Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  “Are you on a bus today?” Paula asked, indicating the two cups.

  “No, the car. One of these is for a friend.”

  “Is it, now?” Paula elbowed her. “A ‘friend’ you’re meeting mid-shift?”

  “She’s a police officer, Paula. We did the Kyle Parker job together and got talking, that’s all.”

  “Mm-hm,” Paula said, scepticism radiating from every inch of her. “Your hair looks gorgeous, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” Jem took a nonchalant sip of her tea. “She cut it for me.”

  Paula hooted, her hands flying up as if she’d just scored the winner in added time. “Name,” she demanded. “So I can tell Dan all about her.”

  Jem kissed her on the cheek. “Her name is Rosie, and she’s very sweet, but do feel free to make something more salacious up for Dan.”

  “I most certainly will.” Paula held the door open. “Take a sneaky pic and send it to me.”

  “I most certainly will not,” Jem said, and walked out into the rain.

  Her radio buzzed as she put the key into the RRV’s ignition. “Hey, Ryan. What’s up?” She punched her pin into the data screen and winced. She would go out of the system for her break at four o’clock, which meant he had one hundred and fifty seconds to pass her a job before he lost her for twenty minutes.

  “Sorry, Jem. I know you’re heading in for your rest, but would you mind checking out a possible Joey on your way? There’s no one else available, and we need to get it out of the stack.”

  She relaxed into her seat. Hoax calls were easy to deal with: drive past the telephone box, have a look whether anyone was there, and confirm with control that the time-wasting little shitbags had scarpered.

  “Put it through,” she said. “And think kindly of me at home time.”

  “I always think kindly of you. We’ve got a mobile number for this one. Young lass shouted for help and gave a garbled address, then hung up. You’re about six minutes from the street we’ve pinned the call to.”

  “Right-o, thanks. Speak to you in a bit.” She acknowledged the job as the screen started to bleep, and then used hands-free to call Rosie.

  “How do,” Rosie said, sounding uncharacteristically harried. “If this dopey pillock in front of me slams on to read another road sign, I’m having him for reckless endangerment. Where are you? Because at this rate I might miss you.”

  “Worry not, I’m going to be late anyway,” Jem said, rather touched by how stressed Rosie was. “I’m making a detour to an abandoned call first. It’s only on Mansfield Street, so I shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Mansfield Street? Is that off Dunnock?”

  Jem adjusted the satnav to widen the view. “Yes, it’s the one with the big detacheds on it. There’s a nursing home at the bottom end.”

  “And a beautiful patch of wasteland opposite,” Rosie added. “It’s very scenic after dark or in a pea-soup fog.”

  Jem laughed and turned onto Dunnock, muting her sirens as she decelerated for a speed bump. Dusk was well established, helped along by the ever-present rain and a thin shrouding of mist. “In which case, we have the perfect conditions. And it’s got to be prettier than the B&Q car park.”

  “Not to mention closer.” Rosie swore, and there was a distinct squeal of brakes in the background. Jem tensed, waiting for the crunch of metal on metal, but all she heard was Rosie slap something hard and mutter something very impolite.

  “Ooh, are you going to arrest him?” Jem asked.

  “No, I am not,” Rosie said through teeth that were audibly gritted. “I am going to sit calmly at this red light and tell my lot that I’m coming to help you with access or something. I shall see you in three.”

  “Okay, great,” Jem said, delighted to have her company. “Bit of luck, we’ll be done before the brews go cold.”

  She disconnected and drove slowly past number five Mansfield Street, craning her neck to examine it for signs of life. The large, three-storey Edwardian sat in darkness, its driveway empty and all its curtains drawn. The lower two floors had ornate wrought iron bars across their windows, although in this area they were unlikely to be there for decoration. The same style of metalwork had been used to construct the balcony jutting from the top floor, as if the view at some point might have been worth sitting out for. From the safety of her seat, Jem looked at the cracked driveways and unkempt front gardens. Originally built for the local mill owners, the houses would once have been desirable properties, but half of them were boarded and derelict and the remainder had been split into bedsits and hostels, the grandeur of their architecture lost on the drunks and no-fixed-abodes who passed through them now.

  A sudden flare of white behind Jem made her snap upright and then feel stupid as the headlights from Rosie’s patrol car became more distinct. She met Rosie on the kerb, her arms folded against the chill and the street’s eerie stillness.

  “Chuffing hell.” Rosie shuddered, a frown creasing lines into her forehead. “Were you going to go in on your own?”

  Jem took her response bag from the back, preferring to err on the side of caution, even if the job did turn out to be a hoax. “My dispatcher messaged me to say they had no previous calls from the address, so yeah, I’d have gone in on my own. Or knocked, at any rate. I don’t think anyone’s home.”

  “They better not be.” Rosie aimed the beam of her torch at the ground-floor windows. “My goose pimples have got goose pimples.”

  Feeling braver for having Rosie there, Jem led the way along a path that curved through an overgrown lawn and up the steps to a covered porch. “There was no answer when the call-taker tried ringing the mobile number back,” she said, using a solid brass knocker to thump the front door. “It went straight through to voice mail.”

  “I hope he left a nowty message.”

  Jem peered through the letterbox. “Can’t see a damn thing, and it smells…” she paused, grappling for the right word, “very unwashed.”

  Rosie squatted at her side and nudged her over. “Police!” she shouted, pitching her voice a notch lower to lend it an impressive authority. “Open the door or lose it!”

  Jem looked at her askance. “Are you going to kick it in?”

  “Am I ’eck as like, but they don’t know that.” Rosie stood and assessed the doorframe, pressing down its length. “It’s locked, and I think it’s bolted top and bottom. I’d break my bloody foot.”

  “Ambulance!” Jem called. “Is anyone there?” She counted to ten and then lowered the flap and shrugged at Rosie. She was unhooking her radio from her belt when a sharp bang made them both jump.

  “Whoa!” Rosie said. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jem reopened the letterbox. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  Another bang prompted them to look down, and they scoured the undergrowth with their torches.

  “Cellar,” Rosie said, circling the lowest point of the wall with her light. Before Jem could voice a caution, Rosie was off the steps and tearing at the weeds, clearing a space large enough to reveal a tiny barred window. She tapped the pane and then gasped, falling onto her arse as something hit the glass from the inside. “Jesus wept!” She redirected the torch she’d dropped, but nothing else appeared. With one hand splayed across her heart, she flopped back, her legs outstretched. Her breath misted in front of her as she panted. “The little bastard. That’s taken years off my life, that has.”

  Jem giggled nervously and jumped down to help Rosie brush wet grass from her trousers. “Can we get in anywhere?” she asked.

  Despite the rust coating the bars, they held firm when Rosie shook them. “I’ll have a scoot around the back. If there’s no access, I’ll call up for an enforcer ram. Are you all right here for a minute?”

  “Yep.” Jem pulled a piece of dandelion from Rosie’s hair. “How’s your ticker?”

  “Still going like the clappers. I won’t be long.”

  Jem gave her a few seconds to scramble clear and then re
turned to the letterbox. “Okay, love, we saw you there. Bang once for yes and twice for no. Can you get to the front door?”

  Her skin prickled as a rapid couple of thumps sounded.

  “Are you hurt?”

  A single thump.

  “Are you on your own?”

  A pause, followed by two thumps.

  “How many are there of you?”

  Two deliberate thumps.

  Jem nodded, somewhat reassured by that. “Hold on, we’re getting help. Try not to be scared.”

  That earned her a frantic series of bangs. She closed the flap and voiced Ryan. “This isn’t a hoax,” she said. “I’m with a police officer, and we’re going to force entry. I’ll need a bus. We have a person injured, condition unknown, but they’re conscious and breathing.”

  “Aw, hell,” he said, and she knew what was coming. “I’ve got nothing at the moment. There’s six crews stuck on the corridor at West Penn.”

  “No worries. Just bear us in mind.” There was no point stressing him out if they were going to have to wait for police backup regardless.

  A triumphant yell from Rosie cut across his acknowledgement, and Jem ran to find her, following the fresh boot-prints through the undergrowth. She stopped at a tall metal gate that barricaded the side of the house. Rosie was already on the other side, poking her fingers through the thick bars like an inmate in an old-fashioned jail.

  Jem leaned forward, winded by the exertion and the stress. “There are two people in the cellar,” she said. “One of them is hurt, and they can’t get out. It’s probably kids who’ve broken in and come a cropper.”

  “I should’ve bloody seen this coming,” Rosie said. “We could have been at B&Q slurping up coffee through a Twix, but no…” Her protest lacked any genuine rancour, and she waggled her fingers until Jem touched their tips. “Can you get over? There’s a window round the back we should be able to break and squeeze through. My lot have okayed it, because anyone who might be able to help us is buggering about in the floods.”

  “Of course I can get over.” Jem hoisted the bag above her head, standing on tiptoe so Rosie could reach it. “I climbed a fifteen-foot wall on Tuesday.”

  “Good point.” Rosie stood clear, giving Jem space to kick off from the top and land on the narrow path. Jem’s boots skidded on the lichen-slickened stone, and Rosie grabbed her arm to stop her from falling.

  “Thanks.” Jem clung on for a moment and then stepped cautiously across the most treacherous slab. “Lead the way.”

  Rosie had set a wheelie bin and a hefty stone in readiness beneath the window, and she shinned onto the bin as if she’d been born to break and enter. Jem found herself admiring the easy athleticism and the flattering cut of Rosie’s uniform.

  “What are you smiling at?” Rosie asked.

  Caught red-handed, Jem shrugged. “You,” she said, and Rosie laughed, striking a pose on the lid.

  “Is it the Taser? All the girls love the Taser.”

  “Amongst other things.” Jem handed her the stone, and Rosie accepted it without question, refocusing on the business at hand. “I’ve got the oxygen cylinder if you prefer a battering ram,” Jem added.

  “This’ll do.” Rosie rolled the stone in her gloved palm, assessing its shape, before bashing its sharpest edge against the glass. The outer layer of the double glazing splintered but held, so she tried again, knocking out the pieces as they fell loose. She finished the remainder with her feet, sitting on the bin and booting the stubborn shards into submission. Then she was gone, shimmying through the gap and disappearing into the gloom on the other side. She reappeared just as swiftly. “What a shithole,” she said, lighting the way for Jem.

  They paused to get their bearings in a poky kitchen apparently fitted sometime in the 1960s. Every shelf was bare, and the fridge was open, its only contents an ancient carton of sterilised milk. The air smelled fusty, as if this was the first time in years that the room’s seal had been breached.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” Rosie said, running her finger through a thick layer of greasy dust.

  “Not for a good while,” Jem said. She could see the front door at the far end of a dingy hallway and a flight of stairs at the midpoint. The house had been elegant in its heyday, and the staircase swept upward to a broad landing. “Hello?” she shouted from the kitchen door. “Can you hear me?”

  The familiar thud sounded in response, close by and beneath her feet.

  “Where’s the hatch?” Rosie asked.

  Jem went to the stairs. “I don’t know. These only go up.”

  Rosie knelt, aiming her next question at the floorboards and pressing her ear against them to catch any reply. “How do we get to you?”

  “Ladder,” a tremulous voice called back. It was a girl, her words only just audible. “Through a cupboard.”

  “A cupboard?” Rosie looked at Jem for clarification. “Where the hell are they? Narnia? Can I arrest her for taking the piss? That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

  Jem shook her head, deciphering the directions with ease. “Didn’t you ever have an under-the-stairs cubbyhole? For coats, shoes, Hoovers, general junk? It must have a trap or something.” She led Rosie to a small door cut into the side of the flight. Everything in the hall was covered in psychedelic floral wallpaper, and the door had been all but camouflaged in the darkness. Its hinges creaked, the sound as grating as fingernails on a chalkboard, and a cloud of dust flew up when she knelt in the narrow space. She covered her nose and mouth with one hand as she crawled beyond the threshold, her torchlight bouncing off wellies and moth-eaten anoraks. Toward the back, a square of carpet had been tossed on the floor. It came away easily when she pulled at it, and she froze, her torch slipping from her fingers. “Shit. Rosie?” She scrabbled for the light, hoping she’d been mistaken.

  “What is it? What’s up?” Rosie pushed her way in just as Jem managed to refocus her torch. “Oh hell, you’re fucking kidding me.”

  Jem touched the padlock, shifting it from side to side. It was heavy duty, brand new, and firmly locked. She leaned low, her ear almost touching the wood, and knocked on the hatch. “Can you hear me?” she called.

  “Yes!” The girl sounded terrified, and sobs broke her words apart. “Yes, we’re down here! Please get us out!”

  Jem had a thousand questions, but Rosie was up and moving, speaking urgently into her radio as she ran back to the kitchen. She returned within seconds, carrying a dilapidated knife block and the stone.

  “We need to jemmy it,” she said, flinging out a carving knife and a long, thin sharpener. She fitted the latter into the loop of the padlock and used it like a lever, changing her angle of approach repeatedly as she felt for a weak spot. Jem took the stone instead and bashed it into the slats. The shock of the blow reverberated up her arms, but she’d sheared off a chunk of wood that flew past Rosie into the hall.

  “Right. Brute force and ignorance it is,” Rosie said. She adjusted her grip on the knife sharpener so she was holding it like a spear and aimed it between the slats. “Get clear of the hatch!” she yelled, stabbing the sharpener into the crease as Jem resumed her indiscriminate hammering. The boards began to bow beneath the combined onslaught, cracks appearing at random, before one entire length snapped cleanly in the middle. Rosie joined Jem to stomp on the weakened planks, until their boots smashed a hole large enough for them to climb through.

  “There’s a fixed ladder,” Jem said, tapping the top rung with her toe and then pressing harder to test its integrity. The ladder squeaked and juddered beneath the pressure, but it seemed robust enough.

  “Do you want me to go first?” Rosie asked.

  Jem shook her head and grabbed her response bag. “I’ll see you down there.”

  The smell was the first thing to hit her, a foetid cocktail of human waste and wet rot, undercut with a trace of vomit. She breathed through her nose, acclimatising to the stink, and panned her torch around as she reached the bottom of the ladder. T
he light picked out an empty water bottle, the wrapper from a loaf of white bread, crisp packets, and a roll of toilet paper. She found the children in the farthest corner: two girls huddled beneath a blanket, their hands raised to shield their eyes. They were filthy and shivering and obviously traumatised.

  “Please don’t hurt us,” one of them said. Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been screaming for days. Wincing, she licked her chapped lips and tightened her hold on her friend. “We didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Jem said. She took a cautious step, aware of Rosie a couple of paces behind her. “I promise we’re not going to hurt you. My name’s Jem and I’m a paramedic, and Rosie here is a police officer. You’re safe now, okay?”

  “Okay,” the girl said. She was the elder of the two, perhaps fifteen, and Jem could see streaks of blood on her fingers as she stroked the younger girl’s hair. Dark shadows encircled her eyes, and she looked half-starved, her cheekbones too prominent in her muck-streaked face.

  “What’s your name?” Jem asked, still slowly approaching them.

  “Ava,” the girl said, sitting up straighter, her confidence growing. Her hair was dyed bright pink beneath the grime, and both ears sported multiple piercings, as if she’d been the class rebel before someone shoved her in a cellar and knocked all the fight from her. “I think Chloe’s broke her ankle. She fell off the crates, and I heard it snap. We were trying to get her phone to work.”

  Jem looked at the shattered wooden boxes Ava indicated. Although the girls had managed to improve the phone’s signal, the collapse of the stack explained why no one from ambulance control had been able to contact them again. Jem set her bag at the girls’ feet and unzipped it, ignoring the trickle of cold sweat between her shoulder blades, and trying not to think how easily the call might have been dismissed outright by an overburdened dispatcher, or how many times she had given up after a cursory knock at a probable hoax.

  “You did a great job,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort Chloe’s leg for her. Which one is it, Chloe?”