by Lisa Henry
“Oh, don’t make such a fuss,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Hayden thought of Joe, and of how he rolled his eyes exactly the same way when Matt chided him about something. Did it ever feel strange, this shift in roles that happened in families over time, where the adults and the children changed roles so completely? Hayden wondered if it was a gradual process, one of creeping increments, or if it was sudden and shocking. Family dynamics were a foreign language to him, and one he’d never felt the burning desire to learn.
“It definitely needs stitches,” Hayden told her. “And it’s not a bother for us to come and check you out at any time, even if you aren’t sure if it warrants it or not. Better safe than sorry.”
Mrs. Marchetta huffed out a breath, but her son looked pleased to have been vindicated.
“I’ll take her to her GP,” he said.
“If they don’t get you straight in, go to the hospital,” Hayden advised, but he didn’t think it would be an issue.
He and Greg packed up, refused an offer of tea, and headed back to the ambulance just in time to get the call.
A familiar address in Bushland Beach.
A hanging.
A fifteen-year-old male patient who wasn’t breathing and had no pulse.
And Hayden knew, because this was the week for it, right? This was the day for it. Because fuck the universe, and fuck his life.
Traffic parted before them as they headed north, lights flashing and siren wailing. Wasn’t there some story about the first sirens being designed to sound like a woman’s screams? To sound urgent enough to catch people’s attention, to make their hair stand up on the back of the neck? Hayden was tired of women screaming. He heard the echo of one of them in the siren’s rising wail now.
“Zach! Zach! Zachy!”
Hayden was tired of fucking everything. Adrenaline coursed through him, fighting his fatigue and making his muscles jerk and his fingers twitch. He tried to listen as the dispatcher relayed that the operator was giving CPR instructions over the phone, but could hardly hear her over the roar of blood in his skull.
Hayden licked his bottom lip and tasted chlorine.
He knew.
He knew who it was even before they pulled up at the house in Bushland Beach, even before a frantic kid ushered them inside, and even before he saw the youth worker hunched awkwardly over the body on the bedroom floor.
Isaiah.
His eyes were open, and bloodshot. His neck was distended. The noose—the shoulder strap from a canvas bag by the look of it—was lying on the floor beside him. The soles of Isaiah’s bare feet were grimy. One of his arms was stretched out along the floor. Scars—both old and pale and new and pink—crosshatched the dark skin of his forearm.
And Hayden froze.
Just froze.
He didn’t realise he’d done it until Greg shouldered him aside roughly, and knelt down to take over the CPR.
Hayden stared at the sparse bookshelf beside the bed. At the little Torres Strait Islander flag stuck in a blob of Blu-Tack on one corner, leaning at an odd angle. At the ratty textbooks stacked beside it. At the dented orange stainless steel water bottle lying on its side. At the poster of the North Queensland Cowboys above the bookshelf, the corners peeling up.
He was done.
It was too much.
Hayden was done.
He dropped his bag on the floor with a dull thump. If Greg noticed, he didn’t turn. If he said anything, Hayden didn’t hear it over the blood roaring in his skull. Hayden tore his gaze away from Isaiah’s bare feet, turned and walked away.
Sunlight glittered on the water, blinding him, but Hayden couldn’t look away. The sand was hot underneath him. It burned his palms, and he dug his hands underneath it, into the cooler places hidden below the surface. It trickled over his wrists. Sweat slid down his back.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Again. It hadn’t let up since he’d turned his radio off, but Hayden didn’t make any move to answer it.
He wanted…
He wanted to get up and walk into the gleaming water until it was all over. He wanted to vanish. To close his eyes and open his lungs and just be gone. Except that wasn’t going to happen. No exits in life were that neat, were they? None of them were that peaceful. The water wouldn’t take him like that. It would only shock him awake; jolt him straight back into a reality he didn’t want to face right now.
He was too tired.
He was worn too thin.
The last few days…
Hayden’s throat ached sharply, and he shuddered. His chest hurt. He closed his stinging eyes finally, and lost himself in the endlessly receding blue shapes burned into his retinas.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when he heard the crunch of boots in sand. The sunlight dazzled him when he opened his eyes and squinted at the silhouetted figure approaching. He saw a dark blue uniform, and narrow hips made wider with a bulky utility belt. His breath caught—
“I found him,” the copper said into his radio. “On the beach.”
It wasn’t Matt. The figure stepped closer. It was Newbie. What was his name again? Sean? Maybe it was Sean.
“Hey.” Newbie crouched down in the sand beside him. His face was pinched and anxious. “You okay?”
What the hell sort of question was that? But Hayden understood the practicalities of it. Newbie was checking he wasn’t in the middle of a breakdown—was he?—and that he hadn’t done anything to harm himself. Shit. Was this going to turn into an Emergency Examination Assessment? Because no offence to the guy, but Hayden wasn’t confident Newbie could tell his arse from his elbow yet, let alone be the judge of anyone else’s mental state. But if Hayden wanted to make sure this didn’t turn into an Emergency Examination Assessment—because that would do wonders for his career—then he needed to get his shit together immediately. Needed to laugh and smile, and be the Hayden Kinsella that everyone knew and fucking loved.
He was just…he was just so fucking tired.
He opened his mouth to say he was fine, but the words didn’t come. They caught in his throat, behind some invisible obstruction, and he saw Isaiah again, that canvas strap wrapped around his distended neck, his eyes bulging.
Hayden stared out at the ocean. The Titanic was unsinkable. All those little compartments built into the hull that were supposed to contain a breach, except something came along and tore a hole though every one of them and the dark, cold waters had flooded in all at once. And maybe if Hayden had been able to keep every incident in its own tiny compartment—the people from the accident, Zach, Isaiah—he wouldn’t be drowning right now. But there was a gaping wound in his side, the waters were rushing in, and he was foundering.
He drew his legs up, crossed his arms over his knees, and rested his head on his forearms. The sun burned the back of his neck.
He closed his eyes for a moment; let the ocean take him.
“Hayden?” Matt’s voice. A hand between his shoulder blades—solid and steady— the touch pulling him back. Cool fingers brushed his nape. “Hayden? Can you look at me?”
You, Hayden thought. You are the only good thing in my life, Matt Deakin. And the burden of that seemed so unfair to the both of them.
He lifted his head and opened his eyes. The sunlight blinded him. He turned and squinted at Matt, who was kneeling in the sand beside him while Newbie hovered nearby.
“Hey, Matt,” he rasped.
“Hey.” Matt lifted his hand from the back of Hayden’s neck. Brushed his knuckles gently down the side of his face instead. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He wasn’t though.
Fuck.
He wasn’t.
He’d walked away from a job. Left his bag—full of drugs and equipment—on the floor of a house full of teenagers with histories of substance abuse. Walked away from Greg, from Isaiah, and even though Hayden had known by looking that there was sweet fuck all they could have done for him, you didn’t walk away.
Hayd
en pressed the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes. He saw a burst of colours, and forced tears out. “Fuck.”
“You’re okay.” Matt’s voice was calm and sure. “Come back with us, yeah? I’m gonna take you home.”
Hayden let Matt and Newbie pull him to his feet, and he walked between them back toward the road. The dry sand squeaked and slipped underneath the tread of his boots, and Matt kept a steadying arm around his shoulders.
Up on the verge where the grass met the sand, a woman with a dog watched them approach. What sort of strange picture did they make? Two coppers flanking an ambo, and no patient or arrestee in sight.
The house was a block away from the beachfront. There were more cars lined up there now than there had been a while ago. Two marked police cars, and one unmarked. Hayden’s ambulance, and another one. A sedan with the QAS logo on the side—Hayden’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised it. It was John Feehan’s car. Of course the boss was here. Probably to give Hayden a well-deserved arse-kicking, followed by a write up and a suspension for misconduct. But it was hard to even care about that when Hayden glimpsed the final car at the scene: the undertaker’s vehicle.
He flinched back, and Matt dug his fingers into his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Matt said. He steered Hayden toward the nearest police car, and leaned him against the bonnet. “Just wait here for a minute.”
Newbie waited with him while Matt headed into the house.
A few moments later Matt was back, with John Feehan and Gordy. Gordy looked as gruff as always, but he nodded at Hayden when he caught his gaze and Hayden wondered if he imagined his expression softening.
“Take a few days off,” John said, stepping into Hayden’s space. “Get some rest, and call me when you’re ready to come back to work.” He slipped a card into Hayden’s top pocket. “And call Priority One.”
Hayden nodded mechanically.
Priority One was the in-house support system for the Queensland Ambulance Service. A phone call would put him in contact with a psychologist or counsellor, or a Peer Support Officer. Those hoops were perhaps preferable to jump through than John taking disciplinary action against him, although the last thing he wanted to do right now was talk about how he was feeling.
And then Matt was beside him, unclipping his radio from his epaulette, and lifting it out of his belt, and patting down his pockets for the rest of his gear. Hayden wasn’t carrying anything else he couldn’t take home though. He carried a few drug reference cards and protocols in the left thigh pocket of his cargo pants, but it had been a while since he’d had to refer to them. They rattled around in there with at least three different pens. He carried his phone in the right thigh pocket, and a small pen torch in his left breast pocket, shoved in there with his notebook and pen. He had a pair of tuff cuts on his belt as well: Matt left them where they were. The pouches on Hayden’s belt were stuffed with gloves, a breathing mask, and a pair of protective eyewear; stuff he might need at short notice to get close enough to make an initial assessment of a patient. Everything else he kept in his bag.
John nodded at Matt, and took Hayden’s radio.
Hayden watched as Matt unholstered his firearm and taser, and handed them over to Gordy. “Thanks, boss.”
Gordy grunted in response.
That…that didn’t make any sense. Matt was still on shift, wasn’t he?
“Come on,” Matt said, ushering Hayden toward the car. “Sean’s driving us home.”
Hayden was too tired to ask any questions. He climbed into the back of the police car, and Matt climbed in beside him.
He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the scene again, but it didn’t make it vanish at all. It just brought Isaiah’s face back to him, every detail in sharp relief. He shuddered.
Only Matt’s hand holding his tight kept him from drowning.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
The new air conditioner hummed, and condensation fogged up the inside of the window. Droplets slid down the glass like tears.
Hayden lay on his side in Matt’s bed, one arm jammed up under the pillow, and the other extended forward. His hand hung out past the mattress, fingers extended into space. He had one knee pulled up. His other leg was straight. The sheet was drawn up to his torso, leaving his shoulders bare. Matt lay behind him, gazing at the freckles on his shoulders. So many they were almost an even tan. Matt wanted to trace the constellations they made. There were entire galaxies written on Hayden’s skin. Hayden’s breathing had evened out at last. He was asleep.
Hayden hadn’t made a fuss when they’d pulled up in front of Matt’s place an hour ago. Matt hadn’t mistaken it for agreement, exactly. It was doubtful Hayden had registered where he was. He would have let Matt take him anywhere. Would have let anyone take him anywhere, probably.
Grandad had been pottering around in the front garden when they’d arrived home, poking into the billygoat weeds with a long stick and overturning the damp earth for the eager chickens. He’d looked up when the police car pulled up at the kerb, and had raised a hand to block the sun from his eyes as Matt had climbed out of the back seat, drawing Hayden with him.
Grandad hadn’t said anything as Matt had steered Hayden inside. He’d only held Matt’s gaze, and Matt had nodded to let him know everything was okay.
Matt hoped it was.
He hoped that Hayden just needed to sleep, and that when he woke up he’d be able to talk about what had happened. Talk about it, and begin to work through it.
Matt heard the click of Charlie’s claws against the floorboards in the hallway. Tick-tick-tick as he meandered along, and then a deep sigh and the jangle of the tags on his collar as he settled in front of Matt’s closed door, soaking up the cooler air that slipped out from underneath the door.
The house was quiet otherwise. Matt couldn’t even hear the television today. Maybe Grandad was in the garden again, or reading the paper.
Matt gently placed the palm of his hand against Hayden’s shoulder. Hayden didn’t move. His skin was cool to the touch, so Matt tugged the sheet up further.
Hayden’s uniform and boots and socks were still lying on the floor, messed up with Matt’s. Matt should probably get up and throw them in the washing or something. He itched to do something. To start putting things to right, in whatever small ways he could. He was too wired to just lie here, and it didn’t help that it wasn’t even midday yet, and his body clock was on its correct diurnal setting for once. He couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.
He reached behind him to grab his phone from the bedside table. It was on silent. Matt unlocked it, and saw that he had a few texts. One was from Sean, reminding him that if he needed anything to let him know. One was from the HSO, checking in with him since he’d been to a sudden death. His second one this week.
His second. Hayden’s…was it fourth? Shit. Yeah, it was the fourth. Two dead at the traffic accident, then the little boy who’d drowned, and now Isaiah. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes it just happened. Sometimes you could go for months without a major incident, and then you got four deaths—each one uniquely terrible—in the space of two days.
Matt sent the HSO a reply letting her know he’d taken the rest of the shift off and that he’d send her an email when he was back at work.
He also had a text from Kate, Hayden’s usual partner: Look after him for me, and get him to call me when he’s up to it.
Matt set his phone down, and moved closer to Hayden, careful not to jostle him awake. Hayden shifted a little, pulling his knee up further so that space opened for Matt to slide a leg between his. Matt liked the way they fitted so easily together. He curled his fingers gently over Hayden’s hip, tucking his thumb into the elastic of Hayden’s boxer briefs. Hayden drew a deep breath, and let it out again in a long sigh.
Christ.
Four sudden deaths in two days.
Matt squeezed his stinging eyes shut for a moment. He felt a surge of protectiveness for Hayd
en. He wanted to drag him even closer, to hold him as tightly as he could and to promise him that everything would be okay. Except that the last thing Hayden needed was for Matt to wake him. And it would be stupid, too, because Matt didn’t have any of the answers. Nobody did. There were no magic words for times like these.
Matt lay quietly as Hayden slept. He watched the condensation bead on window. Watched a knotted thread of spider’s silk spin in a corner of the ceiling—a reminder that he needed to get the broom in here. He watched as Charlie nosed the door open, heaved himself inside, and then collapsed on top of the pile of uniforms and began to snore.
Matt probably could have ignored the dog, but not the increasing pressure in his bladder. He moved carefully away from Hayden, and climbed out of bed. He grabbed a T-shirt out of his dresser drawer, and pulled it on.
“Out,” he hissed at Charlie, and nudged him with his foot. “Outside!”
Charlie sighed mournfully and hauled himself to his feet. His claws tick-tick-ticked outside again. Matt followed him, closing the bedroom door shut firmly behind himself.
He stretched as he walked down the hallway towards the bathroom, which was at the back of the house. Matt’s mum had told him plenty of horror stories about when the toilet had been up the backyard, and going for a pee in the middle of the night had involved grabbing a torch and running the gauntlet through all the cane toads, but those days were thankfully long past.
He flushed the toilet when he was done, knowing the noise would alert Grandad to the fact he was up and about. So he wasn’t surprised when Grandad poked his head out of the kitchen as Matt approached.
Grandad pushed his walker over to the bench. “Cuppa?”
“You sit down,” Matt said. “I’ll get it.”
Grandad eased himself down and rested his elbows on the kitchen table. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
