The Pavement

I’m lying with my head pressed to the pavement. The pavement is ice cold. A policeman is sitting on me. Knee driven into my back, my arm twisted behind me so I won’t move. The second one is shouting at him to watch my left arm. That it’s very strong. That I might break free.

I don’t break free. They’re both holding me down and I have nothing left to move.

One thing remains that can’t be held down. I begin, out loud.

My Father, who art in me. Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.

It’s dark. Behind me I hear cars. They drive down the street, they don’t stop. The middle of winter. Pieces of glass lie all around me. Somewhere further off, my wife’s voice. She’s saying something to them. Probably that they don’t have to be so brutal. I don’t hear the words. I hear her tone.

I finish the Our Father and start a Hail Mary. Then a second one. That counts time better than a watch. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on this pavement. I know how many prayers I’ve managed to say.

An ambulance arrives with its siren on. A paramedic gets out. I’m halfway through another Hail Mary.

“Oh-ho! This one’s for us.”

One sentence. Until that moment I was a disturbance. From that moment I’m a case. Nobody asks me and nobody has to. The paramedic sees from a distance and knows. People who do this every night recognize their own by the silhouette. Especially when the silhouette is saying a prayer with its head pressed to the pavement.

I felt relief. Hospital, then.

A moment earlier I’d heard one policeman tell the other that they’d been called to a husband making a scene.

“But did he do anything to her? Did he hurt her?”

I don’t know what he answers. That much I manage to hear. Nor do I know how much they know and how much they’ve had to fill in themselves. That I have a knife, for instance.

I fall silent.

The one who was choking me eases off a bit. He’s turned his head, I think, saying something to the paramedic. I hear the ambulance doors open. They pull out the stretcher. The legs unfold, the wheels clatter on the asphalt. I know this by sound, not by sight. I have almost no sight.

It hurts. The policeman is pressing down harder than he needs to. With his other hand he’s pushing my head into the pavement. But now I can breathe. Maybe there are three of them. One with a knee, one holding an arm, one choking. Something like that. Two are milling around. I can’t count them and I don’t try.

I see a piece of the bus shelter. The light of a street lamp. Glass. Flashing lights. In the distance, my wife and some people. My parents might be there. I don’t know. A kaleidoscope.

I have no shoes. A moment ago I had one Croc on. I threw it at a passing car. I wanted to stop it, so I could keep escaping. I hit it. The car slowed down. It didn’t stop.

I’m wearing a suit. Jacket, bow tie, white shirt, suit trousers. One sock.

Someone dressed for something important is lying in glass with his face to the ground.

I’m very cold. The cold I could take. The foot, no. The foot is losing feeling. I wonder whether it’s frostbitten already. Whether they’ll amputate. Or not yet.

That is the only fear of this night. Not the police. Not the ambulance. Not where I’m going. The foot. The head isn’t afraid, because the head has a script. The body was given no script and is afraid for itself.

I feel hands. They lift me by the arms and legs and lay me on the stretcher. Very efficiently they strap me in. They pull tight. One leg is left loose. I could pull it out. I could try to run once more.

I have no need.

It is done. It was foretold. I’m going to the hospital. The Master gave me a choice: hospital or prison. I chose hospital.

The straps tighten and it isn’t defeat. It’s confirmation. I’m not stopping because they’ve beaten me. I stop because the script has closed. I’m calm. From outside it looks like surrender. From inside it’s fulfilment.