Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  Re-shouldering the bag, Rosie took an exaggerated step onto the pavement and walked toward the hospital entrance. With outpatient appointments and elective surgeries on hold for the weekend, the main corridors were quiet, allowing her to steer well clear of the night shift workers dead set on getting home and willing to take out anyone who got in their way.

  She found Jem sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and she’d cobbled together an outfit comprising a pair of overlong pyjama bottoms and a pink scrubs top. Someone had already stripped her bedding, and a wad of gauze had replaced the cannula on her wrist. She smiled at Rosie, but she seemed tired and distracted, her reddened eyes meeting but unable to hold Rosie’s gaze.

  “Everything okay?” Rosie asked.

  “Fine,” Jem said. “Harriet’s just gone to get my prescription. She shouldn’t be long.”

  “No worries. We’re not in a rush, are we?” Rosie dropped the rucksack on the bed and began to unpack it. Not wanting to bother her dad, Jem had given Rosie a house key and sent her on a mission to retrieve clean clothes. “I think I found everything. And I binned a piece of cheddar that had gone a very strange shade of green.”

  Jem collected the clothes in one hand and hitched up her trousers with the other. “Thanks. I’ll go and get changed. They’ll have someone else in this room before the bed goes cold.”

  Rosie nodded, although she wasn’t sure that was true. Harriet had wanted to keep Jem in the hospital over the weekend, and she’d only relented when Jem had agreed to let Rosie stay with her.

  Rosie waited until the bathroom door clicked shut, and then sagged into the closest chair. She had fairly bounced out of bed that morning, eager to get Jem home and spoil her rotten. She had assumed Jem would share her enthusiasm, never considering Jem might be trying to come to terms with everything that had happened over the last few days.

  “You’re a bloody idiot,” she muttered, lowering her head into her hands. She looked up again when Harriet walked in, but she couldn’t muster anything beyond a perfunctory greeting. “Hey, Doc. Jem’s just getting dressed.”

  Harriet sat on the adjacent chair and gave her a bag full of medicines and a slip of paper with two phone numbers on it. “My mobile and home number. If there’s a problem, call me. Whatever time, I don’t mind. Jem’s not daft, but she doesn’t like being in here, either, so she’ll try to get by even when she shouldn’t.”

  Rosie slid the paper into her wallet, glad of the security it offered, although less comfortable with the role of minder. “She seems quiet this morning,” she said.

  “I noticed. It’s not uncommon after a trauma like this. You may find yourself struggling as well. Don’t be too proud to ask for counselling if you need it.”

  “I won’t.” She might have said more, had Jem not come back into the room. Swaddled in an oversized fleece, Jem hid her hands in its sleeves and folded her arms, though the hospital was stifling.

  “Ready for the off?” Harriet asked.

  “Yes,” Jem said. She seemed far less certain now that she had permission to leave. “Thanks, Harriet.” For a moment, she hesitated. Then she hugged her tightly, hiding her face against Harriet’s chest.

  “My pleasure.” Harriet kissed the top of her head. “You’re both to stay out of mischief for a while, is that understood?”

  “Loud and clear,” Rosie said.

  “We’ll try,” Jem added.

  Leaving Harriet at the nurses’ station, they walked toward the main entrance, dodging porters wheeling elderly patients from one ward to the next, and domestic staff making the most of the Sunday morning lull. With Jem clearly not in the mood for small talk, Rosie cast the odd surreptitious glance at her, mindful that this was the farthest she had walked since her admission, and keenly attuned to signs that she was starting to struggle.

  “I’m fine, Rosie,” Jem said, catching one of Rosie’s split-second appraisals.

  Rosie raised her hands in surrender and said nothing.

  The ride to Jem’s house passed in a similar fashion, with Jem staring at her breath fogging on the passenger window, and Rosie doing her damnedest to concentrate on the roads. She wanted to ask what was wrong, to offer help or a shoulder to cry on, but she no longer shared Harriet’s conviction that the fire lay behind Jem’s sudden reticence, and she was scared she wouldn’t like the answer if she asked. It seemed to take forever and no time at all before she was turning onto Jem’s street, creeping through the double-parked cars, and pulling into the driveway. Jem unfastened her seat belt as Rosie switched off the engine. She leaned forward, her hands clasped in front of her, her hair concealing her face, and Rosie waited, braced as if for a punch.

  “I don’t want you to come in,” Jem said, the words dropping like a stone into the silence.

  “Jem—” Rosie lowered her hands from the wheel, leaving damp prints on the plastic. She’d seen this coming, but she still didn’t feel prepared, still didn’t know what to say, and every option she came up with—reminding Jem of her promise to Harriet, playing on her physical vulnerability—seemed more underhand than the last. In the end, there was only one question she really wanted the answer to.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

  Jem shook her head, splashing tears onto her knees. “No, no, no,” she said quickly, almost chanting the denial. “It’s me. I don’t want this. Any of this, and I should have told you, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.” She grabbed her hospital bag, shoved the car door hard against the wind, and scrambled out onto the driveway. Rain soaked her within seconds, but Rosie could see that she was still crying. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and let the wind slam the door for her.

  “Jem? Hang on a minute. Jem?” Rosie grappled for her seat belt, fumbling with its latch and getting the strap tangled as she shoved it out of the way. Jem was on the front step, turning a key, pushing the door with her foot, and she’d gone inside before Rosie could get out of the car. Even from a distance, Rosie heard the jangle of the security chain as it slid into place.

  “Fucking hell,” she whispered. She sat back in the car, hoping for a reprieve that wasn’t going to come. A minute ticked by, then another. She waited until her hands had stopped shaking. Then she started the engine and drove away.

  * * *

  Crouched behind the front door, Jem listened to the car turn in a slow circle on the gravel. Its tyres hit the pothole Ferg had been promising to fill for the last four months, the front tyre bouncing through and then the rear. The engine idled at the gate, as if Rosie was giving her the opportunity to come out again and make this right, but the car didn’t pause for long. Jem heard the rev of acceleration, and within seconds, there was nothing but the sound of the clock ticking in the living room and the fast, irregular wheeze of her breathing.

  “It’s for the best,” she whispered. “It’s for the best. You’ll be safe now.”

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she and Rosie had never stood a chance. They had barely taken the first steps in their relationship, and she had almost got Rosie killed. Her luck hadn’t been this extreme with anyone else, but then she had never met anyone quite like Rosie, who had barged into her life, shaken everything up, and given her a glimpse of what she could have. Before Rosie, she hadn’t realised how lonely she had been or how happy it was possible to be, and none of her previous breakups had ever felt like this. They had been difficult and miserable and occasionally downright bizarre, but they had never felt so cruel.

  She flipped the cap off her inhaler and took two puffs. The medicine worked quickly, allowing her to stagger upstairs to the bathroom, where she knelt by the toilet and vomited what little she had eaten for her breakfast.

  She groaned, coughing bile and phlegm into the bowl. Her stomach and chest ached, and she felt dizzy enough to lean her forehead against the toilet seat. Closing her eyes, she pulled a towel from the radiator and used it to cushion her head as she curled onto the floor.<
br />
  She wasn’t sure how long she lay there. Long enough to wake with goose-pimpled arms and chattering teeth. She could practically see Rosie standing in front of her, full of righteous indignation and warnings of pneumonia. It would have been worth the scolding just to have her there, but Jem couldn’t undo the damage she had wrought, and she left her mobile where it was, burning a metaphorical hole in her coat pocket.

  She flushed the toilet and dragged herself up, clinging to the towel rail until she was certain she wouldn’t faint. Then she returned to the front door to collect her bag of meds. A quick check of the living room clock told her she was overdue a dose of steroids, so she counted the pills as she walked to the kitchen: seven to start off with, reducing on a daily basis. She would be back at work before she got to five. Back to normal, doing her job and keeping her head down, trying not to bump into Rosie, not to call her or text her or think about her or—

  She stopped short in the kitchen doorway, her hand poised to switch on the light. The sun played its part perfectly, though, choosing that instant to shine on the large bunch of flowers in the middle of the table. Rosie obviously hadn’t been able to find a vase, so she’d co-opted an orange B&Q bucket, no doubt tickled by the serendipity. Beside the flowers, she’d arranged boxes of microwave popcorn and a selection of DVDs. Venturing beyond the threshold, Jem found a veg rack full of fresh produce and a fridge newly stocked with essentials. A rolled pork loin beside the lasagne on the bottom shelf suggested a roast had been on the evening’s menu.

  “Shit.”

  She filled a glass with water, swallowing the tablets one by one in an effort to keep them down. Her mobile buzzed, and she knocked the glass against her lips, spilling water on her chin. It took her three attempts to enter her passcode, but the message was from her dad, not Rosie.

  Hallo, sweetheart. Home safe and sound?

  Her bottom lip began to tremble. She wanted to tell him everything, to sit by his knee and explain why she’d done what she’d done and how broken it had made her feel. He would only try to fix it, though. He was her dad, after all. He wouldn’t want to admit this was something beyond repair.

  Home safe, she typed. All well.

  It was a long time before she hit send.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I don’t bloody know.” Rosie stabbed at a cherry tomato, sending it spiralling across the table. “I haven’t got a bloody clue. One minute we’re planning a day of crap films and popcorn, and the next she’s slamming the damn door on me.”

  Kash carefully set the tomato back onto a lettuce leaf. He must have known there was more to come, because he stayed quiet, letting her continue.

  Rosie dropped her fork onto her plate. She’d ordered the first thing on the menu, but she’d hardly touched her pasta, and the dressing on the side salad was turning her stomach. “I even bought the films and left them on her kitchen table. I’m so fucking stupid,” she said, burying her face in her napkin. “But it felt like we were just getting something started.”

  He pulled at her hand, untangling the cloth and wrapping his fingers around hers. “Why don’t you go and see her?” he asked.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “She sent me away.”

  “Don’t you think you deserve to know why?” He made it sound so reasonable, as if Jem was the one at fault, but he hadn’t seen how devastated she’d looked standing in the rain on the driveway.

  “I don’t want to push her,” Rosie said. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Worse than this?”

  She shook her head, her throat prickly with grief. “I miss her, Kash. I really fell for her. Fluffy was smitten as well, and he’s a capricious little demon.”

  “I could tell,” Kash said. “Not about the damn dragon, but I could tell with you. Things didn’t bother you like they usually do: late finishes, that scrote grabbing your arse, Smiffy smearing Bovril all over the kitchen. Even Steph couldn’t get a rise out of you.”

  She frowned. “I whacked that scrote with my baton.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t break anything, and you got him a brew once he’d apologised.” Kash stole a piece of her garlic bread. “Bottom line is: Jem’s good for you, and you’d be an idiot to just walk away from this mess.”

  “I am an idiot, Kash. You know that better than anyone.” She tried to laugh it off, but she knew he was right.

  He picked up the fork she’d abandoned and pushed it back into her hand. “Eat your lunch and get a decent night’s sleep.”

  “Then what?”

  He crunched into the bread, smearing grease and garlic all over his chin. “Then pull on your big-girl knickers and phone her.”

  * * *

  The voice mail Steph had left for Rosie was curt and succinct. “I need to go over your interview and statement. Call me.”

  Rosie slapped her keys onto the kitchen counter. Her lunch with Kash had killed a couple of hours, but if Steph was working the Sunday on overtime, she would be dragging the shift out till the death, and she would expect Rosie to heed her request. The girls’ positive identification of Kyle Parker had made a more detailed debrief inevitable, and, as usual, Steph’s timing was impeccable.

  Rosie looked at her messages again. The slightest word from Jem would usurp Steph in the running order, but there was nothing beside a text from her mam, so she curled under the blanket on the sofa to return Steph’s call.

  Steph was still aloof when she answered, clearly irritated that Rosie hadn’t jumped to it and rearranged her weekend.

  “Did you have your phone switched off?” she said. “I’ve tried calling you umpteen times.”

  “It was on.” Rosie didn’t attempt an explanation. She’d checked her mobile whenever it had buzzed, and let it go to voice mail on seeing Steph’s name.

  “Are you still with Jem?”

  “No, I’m at home.” Rosie somehow managed to keep her voice level. The last thing she wanted was Steph smelling blood in the water. “I’ll meet you at Clayton in half an hour.”

  Her eyes strayed unbidden to the phone’s screen as she hung up: no messages, no missed calls. She debated texting Steph to cancel their meeting and then drawing the curtains and locking the front door. She could put her jammies on and drown her sorrows in something strong enough to let her sleep; it wasn’t as if a hangover would make her feel any worse. Instead, she retrieved her keys and walked out into the rain.

  The Clayton car park was unusually busy for a Sunday, suggesting plenty of staff were taking advantage of the open season on overtime. Unable to face a mob of concerned colleagues, Rosie nosed into a space in the far corner and waited out the shift changeover. She would undoubtedly run into people who knew her, but at least their numbers would be fewer. Turning up in plain clothes got her past the locker room unscathed, and she was halfway along the main corridor when Smiffy came out of the kitchen and almost collided with her. His delighted yelp brought out most of his van, their brews and butties in hand.

  “Good to see you, love,” he said, his customary gruffness tempered by genuine warmth. He squeezed her biceps, the closest he would ever come to giving anyone a hug, and pressed a KitKat into her hand. “You look peaky, PC Jones. Get this down your neck.”

  “I will. Thanks, Smiffy.” She leaned against a motivational poster featuring a line of shiny-faced bobbies all ready to go out and do their best. Most of them sported Biro fangs and moustaches. “Are you helping investigate the fire?” she asked. Smiffy ran her shift pattern, so it was a fair assumption, given that he was here on his day off.

  “Aye. We’ve been on the house-to-house all weekend, and we’re fingertip-searching this afternoon. It’s taken a while to shore up the foundations and make the building safe.”

  “Did anyone see anything that night?” She would rather get an update from him than attempt to wheedle one from Steph. She never knew what Steph might want in exchange.

  He took a swig of his cup-a-soup, crunching a crouton as
he considered. “Not much. A vague description of a stocky white man running from the rear of the house. He had either”—Smiffy began to check the options off on his fingers—“a cap pulled low, a woolly hat on, or a hood up, and he might’ve had a beard or possibly a scarf. It was dark and already smoky by then, and our best witness was smacked off his tits. The house next door but one, allegedly home to a law-abiding family of excellent repute, has CCTV fixed to every other brick, and it caught a dark SUV driving away at speed. No make, model, or plate visible.” He blew on his soup, sending steam twirling toward the ceiling. “Sorry it’s not better news, love.”

  “It’s not your fault, mate. Cheers, though.”

  She walked toward the Major Crimes office with all the enthusiasm of a condemned woman, clutching her KitKat as a lacklustre final meal. Steph had propped the door open, and she met Rosie on the threshold, barring the way as if Rosie hadn’t earned the right to access the inner sanctum.

  “I’ve booked Interview Three,” Steph said. The small room, especially designed to host victim or relative interviews, was cosy and welcoming, and, more to the point as far as Rosie was concerned, came with its own brewing facilities.

  She put the kettle on as Steph arranged her paperwork and opened a laptop. No one had ever fathomed how to turn the radiator off, and it was blasting out heat. Already sweaty with apprehension, Rosie slung her coat over the closest chair and opened the window wide. The scent of kebab spices and chippy drifted in, so reminiscent of that night in the hospital with Jem that she stabbed her teabag with a spoon, wretched all over again.

  “When are you resuming work?” Steph asked, gesturing at the bandage around Rosie’s forearm.

  Rosie set the mugs beside the laptop. Its screen was locked and password-protected. “I never called in sick,” she said. She had planned to, before everything had gone to shit with Jem. She sat a full sofa cushion away from Steph. “I’ll be in as usual tomorrow.”