All the Rage

Adam Fawley
1 April 2018
09.15

`˜Is that OK `“ not too cold?'

I felt Alex flinch as the probe touched her skin but she shakes her head quickly and smiles. `˜No, it's fine.'

The nurse turns back to her monitor and taps her keyboard. Everything in the room is muted. The lights dimmed, the sound muffled, as if we're underwater. Around us, the hospital is brisk with activity, but in here, right now, time has slowed to a heartbeat.

`˜Here you are,' says the nurse at last, swinging the monitor round and smiling at us. The image on the screen blooms into life. A head, a nose, a tiny fist, raised as if in celebration. Movement. Life. Alex's hand gropes for mine but her eyes never leave her child.

`˜This is the first time for you, isn't it, Mr Fawley?' continues the nurse. `˜I don't think you were here for the first scan?' She keeps her tone light but there's judgement in there all the same.

`˜It was complicated,' says Alex quickly. `˜I was so terrified something would go wrong `“ I didn't want to jinx it `“'

I tighten my grip on her hand. We've been through this. Why she didn't tell me, why she couldn't even live with me until she knew for certain. Until she was sure.

`˜It's fine,' I say. `˜All that matters is that I'm here now. And that the baby is OK.'

`˜Well, the heartbeat is good and strong,' the nurse says, tapping at her keyboard again. `˜And the baby is growing normally, exactly as it should be at twenty-two weeks. There's nothing here that gives me any cause for concern.'

I feel myself exhale `“ I didn't even realize I'd stopped breathing. We're older parents, we've read all the leaflets, had all the tests, but still `“

`˜You're absolutely sure?' says Alex. `˜Because I really don't want to have an amnio `“'

The nurse smiles again, a deeper, warmer smile. `˜It's all absolutely fine, Mrs Fawley. You have nothing at all to worry about.'

Alex turns to me, tears in her eyes. `˜It's all right,' she whispers. `˜It really is going to be all right.'

On the screen the baby somersaults suddenly, a tiny dolphin in the silvery darkness.

`˜So,' says the nurse, adjusting the probe again, `˜do you want to know the sex?'

* * *

Fiona Blake puts a bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter, but Sasha doesn't appear to notice. She's been staring at her phone ever since she came downstairs, and Fiona is fighting the urge to say something. They don't have phones at meals in their house. Not because Fiona laid down the law about it but because they agreed, the two of them, that it wasn't how they wanted to do things. She turns away to fill the teapot but when she gets back to the table Sasha is still staring at the damn screen.

`˜Problem?' she says, trying not to sound irritated.

Sasha looks up and shakes her head. `˜Sorry `“ it's just Pats saying she won't be at school today. She's been throwing up all night.'

Fiona makes a face. `˜That winter vomiting thing?'

Sasha nods, then pushes the phone away. `˜Sounds like it. She sounds really rough.'

Fiona scrutinizes her daughter; her eyes are bright and her cheeks look a little flushed. Come to think of it, she's been rather like that all week. `˜You feeling all right, Sash? You look like you might be a bit feverish yourself.'

Sasha's eyes widen. `˜Me? I'm fine. Seriously, Mum, I'm absolutely OK. And completely starving.'

She grins at her mother and reaches across the table for a spoon.

* * *

At St Aldate's police station, DC Anthony Asante is trying to smile. Though the look on DS Gislingham's face suggests he isn't doing a very good job of it. It's not that Asante doesn't have a sense of humour, it's just not the custard pie and banana skin variety. Which is why he's struggling to find the upside-down glass of water on his desk very amusing. That and the fact that he's furious with himself for forgetting what day it is and not being more bloody careful. He should have seen this coming a mile off: newest member of the team, graduate entry, fresh from the Met. He might as well have had `˜Fair Game' tattooed across his forehead. And now they're all standing there, watching him, waiting to see if he's a `˜good sport' or just `˜well up himself' (which judging from the smirk DC Quinn isn't bothering to hide is clearly his opinion `“ though Asante's tempted to ask if Quinn's playing the role of pot or kettle on that one). He takes a deep breath and cranks the smile up a notch. After all, it could have been worse. One of the shits at Brixton nick left a bunch of bananas on his desk the day he first started.

`˜OK, guys,' he says, looking round at the room, in what he hopes is the right combination of heavy irony and seen-it-all-before, `˜very funny.'

Gislingham grins at him, as much relieved as anything. After all, a joke's a joke and in this job you have to be able to take it as well as dish it out, but he's still a bit new to the whole sergeantship thing and he doesn't want to be seen as picking on anyone. Least of all the only non-white member of the team. He cuffs Asante lightly on the arm, saying, `˜Nice one, Tone,' then decides he's probably best off leaving it at that and makes for the coffee machine.

* * *