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There was a sound that seemed to be coming from nowhere, a buzzing that for a moment Imogen thought was in her head, the result of exhaustion, a night on an awkward chair. Mara started, her eyes snapping open. She turned her head towards the bedside cabinet, where her mobile phone vibrated hard against the wood.

Amy shifted, sighing in her sleep.

‘Is it Jack?’ asked Imogen.

Mara didn’t answer, studied the phone. Then, her fingers moving quickly, she turned the ringer off. ‘No. It wasn’t Jack.’

A long, loaded silence. Imogen stared at her sister, Mara’s eyes downturned. Waiting. There was that feeling in the air, that stifling, oppressive feeling of a secret, sitting just out of view. Imogen’s lips parted, the question waiting to be asked. But she closed them again. They were in a hospital room, and her two-year-old niece had brushed death last night. It seemed churlish, unfair even, to level accusations at her sister.

There were more voices outside the room now, the ward beginning to stir to life. The rough grumble of trolley wheels creaked along the corridor. Marriage was complicated, people were complicated, and you made sacrifices and you made mistakes. That was life, what growing up was all about, learning to balance all of these things out. She shouldn’t judge her sister, because after all none of them were flawless – they all made bad decisions at one point or another.

The door swung inwards, the corner of it grazing against Imogen’s chair.

‘Morning.’ The nurse – Natalie, a talkative girl with whom Imogen had often passed the time of day, in the canteen, the overlarge hallway – kept her voice low, didn’t meet Imogen’s gaze, moved into the room towards her patient.

Maybe it was the light, the cast from the early-morning sunshine through the curtains, giving the room a pinkish tinge, maybe that was why Natalie’s eyes looked red. Imogen studied the nurse as she moved, her jaw slack, swollen pouches beneath her eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Imogen.

It seemed that, in the brief moments she had been in the room, the nurse had forgotten they were there, because her head snapped up, seemingly startled. There was no doubt now. The young woman had been crying. Imogen shifted, leaning forward in her seat. ‘Is everything all right?’

Natalie nodded, an unconvincing dip of the head, her eyes filling with tears once again. ‘I’m sorry, Imogen. How unprofessional.’ She brushed at her cheeks with the back of her hand, attempted a smile. ‘I’m awfully sorry. It’s just that we’ve had a bit of a night of it, and now some really bad news.’

‘Oh, I . . .’ Imogen watched her, wondering how far to go. Natalie wasn’t, after all, a client. Imogen was a worried aunt now, not a psychologist.

But often it seemed to her that all people are looking for is that opening – the signal that their worries are welcome – and they will unfurl them before you, faces suddenly lighter with relief. ‘The thing is,’ Natalie glanced over her shoulder, lowering her voice even though the door was closed, ‘we’ve had some trouble. I – ah, I shouldn’t say this probably, but there’s been a man, coming to the hospital at night. They’ve seen him outside Ward 12, the one across the way. He’s been hanging about, and there’s talk that he has a gun.’

Imogen glanced at her sister, could see Mara push herself up in the bed, eyes wide.

Natalie reached down, stroked Amy’s hair, unconsciously it seemed. ‘We’ve had the firearms police here, and all sorts. They were here last night. I’m surprised you didn’t see them when you came in.’

Imogen shook her head slightly, privately thinking that unless they had parked a tank across the entrance to the children’s ward, it was unlikely she’d have noticed them anyway, so focused had she been on Amy, and only Amy.

‘It’s been stressful, people have been afraid. I mean, you hear such terrible stories these days. And then, this morning . . .’ Natalie broke off, her voice uneven. ‘Sorry. This morning we found out that one of our nurses has died.’

Imogen frowned, could see her sister’s hand fly to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘It was an accident, they say. Said that Emily got hit by a car. But it’s just – it’s so awful.’ Natalie brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘She was a lovely girl. Lovely.’ The nurse took a breath, pulled herself up and gave a small, brittle smile. She looked from Imogen to Mara, back again. ‘The police are saying: just be aware if you go out of the ward. Keep your eyes open, and try not to go alone. Just in case. They say they’ve searched the hospital, the grounds, that he’s gone. But just . . . be on your guard. Okay?’

Imogen nodded, a knot forming in her stomach.

Natalie shook her head. ‘I don’t know, you just think: what next? I mean, it comes in threes, doesn’t it? Bad luck, I mean.’ The nurse looked at Imogen. ‘I just can’t imagine how it could get any worse than that, though. Can you?’

‘
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 he was thinking anything, that it was just another day at the pool. Only this wasn’t the pool. The current was strong, swelling against him, tugging him downriver faster than he would have thought possible. His arms, cutting against the current, pushing as hard as was humanly possible, because the girl – he could see now that was what she was – was sinking under. Swimming and swimming, every inch a fight just to stay alive, and then, just when it seemed like there was nothing left in him and that he had attempted an impossibility, questing fingers feeling sodden fabric, beyond that ice-cold skin. Wrapping his arms around her, her body inert, useless, shifting onto his back and fighting towards the opposite bank. Because he had come so far that there was nothing to do but fight onwards. And then, miraculously, his knee hitting something solid, sending a shooting pain arcing up his leg, into his spine. Land. And then Aden breathing, not for one but for two, into the girl’s mouth, a sinking realisation as it distantly connected just how young she was, the teenagers screaming from across the river because it seemed inevitable that their friend was dead. But then a splutter and a heave of river water, and she was alive, shaken and shaking, but alive.

‘So, have you ever shot anyone?’ Rhys asked tentatively.

Aden shook his head. ‘Nah. We’ve never had a shooting in the Southern Wales force.’ Words that would replay for him, over and over again.

They had sat, listened to the rain.

‘It’s really quiet, isn’t it?’

Aden had turned towards Rhys, stared at him. Had let his mouth drop open in disbelief. Rhys looking suddenly sheepish.

Then the radio had crackled to life.

Aden had stared at the radio, back at Rhys, had shook his head. ‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.’ Aden pulled the radio free. ‘Whisky Tango Three Eight.’

‘Shots fired at Harddymaes off-licence. Reports of a group of people running from the scene. Permission to arm.’

Aden shook his head, looked at Rhys. ‘Dude! NEVER use the Q-word.’ Pushed open the Armed Response Vehicle door, dived out into the pouring rain, iced fingers down his back. Kicking though puddles, water slopping up over his high-laced boots. He could just about make out Rhys, splish-splashing from the passenger side. Aden opened the boot, punched numbers into the lock-pad of the gun safe, pulling free the Glock, grabbing the magazine that he had pressed bullets into earlier. Another magazine. Just in case. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? There had been so little chance that the just-in-case would happen. They trained for it. They trained and trained and trained. Just in case. But there had never been a shooting. Not in this force. So, odds-wise, they would get to the end of this shift, same as any other, and the guns would go back into the armoury, and the magazines would contain the same number of bullets as they did when the shift began.

Odds-wise, that would be what would happen.

‘Sometimes, I wonder if it’s because I wasn’t prepared,’ Aden said, studying the Artexing.

‘What do you mean?’ Imogen tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear.

‘I didn’t expect it. I mean, you know that it could happen. It’s what you train for. But still . . .’

‘You weren’t anticipating it.’

‘No. I wasn’t anticipating it.’

Aden had put the sirens on, the blues-and-twos wailing. There weren’t many cars on the road, with the weather, the late hour. But those that were there moved out of the way. Ploughing down Carmarthen Road, throwing standing water that must have been a foot deep up over the windscreen in a wave. A sharp left at the lights, climbing, the rain driving into the windscreen, road so slick it felt like the car couldn’t possibly hold on. A second tone. Another ARV coming up behind them. High up on the hill now, Harddymaes grim and grey, buffeted by the wind that was screaming across the bay.

Aden scanning, scanning. Had seen the off-licence, buried in between rough-faced council houses, spiderweb fractures spread across the wide glass. Looking. Looking.

Then he saw them.

‘I was the first.’

‘The first?’ asked Imogen.

‘To see them. The kids.’ The word scratched at his throat, clawing on its way out. ‘I saw them as we were coming up the hill. It was dark, really dark, and raining so heavily, and I saw these figures.’ Aden wasn’t looking at her now. Wasn’t looking at anything. ‘I didn’t know they were kids. I mean, I could barely see. And they were tall . . .’

Aden had slammed on the brakes, so hard that it seemed inevitable there would be whiplash. Flung open the car door. And then he was running. Through puddles and rain. Could hear the squeal of brakes behind him, another ARV door slamming, Tony splashing, just behind them. Aden could barely see. Just rain, shadows. Figures up ahead, sounds of shouting, then like a shoal of fish they veered off, vanishing into the walls apparently. Aden running, looking, and then, out of nowhere, had loomed a pool of blackness, an alleyway that had not been there before. Aden had taken a sharp turn, plunging after the figures into the black conduit that fed through the rows of council houses, the smell of ammonia almost overwhelming. The walls reared up alongside him. No street lights, so that it was dark, pitch-black, it seemed. Rhys at his shoulder. Then hearing something, footsteps up ahead, and another sound – sounds like the figures’ breathing – and later, in his dreams it would become breathing, but surely he couldn’t have heard that, not with everything else.