Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  “Keep going,” Rosie said, her breath puffing warm on Jem’s neck. “Keep going, you’re doing great.”

  Jem nodded, gritting her teeth as her muscles burned. The rope shifted in fits and starts, grinding around the concrete lamppost. She waited for it to snap, for the scream as Sean plunged to his doom, for her own inevitable capitulation. What she saw instead was Sean’s hand flailing, trying to find purchase. She gave a yelp of encouragement, and she and Rosie tugged harder, invigorated. Caught up in their heads-down, heels-dug-in rhythm, they launched him over the railing, and he landed in a heap on the tarmac, his arse quivering and his limbs tangled.

  “Holy shit,” Rosie gasped. “It worked.”

  Jem’s hands were shaking. She dropped the rope and bent double, struggling to draw in a full breath. “Didn’t…didn’t you think…it would?”

  Rosie laughed, a joyous, raucous sound. “Fuck no, did I hell. I have bollock-all luck with this kind of thing. Hey, maybe you’re like a, a—what do you call ’em?” She clicked her fingers, searching for the word. “A talisman?”

  Jem coughed and gave in, sucking on her inhaler, no longer bothered about keeping up appearances. “I really doubt that,” she said once she could speak without the accompanying bagpipes. “I’ll get him a blanket.”

  On her own in the ambulance, she leaned against the oxygen cupboard and closed her eyes. Her knees were knocking.

  “Come on, you’re being a berk,” she whispered. She found a blanket and clasped it to her chest for a moment before reopening the back door. The door stuck, the step catching as it dropped, so she pushed harder, throwing her weight behind it when it met unexpected resistance. She heard a cry and a scuffle, followed by the sound of screeching brakes, and she peered around the door in time to see Sean bouncing off a car’s windscreen. He landed with a thud, rolled back onto the hard shoulder, and came to a stop in front of Rosie’s boots.

  “Jesus wept!” Rosie said.

  Dumbstruck, Jem froze on the top step as Trevor ran across to them.

  “Have you killed him?” he shouted. “I bloody knew it! I knew something like this would happen.”

  She shook her head convulsively, unable to move. One thought was rolling through her mind on a loop: please no, please no.

  “He’s not dead, you pillock,” Rosie snapped, and Sean gave a groan, attesting to the fact. “The car was only doing five miles an hour. Stop gobbing off and help him.” She went over to Jem and touched her arm gently. “Hey. You okay there?”

  “I’m fine,” Jem managed through a renewed bout of wheezing. “I need to—” She gestured toward Sean.

  “You need to sit down,” Rosie said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Jem’s laugh bordered on hysterical. “Not this time,” she said as Rosie stared at her. “Not this time.”

  Chapter Two

  Kev Kerrigan uncapped his Biro and fished his notepad from his pocket, performing a long-suffering double take when he saw its Dora the Explorer cover. Mumbling something about “those bleedin’ kids,” he flicked to a clean page, past crayon drawings of sheep and pigs, and a more abstract scribble that resembled a blue hedgehog.

  “Let me get this right.” He shifted his chair closer to Jem’s, bringing with him a faint waft of baby sick. A suspicious white stain obscured the pips on his left epaulette. If anyone asked him about his family, he’d say he came to work for a break. “You and Officer…”

  “Rosie,” Jem said.

  “Officer Rosie.” He shrugged and wrote it down. “You managed to pull this lad up, just the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where was Trevor while you were tug-of-warring with Barton Bridge?”

  “Um.” Jem focused on the wall behind Kev’s head, suddenly intrigued by a flu vaccination poster. “Uh, he was liaising with control.”

  “I see.” Kev’s tone told her he wasn’t fooled. “So you yank the lad out of the void, and then minutes later you somehow chuck him into the path of a Fiat Panda.”

  “I didn’t chuck him, I bumped him with the back door. And everyone was rubbernecking, so the car was going dead slow.”

  “‘Bumped him…with the back…door,’” Kev said, scribbling it down verbatim.

  “It got stuck,” she added. “On the step, and I didn’t know he was standing behind it. How could I?”

  “‘Stuck,’” Kev was still writing. “Dare I ask what the damage was?”

  She sighed. “Dislocated shoulder and road rash. I gave him plenty of morphine, if that helps any.”

  “It might,” Kev said. As her immediate manager, it wasn’t the first time he’d had this sort of chat with her. “Look, it could’ve been worse, so things will probably go no further.”

  She bowed her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “That’s good. Thanks.”

  “Trevor’s gone off sick,” he continued, pretending not to notice as she dried her eyes. “Stress, he reckons, so you’re solo. I can’t see the resource manager doing anything with you at this hour. Head back to station when you’re ready.”

  “Okay. Okay, I’ll do that.” She stayed where she was until his footsteps had faded down the A&E corridor, and then she straightened in slow, halting increments. Her back and arms ached, and her palms were red raw where the rope had slid through them. She flexed her fingers, wincing at the sting.

  “Damn,” a familiar voice said quietly, somewhere off to her left. “I had spare gloves in the car, but I never thought.”

  Jem squinted up as Rosie set two plastic cups on the hand gel dispensers and crouched by her side. It was warm in the corridor, and Rosie had taken off her hat, freeing waves of auburn hair streaked through with blond and cut into a choppy bob, as if the style had wanted to conform but rebelled at the last minute. If she’d chosen it to match her personality, it was damn near perfect.

  “I fell off a tyre swing when I was seven and ended up with paws like these.” She took hold of Jem’s wrists, assessing the damage. “My mam—she was never really one for first aid—smothered them in butter and bandages and left them to cook for two days of a nineties heat wave. They got infected, and I nearly lost a pinkie.”

  Jem waited a few seconds for a punch line that never came. “That’s quite an upsetting story.”

  “Yeah, but it has a happy ending. Look.” Waggling her intact little fingers, Rosie plonked into the chair Kev had vacated. She reached to retrieve the brews, her coat sleeve riding up to reveal a black tattoo of a Manchester bee. “I wasn’t sure if you were a tea or a coffee gal, so I made one of each. Take your pick. I’m not fussy.”

  “Tea, thanks.” Jem cradled the cup, smiling at the paper towels Rosie had insulated it with.

  “Did he read you the Riot Act?” Rosie asked, thumbing in the direction of Kev’s departure.

  “Not really. How about you?”

  Rosie ticked the misdemeanours off on her fingers. “I should have requested an urgent assist, tow ropes aren’t designed for search and rescue, the lamppost hadn’t been risk assessed, and Traffic should have closed the motorway. There’s probably a few more I’m forgetting, but the lad’s bride-to-be and his dad all but declared their undying adoration for me in front of my sarge, so I’m still gainfully employed.”

  Jem raised her cup in a toast. “To gainful employment.”

  “I’ll drink this nasty NHS coffee to that.” Rosie took a slurp from her brew. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. Rosie Jones—pleasure and all that.”

  “Jemima, but my mates call me Jem.”

  “Jemima…” Rosie trailed off expectantly, and Jem sighed, bracing herself for the usual slew of jokes.

  “Pardon. My surname’s Pardon.”

  “Jemima Pardon.” Rosie sounded it out slowly, hitting the syllables as if testing their rhythm. “I like it. It’s unusual.”

  “It’s a pain in the arse,” Jem said, too much on the defensive to appreciate the compliment. “Everyone takes the piss.”

  Rosie
drained her cup and pushed out of her chair. “Jealousy results in very tiresome behaviour, Ms. Pardon. Us plain-monikered folk can be a bitter bunch.”

  The surface of Jem’s tea rippled as she laughed. Rosie might be borderline bonkers, but she certainly brightened a night shift.

  “That’s more like it,” Rosie said. “Don’t let the buggers grind you down.”

  The fierce note of solidarity prompted Jem to lower her cup. “I try not to.”

  “Good. Sorry, just a sec.” Rosie adjusted her earpiece, listening to her comms as she fastened her jacket. “Bollocks, I’ve got to run. There’s a riot kicking off at McTucky’s in Beswick.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Yeah, assault with a spicy chicken wing. This city is ridiculous at times.”

  Jem watched Rosie hare down the corridor, narrowly avoiding an elderly bloke heading for the toilet.

  “Be careful out there!” she shouted after her.

  Rosie paused halfway through the door and raised a hand in acknowledgement. “You too!”

  The door slid shut behind her, and seconds later, flashes of blue marked her passage from the hospital grounds, the light growing distant and then disappearing altogether. The man doddered from the loo, one hand grappling with his open gown, the other slapping the wall as he struggled for balance.

  “Here.” Jem offered him her arm. “Which bed did you come from, love?”

  “Fifty-four.”

  There were twelve bays on Majors. “Aye, that’s what I thought,” she said, and led him around to the nurses’ station.

  * * *

  “Incoming! Duck, Kash!”

  Rosie dodged the man’s swinging fist as Kashif heeded her warning, diving out of harm’s way.

  “Chicken, technically,” Kash said, and clobbered the shins of their would-be assailant with his baton. Enraged, the man sucked in a deep breath and spluttered, spraying spit onto the Formica. He lashed out with his arms, not caring whom he caught in the crossfire but coming nowhere near the table Rosie had taken shelter behind. She watched, bemused, as his movements gradually lost coordination. His eyes bulged, and his face turned first scarlet and then a funny shade of dusky blue as he grappled at his clogged throat with both hands.

  “Shit. Kash? Kashif!” Rosie waved frantically, but Kash was too busy disarming a lad brandishing a flick knife and a spork, and the shop’s proprietor had disappeared behind the deep fat fryer. “Bloody Nora!”

  She darted to the shop counter, creating enough space for a run-up, and threw herself at the bloke’s back. Blindsided, he went down like a sack of spuds, bouncing hard onto his beer belly, and she followed him to the floor, straddling his hips as he retched and spat half a chicken drumstick across the lino.

  “Get off me, you fat bitch!” he yelled once he’d caught his breath.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “And that’s muscle, not fat, you cheeky git. I go to the gym three times a week. Now, you do not have to say anything—”

  “Fuck off.” He jerked his arse sideways, trying to throw her, and she gripped harder with her thighs, reaching for her cuffs.

  “But it may harm your defence,” she continued, snapping the cuffs into place, “if you do not mention when questioned—”

  “They’re fucking hurting me. I’ll do you for police brutality.”

  “The more you struggle, the tighter they’ll get, but I’m assuming you know that already.” She dismounted, letting him flop around on the floor. He was old enough to be her dad, and he stank like a brewery. “Where were we? Oh yes: something you later rely on in court.”

  He rolled until he could glare at her. “I’ll see you in court, when I have you done.”

  “Mm-hm.” She pointed at the camera fixed to her stab vest, its circular lens illuminated by a bright red ring. “Got it all recorded, mate, including the bit where I stopped you from choking to death.”

  “You never did. You lying sla—” His denial cut off as she toe-poked the chicken bone from its puddle of drool.

  “Didn’t your mum ever tell you to chew your food?” Leaving him to seethe, she returned to the counter, where McTucky’s grateful owner was plying Kash with milkshakes and buckets of chicken. She frowned at the smear of red on Kash’s cheek, until she realised it was ketchup. “Van coming for these idiots?”

  “Ten minutes,” he told her. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

  “Chocolate, please.” She stuck a straw through the milkshake lid and sucked hard enough to give herself brain freeze.

  He sat with her at the cleanest table and popped the top off a bucket. “That was a nifty Heimlich. Slightly unorthodox, but very effective.”

  She laughed around her straw. “What can I say? Sometimes you just have to improvise. Been a bit of a night for it.”

  “Yeah, I heard about Barton. First shift in months that they make us run solo, and I miss out on all the fun.”

  “And a cute paramedic,” she said, blowing bubbles into her shake.

  He paused, drumstick poised at his lips. “Your team or mine?”

  She deliberated for a long moment. “Indeterminate. No specific vibes either way, but she was…she was…” Rosie exhaled slowly. “Anyway, I liked her.”

  “Did you get her number?”

  “No, no, nothing. Christ, Kash, we’d only just met, and we were a tad distracted. I think she works out of Darnton. I’ll probably never see her again.”

  “On the other hand, maybe you’ll bump into her all the time, now they’ve mucked around with our shift pattern.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a possibility, I suppose.”

  “Their eyes met across a naked man,” he said in his best film trailer voice. “They found a rope…”

  “Sod off.” She flicked shake at him.

  “And against all the odds…”

  “The van’s here,” she said. “Grab your bucket and stop being a twerp.”

  * * *

  Jem entered the garage code and lined the ambulance up to reverse park. The driving aspect of the job had been her Achilles’ heel when she first joined the service. As a twenty-year-old nervous newbie who’d never driven anything bigger than a Micra, she’d clipped countless wing mirrors, cracked several lights, and suffered the indignity of having “L” and “R” penned on her hands to ensure she could follow the satnav without watching its screen. Now, twelve years later, she eased the Mercedes Sprinter into a bay designed for much smaller vehicles, the wing mirrors never in jeopardy and the rear lights well clear of the garage wall. With ninety minutes left on her shift, she emptied the clinical waste bin, changed the defib battery, and wiped down the saloon surfaces. She briefly considered washing the exterior, but the garage was cold, a wet Manchester winter having given way to an even wetter spring, and she stuck her hands beneath her armpits as she headed for the kitchen instead, craving tea and toast and a catnap.

  A cackle of laughter from the crew room slowed her walk to a tiptoe. She’d parked in the farthest bay along and hadn’t spotted the seven o’clock shift vehicle, but its crew were obviously on station. She knew that Dougie and Bob, who usually ran the line, had booked the nights off, and she cursed herself for not checking who’d been put on their shifts. Sometimes forewarned was forearmed. Nearing the door, she recognised the voices and hugged herself a little harder.

  “Don’t be mard,” she told herself, quelling the impulse to hide in her ambulance until the crew got a job. If they were on their rest break, she could be standing toast-less in the draughty garage for another twenty minutes. It was the toast-less part, not the chill, that brought her to a decision, and she shoved the door open. Her appearance stopped the conversation dead, both the young women in the room turning to stare at her as she walked in.

  “Hey,” she said, keeping her tone light so they wouldn’t suspect she might bolt at the slightest provocation. “Anyone want a brew?”

  Caitlin—six foot something, with tattooed eyebrows and teeth bleached to dazzling whiteness—hid a smi
rk behind her sleeve and nudged her half-empty mug. “Got one, thanks.”

  “Amira?”

  “No, ta.”

  Jem went into the kitchen, out of sight but still within earshot, and heard muted giggles erupt in her wake. In their early twenties and fresh out of university, Caitlin and Amira were paramedic reserves, newer staff members still waiting for a permanent shift pattern and duty-bound to fill the rota gaps in the meantime. As the East Manchester group included three different stations, they didn’t always work out of Darnton, but they made their presence felt whenever they copped for a shift there. Dougie, who rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, had christened them the “Witches of Ardwick.”

  With the toaster ticking over and her tea nowhere near stewed enough, Jem stacked a mass of mucky pots in the dishwasher and scrubbed something that might have been curry sauce from the countertop. The sign asking staff to do their “own bloody dishes” had fallen behind the microwave again, which apparently rendered it null and void.

  “So, Jem,” Caitlin said, raising her voice to ensure it carried, “is it true you accidentally shoved a patient under a van and broke his neck?” More stifled laughter punctuated the question, and there was a dull thud, as if one of them had slapped the arm of the other.

  Jem buttered her toast, picking the shreds from her marmalade, though her appetite was fading fast. Her first slice dropped to the floor as she started to butter the second. It flipped and landed jammy side down.

  “Bloody typical,” she muttered, scraping it up and dumping it in the bin.

  “Come on, Jemima,” Amira said, taking up Caitlin’s thread. Unlike Rosie, she had the knack of making Jem’s name sound like an insult. “You can tell us. We won’t breathe a word, we promise.”

  “Cross our hearts,” Caitlin added.

  Jem’s mouth was too dry for her to answer, and she took her time screwing the top back on her jam. Despite the mouse that lurked in the dishwasher, the ants that regularly paraded across the top of the fridge, and the unidentifiable ooze between two of the floor tiles, the kitchen felt like a sanctuary compared to what awaited her in the crew room. Annoyed that she was allowing the pair of them to hound her on her home station, she drank a few fortifying sips of tea and rattled the spoon against the mug, giving the impression she’d just finished making it. Then, almost sure that she wouldn’t reveal her nerves by dropping anything, she carried her supper through and sat two seats away from them.