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To an outside eye, the outer façade of 115 Redbridge Grove betrayed little in the way of secrets. The slate-rooved villa, which was shielded from the view of passers-by by a tall laurel hedge, looked exactly the same as all of the other imposing Victorian houses which flanked the sides of the expensive road on the Western outskirts of Holby City.
A young fox crept stealthily across the deserted street, leaving a faint trace of paw prints across the frosty pavement: the only visible trace of movement for miles as the other residents of the exclusive location shared a sleepy oblivion in the dead of night; blissfully unaware of the turns of events happening behind the heavy oak door of No. 115.
A silent atmosphere, heavy with the whispers of unanswered questions hung uneasily within the still air of the house. After many seemingly endless hours of alternating between gut-wrenching sobs and angry proclamations of personal ineptitude, Serena Campbell had finally sunk into an exhausted, fitful sleep; curled up tightly beneath the warm embrace of the burgundy linen, all but invisible save for a stray hand childishly thrown back above her head. A convincingly deceptive display of inner peace betrayed only by the accumulating pile of half-drunk mugs of tea and teetering tower of used paper tissues which littered her bedside table.
Artificial light suddenly flooded the darkened bedroom with a luminescent glow.
‘4:33 AM’, the harsh white light of Bernie Wolfe’s phone proclaimed; the device seemingly mocking her inability to settle as the unsympathetic glare burnt the taunting digits into her bleary vision. Groaning faintly at the sudden visual intrusion, she hastily switched off the screen and resumed her incessant vigil with a faint rustle of crisp bedsheets. A greenish replica of the numbers flitted restlessly around the room with her wandering gaze, slowly fading into oblivion.
Time had ceased to carry the same meaning since the devastating events of the 3rd January.
Days had passed by in a numb blur of unrelated scenes, fast-forwarding in a disorientating haze of conflicting roles and emotions. Some days she was a skilled trauma surgeon: donning the royal blue scrubs in which she was expected to mentor, motivate and save lives without a backward glance, a cotton suit of armour serving as feeble protection against the emotional wreck that her personal life had become. Other days, a multitasking pillar of seemingly eternal strength: cradling Serena within her arms and listening to her talk when she felt the urge to, whilst ensuring that the necessary mundanities of everyday life continued in the overarching wake of the devastation. Bills were paid, food bought and prepared, laundry washed and put away in as neat a formation as she could manage. For once, Bernie found herself welcoming the distraction of everyday chores.
Military service had cultivated a distinctive brand of emotional control within Berenice Wolfe. She would never label it as ‘strength’, purely because she never felt strong whilst in that state– a clean, disconnected brand of pragmatism which allowed her to assess and prioritise a situation and apply the most appropriate form of treatment. The only strength that came into it was the constant resolve needed to hold back the tsunami long enough to complete her task before the mighty wave of emotion overflowed and crushed her beneath its weight. Reserves sapped, the dam holding back the body of water was fast crumbling.
Massaging her forehead with cool fingers in a bid to shift the stubborn, sleep-deprived throb emanating from between her temples, Bernie slid quietly into a sitting position, inwardly cursing in the knowledge that she would be required at work within the next four hours. Abandoning any remaining false hope of sleep, she swung her bare legs out from beneath the warm cocoon of sheets into the awaiting chilly air and padded softly across the plush carpet into the adjacent en-suite.
Serena shifted slightly, a faint frown crossing her face at the subconscious detection of movement before resuming her slumber.
Closing the door behind her, Bernie fumbled for the light switch, still unfamiliar with the geography of the small room in the dark. A faint click bathed the marble-tiled room in a soft light, revealing the presence of a drawn, tired face within the mirror that took Bernie a while to recognise as herself.
Matted strands of blonde hair clung greasily to her scalp like individual blades of straw, escaping erratically from the messy bun that they had inhabited for several days. Greyish skin was further clouded by the presence of charcoal circles. Dark, concerned eyes, rimmed with blotchy pink stared back helplessly at her as Bernie braced herself wearily against the sink.
Taking a deep breath, she winced faintly as she turned on the tap; the sound of splashing water ringing uncharacteristically loud as fat droplets of water hit the cream porcelain with the violence of spraying bullets.
A raw twinge of pain from her strained back–now used to sleeping in whatever uncomfortable position thrown at it–shot mercilessly through her as she reached up and slide the baggy nightshirt over her head.
Naked. Exposed.
Her slender nude form was riddled with a myriad of silvery lines and deep angry scars that were only just beginning to fade in their intensity a year after the fateful IED explosion. Serena’s exploring lips had passed over every single blemish upon her milky skin: softly kissing every scar, gently mapping out new territory as her liquid brown eyes regarded Bernie with a devastating combination of love, reassurance and desire. That had been the first time that Bernie had somewhat bashfully disrobed in front of her; the very first time that they had made love beneath the luxurious burgundy sheets.
Exquisite memories which only seemed to have existed in a universe far away from the cold reality of the present.
Tired eyes traced the familiar glassy map of damage and repair, marvelling at the ability of the human body to repair and continue… skin knitted back together and healed. A miracle which she helped to preside over every working day of her life. Present events had exerted so such force upon the resilience of the fragile tissues that Bernie could almost see the intricate stitch work snag and begin to unravel before her very eyes. Raw flesh ripped open wide at the seams.
“No…” she quietly admonished herself, a faintly trembling hand clenching tightly upon the edge of the basin as a crescendo of fear began to rise within her epicentre. She swallowed hard in a bid to stifle the growing lump that threatened to suffocate her. “Keep it together…”
Drip, drip, drip
A seemingly innocuous noise amplified to deafening proportions within her swimming head as the falling droplets of water took on the angry, metallic clatter of a machine gun jettisoning bullet cases in mid-fire.
Drip, drip, drip
Hot, heavy clouds of steam billowing up into her face transformed the bathroom into the arid heat of the Middle East landscape in an instant.
Stifling. Dusty. Suffocating.
Drip, drip, drip
Fleeting snapshots flashed before her eyes:
Raising her voice in light-hearted conversation over the heavy bass rumbling of the engine…turning happily to gaze at Alex Dawson seated next to her in the back of the army medical truck…carefully reaching forward and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her lover’s ear… enjoying the piece and relative privacy offered to them by this fleeting moment of solitude…
“Alright, soldier?” a cheery question frozen for an eternity upon her lips by the ear-shattering explosion which pitched them both into the air…. slamming down into a dark oblivion…. the indescribable agony of feeling her life being shattered into a million pieces…
A cloying smell of lavender soap rising from the sink mutated into an overwhelming stench of leaking petrol. The choking odour harshly invaded her protesting nostrils before a particularly violent retch filled her mouth with a large quantity of acrid-tasting bile.
Beads of icy sweat stood up upon her forehead as she wiped her mouth with the back of a shaking hand, swaying dizzily as she desperately fought to regain control.
“Breathe… in… out… come on Wolfe…” she cajoled herself inwardly, her gut twisting in fear as her hearing began to fizz with a familiar high-frequency static, external sounds fading away as her vision began to darken from the edge.
Heart thudding wildly within her chest, Bernie allowed herself to sink slowly to the floor, barely flinching as her bare skin made contact with unforgiving icy flagstones, stifling terrified sobs behind a trembling fist which was pushed close to her chapped lips. Stammered breaths escaped in a jerky hiss from behind her improvised gag; diaphragm spasming with suppressed emotion as the crushing waves finally broke free in a scalding cascade of silent tears.
The panic attacks had all but ceased upon her return from Ukraine. Two months of blissful abatement, no doubt partly due to the result of her reunion with Serena. The second chance at happiness that she had never anticipated receiving, especially given the circumstances surrounding her rapid departure to Ukraine. She had made a simple vow to herself upon her return to Holby; to never leave Serena’s side again, no matter what the circumstances. Masochistic though her current chaotic regime may appear to an outside eye, it was all that Bernie could do to begin to assuage some of the guilt that had shadowed her ever since she had pushed Serena away; to pour all of herself, all of her love into making things right. Running was no longer an option now that she had willingly given her heart away.
“I suppose that’s what love is…defending the indefensible…” a memory of Serena’s soft alto tones whispered within her mind.
Serena certainly was defenceless at the moment. The howl of anguish that she had made upon receiving the fatal shake of the head from the neurosurgeon had pierced directly into Bernie’s soul: desperately wanting nothing more than to project all of Serena’s pain onto herself, to absorb all of the pain and darkness that had settled upon her and shoulder the crippling weight of their mutual burden without a word of complaint.
To lose a child… Bernie could barely begin to comprehend the scale of devastation. She remembered the plummeting sense of dread within her as she had read ‘Cameron Dunn, RTC’ upon the AAU admission notes, immediately fearing the worst as she frantically wrenched back the cubical curtain to reveal her son; bloodied and bruised, but mercifully alive. Fate was a brutal mistress indeed: to think that she had even dared to ask Serena what she would have done had it been her Elinor in Cameron’s place… and mere months later, the cruel deities had seen fit to enact her hasty proposition; taking another young life instead and decimating all those around her.
“Oh God… it’s all my fault…” a fresh wave of irrational panic pulsated through her as she clutched blindly at her knees, heartrate accelerating once more as she drew her bony legs up tightly beneath her chin in a bid to make her trembling, prone form as small as possible.
“Stay strong… you have to stay strong for Serena... for Jason…”
The roaring in her ears was reaching its thunderous climax as she clung to a fading semblance of consciousness with the very tips of her fingers.
“Come on Bernie…”
She had no idea how long she stayed huddled upon the stone floor before the storm eventually broke.
Taking in a deep gulp of air, Bernie pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the bath as she rested puffy eyes upon the cool heels of her hands. Shivering, she pulled a soft fluffy towel from the nearby rail and draped it clumsily around her bony shoulders; cherishing the lingering warmth and inhaling deeply as the familiar floral aroma of Serena’s laundry detergent rose from the fabric. A steadying, restorative scent.
A wry attempt at a smile twitched briefly around her lips, for once not admonishing herself for shedding tears, for allowing herself to feel.
Reaching for her nearby phone, she bit her lip nervously as she tapped out a short message and clicked ‘send’ before her usual self-defence mechanisms stepped in and shrouded her from seeking any form of support. Frowning slightly at realising the faintly antisocial hour at which she had sent her message, Bernie had barely set the device down before a reply from Morven Digby flashed up upon her screen.
‘Fancy a coffee before shift starts?’
A simple question, but one which carried a significant depth of meaning for the trauma surgeon.
Bernie had finally taken Morven at her word after the junior doctor had found her slumped wearily upon the rooftop during her lunchbreak, saying nothing, but sitting down next to her and silently slipping a comforting arm around Bernie’s shoulders. It had taken several chance meetings such as this for Bernie to utter a word, let alone begin to find a way of unravelling and articulating the turmoil that was rumbling within her mind, but Morven had known when to speak and when to simply just be there, to remind Bernie that no matter what, she was no longer alone.
'Sounds good.'
A simple reply, but all the words that her tired mind could produce at present.
Showering and the pulling her still damp hair into a neater format of her dishevelled bun, Bernie took a deep breath and opened the door into the bedroom.
“Morning…” she breathed softly in the gently stirring brunette’s ear, her warm breath tickling against Serena’s skin.
A faint groan of recognition came from her right before a drowsy Serena rolled over and snuggled closely into her chest.
“I’ve got you… I’m here, my love...” Bernie whispered a stream of protective phrases as she cradled the sleeping woman tightly in her strong arms, gently stroking the errant strands of hair at the back of Serena’s neck that were ruffled up on end and placing a soft kiss upon a forehead that for once was not creased in pain or worry.
Drawing the covers closer around their entwined forms, Bernie kept her watch over Serena as the orange glow of the early dawn began to inch slowly across the sky, washing away the inky darkness of the night and revealing the blank canvass of a new day.
As the watery sun began to rise within the sky, a chorus of alarm clocks began to ring out in a dissonant chime throughout the various houses of Redbridge Grove as the spell of the night was broken and the everyday hustle and bustle of its occupants began once more. A steady bass hum of traffic accompanying the chilly winter morning slowly rose in volume, punctuated by the slamming front doors of commuters heading off to work, occasional shrieks of children and the persistent ostinato of a neighbour’s dog barking apoplectically at the wily fox that slunk across his garden...
“Life goes on…” Bernie smiled to herself.
Come what may, no matter the challenges that lay ahead, they would get through this. Together.