point.

  The music in the club was loud. Too loud for conversation, and that was fine. Sure Thing was stocky, clean-shaven, maybe in his thirties. Yeah, he’d do—and by the look he was giving Hayden, he obviously thought the same.

  Sure Thing leaned into his space. He smelled like aftershave. “Do you want to dance?”

  “Not here for that,” Hayden said, downing the rest of his drink.

  His head throbbed a little with the music, or maybe it was because of the way he’d pretty much inhaled his vodka and coke. Whatever. Hayden needed that buzz to distract himself from the memory of that body, half-melted into the bed, with larvae spewing out of it. And that smell…there was nothing in the world quite like that smell. Hayden almost felt bad for Constable Dickhead and Newbie for having to stick around and deal with it. Almost.

  A jolt of guilt—or maybe it was shame—went through him when he thought of how Constable Dickhead had heard him call him that. Hayden could get in a lot of shit if Constable Di—Deakin, Constable Deakin—complained, but that didn’t explain his guilt. It had been a prick of a thing to say, however much Deakin deserved it. Hayden shouldn’t have sunk to his levels of arseholery. He was better than that. Well, he should have pretended to be better than that, which was almost the same thing.

  Hayden forced a flirty smile and pushed himself off the wall, and then set his empty glass down on a nearby table and headed for the toilets. Didn’t even have to look back to see if Sure Thing was following h
im.

  Of course he was.

  Hayden knew he was an attractive guy. Which was what he deserved, frankly, after a childhood of being teased as a skinny, freckled ranga—and he fucking hated that word—and while the red hair and freckles weren’t going anywhere, at least he’d grown into them, and he’d filled out. He also had a great arse. No doubt Sure Thing’s gaze was stuck to it right now.

  The warmth coiling in Hayden’s gut, the buzzing just under his skin; it had just as much to do with knowing how much the guy wanted to fuck him than the drink he’d thrown back. It was a powerful, heady thing to be wanted, and it made him feel alive. It was hardwired into him, and into everyone—that primal urge when confronted with death to push back. To prove something. To scream at the universe: I’m alive! And in Hayden’s experience there was nothing more life affirming than getting laid.

  Hayden pushed the door to the toilets open. There was a guy at the trough, and he looked Hayden up and down, dick in hand. Hayden flashed him a smile and headed for one of the stalls. Sure Thing followed him in.

  “Michael,” the guy said.

  “Hayden,” Hayden replied, although it didn’t matter, and then Michael was pushing him up against the wall and shoving his tongue down his throat. He tasted like bourbon and sickly-sweet post-mix Coke. His tongue was slimy, and Hayden fought against a rush of revulsion as he thought of wet decay. He tugged Michael’s head back for a moment, sucking in a breath before leaning back against the wall and letting Michael in for another go. As long as Hayden got someone else’s hand on his dick at some point he could overlook the fact that Michael couldn’t kiss for shit.

  Michael slobbered into his mouth for a moment, and Hayden saw melting flesh. He pushed Michael away.

  Michael was panting, wide-eyed. “What?”

  Hayden slid a hand up between Michael’s jean-clad thighs. “Want me to blow you?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  Like anyone would turn a blowjob down.

  There was a sudden burst of noise as the door to the toilets opened, letting in all the sound from the dance floor. It was a bit early in the night for It’s Raining Men, wasn’t it? The door swung shut again, muffling the sound, but only a second later it was back, and this time accompanied by someone making a high-pitched whine of distress.

  “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

  “Let me see! Let me see it!” A gasp. “Oh, fuck! That’s blood!”

  “Of course it’s fucking blood! What did you expect? Fucking glitter?”

  Hayden slid out from between Michael and the wall. “Sorry, mate.”

  He tugged the door open and stepped out of the stall.

  And yes, that was blood alright. Two guys stood in front of the sinks. One of them was waving his hand around, and blood was dripping down his wrist, his elbow, all over his tight shirt and his jeans, splatters of it hitting the floor. His friend was pale and swaying, his eyes wide at the sight.

  Hayden moved forward. “I’m a paramedic. What happened?”

  The injured guy—too drunk to be panicking yet—flapped his bloody hand in Hayden’s direction. “I put my hand through a glass.”

  “Okay.” Hayden stepped over to the paper towel dispenser, and grabbed a wad of them. “Sit down,” he said to the swaying friend. “Now. And call an ambulance.”

  The last thing he needed was a second casualty.

  And so much for forgetting about work tonight, right? Hayden hardly noticed as Michael left the toilets.

  “Omigod,” the injured guy said, staring past Hayden at his friend. “I can’t believe I’m the one hurt, and you’re the one having a breakdown!”

  “Oh, fuck you, seriously,” his friend said, holding his phone up to his ear. “Um, yes. Ambulance.”

  “You don’t get to be a drama queen about this,” the injured guy said. “This is my drama-queen moment!” He waved his hand again, blood splattering.

  Hayden caught his wrist. “Don’t do that.”

  The guy looked chastened.

  There didn’t appear to be any glass still in the wound that Hayden could see, so he pressed the wad of paper towels into the guy’s hand and curled his fingers around it. “Keep your fist closed on that. As much pressure as you can, okay?”

  The guy nodded.

  Hayden grabbed more paper towels.

  The door to the toilets swung open, and one of the bouncers appeared. “What’s going on in here?”

  “Put my hand through a glass,” the guy volunteered happily, lifting his hand to show him.

  The bouncer glanced between him and Hayden.

  “I’m a paramedic,” Hayden said. “Can you get me a clean towel or something?”

  The bouncer nodded and left again. Behind Hayden, the injured guy’s friend was talking to Comms.

  “Tell them there’s an off-duty paramedic here,” Hayden said. “And tell them the bleeding isn’t stopping.”

  In the few minutes since Hayden had applied the paper towels, they’d already bled through. He replaced them and curled the guy’s fist tighter. He was pale now, his smile vanished. The combination of alcohol and blood loss meant that he might not have been feeling any pain, but he was going to get very shaky on his feet very fast.

  The bouncer reappeared with a stack of folded bar towels.

  “Help me get him outside for the ambulance,” Hayden said. He and the bouncer escorted the guy outside, through the crush of people dancing, and out into the sudden strange silence of the street. The music was muffled from here, a dull and distant beat.

  A group of women stood some distance away, puffing on cigarettes.

  A curlew scuttled across the street.

  A car with a whining transmission roared down the street.

  Hayden heard sirens in the distance, and hoped they were on their way here.

  He and the bouncer sat the guy down on the edge of the footpath, his feet in the gutter. Hayden sat next to him, making sure he kept his injured hand elevated. His friend hovered around anxiously.

  “Have you been drinking tonight?” Hayden asked him.

  The guy nodded.

  “Did you take anything else?”

  A guilty look.

  “What’d you take?” Hayden asked, and sighed when the guy hesitated. “Mate, I’m not a cop. I don’t care, except some drugs interact badly with others, and it’s important that the doctors at the hospital know exactly what they’re dealing with.”

  “I, um…”

  “I don’t care,” Hayden repeated. “And nobody is going to dob you in to the cops if you took something else, okay?”

  “Okay,” the guy said. “Ah, I took an eccy.”

  That certainly explained why he wasn’t feeling the pain.

  The sirens grew louder, and the flashing red and blue lights heralded the ambulance as it turned the corner and pulled up in front of the club.

  Hayden rose to his feet and waved them down. It was Becky and Brian. Hayden called them the B-Team, but only because they both had senses of humour and thought it was hilarious. He was glad it was them who’d got the call, and not Greg, who Hayden knew was also working. Hayden didn’t get on with Greg, and he knew Greg would have made some comment about how unsurprising it was to find Hayden at a gay club.

  Because of course it was unsurprising. Hayden was gay and liked to get laid. Where the fuck else would he go?

  “The patient’s twenty,” Hayden said. “Conscious and breathing. He’s affected by alcohol and MDMA. Got a laceration to his palm, about four centimetres. It’s still bleeding pretty badly. I couldn’t see any glass in it, but I didn’t have a close look.”

  “Thanks, Hayden,” Brian said.

  “So much for your night out, huh?” Becky raised her eyebrows.

  Hayden glanced down at his blood-spattered shirt. “Yeah, so much for that.”

  He left the patient in the care of Becky and Brian, and then went back inside to scrub his hands clean. He looked around once for Michael before deciding he didn’t really care e
nough to pick things up again, and exited the club.

  The night was a bust.

  He headed home.

  A stray cat followed him furtively for about half a block, darting from shadow to shadow, but it vanished long before Hayden got home.

  Hayden flicked through all the channels on the TV, and then flicked through them again. Monique was out, so the apartment was his, but the freedom to wander to the kitchen and back naked wasn’t really doing it for him right now. He was tired, but he was also restless. So much for getting laid to remind himself that he was alive, when instead he was lying on the couch in his track pants watching reruns of fucking Masterchef. He thought of Kate, and how she sometimes complained about having to go home to Jimmy and the kids after a shitty shift and have them dump their problems on her as well. And yeah, that sounded annoying, but less lonely and pathetic than what Hayden currently had going on.

  He glared at the TV, and at the open packet of Barbecue Shapes on the coffee table in front of him.

  Masterchef and Barbecue Shapes.

  Living the dream.

  It was late—close to midnight—and Hayden was too tired to sleep. Too aware that whenever he closed his eyes he’d just find himself looking at the decaying body of that old man on the bed. And the smell…Jesus, but there was nothing worse than the stench of a rotting corpse. It got right into his skin, into his throat and lungs, until he couldn’t be sure if it was really there or if it was only the memory of it, visceral, stomach-churning, still clinging to him.

  He’d washed his uniform twice, and then thrown some more detergent into the machine and run it empty.

  That poor old bastard, living and dying alone like that. Those were always the worst jobs to deal with, because they always left that question in the back of Hayden’s mind, that fear: What if that’s how I end up? And it wasn’t so much the living alone that scared him—Hayden had done that before and he’d do it again—but the dying alone. The thought that he had made so little impact on the lives of the people around him that maybe one day he’d just drop out of their thoughts, and nobody would even realise they hadn’t heard from him until the neighbours complained about the smell.