Red

He stands in the dark, wedged between parked vehicles, still as stone. The night tastes of damp concrete and diesel. Stray lights bleed across the asphalt in shallow puddles, broken by the sweep of red and blue as ambulances nose in and out of the bay. Paramedics wheel stretchers, relatives shuffle with arms locked around themselves. Every figure is caught for an instant in the flashing light, then disappears back into shadow.

A metallic click. The van door rattles on its track as he slides it open. The interior breathes cold air that smells of rust and stale rubber. Its dark inside, too dark. And yet . . . somehow he can see tools and uniforms in grainy shades of grey, like a photograph still trapped in the chemical bath.

He drags a pair of rubber boots from under a coil of hose. Too small. His toes jam against the ends, the rubber bruising his nails. The pain throbs up his shins but he ignores it. It won’t be for long. The second boot fights him harder; he wins by brute force.

A hard hat follows, dropped onto his head with a hollow knock that echoes in his ears. A rag is tugged free from beneath a box of screws. Dust puffs from it, bitter as old plaster.

His hands sift through tins of paint, the clink of metal sharp in the quiet. One tin arrests him. He mutters the label under his breath, pops the lid. The solvent stings his nose, a chemical tang that burns the back of his throat. The rag sinks into the thick liquid, soaking until it drips. He wrings it once, heavy and wet, then stuffs it into his pocket.

A step ladder hooked to an interior wall. Its aluminium is cold against his palm. He tucks it under one arm.

He turns and walks away from the van, the side door left open.

Behind him, the vans interior light flickers on. It shouldn’t. Whatever was inside isn’t anymore.

He doesn’t check. He heads for the hospital.

The main entrance waits ahead, guarded by a man with a gun.

Not worth it.

To the side, a doctor appears . . . coat flapping, shoes squeaking on the wet tarmac. He fobs his car shut, lights flashing once, horn giving a muted chirp. A leather satchel swings from his shoulder.

Boots scrape against the pavement as the man follows. The sound makes the doctor glance back. A silhouette: hard hat low, ladder hugged close. The doctor slows, registers, then quickens his pace toward the side entrance.

At the door, the key card swipes. The lock clicks. The doctor holds the door without thinking . . . because you always hold it open for a tradesman with a ladder, a courier with a parcel, an old man with a stick. The automatic reflex of civility that undoes security protocols.

Inside, the air hums stale, dry with disinfectant. A ceiling light pops overhead, showering glass dust. Another further along stutters, throwing shadows like faulty film reels.

The doctor glances back again, eyes flicking from the ladder to the mud-streaked uniform. “Rough night?” he asks, voice too casual, smirk tucked beneath the words.

The man says nothing.

“That bad, aye…” The doctor gestures upward. “Have a look at these whilst you’re here. Whole place is a write-off. Lights always breaking.” He’s already walking away, shoes squeaking until the corridor eats the sound.

The ladder clatters lightly as it’s set against the wall, its aluminium legs scraping on floor. His gaze finds a narrow window in a set of hospital doors nearby.

Beyond is the Accident and Emergency lobby. Reception choked with bodies. A man bleeding through a shirt, a drunk lolling with one eye closed, a woman holding ice to a split lip. Crying, coughing, whispered prayers.

He scans the room, slow, deliberate, until his eyes hook on a sign above a side door. Intensive Care Unit.

The rag comes out of his pocket. It glistens in the weak light, still wet, still red. Paint red. He winds it tight around his hand, fingers vanishing beneath the cloth.

He grips the handle, pushes the door. The hinges breathe.

And he walks inside.