NOVEMBER 2006

MARK

It's a fucking miracle that Zoe hasn't packed her shit and high-tailed it out of here. Eight months still remains on the lease, and that's got to be the only reason she's sticking around. I wasn't winning any awards for Flatmate of the Year before Ben died, and now I'm even worse.

In the space of three weeks, she has transformed from an irritating bubble of exuberant energy to an addictive presence that I crave comfort from. Without work to distract me, I sit at home and clock-watch, waiting for her to return from uni. Grief has to be to blame. I'm trying to replace Ben. Trying to minimise the impact of his loss.

To make matters worse, she's as eager as ever to please me, and rather than finding that annoying, like I used to, I seek solace from it.

"When's the funeral?" she asks me over dinner.

Her question is timid, but she tries to disguise it by keeping her tone factual.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh." Her hazel eyes bounce up to meet mine. Sunlight reflects off the specks of gold in her irises. "Are you going?"

I force my gaze away from the enticing colours and back onto the less-enticing pizza I shoved in the oven twenty minutes ago. Even my meals are less effort than hers. Everything I do pales in comparison.

"Not sure," I say.

"I think you should."

It's the most assertive thing she's said in three weeks, just a notch below the flash of defiance I witnessed over the painkiller disagreement.

"You'll regret it if you don't," she continues. "I know it'll be hard and painful and upsetting... But maybe it will help with closure."

"Mm."

Will it help with closure, or will it bring it all back? My colleagues. Ben's family. Ruby. I can barely hold it together in the privacy of my own flat. A church full of Ben's memories is a test I doubt I can pass.

"How about..." She pauses and bites her lip. The plump flesh slowly uncoils as she releases it. "How about I come too? Is that allowed or is it like an official police funeral or something?"

"It's a normal funeral."

"Well... Do you want the moral support?"

Considering I've imprinted on her like some kind of pathetic duckling, she might just be the rock I need to help me through it. Or I might lose my shit in front of her, then scare her away for good.

"You don't have to offer, Zoe. It's fine."

She absentmindedly snaps her pizza crust in half. Crumbs scatter onto her plate, and some trickle to the floor. My jaw tightens. Apparently I'm not totally numb to her annoying habits, so maybe there's still hope for me.

"I want to do something," she says. "I feel helpless."

"Why? We're not friends. You don't owe me anything."

I'm trying to convince myself more than her. We're not friends. She's not Ben. She can't become Ben.

Those dangerous eyes narrow a fraction, but somehow not in anger at my ruthlessness. She almost looks confused.

"We're flatmates. We eat each other's food. We sleep metres away from each other. We share the same bathroom, for god's sake."

"It's not exactly going to be a fun day out."

"It's a funeral. Of course it isn't. That's not why I'm offering. You obviously need some support and I want to be there for you."

I frown. "Why?"

"Because you're hurting, and I hate to see people hurting."

Ah. That makes sense. She's a people-pleaser in her core, and she thinks this will be another step towards earning my approval.

"If it'll make it awkward or more difficult for you, then—"

"It won't." I clear my throat. "It's not that."

She drops her crust and reaches across the table for my hand. A spark of warmth shoots straight up my arm and zaps my chest.

"I know you don't like talking about your feelings, but do me a favour and be real with me. Tell me what you want. That's all I ask."

Even one sentence is a challenge when her skin is on mine. Honesty is the only thing I have going for me, though. I can give her that, and hopefully she'll get off my back and my brain will refocus on what's important. Ben.

"I don't want you to see me get upset. It's not your responsibility to console me."

"It's not your place to tell me what my responsibilities are."

There's that fire again. It's softer, disguised as support, but I can detect it. Her voice becomes steadier. Not as high-pitched or rambling. I like it. The realness. The suggestion that she's not scared of me. The equality.

"I don't deserve it, Zoe, okay?" I wrench my hand away from hers and scrape it through my hair. "It's my fault he died. Why should I be comforted when he's the one who suffered? And why should I subject you to it all when I've done nothing in return to support you?"

"This isn't tit-for-tat, Mark. That's not how sympathy works. I'm offering to help you. This isn't about me."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and suck in a deep breath. If this funeral tomorrow doesn't destroy me, living with this girl will.

"Fine," she says softly. "Think about it and let me know tomorrow if you want me to come. If it makes you feel better, consider it a favour that you can pay back at a later date."

That does make me feel better. A transaction. Much simpler to process and justify.

*

I cave and ask her to join me. Moral support. That's all. Except she does more than just support. She sits next to me on the pew, hands clasped in her lap, hanging on to every word that's spoken about Ben. It's such a small thing, and yet her attentiveness and respect honours Ben's memory and reinforces the impact he had on this world.

The anecdotes are tough to listen to. His achievements even tougher. Gone too soon. Leaving behind a family. All because he tried to protect me. If I'd just got the handcuffs on sooner. If I'd ducked right instead of left.

Guilt stings my eyes, the vicar's figure blurring until I can no longer see her. I blink away the pain, and wetness coats my cheeks. Once it starts, I can't stop it. He's gone. He'll never walk through the briefing doors again. The mocha function on the station's coffee machine will never be touched again since he was the only person who liked it. He'll never sit next to me in the car again, a familiar face during the most difficult shifts.

My throat is so tight I could choke. I rub at it, try to swallow down the thick lump of emotion clogging my airway.

Sergeant Singh begins to talk. He's wearing formal uniform, as are many of my colleagues. After three weeks of mandatory PTO, I can barely look at my epaulettes without wanting to throw up. Putting on my uniform for the first time since Ben died in the line of duty brings me out in a cold sweat.

"...PC Mark Anderson, who diligently performed CPR until the ambulance arrived and ensured Ben had a familiar face in his final moments..."

Heads turn towards me. Instinct begs me to wipe away my tears, but then it will be obvious I'm crying, and what right do I have to be upset when I'm alive and he isn't? So I ignore the stickiness filming my cheeks and keep my eyes locked on my sergeant.

Gradually, attention shifts away from me. Breathing becomes easier again. Zoe's mouth finds my ear.

"You're doing great," she whispers.

And then her hand is on mine, and I don't let go for the rest of the service.

*

I spent eighty percent of the service wishing for it to end, but as soon as Zoe touched me, a serene calmness displaced the anguish.

For the remaining minutes, she's a comfort. A grounding presence. I clutch onto her like I fear she'd disintegrate into dust if I let go. When we stand to leave, I loosen my grip to give her an out. She holds on tighter.

We drift out of the church with silent mourners on either side of us, carrying us down the aisle and out into the damp, miserable cemetery. Zoe's tiny hand is completely swallowed by mine. It's plain too. None of the garish pink nail varnish she likes so much, nor the jangling stack of bracelets.

Two months ago, head deep in a fiendish sudoku, I snapped at her. I can't even remember what she'd been doing, just that her noisy jewellery had disturbed my concentration.

Fuck. I would give anything to go back in time and pick up from that moment. Something so irritating now seems so petty. Ben was still alive. My biggest concern that day was Zoe's bracelets.

"Anderson." A palm claps my shoulder. "How you holding up, big guy?"

Fuck. As if today could get any worse.

Standing outside that church, I pray for the gift of divine tolerance as I set eyes on Adam Wright. To my complete lack of surprise, he's in uniform, but probably just so he can show off his new chevrons like they're a gold fucking medal.

"Sarge," I say, neutral and polite.

But he doesn't notice my efforts at professionalism because he's too busy eyeing up Zoe like she's a fucking steak.

"Didn't know you had a girlfriend, Anderson."

She may be a foot smaller than me, but I can feel the moment her body stiffens with tension. Fuck. The last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable, but I can see Adam mentally undressing her, and the urge to correct him is overpowered by protectiveness.

"This is Zoe," I say instead. "Zoe, this is Adam Wright. We used to work together."

I relax my grip on her right hand so she can shake his filthy palm if she so desires, but she just threads our fingers together and squeezes.

"Nice to meet you, Adam," she says politely.

"You, too, sweetheart. He's kept you quiet."

Anger swells inside me. I don't appreciate the insinuation, no matter how true it is. Zoe just smiles.

"Well, he does like to keep his cards close to his chest, doesn't he?"

Adam pretends that's the funniest joke he's heard all year, which would be cringeworthy if it wasn't disrespectful. We're at Ben's funeral for fuck's sake. Not that respect has ever been Adam's forte.

"Right," I say. "Good to see you, Adam."

Because I'm not saying Sarge for a second time. He slinks off to bother someone else, and Zoe slips her hand free from mine. Her fingers flex a couple of times as she steals a glance up at me.

"You were starting to cut off my circulation."

"Sorry."

"So, are we just rolling with this now?" She hitches her bag higher onto her shoulder and surveys the milling crowd. "The assumption we're together?"

I want to leave, but I can't take off so soon. Ten minutes at the wake should suffice—long enough for people to notice I've stayed beyond the service.

"Mark?"

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you." I swing my gaze back onto her.

She frowns. "How was he looking at me?"

"He has a wife. She works abroad. He sleeps around whenever she's away. It's fucking disgusting."

Her nose scrunches as she looks across at him. "Gross."

At least we agree on something. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

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Chapter 4 will continue at the funeral (rather than skipping forward a month) but will be from Zoe's POV. If you want to read ahead, updates are weekly on Ream.