In Case of Emergency, Break Glass An address flashes up on the screen, their next job. Rob turns to Annaliese, starts speculating about traffic flow and road blocks and alternate routes to save time. Annaliese is not listening. Her own address. Louisa. Fuck. ‘So maybe if we take that arterial road down by the fire station … what’s it called again?’ ‘Rob, it’s fine. I know where it is.’ ‘Yeah, but there might be a shortcut through —’ ‘I said, I know it.’ They drive in silence, no lights or siren, although every alarm bell in Annaliese’s head is sounding. She and Rob haven’t worked together long, only two or three weeks. He told her on the first day that he was married with a couple of kids, both boys, their names and ages escaping her as soon as he said them. Annaliese had told Rob that she was single, lived alone. ‘It was her neighbour who called,’ Rob says, reading from the information that has been sent through from the call centre. ‘The partner works nights apparently, long history of —’ ‘Okay, listen Rob,’ Annaliese snaps, ‘you seem like a pretty decent guy. You’re good at your job, you want to do the right thing.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘I want to handle this one myself. And I don’t want to tell you why.’ Annaliese fumbles in the pocket of her paramedic’s jumpsuit and pulls out a twenty. ‘Go and get yourself a burger or something. Take the ambulance round the drive through.’ ‘Take the ambulance? What about the patient —’ ‘Go!’ The patient is passed out on the bathroom floor, a pool of vomit congealing on the pretty blue and white Spanish tiles beneath her open mouth. Annaliese had laid those tiles with her own hands. She and Louisa had argued about the colour, the size, the spacing, everything there was to argue about when it came to tiles. Louisa is already lying in the recovery position so Annaliese doesn’t try to move her straight away. ‘I only came round to bring her some dinner,’ Mandy the neighbour explains, wringing her hands. ‘I made a big casserole and there was so much left over, I just thought … I’m sorry. When I called the ambulance I didn’t realise it would be you.’ ‘You’d better get back to the baby, I suppose,’ Annaliese says. Mandy nods, blushes, heads back next door. It isn’t an ambulance job. Annaliese drags Louisa into the spare room, where they’ve been sleeping while Louisa paints the main bedroom in fits and starts. So many renovation jobs started, none finished. Annalise looks around at the boxes of tiles, the curtains yet to be hung, the paint dried on brushes that Louisa never washes properly. It will all end in a rush, she realises, when they will inevitably have to cut their losses and sell. Their dream home will be patched up in neutral tones for real estate photographers and house hunters, young couples eager to put their own mark on it. Annaliese hates things being left unfinished. It’s the only reason she’s stayed with Louisa so long, so far past the logical end. But there’s never going to be a right time to jump, she realises now. This whole thing isn’t suddenly going to stop spinning. Louisa’s snores settle into a predictable rhythm and Annaliese leaves her to it, grimly confident she’ll survive at least another night. Rob still hasn’t come back, and Annaliese goes into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The place is a bomb site. A gaping hole screams between two cupboards, waiting for the dishwasher they are saving up for. The wall above the stove top is pocked with glue, where tiles have been chiselled off one at a time. The floor is bare concrete and a stack of wooden boards lies at one disused end of the room. Annaliese feels something sharp underfoot. Last Christmas, as a bit of a joke, Louisa’s sister Rosie gave them a bottle of wine in a glass box, with a sticker on it that said In Case of Emergency, Break Glass. Louisa’s finally taken a hammer to it. Must have been the last bottle in the house. Out on the driveway, Rob beeps the horn. Annaliese slowly rises from the milk crate she’s been sitting on. There’s a beep in her pocket, a voice message on her phone. Babe, it’s me. Listen, I think Mandy might have called an ambulance. Would it be yours? Hope you haven’t left already. I’m actually fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Can you cancel it? Okay, love you, bye. ![]() Bio: Alicia Bakewell is a short fiction writer living in Western Australia. Her work has been published by Flash Frontier, Ellipsis Zine and Fictive Dream, and she was the winner of Reflex Fiction’s Spring 2017 competition. She is trying to give up writing poetry. She tweets nonsense @lissybakewell. Comments are closed.
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December 2024
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