Chapter 5 #3
“We’ll test that theory later.”
There is a ripple of amusement from the crew, brief and contained, then everyone goes back to what they were doing.
Pippa points towards a door beyond the kit racks. “Off you go.”
So I do.
With dignity.
Mostly.
The locker room is long, practical and very clearly designed for people who come back from work needing to wash smoke, sweat and weather off themselves before they become socially acceptable again.
Metal lockers line one wall. Wooden benches run down the middle.
Through an open doorway at the far end, I can see white tiles and the edge of the showers.
The whole place smells faintly of detergent, rubber, damp towels and the sort of industrial soap that promises to remove anything short of regret.
I put my notebook on the bench, take off my jacket, and look at the kit in my hands.
This is fine.
This is controlled training. This is safe. This is journalism with props.
Heavy props.
I pull the trousers over my tracksuit bottoms. They are stiff, padded and immediately make me aware that walking is not something I have appreciated enough in life.
The jacket follows, and by the time I pull it over my shoulders, I have developed a new respect for anyone who can wear this and still care about other people’s emergencies.
There is a mirror above one of the sinks near the showers.
I look at myself in it.
The man looking back at me does not look like a firefighter.
He looks like a journalist who has been dressed by a committee that has serious concerns about combustion.
Still, it could be worse.
By the time I walk back out, Pippa has changed into her daily duty uniform of navy trousers and navy shirt. She is standing near the kit racks, talking quietly to Mish and turns when she hears me.
Her gaze moves over the kit.
Professional. Assessing. Quick enough not to feel like scrutiny, thorough enough that I know she has spotted everything.
“Too tight anywhere?”
“No.”
“Can you move?”
I lift one arm.
The jacket makes a noise like it objects.
“Apparently,” I say.
Mish’s mouth twitches, then she goes back to checking something on the bench.
Pippa steps closer and reaches for the front fastening. “You’ve missed one.”
“I was leaving it for ventilation.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“No.”
Her hand brushes mine as she fixes it.
It is barely anything. A practical touch. Two seconds at most. She is close enough that I catch the clean scent of her shampoo under the coffee and station air, something fresh and sharp that has no business being noticeable while I’m dressed like a man being posted to a furnace.
She steps back.
“There.”
“Thanks.”
“Helmet.”
Of course.
The helmet is heavier than expected too, because apparently every object in this building has been designed to humble me individually. Pippa hands it over, then watches as I put it on.
Something changes in her face.
Not attraction.
I am not that delusional.
But her mouth presses together in a way that suggests she is fighting something. Possibly laughter.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“It’s just good to see local journalism protected.”
Kev laughs from the other side of the engine.
I turn my head, which is harder in the helmet than it should be. “I’m glad my safety brings the team together.”
“It does,” Kev says.
Pippa adjusts the strap under my chin with brisk, efficient fingers. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She steps back and looks at me again. For a second, the teasing eases.
“You listen,” she says. “You ask if you don’t understand. You don’t try to push through to prove a point. Nobody here is impressed by stupid.”
“Understood.”
“And if I tell you to stop, you stop.”
“Immediately.”
Her eyes hold mine.
I should probably feel patronised.
I don’t.
There is something oddly grounding about how clear she is. No theatre. No vague warnings. Just rules, expectations and the underlying promise that if I follow them, she will keep me in one piece.
Hopefully.
Pippa turns towards the yard. “Right. Let’s begin.”
I follow her, feeling the weight of the kit with every step. The trousers are stiff around my legs, the jacket sits heavily on my shoulders, and the helmet makes me aware of my own head in a way I have never particularly wanted to be.
We step outside into the yard. The air is cooler here, and the hills beyond the station look far too calm for the amount of personal humiliation I fear is waiting for me.
Pippa stops beside a length of hose and turns to face me.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Reasonably prepared.”
She looks at the kit, then at me. “That’s optimistic.”
“I run mountains,” I say, before I can make the sensible decision to keep my mouth shut. “Endurance is sort of my thing.”
Her smile appears slowly this time.
Small.
Dangerous.
Entirely too pleased with herself.
“That won’t help you.” She pronounces every word, making it almost sound like a threat.
The kit sits heavy on my shoulders.
Pippa Hart looks entirely too delighted by whatever is about to happen next.
I am not looking forward to finding out why.