Page 12 of Hot Ghost Summer

Silence. More unending silence in which every ugly occurrence from my life raises its head so I can use them to mentally berate myself. Like the time my sister declined to let me look after my nephew. She’d wanted to go out, and needed a sitter, but she’d stated—cruelly, I’d thought—that, “You’re a tonne o’ fun, the best fun uncle ever, in fact, but not someone I’d call in an emergency.” And now I know why.

I was who Hollis had had in an emergency, and what had I done? Called our boss.

“Good lad. Good,” Gerald cajoles.

My mouth hangs open. Wait, what?

“Theo, I need you to listen very carefully.”

But I’m not, not really. Why is not calling for an ambulance a good thing?

“This line, I don’t know how safe it is to talk, so when I ask a question, answer using just yes or no, okay?” Gerald’s tone changes into something stricter.

I immediately don’t like it, but I nod anyway.

“Did the client’s site manager meet you there?”

“No.”

“Are you in uniform?”

I look down at the knotted arms slung low around my hips. “Sort o’. It’s hot, so I’m only wearing it halfway.”

“Yes or no.”

“Um, yes.”

“And the gloves?”

“Gloves?”

“In the ExorSquad Handbook, under regulation uniform, there’s a section on gloves. Hollis is such a stickler for rules. I’m surprised he let you—”

“No. No gloves.” I cut him off as shame colours my cheeks.

Memories of how I’d ignored Hollis’s attempts to teach me the job fill my mind. How I’d snatched the high-vis vest from his hand, deliberately taunting him just to get a rise. How I’d whistled that tune, showed off with the Kestrel, and stolen the plasma gun then refused to give it back.

It seems so juvenile now, but I’d been sure I’d seen a hint—more than a hint, actually—of interest from Hollis. And I’d absolutely been down to fuck an Austrian prince. Especially one who looks like he does.

Had I just let him explain the various equipment, then he’d have probably gone on to give me the gloves. But I had to be me about it. I’d found something he seemed to really want, and well…

I narrow my eyes at the stupid plasma gun, and wish I’d never seen it.

“Shame.” My boss’s tinny voice through the phone pulls me from the brink of the slippery slope my thoughts have set me on. “Still. An outdoor environment in this heat, that’ll probably work in your favour to destroy your DNA before…”

There’s more shuffling, like papers and drawers being rearranged, then, “I need you to go home, Theo. Directly there. No stopping. Do you understand?”

“But, Mister Pickett, Hollis is—”

“If Hollis got hit by a beam from the Synchrotron, then there’s nothing you, me, or an ambulance can do for him. Trust me.”

“No, but, Mister Pickett, I don’t know that’s what happened. There was a lot going on, and it all happened so fast, and I don’t think we should just leave him—”

“Theo, son. Can I call you that? Look, son, I’ve your best interests in mind here. You need to go directly home. Don’t go on the Tube, it’s too crowded, but go straight home. Shower. Use soap, but not conditioner, and bundle everything you’re wearing into a bag—it might be contaminated with radiation. Get it washed.”

“But Hollis—”

“Don’t worry about Hollis. I’ll get it handled. Did you hear what you need to do?”