Copyright© 2010 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
“Just stay still, mate, ambulance is on its way.”
“I feel cold,” said Perryman and started to shiver. If he was faking it was a very clever act—especially when he closed his eyes and stopped breathing.
“Oh shit, what d’we do now?”
I’d watched in frustration too long. His injury wasn’t spinal, he’d bashed his head—sub-dural haematoma. I barged my way to the front—“Give me room, that means you too,” I told an offended first aider.
On the pretence of giving him mouth to mouth respiration, I was cradling the back of his head where the injury was, the energy leaving my hands was freezing cold—usually it’s warm.
I felt his carotid pulse—“His heart is still beating, but he’s not breathing.” I said which meant I blew into his mouth again—he’ll have fit when he knows who did it. The energy was blasting from my hands as if it had to reach a certain level to stop the bleed and disperse some of the blood.
I continued the kiss of life while healing his brain injury. He had a severe concussion with bleed—normally, he’d have been dead by now or a cabbage—instead of the usual turnip! They say a change is as good as a rest.
As I held his head, blowing into his mouth every minute or so, I got a feeling that the bit of brain that was being damaged was that relating to his sexual orientation. If he was a paedo, and we didn’t know for certain, this could prove most interesting. It was almost as if he had been targeted by something to change him. Part of me hoped he became gay—nah, that was wicked of me.
The ambulance eventually arrived, they’d only been sent to the wrong campus—giving me twenty minutes to pour in energy. Just before they arrived his eyes fluttered open, I kissed him once more and his body, including his feet moved a little—he’d be physically okay now.
The paramedics were arrogant and ignored me. They put him in splints and braces before loading him on the stretcher. “Get his head X-rayed, he’s got concussion,” I suggested very strongly.
“The caller said it was a spinal, not head—lost sensation in his feet and legs.”
“That occurs in sub-durals too.”
“How do you know?” he almost sneered at me.
“I’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah, where was that?”
“While you’re arguing your patient could be dying,” I pressed, he wasn’t, I was still maintaining him but they didn’t know that.
“Okay, I’ll bet you a fiver it isn’t a sub dural,” said the argumentative paramedic.
“Done, send it to Haiti appeal and I’ll do the same—but I am a hundred per cent sure of what it is, how sure are you?”
“Enough,” he virtually spat at me.
“Come on Don, she might be a doctor,” said his young female companion.
“Better than that,” said Gareth quietly behind me. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you? Where does the blue stuff come from?”
“The sky?—on a fine day, it’s full of it,” I joked.
“Is this yours?” asked a man who picked up a memory stick from the floor.
“No—all my stuff is in my bag.” I pointed to the pile of stuff which Tom had been protecting whilst I’d worked to save Perryman.
“If I collapse—will you resuscitate me?” asked a wag who’d watched the proceedings on the floor. I blushed, then he said—“I can’t breathe, save me beautiful lady.”
“Let him croak, then we’ll be able to get a word in,” said one of his colleagues.
“Shurrup,” said the one who apparently couldn’t breathe, “I’m seriously dying, here.”
I managed to find a ladies loo and wash my mouth and freshen my lipstick et cetera. I always carry a travel tooth brush in case I get bits of cabbage stuck in my front teeth. Brushing my teeth to rid myself of the taste of Perryman, was a real pleasure.
The meeting only lasted an hour—Dr Sage chaired it and did so very cleverly. A grant would be possible for sea mammal studies, dependent upon costs incurred, but Portsmouth would control the major investment—including the half a million a year from High St Banks—the bank had insisted upon it, apparently.
I’d helped Simon get the bank award for the survey, before we were an item. I’d kept my identity as Cathy Watts—but someone rumbled me.
“Mr chairman, isn’t this all a bit incestuous—isn’t Cathy Watts engaged to Simon Cameron from the bank? How come she hasn’t declared her interest, to the meeting?” mumbles went round the table.
“Cathy is actually the Lady Cameron of Stanebury, however, the award was made before she and her husband were engaged or married. This was done under the auspices of the Under Secretary of State, so unless you wish to query his integrity, I think you can rest assured that the award was made in good faith.”
“But she works for the bank?” protested another.
“No, she owns it,” piped another.
“I am retained as an ecological adviser by the bank—part of which means I try to encourage them to spend money on protecting the environment, funding education and publicity for good causes. I did get them to fund the posters for this survey.”
“Only because you’re on the bloody things.”
“If you think that’s a good thing, you can pose for the next ones—but they like you to do it in a fairly short skirt.” I threw back at the hairy faced ape who’d made the comment.
“Yes, Douglas, I’ll tell them where to contact you—cuddling what—um—a killer whale?” Gareth was very good at the put down.
This sort of banter went on for a while longer, when Gareth closed the meeting—the next would be an ad hoc thing as he decided we needed one, otherwise, Tom was very much in charge. He was, I told him so on the way back—and we all laughed.
As the meeting was finishing, the man who’d found the memory stick asked if it belonged to anyone. It didn’t, so he plugged it into the computer we’d been using for the meeting.
A load of gobbledygook came up first, then an encryption thing—at this point I’d have given up and dumped it. But not the finder—he was a bit of a computer buff and in two minutes he’d opened the encryption there were about a thousand pictures on it, mostly jpegs. He opened the first and we all gasped—the second was a gasp of disgust and the third meant we called the police.
I won’t describe the subjects except to say they were of children—I suspect you’ll know what the rest means. As no one actually saw Perryman drop the stick, unless the police find evidence linking him to it, they won’t be able to prove anything yet again. Hopefully, however, his bang on the head and my subsequent first aid will help him to mend his ways.
It’s ironic that I half expected him to queer my pitch at the meeting, instead I might just have spoilt his takeover bid, with Gareth’s clever running of the meeting helping enormously.
“Should I have declared my interest?” I asked as we drove east to Portsmouth.
“I did on your behalf, if you’d read your agenda and qualifying documents, you’d have been aware of that,” Gareth gently chided me.
“Sorry, been a bit busy of late.” I blushed.
“So I gather. Your father in law phoned me last night and asked me to take you to Southsea, apparently your kids are there, Stella has packed a case for you both, and if necessary he’ll send you off somewhere else, safer.”
“Not bloody Scotland, it’s even colder up there.”
“I think ye mean bonnie Scotland,” said Tom loudly, “Och, it’s whaur ma heart is,” he sighed to himself.
“Yep—highest rate of cardio-pulmonary disease in Western Europe,” I said and he gave me one of his porridge freezing stares.
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