Rosie’s newspaper rustled as she licked her finger and flicked to the rest of the article. “‘The investigation is ongoing,’ blah blah, ‘Manchester Metropolitan Police are appealing for witnesses.’ Oh, and apparently we spent ‘a comfortable night at West Pennine Med.’” Scoffing, she rapped the arm of her chair. “Whoever wrote this piece has never tried kipping in one of these.” She closed the paper, her concentration waning as she watched Jem attempt to pass a comb through her hair. Despite the reporter’s claims, neither of them had slept well. A post-breakfast physio session had seen Jem walk to the nurses’ station, with the promise of a shower dangled in front of her like a carrot. She had managed both, but she had nodded off twice with the comb still in her hand, and she was on the verge of making it a hat trick.
“C’mere.” Abandoning the paper, Rosie sat on the bed and held out her hand for the comb. Jem relinquished it without a protest. Her cheeks had lost all the colour they’d gained from the warm water, and her chest sounded like it needed oiling. On the sats monitor, ninety-three percent flickered in amber figures. Rosie put her hands on Jem’s shoulders. “Can you lean forward? That’s enough, that’s fine.”
Jem gave a satisfied sigh as Rosie began to ease the tangles from her hair. Katya had replaced the manky hospital soap with proper body wash, and the stink of smoke had at last disappeared beneath the scent of vanilla and honey.
“Thank you,” Jem said. “Y’know, for last night. For everything.”
Rosie fussed with Jem’s fringe, uneasy with the gratitude. She didn’t want Jem to feel indebted to her; that wasn’t why she’d stayed. “Not quite what I had in mind for a first date, Jemima,” she said.
“No?” Jem smiled. “We did get fireworks, of a sort.”
“This is true.” Rosie guided Jem back to the pillows. “The travel arrangements were also exclusive and very efficient.”
“Free accommodation,” Jem added.
“And your dad made sure we spent the night together,” Rosie said.
Jem spluttered and set off coughing. “Well, this just got very weird.”
“It did rather.” Rosie retrieved the paper and snapped it open. “Moving right along, apparently too much cauliflower might give you tinnitus.”
Jem’s cough tapered into a yawn. “What a load of twaddle. They’d print anything.”
Rosie lowered the paper again. “You’re welcome, by the way. And I’m really glad you’re okay.”
It was quiet for a moment, and the room darkened as the morning’s persistent drizzle became a downpour that splashed off the windowsill. Beyond the door, someone’s off-key whistling competed with the drone of a floor cleaner.
“Can our second date just be dinner and a movie?” Jem asked as the cleaner moved on and the whistling faded.
“That sounds perfect.” The words left Rosie in a rush of unguarded happiness. Last night had been hell, but they’d got each other through it in one piece, Jem was on the mend, and a proper date was still on the cards. Rosie felt weightless somehow, as if she too had had a brick wall in her chest and it had suddenly fallen. She ran her fingers across the back of Jem’s hand, tracing the livid bruise left behind by an IV. “How’s about I cook and we sprawl on the sofa to watch something daft?”
“Mm,” Jem murmured, half-drowsing. The hand Rosie was still stroking was splayed on the sheets. “Can we have popcorn?”
“I think that can be arranged. Now go to sleep, or Harriet won’t be letting you out on Sunday.”
“She bloody will,” Jem said, but her vehemence was undermined somewhat when she began to snore.
Rosie’s search for the paper’s sudoku was interrupted by a nurse coming in to start Jem on a neb. Inured to being mauled about with, Jem didn’t stir, and the nurse nodded his approval as her sats improved.
“Brew?” he whispered to Rosie.
“Yes, please.”
Shortly after he had left, the door opened again. Rosie turned in anticipation, but her smile vanished as Steph hurried over to her. She crouched by Rosie’s chair and pulled her into an embrace, then cupped her face and kissed her. Rosie froze, caught completely off-guard, though every fibre of her wanted to smack Steph’s hands away and wipe the taste of Steph’s gloss from her lips.
“Just—no.” She shoved back hard in the chair, sending its legs squealing across the tiles and waking Jem, whose eyes widened as she yanked at the nebuliser. Rosie went to Jem’s side, evading Steph’s attempt to intercept her. “Hey. Sorry, it’s okay,” she said, perching on the bed and righting the mask. She had done this so many times in the night that it felt like second nature. “You’re okay.”
Jem glanced beyond Rosie, and there was an uncommon ferocity in her expression when she looked back. She laid a hand on Rosie’s thigh, despite Rosie’s reassuring nod, and didn’t move it even when Steph’s lips thinned into a bitter line.
“I was worried about you,” Steph said before Rosie could speak. “You didn’t answer my calls.” She stood, forcing Rosie to look up at her, and folded her arms. Rosie recognised the stance and the tone, but neither had any impact.
“I told you the reception is bad in here,” she said. She didn’t add, “And I had more important things going on,” but Steph obviously got the gist, because she gave Jem a look that would have curdled butter. She took a file from her briefcase and threw it onto Rosie’s chair.
“A team of psychologists and social workers tried to interview Ava Reynolds and Chloe Harrison this morning. Neither girl would cooperate, and they’re demanding to speak to you.”
“To me? Why?”
“To both of you, and I don’t care why. I just need answers to the questions on the front sheet of that file.” Steph snapped the latches on her briefcase. “They’ll be down to see you in the next half hour. I’ve spoken to your doctor, Ms. Pardon, and she’s given her permission, albeit reluctantly.”
Rosie wished she’d been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Harriet had stayed late into the night, and she’d been back on the ward at shift changeover.
Rosie managed to retrieve the file without leaving the bed and found a bullet-pointed list of questions. “Am I recording the interview?”
“Audio only.” Steph set a small Dictaphone on the overbed table. “Ring me when you’re done. If you can find somewhere with reception, that is.” Evidently satisfied with her parting shot, she strode to the door, almost colliding with the nurse as he returned with a tray of brews and mid-morning medicines.
“Who pissed on her chips?” he asked as the door closed behind her.
“No one. That’s her default setting.” Rosie passed Jem her tea and a small cup of tablets.
“I like it better when you call me ‘Ms. Pardon,’” Jem muttered, and Rosie laughed over the rim of her mug.
“Down the hatch,” the nurse told Jem. “Then you’re getting a couple of visitors, so chair or bed?”
“Chair.” Jem reached behind her head to untie her gown. “And do I have any clothes that don’t come with ‘West Penn’ stamped on them?”
“Not as such,” Rosie said. “But I’ve got a spare T-shirt and a pair of tracky bottoms, if the price is right.”
Jem’s payment options were limited to a malted milk biscuit and a cache of small red tablets. She shrugged and offered both.
“I’ll stick to the biscuit, thanks,” Rosie said.
“Wise choice,” Jem said, and necked the tablets in one.
* * *
Resting her hands on the sink, Jem studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her complexion sat somewhere between catastrophic hypovolaemic shock and day-old corpse, while her eyes were encircled by blue-black shadows. The nebs had left her lips dry and cracked, and she’d caught her chin on something, probably the balcony, tearing an uneven laceration through its centre.
“Bloody hell,” she said, scratching her nose where the oxygen tubing was chafing it.
A knock on the door preceded Rosie’s singsong, “Are you decent?”
Jem spat mouthwash down the plughole and slumped on the toilet seat. “No.” She hid her face in a towel. “I’m a monster.”
Rosie came in regardless and sat on the clinical waste bin. She tugged the towel away. “Don’t be a daft ha’p’orth. You’ve been ill, Jem.” She tapped the IV line in Jem’s wrist. “You’re still ill. You’re allowed to look like death warmed over.” She scrutinised herself in the mirror and wiped sleep from her eye. “I, on the other hand, have no such excuse.”
“I think you look gorgeous,” Jem said. “But then I’m biased, because I fancy you.” She laughed at Rosie’s stunned reaction and double-checked her O2 cylinder, wondering if she was hypoxic. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Rosie fake-swooned, almost upending the bin. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, and in this”—she gestured expansively at the pile of incontinence pads, the boxes of examination gloves, and the shower cubicle with its emergency alarm—“most idyllic of settings.” Within seconds, she’d fashioned a couple of pieces of loo roll into a flower. “Jemima Pardon, I fancy the pants off you as well.”
Jem took the flower, though she stopped short of sniffing it. “Is it sleep deprivation?” she asked, linking Rosie’s arm and walking with her to the door. “Making us act like twerps?”
“It’s sheer joie de vivre, Jem!” Rosie said, and then paused to reconsider. “And possibly sleep deprivation and PTSD as well.”
She sat Jem in the closest chair and propped the door open in readiness. A social worker in his mid-forties came in first, taking an unobtrusive seat in the corner as Ava steered Chloe’s wheelchair straight into the bathroom wall.
“These things are fucking shite,” she said over Chloe’s yelp, and caused further ructions by attempting a three-sixty. Outrage and effort made her face as pink as her hair, giving her the look of a pissed-off imp, albeit one wearing slipper socks and Minion pyjamas.
“Sit your arse down,” Rosie told her, no stranger to dealing with moody teens. “There are cans of pop and all kinds of crap on Jem’s bed. Help yourself.”
Placated by the vending machine stash, Ava sat cross-legged on the chair next to Jem. She opened a packet of crisps but then scrunched the bag closed again and placed a careful finger on the dressing securing Jem’s cannula.
“Don’t worry,” she said in a confidential undertone. “It doesn’t hurt when they take ’em out.” She displayed the bandage on her own wrist and offered Jem a Quaver.
“Thank you,” Jem said, crunching a crisp so she wouldn’t start sniffling.
“We brought these for you, Jem!” Finally facing forward, Chloe held up a bag of Haribo. “We got two, but Fat Face ate one for breakfast.”
“I’ve been there myself,” Rosie said. “It can’t be helped.” She’d already set the recorder going, but she propped her feet on Jem’s chair, letting everyone relax and eat their snacks. The girls appeared to have rediscovered their mettle overnight. They were still pale and undernourished, but the beaten-down kids Jem had found cowering in a corner had been replaced by scrappy teenagers who swore like sailors and thought nothing of stealing chocolate from a police officer.
“I’m going to my nan’s,” Ava said through a mouthful of Crunchie. “Tonight, instead of going home.”
“Is that a good thing?” Rosie asked.
“Yeah, cos that prick Davey won’t be there. He’s my mam’s boyfriend. He’s already got four kids, but he knocked up my mam six weeks after moving in.”
Rosie took a swig of her Pepsi Max. “Was he the reason you ran away?”
Ava shrugged. “I bet they didn’t even notice I was gone. My nan’s ace, though. She stayed with us last night.”
“What about you, Chloe?” Jem asked. “Are you going home?”
Chloe nodded. “I told our Kirsty I was sorry for nicking her iPad, and she says she won’t set the coppers on me.” Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at Rosie. “Shit. Fucking shit.”
Ava dropped her crisps and went to kneel by the wheelchair. “Rosie won’t tell, will you, Rosie?”
“Absolutely not,” Rosie said.
Jem’s eyes flicked from Ava to Chloe as she gauged their exchange, trying to work out their relationship. They were obviously close but seemed more akin to siblings than best friends.
“How long have you two known each other?” she asked, and wasn’t surprised when Chloe took Ava’s hand in lieu of providing an answer.
“About three weeks,” Ava ventured. “We got picked together.”
Rosie leaned forward slightly, the detail catching her attention. “Who picked you to do what?”
Chloe had started to tremble, her slippered feet clattering the wheelchair’s footplate. Ava squeezed onto the chair and pulled her close.
“We met down by the canal,” Ava said quietly. “All the kids go there after school, and you can crash in the mills if the smack rats aren’t around.”
“Ava was there before me,” Chloe said. She cupped her hands over Ava’s ear and whispered something inaudible.
Ava whispered a reply and then jutted out her chin and folded her arms. “If we tell you what we did, are you going to arrest us?” she asked Rosie.
“Did you murder anyone?” Rosie said, copying Ava’s pose as she threw the challenge back.
“No!” Ava looked horrified. “But we stole loads of things.”
“Do you promise to renounce your life of crime and become upstanding citizens?”
“Huh?” Chloe said.
Rosie pared things down to the essentials. “Will you be good from now on?”
Both girls nodded.
“Excellent. No, I won’t arrest you.” Rosie made a rolling gesture. “Carry on.”
Chloe started on a bag of M&Ms, sorting the colours into order on her thigh and making Rosie smile. “Ava taught me how to shoplift,” she said, still arranging the sweets. “Just things we needed, like butties and pop, or things we could sell, like razors. Nance said we were dead good at it.”
“Who’s Nance?”
Chloe nudged an orange M&M into line, her eye contact nonexistent. “She’s just Nance.”
“She came to one of the mills and offered us a job,” Ava said. “There was a lad with her, all decked out in gear. He said she’d given him all kinds of stuff, and we were sick of eating Pot Noodles, so we went with them, and it was fine for the first few days.”
“We got nice clothes,” Chloe said, “and Converse. And Bill showed us a trick to do in the street, where I fell down and pretended like I was unconscious, and Ava pinched purses and phones from everyone who came to help.”
Jem’s monitor suddenly registered a pulse rate of one-twenty. She whacked the alarm to silence it and shook her head, warning Rosie not to intervene. “Ava, did Nance take you to a shelter called Olly’s?” she asked.
Ava stared at her. “How did you know?”
“Bill and Nancy,” Rosie said, the light evidently dawning. “Their surname didn’t happen to be Sykes, by any chance?”
“Dunno,” Ava said. “They were just Bill and Nance.”
“Could you tell us where the shelter is?” Jem asked, her enthusiasm for the new lead making her forget she wasn’t actually a police officer.
Ava filched one of Chloe’s sweets, careful not to disrupt the order. “They took us in one of those big cars, but the windows were black so we couldn’t see much, and Chloe fell asleep.”
“How far from the canal, at a guess?” Rosie asked.
“Half an hour? Maybe. I’m not sure.” Ava chewed her bottom lip with teeth dyed blue by the sweets. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, love. You’re doing really well. The shelter must’ve been great after roughing it at the mill, eh?”
“I suppose,” Ava said. “But we never got to keep any of the cash, and Nance locked us in at night, so we got fed up and tried to do a runner.”
“Who caught you?” Jem asked.
Ava slipped an arm around Chloe’s shoulders. “Bill. He called us ‘ungrateful little twats’ and said we needed to be taught a lesson. Then he locked us in the cellar and left us there.”
Chloe was staring at the wall behind Jem, her expression blank. Tears were running unheeded down her cheeks.
“I think that might be enough for now,” the social worker said.
Rosie held up a hand, taking out her mobile with the other. “One minute,” she said, and clicked on a photo of Kyle Parker. “Ava, did you see this lad at the shelter?”
Ava took the phone but barely needed to look at the image. “He was the one with Nance at the mill. Strutting about like he owned it or summat. We were shifted around a lot, though. No one really stayed at the shelter after the first couple of nights. They took us to a few different houses.”
Rosie crouched by the chair and swiped the screen to bring up another photo. “What about this lass? Do you recognise her? Her name’s Tahlia.”
Ava shook her head. “I’m not sure. I might have seen her in the old mill or by the canal, but I got drunk most nights.” She nudged Chloe, who shut her eyes and refused to look.
“Okay, love.” Rosie retrieved her phone. “It’s okay, we’re finished now.”
“I want my mum,” Chloe whispered, the plea so emphatic it made Jem ache with homesickness. She watched the social worker wheel the chair to the door, Ava following closely behind him.
“Hey, wait a sec,” she said, realising there was a puzzle piece missing. “Were Bill and Nance in charge at the shelter?”
“No,” Ava said. “I heard them talk about a boss, but we never met him. He had a weird name. Fage, Fage-in?” She shoved a handful of M&Ms into her mouth and licked her palm clean. “Or summat daft like that.”