The ambulance isn’t coming

I am taking care of a roomful of children, all different ages, mainly boys. There are two other teachers, one reading the newspaper, the other with headphones on.

The boys are running amok, making a racket, pushing each other around, knocking things over. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could send them outside to play. But I can’t. We’re about twenty floors up, stuck in this apartment and it’s my job, well our job, to take care of them.

I look across the room, out the window over the tops of the buildings. We’re so high up the traffic below is barely audible. The room goes quiet, less crowded. The window I’m looking out is very clean. But it’s not clean. It’s open.

I gasp and rush to the sill. Hearing a scraping I look down. Five boys are climbing on the outside of the building. Oh, God. This is not happening. I am staring at them, hoping that by sheer force of will I can make them appear back inside. I’m about to yell at them to get down right now, then realise they might do exactly that.

“Boys,” I say very calmly, “you need to get back inside now.” The boy closest to the window looks up. He’s one of the older ones; about 10 years old. I can’t have concealed my fear too well; he starts to shake. His left foot slips from the tiny ledge and I know he’s about to fall. I dash round the room, searching for anything to help. There! in the corner, a rope. I make a loop and lower it to him. He has the poise to put his head and arm through. He thinks he is safe and lets go of the wall. Immediately his whole weight goes on to the rope. It slips rapidly through my fingers, burning. I grit my teeth and wrap the rope around my wrists. It cuts deeply but I halt his fall. Slowly I back away from the window, pulling with all my might. I scream at the teacher with the paper. He looks up, bemused then ambles over and helps pull the boy to safety.

The next boy has climbed so far down he is almost out of sight. In fact, he is on the ground, thank God.

I lower the rope again. The next boy fits the loop around his torso and we pull him in through the window.

The room is quiet. I look around. It is empty; no boys no teachers. I am alone. Again I run to the window, praying that they’re still there. I am surprised. The next boy is almost up to the window sill; he’s climbed up all by himself. I lean out with one hand and grab him around his upper arm. I drag him up the side of the building, but when he’s level with the window sill my hand begins to sweat. The boy tries to help. He reaches up to try and grab the sill but his arm slides slowly down through my hand. I grip him fiercely at the elbow and pull up. It feels like his arm will break. His chest scrapes over the sill and finally he lands, sprawled on top of me. One to go.

I look down the side of the building at the final child and moan. He looks like an infant, too young to use the rope. His forehead is pressed to the wall. It looks like he’s frozen; can’t go up, can’t go down.

And then he falls.

His body rotates slowly and I’m watching. There is a small voice inside me saying, if you witness the impact you will never escape the memory. But I can’t turn away and he’s still falling and I’m going to watch him hit the ground. My mouth is open and I’m about to vomit. Going to watch him die.

I turn away.

A dull crack. Something breaks, within me. A second later, the crying.

I am tumbling down the stairs, dialling the phone. Through the terrible pain in my chest I am wondering if the cordless will be out of range on the ground floor.

“Fire, ambulance, police?”

“Ambulance!” I blabber everything to operator, the whole story. She seems genuinely moved.

I run round the corner of the building and there he is. Still and silent. No blood, lying peacefully in the tan bark, his beautiful little head next to a row of blue-stone bricks. He’s moving! His hand moves towards his face. His body starts to shake, big movements then smaller, faster, until he’s vibrating, buzzing.

“He’s having a fit!” I’m thinking of brain damage and of his parents and maybe it would’ve been better if he’d just… “Jesus. He’s shrinking!”

“What?” the operator cries. The boy becomes an infant. The infant shrinks further; he’s a foetus now, shrivelled and red, no bigger than my hand.

“He’s changing shape!” The operator is silent. The boy shrinks and changes shape. He’s a small circle now, about the size of a thumbnail. And he’s green.

“He’s turned into a beetle.” The operator is silent.

A small green beetle with five black eyes, he’s just sitting there in front of me. I’m still thinking he can be treated.

The beetle begins to crawl. I’m thinking I should stop him, make him lie still, wait for the ambulance. But he crawls through a small hole in the building and I’m worried the ambulance will arrive soon and there won’t be any patient. I press my head down to the ground and look in through the hole. If I can just keep and eye on him… He crawls past a ventilation grill and little shafts of light play across his back. I can see other beetles in there. They’re green too. They’re looking out at me out through the grill and I’m trying to pick out which one is him.

The line goes dead.