Finale

I thought it was a car back firing, then I saw the blood, watched as my mother slowly sank to the floor. It was over in seconds, but seemed to take forever; slow motion, time standing still.

It was Chelsea who dropped to her side, put pressure on the wound, talked to her, reassuring her that everything would be OK. I just stood there.
"Tom, Tom, ring for an ambulance," Chelsea was shouting. On autopilot, I did as I was told. As soon as I mentioned that my mother had been shot the reality hit me.

The sirens brought me back to life. I dropped beside my mother and held her hand. She was still conscious, groaning with pain.
"Stay with us, Mum," I pleaded. She stared at me, like she was trying to say something but wasn't capable of speech. Then a paramedic pushed me away.

I watched as they worked on her, willing her to live. Police cars had surrounded the area and now a female officer was holding my arm, trying to calm me. A second officer had taken Chelsea to sit in a police car. I could see them talking; I guessed they were asking her for details. For some reason my little sister was taking this far better than me.

As they lifted Mum into the ambulance the officer led me to the car and I joined my sister for the ride to the hospital. The ambulance was way ahead of us, and Mum was in resus by the time we arrived. I put my arm around Chelsea as we watched through the glass; tubes were attached to every part of Mum's body, blood was being pumped into her.

She was on life support when we got in to see her. The looks of the staff told us that she was on a knife edge between life and death.
"We're here, Mum," Chelsea whispered, taking her hand, careful not to interfere with the cannula attached, which was dripping saline into her body. I didn't know what to do, what to say.

The monitor bleeped regularly and I watched the electronic line peeking and troughing in time with her heartbeat.
"She's a fighter," one of the nurses said. They got that right; if nothing else, Mum was a born survivor. She would hang in there as long as she could. But then the bleep turned to a whistle and the line went flat.

We were unceremoniously thrown out of the room as a nurse performed CPR. Then the paddles were out, adrenalin was injected, as they fought to bring her back to us. I watched the monitor for any sign of life; yes, the zigzag pattern was back. Then she was being wheeled past us.
"We're taking her to theatre," someone shouted as they rushed past.

"What's happening?" a familiar voice called out. It was Lou, and John Waverley was beside her.
"They've taken her to theatre," Chelsea replied. Lou put an arm around her and the dam broke; Chelsea turned from ice queen to quivering wreck.
"What happened?" Waverley asked.
"Not now!" I shouted.
"Hey, I'm not here as a police officer, I'm here as a friend."

The truth was I had no idea what happened; I didn't know where the shot came from, or who was holding the gun. But I was determined to find out. That could wait though; right now, Mum was my priority.
"Sorry, John. To be honest, I don't know what happened. We were walking down the road and suddenly Mum was laying on the ground, bleeding. I heard the shot but thought it was a car back firing," I told him.

"How are you doing?" Lou asked, leaving Chelsea curled up on a sofa, having cried herself to sleep. I just shrugged. I couldn't put into words all the emotions swirling through my head. Mum had been in theatre for over an hour and nothing had been said. I suppose no news is good news in these circumstances; they would have let us know if ...

"Mrs. Poole has come through the operation. We're moving her to intensive care. We'll come and get you once she's settled," a nurse announced to our group. Chelsea was awake and talking to Waverley. Lou was busy dishing out cups of tea. I paced the floor, anxious to see Mum for myself.

When we got to intensive care, a doctor took me and John aside.
"The bullet entered her back, puncturing her left lung. It grazed the heart and settled close to the aorta. It was touch and go, but we're hopeful," she said, "We have her in an induced coma for the time being." Chelsea was already settled in a chair at the bedside, chatting away to Mum, like it was a normal day.

We had been there for several hours, Lou had plied us with gallons of tea and tempted us with curled up sandwiches, but now Waverley was itching to leave.
"You can go if you want," I said sarcastically.
"I want to stay but I also want to catch the bastard that did this," he explained, "I'm not really helping here." He was not the only one who wanted the shooter brought to book.
"You go, do your thing. I've got your number if anything happens." I softened, realising that Waverley was a man of action, much like me, I suppose.

Eventually we had to leave Mum; Chelsea to get some sleep, me to shower and change, and then ring Waverley for an update.
"Our team think the shot came from a car. We're looking for witnesses, trying to identify the vehicle," John updated me.
"I don't remember a car," I said, "But there were vehicles passing all the time; you don't really notice, do you?"

Then I rang the hospital. No change. There was no way I could sleep. I needed to do something. Lou dozed in an armchair, Chelsea was in her own bed. Then I remembered Dad.
"Lou, sorry to wake you up, but, has anyone told Dad?"
"No, sorry, I didn't think."

It was nearly five, Dad would be getting up soon anyway. I dialled his mobile.
"Dad, I'm sorry to wake you but I thought you ought to know; Mum's been shot."
"Is she ..."
"No, she's still hanging in there. Intensive care."
"How's Chelsea holding up?"
"Lou's here with us, she's looking after Chelsea."
"And what about you?"

What about me? I was over the initial shock, now I was angry. I wanted the person who hurt my Mum to be caught; hell, I wanted to catch him myself, deal out my own justice.
"Don't do anything stupid, Tom, leave it to the police." It was like he could read my mind. "Ring me if there's any news." He hung up and I somehow felt let down.

The day Mum came off of life support we thought the worst was over. We gathered around her bed, waiting for her to wake up. It was Chelsea who saw her eyelids flutter.
"Mum, it's me, Chelsea." She tried to reply but it came out as a gurgle.
"Her throat will be very sore because of the tube," the doctor explained. Chelsea tried to hug her but she groaned in pain.

"Nice to have you back," Lou said. Waverley turned up minutes later. Mum still struggled to speak but we got the hint to leave them alone for a few minutes. Then the buzzer went off. A trolley was wheeled in and staff worked to bring Mum back again. Waverley put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. I watched the monitor and prayed for the wavy line to return. Mum's eyes shot open as the electric swept through her body.

"She's back," the doctor said, "Boy, she's a fighter." We had to wait for an hour or so before going back in. I looked at her pale face, the sunken eyes; somehow I knew the fighting spirit was leaving her. When Lou took Chelsea to find a coffee vending machine, Mum pulled me closer.
"Look after Chelsea," she whispered. I think she knew that the end was near. Then she wanted time alone with Waverley. I began to realise just how much he meant to her.

It was less than an hour until the buzzer went off again. We stood outside and watched the doctors working to bring her back. Twenty minutes passed, then I realised that they had stopped.
"I'm sorry," the doctor said. Chelsea collapsed into Lou's arms. John came to me, arms outstretched.
"May I?" He held me, like a father would, like my own father should, except he wasn't here.

Chapter Two

It was left to me to make the arrangements. Dad was quick enough to demand Chelsea stay with him but where was he when I needed him? It was John Waverley who did his best to support me.
"Next Tuesday, eleven, crematorium," I told him.
"Don't worry, I'll be there. Are you having people back afterwards?"
"I don't know; I haven't really thought about that, should we?"

John took over; arranged a bit of a spread at the local pub for those who wanted it. It was more his local than ours; a coppers' pub.
"They put on quite a good buffet. The last one they did was for ..." John stopped short. He was talking about the police woman who looked like mum, the one shot by Briggs. I realised then that my mother had been living on borrowed time.






"Tell me everything," Waverley insisted. I just looked at him. What was there to tell?

"I don't know, John, I honestly don't know." Tears pricked the back of my eyes.

"What was she working on?" he asked now.

"Nothing."

"Oh, come on, are you telling me that the great Korenza Poole wasn't sticking her nose into somebody's business?" Waverley looked at me like ... I don't know ... like I didn't know my own mother. Then, maybe I didn't, not really. She was always protecting us from the seedy goings on in her life.

"I mean she had no ongoing cases. This had to be about something in the past." The harsh light did nothing for the decor of the interview room. It was as cold as the body in the mortuary. Endretti, Ware, Briggs; names started running through the rolladex in my head.

"I'm gonna need her files."

"All of them?"

"All of them." I pictured the post-it notes, the scraps of paper littering the office. The heap of notebooks scribbled with haste as people were interviewed. But most of what she knew was in the head of Korenza Poole; irretrievable.