Tragedy Comes On A Calm Wind

Maybe she was a junkie...she had junkie eyes. But that was probably due to the morphine they gave her (they did give her morphine – I saw them). Maybe she was twenty... maybe younger, who can tell? All I know is she was there, impossibly wedged in, looking at me like a lost and depressed lover from under that No.7 bus. At times I thought I saw her move, but I wasn’t sure... it was hard to see through the crowd, and beyond it, the police and the firemen. All I could be sure of was she was unfairly pinned to the tarmac by 7 tonnes of steel, metal and plastic.

Our bus was just to the side, the large windows like a cinema screen. The road leading out of the bus station had been blocked off. We stayed there a good hour watching in shocked horror as the fire brigade tried to free her. What one would imagine to be a delicate operation was carried out with lumps of timber, a heavy duty jack, an industrial grinder and a pair of large metal cutters... it was an excruciatingly slow process. That wasn’t anyones fault or bad practice... it was the only way. Her leg was broken and mangled in the bus’s undercarriage, her arm bent in the way as when children twist a Barbie doll’s arm 180 degrees. How she ended that far under what should have been a slow moving bus is impossible to fathom... when one looks there is barely enough space for a new born child to pass through unscathed.

Many people left our bus... Some to walk home, others just to get a better and closer look. I understand this. I understand trying to understand death... up close and impersonal. What I don’t understand is life, and within it the people who remained seated, cursing the poor girl for getting smashed during the rush hour. Once again the crudeness of a world ruled by money and time was here, unashamedly still pushing on... still screaming for life to move ever faster. It was this crudeness that was my reason for alighting and joining the crowds around the police cordon. At least there I was amongst the caring.

Balancing on the tips of my toes I strained to get a proper glimpse. This was not because I have a morbid obsession with death, I don’t. I have seen too much death to be obsessed by it. Rather, I had a base instinct to know if this girl was dead or alive... If I had stumbled through yet another obscene tragedy. That which I had earlier took for her talking was in fact the firefighters talking to her.. either soothing a terribly injured girl or trying to wake the dead. It wasn’t clear, but there seemed to be movement. I mentioned this to the shocked man besides me: “I think she’s moving?” I said/asked, hoping to get a reassuring nod. But all I got was a hand sliding from over the mouth to the eyes and a cried and desperate “OH NO... oh no..” I followed his line of vision and watched as a white van rolled into the scene. On the side was written: ‘Reanimation unit’. That “Oh no” was now an unbearable sound... especially from a man’s mouth. It was full of all the grief of the terrible and the unwanted... it was an instinctive groan.

‘Reanimation’, what a horrible word. The ‘reanimation’ of the dead... the 'reanimation' of a life. It probably doesn’t have that significance in french, but into english it is an awful name and an even worse presence. A paramedic appeared from each door of the White van and each went to the back. Two returned with a stretcher, one with the oxygen and the other with the defibrillator. They stood waiting in the wings, ready to earn their bread... ready to break the chestbone... Ready to pass an arrow of electricity through the heart.

The young girls body was finally unhinged from the wreckage, rolled over onto the back and carried clear of the raised and broken bus. The leg was already protected, encased in a moulded strapped boot, the arm held down against the the body. The reanimation team approached, had a look and then backed away... they were of no use here. The young girl was lifted and placed on the red-blanketed stretcher of the ambulance and covered, but not completely. She was alive, though in a very poor state. There was still no movement, just the firemen* who raised the stretcher and placed it in the back of the ambulance. It moved off first, without sirens and in no particular haste.. The ‘Reanimation unit’ was close behind followed by a police car. Soon all three were out of sight.

With the undetermined close of the spectacle, the crowd of onlookers dispersed and the exit from the station was cleared. I got back on my bus and sat back down in the same seat. Looking out upon the site of the accident it was hard to believe what had just taken place. Now there was nothing... no blood, no ambulance, no equipment, just two policemen and a parked up and out of service bus. No clue at all of that which had just passed. And that’s it... that’s how this life moves on. Things come and things go, some things are born and other things die. Some live a healthy life and others take the freeway. It doesn’t matter, because death is often indiscriminate and always unfair. I sat and thought about this as our bus pulled away, following the route of the ambulance for a while before turning off. I should be dead, I thought, or at least seriously ill... instead I am watching others fall victim to what is all too frequently a cruel and callous life.

The bus made its way along the route. Some people got on and others got off. Gradually sounds returned as we that had witnessed the accident became the minority. The early evening opened up ahead of us, the sky darkened a couple of tones and the smells off the city and of home became stronger. Life was back, noisy and oblivious to all. Suffering and pain do not exist here and if they do we usually do something about it... all of us. The next time we will be silent again, it will be too late...way too late. But such warnings are useless and futile... they are a waste of time. How can one ever prepare for the unprepareable? We can’t. And tragedy is unprepareable, she gives no warning. The birds don’t scatter from the trees and the dogs don’t cower or take cover. No, when tragedy arrives she blows in on a calm and silent wind, and it’s very similar to the one that is blowing right now.

Take care Readers... and mind your step. All My best, Shane.

*In france if you dial for an ambulance you get the fire brigade... they carry out a dual role. The back of a french fire truck is better equipped medically than a British ambulance.

As forthe girl, I don't know what finally became of her. I've searched the internet and the local papers, but found nothing. I take it she lived, as a death involving public transport almost always makes the news. Fingers crossed.