The Fates of Angels (Chapter 1)

(Just after some feedback on if it is an interesting opening, if you would want to continue reading and general opinions. I know there's not much to it yet but anything will be appreciated!)

         Askew Gardens was never a hive of activity but there would always be people milling around, going about their business with a sincere smile delivered to whomsoever they passed on the street. Balls could often be heard bouncing along the pavement or up against walls and garage doors, the occasional car sloped past at the 20mph speed limit, joggers flitted past in the momentary reprieve that was flat land before they rounded the corner to face yet another hill and residents watered their plants and tended to their lawns on an almost clockwork basis. On a normal day, you could be forgiven for thinking it looked like some kind of opening credit sequence of a hit American TV show from the 80’s. Were it not, of course, for the frequent looming of rain clouds and inherent introvertedness of the inhabitants that just screamed: England.
         But today wasn’t a normal day.
         Nary a cloud was in the sky, the sun blazing down on the unsettlingly still suburb. The only ball that could be heard was that of the solitary football rolling down the road until it was brought to a stop by the curb. The only car that was running was the one that hadn’t heeded the speed limit and was now stationary in the middle of the road, horn blaring from the driver’s still form pressing against it. The only residents around were those staring in silent shock at the tableau of destruction before them. One came to themself quickly enough to call 999 while another stepped cautiously out of their forecourt to help up the young boy who was whimpering on the pavement, clutching his broken wrist.
         The atmosphere was stifling; no-one wanting, or able, to move as they waited for the wailing of sirens. The car horn continued to howl, accompanied by the alarm of the parked car just a few metres ahead of it. The one that had the broken body of a young man planted through the windshield. The one that nobody could bring themselves to look at.
         As the paramedics arrived and got to work, the sudden activity seemed to wake the onlookers from their reverie; some ducking back into their homes to try and forget the sight, others offering any aid they could provide. One team went to the side of the motionless driver, while another rushed over to that of the figure in the driveway.
         Questions were asked: Who was the driver? What speed was he going? Did anyone see it? Did he hit the other casualty? Was it an accident? No-one dared ask if they were alive.
         A practiced touch to the wrist and there it was; a pulse. The driver was systematically removed from the vehicle with as little jostling as possible, whispers murmured amongst the on-looker’s as they tried to discern the man’s identity with apparently little luck. Attention was abruptly turned to their other casualty. Glass and blood framed the body preventing any simple method of removal to better gauge the injuries. Another firm press to a wrist and the paramedic’s eyebrows rose at the feel of heartbeat; faint and irregular but more than she had been expecting.
         They worked like a well-oiled machine, everyone knowing their places and jobs while people continue to watch expectantly. Once a neck brace was in place and a stretcher waiting to the side, they deftly turned the man over so his face was visible. A strangled sound was startled out of the closest resident, the one whose car it must have been as it was in her driveway. Before the paramedic could question the reaction, the woman’s husband was shuffling the sobbing woman back into the house and away from the wretched sight. Apparently, this one was known, then.
         Known and popular, judging by the numerous expressions of horror and grief that followed like some kind of tragic Mexican wave as the figure was wheeled into the back of the waiting ambulance. It was a wonder anyone could even recognise him, the face was so torn up by the glass, covered with dark bruises and hair matted with blood that his features were completely indistinct. It wasn’t even possible to discern an age but from his clothes, she would have guessed at mid-twenties. It wasn’t good practice to hate your job when it was so important but there were still days like this…
         The ambulance had barely been on the move for two minutes before one of the ECG started blaring, signalling a flat-line.
         …the ward is a blur of motion, people setting up equipment, fluffing the pillows on the bed and double-checking information on their clipboards in nervous anticipation…
         Another blast with the defibrillator, the unsettling feel of bones and cartilage crunching under the force as the paramedics try and force some peaks into the line on the screen before them. The taunting drone of the flat continued.
         …two people in white coats almost collide, so focused on their tasks that they don’t even look up when they bump shoulders, strange implements are laid out on a tray and a main hovers in the room’s doorway, peeking outside every once in a while as if awaiting something…
         The fourth charge is the charm. It’s not a strong pulse but it’s sufficient enough until they can reach the hospital. The others’ condition remains unchanged, pulse faint but steady. Just a little longer.
         …everything is in place but people seem reluctant to leave, adjusting things unnecessarily and darting earnest glances at each other and impatient ones at the figure in the doorway…A chime sounds somewhere in the distance; soft but heard by all causing them to freeze and suck in a collective breath…All eyes turn to the watchman who peers into the hall beyond…

“He’s here.”