by Daisy Tate
Widows didn’t wear crop tops. Widows didn’t wear mini skirts. Even that jumper she’d bought just after Christmas in the sales with the bare shoulders seemed inappropriate.
It hadn’t even occurred to her to clear out Gary’s things.
She would. Of course she would, but … had enough time passed? Were there time limits for these things? Mourning periods for threadbare coveralls?
‘So long as you’re sure,’ Raven said.
‘Positive,’ said Sue. Which, of course, was entirely untrue. Where on earth was she going to put the poor girl?
There was only one solution for it. She’d give Raven her room. It made perfect sense.
She always kept it tidy. Had ‘trained’ Gary to keep his things in the spare room. Not that she was a neatnik or anything, but yes, she was house proud. Not in the way Katie was of their sprawling detached house with an acre-long garden that abutted the countryside. Nor was it the ‘contemporary village community’ her parents had moved into a couple of years back. ‘To be closer to the grandchildren,’ had been the party line, but Sue had grown up listening to her mother go on at her father about wanting to live in a modern, brand-new house that someone else hadn’t had their ‘grubby mitts on’ before she’d got a hold of it.
No, Sue and Gary’s home was nothing out of the ordinary. A modest two-up, two-down they’d bought as a ‘starter kit’ en route to another where, one day, they’d hoped to raise a family. The family and the housing upgrade had never come to pass, but she loved the cosy row house almost as much as she’d loved Gary. It was a symbol that everyone had been wrong about them. About Gary. That he could provide. That he was a good man. That they did have plans to have a family of their own one day.
The baby thing had obviously never panned out, but, courtesy of Katie and Dean, she spent a lot of time with her niece and nephew (deterrents these days, more than heartbreakers) and then could come home to her own, very tidy, just so house.
Sue had never lived with anyone who wasn’t Gary before. She’d not gone to uni. Or been flatmates with any one of the girls she’d gone to beauty college with. Not moved out of her parents’ house until Gary tempestuously said to her one day after they’d been to the pictures, Let’s do it. Let’s get married. He’d twisted the pop-top off of a can of fizzy pop and slid it onto her ring finger as she’d flushed with pleasure.
‘If you’re absolutely sure,’ Raven said, her eyes darting past Sue as if hoping for someone else, a proper grown-up to come and sort the two of them and all of this awkwardness out. And then, as if by magic, Flo appeared.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Sue quickly said.
‘What’re you sure about?’ Flo gave her arm a squeeze, her warm demeanour already adding a bit of much-needed calm to Sue’s overwrought nerves.
‘About giving Raven a ride home.’
‘You moving back in with your parents, love?’
Raven’s eyebrows templed. ‘Umm … out of, actually.’
The poor thing looked about five years old. As lost as Sue felt. Perhaps there’d be solace in having her there. Two lost souls finding comfort in their mutual discombobulation. When they felt more comfortable, perhaps Sue would offer her some advice on colour streaking her hair. It wasn’t quite the right blue for her complexion and, if she was really being fussy, the attention to detail at the roots was sketchy. Nor had she brought the streak all the way to the tips of her long, dark hair.
The practical thought gave her a bit of a boost and, more to the point, enough courage to bite the bullet. Though it still wasn’t true, she insisted, ‘Honestly. It’s just perfect. I’m sure we can get your bags into the car.’
Raven nodded warily. ‘If it’s easier I can take the bus.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t take the bus.’ A strange protectiveness washed through her and with it the tiniest flicker of belief that one day, she might feel vaguely like her old self again. Caring for Gary, keeping order in their small, relatively unremarkable lives, had been at the heart of her life. She was good at it. Looking after him. At least she thought she had been. Perhaps if she looked after Raven with a bit more care, a few more questions, she would figure out where she had gone so terrifically wrong with Gary.
‘Would it be of any use if I offered to drive one or both of the bags?’ Flo offered.
Sue and Raven turned to her, relief flooding their features, each of them nodding near emphatically as Sue said, ‘Yes. Yes it would.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Incident No: 5938272
Time of Call: 15:23
Call Handler: SUNITA ‘RAVEN’ CHAKRABARTI
Call Handler: You’re through to the NHS 111 Service, my name’s Raven and I’m a health advisor. Are you calling about yourself or someone else?
Caller: Myself.
Call Handler: Can you tell me your name please?
Caller: Hailey.
Call Handler: Hello, Hailey. What can I help you with?
Caller: I think I’ve just messed up.
Call Handler: Sorry? Would you be able to be a bit more specific?
Caller: I only meant to cut a little bit.
Call Handler: Hailey? Can you please specifically tell me what you are ringing about? [Muted: Do you remember how to transfer to the police?]
Caller: [Barely audible] I think I might’ve hit an artery.
Call Handler: Oh. Ummm … Hailey – are you talking about yourself here? Do you need an ambulance?
Caller: I don’t want my parents to know. Can you help? Hang on. I need to get a towel. There’s too much blood.
Call Handler: I think you need to talk to someone else, a manager. No. The ambulance guy. Ummm – shit monkeys! Sorry, sorry. My bad. Hailey? Is there anyone there with you?
Caller: I normally do it lower, but this time I went higher. [Sobbing noise] Why did they have to put it on Insta? Everyone had had too much to drink. Owwwooohh, shit. I’m pretty sure there’s an artery in your inner thigh.
Call Handler: I don’t know, I – ummm, are you applying pressure? Wrap a tourniquet. It should stop if you apply pressure and wrap a tourniquet above … no … wait … below. Tie the tourniquet below – hang on a second. Sorry. Let me check and see if there is an A&E near you. Is there anyone there with you? Are you able to drive?
Caller: [Crying] Normally it bleeds a little but this time I can’t get it to stop.
Call Handler: Oh, god. Hailey, you need to – wait a minute – Hailey? Can you just … I’m just going to put you on hold for a minute to speak to one of our health advisors because I think we need to call you an ambulance. Fuck. Why isn’t she applying pressure? Fucketyfuckfuck. What the fucking fuckety fuckmonsters pull-down fucking menu shitface – Where the fuck is that bloody man? Hailey? I’ve taken you off hold. Are you there?
Caller: I wasn’t on hold.
Call Handler: Oh, god. I’m so sorry. Look. It’s going to be alright.
Caller: [Crying sounds]
Call Handler: Hailey? [No response]
HAILEY!! I need to pass you over to our onsite clinician who can recommend what to do while I get an ambulance – Hailey?
[No response]
Hailey, are you there?
[No response]
Shit!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Raven tried and failed to steady her hammering heart. Blood roared through her ears, her pulse pounded at the base of her throat, lurching, now and again, towards her gag reflex. Her tongue was dry and her body felt as though it was being filled with cement. She was a panic attack waiting to happen. With any luck the on-site clinician would notice her slumped, quivery wreck of a body if she fell into a state of shock.
Protocol freaking bit the big one.
This time anyway.
It had been almost ten months since The Incident at school. Ten months of pulling herself back from her friends, social media, her future … all in an effort to wipe the memories away and start afresh. She’d thought if she could make it past the year mark, it wo
uld be like resetting the clock and then, ping! Off she’d go to uni, her ideals back in place, her spirit strong as a wild pony and her parents puffing with pride that they’d raised a child who chose to follow the beat of a different drummer or, in her case, bass guitar.
She tried some yogic breathing to see if that would drown out the chaotic thoughts pin-balling round her head.
Normally she was good at this. Raising detached to another level. It wasn’t just a goth thing, it was a Chakrabarti thing. She’d taken not one, but THREE heart attack calls last week and had sorted them out without so much as the blink of an eye. She’d calmed down dozens of panicking mums (croup was hitting the under twos in a big way this year) and convinced one very lonely old man that talking back to the telly as if it were real wasn’t necessarily a sign of Alzheimer’s as most people did it, ageing or otherwise.
She pushed herself back up and stared at her screen, psyching herself up to take another call.
The scoreboard was blinking red. The numbers of calls taken was flicking ever upwards. It was after three, which meant school was out, and most GPs had been booked up weeks in advance so mums tended to call 111 to see if their extreme level of agitation (and need to get tea on the table for the other children) was enough to get them to send a doctor over. It usually wasn’t. Normally she wrapped up the call with the usual advice: go to the chemists, call and make a proper appointment with the GP or head to the nearest A&E if the symptoms worsened.
This time, though … this time protocol left her feeling completely helpless.
She’d done the three call backs. Left the ‘if the symptoms worsen please call back’ message on Hailey’s phone, but something deep within her knew it wouldn’t matter. A person could only hear what the voices in their head were telling them and it sounded as though that girl’s head was full of demons.
Intellectually, Raven knew she wasn’t meant to take any of this personally. It was a job. Like a complaints line but with actual life and, in this case, possibly death, on the line.
Why hadn’t she said something useful? Something kind?
Was Hailey dead? Alive? Best case scenario was that she had simply been fed up with Raven’s inability to help and respond like a human. A compassionate human. It’s all anyone really wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to listen to them. To really listen and say, yes, yes I hear you.
The bloody script wouldn’t let them! The bloody script didn’t know what it was like to want to reach through the phone line and pull ‘Caller’ into a hug and say I know, I know it hurts, but it’ll be okay. Whoever or whatever is saying bad things about you, they’re not true.
Sweat was trickling down her back. The cold clammy kind. Her heart was lurching all over her ribcage. Her stomach hurt. Everything in her was cramping with a weird sort of inert exertion. More so than this morning when she’d refused Dylan’s offer to help carry her bags onto the bus. She’d thought he’d done it because she was fat and she’d stupidly wanted to prove that fat people could do things too, so like a huge, lumbering walrus, she’d refused his help, hauled the bags all the way to the end of the bus wondering if the excruciating pain she was feeling was, in fact, the beginnings of a heart attack. It was the one thing they had received really good training for with 111. Vision narrowing. Lungs unable to suck in enough air. Cheeks turning a bright, horrifying scarlet.
She didn’t feel the stabbing pain shooting down her arm, though. Or any of the other things that would’ve meant she was having an actual heart attack and, if she were to give herself the tiniest of breaks, she wasn’t that fat. The morbidly obese kind. More the could do with eating fewer crisps in her room and doing a bit of exercise kind. Big bones had a lot to answer for. Thanks Auntie Anu. For absolutely nothing.
Why hadn’t she pressed the bloody hold button? Said something positive that would’ve made Hailey realise no amount of cutting would take the real pain away. Kids were shitheads. Especially at school.
Not that she’d even got to the part where she asked Hailey her age or anything.
She’d frozen. Just like last time.
She’d just stood there all of those months ago. Stood there with the rest of the sixth formers gawping as Aisha Laghari was wheeled out of the girls’ loo into the waiting ambulance and on to the hospital where she had been easily persuaded by her mother to close down her Instagram account. Her Snapchat account. Her Twitter, her Facebook and all of the other ways kids tortured other kids – especially the different ones – to the point that they ended up trying to slice out the pain. And Raven had done absolutely nothing about it even though she’d caught Aisha in the changing rooms at the gym one day, a drop of blood trickling down her leg below her huge bath towel she’d brought in specially, presumably to cover up the scars that never quite healed.
‘Sunita?’
‘Raven,’ Raven automatically corrected as she wheeled around, startled by the touch.
‘Sunita? Alright to join me for a chat?’
Bums.
Hands loosely woven together, eyebrows raised, and ‘concern face’ ratcheted up to very, very concerned, Rachel Woolly was standing behind her like an over-cheery spectre.
What a nightmare. Rachel was everyone’s favourite manager to hate. Rachel didn’t just love working for 111, she believed in 111. It was her calling to provide ground up healthcare advice to ordinary Britons at their most vulnerable moments.
It was quite obvious from the way Rachel talked about their callers that Rachel hadn’t ever actually spoken with ‘an ordinary Briton’ or ever dealt with the bloody pull-down menu when asked whether or not she believed elves were real. What Rachel was renowned for, was ‘dipping in and out of the calls for quality assurance.’
Micromanaging.
Rachel nodded at Raven’s headset. ‘How about you unplug for a minute so we can go somewhere a bit more private?’
Raven silently followed behind, the weight in her gut churning round and round, growing heavier and heavier with each step.
She could not get fired. Please oh please oh please god, do not let her get fired. The last thing she could do today was go home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Incident No: 601321
Time of Call: 16:48
Call Handler: FLORENCE WILSON
Call Handler: You’re through to the NHS111 service, my name’s Flo and I’m a health advisor. Are you calling about yourself or someone else?
Caller: I am calling about my boyfriend.
Call Handler: Is he breathing?
Caller: Yes. I suppose.
Call Handler: Can you check, love?
Caller: No. he’s not here.
Call Handler: Can you tell my why you’re calling about him, then please, duck?
Caller: He’s given me nowt for Valentine’s Day.
Call Handler: I’m sorry?
Caller: He’s not given me nothin’ for Valentine’s Day. It were over ten days ago now. Didn’t pop in either. Not for a shag or nothin’. He were out with the lads. That’s what he said. [Puts on a deep voice] Sorry, love. Been out with the lads. Do you think I should dump him?
Call Handler: Darlin’, this is a health line, not a dating line.
Caller: I know, but it’s actually, physically hurting my heart?
Call Handler: Are you feeling physical symptoms in your heart?
Caller: Aye. Definitely. One minute I love him so much I feel my heart is going to burst, the next I want to take the biggest bloody knife I have and—
Call Handler: I’m going to stop you there, love. As a health advisor I can suggest making an appointment with your GP or, if you’re concerned you need immediate health care, I would head to the nearest A&E. I can see there is one about three miles down the road from you.
Caller: [Bitter laughter] Already been, haven’t I?
Call Handler: Sorry, love. Have you been to the A&E or your GP?
Caller: GP. He’s bloody useless he is. Never has appointments. Always busy. Just ilke Dan-o, innit?
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Call Handler: Is Dan your boyfriend, darlin’?
Caller: You tell me. If coming round for booty calls at two in the morning after being out on the lash with the lads means he’s mine, then yeah. He don’t come round every night. What if he’s seeing other women? Got two or three of us on the go? Do you think I should confront him? Ask him what he’s playing at?
Call Handler: Perhaps you should give your GP another ring. Most surgeries are open until five or six. Why don’t we end this call and see if your GP can sort something out for you?
Caller: Like what? See if he can find me a man who pays me some proper bloody attention? They don’t listen right when I go there. Not any of the GPs. I’ve seen ’em all. They’re all anxiety this, bi-polar that. Stop drinking. Can you imagine? Not having a drink when I’m this bloody stressed over my man?
Call Handler: Are you feeling unwell now, love?
Caller: I bloody well am. My boyfriend’s given me nowt for Valentine’s Day, hasn’t he? Never picks up after himself. Wants a hot tea if he deigns to come before midnight. No warning. Just comes in, where’s me tea? It bloody hurts, it does. All over.
Call Handler: Are you feeling any physical symptoms that are giving you cause for concern?
Caller: Yes.
Call Handler: Can you describe the symptoms, duck?
Caller: Hungry.
Call Handler: You’re hungry?
Caller: Aye.
Call Handler: Right then, darlin’. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and make yourself a nice bit of cheese on toast. That should help. And some tea. Can you get catch-up on your television?
Caller: Aye.
Call Handler: Put on Love Island, take note of how self-absorbed and unimaginative the men are, then ask yourself, do I really want a boyfriend who ignores me? You think about how you want to be valued and ask yourself, honestly, is Dan the man for me? Sorry … I’m just going to … you want me to end the call? Rachel, I’m just – oh alright. Just handing out a few home truths – Darlin’, are you there?
