Bradford Fire

Chapter 4

            “No one thinks it’s your fault, Zayn – not even Harr” – the lock still would not budge and Zayn slammed his fist into the locker with full force, grunting in both frustration and agony of being reminded of what he had done – the pain he had caused. “Do NOT mention him,” Zayn warned him, still not meeting Louis’s gaze.

            He reached out to touch Zayn’s arm in what was intended to be a comforting manner, but he stepped back defensively, “Zayn, please, you can’t do this to yourself. I’ve been seeing how you’ve been acting – it’s like the entire truck team can’t even talk to you. Today was the first time I have seen you laugh in like forever and only because of Liam’s stupid Adam’s apple story.”

            “Then don’t fucking talk to me, yeah?” He yelled, charging toward Louis, who stepped back tentatively, “All of you, can fucking stay away from me. You will all be much better off, I can assure you right now!”

            “Whoa, hey, hey!” A voice interjected, and Zayn had not even realized he had backed Louis against the locker, his hand wrapped tightly around his jaw. He released him, and Louis could only gape at his companion in shock. Liam had entered the locker room, looking back and forth at the two, “What in the bloody hell is going on in here?”

            Louis threw a shirt on, shaking his head, “Nothing,” he muttered, pushing past Zayn, “Stay away from hothead over here, do yourself a fuckin’ favor,” he added to Liam. Before he could address Zayn, he had already had pulled on clothes and was making an exit, leaving Liam dumbfounded.

***

            Hale did her best to not let the tears escape from her eyes as she unlocked the front door to her house. Her mother was already not entirely gung-ho about her joining the fire department after what happened to her father. If she saw Hale in tears after the first day of training, she would immediately try to talk her out of it and use it as an excuse for her to quit. She also did not want to confide in her mother that she had pictured her training to occur with her father alive and well – right in the firehouse just as he always had been.

            She entered quietly, hoping maybe to be able to sneak up to her room without being heard. Hale’s mother had other plans for her – like attending a prestigious college instead of becoming a firefighter. Although she was always supportive, Hale could sense her mother’s deep disappointment when her letter of acceptance from the academy came and Hale politely declined the offers from colleges nearby.

            Realizing her sudden dehydration, she dropped her bag at the front door and crept to the refrigerator for a glass of water. As she reached for the pitcher, she saw her mother had left her dinner to be heated up. Glancing at the time above the oven, she realized it was already nine o’clock, and she felt a twinge of guilt in her stomach that her mother had to eat supper by herself for the third time this week. The wounds of her father’s death were still fresh on both Hale and her mother.

            She leaned against the counter top, scrolling through her iPhone as she sipped her water, seeing all the social media updates she had missed for the past twelve hours. Finally feeling a bit more relaxed, she breathed in deeply, gulping down the remainder of liquid in her cup. A loud vibration and beep from her hip caused her to nearly spit it out all over the floor.

            “Fuck,” she cursed, fumbling with the volume dial on her beeper, “690 for Bradford, this is a radio check. The time is twenty-one-hundred.” The sound of Captain Malik’s voice at her hip suddenly brought back all the overwhelmed emotions she was feeling that day – all because of him, the damn bastard.

            “Hale? Is that you?” Her mother’s voice called from the other room. Shit, the tears were burning in her eyes and threatening yet again to spill out down her face. She bit the inside of her cheek again, “yeah, sorry Mum, I’ll turn it off.”

            To Hale’s dismay, her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, coffee in one hand. “How was everything today?” She asked gently, immediately observing the tension in her daughter’s features. Hale attempted to play it off casual, “Oh, just the usual – not too different from when I was in explorers,” she turned her back to her mother, Judith, as she dispensed her glass into the sink.

            Unfortunately for her, nothing got passed Judith’s maternal intuition, “Sweetheart, did something happen today?” Hale felt her stomach clench as she struggled with even more force to remain calm, “Mum, it was fine,” she snapped, but the tears began to pool regardless. I miss daddy…

            She made a motion to leave, but her mother caught her eye, “Hale – for heaven’s sake, why are you doing this? Your father would” – Hale’s mood instantaneously morphed from depressive to wrath at the mention of her late father.  

            “My father would be proud of me for pursuing my dreams, mum,” she shouted, “Just stop trying to talk me out of this – this is my life, my career, my choices,” and without so much as glancing over her shoulder, she stormed up the stairs to her room, praying her mother would not follow. As soon as the words left her mouth she felt sorry for them, she knew her mother did not need any more grief. Her fear was completely understandable after what happened to her husband.

            She expected to hear Judith’s small sobs from downstairs, but she was instead greeted by stillness, except for the dull murmur of the television in the living room. That was mainly what Judith did since her husband’s death – watched old soap opera reruns until the late hours of the night and cried. Hale caught her on several occasions clutching her father’s old Class A uniform and bawling in a heap on her bedroom floor.

            Tonight, it was Hale who sobbed in a heap on her own bedroom floor, reaching for the prayer card from her father’s funeral. The front of the card displayed a picture of Ronald A. Jamison in his Chief’s uniform, smiling warmly at the camera before him. The other side contained a prayer about the untimely passing of firefighters on duty, with the final line reading, “Last Alarm, September 21st, 2010”.

            Hale kept all of the pictures of her and her father in a box underneath her bed, for keeping them on her desk and her book shelves inflicted too much grief to see on a daily basis. She removed the lid of the box, finding pictures of her and father when she was just four years old. Ronald Jamison was clad in his bunker gear and helmet, holding his toddler daughter on his hip in front of Truck 687 – Hale’s favorite to this day – the truck she was assigned to under the brooding authority of Captain Zayn Malik.

            Another picture was of Hale in her own bunker gear at her first day of explorers – a program for teenagers interested in pursuing a career in firefighting service – the two of them stood uniformed together, her father grinning proudly beside her, one arm around her shoulder. The pictures brought on a mix of emotions, as she found herself smiling, but then also experienced tears streaming down her face moments later.

            If her dad were here, he would give the best advice on how to deal with Captain Malik. He would have cracked some jokes to make her laugh and more vitally, would have given her the courage to continue to push on. Hale was not sure she had the heart to face off against someone like Zayn Malik. She knew his reputation for not only being one of the most skilled and strongest firefighters in Bradford – but he was fierce.

            Zayn did not back down from challenges – nor did Hale. That was not how her father raised her. Discarding the pictures back in the box, she decided that this was not the end. Drawing her legs to her chest, she peered up at her ceiling, whispering, “I’m gonna do my best to make you proud, Daddy.”