Carrie stood up, took a few steps toward the bathroom, then ran a hand through her hair. “You sound bananas, you know that, Aifric? Absolutely cracked. You don’t know any of the people I work with, because you never come along when I invite you for drinks. You saw the lads for about thirty seconds, gave them so much attitude that they left, and after all of that, you’re giving me career advice.” She fought tears, annoyed with herself about it. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “You should, too. And maybe, just maybe, have a think about the fact that you might not know everything.”

Wednesday, November 3, 2004

Chapter Nine

Carrie

Carrie slept late the following morning and woke to aching ribs, shoulders, and backside, as well as an intense need to use the bathroom. She rolled onto her side first, then half off the bed, landing on her knees as gently as she could before slowly standing up. Why was the day after always so much worse? She popped a couple of painkillers—left arm still wrapped protectively around her ribs—and made for the bathroom. A few minutes later, she was standing under the hot shower, letting the heat ease out the worst of the muscle pain. It had been stupid, jumping in like that when things had kicked off with the wife-beater. Carrie wasn’t a fighter. She didn’t have the physicality for it. When a six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound drunken asshole decided to have a go, no amount of training on her part could make up for the difference in strength. It wasn’t as if she was armed with anything more than pepper spray and an extendable baton. The pepper spray could be useful, if she could get in close enough. But the baton was useless against the big guys.

All of which meant that she should have stayed out of it. Let the big lads like Niall and Gerry, both of whom liked a scrap, get the work done. But she couldn’t. Standing back and staying safe wasn’t an option. There were women who did that in the force, and she knew exactly what people thought of them. If she wanted respect, wanted to get ahead, that meant backing up the lads in a fight, every time.

By the time she got out of the shower, Carrie felt more like herself. She winced a little as she pulled her T-shirt over her head. She changed her mind and went for a tight Lycra vest first, something that might give her a bit of support for her ribs. Over the vest, Carrie put on a T-shirt and a jumper, then pulled on her softest, oldest pair of jeans, gingerly managed a pair of socks, and finally made her way to the kitchen and the kettle.

The room was chilly but smelled fresh and clean. Aifric must have cracked open the window before she left for the day, enough to let in a bit of fresh air but not freeze the place. And she’d done it, in fairness, pretty much soundlessly. Carrie wasn’t a terribly light sleeper, but it was a rare morning that she managed to sleep through Aifric’s shower, hair dryer, and breakfast preparation. Carrie crossed to the window and shut it, then put some bread in the toaster, feeling a little mollified by her sister’s consideration, given their argument the night before.