Chapter Text
Carla groaned at the sound of the broken light that seemed even louder than usual, slamming against the side of her skull. She’d lost count of how many times she’d asked Rob or Peter to change it but like most things, it looked as if she was going to have to do it herself.
She sat at her desk, trying to get through the pile of paperwork that was getting bigger with every passing day. To any of the machinists outside, she looked like the same force she always was. Her silk blouse was crisp, her hair was a dark, polished wave, and her heels clicked against the floor with the authority of a woman who owned every square inch of the air she breathed.
But inside, Carla was the complete opposite.
A cold sweat had made itself known across her skin, making her feel clammy. Every few minutes, a shiver would start at the base of her spine and rack her until her teeth literally clattered.
Every few minutes she would tell herself that it was just a virus, possibly just the flu. Everyone around her had had it and it was fair to say that she was run down, it was nothing more than a virus.
"Mrs Barlow? You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost," Beth called out, pausing over a stitch from the opposite side of the open door.
Carla didn’t look up. If she looked up, she was worried the dizziness would hit her and she wasn’t about the let herself appear weak in front of the machinists. "I’m fine, Beth. Get those knickers packed, or we’ll miss the three o'clock deadline. I don't pay you to provide a medical diagnosis."
The bite was there, but the volume was missing. Her voice didn’t sound like her own to her own ears, the tiredness affecting her in different ways.
She reached for her water bottle, her fingers trembling slightly. Her grip was weak, almost embarrassingly so. She took a sip but even that felt like bile in her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to keep anything down.
Her mind drifted to the other empty seat in the office.
Peter.
He should have been there two hours ago. He was supposed to be taking her out to dinner, but the seat was cold and her phone was silent. The text he’d sent at noon was burned into her mind: Tina’s broken down. Going to help her get it to the garage. Back soon. xx.
Back soon. That was four hours ago. Tina McIntyre. The name felt like an irritation, a pebble in Carla’s shoe that she’d been trying to ignore for weeks. Peter was helping her a lot lately. He was being a good neighbour and happened to be "supporting a friend."
And Carla, the woman who prided herself on seeing a lie before it was even spoken, was choosing to believe him because the alternative wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Not while she felt the way she did.
She didn’t want to believe her marriage was already over.
Usually the noise of the factory was a comfort, the sound of her own success. Today, it felt like a cage. She was surrounded by people who worked for her, people who gossiped about her, but she was utterly, alone.
The shivering intensified. She gripped the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles turned a ghostly white.
"I've got an important phone call to make," she managed to mutter, though no one was really listening.
Standing up as slowly as she could to keep away the dizziness, she managed to get herself to the door before shutting it behind her. The silence was immediate, but she wished she could say that it was a relief. She slumped into her leather chair and leant her head back against the rest, the chill in her bones deepening. She reached for her handbag, searching for paracetamol, but her hand brushed against something else.
A small, rectangular box she’d bought at the pharmacists three days ago and hadn’t had the courage to open.
She stared at the box. The "virus." The "lingering fever." The way her breakfast had turned her stomach for the last fortnight.
"Don't be ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room. "You're forty. You're stressed. You’re just sick There’s nothing else to it. Absolutely nothing."
The weight of the loneliness in the room felt different now. It wasn't just the absence of Peter; it was the presence of a terrifying, mounting certainty. She looked at the phone on her desk and she wanted to call him. She wanted to scream at him to come home, to tell her she was being paranoid, to hold her until the shivering stopped.
Instead, she sat on her own, pale and trembling, waiting for a man who was most likely in a bed with a much younger woman, while Carla’s world prepared to fracture.
There was only one way she was even going to begin to understand what was happening and that was to take the test.
The truth though could sometimes be terrifying.
Grabbing her handbag, she strode to the loo and locked the door behind her, her heartbeat quickening with every passing minute.
A couple of minutes later and the plastic stick sat on the edge of the sink a live grenade. Something that would change her life forever.
Carla couldn't look at it. She stood with her back to the mirror, her breath ragged and shallow. The factory hummed outside the door, oblivious and carrying on as if everything was business as usual.
When she finally turned, her heart did a slow, sickening roll in her chest.
Two blue lines. Definite and unapologetic.
"No," she breathed. The word wasn't a protest; it was a plea. "Not now. Not like this."
Everything started to blur. Carla shoved the test into the bottom of her handbag, burying it beneath lipsticks and receipts, as if hiding it could undo the biological reality. She needed air. The air in the factory too thick, too consuming. It was choking her, and she needed to get out.
Returning to the office as quick as she could, Carla grabbed her coat and stumbled out of the office, ignoring everyone in her path.
"Mrs Barlow? Everything okay?" Fiz called out from the stairs, but she didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat was constricted, her pulse drumming a frantic rhythm against her eardrums. She pushed through the heavy double doors of the factory and burst onto the cobbles.
The daylight was too bright, causing her to squint while her hand came up to cover her eyes. She couldn’t see anything in front of her, every step was a gamble. She didn’t know where she was heading. She couldn’t go back to the flat because she was worried about what she might find. There was the Rovers, but she didn’t know if she wanted everyone staring at her.
She didn't hear the engine.
A delivery van, hurrying to make a delivery at the corner shop, swung around the bend near the garage. Carla stepped off the curb, her eyes fixed on nothing, her mind a chaotic roar of Peter, Tina, Two Lines, Fever. Over and over again.
"Watch out!"
The screech of tires echoed but it was the hands that Carla felt first. Strong, steady, and unyielding and they caught her by the elbows just as her knees began to give way. She was hauled backwards, her back hitting a solid chest. The van swerved, the driver shouting something muffled through the glass, before pulling over a few yards down.
Carla gasped, her lungs finally drawing in cold air. She was shaking violently now, teeth chattering.
"Easy. I’ve got you. Just breathe," a voice said. It wasn't a voice Carla recognised from the street. It was deep, calm, and carried a natural tone of command.
Still breathing heavily, Carla was turned around slowly. Standing before her was a woman in a smart jacket, her blonde hair in a ponytail and a genuine look of concern on her face.
Lisa Swain.
Carla had seen her around, knew that she was the new Detective Sergeant. They’d never spoken, but Carla knew the type: all procedure.
Lisa didn't let go of Carla’s elbows. She could feel the tremor running through the other woman, the way Carla was clutching her handbag to her chest like a shield. Lisa’s eyes flicked down to Carla’s hands, then up to her face.
"You're white as a sheet," Lisa observed. Her tone was professional, but there was an unexpected undercurrent of concern, a small softening of the edges. "Are you hurt? Did it clip you?"
"I... no. I'm fine," Carla managed, though her voice betrayed her. It wasn’t her usual rasp. She tried to pull away, to regain her dignity, but her legs felt like water. Weak.
Lisa didn't release her; she wasn’t sure if Carla would stay standing if she did. "You don't look fine. You look like you’re about to faint. I’m Sergeant Swain. Let’s get you off the road, yeah?"
"I don't need a copper," Carla snapped, a flash of the old fire returning, though it flickered weakly.
Lisa almost smiled, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. "Lucky for you, I’m off the clock in twenty minutes. Right now, I’m just someone who doesn't want to see a woman go under the wheels of a van. Come on. The Rovers is right there or what about your house?"
"Carla?"
The voice that cut through the air wasn't Lisa's. It was that of her best friend and Carla could hear it in her voice that she was slightly panicked.
Michelle was halfway across the cobbles, and she pretty much ran from the direction of the Rovers. She had clearly seen the van swerve and the near-miss from the pub.
"Michelle, I'm fine," Carla started, but her best friend was already there, hovering on her other side.
"Fine? You're shaking like a leaf; you're the colour of a ghost and you nearly ended on top of a hood!" Michelle’s eyes darted from Carla to the other woman. She took in the outfit she is wearing, her protective instincts flaring. "What’s happened? Did he hit her?"
"Just a near miss," Lisa said, her gaze shifting to Michelle. She didn't let go of Carla, but she acknowledged the newcomer with a nod. "I’m Sergeant Swain. I caught her before she went down."
"I've got her now," Michelle said, her tone full of gratitude but Carla could hear the slight edge. Her best friend had always been protective.
Michelle moved to take Carla’s weight, but as she did, her hand brushed Carla’s handbag. Carla flinched, pulling the bag away with a desperate, jerky motion that didn't go unnoticed by either woman.
Michelle’s brow furrowed immediately. She looked at Carla’s face and took in the sunken eyes and the sheer terror beneath the exhaustion. This wasn't just a dizzy spell. This was a breakdown in progress. She had seen enough of them to know what it was.
"Come on, sweetheart," Michelle whispered, her voice softening as she ignored the officer and focused entirely on Carla. "Let's get you inside. You're burning up."
"She needs to sit down," Lisa added, her voice low. She didn't step back immediately. There was a moment, a brief, silent exchange between the Sergeant and Carla, one that told her that Lisa would be there to talk to if she needed it. Carla didn’t know how to take that.
"We’re going to the Rovers," Michelle stated, tucking Carla’s arm firmly under her own. "I'll get some sugar into her. Thanks Sergeant. We've got it from here."
“You can call me Lisa, and no problem.”
As Michelle began to lead her away, Carla looked back over her shoulder. Lisa was still standing on the cobbles, solid and unmovable, watching them until they reached the safety of the pub door.
"Carla," Michelle hissed as they reached the front of the Rovers, her voice dripping with the kind of worry only a best friend could manage. "What the hell is going on? And where's Peter?"
Carla felt the weight of the handbag against her hip. The two lines. The empty office. The voice of the woman Peter was currently "helping."
"He's busy, 'Chelle," Carla whispered, her voice cracking. "He's always busy."