Call The Cops!

When I arrive at the house, I see lights on. I dump my bike and knock at the front door, trying the handle. It’s locked. At some point since my last visit, she’s covered the windows with film, so I can’t see in. I knock some more and call through the letter box, “Sian. It’s me. Are you OK?” Nothing.

There’s a small window to the side, but the glass is frosted. I peer through anyway, hammering with both fists. “Sian. Come on. It’s me. Can you just let me know you’re OK?” There’s something on the floor near the bathroom. A white shape. Is that skin, hair? Is my sister lying on the floor drowning in her own vomit?

I decide to try the back. Bet she’s left the patio doors open. Down the side of the house there’s an old pallet and various hazards I can’t make out in the dark that I must navigate to get to the back gate. Only there is no gate anymore. Just a fence. There’s raised decking the other side, so it’s climbable. Remembering that time I locked myself out and had to scale a fence twice as high as this, I drag one of the bins across and haul myself up and over, almost doing the splits as I land on the wet planks.

Splodge comes running to the window when he sees me, tail wagging madly. He presses his nose to the glass, smearing his plea to come out and greet me properly. The cat is pacing the kitchen worktops. Something’s very wrong. The doors of course are locked.

Then I see. Not some vague shape now. She’s sprawled on the floor, half in and half out of the bathroom, not moving. I bang some more and scream at her to let me in. How can she not be moving with all the noise I’m making?

I see headlights through the front windows and go to the back fence. It’s the taxi dropping Mum off. Where’s the fucking ambulance? Mum helps me back over the fence. “Have you got the key?” I ask. She holds up her keyring and I tell her to hurry.

“That’s funny,” she says. Holding the key up towards the streetlights. “I’m sure that’s the right one. The one with the little green cap. Yes. Yours is blue, Aaron’s is orange, and Sian’s is green.”

Fuck me. I grab the keys and try myself. None of them work.

Because she’s left her fucking key in the other side, hasn’t she? So typical. Doing this when the car’s in the garage, at one in the morning. No consideration for the rescue party. I had to cycle in the rain. Bloody selfish cow. “I’m breaking in,” I say. There’s bound to be a brick among the debris down the side of the house. That’s probably what I almost broke my ankle on running to meet Mum.

“I’ll just do one of the little ones in the door,” I say, brick at the ready.

“Can’t we try the back?” Mum says.

“Are you kidding? Smash the patio doors?”

“No. I mean, shouldn’t we see if she’s left the patio doors open.”

God give me strength. What did she think I was doing round there? A spot of moonlight gardening. “All the doors are locked, Mum. This is the only option. I’ll do this one.” I indicate with the brick. “It’s nearest the keyhole.” I start thumping at the glass with the brick, but it just bounces off, like catastrophes off my Mum’s unflappable exterior.

Mum asks if she should have a go. “Be my guest.” I hand over the brick and return to the side window. Still no movement. “The ambulance is on its way. We’re coming Sian,” I shout.

“Oi!  What the fuck is going on down there?” That’s all we need. We’ve roused the bloke next door; he’s peering down on us from an upstairs window. When I bring him up to speed, he offers to bring tools. Next thing we know, he’s battering away at the little glass pane with his claw hammer. I imagine a queue forming, neighbours snaking down the street. “Roll up, roll up! Break the glass to unlock your prize!”

After a few hefty blows, he drops his weapon and dusts his palms. “Toughened glass,” is his diagnosis. “You’ll have to ring the police. They’ll have the heavy-duty stuff.”

Now I imagine a swat team with a battering ram.

They arrive within minutes. Probably this is the sort of job they pray for on nights. A bit of excitement. They don’t come skidding round the corner on two wheels or anything though. They don’t have the siren on or the flashing blues. All it takes is three deft jabs with a baton and then hand in, key turned, and the door swings open.

Within minutes they establish the facts: my sister is not dead; neither is she harmed or at risk of harm; she’s drunk. Their work here is done and they head off, leaving me and Mum to deal with the cocktail of broken glass, distressed animals, and a very prickly Sian.

She swings from confused, “what were they doing here?” to resentful, “why are you here?” (the ‘you’ very much aimed at me) to delirious: “if you’d said you were coming, I’d have baked.” Since she has no cakes to offer us, she suggests a drink instead, but alas, the fridge is bare.

When the ambulance finally arrives, we’ve had tears and laughter and everything in between. One paramedic, Deborah, takes Sian into the kitchen for a ‘little chat about what’s been going on’. The other two sit with me and Mum in the living room. It’s open plan so we can hear my sister explaining how, “the sibling overreacted again.” I try not to get too precious about pronouns, but really, ‘the sibling’? It’s all brushed off as Friday night stress relief. Who doesn’t need to let their hair down at the end of the week? They move on to the more important matter of how Sian should spend her Saturday night: bingo with the girls from work, or hook up with whoever she’s currently sharing her Facebook profile picture with.

Mum tells me to get off home and go back to bed. As I leave, Sian is asking Deborah’s opinion on some new Charlotte Tilbury product: some miracle of radiance in a tube that probably cost more than a small car. I grab my bike and realise I must have left the lights on; they need charging. Still, at least the sun is starting to come up.