Avril

It’s as quiet as it ever gets in the ICU, early-morning quiet, when Avril slips in to see Cooper. She whispers hello, and knows he hears her, his eyes blinking, the slightest inclination of his head towards hers.

She slumps down in the chair, rakes a hand through her hair. She’s dazed from sleepless hours in the lounge, from the accumulation of tragedy, the scream of a child with his mouth full of sand. Coop’s great-uncle. Two cigarettes and ten minutes in the wind tunnel between Admin and Emergency couldn’t clear her head. Her eyes feel gritty, like they’ve been floured.

Joley puts a hand on her shoulder. Avril, physio’s on her way.

Code for Not a good time, you’ll have to go.

Coop seems agitated, anyway, moaning and restless, and she’s helpless, unable even to stroke his face, watching the ebb and flow of chronic pain from tissue inflammation and nerves rebuilding their chains, making new synaptic connections, receiving messages. It’s a relief to see the syringe in Joley’s tray.

She rests her head a moment beside Coop’s on the pillow and whispers, Back soon, OK?

There’s movement in the gowning chamber, someone already in white, pushing clumsy fingers into cotton mittens, but one of the nurses stops him entering the ICU, gestures towards the door. He begins discarding the gloves, unclipping the gown.

Huh, Avril mutters, it’s about time.

~

When she gets to the visitors’ lounge, he’s there, and Laura has just arrived, too. Probably just as well, Avril thinks, because Laura’s being her usual calm, generous self, which may encourage her to be calm, too. Which is not how she is feeling.

Hello, Ben. Edgy.

Avril!

He envelops her in a bear hug and she’s almost undone. It’s like being held by Coop—wrapped up, safe. The rasp of his chin on her forehead, the warmth of his sweatshirt, the soft, worn fleece; oh god, and he smells like Coop, coffee and toast and that paint-stripper shampoo he buys cheap from Priceways. But it’s Ben, who hasn’t been in for weeks and hasn’t phoned and could have told her what he knows and hasn’t. Avoiding her, abandoning Coop.

She pushes away from him and sits on the armchair, upright, tense.

He flops down opposite. Look, I know, I’m sorry.

Avril puts her head in her hands.

You don’t know, Ben. Laura’s voice is soft. She’s been waiting, we’ve both been waiting, and no-one’s telling us a thing.

Avril looks up at him. Where have you been, Ben? You, his mates. Where have you all been?

He’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks she doesn’t understand.

I had to tell them at the debrief. It was my fault, but I’ve only made it worse for Coop.

What are you talking about?

He took the call on the way back to the station from Training. He was first on scene because of me.

Avril stares at him, confused.

Before the call came, he’d dropped me off at the garage. To pick up my car.

The words settle in silence. He shouldn’t have done that, should he, Laura says, eventually.

Ben looks down. My fault he did. He shakes his head. Shit, it was five minutes. I got back, he wasn’t there.

Do you know what happened, Ben? Laura’s still calm, still gentle.

The neighbour says they could see the woman through the window. She was unconscious and it was a snatch-and-grab, clear entry, clear exit. Low risk. Anyone would’ve done it. But then the guy tells him there’s a daughter, doesn’t know whether she’s at home or with her father. Means doing a search.

Avril closes her eyes. Standard Operating Procedures. Never do a search without backup. Never go in without breathing equipment. Never go in alone. Oh god, Coop.

The neighbour was at the top of the driveway, waiting for the ambulance. He didn’t see Coop go in again. I don’t know why he did it. He knows it’s … Ben’s hands rake at his hair. This is why they can’t complete the investigation. Until he can tell them.

Avril is intent. None of this explains why you’ve all been staying away.

It’s an internal matter until the investigation is complete.

Oh, come on, Ben.

He looks down, hesitates. It’s been … difficult. That newspaper article came out and, you know, all the usual hype—‘bravery’, ‘risking his life’. Calling him a hero.

Well, you know what Coop’d think about that.

Yeah, but there are a lot of people angry.

It’s Laura who interrupts, Laura, whose calm has vanished. Angry! He rescued that woman and he nearly died saving the little girl. For god’s sake! Have you SEEN him, Ben?

Silence.

Ben?

He glances up briefly, then down again. Avril feels like slapping him. She leans forward, and her voice is acid. Seventy per cent burns and the other thirty’s on the inside of his arms and chest, and do you know why? Ben? You do, don’t you. Because he used his own body to protect that child. He was shielding her until the beam hit his head.

He’s still not saying anything. Avril turns away in disgust. He knows all this. They all know.

Laura is direct: Just who, precisely, is angry—and why?

There’re reasons for SOPs, Laura. Ben looks up at her, then at Avril. Phil Battersby got hurt, getting Coop out. Getting that beam off him.

His words are like a punch. Avril feels sick. Laura’s looking at her with the same winded expression, because in that instant, they both understand.

Is Phil OK?

It’s his back, lower spine. Pretty bad. He’s had a rough time.

Why didn’t anyone …? Laura’s crying.

He’s still a hero, Avril thinks, clinging stubbornly to the loop of words repeating in her head. Tell that little girl’s family he’s not a hero. He saved a child’s life, she says, but it sounds like a whimper.

Ben nods. And you should be proud of him. Bloody hell, I’m proud of him. Plenty of guys reckon they’d do the same if they had the guts. But … it’s complicated.

~

I’m not going home, she announces after Ben leaves. I’m not driving. I’d probably wrap the car around a tree.

OK, sweetie. Laura’s distracted, agitated, hugging herself like she’s trying to stop shivering. Want some coffee? she adds, as though remembering where she is.

Suddenly Avril’s exhausted. She doesn’t want coffee. She doesn’t want to talk. She gets up and feels in the pocket of her coat for her cigarettes.

When she comes back upstairs, Laura’s in with Coop, so she curls up in the armchair, her back to the world, the sweet, comforting smell of nicotine in her hair.