Chapter 20
AJ
By half past seven in the morning, I have discovered there is a specific kind of tired that sits behind the eyes and begins quietly negotiating with the soul.
Night shifts are not simply days turned inside out. They are stranger than that. They stretch time, bend humour into unusual shapes and make a man emotionally attached to chairs he has only known for a week.
Also, they make goodbyes feel deeply unfair.
The final hour of shift passes in pieces.
A last round of checks. A mug I am told twice not to wash because, apparently, I am “not leaving this station in a cleaning incident”.
Mish confiscating the tape dispenser from the counter because she says my eyes have become too focused.
Dan giving me a nod from the appliance bay that feels like an entire speech.
And Pippa.
Pippa at the briefing desk. Pippa in the corridor.
Pippa talking to Kev. Pippa signing something off.
Pippa moving through the station with the steady, practical certainty she had on my first day, only now I know what her flat looks like in early morning light.
I know how her laugh sounds when she is trying not to give it to me.
I know what she sounds like when she comes and a mark just below her collarbone that she hid very effectively under her work clothes.
I know things that do not belong in this building.
That makes it difficult to behave.
I do behave.
Mostly.
Because this is her station, and because she has spent years earning the right to walk through it without anyone making assumptions about her. The absolute least I can do is not become one more man turning her workplace into evidence of something private.
So I keep my distance.
Not too much. Too much distance would be obvious. I am aiming for normal, which is ambitious because normal left the building somewhere between Cherry Pie Bakery and her hallway wall.
I manage professional.
Professional is close enough.
After handover, the station loosens around us. Day shift takes over. The night crew begin the strange ritual of leaving: gathering bags, checking phones, finishing tea nobody should have made this late, complaining about sleep they have not yet had but already resent for being insufficient.
Kev finds me near the kitchen door.
“Right,” he says.
I look at him. “That sounds ominous.”
He studies me for a second, then holds out a hand.
I stare at it.
He sighs. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird. I’m just surprised.”
“Take the hand, babyface.”
I take it.
His grip is firm and brief, and he gives one sharp nod as if he is approving a piece of equipment for use.
“You did all right,” he says.
That should not get to me.
It does.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Still don’t quote me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good.” He drops my hand. “And don’t write us like heroes.”
I pause.
Kev shifts his bag onto his shoulder. “People get weird about that.”
“Heroes?”
“Yeah. Makes it sound clean. Easy. Like we’re built different and nothing gets in.” He scratches his jaw, looking towards the appliance bay instead of at me. “Just write it true.”
I nod, not because I have an answer ready, but because he deserves one that means something.
“I’ll try.”
Kev looks back at me. “Better.”
“Than what?”
“Promising.”
He walks away before I can decide what to do with that.
Mish appears next, as if summoned by the emotional inconvenience of the moment.
“I corrected your inventory notes,” she says, handing me a folded sheet of paper.
I unfold it. There are neat annotations, three question marks beside one of my terms and, at the bottom, Do not describe Kev as emotionally complex unless you want him to become unbearable.
I laugh.
“Useful?” she asks.
“Very.”
She nods. “Good.”
Then, softer, “You listened better than I thought you would.”
That one lands somewhere under the ribs.
“Thank you.”
“I said better than I thought. The bar was on the floor.”
“Still. Thank you.”
Her expression warms by exactly one degree. From Mish, that feels lavish.
“Send us the piece before it runs,” she says.
“I will.”
She pats my arm once. Quick. Almost accidental.
Then she is gone.
Dan catches me outside the appliance bay, where I have stopped because leaving is apparently taking longer than expected and because I have become oddly attached to the smell of diesel, rubber, coffee and damp kit.
“You off then?” he asks.
“That’s the rumour.”
“Back to civilisation?”
“Carlisle.”
“So, no.”
“Rude,” I chuckle.
He gives a small huff of laughter.
That, from Dan, is practically a speech.
For a second, I think that is it.
Then he says, “You were good with Margaret.”
I swallow as the images come back.
“Thank you.”
Dan shrugs, clearly already regretting having said anything with emotional content.
“Not everyone can do that bit,” he says.
“I didn’t do much.”
“Sometimes that’s the bit.”
He nods once and moves away, leaving me with that sentence and no sensible place to put it.
Josh catches me near his office as I am closing my notebook and sliding it into my bag for what should be the last time inside Fellside Fire Station.
“AJ.”
I turn. “Josh.”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe and folds his arms. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I know. Radical concept, doing it anyway.”
His smile flickers, then fades into something more serious. “You came in under less than ideal circumstances. You could have made it harder. You didn’t.”
“I considered it occasionally.”
“I noticed.” He glances towards the station beyond us. “The article matters. Not because anyone here wants to be flattered. They don’t. They’ll hate that.”
“I’ve gathered.”
“They want to be understood. That’s different.”
“Yes.”
“Write it honestly,” he says. “Not heroic. Not defensive. Just true.”
It is probably the best instruction anyone could give me.
“I will.”
Josh nods once, then looks past me.
I turn.
Pippa is in the corridor with a folder tucked under one arm.
Her expression is professional. Calm. Watch Manager Hart in full and proper order.
My body, the traitor, remembers her beneath me.
Her eyes meet mine.
For one impossible second, I forget Josh exists.
Then Josh, who unfortunately still exists and notices more than most surveillance systems, clears his throat.
“I’ll check that thing in the bay,” he says.
There is, obviously, no thing.
Or if there is, it has never been less important.
Pippa gives him a narrow look.
He ignores it with the calm bravery of a man who has decided to be elsewhere.
Then he leaves.
Coward.
Pippa and I are alone in the corridor.
Not properly alone. There are people close enough to appear at any second. Doors open. Voices nearby. A station shifting into day mode around us.
But close enough for the air between us to become inconvenient.
“So,” she says.
A terrible start.
I adore it.
“So,” I say back.
Her mouth almost moves.
“You survived two weeks.”
“Barely.”
“You’re standing.”
“Through force of will.”
“And tea.”
“And tea.”
Her gaze drops to my bag, then back to my face.
“You’ve got everything?”
No.
Obviously not.
My bag has my notebook, my laptop, my chargers, three pens, a leaflet about home fire safety, a list of equipment terms Mish corrected and the packet of mints I bought on day one because I briefly believed fresh breath might save my career.
It does not have the thing I need.
That thing is standing in front of me with a folder under her arm, looking at me like this goodbye is supposed to be manageable.
“Yes,” I say, because I am apparently a coward with a satchel.
“Good.”
“Good.”
The word is unbearable.
We stare at each other.
This is where something should happen. Not a dramatic something. Not a kiss. Not here. Not with half the station within earshot and every single professional line already frayed enough to become a safety hazard.
But something.
Something better than good.
Pippa shifts the folder under her arm. “Thank you for taking it seriously.”
There.
That should matter.
It does matter.
It is also nowhere near enough.
“Thank you for letting me.”
She looks away briefly.
When she looks back, her expression is still composed, but there is something softer underneath it. Not permission. Not a request. More dangerous than both.
“You did good,” she says.
From her, that is not a small thing.
I feel it in my chest.
“Well,” she says.
No.
I hate well.
Well is a door closing politely.
“I’ll send the draft through,” I say.
“Good.”
“Before anything runs.”
“Good.”
“I’ll make sure Marie Louise knows the station needs proper time with it.”
“Good.”
Good, good, good.
We have become the worst conversation in Britain.
Pippa’s mouth presses together as if she knows it too.
“Safe drive,” she says.
That is the moment I should fix it.
There is a version of me that does.
A better version, perhaps.
Or at least a braver one.
Instead, I nod.
“Thanks.”
Her eyes hold mine for one beat too long.
Then she steps back.
And I let her.
Because I am sensible. Because this is her workplace. Because I am leaving. Because there is an article to write and a career to consider and a whole complicated set of reasons why turning the corridor of Fellside Fire Station into an emotional incident would be inconvenient for everyone involved.
I walk away.
This is a terrible idea.
Yet I keep walking.
Out through the station, past the kitchen where Kev is accusing someone of stealing the good mug. Past the appliance bay where the engine sits clean and ready. Past the entrance where I first stood, too much confidence and not nearly enough understanding.
Outside, the morning is bright after the rain. The sky has cleared into a pale, ridiculous blue, the hills sharp in the distance, the station behind me already getting on with itself.
That offends me slightly.
I do not know what I expected. Perhaps the building could have looked more emotionally invested. A flicker of lights. A creak of door. Something.
Instead, a van goes past.
Life, apparently, continues.
I reach my car and unlock it.
The boot opens.
I put my bag in.