Take Out by Felicity Young

the chest. ‘Her mother calls her Emily.’
    A cold stone dropped in Stevie’s stomach. ‘Wayne, what’s this about?’
    ‘Your name was in her phone. MCI called Sex Crimes trying to contact you. Sex Crimes knew your phone would be off so they called me, knowing Mont was off sick.’ Wayne reached for Stevie’s hand across the plastic table. ‘I’m afraid your friend was killed in a car crash on Friday night.’
    Stevie shook her head as it filled with discordant thoughts. ‘No, you said Emily, not Skye. I don’t know an Emily.’
    Wayne continued to squeeze her hand.
    ‘She called herself Skye. According to her mother she thought Emily Williams far too pedestrian.’
    Stevie did not immediately respond. She sat still, her gaze switching from Wayne’s hand to a blob of cream on his psychedelic tie. Skye had changed her name, she would. It would be her way of distancing herself from her conservative farming family. When she was older she’d probably change it back again. But she wasn’t going to get older now.
    ‘They think she had an asthma attack while she was driving, lost control and hit a semi,’ he murmured.
    ‘She was only twenty-five,’ Stevie whispered to the air between them. She couldn’t cry. Like wheatbelt rain, the tears evaporated before they fell.
    ‘I’ll drive you home,’ Wayne said.
    Stevie pushed hair from her face. ‘No, I have to stay with Mont.’
    ‘He’s out of it Stevie. He’ll need you later, but not now.’ Wayne would allow no further argument. He pulled her up by her arm and guided her towards the exit.
    Twenty-five; the thought would not leave her head. You’d think she’d get used to it, in her line of work, but it was a different thing altogether when you knew the person, were friends with the person. And then her thoughts shifted to Monty: if The Old Man Upstairs could take Skye, He could take anyone. (Image 9.1)
    Image 9.1
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

MONDAY: CHAPTER TEN
    For much of the next morning, Stevie went through the motions as if her mind were disconnected from her body. She had breakfast with Izzy who was temporarily staying with her mother, Dot; she told everyone Monty was doing fine and dropped Izzy at school with a kiss and a smile as tight as stretched leather.
    When she arrived at the ICU, she discovered a wizened old monkey of a man in Monty’s bed. She clung to a hunk of curtain, staring at the unconscious man as the pressure inside her began to build. She found herself gripped by an unreasonable sense of rage. How dare they move him without telling her!
    The nurse responded to Stevie’s snapped enquiry with a flinch.
    ‘Mr McGuire is doing extremely well,’ she said nervously. ‘We moved him to the ward first thing.’
    Stevie attempted to pull herself together, tried to make it up to the nurse with a deep breath and an awkward smile of apology. She mustn’t let Mont see her in this state and on no account would she tell him about Skye. If she tried to explain, she knew she’d lose it.
    He was high as a kite on painkillers when she at last found him on the ward. He wouldn’t have known anything was wrong, even if she’d thrown herself on his pillow and sobbed her heart out—which was what she felt like doing. But soon he’d be back to his perceptive self and she had a lot to sort out before then. She stayed with him in his room for the rest of the morning, helped him eat an unappetising bowl of green jelly for lunch, put up with some moaning and a lot of swearing, then hurried off to meet Luke Fowler at Mrs Hardegan’s. On the way she remembered she’d volunteered to take a reading session at Izzy’s school. She rang the teacher and cancelled.
    Fowler was napping in his unmarked police car when she pulled up alongside him in front of the Californian bungalow. She tapped on his window.
    ‘You’re late,’ he said buzzing the window down to look at her through cool blue eyes.
    ‘I’ve been at the hospital. My partner’s recovering