by Tara Lyons
‘L-l-leave me,’ my patient groans.
I hold my hand up to the nearest SWAT officer. The patient isn’t a threat; the lack of grip and force his fingers have on my wrist tells me that much. I know it’s their job, but if I can help defuse the tension as much as possible, it will allow me to do mine more effectively. There are so many faces staring at me. I turn around to find the only one I want, and there it is, running towards me.
Another crew have arrived on the scene and Adele’s legging it towards me. She says nothing of her patient and listens carefully while I relate the information about mine, before running back to the ambulance for further kit – including a stretcher. We need to get this man off the ground and into an operating theatre if there’s going to be any hope of survival for him.
Turning my attention back to my patient, I witness him taking his last breath. It’s easy to hear. Easy to me, anyway. This ain’t my first rodeo, after all. It’s a sound that can haunt you, if you let it. As if the body knows it’s the last time it’ll ever inhale that invisible life-giving air, and so it vibrates through the chest and gurgles up the throat, until it ends in a death rattle that then becomes so peacefully quiet it could break your soul.
Adele crashes to her knees next to me and with our hands poised we begin CPR.
Five hours after we first left, Adele and I are back where we started. Camden Ambulance Station. Our base. We were escorted to the hospital by the police, once my patient was breathing again. The officers never left our side the entire time we were with the patient. On the journey back to base, I learned that Adele’s patient – a Metropolitan Police Officer – died at the scene from a single gunshot right through the heart, and my patient was the suspected terrorist. Isn’t that unfair? I think I knew those details all along, but it was good to hear Adele’s voice saying them out loud. Made everything feel real. It’s easy to get so caught up in a job that afterwards, when the pace of everything resets itself, you’re vulnerable to forgetting what actually just happened. It’s working in the blur – that’s what Adele and I call it – a dream-like state, as if you’re submerged in water yet still a fully functional human being. So, from time to time, we need each other to pull the other one from the undercurrent and remind ourselves it was real.
My body is aching. Every part of my skull is telling me my slicked-back ponytail is now too tight. My throat hurts when I swallow, as though it’s been cut with hundreds of tiny shards of glass. I climb down from the ambulance anyway, knowing the van has to be restocked. A debrief will be scheduled and a statement will be taken also.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the Double A Team.’
I smile at Adele when I hear the voice from behind. She rolls her eyes. We both know who it is without even looking, and we both lean against the side of the van for support. It’s a nickname that Dave has used for the pair of us since he joined the station four years ago. Even his promotion to manager didn’t see him quell the habit. To him, Abi and Adele are the Double A Team. If I’m honest, I kinda like it, but then I like action films. Adele does not. So I pretend to hate it as much as she does.
‘I need a drink,’ Adele says as Dave approaches the van.
He waits until she’s in the building and then asks, ‘Is she okay?’
I shrug my shoulders and nod my head at the same time.
‘Are you okay, Abi?’
I repeat the actions, this time adding a half-sigh, half-laugh sound.
Dave nods. He understands. Sometimes, words aren’t needed between paramedics. We just get that some things we deal with are hard. Really fucking hard.
But, not one to totally ignore a situation – and I guess the fact that he is my manager has something to do with it – Dave lightly places a hand on my shoulder. ‘A lot of people wouldn’t have been able to do what you did today, Abi. Hell, I dunno if I could have done it in all honesty.’
‘Stop fishing for compliments, Dave.’ I sigh but smile at the same time. ‘You would have, just like any member of our crew would have. It’s our job. We don’t discriminate.’
‘Yeah, but innocent people died today.’
I straighten up and fold my arms. He removes his hand from me and places them both in his pockets. ‘Has there been a total fatality count yet?’ I ask, unsure if I really want the answer.
‘The last count was ten. That includes people at the Underground station and the police officer at the mosque. Those injured… they’re still counting.’
I look to the ground and nod. He has the actual numbers, statistics, and information, I know he does. He also knows I don’t need the specifics at this exact moment in time. The fact that I’m the one responsible for saving the terrorist who snatched all the lives of those innocent people… well, let’s say it’s enough to occupy my mind for now.
‘You look wrecked.’ Dave breaks through my thoughts.
‘I said we don’t discriminate…’ I can’t help hesitating; whether it’s because I can’t find the words immediately or I don’t want to admit it, I’m not entirely sure. ‘I never said it wasn’t difficult.’
Dave’s blue eyes bore into mine and, for a moment, I think I can see my own sadness reflected in them, so I look away.
‘You and Adele go and change, grab your personal belongings from inside and head home.’
‘But we still have to–’
It’s not just his hand flying up in front of my face that halts me mid-sentence, I actually don’t want to fight his offer.
‘I’ll take care of the van and, if you both promise to come back first thing in the morning, we’ll deal with all the paperwork then.’
‘Doesn’t protocol demand everything is handled immediately after the incident?’
Dave folds his arms over his chest and almost pouts; it makes me smile. ‘Protocol also states that the decision is to be made at the manager’s discretion when we’re faced with situations like this. All members of my team are different and react differently. You look like a zombie and I can’t jeopardise the restocking of one of my ambulances.’
There’s a twitch of a smile as he winks at me and I hold my hands up in surrender. Adele comes out of the station with two bottles of water.
‘Right, let’s do this,’ she says; her words are those of fighting talk, but her tone is that of a wounded soldier.
I grab her by the shoulders and spin her around. ‘Shh, don’t say another word. Dave’s tidying up. We’re going home. Leave everything where it is in that van.’
Chapter 3
Rose Quinn lowers her backside against the hard oak table and folds her arms. She watches him move across the office, lock the door and turn back to face her. His crystal blue eyes cause a shiver to snake down her back, the power of it almost lifting her from her position, and she inhales sharply. The grin on his face tells her that he heard.
He doesn’t move. Teasing and testing her as always. Rose can hardly breath with the indecision of what she should do, a tightness in her chest, filling her lungs in an enticing and exciting way, rather than a strangling grip. How can one man hold so much power over me? Rose wonders as he slowly takes a step towards her.
The pain in her chest deepens as he approaches, creeping slowly inch by inch, until he’s so close she can feel the warmth of his breath on her face. He doesn’t touch her. The smirk on his face and the control in his eyes remains. Tempting her. Daring her.
A voice in Rose’s head screams, tells her to run for the door, to run from him and end this before it truly begins. In her mind, she knows something has already begun. From the moment they shared their first passionate kiss it was too late. Can she really ignore her feelings? Lustful feelings, maybe… but the pull towards him is so strong. Although she finds it difficult to ignore the screeching warning in her mind, another part of her wants to rip open his shirt. She wants to feel his warm skin under her hands, feel his pink lips against her mouth, her neck, her–
‘Stop denying yourself, Rose.’ His deep voice breaks through her wicked
thoughts.
‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ she whispers, and attempts to clear her throat before continuing; the last thing she wants is to sound vulnerable in front of him. ‘And you shouldn’t be tempting me.’
Rose curses herself as his lips spread wider in a full smile. She’s given too much away. He knows how much she wants him. But then, he probably always has known, she thinks, and the internal warning rings louder.
‘I’m tempting you, am I?’
She makes an O with her mouth and slowly exhales. ‘You shouldn’t have asked me to meet you here.’
‘But you came.’
‘To tell you this has to stop.’
‘We haven’t started anything… yet.’
Rose slumps; his voice is smooth, what she would imagine warm trickling honey to sound like – should it ever be able to make a noise, of course – and the tightness in the air only serves to confuse her further. Just as she feels the invisible fog is about to wash over her and suck her under, he touches her. His hand on her waist, so soft and delicate, yanks her from his spell and she stands up; he takes her movement as an advance and pulls her closer to his body. She feels his erection prod into her thigh.
‘Stop,’ she demands, and places her hand on his chest. When he doesn’t move, she shoves him just hard enough to place a small amount of distance between them. ‘This will not happen.’
The smile fades from his face. ‘You want it just as much as I do.’
‘No.’ The warning voice in Rose’s mind finally outweighs the lustful thoughts. She feels ashamed of herself. ‘I do not want this, Mr Malone.’
The twinkle in his eye returns and he edges closer again. ‘Even the way you say my name, I hear the naughtiness in your voice.’
She frowns and shakes her head. ‘You’re wrong, Mr Malone.’
‘Why don’t you call me–’
‘Because you’re my boyfriend’s father and I will remain polite and formal with you.’
A chortle escapes his lips. ‘Fine. The whole mister thing actually turns me on. I feel like I should bend you over the desk and spank you.’
Rose gasps as she witnesses a change in his gaze. His eyes are no longer enticing and sexy with a crystal glint. The shadows and dimness of the room are mirrored in his eyes as the blueness transforms into something cold and dark, almost deep black. She thinks of her boyfriend and, although he shares features with his father, she’s never seen his baby-blue eyes turn this demonic shade. She longs to be in his arms, regretting ever listening to her wanton self and ending up in a locked room with his father. How quickly the mind can change track, she thinks.
‘Mr Malone, I’m leaving now, and we will never be in this position again, is that clear?’ Despite her attempts to remain strong, her voice falters at the end, and she can’t decide if it’s caused by fear or because there’s a possibility, somewhere deep down, that she’s lying.
‘If that’s truly the case, and we won’t be in this position again, I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.’
‘W-what?’ She places a hand on his chest again. This time she’s powerless as he pushes against her and forces her to sit on the table.
‘You’ve teased me one too many times… Miss Quinn.’
Rose’s head shakes from side to side, and she wants to say no – speak the actual word – but even the smallest word can’t find its way out of her dry mouth. She hears the zip of his trousers unfasten, and her skin turns ice cold as he forces his body in between her legs, places one large hand on the side of her face and the other underneath her skirt.
Chapter 4
I close the living room curtains but don’t move. Instead I stare at the blankness and allow the darkness to swallow me for a few moments. BBC News murmurs in the background; the same report repeated over and over again, new details rarely being added – just different newsreaders telling the same story – because they know it’s all the city wants to hear, even if it’s information they’ve heard a thousand times today.
It only happened this morning. A few hours ago really. Near enough the start of my shift, just another normal shift – whatever that means – although I’ve become accustomed to never knowing what to expect each day. But terrorism? Now the adrenaline from the day has worn off, I replay my actions in my mind, watching myself like a stranger would have done… I can’t fight the pang of guilt, and the tears flow.
I saved the man who killed those Londoners. I, Abi Quinn, saved the terrorist who murdered mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters… Oh my God, Rose!
The tears continue to flow as I spin around in the dark room, fiddle with the lamp and search for my handbag. She must be worried sick that I haven’t returned her call with everything she would have seen on TV today. How could I forget to ring her?
My damn mobile phone is nowhere to be found. Not in my bag. Not in my coat. Not in my uniform, which I packed into my rucksack before leaving the station. It was covered in blood. I still haven’t had a shower. I haven’t washed the awful day from my skin, and it’s eight o’clock in the evening. Everything seems bigger than it is, and my head feels fit to burst.
A headache, starting small in the early morning, that builds and builds into a huge buzzing pressure against your skull, like a ball of fire, that finally explodes and sends you sliding down the wall and sitting with your head in your hands. With eyes closed, you can see yourself screaming with pain and guilt, your head thrashing from side to side. Every small inconvenience feels like the end of the world because it hurts too much. But really, on the outside, you’re just sitting there, numb and looking a bit dazed. More tears fall, but they’re silent and uncontrollable by this point.
Have you ever felt like that before? Have you ever had a headache that bad?
This is me right now.
I can’t really be sure of the reason why. Because I can’t find my phone and so desperately want to talk to Rose? Oh, to hear my daughter’s voice right now… There’s always such a beautiful calmness to it. Because innocent people died today, people on their way to work and school who kissed their loved ones goodbye this morning not knowing it would be for the last time? Or is it because I didn’t save them? Instead I saved the man who committed that vulgar act. Perhaps I’m a monster too. Not only do I save criminals – no, terrorists – but if I can also–
‘Abi.’
The voice drags me from the dangerous undercurrent of my thoughts, and I wipe the tears and snot from my face. My name is said again, shouted this time. It’s coming from the front door. I grab the sofa and pull myself up, confusion clouding my mind. My legs feel unstable, unready to support me again. Pins and needles shoot from my thighs to my toes and back up again. How long was I sat down there?
‘Abi, I know you’re in there.’ The voice is quickly recognisable. ‘Come on, open up, I need to pee.’
It’s Adele. Of course.
Clarity comes with a few shakes of the head and I rush to the door and open it. My co-worker and friend is stood on my doorstep with a bottle of wine in one hand and a pizza box in the other. There are some people in life who just know, aren’t there? They just know when you need a smile from a friendly face and an evening of indulging. Those friends – the ones who can take you away from the demons in your mind, who can make you shake away the memories of past mistakes just as those memories are about to darken your every thought, and not even realise you need them at that exact moment – are the friends you need to hold on to.
‘Damn, girl, I’ve been banging and kicking the door for over ten minutes. I had to tell your nosey neighbour next door to mind her own every time she twitched her curtains. Busybody.’
Adele ignores my red and blotchy face and tells me to take the goodies while she nips to the toilet. She probably heard me crying. She says nothing about it, thankfully, I couldn’t deal with that too right now. Those few minutes she takes to busy herself gives me just enough time to pat my cheeks dry and grab my compact from my handbag and dab my face. In all honesty,
it does nothing to the inflamed red patches on my skin, but it makes me feel better on the inside, and that’s a start.
Just over an hour later, with both the wine and pizza demolished, Adele has joined me on the carpet. It feels comforting, more of a girls’ slumber party, and better than crying into my hands on my own. She’s uplifted me with laughs and stories of when she was a teenager, because we both made a promise after she came out of the toilet not to talk about what had happened today. It’s still playing on both our minds – that much is obvious, because how could it not? We both make a great show of ignoring it for each other. It makes me think that sometimes, our brains are truly amazing; the mind can be filled with disastrous images or plagued by guilt because of something you did in a former life, yet on the outside we can exhibit this put-together person who laughs and eats pizza and drinks wine with her friends.
‘Your turn,’ Adele says, and snaps me from my thoughts once again; she has a habit of doing that at the right time.
‘My turn for what?’
‘Tell me why you’re a paramedic.’
I drain the last of the red from my glass, bat my hand in the air in an attempt to dismiss the conversation she wants to have. She stays silent, not having any of it, and so I answer, ‘We’ve spoken about this before, surely.’
‘No, we haven’t. And so what if we have?’
She leaves the question hanging there and I get it. Sometimes it’s good to remember where you’ve come from. To remember the decisions that you made as a teenager is to remember why you are who you are today. My mother used to say something like that.
I sigh heavily, scooch my bum around on the carpet to get comfortable again, and Adele smiles that award-winning smile, all white teeth and genuine happiness, knowing that she’s won; I’ve been sucked into the late-night story-sharing saga she’s begun.