“You also said you were excellent.”
“I’m learning honesty in stages.”
Her mouth twitches, and then she is gone.
I am left in the kitchen with my notebook, my coffee, my aching legs and absolutely no idea what hanging out is supposed to look like in a fire station.
For the first ten minutes, I do what journalists are supposed to do.
I observe.
The kettle boils twice. Someone has left a spoon on the counter in a small circle of coffee. There are two mugs by the sink, one clean, one in a state of moral uncertainty. A pile of leaflets sits at the end of the table, weighted down by a stapler. The whiteboard says HOME FIRE SAFETY VISITS, SCHOOL VISIT PREP, PPE CHECKS, JOSH/PIP REVIEW, and, in larger letters, BUY TEA BAGS.
Underneath that, someone has written KEV DID IT.
Possibly an accusation. Possibly a confession.
I write a few notes.
Station routine: not downtime. Constant low-level work. Prevention. Checks. Admin. Supplies. Humour used as glue, not performance.
That is good.
That is useful.
That is exactly the sort of thing Marie Louise wanted.
I am still thinking about the dress.
This is less useful.
I take a sip of coffee and burn my tongue.
“Morning, babyface.”
I close my eyes.
Kev stands in the doorway, holding a packet of something and wearing the expression of a man who has woken up with a purpose.
“Morning,” I say. “I see we’re still doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m not giving it oxygen.”
He grins and crosses to the cupboard. “Good idea. You’ll need it later.”
That is not encouraging.
He opens the cupboard, frowns into it, then looks at the worktop.
I look too.
The tea bags are there.
Beside the kettle.
In plain sight.
