RVP

"The RVP for the job is at the corner of ... and ...," Control tell me, at 3am this morning. Oh, how I hate these jobs. Mrs RRD murmurs sleepily for me to be careful as I go. I don't tell her what I am off to - I know how much she worries, just about me travelling to an RTA. If she knew I was on my way to an RVP (rendezvous point, the place the ambulance service meet while police clear the scene of the evil-doers), she wouldn't get back to sleep at all.

Being shot in the chest isn't a recipe for a long and happy life. Three times with a shotgun, and you are probably rolling fate's loaded dice. That's what Control have woken me with. These are the jobs I dread.

As I am getting in my car, there is an update: a 16 year old, stabbed in the chest three times: the RVP has moved a little closer to the scene, and I am asked for my ETA. I know this place well. I am only about 3 minutes away.

I can hear the RVP long before I can see it. Sirens blare, and yet, even above that noise, I can hear the sounds of shouts, of voices raised in anger, of dogs barking. Oh, how I hate RVP's

...to be continued...