Impact

The bicameral mind in psychology is the concept that in the past, the primitive, human mind was made up of two chambers or sides – the side that ‘spoke’ and led, and the side that ‘listened’ and obeyed.

Advocates of the bicameral mind believe our more sophisticated, modern mind has melded into one as we have self-consciousness and introspection, but they also suggest that auditory hallucination and schizophrenia (even the voice of God!) might be leftovers of our previous bicameral mind.

*

Airbag

It’s raining again and the water makes the road a slick, eel grey.  The traffic has stopped to observe the scene/because it has to/to mark someone’s passing.  Someone has surely died here.

The taxi is half its size – a black squeezebox concertinaed to its most compressed.  The ambulance has sliced into the back of it and the two vehicles have become one.  The traffic lights that should have prevented this happening continue their cycle of colours, but no one obeys or really notices them.

It’s silent, save for the horror film discordance of the ambulance’s ruptured wail and the vibration left in the air by the explosion of metal against metal.  The smell is of hot oil and the sweet, pear-drop syrup of engine coolant.

People have left their cars and come running to help, but it’s obvious from the beginning, there is little they can do.  This has already happened.  This is over.

Through the fractured glass of the taxi’s windscreen, two broken, bloody heads can be seen.  They are still and twisted at the wrong angles by the force of the airbags.  The ambulance’s driver side window is opaque with lumps of gore.  A dog without an owner mooches past, unconcerned about anything here.  That’s the nature of dogs – they get on with their lives.

 

On impact

Charlie Teardrop looks out of the window of the taxi.  He knows this street like the back of his hand.  His old stomping ground; his ends. 

Down Alders Street and on to Ferngate.  The Hungry Man Café on the right hand side, the Clay Bar on the left.  He’s suddenly, unexpectedly, overcome with sadness - at what, he’s not quite sure.  He’s pretends to sneeze into his hand, so the taxi driver doesn’t catch sight of his watering eyes.  He’s glad too he chose to sit in the front passenger seat because at least that way, he can’t be watched in the driver’s rear view mirror.

Charlie’s secret voice (Ernie Internal as he’s tried and failed to jokingly name him) has gone mercifully quiet.  What he’d usually expect when he’s shown any emotion is a mocking commentary.  Oh poor, little Charlie.  Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?  Not twenty five anymore?  Oh, dear, oh dear.  Well you know what you need to do – get your shit together.  That, or kill yourself.  It’s all the same to me - shape up or ship out.

But for now, Ernie’s silent and isn’t that a relief!  Now the sadness has passed, Charlie feels as marginally steady as he ever does, and he supposes that’s why the blue urgency of the ambulance coming up behind them, so fast and cruel, irks him so.

*

Mo’s still not sure the guy sitting next to him is all there.  He doesn’t like to judge by appearances;  however, he’s never been a fan of face tattoos and this guy is probably more tat than features.  He’s shown Mo he’s got money to pay him and he’s been no trouble so far, but even so. 

It’s the tear tattoos under the eyes Mo particularly doesn’t like.  He’s had all sorts in his cab and he knows what the tears signify – that is, if the owner of the tears hasn’t actually killed a man, he’s at least spent a long stretch inside for something deep-shit serious.

So for Mo, it’s eyes straight ahead and continue to listen to the voice in his earpiece.  At the next island, take the first exit on to Wright Street.  Then after 100 metres, turn left again onto Sheffield Street.  Now, go straight on for 400 metres.

Usually, adherence to the voice is everything, but today he’s doubting it.  What if the way is not actually the way?  What if the voice is tricking him and isn’t even real?

Mo finds out what is real seconds later.  Real is the ambulance smashing into the back of his taxi.  Real is the skid of the wheels and the crunch of the car’s shell as he loses control.

*

It’s the little details that always get to Leonard when he invades (albeit of necessity) people’s living rooms, bedrooms, or wherever they’re fighting for their lives.  Yes, the family photos hit you, but it’s the other things – the cushions neatly arranged on armchairs, the half-finished cups of tea, the ‘to do’ lists on memo boards.

Leonard never wants to get to that point himself, but if he’s being honest, he probably will.  After all, the intrusion of the emergency services at least carries hope and the possibility of recovery.  They’re not undertakers, for God’s sake.

The man he’s got in the back of the ambulance had an amazing collection of old clocks in his house.  Over the machinery they were using to save, then stabilise him, Leonard had heard their insistent ticking.  Loud, clear, syncopated.

Now – still - time is the only thing that matters.  The siren and blue light announce to the world that there is nothing more vital than each passing second.  Leonard exercises his routine, his certain comfort.  I’m at the crossroads on Cheap Side.  I’m veering right towards town.  The park is on my left, the old Odeon on my right.  Now, I’m going to save a few minutes by cutting down Tame Road.

Control speaks back to him across the waves.  “You’re doing fine, Leonard.  That all makes sense.  That’s exactly the way I would go.”

On Ferngate, Leonard is in his head for a minute, thinking about how many times he’s gone exactly this way.  He’s puzzled, then fleetingly terrified, by the taxi in front that appears to be reversing at speed straight into his ambulance.

 

Rest break

When he was a little boy – six, maybe seven - Charlie Teardrop went for a walk in the woods with his sister.  It was a warm day; orange.  Early autumn.  On the air, there was the smell of wood smoke, and mist rose from hollows in the ground. 

They went deeper and deeper into the woods: Charlie’s sister, a confident, kind sixteen year old, holding his hand tightly.  The light changed and became greyer when they got to what they knew was the centre of the woods.

Charlie let go of his sister’s hand just as the wind whipped through the tall oak trees, causing acorn after acorn to fall to the ground.  The sound of each one’s fall was a soft, round thud, but not to Charlie.  To him they were nightmare explosions, bombardments of terrible, incomprehensible horror.  He put his hands over his ears, shut his eyes and stood there screaming. 

It was only after his sister put her arms around him and gathered him close to her that he stopped.  “Listen to me, Charlie.  It’s ok, it’s ok.  You can only hear me, nothing else you hear is real”, she’d whispered in his ear.

*

The kitchen Mo had always wanted was just like the one his mother had when he was a kid.  Small and not fancy, granted, but orderly and homely.  His childhood kitchen was painted a burnt orange and to Mo, it was exactly the colour of the spices his mum heated up in the iron skillet every other day as the foundation for her stews and hotpots.

Everything in this kitchen had a purpose and place. Despite the amount of cooking that happened in this kitchen, it was always clean with everything put away daily.  The deep, complex smells of food cooked with love, inhabited the very fabric of the room.

This was not Mo’s present kitchen – the one he shared with Nicky.  His present kitchen was as steely and messy as Nicky’s (and if he was honest, his) heart.

*

Leonard had done a lot of talking about how he felt.  How the job was getting too much to bear more often than not these days.  Too many dead babies, too many pools of blood.  Too many people he was too late to save.  And then on to the next one, and on to the next one.

He’d attended the briefings and debriefings before and after his shifts, he’d tried to get his act together.  The thing, though, that had made some difference was a technique they’d trained him on in one of his counselling sessions.  Basically, you verbalised what it was you were going to do, and Control listened and agreed, or guided him differently where needs be.

This articulation of his thought process took things out of his hands and made him feel a little less responsible, he supposed.  I’m going to cut across Hall Road because the traffic’s snarled up by the crossroads.  Then I’m going to dip round the back of the market because I think I’ll save a couple of minutes there.  “Definitely, that sounds good, Mo.  You’ll get there on time if you go that way.”

 

Setting off

Today, Charlie Teardrop has decided against killing himself.  Today is not the day, whatever the voice says.  Today, the sun is shining and the air outside contains a sprinkle of spring.  So what Charlie decides instead is to call a taxi and go round to see his sister.  She lives just across town, not far from where they lived as kids. 

He can predict how she’ll greet him – that mixture of pleasure at seeing him and general irritation at his very being – that always hanging question with her.  That one that asks, why can’t you just be normal?

He’ll go in to the house, though, and put his arms round her and ruffle the heads of her dogs.  She’ll make him a cup of tea with a chocolate digestive on the side and they’ll talk or they won’t, whatever they feel like and either decision will be comfortable because it is.

When Charlie gets in the taxi, the driver looks at his face and rolls his eyes, but Charlie doesn’t care.  He’s used to the reaction his tattoos get and it really doesn’t bother him at all.  Because, today, Charlie has decided against killing himself, despite the voice.  Today, for Charlie Teardrop, is a good day.

*

Mo’s made his decision and he’s going to stick to it.  When his shift’s finished today, he’s going to leave Nicky.  He’s not going back to that fucking house and that’s that. 

In the end he knows that it’ll be the best for both of them.  There’s no more mileage in them staying together in the mess and the silences.  So for now, he’s just got to get through his shift, and this pick-up is his second to last.

He’s doesn’t know this side of town as well as the other side and despite his Satnav, he’s a little hesitant about the address of the job – Field Grove, for Charlie Teardrop.  Mo thinks it’s a fuck-witted name all ways round.  Field Grove sounds like something from bloody Lord of the Rings and what kind of name is Charlie Teardrop?

Oh well, he thinks.  As long as Charlie isn’t a nutter and he’s got coin in his pocket, then all will be well.  In his earpiece, the voice tells him he’s reached his destination and Mo sees the man he assumes is Charlie Teardrop amble towards the taxi.  For this minute, at least, all feels right in Mo’s world.

*

Leonard’s heart is lifting by the minute.  Three more days and all this is done.  No more work, no more PTSD (if that’s what he’s actually got) and retirement, here we come! 

It’s not like he’s got any firmly shaped plans yet.  Maybe some travel, more time with the grandkids for definite.  But in reality, Leonard knows this is not about what he’s running towards – that’ll come, he’s sure – but about what he’s escaping.  And what that is, is this wailing siren, the blue light that he can’t actually see in the daytime, but that’s like a permanent, cold filter across his vision.

For now, Leonard knows it’s one more step at a time.  This dash to the hospital with the heart attack victim, get him there safely, wish him well and then wait for the next call.  Keep going, do what you need to and don’t think about any of it too deeply – it’s only a job after all and one that will soon be over.

Because that’s the trouble with Leonard.  He does think deeply and he’s not really sure how not to.  Every minute, all the time, the same thought - how vulnerable we are; how fragile our bones.

*