Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  Jem faced forward, no longer tormenting her ear. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about cheerier things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Good question,” Jem said as if momentarily flummoxed by the concept of joviality. “Uh, footy team? Pets? To dunk or not to dunk?”

  Rosie began to tick her answers off on her fingers. “Man City. Fluffy the bearded dragon.” She paused, digits still outstretched, to address Jem’s muffled laugh. “Is something amusing you?”

  Jem shook her head. “Nope, not at all. Carry on. It’s a fine name.”

  Rosie did her best to look askance but gave up when she almost clipped the kerb. “Bugger, apologies.” She overcorrected and clobbered a couple of cat’s eyes instead. “I inherited Fluffy from the family of a dead smack rat, and he sort of answers to it, so we’re stuck with it. Now, where were we? No to dunking, because I’m rubbish at it and I don’t like crumbs floating in my tea. How about you?”

  “Bolton, for my sins,” Jem said. “No pets of my own, but I walk other people’s dogs, and ditto on the dunking. I have on occasion sucked my tea up through a Twix, though.”

  “Well, that’s disgusting,” Rosie said. “You must teach me how to do it.” The taxi in front of them dawdled up to a traffic light and sped through at the last second, leaving her to slam her brakes on for the red. “Arse,” she muttered, tempering her road rage in deference to Jem.

  “I’d have blasted the stupid sod,” Jem said, apparently not as mild-mannered as Rosie had assumed. Her stomach rumbled, and she clapped a hand atop it. “God, sorry. I get proper nowty when I’m hungry.”

  Rosie thought of the leftovers her mam had packed and the promise she’d made to the doctor. The light changed, and she accelerated smoothly through it.

  “If you can hang on for another ten minutes,” she said, “I’ve got just the thing.”

  Chapter Five

  The forensics tech dropped the bloodied swab into a plastic bag and sealed the bag’s edge. “Sorry about that,” he said, handing Jem a piece of gauze to dab against the scratch. The wounds were superficial, already crusted and closed, but he’d seen a speck of something in the corner of one and dug in deeply, aggravating it enough to make it bleed.

  “Have you finished?” Rosie asked him. Her arms were full of paper evidence sacks, and although she’d waited on the sidelines while he meticulously dated and annotated multiple swabs, her patience was clearly running thin.

  “Yes, I’ve finished,” he said. “I’ll come back for your uniforms in half an hour.”

  “Great.” Rosie all but shoved him out of the locker room and bolted the door behind him. She stopped a metre away from Jem and rearranged the sacks in an arbitrary order, as a faint flush began to colour her throat. “Right. I’ll, um…I’ll close my eyes if you want.”

  Despite an almost overwhelming urge to agree, Jem shook her head. They were both professionals and in circumstances beyond their control, so they didn’t need to feel awkward about this extremely awkward situation where they were going to have to get half-naked in front of each other. Besides which, it could have been worse: she could have been stripping off in front of the tech. Aware that standing around in wet clothing wasn’t doing either of them any favours, she squared her shoulders and bit the bullet.

  “I have to warn you,” she said, “my knickers and bra don’t match.”

  “Disgraceful!” Rosie opened the first bag. “I’m shocked and appalled in equal measure.”

  “Sod off.” Jem began to unfasten her trousers, sliding her belt and radio clip free and emptying her pockets. “I bet yours don’t either.”

  Rosie peeked beneath her own shirt and popped the button on her trousers. She made a show of deliberating before cocking her head to one side to deliver the verdict. “If by ‘match’ you mean ‘clash in spectacular fashion,’ then yes, they match.”

  Her audacity proved contagious, prompting Jem to strip off her trousers without fretting about the shape of her arse or how untoned her thighs were. She handed the trousers over and unbuttoned her shirt, folding it inward and placing it in the bag Rosie held ready.

  “That’s all they’ll need,” Rosie told her. “You get to keep the rest.”

  “How very generous of you.”

  “I am magnanimous to a fault.” Rosie gave Jem a third bag. “Could you do the honours?”

  “Certainly.” Jem opened the bag wide, scrutinising the lockers behind Rosie’s head as Rosie wrestled her legs from trousers that—judging by the amount of swearing—were clinging to her damp skin. Jem counted seven lockers in the first row, each decorated with an average of four photos, with pets outnumbering babies by three to one.

  “Fer fuck’s—Jem?”

  Jem tore her gaze from a picture of a hamster perched in a shoe and followed the appeal downward, to find Rosie sitting on the floor, one leg free and the other trapped by a concertina of material at the shin.

  “How on earth have you managed that?” she said.

  Rosie hoisted her ensnared ankle. “It took a fair amount of skill.”

  Jem crouched in front of Rosie and felt her ears go hot. Rosie had already taken off her shirt, giving Jem a full-on view of a pastel blue bra and a well-defined torso. She tried to avert her eyes, only to end up gawping at a pair of red cotton briefs.

  “Told you they clashed,” Rosie said, sounding more amused than abashed.

  “Yep.” Jem was back to studying the lockers.

  “Jem?”

  “What?”

  “You’re mostly naked as well.”

  “I know that,” Jem said. She still had her T-shirt on, though.

  “I don’t think we can do this if you’re determined to stare at that hamster.”

  “How the hell did you—?” Jem gave up; she knew she’d been rumbled. She let her shoulders sag. “It is a very cute hamster.”

  “Are you really going to leave me to the mercy of that forensics bloke?” Rosie asked, sotto voce, the intimacy enough to make Jem’s ears tingle again.

  “Uh, no.” Jem licked her lips and tried for something more emphatic. “Definitely not. Point your toes like a ballet dancer.”

  The trousers capitulated without much of a fight, and Jem tucked them into the bag, as Rosie stood and performed a neat pirouette en route to collect a pile of spare clothing.

  “Gift from the custody suite,” she said.

  Jem took the grey outfit the tech had supplied. “He seems to have overlooked my top half,” she said, displaying a single pair of jogging bottoms.

  “More fool him,” Rosie murmured, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, fuck, I didn’t mean…Well, obviously I did mean—but I didn’t. Fuck. I’m just going to stop talking.”

  Jem’s snort of laughter shot straight out of her nose. Now beyond any sense of modesty, she used her soggy T-shirt to wipe the snot from her face, peeling off the shirt when she was finished and dropping it onto the plastic.

  Giving it a wide berth, Rosie headed for one of the lockers and returned with a pair of oversized hooded tops.

  “Here, I keep a couple of emergency spares.” She rubbed her hands, all business again, and ushered Jem toward the bathroom. “There’s shower gel and shampoo in there, and fresh towels. Come on, hop to it, or you’ll catch your death.”

  Jem hopped to it, stripping off completely and then standing beneath the water for a while, letting her fingers and toes thaw as the force of the spray eased the stiffness from her muscles. Feeling less decrepit, and mindful of Rosie waiting in the locker room, she washed and dried quickly, throwing on her borrowed outfit to preserve any residual warmth. She propped each foot in turn on a low stool, folding up the overlong cuffs of her jogging bottoms and scowling at her hair in the foggy mirror. She couldn’t do a thing to tame it without a brush.

  “Rosie? Have you got a comb?” she shouted from the safety of the bathroom, too embarrassed to stick her head out of the door.

  “Yeah, hang on. You decent?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, but—”

  Rosie was in before Jem could finish the sentence, brush in one hand and a choice of combs in the other.

  “Ahhh,” she said, drawing out the sound. She surveyed the disaster in front of her with a speculative eye rather than the derision Jem had feared, and then set down the brush and one of the combs. “Do you want me to…Look, my mam’s a hairdresser, and she’s taught me a few tricks. C’mere.” She pulled up the stool and ushered Jem onto it.

  “I can manage,” Jem protested, entirely without conviction. Half expecting Rosie to whip out a pair of scissors, she relaxed when Rosie stuck to teasing out the tangles with the comb.

  “If you take it this way, it follows the natural parting, see?” Rosie said. “And then your fringe falls like so, which complements the shape of your face.”

  Jem peeked up to see whether Rosie was taking the piss, but she seemed quite serious.

  “Think it’d be better a bit shorter?” Jem asked. Rosie had achieved a minor miracle with her fringe in less time than it usually took Jem to swear at it.

  “Definitely. If I were you, I’d get rid of most of the length. Go for a bold pixie cut, with a splash of colour. Auburn highlights would bring out the hazel in your eyes.”

  “‘A bold pixie,’” Jem said. “My regular hairdresser would probably translate that as ‘gormless goblin.’”

  “In which case, Ms. Pardon, book in at Salon Chez Croquembouche—”

  Jem started to laugh. “Rosie, that’s a big pile of choux buns.”

  Rosie waved off her protest. “Yeah, but it’s French so it sounds dead classy. Now, where were we? Right, yes: book yourself in and I’ll get you sorted for a very reasonable fee.”

  “You will?” Jem touched a tuft by her ear, part of her scared to death of committing, part of her swept along by Rosie’s confidence, and a tiny secret part whispering that this would be a good excuse to keep in touch with her. “Okay, then. Name your price.”

  Rosie twirled and pocketed the comb. “I am very partial to any and all kinds of chocolate biccies. And Special Toffee. Original or treacle, I’m not fussy.”

  * * *

  Jem pushed her glasses to the top of her head, the pen slipping from her fingers and landing on her statement. Busy recounting the night’s events, she hadn’t really been listening to Rosie pottering about in the kitchen adjoining the small staffroom, and had assumed a brew and hopefully toast might be on the horizon. The ping of the microwave, however, heralded a smell far richer than that of toast, one redolent of winter Sundays at home, heaped dishes filling the table as sleet battered the windows.

  “Voila.” Rosie slid a steaming plate onto Jem’s paperwork. “Try not to get gravy on that, eh?”

  Jem stared at the roast dinner, afraid it might vanish like a mirage if she dared stick her fork in it. “Where the hell did you magic this from?”

  “Leftovers from last night’s tea at my mam’s. Sorry, there’s only half a Yorkie. The kids can eat their own weight in those buggers.”

  “Not a problem,” Jem mumbled around a perfectly crisped spud. “God, has she done these in goose fat?”

  “As if there’s another option.” Rosie waggled a fork-speared sprout. “How are you getting on with your statement?”

  “Just about finished. I can’t promise coherence, but the sequence of events should be fine.”

  “It’s half-five in the morning, Jem. I’ll be impressed if you’ve managed to spell your name right.”

  Jem mopped up her gravy with a piece of beef. “And yet here we are, eating dinner.”

  “We are merely following doctor’s orders. If you clean your plate, I won’t have to phone her and report back on you.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll text her later and give an update.”

  “Excellent,” Rosie said, a little too cheerfully. “That gets me off the hook.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she changed the subject instead. “Do you have plans for your day off? Tomorrow, that is. I’m assuming you’ll be asleep for most of today.”

  Jem carefully divided a parsnip baton into three equal pieces. While she was glad to shift the focus from Harriet, this topic wasn’t exactly an improvement. Stacking the parsnip onto her fork, she debated lying through her teeth and then wondered why telling the truth seemed like such a betrayal.

  Rosie took a measured sip from a mug of coffee as she waited for Jem to answer. She wasn’t blatant in her scrutiny, but Jem was nevertheless reminded that Rosie’s career depended on her ability to read people. To make matters worse, Jem was generally rubbish at telling fibs.

  “I have a date,” she said, deciding to pull the metaphorical sticking plaster straight off the wound.

  “Fab. Tell me all the gruesome details,” Rosie said, seeming genuinely intrigued. She leaned closer to the table, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Is it one of those swipe left, swipe right affairs?”

  “Christ, no,” Jem blurted, and then worried she’d sounded like a prude. For all she knew, Rosie spent her free time searching online swiping sites for potential partners. She set down her fork, the parsnip forgotten. “I’ve never used one of those. Have you?”

  “Oh, all the time. I can’t get enough of them. I have to leave my phone on silent, or the notifications drive Kash berserk. I can’t help it, I’m insanely popular.” Rosie held Jem’s gaze for a beat before cackling and stabbing another sprout. “And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell you.”

  “How much are you asking?” Jem said, dead serious.

  Rosie choked and wiped her eyes with her fork hand, launching her sprout into oblivion. “Fuck me,” she said, halfway beneath the table on a rescue mission. “I think I’ve hit night shift hysteria.” She reappeared, sprout intact. “So, who’s the lucky chap or chappess? Delete as appropriate.”

  “Chappess,” Jem said, reasonably confident that wouldn’t come as a shock. “Her name is Sylvie, and she’s a friend of a friend of my housemate, Ferg. I’m guessing he’s not told her much about me, because she said to wear ‘something comfortable, with trainers.’”

  “Hmm.” Rosie cradled her mug, deep in thought. “Could be one of those spa day and cream tea fandangos.”

  “That’d be nice.” Jem hadn’t considered the possibility. She’d been too preoccupied conjuring up images of assault courses and boot camps, whilst planning to succumb to a migraine first thing Tuesday morning. “I wish I was sportier,” she admitted. “I walk the dogs as often as I can, but I can’t seem to find another exercise that suits.”

  “You mean one that doesn’t set your chest off?”

  Jem took up her mug and swallowed a mouthful of tea. She was full and cosy and just the right side of sleepy, and chatting to Rosie felt as comfortable as sitting in her pyjamas in front of the gas fire, though she wasn’t sure what Rosie would think about the analogy.

  “Yeah, see, I like swimming, but the cold water doesn’t like me,” she said. “And the one and only time I went jogging, an octogenarian who’d lapped me twice made me sit on the park bench and almost called an ambulance.” She picked at a loose piece of the tabletop. “Maybe I should get a bike or something.”

  “Or a wetsuit,” Rosie suggested. “If the cold is the only thing stopping you from swimming.”

  “I’d stand out like a sore thumb in a public pool.”

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it? Standing out?”

  Jem didn’t shy away from the question. Her childhood had been a constant confusion of blending in and fighting for attention. Each new group home or temporary family had required her to toe the line and find her place within them, while the social workers pushed her to make herself unique, to give prospective parents a reason to want her. Even as a child, it hadn’t taken long for her to realise she stood out for all the wrong reasons.

  “I’d rather be part of the crowd. It’s easier. But most of the time that doesn’t really work for me either.” She drained her mug and pulled out her statement. She didn’t
want to seem pathetic, and neither did she want Rosie to think she was angling for sympathy. “I should get this finished.”

  “Aye.” Rosie gathered the empty plates. “If you’ve got any space left, there’s cherry cobbler for dessert.”

  Jem patted her belly. “I shouldn’t really. Are you having any?”

  Rosie gave her a look. “We did CPR for ages and walked miles in the rain. Yes, I’m having pudding.” She waited a few seconds, as if sensing Jem’s crumbling resistance. “There’s custard,” she added.

  “You swine,” Jem said, entirely without malice.

  Rosie grinned, all teeth and triumph. “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Chapter Six

  The vibration of Rosie’s mobile was as irritating as a low-flying wasp, its insistent drone dragging her from a nightmare whose sole distinct image had been a pallid, lifeless hand. She woke to more rain beating on the roof tiles, her mouth parched and her pulse drumming in her ears. The buzzing cut off before she could enter her passcode, but Stephanie Merritt’s number was top of the phone log, and Steph answered Rosie’s return call within two rings.

  “Morning, sunshine,” she said, bright as a button. “What would you say to a bit of overtime?”

  “What?” The word barely made it past the dryness in Rosie’s throat. She ungummed her lips with the back of her hand and tried again. “What time is it?”

  “Half-twelve. Sorry, did I wake you?” Steph didn’t sound at all remorseful. “I thought you’d be up by now.”

  Unlike Rosie, Steph had an enviable ability to function on four hours’ sleep. She would have been to the gym on her way home, slept like a log, and woken perked to perfection. Rosie wanted to reach down the phone line and throttle her.

  “I only got home at nine. I had to take Jem across to Darnton, so I hit all the traffic.” She heard tapping in the background, as if Steph was typing, and then the ring of another phone. “Are you in work?”