Rupert dropped down low and crawled along the threadbare carpet of the dilapidated Brixton flat. The smoke was thick and acrid, carrying the telltale stench of whatever faulty electrical item the fire had originated from.
Gav and Tony shuffled past him, heading for the kitchen to put it out. Rupert shouldered open the door to the living room, feeling around for signs of the flat’s occupants. His hand hit what felt like a couch. He patted down the cushions until he found an arm. Bingo. Rupert sat up on his knees and called out to the elderly man. There was no response. The man’s body was limp—lifeless—and Rupert had been doing the job long enough to know he was likely already dead.
He lifted the man over his shoulder and radioed in. “Got one. Any word on the other occupants?”
“It’s just him, O’Neil. We’ve got the wife out here. Bring him down.”
Great. Rupert didn’t fancy the task of laying the dead man at his wife’s feet. Hopefully, there’d be an ambulance waiting so she wouldn’t know until Rupert had slunk away. Heartless? Not really. Rupert had done his fair share of breaking bad news.
He carried the man out. A lone paramedic greeted him—no ambulance, just a bike with blues and twos. Rupert laid the man on the pavement. The paramedic pronounced him dead and covered him with a blanket. The wife’s distraught wail should’ve gutted him. Should’ve torn him in two and etched itself in the part of his soul that never got over the death and destruction he witnessed time and time again.
It didn’t.
He pulled his breathing apparatus off and went to the rear of the rig to clean down. Radio chatter told him the fire was out and the block of flats had been cleared of all residents. Their job was nearly done. An hour or so and they’d be back at the station, showering and hanging around for another call.
“O’Neil?” Briggs, the watch manager, stood behind Rupert. “Everything okay?”
“Yup.”
“Sure?”
“Yup.” Rupert kept his gaze on the task at hand. Briggs was a good man—a friend—and he’d gone above and beyond for Rupert since Jodi’s accident, but Rupert wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart. Not today.
Shame Briggs couldn’t read minds. “Come and see me when we get back. ’Bout time we touched base.”
Rupert sighed as Briggs walked away. Not a day seemed to go by without some well-meaning soul trying to persuade him to pour his heart out to them. When were they going to realise that no amount of tea and chatter would change a bloody thing?
The next hour passed in a haze of soot and grime as they made the flat safe for fire investigators. Rupert was the last man out. On his way, he passed a London Fire Brigade home-safety poster pinned up in the entrance hall. The cruel irony hit him hard. His crew spent much of their time out in the community, trying to prevent fires happening in the first place—smoke alarms, fire blankets, escape routes. Their message had clearly never reached this family.
Outside, he watched the grieving wife being coaxed into a police car, finally persuaded to leave the scene. Until a few months ago, Rupert would’ve perhaps gone with her, supported her until a family liaison officer arrived. Not now. Fuck that. It had been a while since he’d had the energy to counsel someone through what were often the hardest and most distressing moments of their life. A while since he’d had the stomach to meet the haunted gaze of a soul who’d lost everything they’d ever known in the blink of an eye.
Back at the station, he dodged Briggs and ducked into the showers. Whatever kind of job he’d been on, there was always something satisfying about watching hours of soot and grime disappear down the plug hole, and he lingered under the hot spray as long as he dared. The coast was clear when he got out, or so he thought, until he got to his bunk and found Briggs waiting for him.
“Not hiding from me, are ya, O’Neil?”
Rupert sighed and tossed his damp towel on the bed. “No point with you fecking stalking me, is there?”
“S’pose not.” If Briggs was offended, he didn’t show it. He glanced around. “How’s Jodi?”
Rupert looked around too, checking that they had relative privacy, though he didn’t know why. His personal life wasn’t much of a secret. “Pretty much the same.”
“Still having seizures?”
“Not this week. They’re hoping it was just a phase of his recovery.” And dear God, so was Rupert. He’d spent the beginning of the last month dreading the moment the doctors decided Jodi was well enough to leave the hospital, but it hadn’t happened. Instead, Jodi had been plagued by a run of terrifying seizures, and Rupert had regressed into fearing nothing but that damn-fucking shadow on Jodi’s brain.
“And how are you bearing up? It’s gotta be hard, Rupert. Two jobs and caring for Jodi. Don’t know how you do it.”
I don’t, Rupert wanted to say. He’d handed his notice in at the club, and it had been a long time since he’d felt like he’d done anything properly, but he held his tongue. Briggs had waved the possibility of promotion to crew manager under Rupert’s nose the day before Jodi’s accident. He hadn’t mentioned it since, and it was probably just as well. The bump in salary would’ve cleared the last of Rupert’s postdivorce debts and allowed him to treat Jodi and Indie the way they deserved, but if—whenJodi came home, chances were Rupert would have to cut his hours to care for him.
And pay the mortgage with magic beans.
Briggs shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Rupert turned his back on him under the guise of pulling a wrinkled T-shirt—his clothes were missing Jodi’s attention—over his head, counting down to the question he knew would come next.
“Don’t suppose he’s, er, talking yet, is he?”
“No, not yet.” Rupert closed his eyes against the image of Jodi convulsing on the hospital floor, his dark gaze blank and his mouth clamped shut, not uttering a sound. Was it wrong that Rupert longed for him to cry out? Even in pain? Anything to prove there was a scrap of Jodi left behind that hollow stare?
Briggs slapped Rupert on the back. “Chin up, mate. Never know, tonight might be the night you walk into that hospital and get yer boy back.
