Ella and Murray went back to the office, updated their reports, then headed home. Ella walked in her front door at nine thirty and put the kettle on with a sigh. The night was cool and quiet, a relief after the busyness of the day. Finding out that the cyclist was a woman was great, but it hadn’t brought them any closer to working out who exactly she was or where Stacey might be. And the whole thing with James and Rowan bugged her.
The kettle whistled. She made a cup of tea and took it and her mobile out to the plastic outdoor setting in her backyard. The sky had cleared. She dried a chair with a rag, then sat down.
Was James genuinely suspicious of Rowan when he asked Paris about him and Stacey, or was he joking, as he’d said? And it could simply be chance that Rowan had found her car, but when combined with his actions in going to see her friends, particularly when they weren’t also his friends (and who remembered an address after going there once three years ago?), it didn’t really look like it. Then there was Marie and whatever weird thing she had going on, and Willetts from over the road, and the anonymous complaint about James’s computer shop.
She drew in a breath, held it, then let it slowly out. She needed to sleep tonight, and wrestling with the case more than necessary wasn’t going to help. She shook her shoulders and looked around the dim yard. The grass was getting long; time to borrow her father’s mower again. Franco used to come around and do it himself, putting the mower in the boot for the short drive from Chullora, then pottering around the yard humming, but he’d become frailer in the last year or so and she’d taken to bringing the mower over herself. Franco often came too, and so did her mother, Netta, the two of them trying to talk to her over the mower’s roar, then sitting down together for lunch at the end. That made her think about tomorrow’s dinner again.
She stretched her neck to work out the kinks, had a sip of tea, then called Callum.
‘Hi,’ he answered in a whisper after the first ring.
‘You’re still there? How’s it going?’
‘You can probably imagine. How about you? Did you find her?’
‘Not yet.’ The words were hollow.
‘Do they know yet if the blood is hers?’
‘The DNA’s not back yet, but it’s the same type. The hairs we found match hers too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Listen. Assuming she’s still alive, how would she be?’ She couldn’t not ask.
‘Depends. If the bleeding was stopped by someone putting firm pressure on the wound, either with their hand or with a decent pad and bandage, but she’s had no treatment, like IV fluid replacement, she’ll be weak, faint, prone to passing out if she stands or perhaps even if she sits up. She might be vomiting, her heart rate and breathing would rise, her blood pressure would fall, she’d be pale and sweaty and probably quite anxious. If the wound was left alone, just allowed to keep bleeding with no treatment whatsoever, she would experience all these things more and more until she got to the point where she’d pass out even while lying flat, and then at some point, I’m sorry to say, she would die.’
Ella couldn’t find anything to say.
‘But look,’ he said, ‘even the dimmest dimwit knows enough to stop bleeding. And whoever took her must’ve done so for a reason. She has to be more use to them alive than dead, otherwise they would’ve killed her straight away. Wouldn’t they?’
‘Probably,’ she said after a moment.
‘So she’s more than likely not feeling great, but not getting worse either. She’s probably too weak to make an escape from wherever they have her, but given a few days’ rest and food and water, she might be able to think about it.’
‘If she’s not tied up,’ Ella said. ‘If she’s not behind locked doors.’
They were silent, then he said, ‘So, tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up on my way through?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’
‘It’ll be okay,’ he said.
‘You don’t know what Adelina’s like. She’ll grill you like you’re dinner. She’ll ask whatever’s on her mind, no matter how personal.’
‘I’ll be brave if you’ll hold my hand.’
She laughed but felt no better. ‘I’m serious.’
‘I’m serious too,’ he said. ‘Hold my hand and it’ll be okay.’
She closed her eyes. Maybe there’d be a break in the case; maybe she’d have to work back and dinner could be cancelled.
‘I promise,’ Callum was saying.
‘Okay.’ She heard him fight back a yawn. ‘Guess I’d better let you go.’
‘In a sec,’ he said. ‘I saw you on the news tonight, standing near the car.’
‘I hope I looked more intelligent than I feel.’
‘You looked perfect,’ he said. ‘Absolutely perfect.’
She smiled.
*
Rowan wiped down the sink and benches, listening to Megan and Simon dealing with Emelia’s usual bedtime shenanigans upstairs. It was dark outside, and he couldn’t see past his reflection in the kitchen window. The knock at the front door startled him. He opened it to find James standing there, red-eyed, rumpled and blinking in the porch light.
‘Rowan,’ he said, and Rowan smelled beer on his breath. ‘Can I come in?’
They sat at the kitchen table. Emelia’s crying rang through the house.
‘Poor little thing,’ James said.
Rowan closed the door to shut out the sound, and got James a glass of water.
‘Sorry for just dropping by,’ he said. ‘I’ve been out driving. Looking, I guess. Though I don’t even know where to start.’ He gripped the glass in both hands. ‘How could someone do this? Take her away like this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rowan said.
‘The cops asked me about business competitors, and about that complaint.’ James’s face was oily and greenish in the fluorescent light. ‘And that made me think of the conference, hundreds of computer people schmoozing, and all that time was one of them behind it? Was one of them watching me and knowing what was happening to Stace? Was he even talking to me, shaking my hand? Looking me in the eye like he was my friend while he was betraying me?’
‘Are they certain it’s that?’
‘No, they’re not certain, but what else could it be? Now whoever’s got her is sending these text messages about telling the truth, about doing the right thing if I want to see her again. If it’s some crazy patient she looked after, why would he blame me?’
‘To throw off the police?’ Rowan said.
‘But how would the crazy even know about the complaint?’ He got up to pace. Rowan could hear him grinding his teeth. ‘All that blood, Rowan. How can she survive that?’
‘It’s possible,’ Rowan said. ‘The human body –’
‘And the car being there,’ James went on. ‘Why was the car there? Why there? And you noticed it. Why you?’ He turned to face him. ‘Why you?’
‘Coincidence is a weird thing,’ Rowan found himself saying. ‘It looks like it means something when it doesn’t.’
James’s gaze was hard. ‘You’d tell me if you knew where she was. Right?’
‘Of course I would. You know that.’ Rowan could feel himself reddening. ‘You know me. I’m your friend. I want her home safe as much as you do.’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’ James took a step towards him. The water slopped out of the glass in his shaking hand. ‘You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?’
‘James,’ Rowan said. ‘I’m your friend. I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where Stacey is or what’s happened. I swear on my sons’ lives.’
James stared at him a moment longer then blinked as if waking up, and glanced at the ceiling, through which Emelia’s muffled cries still came. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know where my head’s at. I can’t think straight.’ He turned to the sink and the glass slipped in his hand.
Rowan heard it break then saw blood drip to the floor. ‘Jesus, did you just cut yourself?’
‘It’s just a graze.’ James squeezed his finger. Blood trickled across his palm.
‘I’ll get the first-aid kit.’ Rowan hurried to the bathroom and grabbed the kit from under the sink. Back in the kitchen, he made James sit down at the table then looked at his hand. The cut was small, on the side of his index finger, and steadily oozed blood. It didn’t need stitches.
‘I can’t even concentrate enough not to hurt myself,’ James said, as Rowan applied Steri-strips. ‘I’m so sorry for what I said.’
‘Forget it.’ Rowan covered the wound with a dressing and taped it into place. ‘With what you’re going through it’s completely understandable.’
The door opened and Simon and Megan came in. Megan went to James and hugged him.
‘We thought we heard voices. How are you?’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry about Stacey. The police were here this afternoon asking me stuff about her. They’re really serious about it. What’d you do to your hand?’
‘What stuff?’ James said.
‘Just about her and Rowan and our family, about how well I know you and her, stuff like that,’ Megan said.
‘Covering all the bases,’ Rowan said. ‘Thorough.’
James nodded. ‘Yes. Well, it’s good to have friends like you guys at a time like this.’ He took Simon’s outstretched hand.
‘Whatever we can do,’ Simon said.
James wiped his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Megan ran the tap to wash the blood down the sink. ‘James, I got paid today, so we finally have the bond money.’ Her voice was bright with excitement. ‘We’re ready to go whenever your friend is.’
But Rowan could see that James wasn’t really listening. ‘There’s no rush,’ he said.
‘Well –’ Megan began.
‘Another time,’ Rowan said.
James leaned against the bench, his hands gripping the edge of the sink behind him, his eyes haunted. ‘What if I never see her again?’
*
After a night of bad dreams about Stacey being lost and hurt, and about patients with symptoms she couldn’t understand no matter how hard she tried, Paris had a headache when she headed to The Rocks ambulance station early in the morning. She wanted to get in before Rowan, wanted to be checking the ambulance when he arrived, was determined to show him that she had a handle on everything. But when she walked up the driveway, she saw his car was already there.
He was standing in the lounge with Joe and Mick, the pair bleary-eyed from nightshift, watching the morning newsreader talk about Stacey’s disappearance. There was footage of her car being taken away from the Playland car park on a flatbed truck and of police going in and out of nearby businesses, then a photo of Stacey and James on a beach, then one of her smiling that Paris recognised as having been taken at one of the family barbecues; she could even make out her mother’s arm in the background.
The report was the same rehashing she’d seen before she left home, when her mother had been slumped on the lounge in her dressing gown, cup of coffee going cold in her hand.
‘You’re not going to work?’ Paris had asked her.
‘I’ve taken leave,’ Marie had retorted. ‘Yours isn’t the only job that can look after its staff.’
Paris had let that slide. ‘How was James?’
When Marie had come home at ten the night before, Paris had still been awake and feeling a little better after her evening with Liam and Abby and Lucy, but she hadn’t called out.
‘How do you think?’ Marie said.
Paris had turned away at the hostility in her voice, and wondered now if Marie was still on the lounge watching the TV.
‘Hey,’ Joe said, seeing her in the doorway. ‘We didn’t know if you’d be in today. Are you okay?’
‘Okay enough,’ Paris said.
Rowan glanced at her, then back at the TV. It was impossible to tell whether the cops had told him what she’d said about James’s question. The idea that he might think she’d taken it seriously, that she’d imagined he and Stacey might’ve got together, made her feel awkward. She left the room and got her bag from her locker. She opened their ambulance and switched on the internal fluorescent lights, then climbed into the back. Six weeks down and the truck was more familiar but still not the ‘home’ that Stacey had once described it as. Paris got out the checklist Rowan made her keep in her bag. He’d declared on her first day that by the third week she should know how to check the equipment without it, but when she didn’t, and after she twice forgot to check and restock the oxygen masks and once left a different empty cylinder unchanged, he’d photocopied the form and thrust it into her hand. ‘I sign here,’ he’d said, pointing to the box at the bottom of the columns, the words when you do it right left unsaid. She wondered if there’d be changes after last week’s cylinder episode, whether he’d present her with another checklist or maybe insist on watching as she worked. Not that you don’t deserve it, she thought.
He came out as she was repacking the intubation kit. She put it away and made sure he saw her ticking the form.
‘Going all right?’ he said.
‘Yep.’
He opened the linen locker then closed it. ‘How’s your mum?’
‘She’s okay.’
‘She go in to work?’
Paris shook her head. ‘She’s taken some time off.’
Rowan sat on the end of the stretcher. She felt his eyes on her as she checked the drug box. She counted ampoules of local anaesthetic with focused zeal.
He said, ‘You know you can take compassionate leave. If you want.’
‘I know.’ But here was better than home, and in some way it felt important to keep going.
‘Paris,’ Rowan said, but the ringing of the station phone cut him off.
Mick answered it in the muster room, listened, then came outside. ‘Collapse in Alfred Street Macca’s.’
‘We’re on it,’ Rowan said.
Paris closed up the back, then got in the passenger side and clipped in her seatbelt. Rowan started the engine. Other students from her class were already driving, she’d seen them around the city, but Rowan hadn’t said anything about when she might start. She pulled on latex gloves as Rowan hit the lights and siren, and let out a secret breath, preparing for what was coming.
‘What do we do first?’ Rowan said.
‘Check for danger. Check patient’s response, and their airway, breathing and circulation.’
‘Good. Then what?’
They flew past cars, shops, pedestrians. The reflection of the blue and red beacons flashed in the windows. Up ahead, people were waiting for them, listening for the sound of the siren, maybe doing CPR, maybe not doing CPR when they should, maybe glancing sideways at a moaning drunk – you never knew what you were going to with a collapse call. They would all stare at her and Rowan as they marched in with all their gear and took charge. Her heart skipped a beat. She pressed her fingers to her throat. If she had a heart attack of her own she wouldn’t have to look after anyone else.
Rowan glanced over at her. ‘Okay?’
‘Yep.’ She faked a problem with her uniform collar. How idiotic to think such things, to be such a baby. She’d trained for this, and even in just six weeks on the road she’d seen a lot. Chances were this would be a drunk or a drug overdose, and she knew what to do with either. In theory, at least. She snugged her gloves a little tighter.
‘Then what?’ Rowan asked again.
‘Treat specific conditions.’
‘Give me some examples.’
They were approaching the McDonald’s now, siren still wailing, tourists looking their way, and, oh god, there was a staff member standing on the street waving at them.
‘Examples,’ Rowan repeated.
She couldn’t think. She grasped the seatbelt, ready to release the clip and get out. There was a system: the treating officer took the Oxy-Viva and went in first, the driver followed with the drug box and monitor/defibrillator. She’d sling the Viva over her shoulder and walk in like she knew exactly what she was doing. She wouldn’t have that frightened look on her face, and she wouldn’t turn back to make sure that Rowan was close behind. Her voice wouldn’t shake when she asked the right questions of the patient and the bystanders, they wouldn’t glance at her then give the answers to Rowan instead, and she wouldn’t then sit in the back of the ambulance beside the stretchered patient on the way to hospital wondering what the hell to say.
The waver met her at the door. He was young, maybe seventeen, and trembling. ‘She looks really bad.’
She hoisted the Viva a little higher and nodded. She heard Rowan shut the ambulance door. ‘Where is she?’ Strong confident tone. So far so good.
‘This way.’
She followed him inside. The aircon was cold, the air smelled of frying, the people eating hotcakes and McMuffins watched her walk by. Two young female staff members knelt either side of a twentyish woman who lay propped against the counter. Against the centre of the counter, with lines of people continuing to order food on either side, and the eaters all watching with interest.
Paris ran through the procedure in her head. Danger: everything looks safe. Response: the woman was conscious, looking at her from frightened eyes. Airway, breathing and circulation: her skin was pale, she was visibly sweaty, and she was breathing quickly. So, all reasonable, but not as good as they should be. No visible wounds, no blood on the floor. Okay.
The patient and the two women were looking at her. She could feel the audience behind her too. Get a grip!
She put down the Viva and smiled at the patient. ‘Hello. My name’s Paris. What happened?’ Good. Good start. Strong start.
‘She passed out,’ one of the staffers said.
‘Uh-huh. Do you remember that?’
‘Not really,’ the patient said. ‘I remember feeling really dizzy, and like I couldn’t really breathe, then I woke up here on the floor.’
‘So you felt dizzy, then you passed out.’ Trying to think of the possible causes for such a scenario, Paris unzipped the Viva. She saw the sphygmo. Yes. Check the blood pressure.
‘She just folded up and collapsed,’ the other staff member said. She squeezed the patient’s hand. ‘She was out for a minute or so.’
‘I’m just going to take your blood pressure.’ Paris knelt beside the woman, then made herself move closer. During training they’d gone on and on about assessing patients with touch, feeling for deformity and tenderness and what-have-you, but never once mentioned how hard it was to overcome a lifetime of respect for personal space and get right up close to a stranger. She gingerly wrapped the cuff around the woman’s clammy arm and inflated it.
Beside her, one hand on the monitor, Rowan cleared his throat.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Monitor, please.’
He unpacked the leads and attached dots to the ends, then smiled at the patient. ‘Hi, I’m Rowan. What’s your name?’
‘Robyn,’ she said.
Of course, of course, ask their name. How had she forgotten that? Heat crept up the back of her neck as she stared at the sphygmo dial.
‘One hundred,’ she said, so Rowan would know.
‘Diastolic?’ he said.
Shit. She took out her stethoscope, pressed the bell to Robyn’s arm and inflated the cuff again.
‘Do you have any medical problems?’ Rowan asked Robyn as he ran off a strip of ECG.
‘I’ve been a bit sick lately,’ she said. ‘The doctor said it’s a virus. That’s all though.’
‘One hundred on sixty-five,’ Paris said.
Rowan nodded and held out the ECG. She took it and studied it. She could feel them all waiting. The lines on the paper blurred. What the fuck came next?
‘Are you still short of breath?’ Rowan asked Robyn.
‘A bit,’ she said. ‘Not a lot though.’
Double shit. Paris pulled out the sats monitor and clipped the probe on Robyn’s finger, then hooked up an oxygen mask.
‘Ninety-four on room air, ninety-six on O2,’ she said to Rowan.
But he was still waiting. They were all waiting. She felt like everyone in the place was looking at her, could see the panicked sweat breaking out on her body, the frenzied unspooling in her head. She grasped wildly for a question. ‘Are you, uh, allergic to anything?’
Robyn shook her head.
Paris gave her a big smile. ‘That’s great.’
And it was, but now what? She couldn’t think. There was some mnemonic about what to ask; she knew it started with allergies, but what came next? The harder she tried to recall it, the blanker her mind became. The only thing she knew for sure was that they were all looking at her and she was failing again. There was no way around it. She was going to have to hand over to Rowan. The embarrassment and humiliation brought a lump to her throat as she looked up at him.
‘How about you get out the glucometer,’ he said. ‘Robyn, are you on any medication?’
Medication, of course. That was what came next. And her blood sugar had to be checked because she’d passed out. In a hot cloud of shame Paris took out the little machine and turned it on. What the fuck was wrong with her? How come she could remember all this only after it was pointed out to her? She’d come top of her class, she was going to be a bright shining star. And look, Rowan was talking to Robyn like they were old mates at the same time as he assessed her properly – yet another thing she’d forgotten to do – and now he’d found a swelling on her head from when she’d collapsed.
Paris gritted her teeth and glared down at her hands. Dreams do come true.