The siren went on. And we were off, lurching through the London traffic with the blue light screaming above our head, Lily squealing with delight.
On any given week-night, Donna told us, as we clutched the handrails, the station would get calls from Spencer’s, summoned to fix those who hadn’t made it upright to closing time, or to stitch up the faces of young men for whom six pints in an evening left them combative and without any accompanying sense. ‘These youngsters should be feeling great about life, but instead they’re just knocking themselves out with every spare pound they earn. Every bloody week.’
We were there in minutes, the ambulance slowing outside to avoid the drunks spilling out onto the pavement. The signs in Spencer’s nightclub’s smoked windows advertised ‘Free drinks for girls before 10 p.m.’ Despite the stag and hen nights, the catcalling and gaudy clothes, the packed streets of the drinking zone had less of a carnival atmosphere than something tense and explosive. I found myself gazing out of the window warily.
Sam opened the rear doors and picked up his bag. ‘Stay in the rig,’ he said, and climbed out.
A police officer headed over to him, muttered something, and we watched as they walked over to a young man who was sitting in the gutter, blood streaming from a wound to his temple. Sam squatted beside him, while the officer attempted to keep back the drunken gawkers, the ‘helpful’ friends, the wailing girlfriends. He seemed to be surrounded by a bunch of well-dressed extras from The Walking Dead, swaying mindlessly and grunting, occasionally bloodied and toppling.
‘I hate these jobs,’ said Donna, checking briskly through her pack of plastic-wrapped medical supplies as we watched. ‘Give me a woman in labour or a nice old granny with cardiomyopathy any day. Oh, flipping heck, he’s off.’
Sam was tilting the young lad’s face to examine it when another boy, his hair thick with gel and the collar of his shirt soaked in blood, grabbed at his shoulder. ‘Oi! I need to go in the ambulance!’
Sam turned slowly towards the young drunk, who was spraying blood and saliva as he spoke. ‘Back away now, mate. All right? Let me do my job.’
Drink had made the boy stupid. He glanced at his mates, and then he was in Sam’s face, snarling, ‘Don’t you tell me to back away.’
Sam ignored him, and continued attending to the other boy’s face.
‘Hey! Hey you! I need to get to the hospital.’ He pushed Sam’s shoulder. ‘Hey!’
Sam stayed crouched for a moment, very still. Then he straightened slowly, and turned, so that he was nose to nose with the drunk. ‘I’ll explain something in terms you might be able to understand, son. You’re not getting in the truck, okay? That’s it. So save your energy, go finish your night with your mates, put a bit of ice on it, and see your GP in the morning.’
‘You don’t get to tell me nothing. I pay your wages. My effing nose is broke.’
As Sam gazed steadily back at him, the boy swung out a hand and pushed at Sam’s chest. Sam looked down at it.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Donna, beside me.
Sam’s voice, when it emerged, was a growl: ‘Okay. I’m warning you now –’
‘You don’t warn me!’ The boy’s face was scornful. ‘You don’t warn me! Who do you think you are?’
Donna was out of the truck and jogging towards a cop. She murmured something in his ear and I saw them both look over. Donna’s face was pleading. The boy was still yelling and swearing, now pushing at Sam’s chest. ‘So you sort me out before you deal with that wanker.’
Sam adjusted his collar. His face had become dangerously still.
And just as I realized I was holding my breath, the policeman was there, between them. Donna’s hand was on Sam’s sleeve and she was steering him back to the young lad on the kerb. The policeman muttered something into his radio, his hand on the drunk’s shoulder. The boy swung round and spat on Sam’s jacket. ‘Fuck you.’
There was a brief, shocked silence. Sam stiffened.
‘Sam! Come on, give me a hand, yes? I need you.’ Donna propelled him forwards. When I caught sight of Sam’s face, his eyes glittered as cold and hard as diamonds.
‘Come on,’ said Donna, as they loaded the semi-comatose lad into the back of the truck. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He drove silently, Lily and I wedged into the front seat beside him. Donna cleaned the back of his jacket as he stared ahead, stubbly jaw jutting.
‘Could be worse,’ Donna said cheerfully. ‘I had one throw up in my hair last month. And the little monster did it on purpose. Shoved his fingers down the back of his throat and ran up behind me, just because I wouldn’t take him home, like I was some kind of bloody minicab.’
She stood up and motioned for the energy drink she kept in the front. ‘It’s a waste of resources. When you think what we could be doing, instead of scooping up a load of little …’ She took a swig, then looked down at the barely conscious young boy. ‘I don’t know. You have to wonder what goes on in their heads.’