Free The Poppy Factory by Liz Trenow Page A

feeling okay?’
    ‘Just a bit weary. Heavy week.’
    The truth was that she didn’t really feel anything much right now, except numb and confused. All her adult life had been spent working towards, training and then becoming a medic. She’d wanted to make a difference, to save lives and she’d loved it, mostly. Until yesterday she had been determined to spend the rest of her life doing it, couldn’t imagine any other form of career.
    But somehow all that certainty had now disappeared, washed away like the poor young man’s blood on that dismal pavement. She had broken her promise to James, her vow to prevent anyone dying through any delay in stemming their loss of blood.
    The future felt like a quicksand, untrustworthy and perilous. Last night, during her long commune with the bottle, she’d argued with herself, sometimes out loud, as the logical, calm voice of reason struggled to be heard over what her instincts seemed to be shouting:
    You’re a good medic, well-trained, highly experienced. You’ve made a difference, even saved lives.
    I’ve failed to save lives. I failed that young man. I punched that idiot in the street.
    Just a couple of blips, you’ll get over it.
    It’s not that. I can’t trust myself any more: the flashbacks, the anger. I failed my promise to James.
    Just two events in four months, Jess.
    I’m a danger to patients. My confidence is gone. The thought of going back to work makes me feel panicky and sick.
    You could get help, counselling perhaps? That’ll sort it.
    Do I want to put myself through all that self-examination crap? Anyway, I don’t know if I really want to go on putting myself on the line every day.
    Okay, so give up being a medic. But you need to earn a living somehow. What would you do instead?
    Oh Christ, that’s it. What else could I do? There is nothing else.
    The argument raged in her head until, finally, she’d passed out, fully dressed, on the sofa.
    Jess had envisaged walking with her mother on the beach, perhaps sitting on the dunes, a neutral, impersonal place to talk because you naturally sat looking outwards, your eyes drawn to the sea and the horizon, rather than facing your companion. Quite why this made it so much easier to be honest with yourself she never completely understood, but it always seemed to work.
    She recalled days and nights of teenage angst when she would rush to the sea, weeping her eyes out over some spotty, undeserving youth, or spending hours with her best friend in the dunes dissecting every nuance of their latest romances, imagined or real. Alone or in company, self-pity never survived for long out on the beach. The soothing, rhythmical shush of the waves, the wide open skies and grey sea stretching to infinity always helped her to find a sense of proportion, reminding her of how small and insignificant we are in this vast universe, how unimportant our problems in the wider scheme of things.
    But this time it didn’t turn out like that.
    After breakfast, she’d just made another pot of coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table while her mother fussed around, washing up, putting away. Her father had drifted off to his greenhouse.
    ‘Look what I got for supper,’ Susan said, pulling something out of the fridge. ‘I went to that lovely butcher’s yesterday. I know it’s your favourite.’ She placed the parcel on the table and unwrapped it, revealing a large leg of lamb, its severed flesh oozing dark red blood onto the worktop.
    Jess had time to blurt out, ‘Lovely …’ before the nausea hit her, like an unstoppable wave. She made it to the cloakroom just before she vomited, violently and uncontrollably, into the toilet, groaning with pain as her guts turned themselves inside out. She gagged, again and again, her throat burning with the vicious acid residue of last night’s whisky.
    She heard her mother at the door and then by her side, and a soothing hand stroking her shuddering back. When it was all over she allowed herself to