Chapter 12
Pippa
AJ is laughing in the station kitchen.
That is the first thing I hear when I walk into the station at just before seven on Wednesday evening with my kit bag over one shoulder, my hair still damp from the shower and the faint, irritating sense that four days off have not done what four days off are supposed to do.
They should have reset me.
They have not.
They have mostly given me too much time to think about things I am better off not thinking about.
And now AJ Hodgson is standing by the counter, mug in one hand, sleeves pushed up, laughing with Kev and Mish as if he has not been here for exactly four shifts.
As if he has not spent most of that time looking faintly traumatised by basic equipment and stairs.
As if he has not arrived in our world by force, apology and editorial punishment.
He is not holding court. That would irritate me.
He is not performing. That would irritate me more.
He is just there.
In the middle of the kitchen, somehow already part of the rhythm.
Kev is leaning against the sink with the smug look of a man who has just delivered what he believes to be a devastating punchline.
Mish is at the table with a stack of forms and a pen tucked behind her ear, pretending not to enjoy herself.
Dan is making toast with the bleak concentration of someone performing battlefield surgery.
AJ says something too low for me to catch.
Kev snorts.
Mish points her pen at him. “You’re learning. That was nearly station-level sarcasm.”
“Nearly?” AJ says.
“You’re still too polished.”
“I can work on that.”
“Please don’t,” Dan says without looking away from the toaster. “One Kev is enough.”
“Oi,” Kev says. “I bring morale.”
AJ laughs again.
He looks tired, because night shift is waiting for us and he has not yet learned the psychological skill of napping in self-defence, but he also looks oddly settled.
Not comfortable exactly. He still has that slight alertness around the edges, as if the station might spring another humiliating task on him at any second. Which it might.
But he is listening.
He is letting the conversation move without trying to steer it.
He is being teased and surviving it.
That should not matter.
It does.
I study him for a moment whilst everyone is busy teasing each other.
His beard has not grown back.
Four days off would have been enough for a decent covering of stubble if he had decided to reclaim it. Enough for a shadow at least. Enough to make it clear the clean-shaven thing was temporary and practical and not a choice.
But he has shaved again.
Deliberately.
I force my eyes away from AJ’s jaw and step fully into the room.
“Evening,” I say.
Four heads turn, each greeting me in their own way. I can feel AJ’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare look directly at him, worried that every thought I had about him over those four days off is somehow etched across my face.
“Briefing room,” I say, before anyone can become too pleased with themselves. “Five minutes.”
There is the usual movement after that. Mugs put down, toast grabbed, chairs scraped back.
Nothing dramatic. Just the small shift from station chatter to work mode.
It is one of the things I like about nights, at least at the start.
The building feels different. Quieter around the edges. Less admin noise. More waiting.
Waiting is not easier.
It is only different.
Josh is not in tonight, so the briefing is mine. I keep it short because briefings at the start of a night shift are either useful or theatre, and I do not have the patience for theatre.
“Weather is still poor,” I say, standing at the front with the incident board behind me.
“Heavy rain on and off until early morning, surface water on the usual roads, possible flooding on the lower lanes if it keeps up. Usual black spots to watch. If we’re turned out, assume the verges are soft and visibility is rubbish. ”
Dan nods.
Kev lifts his coffee. “Inspirational.”
“I aim for memorable.”
“You aim for terrifying.”
“That too.” I glance down at the handover notes.
“No outstanding issues from days. Appliance is available. Control has flagged possible weather-related calls across the county, so we may get moved if things get busy elsewhere. If we don’t get turned out, we use the time.
Food, rest, reports if you’ve got them. No one disappears without saying where they are. ”
My gaze moves to AJ.
“And you stay exactly where you are told on any call-out,” I say. “No matter how calm things look from a distance.”
His eyes meet mine.
“I remember.”
There is no joke in it this time.
Good.
Also not good, because my brain has become deeply inconvenient and has started noticing the difference between the times he jokes and the times he does not.
“Right,” I say. “Let’s get moving.”
The first part of the shift is settling in. It always is. Bags away. Food in the fridge. Boots where they should be. Radios to hand. People finding the shape of the night before the night decides what it wants from us.
AJ follows me through the station with his notebook in the side pocket of his jacket rather than in his hand. That is new. He is watching more than writing tonight. Listening. Letting the work happen before trying to turn it into words.
I should not notice that.
I do.
I show him the small things that change after dark. Which lights stay on. Which doors stay closed so the heat does not vanish. Where people tend to sit. How the station looks calm from the outside, even when no one inside it has fully switched off.
“Night shift is strange,” I say as we walk back through the appliance bay. “You prepare to be interrupted and then try not to resent it when you are.”
“Optimistic dread.”
I glance at him.
He gives me an innocent look that is ruined entirely by his mouth.
“That’s not bad,” I say.
“No?”
“No.”
“I’m going to take that as praise.”
“It was almost praise.”
“I’ll treasure it.”
“You should. I ration it carefully.”
“I’d noticed.”
There is something softer in his voice. Not teasing exactly. Or not only teasing.
I look away first.
That annoys me.
We move through to the quieter side of the station. The crew room is dimmer now, television low, chairs angled in a way that makes the room look less like a workplace and more like a place where people have accepted they might be awake at any hour and have stopped pretending dignity is available.
“Most of us will hang around here,” I say. “Tea, food, reports, trying not to fall asleep with your mouth open.”
“Is that banned?”
“Not banned. Strongly discouraged.”
“I’ll do my best to remain elegant.”
“I’m sure that’ll last until about one in the morning.”
He smiles. “You have a lot of confidence in my stamina.”
I should have a quick answer for that.
Something dry.
Something clean.
Something that does not make me think about stamina in a room with the lights down and his shirt absent.
Instead, I pause for half a second too long.
His smile changes.
I clear my throat. “Through here.”
I push open the door to the rest room before he can enjoy himself any more than he already is.
He steps in behind me.
The room is basic. It always looks slightly apologetic when someone sees it for the first time.
A few makeshift beds. Fold-out frames. Thin mattresses.
Clean blankets stacked on a shelf. Nothing luxurious.
Nothing dramatic. Just a practical answer to the fact that bodies are not machines, even when the job sometimes expects them to be.
AJ looks around.
“It’s not glamorous,” I say.
“I wasn’t expecting glamour.”
“No?”
“I was expecting practical.” He looks at the beds, then at the folded blankets. “That seems to be the theme.”
“It has to be.”
“I’m learning that.”
There it is again. That carefulness. The absence of performance.
Four days ago, I would have expected him to say something clever enough to make sure the moment stayed light. Tonight, he just stands there and lets the room be what it is.
It makes me want to tell him more.
That is the dangerous thing.
“We rest if we can,” I say. “Some nights, we don’t. Some nights, twenty minutes here or there. Some nights, you lie down and your body knows it should sleep, but your head keeps listening for the alarm.”
He nods.
“Does that happen to you?” he asks.
The question is quiet.
I could give him a professional answer. Something clipped and neat about experience and routine.
Instead, I give him a true one.
“Sometimes.”
“When it’s been bad?” he asks quietly.
“When it’s been bad,” I nod. “Or when it might be bad. Sometimes before anything happens at all.”
I hate how much that costs me to admit.
I hate more that he seems to understand it.
“That sounds exhausting,” he says.
“It is.”
The words come out more honestly than I mean them to.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
I fold my arms, then unfold them again because it feels too defensive.
“Don’t wander off. Don’t decide something looks interesting and follow it.
Don’t stand where you can’t be seen. If we get turned out, you do what I say.
” No matter how often I have said that to him by now, it never feels often enough.
“I will.”
His voice is still gentle.
My face is warm.
I am forty-two years old, a watch manager and entirely too experienced to be undone by a journalist in a white T-shirt looking at me beside a stack of clean blankets.
“Though,” he says, “I do suspect, you do seem to enjoy ordering me around a little.”
I narrow my eyes. “You require a lot of instruction.”
“I’m very committed to my development.”
“You’re committed to testing my patience.”
“Also that.”
“You admit it?”
“I’ve had time to reflect during my days off.”
“Productive.”
“Very. I watched daytime television, avoided stairs and thought about everything I’ve learned.”
“That must have taken at least ten minutes.”
“More like fifteen.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“I’m glad you came back,” I say.
The words are out before I can inspect them.
AJ goes still.
Only for a second, but I notice.