It was always “two cans.” No matter how drunk the patient or how chronic their alcoholism, they’d never had more than two cans. He smelled so strongly of booze that he was making Jem’s eyes water, and every now and again he would sway as if the carpet was attempting to pitch him off it.

She wrote “patient appears to be intoxicated” on her paperwork and moved on. “When were you last in A&E?”

“Dunno. What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

“Tuesday?” he said.

She scribbled a note. “Same again?”

“No.” He glared at her. “I took paracetamol that time.”

“Right. Are you going to let me take your obs? Blood pressure, pulse, the usual?”

There were a number of typical Greg scenarios. His favourite was telling the crew to fuck off. That was a crew favourite as well, because it got them out of the address within minutes. Less common was compliance, and on odd occasions he would fake a seizure. He had apparently exhausted his cooperation quotient for the week, because he looked Jem right in the eye and fell back on option one.

She held up her hands. “Fine. I’ll wait outside for the crew. If you need me in the meantime, you know where to find me.”

He popped the top off a fresh can. “They can fuck off ’n’ all. I’m not going nowhere.”

Relieved that she wouldn’t be stuck on scene playing Greg’s refusal game for the next few hours, Jem returned her response bag to its slot and sat on the back ledge of the RRV. A new message from her union rep confirmed a preliminary fact-finding meeting first thing Monday morning and asked her to forward any pertinent details. Taking advantage of the lull, she typed an email on her phone, managing to wrestle with the autocorrect and get the thing finished before she heard sirens. The din ceased a good distance from the address, the crew clearly in no rush, and she’d pocketed her phone and plastered on a welcoming smile by the time they parked behind her.

“Is he for coming or not?” the paramedic asked.

“Or not,” Jem said, and continued over his groan, “Six Brufen with a shitload of lager, no vomiting, no apparent plan, minor scratches to both wrists from a manky razor blade.” She displayed the blade as Exhibit A.

“I hope he gets fucking tetanus,” the EMT said.

Jem dropped the blade into her sharps bin. “Looking at his house, I think he’d be immune.” She handed the tech her paperwork. “Do you want me to stick around?”

“No,” the paramedic said. “No point in all of us being bloody trapped here.”

“Cheers.” She took her keys from the carabiner on her fleece. “He’s gone for Arsehole setting today, so you might need the police.”

“With a bit of luck it’ll do us for a finish,” the tech said.

“What time are you off?”