I squinted down at my plate and sternly told myself that there were no maggots in the rice. I dug in the fork, played around a bit with the fluffy grains just to make sure there were definitely no squiggly, squirming things, and then shovelled in an unladylike mouthful.
As I chewed, I tried not to gag. Although my eyes told me one thing, my mind was spinning me a completely different story. It was the fallout from being a forensic investigator.
The cop shrink had said it would take some time to get back to normal. But what was normal? I as hell didn't know.
'So, Morgan, what d'ya reckon? Like the job?' asked my one time partner Danny Pickles. 'The pay's good, the hours aren't bad and it's better than moping around all day.'
I swallowed my rice-maggots with difficulty and avoided eye contact. I did that a lot these days. It was easier than looking into someone's soul and seeing the desolation there, imagined or otherwise.
'I don't know, Danny. I don't think I'm ready to return to the front line.'
He wanted me to join his security agency. He ran it with another ex-cop and they had this position as bodyguard for a little girl. The kid's parents were wealthy and, because of some suss letters, feared that their princess was in danger of being abducted.
'Sweetie, it's not trench warfare. It'll be a snitch. How hard can it be looking after a kid? You'll get to catch up on that dysfunctional childhood of yours and finally play with pink dollies in frilly frocks.'
'My childhood wasn't dysfunctional!' Okay, so maybe having a gun-toting bank-robber for a mother and a missionary dad wasn't normal, but hey, we had some good times.
My folks had met on the streets. Mum was one of the head honchos and Dad was there to bring the love of Jesus to the underworld. It was a mismatch that had sort of worked. And I was the by-product. I'd grown up playing in the gutter with sinners and saints, depending on which parent I was with.
I'd joined the police force fresh out of university and had done a brief training stint in forensics. My first case was a badly decomposed body that had been floating in a fishing net. The crabs and other scavengers of the sea had enjoyed their meal, which was more than I can say about the chicken and rice I was now trying to force down my throat.
Then there was a child buried alive while playing in the sand-dunes, a woman hacked to death by her lover, a man and his kids gassed in a car midsummer and found too many days later. The list went on and by the time I'd reached 28 I was a head case and contemplating joining them in Hell. The only thing that stopped me was my colleagues would've had to mop up the pieces.
And count those damn maggots.
I'd been put on extended leave to sort myself out, but a round of therapy had left me exhausted and it hadn't stopped me seeing, smelling and feeling the kiss of death everywhere. Or from being plagued with anxiety attacks. So I quit. And now Danny was knocking on my door and offering me this job.
I'd only agreed to see him because I was bored to the backs of my eyeballs. I would've agreed to see an undertaker and organise my own funeral to relieve the monotony. The only highlight was the panic attacks.
'It's no big deal,' Danny insisted. 'These people just want to feel secure.'
'You excel at that so why don't you play bodyguard?'
'Because this time you'd do it better. It's a girl thing.'
'That's not very PC.'
'But it's true. You can comfortably stay close to the kid, even when she goes to the bathroom. It's much more appropriate than having a hulking brute watching over her.'
As Danny was only as big as a garden gnome, he was hardly hulking material. But I let it go. I could see his point.
'Of course,' carried on Danny. 'I'll be with you too, doing the chauffeuring and general duties. You won't be flying solo.' He hesitated. 'And you won't have to deal with Ashe.'
I ignored the Ashe comment. I wouldn't deal with Ashe, period.
'These people must be worried to employ two bodyguards.'
'We've more than that on the job. We've got the house and grounds teeming. But personally I don't think there's a real threat.'
'So who are we actually talking about here? And why are they so scared?' I asked, pushing my barely touched plate to one side.
'I can only tell you that if you're in. You have to sign a confidentiality clause and all that. Agency rules.'
'Okay.' Though I didn't intend to. I just wanted the goss.
Danny saw through me. He plonked a sheaf of papers on the table. 'I don't want you changing your mind, kid. No gain without pain.'
He had me. He'd pricked my interest. He knew how inquisitive I was, which was why I'd made a good investigator, sifting through the clues, tracking down the cause of death, helping nail the culprits. I'd have to sign his stupid contract if I wanted information. So I signed and then he told me.
'Russo and Francesca Camberlini.'
I whistled. 'Mega money. Don't they own half of Perth's entertainment franchises including the spanking new casino and concert hall?' Danny nodded. 'No wonder they're worried. Kidnapping their kid would be seen by some as easy money.'
The next day I arrived early at the agency and Danny kitted me out with a vest, gun and radio. I was stowing my knife as an extra precaution when he said apologetically: 'I can't play chauffeur today. Camberlini wants to see me.'
'But you said…' I could feel a panic attack coming on, swift and sure.
'Breathe, Morgan, breathe,' he said patting my back. 'Don't worry about it, kid. You won't be alone. Ashe'll be your chauffeur.'
Ashe!
Ex-Detective Inspector Carlton Ashe was a legend in his own lifetime. But not mine.
He was the tall dark silent type. I'd like to say handsome, but a face that's been beaten and scarred is more like a piece of naff modern art than a thing of beauty. He had a jagged scar from eye to jaw, courtesy of a street brawl, and a beaky nose that begged to be broken. I'd obliged on one memorable occasion.
In fact, it was the last time I'd seen Ashe. He'd had a shaven head and was covered in tattoos and studs. And he'd just arrested my mum.
Needless to say, we weren't on best terms.
'But you said,' I gasped and did some more deep breathing, focussing on the rather sickly, dust-covered spider plant on top of Danny's filing cabinet and trying not to think of being locked in a car with my least favourite person.
'But you said,' I tried again and was interrupted.
'You're kidding me,' rasped someone from behind. 'We're not employing her!'
That granite-grit voice I'd have recognised anywhere.
'We are. She's the best,' said Danny loyally.
'She's a fruit-loop.'
At this I swung around, knife still in hand. With a flick of my wrist I sent it spinning through the air where it embedded in the doorjamb, only a smidge away from Ashe's left ear.
'Brilliant aim,' said Danny, as a nervous tic attacked his eyelid.
'What do you mean? I missed!' I stared boldly, challengingly at Ashe, and he glared back.
He'd changed a lot since I'd last seen him. He was still all bulging muscles and testosterone, but his hair had grown back black, thick and lush, curling to his shoulders in waves that would have made a lesser woman weep. There wasn't a hint of blue tattoo ink or metal piercings, which pricked my finicky interest.
How had he got rid of them? He was wearing a tight black T-shirt and snug black jeans.
'If you do any of that shit while you're with me you're out on your fanny,' he said and then spun on the heel of his scuffed leather boots and left the room.
'That went well,' said Danny, mopping sweat from his brow. 'Don't try and get a rise out of him, Morgan. He's not your greatest fan.'
'Feeling's mutual,' I said, retrieving my knife. 'I reckon you've made a tactical error employing me, Danny boy.'
Ashe returned minutes later in a chauffeur's uniform with his hair tied back in a ponytail, accentuating his Keanu Reeves high cheekbones and broken beak. A peak cap shaded those all too knowing eyes that were the colour of a Perth summer sky but without the warmth.
'Let's go,' he barked. I saluted and goose-stepped towards the black Mercedes with its bullet-proof glass and reinforced steel. He snagged my arm.
'Watch it,' he said close to my ear and nearly precipitated a panic attack then and there. 'You might be Danny's friend but you're no mate of mine.'
'Holy Mackerel, Robin!' I pronounced with juvenile bravado. 'Time for the Bat Mobile or we'll be late for class.'
But my front was brittle. I was a stiletto-blade away from losing it. I didn't want to be reduced to a snivelling wreck with Ashe looking on. There was enough bad blood between us without making his fruit-loop comment take wings. Luckily, I managed to stave it off until we had the kid in the car.
The kid, Sabrina Camberlini, was precocious. She was seven going on forty and knew absolutely everything, which was kind of irritating for someone almost thirty who had regressed to watching daytime cartoons and Play School. She had dark curls, Bambi eyes and was as cute as a cobra.
As we drove to the school I began to feel the telltale signs of my chest tightening and black spots dancing on my eyeballs. I clutched my hands together and tried to control the sudden breathlessness.
The kid flicked me a glance and then concentrated on her computer game. 'Breathe,' she said flatly. Ashe immediately cut his eyes to the rear-view mirror. Irritated concern flashed in those icy depths.
I flapped my hand in a 'don't worry about it' sort of gesture.
'Breathe,' said Sabrina again. 'It's just a panic attack.'
I did and the symptoms subsided.
'How d'ya know so much, kid?' I said once I was back in control.
'My gran gets them all the time.'
Ashe mouthed 'women' in the mirror and shook his head in disgust.
For the next two weeks we babysat Sabrina without incident. Most days it was Danny driving the car, which suited me fine. We joked and chatted and it felt like old times. Times before the maggots and death-stench had got to me.
When Ashe was at the wheel there was deadly silence.
'Why don't you like Ashe?' Miss Smarty-Pants Sabrina asked one day while we were ticking over at a red light.
'Who said I don't?'
The iceman himself was watching me in the rear-view mirror, those baby blues razor sharp and dry-ice freezing.
'You don't talk and laugh with him like you do with Pickles.'
'Mr Pickles is an old friend. Mr Ashe isn't. It's as simple as that.'
'So you hate Ashe?'
'No, love him,' I lied and flicked back to the mirror. Blue eyes were smoking. What was bugging him now?
Ashe took the car through the big wrought iron gates of the select private school and parked.
'Well, I think Ashe is gorgeous,' said Sabrina.
'There's no accounting for taste,' I said dismissively. 'Now have you got all your gear? Let's go.' I took the kid through the security checkpoint and into the school. We were met by her teacher who was flustered and flushed, but that could have been because Ashe was with us. He had that effect on women.
Correction; most women. Some of us were more discerning.
'Bit of a crisis, I'm afraid, do you think you could possibly help out, Ms Lewis?'
'Doing what?' I was immediately on red alert and supremely conscious of the gun in my shoulder holster.
'Could you possibly take assembly?'
'Me? Hey, lady, I'm a bodyguard not a teacher.'
'It would so help me out…'
'No!'
'The motto of the school is that we all pull together,' she said, sternness replacing the breathless sugar of her voice. 'We've got staff off sick and I'm really stretched. You only have to supervise them for five minutes or so while I track down some relief teachers.'
'I can't.'
'Course she can,' said Ashe. 'She's a natural with kids.'
'Thanks,' I said and vowed to get even with Ashe. Perhaps it was time he had his nose broken again.
'You're a star,' said the teacher.
'But I don't know what to do,' I protested.
'You've been sitting in on assemblies these past few weeks. You know the score,' said Ashe helpfully. Or was that unhelpfully?
'That's right,' said the teacher. The sugar was back. She beamed at Ashe and flushed a deeper shade of puce.
So while they were bonding, I ended up in front of a hundred and fifty kids singing 'If I were a butterfly'. I was totally fazed. Give me a riot any day. The kids wouldn't sit down quietly and sing. Oh no. They wriggled and shouted and rolled on the floor.
I could feel an anxiety attack coming on. My heart began to race and my breathing became shallow. There was only one thing for it. I pulled out my gun and fired into the ceiling.
There was a loud crack followed by dead silence.
Not one kid wriggled, wiggled or giggled.
A piece of plasterboard fell from the ceiling and Sabrina said: 'Wow, Morgan. That was awesome.'
There was a pounding of feet.
'What the hell?' said Ashe racing into the assembly hall, gun in hand. He was followed by the school's security guards and staff.
'I was just getting their attention,' I said sweetly. 'No need to panic.'
'Morgan!'
'Now kids,' I said, ignoring Ashe's spluttering and the ineffectual mouthing of the teachers. 'As I've got your attention, this is what we're going to do…'
I put on some music and began to hand jive. The kids began to bop on the spot and copy my movements. Great. But then the minutes stretched to five, ten, fifteen and still no teacher relieved me. I was running out of jiving moves and the kids were getting restless. How could I beef it up and maintain their interest without shooting any more of the ceiling?
So I moved into the one thing I knew a lot about: self-defence. I began doing blocks and thrusts and high kicks. At the end of half an hour, the children had the basics and I was replaced by a po-faced teacher.
'What the hell were you doing in there?' said Ashe, forcibly marching me out of the hall. 'Those kids'll be lethal.'
'It won't hurt them to have a little self-defence knowledge. Not with the lifestyles they lead. If anyone comes on strong they'll know where to hit, and how.'
'You're a nutter,' he said. 'I had to do a lot of explaining back there. And we'll get the bill for the ceiling. It'll come out of your pay.'
'But that was your fault.'
'I didn't pull the trigger,' he said, towering over me and scowling.
'No, but you volunteered me for assembly duty.'
And then, for no reason at all except that he was too close, another stress attack hit. I gritted my teeth and fought it.
'Breathe,' Ashe commanded.
I tried. Didn't work. Lots of black spots merging into one big one that threatened to engulf me.
'Hell,' he said and dragged me close, kissing me hard. Ashe's personal version of CPR. Dammit, and it worked. I got my breath back, but I was so incensed by his methods that I judo threw him over my shoulder and he landed heavily on the ground.
'A simple thank you would have been enough,' he wheezed as I stalked off.
'The Camberlinis have had another threatening letter,' said Danny a few days later. We were having a snack in the office and I was fishing out anything that resembled an insect or larva from my salad roll.
'You are so picky,' complained Ashe eating one of the olives I'd rejected.
He opened up his tinfoil takeaway carton and there sat spareribs in barbeque sauce. I gagged and probably changed colour because Danny was suddenly thrusting my head between my knees and telling me to breath deeply.
'Don't like ribs, eh?' grinned Ashe after I'd fought Danny off and sat upright again.
'Ribs,' I said succinctly. 'Human skeletons. Seen too many rotting ones. Can't be helped.'
Ashe stared at me and then at the dripping rib in his fingers. His smile slipped. He threw the rib back in the carton. 'Thanks,' he said and chucked the carton in the bin.
'So this note,' I said, focussing on something more positive than death and decay. 'What does it say?'
'That the kid will be snatched unless the Camberlinis back off.'
'Back off from what?'
'Seems there's a turf war on.'
'Great. And will the Camberlinis back off?'
'Nope.'
'Excellent. So we up the protection?'
'That's what we're paid for.'
We picked up the kid as usual and she was in her motor-mouth mood.
'Shut up, kid. You're bothering me,' I said, wanting to concentrate on the job not the girl.
'Don't talk to me like that,' she retorted and got out her Gameboy. 'Or I'll have you sacked.'
'You don't pay me. Your dad does.'
'Actually, my mum. She's the one with the money. Dad just orders the knee-cappings.'
Was she trying to be cute? Pulling my (non-knee-capped) leg for kicks? Because it wasn't funny. I'd done some digging on the Camberlinis. Mrs C was so fearsome she was known as the Black Mariah and hubby had a reputation as a short fuse hit-man. Nice parents. No wonder her old granny suffered panic attacks.
At school, the kids were milling around in the playground behind the huge protective walls. I stayed closer than usual to Sabrina, wondering when and how the hit would come; not if.
Her teacher avoided me and I wasn't asked to do assembly. Strange that. But my kudos among the children was high.
'Hey, Morgan, can you show us some more moves?' said one of the boys. Soon I had a crowd going through a kick-and-thrust routine.
'What the hell are you doing,' hissed Ashe marching up to me and blocking a kick. He held my leg high in his hand. As I was wearing a dress he was getting a good perv of my thighs where I had my gun and knife strapped.
'They wanted to practice some techniques.' I tugged to release my leg.
'You'll get us sacked.'
'Tell someone who cares!' He let go and I smoothed back down the red material. I'd rejected wearing the protective vest and armoury since that first day, going for the more casual appearance so as not to faze the kids and to survive the summer heat. But my skimpy dress wasn't doing much to keep me cool now. Ashe had the irritating knack of upping my temperature.
The bell rang and we went inside to do art and craft. Sabrina got me to help her with some cutting and sticking while Ashe patrolled outside the classroom.
'You're not much good at this,' she said as I botched a vital bit of the model.
'I don't have to be, kid. I can shoot. In my book, a Smith and Wesson beats a glue gun any day.'
She cocked her head on one side. 'True,' she said. 'Can't wait till I get my own gun.'
Heaven forbid. Give the kid a Barbie.
The car got hit that afternoon on our way home. It happened fast. A black jeep came out of nowhere and broad-sided the Mercedes.
Ashe said an extremely rude word.
'I'm going to tell Mum you said that,' said Sabrina.
'That's the least of my problems,' said Ashe and reached for his gun.
The door was wrenched by open by men in ski masks. Ashe fired and hit one. There was a muffled thwock, thwock and suddenly Ashe pitched forward on to the wheel. A hole smoked in his jacket. I didn't see where the other bullet went.
There wasn't time for me to reach between my legs for my own gun because the men were pulling me out and Sabrina was shrilly screaming and trying to clutch me.
They threw Ashe on the road. He didn't move. Two burly men got in either side of Sabrina and she abruptly stopped screaming, her little face contorted in fear. Or fury. I wasn't sure which, but being a Camberlini, it was probably the latter.
'Shove nanny behind the wheel,' snapped a guttural voice and I was rammed roughly into the seat still warm from Ashe's backside.
I crunched the gears and swore. 'Women drivers,' said the voice and jabbed the barrel of his gun under my jawbone. 'Drive and no funny business, darl.'
I didn't panic then. The shortness of breath and black stars didn't hit me until we reached the feeder lane of the freeway. Then I began to sweat and shake like a menopausal blancmange.
'Get on with it,' yelled the man as motorists beeped and hooted their horns behind us.
'Breathe,' said Sabrina, her little voice slightly wobbly but nonetheless calm. 'Breathe slowly and deeply, Morgan.'
'Shut up, kid,' said the main man.
But Sabrina's calm sensibility acted like a douche and I was suddenly in control and in cop mode. I jammed my foot on the accelerator and the Mercedes sprang into roaring life. We zoomed from zero to hundred and ninety, cut back and forth across the five lanes, flinging the occupants of the car first to one side and then the other.
'Awesome,' said Sabrina.
'Slow down!' yelled the man with the gun.
'No!' I shouted back.
'I'll shoot.'
'Then we'll all die.'
'I'll pop the kid.'
'And then you've lost your bargaining power.'
There was a squeal in the back. 'Don't hurt me,' cried Sabrina. 'Morgan, they're twisting my arm.'
'Leave her alone,' I said, easing my foot off the accelerator.
'Then behave, Nanny.'
There was a tracking device on the Mercedes so I was confident we'd soon be found. But then we swapped cars and my confidence evaporated. We drove south and out of the city. We turned down an earth track and bumped along it until we came to an old beach house with asbestos walls and peeling blue paint. It was surrounded by scrub. Once there'd been a garden but now only straggly red geraniums grew by the door.
The kidnappers pushed us up the splintered steps and into the hotbox house. It reeked of rat and possum poo.
'This is disgusting,' said Sabrina.
'Shut up, kid.'
'I wish people would stop telling me to shut up,' she said huffily.
They tied us to ancient steel kitchen chairs with our hands behind our backs and our legs strapped to the chair legs. Silver duct tape was smacked across our mouths. We sat there for what seemed like hours, the sweat pouring off us as the late summer sun beat on the tin roof, making us baste like rotisserie chickens in an Italian deli.
The windows and doors were shut. The temperature was stifling. Sabrina maintained a defiant pose, but she slumped as the afternoon slid into sticky evening. There was no breeze to bring relief. Mosquitoes whined and greedily sucked our blood. And we were watched the whole time by one of the men.
We could hear the others talking in a different room. The leader came in, murmured something to our guard and then left. We heard a car drive off and then silence.
The remaining thick-wit stared stonily at us and we stared back. Finally he ripped off the tape and gave us a drink of tepid water.
'I need the bathroom,' declared Sabrina. He freed her and as she stood, the child fell. 'I can't feel my legs,' she whimpered. 'And I'm desperate.'
'You're the nanny. You take her,' he said to me and cut through the tape binding me to the chair.
Keeping the gun trained on us, he let us stagger from the room. Our legs were numb and the movement brought painful pins and needles.
'Leave the door open,' he said at the outside loo.
'Perv,' I said.
'Shut it, bitch.'
'I can't go if he's watching me,' said Sabrina.
'Is it okay if I stand in front of her?' I asked.
'Yeah, as long as I can watch you when you take a pee.'
I gave him the finger. No way was I having a public tiddle, however desperate. But also I couldn't hike up my skirt with the gun and knife still strapped to my inner thighs. At the moment he thought I was just a nanny. I wanted and needed that element of surprise. I turned to shield Sabrina and mouthed at her to follow my lead.
'Tell him your legs really, really hurt,' I whispered.
'My legs are in agony,' said the little drama queen as she came out of the toilet and she began to cry in big gulping sobs that I knew were a total put on. This kid was not a crier. I was impressed.
'Stop blubbering,' said the thug.
Sabrina cried harder and louder.
'Perhaps if I did some exercises with her it'll help the circulation?' I said.
He regarded me suspiciously and then Sabrina began to really bawl, loud and ugly. If she'd been my kid and cried like that I would have drowned her at birth.
'Okay, okay,' he muttered ungraciously. 'But no funny business.'
'Honey,' I said and Sabrina, still bawling, regarded me with dry-eyed calculation. Was it that obvious I wouldn't call anybody Honey? 'Remember those dance moves I showed you?'
She frowned and hiccoughed on a false sob. She was good.
'You know, the hand jiving and can-can kicks?'
She nodded slowly and then a smile spread across her face.
'Let's do it to 'If I were a butterfly', okay?' I knew learning that song would come in handy.
We began humming and singing and jiving and then I lifted my leg, spun around and landed a bruiser kick on the thug's hand which sent the gun spinning and then another on the side of his head, breaking his jaw. I dived for the gun while Sabrina thumped the man neatly in the groin with her heel and then smacked him on the ear with her fist. I never thought I'd be glad about taking that assembly.
I thwacked him another couple of times, crunching his nose, and then we trussed him to the chair like an oven-ready chook.
'Good girl,' I said. 'Now let's get ready for the others.'
I hiked up my skirt to liberate my gun and knife.
'Cool,' said Sabrina.
'Keep out of the way while I deal with them,' I said. 'I don't want you getting hit by stray bullets.' She hid behind the toilet hut and I waited in the bushes near the front of the house.
The car rumbled along the track a few minutes later. The three men got out, carrying takeaway pizzas and bottles of soft drink. I took aim and tried to ignore the tightening chest and dancing spots.
'Breathe,' whispered a little voice in my ear.
I did - in, out, in, out - and then hissed, 'What the hell are you doing here? I told you to scarper.'
'I was scared.'
Poor kid, but I couldn't shoot with her so close. I'd have to use the knife.
The men were laughing at some joke as I sent the knife spinning through the air. It hit the end man deep in the throat. He silently crumpled to the ground. The others didn't notice.
I trained the gun on the other two. 'Hold it,' I yelled. 'I have a gun aimed at you.'
The leader cursed and then said: 'Nannies shouldn't play with guns.'
He raised his own and I shot him in the arm before he could fire. The other man went for his gun but I pumped a couple of shots inside of him too.
'Wicked,' said Sabrina. 'Can you teach me to do that?'
'No! Stay here. And this time I mean it.' I approached with caution and, gun still trained, began to search their pockets for the ignition keys. The leader lunged for my leg and I stamped down on his hand hard, hearing a satisfying crack.
Suddenly the sweet sound of sirens pierced the night air, harmonising with the mossies and frog song. In a few moments, police were swarming all over the place.
Danny, looking hot and flustered and mopping up copious amounts of sweat, got out of one of the cars.
'Jeepers, Morgan, you had me going there for a while,' he said. 'Is the kid okay?'
'She's fine, aren't you, Honey?' She grinned and I gave her a hug.
'You looked very impressive holding those men at gunpoint, Morgan. Completely in control. Back to the old Morgan I know and love. Excellent.'
'How did you find us, Pickles?' demanded Sabrina.
'I had a tracking device put in your Gameboy,' Danny said, beaming at her. 'I didn't think you'd leave that behind.'
'Smart,' she said.
'You bet.'
They did a high five.
'What about Ashe?' I said.
'Two holes and a river of blood, but he's tough. He'll live.'
I decided to pay Ashe a visit. He was semi-naked and lying on a hospital bed. His arm and chest were bandaged. In spite of his natural olive skin, he was pale around the gills and his eyes were fever-pitch bright.
'I owe you an apology, Morgan,' he said with effort. 'You saved the kid.'
I stared at him, surprised, and dare I say it, pleased. 'That must've cost you.'
'It did. But hey, I doubted you could do it. Thought Danny had made a mistake taking you on board. You're one helluva woman.'
My chest suddenly went into spasm. The damned spots jiggled across my vision. Tremendous heat infused my brain, making it fuzz up.
'Breathe, Morgan. Breathe.'
'I've got a better idea,' I gasped. 'I learnt it somewhere.'
I leaned over the bed and kissed him full and hot on the mouth.
And again, it worked.
But now it wasn't me having breathing problems.
'Breathe, Ashe,' I said. 'Breathe.'