Chapter Ten Standby Mode
Chapter Ten
Standby Mode
Present day…
Trent couldn’t shake the leaden, dragging fatigue settling in his bones and refusing to shift.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly.
Too little? Too much? It all blurred the same now.
Beside him in the ambulance, Liv chatted into the radio with effortless bounce, her tone rushed and upbeat in that way only mothers of two with high-functioning chaos could manage.
Trent wasn’t listening to whatever it was she was trying to explain to her husband that her children required for that morning’s school run or the after-school extra-curricular clubs.
He stared out at Worthbridge rolling by instead.
Grey stone, hanging baskets, crooked signs, and bunting strung like a half-hearted celebration no one had the energy to take down.
Anything to stop his thoughts spiralling back to him .
Reece.
No texts. No calls. Nothing.
Trent had checked his phone more times than he cared to admit since his last shift.
Once while restocking the trauma bag. Twice during a lukewarm tea break.
He told himself it was to check for rota changes.
Or to see what fresh chaos Dev had ignited in the group chat with another meme or wildly inappropriate hypothetical.
But it wasn’t. And he knew it.
He was checking for Reece.
His mates were right.
He couldn’t do casual. Not with a man who called him sweetheart and held him to prevent his fall off the cliff. Metaphorically… Physically.…
So. New plan.
Avoidance. Good, old-fashioned, clinically executed denial.
If he wasn’t near him, wasn’t breathing the same air, catching that smirk from across the fire tape, or feeling that pull in his gut every time their hands brushed, then eventually, as the saying went, he’d forget him. Out of sight. Out of whatever this was.
And Trent could manage that. He could do his job. Keep his head down. Let the rhythm of routine drown out the ache of want.
Today helped. One of those relentless shifts where the mundane bled into the traumatic and didn’t stop to breathe.
09:12 – Elderly male, ?TIA at the bus sto p
Mr Collingwood, sixty-eight. Found slumped on a bench by a school kid who didn’t hang around. Right-sided facial droop. Slurred speech. Confused by the time they got him into the back of the rig.
Trent moved on autopilot, years of training falling into place.
“FAST positive.” He checked response as Liv radioed ahead. “BP’s through the roof.”
He fitted the oxygen mask, tightened it.
“Don’t let me die,” the man rasped, voice paper-thin.
“You’re not dying today, mate,” Trent said, steady and sure. If he said it enough times, it might be true.
They handed him over to the stroke team and were back in the cab within twenty minutes, the seat still warm from the weight of someone clinging to life. Trent didn’t ask if Mr Collingwood made it. Nor did he check the board later. He’d learned it was sometimes better not to know.
That tally at home didn’t need any more lines added.
11:07 – Child fall, minor head injury, Worthbridge Primary
Next was a seven-year-old in a Spiderman hoodie, holding a bloody tissue to his forehead with the gravity of someone undergoing major surgery.
“Does it look bad?” the boy asked.
“Mate,” Trent inspected the small split, “you should see the other guy.”
Liv chuckled as she took his obs. “That’s not regulation humour.”
The mum arrived five minutes later in a panic, all keys and clumsy tears. Reassured. Signed off. No transfer needed. No sirens. The savour of a sticker from Liv’s ‘emotional repair kit’ and a high-five goodbye.
Trent climbed back into the passenger seat, staring through the windscreen.
“You okay?” Liv asked .
“Yeah.” He clicked his seatbelt. “That kid was braver than half the grown-ups we deal with.”
“Kids bounce better.” She tapped the dash. “Physically, anyway.”
He let that settle. Physically, sure.
Emotionally? Different story.
And as if on cue, his brother texted him.
Can we go to Platform Three later? They said a Class 37 might be running.
Trent replied: I’ll try. On shift now. Be home around 7. Ask Dev to check the realtime tracker if I’m late.
Dev doesn’t know the difference between a freight loco and a toaster.
Trent laughed: Accurate .
He tucked his phone away as Liv sped off.
“Jamie still all about trains?”
“Always,” Trent said, trying not to smile. “It’s his constant.”
“Nice to have one,” Liv said. “What’s yours?”
He didn’t answer. Because it used to be running. Then…pills.
And lately… Reece.
He needed to go cold turkey on him, too.
The next job was a welfare check. Elderly female, no response at the door.
Called in by a neighbour. Milk deliveries untouched.
Post stacked like bricks behind the glass.
Silence behind the letterbox. Routine on paper.
But it landed them square in the path of Worthbridge Fire and Rescue, who were already on scene, gearing up to force entry.
Trent couldn’t prevent his gaze from sweeping the fire engine.
Helmets. Visors. Familiar frames behind yellow jackets.
He told himself not to look. Told himself it was pointless.
But he looked anyway. Scanned the crew like a dog chasing shadows.
Hope sparked. Stupid. Relentless. But there in his chest, uninvited and undeniable.
It wasn’t until they were inside the flat thick with damp and the hollow echo of isolation where the woman lay by the radiator, curled into herself, skin like paper, dehydration tugging her thin frame closer to the floor and him crouched beside her, searching for her pulse when a voice drifted from behind, giving him the answer to the question he wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“Morgan’ll be gutted he missed this.”
Trent glanced over his shoulder. Two firefighters stood in the hallway, tools slung, boots mud-tracked over the broken threshold. They weren’t talking to him.
“Loves a hard and fast entry,” one of them said, grinning at their obvious private joke.
The other snorted. “Won’t stay off long. Reece Morgan on rest days is unbearable. He’ll be back before the sick note’s cold.”
“He’ll be pissed his first day back is the community day.” The other clocked Trent then, nodding at him. “All good?”
“Yeah.” Trent turned back to the woman. “Hey. You’re okay. We’ve got you now.”
She blinked slowly. Eyes milky, lips cracked. “I thought no one would come.”
His chest pulled tight. “We always come.”
They moved her gently, bundled her into the back of the rig and Trent held her hand during obs, knelt by her side when she flinched at the oxygen mask. And when they were at the hospital doors, she gripped his wrist, and he let her hold on a moment longer than necessary.
After that, he texted his brother.
Jobs such as that one always reminded him of how different things could be. Jamie responded with a photo of the train he’d been searching for. So Trent smiled, put the phone away and realised if anyone was lonely, it was him.
By two p.m. his phone lit up for different reasons. The group chat, name change to BoysOnCall .
Dev: Bloke on Grindr offering foot rubs and cuddles. Is this where we’re at as a species?
Rory: That’s intimacy, babes. Don’t knock it. Also: foot rubs are miles better than your stiff little hugs.
Niko : I’d take a foot rub. My back’s wrecked. Too many lifts and not enough men offering to carry me like a princess.
Dev: You’re six-foot-four, Niks. You are the lift.
Rory : And I’m the princess (painting nails emoji)
Trent: You lot are unhinged. I’m knee-deep in vomit and you’re debating cuddles .
Rory: Aw, baby. Need one? I’ll spoon you. Big spoon or little spoon. I’m vers .
Dev : Versatile? Babe, you bottom so hard I swear I heard the mattress cry for help. Niko’s the only top in this chat.
Niko: I’m versatile, thank you. I’ve done both… in theory.
Dev: Babe, lying on your back and occasionally lifting a leg doesn’t make you versatile .
Rory: That’s just rotating .
Dev : Says you who let a whirlpool rearrange your guts last night.
Niko: Please tell me it was at least a high-end cycle? Or did you let a Hotpoint knock you off centre again?
Rory: You need a full MOT after every shag, Dev.
Dev: Excuse me. I am a temple.
Rory: Babe, you’re a community centre. Open to all, badly lit, and someone’s always crying in the toilets.
Niko: Just once I want you all to meet a man with working hips and a pension plan.
Dev : Last nights top had a tattoo of Sonic the Hedgehog on his inner thigh. That counts as planning for the future.
Trent: …I’m done .
Rory: You’re not done. You’re jealous you didn’t get spun.
Dev: You do look like you need a cuddle. Or sleep. Or a full emotional reset.
Niko: Trent’s version of that is a tramadol and a stare into the abyss.
Trent : Block button’s right there.
Rory: Lashing out equals emotional repression. Emotional repression equals someone hasn’t been set on fire in a while. (Wink emoji) (fire emoji) (fireman’s hat emoji)
Dev: Ooooooh. He went there .
Trent: Nope. We’re not doing this. We’ve talked. It’s done. Over. Kaput. Fin.
Niko: Did it end, or did you emotionally panic and ghost a man who actually likes you?
Trent: Blocked. Every single one of you.
Rory: See you at the pub later, sweets. You’re buying. I’m parched and fabulous .
Dev: Niko, think you can trigger the fire alarm at The Lighthouse tonight? Bit of uniformed chaos. Do it for the gays. And Trent.
Niko: I’ll have you know my fire safety certificate is very up to date.
Rory : Babes, you’re about as current as a VHS tape.
Trent: Reece is off shift, anyway. You’ll have to thirst over someone else.
Dev: And you know that because…?
Trent has left the chat.
His last call came in when they were on a break, sipping lukewarm coffee from a flask. Teenage male. Stab wound. Whitmore Estate.
Liv gave a low whistle. “Whitmore? That’ll be a warm one.”