He lies there, at my feet: a broken man. He had jumped from the car park on top of the local shopping centre. I look up at the dizzying height of the roof above. How many times had I looked over the edge of Level 6 of the car park? I imagine the fall, can see his flight to death. The rain now falls on to his back, his head twisted at an angle incompatible with life, eyes sightlessly looking up at where he has jumped from.
For he is dead, of that I have no doubt. But, there are formalities to complete, before I can stand up, stretch out my back from kneeling awkwardly at his head, and say the words that will signify the end of this poor man's life: "Ok folks, I'm calling this one at... 16:43."
I gently roll him on to his back, and proceed to pass a tube in to his windpipe - the view is initially obscured by blood, and I use the suction to clear my way. Tube in place, I then make two cuts, one on each side of his chest, and push my finger through muscle and fascia, then between the ribs, into the chest cavity, in order to decompress any tension caused by a collapsed lung. That done, and still with no response, I stand, stretch out my back, and call it.