Morning Jog

Getting on for 8 a.m. Along a dirt track from the main road, through the allotments. Young woman hunched on the ground. Could be fifteen years old, or perhaps between twenty and thirty.

Hello? Are you okay?

No response. Seems to be insensible, or asleep. Shoulders bare, long hair hanging forward, obscuring face. Walk on, but stop and look back.

Are you alright? What’s your name?

Man with dog arrives. I seen her and I said I’d come back and check in half an hour. Give her time I said.

She tries to stand. She is floating like an intoxicated string-puppet. She staggers, bends over, looking down. Feet move in a crazy flat-foot dance. Topples and bangs head on a concrete slab. Groans. Rolls, and reaches out an arm to stand.

Stay down! Sit down! Sit down!

Three other people staring: man with dog, silent refugee woman, and smiling refugee man, toting a bag of carryouts. Man with dog says don’t go near, she might have something sharp. We get a lot of that. She’s on the browns. Don’t bother with the police. Never come.

Press 999 for ambulance, three times. A relative’s contact comes up, three times. Panic. Feel stupid. What’s wrong with this phone? Delete the number. Try 999 again.

Can I have the number of your phone. Where are you?

Near the allotments, next to back gardens of the flats, by the river, by the footbridge.

What is your location?

Refugee woman carefully recites postcode of nearby flats, twice.

Is she conscious? Is she breathing?

Yes and shivering.

Do you know her?

No.

What is she wearing? Is her skin an odd colour?

A glimpse of a thin and pointed face as she gets up and falls down. Collides with a dustbin. High wire act, audience gasps.

Is ambulance on its way?

She’s in the queue. Can you stay with her until it arrives?

Yes.

A clinician will call you within an hour. Phone us again if the situation changes.

On her feet, crouching over. She parts the drapes of long hair and vaguely probes rubbish around dustbin. Peers at her trainers as if they are strange things. Every time she falls, more dirt sticks. Jeans are slipping, revealing cleft in her buttocks.

Ambulance seen in nearby side road. Two female paramedics push a wheelchair, which she falls backwards into. As they turn and leave, medics say thankyou,

The refugee beer-drinker is giggling. He points a finger.

How old you?

How many years you? 

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