You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

on one side, and on Lucas on the other. Lucas uses a combination of patience, cajoling and laughter, with Ray panting, swearing and guffawing in response.

The bariatric ambulance and crew are waiting at the top. Ray pauses to catch his breath and look around him. He’s emotional. ‘Been more than a year since I’ve come this far. Bloody oath.’

Megan and Lucas help get him settled before wishing him luck.

Cathy clutches Lucas’s hand. ‘Thank you for being so extraordinarily kind.’

The bariatric ambulance strains its way up the hill. Megan waits a few moments, giving it a head start. Lucas clears the job from the MDT before slumping back in his seat. Kindness can be exhausting.

The road is so steep it feels as though they’re suspended in mid-air. Once again, Megan is reminded of that childhood dream. Losing traction, sliding backwards. Her hands flailing, her calls going unnoticed. Not one member of her family hears or turns around. She doesn’t know what the dream signified at the time. She wasn’t abandoned in any way. They were a happy family, a close-knit one. Maybe it was a premonition of what was to come.

Finally, the vehicle is on flat ground and Megan can relax somewhat. She glances at Lucas. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed in a momentary reprieve. The roster changes next week. They’ll be assigned to new partners and go their separate ways for at least a few months, until the roster fairy reunites them again. The thought of being without him makes her feel untethered.

‘Hey, Megan, there’s been a delivery for you,’ Kaz says when they get back to base.

The delivery is hard to miss. A long rectangular box tied with an elaborate white ribbon is taking up most of the table in the kitchen. Inside are a dozen roses, blood red, plastic water phials at the end of each elegant stem.

‘Nice,’ Kaz says. ‘Secret admirer?’

Megan snorts. ‘Probably an old geezer saying thanks for restarting his heart.’

Lucas and Kaz are watching as Megan opens the accompanying envelope.

Dear Megan,

Thank you for treating my father on the night he was shot. My family and I have some questions, the answers to which might help us come to terms with this awful tragedy. I would be grateful if you could call me on the number below.

Joshua Newson

Megan’s legs go from under her. She sits down heavily at the table, pushing the roses as far away from her as possible. Joshua Newson knows her name and where she works. Something tells her he also knows that she is much more than one of the paramedics who treated his father. She is probably overreacting, but those perfect red flowers don’t feel like a thank-you; they feel like a threat.

23

JESS

The train station is closed. An incident on the track. A relief bus is parked on the street outside, but has pulled away by the time Jess realises that she needs to be on it. She approaches the security guard, who is standing on the steps to the entrance, turning people away.

‘When’s the next bus?’

‘About twenty minutes,’ he says in an unconvincing tone.

She is deeply tired. It’s dark and cold. Twenty minutes, if it’s really that, is too long.

‘Do you know when they’ll reopen the station?’

‘Not anytime soon. It’s a fatality. Big clean-up, if you know what I mean.’

She’s sorry she asked. Someone’s remains are being scraped from the train and tracks. What a messy way to die. But when you’re in that frame of mind you’re not thinking about the impact on the train driver or the emergency workers or anyone else.

‘Thanks,’ she says, moving away. No taxis in sight, and a quick check of her Uber app shows nothing close by. She dials Alex’s number.

‘Babe, I’m stranded at Artarmon station. Any chance you can come and get me?’

He sighs. He’s deeply tired too. Their jobs are physically demanding. She’s had seven hours instructing classes, followed by a tough one-on-one training session with Vince. Alex spent the day digging and bricklaying at her parents’ house. At this time of night, neither of them has much energy left in the tank.

‘What’s happened?’

‘A fatality. The train line is closed and I’ve just missed a bus.’

‘Okay.’ Another reluctant sigh. ‘I’m on my way.’

Jess sits on a bench and huddles into her hoodie. Vince added extra rounds to her routine tonight and demanded higher intensity. Both of them temporarily forgot that she’s not a professional, or even an amateur; there’s no need to push so hard. It felt good, though, pummelling the bag to his chant of ‘harder, faster’. Now she’s paying the price. Her shoulders are somewhere between aching and numb. She’s dehydrated and slightly nauseous. A headache is threatening. At this stage it isn’t an unpleasant feeling: a mild sensation behind her eyes, heaviness in her limbs.

She opens her backpack, extracting some migraine pills and her water bottle. She has learned, the hard way, not to ignore the warning signs.

‘Act early,’ the doctor has said. ‘You’re not being a hero if you wait.’

A white ute is coming down the street. She jumps to her feet before realising that it isn’t Alex. Back down on the bench, the cold metal penetrating her Lycra gym pants. Her phone rings in her pocket. Alex? No, an unfamiliar number. Suddenly she knows, somewhere in the pit of her stomach, exactly who it is.

Breathe. Breathe. ‘Hello.’

‘Jess?’

‘Yep.’

‘This is … It’s Dylan O’Shea.’

‘What do you want?’ she snaps.

‘I just want to … talk. Can we meet some-some-somewhere?’

‘Why do we have to meet? Can’t you just say what you want to say?’

‘It’s com-complicated.’

Bullshit. It’s pretty simple from where she’s sitting. He wants one of two things: to make amends or to plead his innocence again. Well, Jess wants something too: answers.

‘What about Megan? Have you been pestering her, too?’

A long pause. ‘M-Megan won’t … speak to me. I’ve tried and … tried … and she just won’t …’

Typical Megan, turning the other cheek. Typical Jess, unable to resist confrontation.

‘Do you know William Newson’s