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I can hear him smiling. Git!

‘Promise?’ he asks.

I nod, forget that he can’t see me. ‘I promise. Got to get my chlorine on.’ Shake my head because now I sound like a lunatic. ‘Okay, see you tomorrow then. Bye.’ Hang up the phone in a rush, drop my head, wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

See, it’s always been a little this way with Aden. There’s always been that something, the gentle hum that lies just beneath the surface. The awareness that seems to spike whenever he is around, the illusion that he is looking at me, that his gaze hangs around for longer than it should. We’ve never talked about it. Because, I mean, please. And I could be entirely imagining it. But it has just seemed to me for the longest time that there is some connection there that cannot easily be explained by the – let’s face it – short amount of time we spend together.

I slip my phone into my bag, slot myself into the slipstream of a group of visitors, to navigate the shoal of smokers. The sun is sinking in the sky, the heat of the day slowly beginning to abate. I ease my way past the visitors as they stop to study the stand of twenty-pence books parked in the lobby, walk, looking more confident than I feel.

I don’t know when it happened. Aden didn’t burst out at me, didn’t melt me with his eyes or leave me a weeping puddle at the side of the pool. He was . . . there. Every day. He was there. And then, in a shift I didn’t notice happening, I started to look for him to be there. And then there was the night of the shooting, and me holding a busted-up umbrella over his head and, after that, the conversation just seemed to spill, like someone had pre-scripted it, arranging all of the words so that each player in the scene gets their equal share.

I stop, scan the signs quickly. Ward 12. Upstairs, turn towards the stairwell, because I have neither the patience nor the claustrophilia required to make me think that lifts are a good idea. I take the steps two at a time, check my watch. Still visiting time. Still a chance that there will be bundles of people, that I will be able to slip in amongst them, the sneak attack of the hack. I reach the top of the stairs, pull at the door. It is quieter here, footsteps more subdued. It seems like everyone is just waiting, wondering who death is going to come for next. Ward 12 is right ahead. I hang there, my forward progression suddenly halted.

I shouldn’t be here – not according to my editor at least. But then where’s the surprise in that? Seems that I am always where I shouldn’t be. I considered, briefly, going to see Lydia again. Throwing myself on my journalistic sword. But it would have been pointless. The afternoon was spent waiting. Lydia didn’t open her office door. We could hear the voices within the office: hers, the owners who have swept in with their long-reaching gazes, the sound rising and falling, the occasional burst of anger. The newsroom waiting, trying to look busy, because the last thing you want to do when there are redundancies on the table is look like you have nothing to do. Resolute punching of keyboards, an over-focused stare at computer screens, and then, because it really is impossible to resist, a breakaway glance towards the blindfolded office, where the future is being written. So I did my job, quietly, resolutely, my gaze flicking up towards Dave. He wasn’t doing anything, was just sitting there, not even pretending that his time here was well spent. Like he had already given up.

I should just keep my head down. Do exactly what I am told. But over and over again I heard Emily’s mother’s words. The pleading that this would not be how her daughter was to be remembered.

I sat at my desk. I kept my head down. Watched as the clock ticked to five, five-ten, five-twenty. Everyone staying later than they should. Trying to show willing. A last, silent plea. At five-thirty-five the exodus slowly began, a drifting, reluctant creep, rich with backward glances towards Lydia’s office door. I stood up, threw my bag over my shoulder. Dave still sat there, staring. I should have said something, had hung there, considering. But in the end I simply left.

It would be in my own time. After work. No one could criticise that. I could root around, in my own time. Just see if there was anything there that could make a mother feel better.

I study the door to Ward 12. A security guard, one that I don’t recognise, stands before the door, his arms folded across his chest, a dark tattoo snaking from underneath his short sleeves. He glances at me, a quick, appraising look, then stares off again into the middle distance. I wonder if he is modelling himself on the guards at Buckingham Palace.

I try a smile. ‘Hi. I, ah . . . I need to go in there.’ I gesture to the door behind him.

He looks at me, more intently now, scans my hands, my waist. I have a sudden flash that he’s going to want to strip-search me. But then he shrugs and, reaching over his shoulder, pushes his thumb into the buzzer.

I smile a thank-you, but he has looked away again. Is still studying that patch of flecked paint on the opposite wall. Must really like magnolia.

A figure appears behind the glass. A nurse studying me, her face folded up into a frown. Then her arm moves, the intercom sparking to life. ‘Can I help you?’ She stares at me, young, thick-waisted, big-busted, her blonde hair knotted into an elaborate series of plaits. Her eyes look heavy, red-rimmed.

‘My name is Charlotte Solomon. I’m with the
Swansea Times
, and I was wondering if I could have a chat with you about Emily Wilson?’

Her face slides into some expression that I cannot identify, and I fight back the urge to slip into a jabbering explanation. Sometimes the hardest part of this job is keeping your mouth shut. I think she is going to tell me to piss off, can almost see her mouth form the words. Then she glances around over her shoulder, her lips moving in silent conversation.

Dammit. I cringe. Waiting for the spark of sound, the intercom bouncing back to life, the nurse telling the security guard to throw me the hell out. But instead there is a buzz, a click, and the door swings open.

‘I’m going on my break.’ The nurse stands in the doorway. She doesn’t smile. Up close, she has that look about her, the one that people get when they have been crying, but have stopped, the redness faded, leaving behind slack, exhausted muscles. ‘I’m going to the canteen.’

‘Oh. Right,’ I say. I can’t help but look over her shoulder, through the open ward door. It is quiet inside. A tension hanging in the air, so thick it is visible. Visitors huddle around beds, nomads around campfires, for the most part talking quietly amongst themselves, as those they have come to visit lie inert. You can see the fear in them, those who hold the hands of the sick. It is written plain across their faces, even though they are trying to hide it.

Then, beyond that, there is a room, just past the nurses’ desk. The door is standing wide open. Dylan Lowe is lying prostrate across the bed, his mother Carla seated by his side. She is holding his hand. I can see the movement of her fingers, stroking the skin. A book lies open on the bed, propped up against Dylan’s legs. I can’t see what it is, but I can hear the soft climb and fall of his mother’s voice. Occasionally her tone drops, becoming almost a growl as she morphs into a character. And I can’t not smile. I take a step forward, not thinking what I am doing. Can see Dylan. His hair is damp, looks like it is freshly washed. His eyes, open. He is staring at the ceiling. I wonder what it is that he is seeing. Carla pats her son’s hand, turns a page.

‘Are you coming?’ The nurse’s voice startles me, snapping me out of my reverie. She pulls the door closed behind her with a snap and, without a glance at the security guard, marches out into the corridor.

I turn and follow.

The canteen is quiet, the metal shutters pulled down. They have stopped serving food – nothing available but what can be scavenged from the row of amusement-arcade machines. The nurse marches towards a boxy drinks machine, pushes coins into the slot. ‘Tea?’

I nod. ‘Thank you.’

She hands me a paper cup, the liquid inside a burnished orange colour. And nods towards a table by the window. ‘Shall we sit? Sorry. The tea’s not very nice.’

I smile. ‘It’ll be fine.’ I pull out a chair, slip into it. The nurse wears an engagement ring, a narrow band, the kind of diamond that would most generously be described as a chip.

‘She wasn’t like that, you know.’

‘Wasn’t like what? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?’

She studies me, seems uncertain. Then, ‘It’s Chloe. Emily wasn’t a party girl, someone who got plastered all the time. I know what people are saying. I hear the rumours, that she must have been drunk to have ended up . . . where she ended up. And yes, occasionally she would have a drink. But she wasn’t a drinker. She’d have one, two at the most. She just . . . she wasn’t like that.’ Her voice tails off, a quick hard-eyed glance at me, as if daring me to disagree.

I hesitate, then, ‘I know.’

She looks at me, seems startled. I wait for her to ask, but she doesn’t. She’s waiting for me to take the lead.

‘You knew her well?’ I ask.

‘She was one of my best friends,’ says Chloe.

I sip the tea. It truly is awful. ‘Can I ask: when did you see her last?’

She is looking out of the window, her face spasming like she’s in pain. ‘The day before . . . you know. But the thing is,’ a gulping breath in, ‘I should have met her that night. We were going to have a girls’ night. It was my first, since I had my baby.’

‘So what happened?’

‘They asked me to do an extra shift. Up on the ward. And the thing is, with the baby – and my other half doesn’t make much – we need the money. So I called her, told her I couldn’t go.’ She leans forward, staring into her cup, black tears spilling. ‘She was already in the bar.’ A laugh that she doesn’t really mean. ‘Emily was always early. She was great about it, so understanding. But that was Emily. She was always so understanding.’ She shakes her head. ‘And, to be honest, I kind of forgot all about it. What with all the fuss that night – that man with a gun, and the police and everything. It was . . . it sounds awful to say “exciting”, doesn’t it? But it kind of was. So I forgot about Emily. And then I found out that she had died.’ Her voice breaks, words swallowed in a sob.

I turn, look out of the window. The sun is beginning to sink, spilling heat into the canteen.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘Chloe, how did Emily get to the restaurant that night? Her parents said her car was in the garage.’

‘A cab. That’s what she said she would do, anyway.’ Chloe shakes her head. ‘Thing is, you’ve got to understand . . . Something happened to her, that night. She would never, ever have got drunk on purpose, certainly not drunk enough to have wandered onto the M4.’

I look down, nod. ‘I know. I think you’re right.’

That seems to calm her. She sits back, studying me again. ‘Did you know her?’

‘A long time ago. She was . . . a wonderful girl.’

‘Yes. Yes, she was.’

‘Chloe, can I ask: her mum, she said that Emily seemed down that day, that she wasn’t herself. Do you have any idea why that might be?’

The nurse bites her lip, not looking at me. ‘It had been a rough shift, the night before. We lost a patient – someone that Emily had taken care of for a long time – so, I mean, of course that’s always rough. And then there was that other thing. The man with the gun.’

‘Emily saw the gunman?’

Chloe nods. ‘She was the first one. Said that she was going through notes at the nurses’ station and just had that kind of feeling, you know, like she was being watched. She said that she looked up and saw this figure holding a gun in his hand, standing there, watching her.’

‘Did she say anything else about it? I mean, did she recognise him at all?’

The nurse shakes her head. ‘He had his face hidden. That was what she said.’

‘Was there anyone who might have had a problem with Emily? Someone who may have wanted to hurt her?’

As soon as the words are out of my mouth I curse myself, because they have come out clumsy, awkward, and I can see Chloe recoil, her eyes widening in alarm.

‘No. Why? What do you mean? I thought . . . it was an accident, what happened to her. That’s what the police said, right?’

I nod, try to look soothing. ‘Yes. Of course. I was just curious. You know, about the man that she saw. That’s all.’

Chloe nods slowly, unconvinced. Then pushes her chair back. ‘I should go.’ She drains her cup, grimacing. ‘I need to get back to the ward.’

I stand with her, hold out my hand to stay her. ‘I’m sorry. One more question. The bar where you were supposed to be meeting Emily? Where was that?’

THE RANGE WAS
breathless, had pulled in heat from another relentlessly hot day, sucking it into its breeze-block walls, its aluminium roof. The officers hung around in packs, in this way really not that different from school. The youngsters, the ones new to firearms, who still carried their guns with a certain swagger, thinking they were big men now. The old-timers, who sat on overturned buckets, boxes, had been doing this long enough to know that it’s just another job, just another day to get through before you can go home, put your feet up. And the shooters. Aden and Tony and Rhys. How, Aden wondered, was it that he had come to be classed like this? He who had not shot at all. But it was obvious, in the way the room split itself up, the other firearms officers stepping around them, like now they had graduated into a class that was entirely their own. Aden leaned back against the breeze-block wall, watching as the trainers set up the targets, could feel sweat pooling under his collar. They had been predicting storms. For more than a week now they had been warning and prophesying that the heat could not continue, that it would break soon into electric skies, would deluge rain. But the skies remained relentlessly blue, the earth parched and cracked.

‘Gum?’

Aden nodded, reached out and accepted the small square that Rhys passed him. ‘Cheers.’ He should have been off today, should have been still in bed. But operational pressures had led to the cancellation of their rest day, and so here they were, stuck on the clammy range, the atmosphere thick with a feeling of heaviness unrelated to the weather.