Chapter Eleven Visibility High
CHapter eleven
Visibility High
Reece’s grand return to work wasn’t exactly grand. More… anticlimactic.
He stood at the edge of Harrow Park, cradling a coffee he didn’t want, wearing a freshly laundered uniform shirt that was stiff at the seams and tighter across the shoulders than he remembered.
Community Day.
The words alone made his eye twitch.
Bunting snapped overhead in the cool breeze, strings of bright triangles stretching between trees and lampposts as if the council had gift-wrapped the entire park for the day.
The air was thick with the chaotic perfume of hot dogs, sugary doughnuts, fried onions, and burnt coffee.
Somewhere near the bandstand, a local cover four-piece butchered their way through an eighties power ballad, the off-key wailing drowned out by the high-pitched shrieks of kids launching themselves down inflatable slides.
The pathways were crammed with pop-up stalls and market tents, a patchwork of striped awnings and battered gazebos.
Local businesses hawked their homemade fudge and questionable candles, wedged between the more official setups—the recruitment stands for the fire service, police, RNLI, army, and ambulance crews, all trying to smile their way into the good books of teenagers who mostly came for the free pens and branded water bottles.
And then there was the gleaming white marquee at the far end of the green.
Not striped. Not battered. Not friendly.
Radley Developments printed clean across the canvas in sleek navy lettering, bold against the backdrop of their property portfolio banners: “Revitalising Worthbridge One Brick at a Time.”
Reece ground his teeth.
Tables inside offered iced elderflower cordial in eco cups. A polished blonde in a pressed navy dress handed out glossy flyers about a new youth centre opening on the East Side. All funded by Graham bloody Radley. And touched up by his perfect wife, Vivienne.
Reece could feel the man’s fingerprints on every inch. On the sponsorship signs. The rented stage for the mayor’s speech. Even on the printed t-shirts worn by the volunteers handing out activity maps.
The crowd ate it up.
To them, Radley was a philanthropist. A man who built houses, funded school trips, and paid for half the playground equipment installed last year. A name that meant progress. To Reece? He was a villain who burned warehouses. Ruined kids’ lives and tore apart families.
He sipped his coffee, bitter and burnt, and let the resentment settle low in his gut.
The bastard had a stall at Community Day.
And no one even blinked.
Reece’s own setup was impossible to miss, though.
The fire engine stood parked off the main pathway, polished to within an inch of its life.
Someone had looped more bunting across the ladder rack, and a gaudy plastic banner reading “Be A Real-Life Hero! Join Worthbridge Fire & Rescue!” hung lopsided across the windscreen.
The surrounding area looked like a kid’s dream and a parent’s worst nightmare.
Hoses lay coiled neatly on display stands for the inevitable who can unravel it fastest contest. A battered helmet sat on a folding table next to a set of fireproof gloves twice the size of the kids trying them on, and a shallow paddling pool had been rigged up for the junior hose demonstration.
Firefighters waited armed with tiny jets, aiming at cartoon cut-outs of fake flames flopping dramatically when hit with water.
Reece couldn’t help but smirk as he watched a determined six-year-old soak the legs of a volunteer probationer.
It was chaos. Loud. Messy.
Worthbridge .
He leant back against the warm metal of the engine, folding his arms as he let his gaze wander the park.
He wasn’t on duty today. Not really. Here to smile, answer the same questions a hundred times, and keep the new lads from having a meltdown under pressure.
Like all the other first responders who’d drawn the short straw to be here on the Saturday before the schools went back .
Across the grass, a police SUV parked near the recruitment tents.
Freddie stood by the open door, hi-vis jacket tied lazily around his waist. He waved.
Reece held up his disgusting coffee. Then, right on cue, a tiny figure in a Brownie uniform sprinted towards Freddie.
Tilly. Freddie’s eight-year-old niece. All tangled pigtails and wild energy.
She launched herself at Freddie, and he scooped her up, spinning her around with a grin, hitting Reece square in the chest.
A moment later, Nathan Carter strolled into view, his easy confidence unmistakable even at a distance.
All ex-army had the same swagger. And he watched him greet the army recruiters’ tent, introduce his lad, then return to Freddie, who greeted them both with that wide, open smile that said home .
Even planting a kiss to Nathan’s lips, and for a second, Reece felt a sharp twist low in his gut.
It wasn’t about wanting any of them. Not Freddie and certainly not Nathan…
that wasn’t the point. It was the belonging .
That rough-edged, messy little version of a family that somehow worked .
And no matter how many fires he’d walked through, or how many nights he filled with noise and bodies and empty beds…
he’d never built anything lasting longer than morning for a long while now. Not since Ian left him four years ago.
He dragged his gaze away before he embarrassed himself, glancing instead towards the one place he’d done his best to avoid all day. The ambulance stand.
Because there he was.
Trent.
Sleeves pushed up, muscles flexing as he knelt beside a resuscitation dummy, demonstrating chest compressions to a wide-eyed circle of kids.
His blond curls stuck damply to his forehead under the sun, and even from a distance, Reece could see the easy, boyish charm in his smile and how the kids hung on his every word, small hands twitching as they mimicked his movements.
One of them asked a question, and Trent glanced up, laughing before demonstrating again, pressing down in perfect rhythm.
There was something about watching Trent in his element that made it impossible to breathe easy. And for all the chaos swirling around the park, it was that simple image leaving him feeling completely untethered.
Some fires… he couldn’t put out.
“Good turnout,” a familiar voice said.
Reece pushed off the engine and turned to find Nathan Carter, every inch the relaxed ex-soldier, as if he didn’t still have fists that could put a man through a wall.
Reece slapped a hand into Nathan’s with a wry grin. The old tension between them settled now, even if his jaw still remembered the sharp crack of that right hook.
“S’what happens when you offer a bouncy castle and free beer from the local microbrewery.” Reece nodded towards the pop-up bar at the far end of the green.
Nathan held up a plastic sample cup with a knowing smirk. “Can’t argue with that. Decent brew, too.” He angled his head to the figure standing behind him. “Brought the boy over. Alfie, this is Reece.”
Alfie barely looked up, hood drawn low, hands jammed in his pockets.
Reece held out his hand, anyway. “Strapping lad. We could use you in Fire and Rescue someday.”
Alfie scuffed his trainer into the grass but shook Reece’s hand, quick and awkward. Reece caught the faint flush creeping up Alfie’s neck before the kid turned his face away again. But before Reece could say more, a pint-sized blur in a Brownie uniform shot straight towards him.
“Can I go in the engine? Please! ”
“Tils!” Freddie jogged after her, hands raised in surrender. “Told her she had to ask you. God knows where her mum’s wandered off to with the baby.”
Freddie shot a quick look across the park, scanning the chaos.
Reece angled his chin towards the far side of the green. “There’s free gin tasting over there. If I had to guess…”
Freddie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He then wiped nothing off Nathan’s shoulder just so he could touch him.
Reece crouched to Tilly’s level, his expression softening as she bounced excitedly in front of him. “You wanna go in? Come on then, sweetheart. VIP access for you.”
He lifted her up and tucked her into the cab, her delighted squeal cutting through the noise as she scrambled for the driver’s seat.
“Can I press something?” Tilly was already wriggling towards the dashboard.
“Go ahead.”
Tilly hit the button as if she was detonating a bomb, and the blue strobes lit up instantly, pulsing into the bright afternoon with the blaring sirens.
The nearby kids erupted in delighted squeals. Except for one.
Off to the side, a little girl flinched hard at the sudden flash, and she clamped her hands over her ears, eyes wide with panic as if the world had become too loud, too bright, too much .
Reece stepped up to the cab to switch it all off.
Then he crouched a few feet from the girl, keeping his distance, voice low and soothing.
“Hey, sweetheart. Bit loud and bright, wasn’t it?”
She didn’t respond, didn’t even look up, but her shoulders shook under the pressure of her breathing .
Her mum put a hand on her shoulder. “She has autism. Non-verbal.”
Reece smiled, nodded, cause he’d already sorta guessed that, then addressed the girl. “We’ve turned them off now. Promise.” He held up his hands. “No more lights. No loud noises. Us and the truck, yeah?”
Still nothing. But her rocking eased a fraction.
“Tell you what,” he tried again, adjusting his position so he wasn’t directly in her line of sight, “how about we skip all that loud stuff, and you come sit up in the cab? It’s nice and quiet. You can try my helmet on, if you like.”
At that, she tilted her head enough for her eyes to flick towards him.
He smiled, holding out a hand but not pushing it towards her. “Just us. No noise. No crowds.”
Slowly, cautiously, she crept closer and tucked her small hand into his.