Breathe

by Cari Hunter

  Her dad put his half-eaten biscuit down. “Did the news get it right? They said the fire was started deliberately.”

  “We think so,” Jem said. She could see he was furious, but she couldn’t be angry or vengeful or anything much at all when just staying awake was demanding everything from her.

  “Bloody bastards,” he said. He rarely swore unless severely provoked. He sniffed in deference to Rosie; if he’d been wearing his cap, he would probably have tipped it. “Sorry, love.”

  Rosie bit into another biscuit. “No need to apologise. I swear like a sailor.”

  “It’s true,” Jem said. “She’s a terrible influence.”

  Her dad was watching them both, his expression inscrutable, and she saw him relax in subtle increments. His jaw unclenched, and he stopped picking at the dry skin on his fingers. His mobile had chimed with her mum’s ringtone twice since he’d arrived, but he hadn’t looked at the messages. He’d always been the one to stay with Jem in the children’s ward, making dens out of the camp bed he was supposed to be sleeping on, and bringing in enough sweets to share around. The habit had died hard, although these days he tended to keep her company only if she was admitted to the HDU or the ITU.

  “Get going if you need to,” she said. “I’m all right, really.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve only just arrived.” He sighed as his phone rang again. “We got twins on an emergency placement this morning. The lad’s autistic and a real handful. He helped to make those biscuits, but ten minutes later he smashed the kitchen up.”

  Jem turned over to face him properly. It left her winded, but she persevered. “Dad, please go home, or I’ll be worrying about Mum.”

  “I don’t want you to be on your own, not after everything that’s happened today. I know you’re not a child anymore, but I’d rest easier if someone was with you. And don’t give me that look, Jemima Pardon.”

  She was giving him a look, but not for the reason he assumed. She’d lived with him long enough to know how he operated, and she was a dab hand at spotting an ulterior motive.

  “I’ll stay with her,” Rosie said, completely oblivious. “These chairs aren’t too bad once you get used to them.”

  He beamed at her. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Don’t I get a say?” Jem asked, though it was hard to be indignant and wheezy at the same time.

  “Apparently not,” Rosie said, and accepted the tin of biscuits from Jem’s dad.

  He ruffled Jem’s hair. “I’m sure this would look terrific without the soot.”

  “Kiss Mum from me,” she said.

  He took his cap from his pocket and pulled it on. “Keep us updated, Rosie.”

  “Of course I will.”

  The door clicked behind him as he left. Rosie let his footsteps fade before she turned back to Jem, drumming her fingers on the lid of the tin. Jem knew what was coming, and she was already laughing.

  “Did he just set us up?” Rosie asked.

  Jem bit into another biscuit. “Yep.”

  Rosie looked at the closed door and then back at Jem. “The crafty old sod,” she said.

  * * *

  When Jem had asked her nurse to leave the light on, Katya had swapped the overheads for the angle-poise lamp attached to the bed frame. It cast a soothing glow, ideal for lulling susceptible patients to sleep, but Jem was restless and uncomfortable after hours spent in the same position, and the last time she’d catnapped, she’d dreamt of the fire.

  “Rosie? Are you awake?” she whispered.

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t be.”

  Jem was too preoccupied by fidgeting to react to Rosie’s schoolma’am impersonation. “Can you help me? I need to get up.”

  “Not a problem.” Rosie readied the bed’s remote. “Say when.”

  “No, not sit up. Stand up,” Jem said. The room felt too small: stuffy and airless despite her oxygen. She pulled at the neck of her gown, though it sat loose and nowhere near her throat.

  “Hey, easy.” Rosie untangled Jem’s fingers, freeing the material and straightening the gown. “Shall I call Katya?”

  “No.” Jem kicked at the sheets, twisting them around her legs. “Help me to the window. Please.”

  “What? Jem, I can’t.”

  “I’ll do it by myself,” Jem said, managing to get a foot out.

  Rosie glowered, but whatever she saw in Jem’s eyes made her blink first. “Okay, okay, you stubborn bugger. Let me get a chair ready.”

  She drew back the bedding, allowing Jem to manoeuvre herself to the edge of the mattress, a task of Herculean proportions, given that she was toting various attachments and still as weak as a kitten. Had Rosie called her bluff and left her to it, she would have ended up flat on her face.

  “Is Katya going to kick my arse for this?” Rosie asked, wheeling a drip stand into position.

  “No.” Jem clung to Rosie’s arm and lowered her feet to the tiles. “She was in your shoes last time.”

  “I’m not wearing any bloody shoes.” Rosie wiggled her toes. “SOCO confiscated my boots, and Kash brought me a bra but no trainers.”

  “Don’t…don’t make me laugh,” Jem said, already flagging with half the distance remaining.

  Rosie tightened her hold. “We’re doing great. I can probably drag you from here if you peg out.”

  “Sod off.” Jem dropped into the chair with an audible thud and leaned her head back, her chest heaving.

  Alerted by the clang of a monitor, Katya rushed in seconds later, muting the alarm and standing with her hands on her hips. “Again?” she said, but her stance softened as Jem nodded. She opened the window a crack and wrapped a blanket around Jem’s shoulders. “Half an hour and then back to bed with a neb. Yes?”

  “Absolutely,” Jem said. The air smelled of fresh rain and spices from the local kebab shops, and it felt wonderful, as if it was rushing to fill her lungs. It was a fallacy, she knew, but there was a reason so many of her respiratory patients were sitting on their doorsteps when she arrived in the RRV.

  Rosie pushed her own chair alongside Jem’s. “Are you warm enough?” she asked.

  “Mm-hm.” Jem nudged her foot against Rosie’s. “Stop fretting.”

  “Your dad left me here to fret! He thought I was responsible and well behaved, and instead I’m marching you over to the window and parking you in a draught.” Rosie tucked her hair behind her ears and then curled one strand forward again, undecided. “Sorry, I’m not very good at this,” she muttered.

  “At what?”

  Rosie gestured around herself. “All this. Any of it. It’s like everyone’s talking in a foreign language, and I haven’t the foggiest idea what’s going on, and you’re in the middle of it, taking it all in and coping.”

  “I don’t cope very well,” Jem said. She’d been hanging on by a thread for hours now, tolerating the needles and the side effects of the drugs, and telling herself they were a small price to pay for being alive. In truth she was sore and cranky, and she wanted to go home to her own bed and sleep for a week. “I hate being in the hospital, and I hate my fucking crappy lungs. They’re rubbish at the best of times, but when they’re bad they…It feels…” She faltered; she hadn’t tried to put this into words before. “It feels like there’s a brick wall sat in my chest, and I have to force every breath over that wall, and sometimes I get to the point where I can’t do it on my own.” She started to cough and took a gulp from the glass of water Rosie handed her, swallowing convulsively until the irritation subsided.

  “I think you’re dead brave,” Rosie said.

  “I’m just used to it.” It was a fact, not a play for pity. “And you saw me in Resus, Rosie. I’m anything but brave.”

  “Bollocks,” Rosie said, and she sounded like she meant it, despite Jem’s scepticism and lingering embarrassment. “I was scared to death watching you. You, meanwhile, were busy cutting deals with Dr. Lacey. I bet there aren’t many people she does that for.”

>   It took Jem a minute to catch Rosie’s reference. She couldn’t remember the specifics of that conversation with Harriet, only the all-encompassing fear and the sheer relief brought about by the outcome. Given the circumstances, Harriet probably hadn’t decoded any of it for Rosie, and Jem thought she should at least try to.

  “I didn’t want to be tubed,” she said. “When they put you to sleep and stick you on a ventilator. I’m terrified of it.” The admission cost her nothing; Rosie had already seen her at her worst.

  “Right.” Rosie’s eyes widened. “Christ. Was that on the cards?”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t far off. If the CPAP hadn’t worked, it would’ve been the next option.” Jem stretched her palm on the windowpane, letting it cool before placing it against her sticky forehead. “My dad’s always been there when they’ve done it, and his face is the last thing I see before the drugs hit me. He’ll smile at me and tell me he’ll see me when I wake up, but he gets this tic at the corner of his eye when he’s worried, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to wake up again, and he obviously doesn’t know either.” Her voice and her courage wavered. She had never said this to anyone. Not to her dad, not to Ferg, not to anyone. “Perhaps one day I won’t.”

  “God, Jem.” Rosie used the heel of her hand to wipe her eyes. “I thought kids grew out of asthma. Shouldn’t you be growing out of it by now?”

  Her indignation made Jem smile. “My birth mother smoked pretty much everything she could get her hands on while she was pregnant with me. Crack, heroin, you name it. She shot me out eight weeks early and basically buggered up my lungs.”

  “That was good of her,” Rosie said with admirable diplomacy.

  “Yeah. Needless to say, I’ve never tried to track her down. On the bright side, Harriet’s kept me stable for about ten years now. Tonight was a blip, but there were extenuating circumstances, so I’m hoping a blip is all it was.”

  “Ten years, eh?” Rosie nibbled on a smoke-blackened thumbnail. “And she’s your respiratory specialist?”

  “Yes,” Jem said, busy working the sums out in her head. “It’s more than ten. Blimey, thirteen, I think. I was referred to her just before I started as an ambulance tech.” She stopped counting on her fingers and looked at Rosie, who seemed to have developed a series of nervous twitches, chewing a nail one moment and twisting her hair into a knot the next. Jem buried a laugh behind her blanket. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” she said, adding a wistful sigh for maximum effect.

  “Aye,” Rosie said, her hair so snarled around her pinkie that it had whitened the tip.

  “She’s also very straight,” Jem added.

  “Really?” Rosie frowned and slowly unravelled her little finger. “But I thought you and her had had a thing.” She folded her arms, obviously stumped. “Have you never had a thing?”

  “Nope. She’s married to an orthopaedic surgeon called David, and they have two precocious children. What the hell is wrong with your gaydar?”

  Rosie shook her head in dismay, but she was starting to laugh. “Clearly it’s defective. You just…you finish each other’s sentences, for fuck’s sake. If you were on the telly, I’d definitely ship you.”

  Jem covered her face with her hands. “Bloody Nora. Please don’t ever repeat this conversation in front of her.”

  Rosie waited until Jem peeked out, and then gave her a Scout’s honour salute, looking delighted. She had probably been worrying about Harriet since that night in the wood with Kyle Parker. “My lips are sealed,” she said, and checked her watch. “Your thirty minutes are up. Are you ready for the return trek?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Clutching her drip on one side, Jem took Rosie’s hand and managed to stand. “Nothing to it,” she said, tottering through a head rush that almost knocked her back onto her arse. Three steps across, she stopped to cough and felt Rosie slip an arm around her.

  “Easy, I’ve got you,” Rosie said.

  Jem leaned into her. “Do you think people would ship us?” she asked, and felt the low rumble of Rosie’s answering chuckle.

  “The plucky paramedic and the wayward but debonair copper?” Rosie set them off walking again, slow and steady, each step perfectly coordinated. “I reckon we’d be a shoo-in.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rosie’s newspaper rustled as she licked her finger and flicked to the rest of the article. “‘The investigation is ongoing,’ blah blah, ‘Manchester Metropolitan Police are appealing for witnesses.’ Oh, and apparently we spent ‘a comfortable night at West Pennine Med.’” Scoffing, she rapped the arm of her chair. “Whoever wrote this piece has never tried kipping in one of these.” She closed the paper, her concentration waning as she watched Jem attempt to pass a comb through her hair. Despite the reporter’s claims, neither of them had slept well. A post-breakfast physio session had seen Jem walk to the nurses’ station, with the promise of a shower dangled in front of her like a carrot. She had managed both, but she had nodded off twice with the comb still in her hand, and she was on the verge of making it a hat trick.

  “C’mere.” Abandoning the paper, Rosie sat on the bed and held out her hand for the comb. Jem relinquished it without a protest. Her cheeks had lost all the colour they’d gained from the warm water, and her chest sounded like it needed oiling. On the sats monitor, ninety-three percent flickered in amber figures. Rosie put her hands on Jem’s shoulders. “Can you lean forward? That’s enough, that’s fine.”

  Jem gave a satisfied sigh as Rosie began to ease the tangles from her hair. Katya had replaced the manky hospital soap with proper body wash, and the stink of smoke had at last disappeared beneath the scent of vanilla and honey.

  “Thank you,” Jem said. “Y’know, for last night. For everything.”

  Rosie fussed with Jem’s fringe, uneasy with the gratitude. She didn’t want Jem to feel indebted to her; that wasn’t why she’d stayed. “Not quite what I had in mind for a first date, Jemima,” she said.

  “No?” Jem smiled. “We did get fireworks, of a sort.”

  “This is true.” Rosie guided Jem back to the pillows. “The travel arrangements were also exclusive and very efficient.”

  “Free accommodation,” Jem added.

  “And your dad made sure we spent the night together,” Rosie said.

  Jem spluttered and set off coughing. “Well, this just got very weird.”

  “It did rather.” Rosie retrieved the paper and snapped it open. “Moving right along, apparently too much cauliflower might give you tinnitus.”

  Jem’s cough tapered into a yawn. “What a load of twaddle. They’d print anything.”

  Rosie lowered the paper again. “You’re welcome, by the way. And I’m really glad you’re okay.”

  It was quiet for a moment, and the room darkened as the morning’s persistent drizzle became a downpour that splashed off the windowsill. Beyond the door, someone’s off-key whistling competed with the drone of a floor cleaner.

  “Can our second date just be dinner and a movie?” Jem asked as the cleaner moved on and the whistling faded.

  “That sounds perfect.” The words left Rosie in a rush of unguarded happiness. Last night had been hell, but they’d got each other through it in one piece, Jem was on the mend, and a proper date was still on the cards. Rosie felt weightless somehow, as if she too had had a brick wall in her chest and it had suddenly fallen. She ran her fingers across the back of Jem’s hand, tracing the livid bruise left behind by an IV. “How’s about I cook and we sprawl on the sofa to watch something daft?”

  “Mm,” Jem murmured, half-drowsing. The hand Rosie was still stroking was splayed on the sheets. “Can we have popcorn?”

  “I think that can be arranged. Now go to sleep, or Harriet won’t be letting you out on Sunday.”

  “She bloody will,” Jem said, but her vehemence was undermined somewhat when she began to snore.

  Rosie’s search for the paper’s sudoku was interrupted by a nurse coming in to start Jem on a neb. Inured to being maule
d about with, Jem didn’t stir, and the nurse nodded his approval as her sats improved.

  “Brew?” he whispered to Rosie.

  “Yes, please.”

  Shortly after he had left, the door opened again. Rosie turned in anticipation, but her smile vanished as Steph hurried over to her. She crouched by Rosie’s chair and pulled her into an embrace, then cupped her face and kissed her. Rosie froze, caught completely off-guard, though every fibre of her wanted to smack Steph’s hands away and wipe the taste of Steph’s gloss from her lips.

  “Just—no.” She shoved back hard in the chair, sending its legs squealing across the tiles and waking Jem, whose eyes widened as she yanked at the nebuliser. Rosie went to Jem’s side, evading Steph’s attempt to intercept her. “Hey. Sorry, it’s okay,” she said, perching on the bed and righting the mask. She had done this so many times in the night that it felt like second nature. “You’re okay.”

  Jem glanced beyond Rosie, and there was an uncommon ferocity in her expression when she looked back. She laid a hand on Rosie’s thigh, despite Rosie’s reassuring nod, and didn’t move it even when Steph’s lips thinned into a bitter line.

  “I was worried about you,” Steph said before Rosie could speak. “You didn’t answer my calls.” She stood, forcing Rosie to look up at her, and folded her arms. Rosie recognised the stance and the tone, but neither had any impact.

  “I told you the reception is bad in here,” she said. She didn’t add, “And I had more important things going on,” but Steph obviously got the gist, because she gave Jem a look that would have curdled butter. She took a file from her briefcase and threw it onto Rosie’s chair.

  “A team of psychologists and social workers tried to interview Ava Reynolds and Chloe Harrison this morning. Neither girl would cooperate, and they’re demanding to speak to you.”