Twenty Twelve by Helen Black

Medics only.’
    Clem had grasped his opportunity to get the hell out with me in tow, leaving her to rip open the patient’s gown and attach two electric paddles to his scraggy chest. The noise of the current passing through him, throwing his body skywards, had been sickening. I shudder and try to chase the sound from my mind.
    But you know how it is when you don’t want to think about something. I can almost feel his grip around my arm as he looked into my face, convinced I was his friend. I rub the skin instinctively as his voice rips through me.
    ‘I won’t give you up, Ronnie. I’d rather die.’
    My stomach lurches so I head into the kitchen in search of food and distraction.
    Until a couple of days ago I led a safe and secure life – mollycoddled the old man would call it. He compares my childhood to his and says I’ve had it easy. Funny how he never considers what it was like when I got injured and my dreams collapsed. Or how I felt about what happened to Davey. That’s all swept under the carpet like stale biscuit crumbs.
    He says I don’t take risks, and he’s right. He says I can’t make decisions, and he’s right. Yet he never asks himself why. Last Christmas I brought him back to my place, cooked a turkey and all the trimmings. Well, I bought it from Marks and Sparks and heated it up. I even put up a tree, for God’s sake. We hadn’t even pulled a cracker when he started.
    ‘You know your trouble, Jo.’ He waggled a gravy-smeared knife at me. ‘You avoid unpleasantness.’
    ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I laughed.
    ‘Only the weak,’ he told me. ‘The strong know that to get where they want to be, they have to face the rough as well as the smooth.’
    Well, I can safely say I’ve done that now. In the last forty-eight hours I’ve witnessed more death and despair than most people see in a lifetime. Including the old man. I almost wish I could go back to my old existence. Almost. The truth is, though, despite everything, I’ve never felt more alive.
    I grab a slice of wholemeal from the bread bin, tear it in two and swallow the first half. It hits my digestive tract like a school bully’s thump, but I force down the other half behind it.
    For a long time now, I’ve been running away from life. No more. Whoever Ronnie is, wherever he might be, he is dangerous. He has to be caught. The only man who might help with that is dead and I was the last person to see him alive.
    I take another bite of bread and search for a pen. Then I carefully begin to write down everything the dead man said to me.
    ‘He’s dead?’ The PM looked over his desk at Clem.
    ‘Cardiac arrest at 4.29 this morning,’ Clem confirmed.
    Benning floated behind the PM like a spectre. ‘Not necessarily a bad thing,’ he said. ‘The dead don’t talk.’
    The PM sighed and picked up a plastic bottle of water bearing the Olympic flag motif. ‘Did he tell you anything before he died?’
    ‘Nothing useful,’ Clem replied.
    ‘No confession?’ Benning asked.
    Inwardly, Clem smiled. Wouldn’t that have been handy? Everything wrapped up like a present. Sorry, boys, not today. ‘He died before I could administer a proper interrogation.’
    Benning shrugged. ‘No matter. With all members of the cell eliminated . . .’
    Clem bridled. They were talking about people’s lives, and not just those who had died. Killing a man, any man, left a mark. A suit like Benning couldn’t even begin to imagine what it felt like to watch the light go out in somebody’s eyes.
    ‘It’s not quite as easy as that, Mr Benning. There’s one member still at large,’ he said.
    He saw the disappointment in Benning’s face and couldn’t resist adding, ‘Possibly the most dangerous of the gang.’
    ‘So apprehend him,’ Benning declared.
    The PM held up his palms. ‘I’m sure Clem is doing all he can.’
    Benning barely contained a snort.
    ‘In the meantime, when we issue a press release confirming the death of this suspect do we need to