you?’
Aden: Tuesday 26 August, 8.30 a.m.
Five days before the shooting
‘ I STILL HEAR the sirens. From us, the other ARV. Seems like I hear it everywhere. Especially when I’m falling asleep.’ Aden looked up at the ceiling. Artex. Who the hell invented Artexing? Why would someone look at a perfectly smooth ceiling and think: I know what’ll make that better – some crazy-ass swirls. ‘And the rain. I dream about the rain. All the time. The way it thumped on the roof of the car. The steering was so light. I could barely keep the damn car on the road. Every time it rains now, every time, it reminds me of that night. Is that normal?’
‘What’s normal?’ asked Imogen.
‘You know,’ said Aden. ‘Is this what it’s like for everyone else?’
Imogen smiled. Aden could tell she was smiling, even though he wasn’t looking at her, still studying the whorls and swirls that littered the ceiling. They appeared to dance before him. But that was probably the exhaustion. He had finished the night shift an hour ago, was supposed to be at home sleeping by now, especially seeing as today was a training day, so they had to be back on the firearms range by 5 p.m. But he had needed to see Imogen today, had needed it more than he had needed sleep.
‘You know, the interesting thing about “normal” is that pretty much no one is,’ said Imogen.
Aden gave a quick bark of a laugh. ‘Cynical, much, Doc?’
‘Normal suggests there is a specific way of operating that is appropriate in any given situation.’
‘Okay?’
‘Well, the truth is that people respond in a huge range of ways. Many of those different ways of responding can be considered normal.’
Aden raised his head, looked at her. ‘So you don’t think I’m screwed up?’
This time he saw Imogen smile, saw her shift, the notepad balancing on her knee. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘I hear the sirens. All the time. The rain . . . I think about that night. I think about it all the time.’
The rain had lashed down, so that you could barely see your hand in front of your face. Just a grey curtain, thumping, thumping on the roof of the car. It had been one of those nights, so quiet that it seemed to last for ever. They were parked up, he and Rhys, watching the rain, the cars, driving too fast on the dual carriageway. The younger man had been on Firearms for just over a month, had been partnered with Aden, because, as the sergeant said, Aden would teach him a thing or two, about what it meant to be an AFO, about how you did it right. They had eaten chip-shop chips, sausage in batter, curry sauce. The wrappers were still balled up on the dashboard, the car reeking of grease.
‘So, we just wait?’ Rhys had asked.
‘We just wait.’ Aden confirmed.
Rhys had nodded, had brushed his dark hair out of his eyes. Aden had wondered if he knew it yet: that the other guys on the team called him Brad, the word pronounced with a slight hint of envy at the younger man’s filmstar good looks.
‘The sarge told me that I was lucky you’d volunteered to partner with me.’
Aden shrugged. ‘No big deal.’
‘He said you’re the best.’
Aden hadn’t answered, had shifted, a little uncomfortable. The rain thrummed, hitting the tarmac so hard that it rebounded, meeting itself coming down.
‘He told me about the bravery award.’
Aden shook his head, stared out at the waterlogged headlights. ‘That was years ago now, when I was back in uniform. Besides, I was only nominated. Didn’t win or anything.’ A plungingly cold January day, a call to the River Tawe, a knot of hysterical teenagers pointing at the bulbous banks, the river swollen after a week of solid rain. Staring down into the black water, for a moment not knowing what it was they were seeing. Then, the scene shifting and suddenly there were hands, arms, not waving but drowning, and before Aden even knew what he was doing, his helmet was off, his boots, and he was underwater. Thinking, if
Aden: Tuesday 26 August, 8.30 a.m.
Five days before the shooting
‘ I STILL HEAR the sirens. From us, the other ARV. Seems like I hear it everywhere. Especially when I’m falling asleep.’ Aden looked up at the ceiling. Artex. Who the hell invented Artexing? Why would someone look at a perfectly smooth ceiling and think: I know what’ll make that better – some crazy-ass swirls. ‘And the rain. I dream about the rain. All the time. The way it thumped on the roof of the car. The steering was so light. I could barely keep the damn car on the road. Every time it rains now, every time, it reminds me of that night. Is that normal?’
‘What’s normal?’ asked Imogen.
‘You know,’ said Aden. ‘Is this what it’s like for everyone else?’
Imogen smiled. Aden could tell she was smiling, even though he wasn’t looking at her, still studying the whorls and swirls that littered the ceiling. They appeared to dance before him. But that was probably the exhaustion. He had finished the night shift an hour ago, was supposed to be at home sleeping by now, especially seeing as today was a training day, so they had to be back on the firearms range by 5 p.m. But he had needed to see Imogen today, had needed it more than he had needed sleep.
‘You know, the interesting thing about “normal” is that pretty much no one is,’ said Imogen.
Aden gave a quick bark of a laugh. ‘Cynical, much, Doc?’
‘Normal suggests there is a specific way of operating that is appropriate in any given situation.’
‘Okay?’
‘Well, the truth is that people respond in a huge range of ways. Many of those different ways of responding can be considered normal.’
Aden raised his head, looked at her. ‘So you don’t think I’m screwed up?’
This time he saw Imogen smile, saw her shift, the notepad balancing on her knee. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘I hear the sirens. All the time. The rain . . . I think about that night. I think about it all the time.’
The rain had lashed down, so that you could barely see your hand in front of your face. Just a grey curtain, thumping, thumping on the roof of the car. It had been one of those nights, so quiet that it seemed to last for ever. They were parked up, he and Rhys, watching the rain, the cars, driving too fast on the dual carriageway. The younger man had been on Firearms for just over a month, had been partnered with Aden, because, as the sergeant said, Aden would teach him a thing or two, about what it meant to be an AFO, about how you did it right. They had eaten chip-shop chips, sausage in batter, curry sauce. The wrappers were still balled up on the dashboard, the car reeking of grease.
‘So, we just wait?’ Rhys had asked.
‘We just wait.’ Aden confirmed.
Rhys had nodded, had brushed his dark hair out of his eyes. Aden had wondered if he knew it yet: that the other guys on the team called him Brad, the word pronounced with a slight hint of envy at the younger man’s filmstar good looks.
‘The sarge told me that I was lucky you’d volunteered to partner with me.’
Aden shrugged. ‘No big deal.’
‘He said you’re the best.’
Aden hadn’t answered, had shifted, a little uncomfortable. The rain thrummed, hitting the tarmac so hard that it rebounded, meeting itself coming down.
‘He told me about the bravery award.’
Aden shook his head, stared out at the waterlogged headlights. ‘That was years ago now, when I was back in uniform. Besides, I was only nominated. Didn’t win or anything.’ A plungingly cold January day, a call to the River Tawe, a knot of hysterical teenagers pointing at the bulbous banks, the river swollen after a week of solid rain. Staring down into the black water, for a moment not knowing what it was they were seeing. Then, the scene shifting and suddenly there were hands, arms, not waving but drowning, and before Aden even knew what he was doing, his helmet was off, his boots, and he was underwater. Thinking, if
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