Finally, the green man flashed and Raymond jogged across the road, having flung his cigarette into the gutter.
No need to be a litter lout, I thought, walking at a more measured pace behind him.
When I reached the other side, Raymond was already kneeling beside the old man, feeling for a pulse in his neck.
He was talking loudly and slowly, silly nonsense like “Hiya, old-timer, how you doing?” and “Can you hear me, mister?”
The old man didn’t respond. I leaned over him and sniffed deeply.
“He’s not actually drunk,” I said. “You’d smell it, if he were drunk enough to fall over and pass out.”
Raymond started loosening the man’s clothing. “Call an ambulance, Eleanor,” he said quietly.
“I don’t possess a mobile telephone,” I explained, “although I’m open to persuasion with regard to their efficacy.”
Raymond rummaged in his duffle coat pocket and tossed me his.
“Hurry up,” he said, “the old guy’s out cold.” I started to dial 999, and then a memory punched me full in the face.
I couldn’t do it again, I realized, I simply couldn’t live and listen to a voice saying
“Which service do you require, caller?” then to approaching sirens.
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