Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  Through Gorton and out the other side, she hopped on the ring road for a junction, arriving at Darnton with ten minutes to spare. She made a quick brew and breakfast and had only eaten half her cereal when Caitlin came into the crew room.

  “Hey. How did you get on?” Jem asked. The previous night had been Caitlin’s first shift on the RRV, and she’d looked scared to death when Jem gave her the keys at handover. Jem might not have liked her, but she knew how nerve-wracking it was to work solo, and Caitlin barely had a year’s experience as a paramedic.

  “It was fine.” The flatness of Caitlin’s answer made it clear that was all she had to say on the subject. “Darren wants to see you in the office.”

  Jem pushed her cornflakes away. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Rather than leave her pots for someone else, Jem washed and dried her dish and mug first. Then she knocked on the office door at dead on six, ensuring any possible bollocking would at least be on the clock. She entered the room to find Baxter and Caitlin both seated and waiting for her.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. She’d assumed the summons would pertain to Kyle Parker, but Caitlin was an unexpected spanner in the works.

  In lieu of an answer, Baxter tossed the controlled drugs book for the RRV onto the desk. Every ambulance carried an identical book, locked away in a safe with the boxes of morphine and diazepam. It was the paramedic’s responsibility to complete a check each shift to confirm that the numbers recorded tallied with the physical stock. Jem picked the book up, still unsure what the issue was. The count had been correct at the start and end of her shift, and she had handed the safe key directly to Caitlin.

  “Caitlin contacted me to report a discrepancy with the morphine at the start of her shift last night,” Baxter said. “There are three missing, and no one witnessed either of your entries.”

  “The car hadn’t been manned when I took it over yesterday morning, and there was no one else on station,” Jem said, staring at the damning red ink, all-caps scrawl occupying the three lines below her signature. She had logged eighteen vials, Caitlin only fifteen, and Baxter had confirmed Caitlin’s count. She shook her head. “This can’t be right. I remember putting them all away.” She faltered, her protest losing conviction almost immediately as she began to doubt herself. She had finished late and checked the drugs whilst waiting on scene for a doctor to return her call. By the time she got back to station, she’d been fuming and exhausted, and she hadn’t thought to ask Caitlin to countersign the book.

  “We searched the RRV thoroughly,” Baxter said. In contrast to Jem, his voice was gaining confidence as he sensed her uncertainty and warmed to his theme. “My best guess is you left the vials on the roof of the car when you counted them, and they’re smashed on a roadside somewhere.”

  “I don’t do that,” she said. Several other paramedics had made that mistake, but she had never been one of them. “There was a memo.”

  He took the book back, setting it in front of Caitlin, who placed her hand on its cover. “In which case, the police may have to be informed. They might want to search your house and your car, and I need to speak to Kevin regarding disciplinary proceedings.”

  “Fine, that’s fine. I’ll contact my union rep,” Jem said, too bewildered to offer any kind of defence. She knew for sure she hadn’t stolen them. “Am I okay to sign on now?”

  “Yes. Someone will be in touch in due course.” He unlocked his computer screen and began to type an email, effectively dismissing her.

  Caitlin unclipped the radio from her belt and looped the RRV’s keys over its antenna. “I haven’t used anything, and you’ve got half a tank of fuel,” she said, passing everything to Jem and showing all her teeth when she smiled.

  “Thanks.” Jem closed the office door behind her and leaned against the corridor wall, fumbling for her inhaler. The spray worked quickly to alleviate her wheezing but ramped up her sense of panic. “Bloody hell,” she whispered. Ordinarily, a slip like this would result in an appendix being placed in her file, a time-limited warning that would progress to a disciplinary should she transgress again before it expired. With Baxter involved, however, she had no idea what might happen to her, or in which direction he might try to push Kev.

  She walked slowly to the RRV and sat in the driver’s seat. She needed to sort her kit out and speak to a rep and try to pinpoint every potential place she could have mislaid three glass vials of a Class A, Schedule 2 drug. The lad on dispatch sounded knackered, running through the usual short list of questions and acknowledging her request to complete a vehicle check with a distracted “yeah, that’s fine. G’night, then.”

  She managed to put a brave face on things as she changed a defib battery and looked through the response bag, but it crumpled as she switched on the suction. Common sense told her to leave a message for her union rep, and that nothing could be done to help her until she’d informed him of the accusation. She didn’t want to be sensible, though. She wanted an unaffiliated-with-the-ambulance-service shoulder to cry on, and then she might be able to buckle down and get on with things.

  She toyed with her mobile, scrolling through the directory, past Ferg, who would be well on his way to London by now, and past her dad, who had enough on his plate and would likely still be in bed. Those were her top two choices, she told herself as she hunted in vain for a tissue. Those were the people she would have called first, had they not been unavailable or hurtling below the Watford Gap. Her third option was merely a fallback in their stead, someone she knew would be awake, because they too started work at stupid o’clock. The triangular bandage she shook out billowed like a white flag as the draught from the heater caught it. Ignoring its gratuitous symbolism, she used it to blow her nose and then called Rosie.

  * * *

  Preferring to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and then hare around getting everything sorted at the last minute, Rosie was still in her pyjamas and sharing an apple with Fluffy when her mobile rang. Taking advantage of the distraction, Fluffy pinched the last chunk and scurried under the sofa with it.

  “You better run, you little sod,” she said, flipping the cover back on her phone just in time to see Jem’s name but not fast enough to answer the call. “Huh.”

  Jem had disconnected after only three rings, suggesting she’d either bum-dialled or had second thoughts. Rosie peeled a banana, keeping one eye on the phone to see whether an explanatory text or another call might be forthcoming. It was ten past six, so Jem would have started her shift. Given their dual tendency to attract shit luck, if Rosie disturbed her as she drove to a job it would probably result in a multi-vehicle pile-up. The phone rang again as Rosie took her first bite of banana. She swallowed and answered simultaneously, producing a sound reminiscent of a choking frog.

  “Hello?” Jem said. “Rosie, is that you?”

  Rosie hacked a cough and started again. “How do. It’s me. Sorry, I had a gobful of banana.”

  Jem chuckled and then took a long breath, as if the air around her had suddenly cleared. “Am I okay calling this early? Only, I thought you’d be up, and I didn’t know who else—”

  “You’re fine,” Rosie said, cutting across her rambling. “I’m up, dressed, raring to go—one of those is a fib—so what’s wrong? And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because you’d be crap at lying even over the phone.”

  “It’s not nothing,” Jem said. “That Advanced Paramedic from the Kyle Parker job? Baxter? He’s accused me of losing some morphine, and I don’t think I did but I can’t prove I didn’t.” She relayed the facts without inflection, as if she’d already admitted defeat. “And I’m not sure how far he’ll take it. He’s threatened to have the police search my house.”

  Rosie used a knife to chop the end off the banana, the blade hitting the table with a cathartic thump. She fed the piece to Fluffy as he slinked over the laminate. “Are you running an illegal drug den, Jemima? Fuelled with the spoils of your day job?”

  “D
efinitely not. Christ, I feel guilty if I’ve got a headache and I take a couple of Brufen from the bag.”

  “I wouldn’t lose any sleep about the search, then. Knowing how overstretched our lot are, I can see them getting around to it about a week on Wednesday. Have you spoken to a union rep?”

  “Not yet. But I’m going to,” Jem added hurriedly, as if afraid Rosie might scold her for neglecting the priorities. The thin rasp of her irregular wheezing was transmitted clearly, despite the patchy mobile reception.

  Rosie left her chair and paced across the kitchen, battening down the urge to go to Darnton and have this conversation in person, perhaps calling in on Baxter if she had a minute or two to spare. “It’ll be okay,” she said once she could keep the agitation from her voice. The last thing Jem needed was Rosie feeding her anxiety. “I’m assuming this isn’t the first time that drugs have gone missing.”

  “Hardly. There was a spate of paramedics leaving them on the roofs of the RRV when they checked the safe and then forgetting they were up there.”

  Rosie gave a disbelieving laugh. “What happened to those dozy buggers?”

  “Slapped wrist, warning on file,” Jem said, sounding a little brighter. “The powers that be issued an angry memo.”

  Rosie whacked her palm on the countertop. “Right then, that’s your precedent set. Any union rep worth their salt will make mincemeat of that little tosser if he tries to go down a different path with you, so don’t be fretting.”

  “Okay, okay, no fretting, I promise. I’m sorry to bug you with all this, it’s just that my dad’s chasing around after a traumatised eight-month-old, and Ferg’s gone to Lollapielooza for a long weekend, and—”

  “Excuse me?” Rosie said. “Lollapie what now?”

  Jem stifled a giggle. “Lollapielooza. Seriously, that’s what it’s called. It’s the UK’s only pie expo. ‘Showcasing the best in British pies,’” she added, as if reading from the brochure. “He’ll be back and very hung-over on Tuesday.”

  “Hmm.” Rosie scratched Fluffy, who raised a foot in appreciation. “Does this mean you’ll be home alone and dwelling on all this morphine business?”

  “Yeah, it might,” Jem conceded. She coughed, but it didn’t sound like an asthma-type cough, more a placeholder as she debated what to say next. “Are you working this weekend?” she finally asked.

  “Nope. As of seven o’clock tonight, I am off till Monday morning.” Rosie watched Fluffy knead the countertop, which seemed appropriate given the amount of dancing around that she and Jem were doing. “Do you fancy going out somewhere?” she asked, just as Jem said, “Maybe we could meet up?”

  “Okay, then, that’s sorted,” Rosie said, overriding any potential second-guessing on Jem’s part. “I need to scoot or I’ll be late for work. Text me a time and a location of your choosing.”

  “I will. I have lasagne.” Jem hesitated, as if despairing of her non sequitur, and seconds later Rosie heard a soft thud.

  “Was that your head?” Rosie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “On the steering wheel?”

  “Yes. I didn’t have a desk, so I made do.”

  Rosie laughed. “Is this what happens when an introvert and an idiot try to arrange a date?”

  “Quite possibly,” Jem said. Then, quieter, “Is that what we’re doing?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rosie wondered whether she’d overstepped a mark, but she’d always been an in-for-a-penny type. “Just out of curiosity, would you swipe left or right on me?”

  “Which one’s no?” Jem asked.

  Rosie winced. “Uh, left, I think.”

  She heard Jem swear softly as a now-familiar beeping set off in the background. “Damn, I’ve got a job. I have to go.”

  “Oh, okay, no worries,” Rosie said, chewing on her lip.

  “Rosie?” Jem raised her voice above the rattle and creak of the garage doors.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d swipe right, you pillock,” she said, and ended the call.

  * * *

  Gregory Evans clattered his fist against the wall he’d stalked toward. A mounted light fitting sent up a cloud of dust and dead moths, and he left a thin smear of blood on the nicotine-stained Anaglypta. Well acquainted with his behaviour, Jem kept her distance, ensuring there were plenty of obstacles for him to fall over if he decided to go for her throat. Not that she was overly concerned about his temper tantrum; she’d been coming to Greg for years, and the worst he’d ever done was throw up on her response bag.

  He snarled at her, baring wet gums. “I wanna die, you stupid bitch. That’s why I took ’em.”

  “And you took six of these?” She displayed the box of ibuprofen. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, and I cut meself. See?” He held out wrists covered in superficial scratches, none of which would prove fatal. Upon Jem’s arrival, he had immediately surrendered the razor blade he’d used to inflict the damage. It might have cut through butter if he’d pressed hard enough, and the amount of rust and muck on it suggested the greatest risk to his well-being was infection.

  “How much have you had to drink?” she asked.

  “Nothin’,” he snapped, and then seemed to remember who he was talking to. “Two cans.”

  It was always “two cans.” No matter how drunk the patient or how chronic their alcoholism, they’d never had more than two cans. He smelled so strongly of booze that he was making Jem’s eyes water, and every now and again he would sway as if the carpet was attempting to pitch him off it.

  She wrote “patient appears to be intoxicated” on her paperwork and moved on. “When were you last in A&E?”

  “Dunno. What’s today?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Tuesday?” he said.

  She scribbled a note. “Same again?”

  “No.” He glared at her. “I took paracetamol that time.”

  “Right. Are you going to let me take your obs? Blood pressure, pulse, the usual?”

  There were a number of typical Greg scenarios. His favourite was telling the crew to fuck off. That was a crew favourite as well, because it got them out of the address within minutes. Less common was compliance, and on odd occasions he would fake a seizure. He had apparently exhausted his cooperation quotient for the week, because he looked Jem right in the eye and fell back on option one.

  She held up her hands. “Fine. I’ll wait outside for the crew. If you need me in the meantime, you know where to find me.”

  He popped the top off a fresh can. “They can fuck off ’n’ all. I’m not going nowhere.”

  Relieved that she wouldn’t be stuck on scene playing Greg’s refusal game for the next few hours, Jem returned her response bag to its slot and sat on the back ledge of the RRV. A new message from her union rep confirmed a preliminary fact-finding meeting first thing Monday morning and asked her to forward any pertinent details. Taking advantage of the lull, she typed an email on her phone, managing to wrestle with the autocorrect and get the thing finished before she heard sirens. The din ceased a good distance from the address, the crew clearly in no rush, and she’d pocketed her phone and plastered on a welcoming smile by the time they parked behind her.

  “Is he for coming or not?” the paramedic asked.

  “Or not,” Jem said, and continued over his groan, “Six Brufen with a shitload of lager, no vomiting, no apparent plan, minor scratches to both wrists from a manky razor blade.” She displayed the blade as Exhibit A.

  “I hope he gets fucking tetanus,” the EMT said.

  Jem dropped the blade into her sharps bin. “Looking at his house, I think he’d be immune.” She handed the tech her paperwork. “Do you want me to stick around?”

  “No,” the paramedic said. “No point in all of us being bloody trapped here.”

  “Cheers.” She took her keys from the carabiner on her fleece. “He’s gone for Arsehole setting today, so you might need the police.”

  “With a bit of luck it’ll do us for a finish,” t
he tech said.

  “What time are you off?”

  “Three,” he said, absolutely deadpan.

  She checked her fob watch and laughed. It was only ten o’clock.

  * * *

  “PC Jones!”

  Rosie stopped so abruptly that her boots skidded on the loose gravel of the car park, her hand still outstretched with the key fob pointed and ready to zap. Kash had brought coffee and chocolate muffins, and they’d been looking forward to a good day of responding to whatever emergencies the folk of east Manchester might throw their way.

  “So close,” she muttered. “We were so damn close, Kash.”

  They waited for Steph to catch them up, her heels a terse drumbeat accompanying the start of another downpour. She was trying to shield her hair from the elements, but the wind was having none of it, and she swore at the mess it was making of her French twist. Rosie squinted at the storm clouds massing overhead, vast swirls of grey with white foaming at the edges like furious breakers. If someone had asked her to paint her mood, she’d have pointed upward.

  “Did you not get my message?” Steph yelled, still a few feet away. “I told your sarge to hold you at the briefing.”

  “Must’ve slipped his mind,” Rosie said. Steph was close enough now that Rosie didn’t have to shout. “A batch of new flood warnings came in at the last minute, and he had to reorganise everyone.”

  “Well, I need you.” Steph gave her a printout. “That’s Tahlia Mansoor’s home address. Check if she’s there, and if she’s not, get as much information about her possible whereabouts as you can.”