38. Always Happy Hour Somewhere
Liam O'Connell rode to Rye in the back of a squad car. He'd given his preliminary debrief to DI Gemmell, covering for his partner as best he could, but still those few moments in the Mustang kept replaying in his head.
They'd come so close.
He'd told her to stop. He'd told her to pull away. She hadn't asked for permission. She'd neglected their safety with a civilian sitting in the front seat.
She'd just done it.
It dug into him, needling into his stomach and making him sick. He looked at his hands as the marsh passed by on either side. They were trembling and dark with dried mud. He needed a shower, a change of clothes, but he wasn't sure if that was enough to feel clean.
"She's a wild one, your partner," the officer driving said. Simms.
Liam said nothing, just looked out the window. It had been like this on Dark Peak. At every turn, she'd pushed harder, dragging him with her, and it had ended with her buried alive.
He'd held her close. Her freezing skin. Terrified she was going to die in his arms. Now she was doing it all over again.
The squad car pulled in. Liam got out wordlessly.
"The DCI wants you in the back, mate," Sergeant Simms said. "This way. No crossover with your partner."
His partner.
He let himself be guided. Simms badged them in, down a dim corridor into a solitary room without a window.
"It's a shit gig," Simms said, gesturing him in. "I know that. But we're using everywhere else. You're hungry?"
Liam felt thirsty. His whole body shook with the urge to drink. "Yeah."
"We'll sort something. Sit tight, join the queue for full debriefs, and job's a good 'un." Simms peered at him. "You don't look well to me, though. I'll send someone to check in on you."
"I'm fine," Liam rasped.
"Yeah, I'm not buying that. Some coffee, sandwiches and a psych eval, coming right up."
He closed the door.
Liam sat and buried his head in his hands. The urge was deep, digging into him. Somehow, he'd known this was going to happen. Not just since this morning, but ever since the call yesterday morning. Sally's voice, full of life again, the start of a new hunt.
It was like she'd been set alight, burning with the same urge that had sent her up Dark Peak alone. A fire that had almost gotten them all killed on the marsh. The closer he got to it, the more it burned him down.
How many times had he covered for her already, in just two days? Looked the other way while she casually broke procedure? If Wilcot knew any of it, he'd be done already. Maybe he already was.
He'd known it would come to this. Debriefs on a serious incident. No room to lie, misremember, wriggle away. Only the truth could save him now; and damn Sally for good.
He rubbed his eyes. Simms returned with supermarket sandwiches, an apple and a paper cup of instant coffee. He paused a moment in the doorway, then sat down opposite Liam.
"Mate, you're not looking too clever. Seriously."
"Fuck off," Liam muttered.
"You're welcome for the sarnies," Simms said, wholly unbothered. "Sugar in the coffee, too, figured you needed it. Next stop, rinse the drowned cat off and give him a whisky IV. Am I right?"
Liam said nothing.
"Yeah, OK. Hang in there, all right?"
He left.
Liam worked his fingers through his hair, squeezing his scalp. All of this stung. It built a cold sickness in his belly, crawling up his throat.
Maybe he was a coward.
That was the deepest fear. No other way to say it. When they'd been flying across the field, him yelling for her to stop, he'd been terrified. For himself. For Sally. For what it all might mean. Breaking the rules he'd tried to follow all his life. Breaking a whole system of thinking.
One fist hammered the table. He looked at the sandwich and the coffee.
The drink had spilled, cheap black liquid ringing around the cup.
He knew it wouldn't fill this ache inside.
There was only one cure for that. He hit the table once more, toppling the coffee.
Liquid spilled onto the floor and he just watched it.
The door opened and someone came in. Liam looked up, and his heart palpitated hard. Not now. Shit, please.
"Hi, Liam," said John Logan. The AA paramedic. His voice too calm, his manner practiced, like he was trying to soothe a wounded animal. "I just want to do another checkup."
Fuck no, Liam thought. No fucking way.
"I'm fine," he said. "Nothing to check up on."
Logan looked at the coffee. "You've been in a serious accident. Anyone would feel unbalanced by that. On edge."
Liam raised his gaze and looked right into Logan's brown eyes. "Would they, John? Anyone?"
A tiny frown trickled across Logan's face. Good. "You're angry at me. You think I'm prying."
"Are you not?" Liam shot back. "Like any of this is your business? For God's sake, you're a paramedic, not a shrink, and I wouldn't want one even if you were."
Logan said nothing for a moment. He looked down at Liam's hand. It was trembling. Liam clamped his other hand over it.
"I may only be a paramedic," Logan said calmly. "But I was an addict first. Serious, bad. And there's one thing I've learned in all my years as an AA sponsor."
"Enlighten me, you smug prick."
Logan rapped the table twice. "Some people just need to hit bottom. I don't want that for you, Officer O'Connell. Because for some people, there is no bottom. Only deeper down."
Liam stared at him. In that moment he hated this man. A hatred that seethed in his chest. It took everything he had not to reach out and slam his kindly face into the table.
"Nice pop psychology, John," he said softly. "You get that from a Christmas cracker?"
"It's jokes in Christmas crackers, Liam. Maybe you're thinking of fortune cookies? In any case, I'll be here, OK?" He reached in his pocket and pushed a card across the table. "Whenever you want. I'm here."
"Zip-a-dee-doo-dah," Liam said, ignoring the card.
Logan regarded him a moment longer. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "Really. She doesn't see it. But I do."
"See what?" Liam spat.
"Call me," Logan said, then left.
Liam tried to contain that; everything Logan had said, all the rage it brought up, but it just kept coming. Anger at Logan, at Sally, at Wilcot, at the last three months and Dark Peak and the utter sodding mess his life had become.
He couldn't take it anymore. He knew he owed a full debrief but that felt impossible now. He wouldn't know what to say or how to say it. He checked the time on his phone. Past 3. It was always happy hour somewhere.
He shoved the table back, knocking the sandwiches over. They fell to the floor, and he felt a perverse sting of pleasure. It could all wait. He stalked out of the tiny cell. There was no one to see as he shoved his way out into the car park. No Audi in the lot. No Mustang.
The press didn't pay him any attention as he loped into the gathering gloom. Evening was setting across Rye already. His neck had a crick that wouldn't go away, aching with every tiny shift of his head. His clothes were still soaked and stinking, but he didn't care.
It was always happy hour somewhere.