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‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Rhys’s voice had been low, only for Aden to hear. ‘Tony, he . . . he was going to blow, sooner or later.’

Aden looked up at the younger man, giving him a quick, effortful smile. ‘Come on, Rhys. We both know I lit the fuse.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, he pushed you, you pushed back, he flipped. The guy . . . he’s got problems.’ He had glanced across his shoulder, his voice dropping further. ‘We all handled it differently, the shooting. But the thing is, it got to all of us. Even Tony. This has been a long time coming for him.’

Aden nodded slowly, guilt still nuzzling at him.

The conversation thrummed, bouncing off the metal door. What would happen to Tony? Would he be fired? Arrested? Aden had kept his head down, pulling a cleaning kit closer to him, focusing on the gun, its narrow alleyways, the ease of its slide. Pulled a thin-bristled brush free.

‘Ade.’

He half-turned. The AFO was older than him, by a considerable number of years, had been in Firearms longer than anyone could remember; thick-waisted, a red-blond beard that hid his age. A hard man with a sharp humour, a sharper aim. ‘All right, Bob?’

Bob wasn’t looking at Aden, was studying his Glock, the movement of his brush as he cleaned it. ‘That guy, Tony. He’s a prick.’

Aden nodded, slowly.

‘Sarge tell you FTU is looking for someone?’ Bob ran the Tactical Unit, had done for years.

‘He mentioned it.’

Bob nodded. ‘You need to apply. We want you on the team.’

Fed the brush through, pulled it back. Fed the brush through, pulled it back. ‘Thanks. Yeah. I’m thinking about it.’

Aden had glanced at Rhys, his dark head ducked, trying hard to pretend he wasn’t listening. Aden had given the younger man a quick smile, one that came a little easier.

They had cleaned their guns and stowed them back in the armoury. Had, as one, begun the slow trooping up the stairs.

Then Tony’s voice, washing along the breeze-blocked hallway. ‘You can’t fucking do this to me.’

Another voice – Iestyn’s, lower, just a soft bass this time, with no words in it.

‘No. I’ve got nothing left. I’ve got nothing fucking left.’ Tony’s voice barely recognisable, warped and twisted. ‘Thanks to that fucking kid and that bastard Aden McCarthy. I’ve got nothing.’

The barmaid, all spandex, top cut low to make the most of her bulbous cleavage, set the pint down on the bar with a clatter. Wasn’t looking at Aden or Del, her attention snagged on Rhys. Aden gave a little laugh, shook his head.

‘So, tell me.’ Del took a long pull of his pint. ‘What’s the news with you and Charlie?’

Aden didn’t answer, sipped his lager. He had wanted to call her. Why, he didn’t really know. Had wanted to hear her voice so badly that it had felt like a thirst. But he hadn’t, because it wasn’t her problem, was it? So he had sat at home and thought about her and thought about her, so that in the end it almost felt like he had spoken to her.

‘No news.’

‘So, are you like – y’know?’

Aden laughed, shook his head. Took another sip so that he wouldn’t have to look at Del. Couldn’t now remember a time when she wasn’t in his head, when his days didn’t run from one swimming session to the next. The truth of it was, he didn’t even like swimming all that much.

‘Well, why the hell not, mate?’

‘We’re just friends. That’s all.’

Del was watching him. That uncomfortable feeling settling on Aden, like he had said more than he had intended to say.

‘She’s a good girl, is Charlie. I’ve known her a long time. There’s nobody better to have around you in a pinch.’ Del took another pull, shrugged. ‘Crusty exterior – like, tends to make it hard work – but once she trusts you . . .’ He looked at Aden across his pint. ‘You should ask her out.’

Aden didn’t answer, looked down at his glass, the snowy-white foam. There was something about someone knowing the worst of you, having seen you at your very weakest. Where did you go from there? And Charlie, she was . . . she could have anybody.

Del upended his glass, draining the remnants. ‘I’m telling you, mate. Ask her out. She’s not going to hang around for ever.’

IMOGEN WALKED ALONG
the hospital corridor, quiet in the morning haze. Her head swaying, seemed like the linoleum floor was bucking, rising up to meet her. She concentrated, putting care into every step, fearing that if she didn’t, then she would fall again. There was a dull throbbing in the back of her head, a pulse like house-music heard through a wall.

Had she passed out? Imogen wasn’t really sure. She remembered the argument, the fall (was it a fall or a push? she didn’t know and, at the moment, the distinction seemed to be one that mattered), and then lying on her bedroom floor, staring up at the ceiling, thinking obliquely that there were cobwebs, that she really should dust the light. Then a heat and pressure building inside her, rising with a force so irresistible that it was all she could do to contain it. She had crawled on all fours across the landing to the bathroom, still airless and thick with steam, the thought of standing more than she could bear. Then a wrenching, and ripping, the vomit only just making the toilet basin.

Imogen remembered crying. Remembered the heat of the tears, the salt of them cutting through the acid in her mouth. She remembered knowing, although not knowing how she knew, that Dave was gone, that he had vanished somewhere in between the fall and the crack and the darkness.

She had cradled the toilet, had let her stomach empty itself, her head thumping with pain. Then, after a minute or an hour – who could tell? – she had managed to ease herself up. Walking, unsteady, her hands trailing against the buttery paintwork of the walls, back to the bedroom. Tumbling onto the still-made bed. And, before she fell asleep, passed out, whichever one it was, thinking that the gun, like her fiancé, had vanished.

Then she had slept and slept and slept.

Imogen pressed the button for the lift, waited, leaning against the wall. Beads of sweat pricked her forehead, more than just the heat of the day. The doors slid open with a ping and she stepped inside carefully, struggling to focus on the buttons.

She had awoken hours later, had slept straight through into the early-morning light. Had come to with that easy, soporific drift, the kind where life is painted in a soft palette, everything murky, a little unclear. Then she had remembered. Had sat up sharp, even though her head had throbbed, the world swirling around her.

Dave hadn’t returned. Everything was as it had been. But Dave and the rifle were gone.

The lift shuddered to a halt, its doors opening with a groan that cut through her. She wanted to see Mara, needed to. And hadn’t it always been this way; that when the worst of all things had come to pass, it was her sister’s arms she craved. Like being back in the womb, wrapped, one within the other. Imogen moved out of the lift, along the corridor.

The doors to Ward 11 were in sight and Imogen felt a swell of relief. The young security guard with the tattooed arms leaned against the opposite wall, texting. Then the doors to Ward 11 flung open, the speed of them hitting against the wall, and there was Mara, her steps quick, her face set into a kind of fury. Imogen stopped, struggling, wondered if she knew, how it was possible that she could know.

‘Mara?’

‘Oh, thank God, Im. Look, I’ve got to go upstairs. The bloody doctors – they’re insisting they need to see me; and I said: well, come down here. I mean, I’ve got a sick child. What the hell they think they’re doing I just don’t know.’

‘Why . . .?’

‘I have no idea, but apparently it’s life-or-death. Look, Amy’s in there. She’s asleep, but she’s on her own.’

‘No, I . . . I’ll stay with her.’ Imogen answered slowly, trying to coax her brain around this new thing that had to be dealt with. ‘Mar . . .’

‘I’ve got to hurry, Im. I don’t like leaving her. Will you . . . Shit!’ Mara wasn’t looking at Imogen, was questing in her handbag. ‘Dammit.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve brought Doggie with me. Shit! If Amy wakes up and he’s not there . . . Oh God, and all of her other bits. Look, just take my bag in with you, will you? I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Mara leaned over, hooked the overlarge bag onto Imogen’s shoulder and, just like that, she was gone.

It took a moment. Imogen’s head was swirling, and the bag was heavy, and she could smell her sister’s perfume – all of her that was left behind – and now she wanted to cry. She had wanted Mara so badly. But Amy was waiting, and there were things that had to be done. Imogen pushed herself forward, pulled at the door.

She had barely got inside, the door still straining at its hinges, when Mara’s bag began to ring. Imogen started, glanced over her shoulder, the dim thought that she could call her sister back. But it was too late and she was gone. Not thinking, Imogen reached in, pulled the phone free.

The caller display was lit up. The ringtone jangling. Dave calling.

Imogen stood, staring at it. A feeling like her worlds were colliding. Didn’t answer, didn’t do anything, just stared at it and stared at it, and finally the ringing stopped and the screen went dark again. A feeling worked its way through the headache and the vague sense of nausea: that something she had always known was creeping its way forward. She opened her sister’s call history.

Dave. Dave. Dave.

It seemed that she was looking at the phone down a long tunnel.

Imogen leaned against the door to Amy’s room, thinking to get away, to where it was quiet and dark and she could think. She pushed the door open, her heart thumping, thinking about her sister’s gaze, the one that would not stick, but slid down and away, the one that meant she was lying. Thinking about Dave’s late nights, his phone never leaving his fingers, the computer that was now password-protected. Thinking about a night so long ago that it was easy to pretend it never happened, and a man’s voice heard only through walls, but now it is undeniable that it was Dave’s voice. Thinking about the boots. The ones that sat beside Mara’s couch.

Wanting to be sick so badly that it seemed like there was nothing else in the world.

Imogen pushed open the door, expecting only Amy, sleeping.

She was met instead with a small ‘Oh!’ of surprise. Imogen started, struggling to locate the sound.

‘Imogen. I didn’t think . . . I mean, I thought . . .’ Natalie was standing beside Amy’s sleeping form, had a look on her face, something that seemed almost like guilt.

‘Natalie. What’s going on?’ It shouldn’t have been strange, should it? The nurse caring for her patient. But it was. There was something, in Natalie’s expression, her movements, something that screamed out to Imogen.

‘Oh, nothing. Just checking Amy’s breathing . . .’

‘Her breathing?’

‘Yes, well, after the heart-trace . . .’

‘What about the heart-trace? Mara said it was fine.’

‘Oh, yes. Sure.’

Sometimes it seemed to Imogen that lies came with a neon sign. This was one of those times. ‘What was wrong with it? There’s something wrong with her heart?’

‘Um, well . . . no, not wrong.’

‘So?’

Natalie’s expression shifted then, guilt moving into a collapse of will, the look of one who has been caught. ‘I can’t talk about it, Imogen. I’m—’

‘NO. You tell me now.’ Imogen’s voice wasn’t her voice any more, but a roaring, seething tide of anger. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Natalie stared at her, caught in indecision. Then with a heavy sigh, a glance at Amy, still curled up asleep in the bed, ‘Look, Im.’ A quick glance towards the door. ‘I could get into so much trouble for telling you this and, I mean, I wouldn’t, if it was anyone but you. But the thing is, social services are involved now.’

‘What? Why? What the hell are you talking about?’

Natalie folded her arms. ‘It’s your sister. We think Mara has been hurting Amy.’

IT HAS HAPPENED,
finally. The weather has broken. The torpid heat giving way to grey-cotton clouded skies, rain that spears the ground, hitting, rebounding back upon itself. I tug my cardigan tight around me, tuck my chin into the collar and shiver, cold for what seems like the first time ever. Watch the rain as it hits the newsroom window, a steady thump, thump, thump. Seems the few of us here today – the ones unlucky enough to pull the Saturday shift – are all doing the same thing, all gazes hooked on the steel skies. It’s like we aren’t British, like we’ve never seen rain before. The office is quiet. Three, maybe four of us in today. We are sitting at our desks trying to look busy, like good little worker bees; no one is saying anything. We can all feel it. It’s in the air.

I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until this endless shift is done. Fifteen minutes until I can go home.

Dave looks ill. His normally pale skin has lightened three shades paler, a corpse pallor, his eyes rimmed with red, face slack. I glance at him, back down at my computer, stare at the blank screen, but my gaze won’t stick, keeps pulling up to Dave. He lets loose a small sigh and for a moment I am afraid that he is crying. I fight the urge to run away and lock myself in the toilet.

‘You okay?’ I ask.

He doesn’t answer, is just staring into space, and it occurs to me to wonder if he is drunk.

‘Dave?’

His gaze snaps up to me then, and I recoil. He looks now like someone I have never met before. Is staring at me, and I spare a moment to wish that I’d kept my damn mouth shut.

‘Are you? Okay, I mean? Only you look . . . tired.’ This is me at my most diplomatic, thinking that tired sounded better than ‘like death’.

He looks down then, mumbles, ‘Didn’t sleep.’

I nod, try to think of something else to say. Fail spectacularly. I look back at my computer. There are things that I should be doing, stories I should be working on. But I confess that none of them has my full attention. That got snagged, left behind in Delizioso, with the bartender with his flickering gaze, and Emily, drinking a small white wine until she can barely stand.