Dé vé-jà cu

31st August 2018, 8:30pm

The Sun’s descent into the Indian Ocean was abrupt, marked by the sudden darkening of the late afternoon. The air was crisp; a rogue magpie squawked amidst the dwindling bustle. Night fell, a veil of calm draped across suburbia. Royal Perth, shining beacon for denizens of its’ namesake city, appeared awash in tranquility.

The order before chaos.

An ambulance and two fast-pursuit highway patrols swerved and screeched through the streets, sending pedestrians scrambling out of the way. Not an unusual spectacle if you lived in the heart of the most isolated city in the world.

The Resus team lay poised with fiddling thumbs and tapping feet. It didn’t take long for the radio to crackle alive. A trolley carrying a burly man—soaked bright carmine—crashed through through the main entrance, an invisible giant hand parted the corridor ahead, abled and non-abled bodies scurried against the walls.

“No change in vitals,” said the lead paramedics.

Victor whipped out his pocket torch and scanned the unconscious man’s eyes. “Pupils dilated,” he said. “We need one litre saline, stat!”

The team of six, including four ED nurses and another registrar, swarmed around their patient, everyone speeding down the corridor to the designated bay.

“Where’s my saline!?” Victor barked, stethoscope now plugged into his ears, searching the bloody torso for anomalies. A nurse appeared on the opposite side, syringe in hand, fumbling.

“Jean,” he said, “if you can’t do it, step aside.”

“Just a sec,” she stuttered.

Any doubt he had was exacerbated by her slippery hands. “You’re off!” he said. “Carly, take over!”

He didn’t need to hear Jean’s sniffles and quivering tone to know she was shaken. Only one thing mattered to Dr Victor Tsun: saving his patient—a notorious bikie gang member—guessing by way of his trademark inked forearms and blue shirt chaperons. Half a dozen punctures riddled the man’s chest and cuts perforated his bulging purple features, most of which appeared as blunt-force trauma. He had seen hundreds of examples during his years in orthopedics.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Victor looked up, catching the four policemen who arrived with ‘Tony’ in casual banter. Neither reflecting the gravity of the situation, but this was a scum-of-the-Earth career criminal, who had likely raped and robbed his way up the food chain where he preyed on the weak and unsuspecting.

“He’s crashing,” he said.

One of the nurses scurried forward with the defibrillator. “Fifty Amps,” she said, handing the discharge-pads over.

“Clear!” Victor barked.

The battered body, like a chewed up rag doll, levitated between head and heels, before thudding hard back onto the bed.

“No change,” came the response.

“One hundred,” Victor threw his voice sideways. He searched the faces of the four navy-blues in the corridor, again, smiles and giggles, one even doing the ‘robot’. Speculating was pointless. These were career law enforcers, and none came as straight and narrow as the West Australian police. Until… a squint—part glimmer, part wink—from one of the quartet caught his line of sight.

“Doctor?”

Victor compressed his mind. The peripheral was clear. He pushed both hands down against the hairy, blood-caked chest.

Another jolt, another sickening involuntary leap, another wave of disappointment. The nagging flat line an indirect reminder that Victor Tsun was on the brink of losing his first one since his relegation to the ED. And with that, any momentum he’d gained to push his case for re-assignment.

“One more time!!” he snapped.

“Again!”

“Fourth time lucky!”

The seconds stretched into minutes. The odour of singed flesh diffused into the space, signaling the end of the road.

Carly looked down at her wrist. “Time of death, six twenty PM.” The young woman sighed, wiping her forehead. “Doctor Tsun?”

Victor was staring at the ECG, his one-eighty centimetre frame frozen, hands still clutching the metallic pads, in denial. Every muscle in his body was still tensed, the energy threatening to erupt, he wanted to keep going. It ain’t over until he said it was. Fuck the fat lady!

“Victor?”

Carly was about to intervene when Victor broke his visage. He drew a deep breath and sighed out loud. “Yes,” he said, “six twenty, thirty. Whatever.” He removed his gloves, and turned towards the egress.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Victor shot her a glance. “Finish up,” he said. “I won’t be long. Please.”

“Excuse me,” Victor said when he was within earshot of the policeman with slick raven-black hair, the one who flashed him a grin, allegedly.

“Yeah, mate?”

Victor paused. His heart skipped a beat, the back of his neck glowing red hot. A flurry of thoughts exploded inside his head a few minutes ago, but none revolved around what to say.

“Bad luck, hey?”

“What?” Victor arched an eyebrow.

“I heard he’s the first one you lost.”

Copper has no idea, or he’s faking it. The charming ones are always more dangerous.

“I don’t mean to be weird,” Victor continued, “but I wasn’t supposed to bring him back, was I?”

“Beg your pardon?” the man said, appearing perturbed. No telltales.

“I think you’ve given him something...” Victor said as he made a second pass at the man’s shoulder and chest, “...Senior Constable Stanaway.”

“You serious, mate?” the man grew several inches taller, away from the wall, hand on holster.

“I’ve seen many cases,” Victor said without flinching, “this was up there with the worst, but his condition worsened exponentially. Not impossible, considering his wounds, but still...”

“I guess you can say you’ve seen them all now.”

“So,” Victor said, his voice a tone deeper, “you won’t object if I had his blood tested.”

Stanaway scoffed and chuckled. “This is a prank, right? Tommo put you up for this? That dickhead.”

This guy could sell ice to Eskimos. “I’ll make sure Meagan Atkins from The West gets a leaked copy of the results. I’m sure she hasn’t seen everything. Young, zealous, female. You can be sure she’ll start digging.”

“Look, buddy.” Stanaway took a step closer, his nose right in Victor’s face. “You do whatever you want,” his voice lowered despite the empty corridor. “As far as my team is concerned, this is one evil prick off our streets.”

“The end justifies the means, right?” Victor was at the threshold of hyperventilating.

Stanaway’s breath, coupled with the stench of stagnant moisture infiltrated Victor’s nostrils. Both men snarled in silence, both wanted gloves off so they could end the stalemate.

“Is there a problem here, Constable?” An older man, Stanaway’s partner, or superior, interposed.

Victor’s adversary relaxed his shoulders and stepped backwards. “No, sir,” he said, making brief eye contact with the newcomer. “We were just having a hypothetical conversation.”

“About?”

Victor kept his eyes on Stanaway, ignoring the other man. A cacophony of voices stormed inside his head. A man was dead, granted a criminal low-life who had probably destroyed many lives; but whatever the crime, only a judge and jury could decide his fate; not rogue cops. But was it really about the broken justice system, or being cheated out of a perfect record?

Victor turned to face Stanaway’s colleague, his face long and dark. “We were talking about—” a distinct familiar scent of citrus and flowers tripped his brain. “—the footy.”

“Footy?” Carly chirped, flanking Victor from the right. “Really? Never took you to be a sports person.”

“Yeah,” Victor said. “I prefer playing to watching.” He gazed across to Stanaway, who dazzled both rows of his pearly whites. He’s guilty and he’s playing me.

“So, what’s going on?” She looked at the trio, smiling.

“Nothing,” Victor interjected before the others could say anything. “Just idle chitchat.”

“Alright,” Stanaway’s partner said, clapping his protege’s shoulder. “Afraid I’ll have to break up the party, we’re needed elsewhere.”

Both men bade farewell and excused themselves. “What was that all about?” Carly asked when they were alone.

Victor turned his head, taking in the bubbly, naive personality that was the blonde blue-eyed woman. He rather not lie to her face. Something about deceiving an angel didn’t sit well with him.

“You’re a Dockers supporter, aren’t you?” he asked, hoping she’d relent.

“Yep,” she smiled. “Can’t stand the Eagles.”

“Oh?” he feigned. “How come?”

Carly began ranting, oblivious to her strings being tugged and yanked. The last thing he needed was for her to get involved in his plan to foil this apparent cover-up. She was smart, intelligent even, but he didn’t trust her. Not yet.

“...and B-T-W,” she said, “I had a chat with Jean. I explained the situation. She understands. Vic, are you listening?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. Something about Jean. He’s off the hook. Not that it mattered. “Thanks. I need to go get… coffee.”

“This late? But your shift is almost up. Wouldn’t that mess up your sleep?”

“Decaf,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Victor knew he had left things mid-air, raised more questions than answers. But his reputation was in tatters, or so he decided, nd he needed to salvage it.