feet, head on his paws, eyes intent on Kieran’s face.
Kieran waited, counting to himself. The seconds passed. He began to think that maybe he was going to be okay—or at least well enough to clean himself up, then get down a sandwich and some coffee. Then maybe he could work out what to do about the man on the bank.
He’d gingerly started to stand when he heard a soft splash from outside the shed. Finn’s ears came up in inquiry. The dog tilted his head and growled low in his throat, the hackles rising on his back.
Then the world exploded.
Chapter Eleven
.
—Brad Alan Lewis
“Lamb.” Ian waved a paper bag under Tavie’s nose. “Baby sheep. Baa. A veggie’s delight.” The bag was filled with kebabs from the takeaway across from the police station. The aroma of roasted lamb wafted through the fire station break room.
“You’ll have the whole lot of them in here if you’re not careful.” She nodded towards the engine bay, where the captain had the crew doing a drill. Ian, her partner on tonight’s rota in the Rapid Response Vehicle—or the RRV, as it was officially known—loved to tease her about being a vegetarian.
They’d been on a call, dealing with an elderly lady who’d fallen, when the fire brigade crew had eaten, so Ian had volunteered to go for kebabs.
It gave him an excuse to tease her, since he knew perfectly well that although a vegetarian by choice since her teens, she’d never been able to stop salivating at the smell of cooked meat.
She thought maybe the response was genetic, coded into the DNA of her long-ago Nordic hunter-gatherer ancestors, when the odor of meat roasting on the fire had meant the difference between survival and death.
“Did you bring me hummus? And falafel?” she asked.
“Of course, madam.” Ian produced another paper bag from behind his back and set it on the break room table. He pulled out a hard plastic chair and sat, opening his own bag.
“You, Ian, are a prince among men.” Tavie peered into her bag, sniffing. A warm, folded pita held balls of crunchy falafel, a good dollop of hummus, a squeeze of bright green coriander/chili sauce, and a sprinkle of lettuce, cucumber, and tomato. It was messy, drippy, and smelled like heaven. There were some compensations for being a
She started to put the bag on the table, then wrinkled her nose at the brown smears and unidentifiable crumbs spread liberally on the tabletop. “What did they eat in here? And who cleaned up?
“Chili con carne, I think,” said Ian through a mouthful of kebab. “And the new guy had kitchen duty.”
Tavie grabbed a kitchen towel from the roll near the sink and wiped a square foot of table, clearing just enough space for her bag. “Well, Bonzo, or Bozo, or whatever his name is can deal with me when the captain’s finished with him. That’s disgusting.”
“It’s Brad, Tav.” Ian fished another kebab from the bottom of his bag. “He seems like a nice enough kid.”
“Yeah. He reminds me of my ex. Nice.” She shot a glare towards the engine bay.
Ian grinned. “You’re vicious.”
“And you’re a big softie,” she said, but she smiled as she sat down. She liked working with Ian. He was a good medic, studying hard for more advanced certification, and he didn’t give her any grief over the fact that she was more qualified.
On this job they dealt with everything from ill and distressed old-age pensioners to major accidents, heart attacks, and strokes, with the occasional nutter in a tin foil hat thrown in.
Ian was decisive and patient, which made him good at both extremes of the job. He had a wife and two lovely children, and Tavie thought his level-headed competence would make him a good addition to the SAR team.
But then, she reminded herself, she’d thought Kieran would make a good addition to the team, and that hadn’t worked out so well.
Her good humor evaporated, along with her appetite. She kept remembering Kieran’s face when she’d ranted at him last night. He’d turned away from her, his eyes filled with despair, and she’d have done anything to have called back her words.
She’d spent a sleepless night, worrying about whether she should ring him to see if he was all right, and had gone on call bleary-eyed that morning. There’d been no opportunity to phone him during her busy day until now— had she been capable of working out what to say.
“Eat up,” urged Ian, eyeing her untouched falafel. “Or I’ll take it away from you. I like it, too, you know.”
“Bugger off,” Tavie said, but without heat. She picked up the bag, then set it down again, fighting a sudden desire to confide in someone, although she couldn’t share the details of the search or what had happened afterwards. “Ian, what if you’d said rotten things to a friend—true, maybe, but still rotten—how would you apologize?”
“I’d buy him a pint.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, probably not the best option, since one of the things I shouted at him for was drinking.”
Ian looked interested. “Outside Magoos, right? The crazy bloke who fixes boats?”
“What—how did you—” Oh, Christ. She should have known every word she’d said had been overheard and would have made the rounds of the town within hours. “He’s not crazy,” she protested. “He was a medic in Iraq.”
“Shit.” Ian’s usually jovial expression vanished in an instant. “PTSD?”
“I think so. And a head injury. But he never talks about it.” She hesitated, then went on, uncomfortably. “I did some, um, research, before asking him to join the SAR team.” Admitting it made her feel ashamed, even though she’d had a legitimate reason to snoop. “He lost his entire unit to an IED.”
“Poor bastard.” Ian shook his head. “So what did he do that was bad enough to deserve a bollocking from you? I heard you had a search call-out yesterday.”
Of course he had. “Look, Ian—I shouldn’t have said—”
The fire tone-out drowned her words.
“You should have eaten, is what you should have done,” said Ian, popping the last bite of kebab into his mouth. “Falafel won’t be any good in the microwave. Wilts the lettuce—”
“Shhh.” Tavie held up her hand. Over the sound of the engine rumbling to life in the bay and the shouts of the crew as they suited up, she’d heard the dispatcher say two words.
“RRV . . . possible injury,” said the dispatcher. “Some sort of explosion—structure fire on the island across from Mill Meadows.”
Tavie ran for the car.
She had the Volvo on the street before the fire engine was out of the bay, gunning the car with a squeal that had Ian, normally the most sanguine of passengers, gripping the dash with one hand as he scrabbled for his seat belt with the other. They flew down West Street into Market Place, lights on and siren
