Saved By The Cops.

Chapter Seven. Pamela Adams.

Chapter Seven. Pamela Adams.

My body is shaking like a leaf as I sit in the driver’s seat of my car, my head buried into the air bag. My blonde hair, escaping its bobble, it had fanned out over my face. My arm hurts like hell, and when I glance down at it, it looks like it is hanging at an odd angle. My feet are numb, and everything hurts. A female voice asks if I am okay, and I go to nod my head but am instantly shouted at to stop. My mind is in a whirl, and I am disoriented and confused as I try to make sense of what has just happened to me.

I was on my way to work, but not at my normal time. Where had I been again? Oh yeah, that’s right, My doctors, the surgery on Durham Road. I was heading down passed Barns Park, nearly at the school I work at. Yeah, a black car, up my rear end, music blasting so loud I could hear every single syllable of Eminem’s Houdini inside my own car. I had slowed for the lights up ahead, then nothing. My memory gone.

“Did you lose consciousness ?” the female voice asks, as I hear a commotion outside my car.

Was I knocked out? I don’t know, hell I was driving, slowing then I am here with my head on a pillow of air covered in white powder, the remnants of the explosive charge inside the airbags, my ears ringing and my jaw hurting. Arm at an odd angle, and feet numb.

Shit. I need to call the school! Mrs Little was relying on me today to help with her class.

“School,” I try to tell the voice who keeps asking me random questions

“Wait she is trying to say something,” the voice tells me.

“School,” I attempt to tell her to call my school, to let them know I will be late.

“She is saying school,” the voice tells me, as I feel hands on my spine, before placing a collar around my neck.

“Do you have kids at school?” the woman’s voice now asks me.

“No. yes, no,” I attempt to make sense but my ability to communicate effectively has all but left me.

Another sound echoes in my ears. For all the world it sounds like a fight. I have broken enough up between the six-year-olds I help teach to recognise it instantly. Then I hear a voice saying something.

“You have the right to remain silent. But if you do not say something that you later rely on in court this may be held against you, anything you do say will be taken down. Do you understand? ” the male voice says.

I then hear another engine, and doors slamming.

“Doc, you go back to the nick with him. I will stay with the victim,” a deep voice that for some reason makes me feel safe says, as a door slams shut, drowning out the shouts from earlier.

“I think she may have kids at a school. But she is not making much sense,” I hear the female voice from before say to someone.

“Do you have a name,” the comforting voice asks.

“No, once we get her out, we will see if we can id her,” the female tells him.

“Sierra Romeo, this is 1436, can I get a PNC check?” the comforting voice sounds again. There is a crackle, and a voice that sounds like a robot, who answers him.

“November Juliette Six, Niner, Kilo, Romeo Echo,” the comforter says. The sounds like it should be familiar, but my confused brain cannot seem to work out why. It takes a while when I realise it is police talk for my registration plate.

There is a response I can not make out, but then I hear footsteps approaching my side of the car.

“Miss Pamela Adams?” the comforting voice asks me.

“Mmm,” is all I can respond, I am not sure if it is my attempt at affirming my name, or because that voice sends a trail of goosebumps down my spine.

“I am sergeant Craig Smith. You have been in a car collision. The paramedics are here to help you,” the comforting voice tells me. Hell, I could lay here forever listening to the voice that is sounds like a hot knife slicing through butter.

“From what dispatch have told me, there are no kids. She is on our system though, as a person with a full security check and works at the local school here. You know, the one that burnt down a few years ago,” the comforting voice or Sergeant Smith as I now know him tells the female voice.

“We cannot move you yet, it is not safe for you to pull you out of the car. But, don’t worry, the fire brigade is here, they are going to cut the roof from your car so we can get you out safely, then we will take you to the hospital. We are going to put a blanket over your head, just so they can remove the roof of your car without risking any further injury,” the female voice from before tells me.

Next thing I know, only small bits of light through the stiches of the blanket reach my eyes, as I hear the sound of hydraulic cutters, squashing metal. The sound is quite frightening, and if I am honest, I just want it to stop. I let out a low whimper, my head beginning to pound due to the noise.

Then I hear a load of different voices shouting, as more cutting sounds echo in my ears.

Next thing I know, pain like I have never felt before rips through me, and I let out a loud scream, unable to stop myself if I tried, as I am lifted onto a flat gurney, a mask put on my face, as I am wheeled into the back of what I can only presume is an ambulance. A couple of people surround me, as I look up at the ceiling, everything around my peripheral vision blurry, as a light is shone into my eyes. Next, I feel cold metal against my skin, and I realise that my favourite knee-high brown boots are being cut and taken from my body. My light brown flowing print dress is next to be cut, along with my dark suede jacket, which cost a small fortune, but was a gift to myself a year ago when I passed my final exams and became a qualified teaching assistant and landed a job at a local school.

“I will finish off here then come to the hospital for her statement,” The comforting voice of the sergeant says to the paramedics who are busy cutting off my clothes and putting needles in my arms.

“She is going to be with us for a while,” the female voice tells him, when I hear the back doors to the ambulance slam, and the loud noise of the siren’s cause my brain to hurt so bad if feels like my ears are bleeding.

I don’t know how long I have laid in this bed, I remember something about having to go into surgery, my eyes blinking open to find a bright light that hurts my head.

“Hi Pamela, glad you are back with us,” a cheerful voice informs me.

“Where am I?” I ask, once again feeling more than a little bit confused.

“At the hospital, in a ward. You are staying with us for a few days I am afraid. You were in a car accident. We had to operate on your leg and arm. Good news although you have a concussion there is no major brain swelling. Your leg was shattered in three places, but we have realigned the bones, you didn’t need any pins, and placed a cast on it, once it heals it will be as good as new. Your arm I am afraid did have a compound fracture, with fragments which needed to be taken out, we also had to pin the bones together. However, again you will heal. This could have been a lot worse,” the nurse beside me tells me, although I am unsure how much of that information I will retain.

“Also, when you feel up to it, there is a rather gorgeous man in uniform waiting outside to chat with you. Sergeant Smith, or Smithy as we call him around here. Take as much time as you need to come round, trust me, Smithy will wait,” the nurse grins at me, then lifts my hand, her fingers resting on my pulse, as she looks at her watch, before gently dropping my hand back onto the bed.

“Good. Now would you like a sip of water?” she asks, I nod my head, my mouth suddenly dry at the talk of water.

The nurse pulls me up slightly and places a cup with a straw to my lips, as I gulp it down like I have been ten days in the desert.

“That is enough. Just small sips. You are one lucky lady,” she tells me, as a tear forms in my eye, and spills onto my cheek. Forgive me, but I don’t feel lucky at all.