Turning Dawn

BOOM!

The gunshot ripped Rose from darkness like a fist through wet paper. Her eyes snapped open to torchlight cutting through the warehouse's black, Sean's shape above her, gun still raised, hands shaking like he'd touched a live wire.

"Christ, Rose! Jesus fucking Christ!" His voice cracked high, not the steady copper she knew. "I thought he'd killed you!"

Cold concrete under her back. Copper in her mouth. The warehouse stank of rust and rat piss and something else. Her own piss, she realized, feeling the warm wetness in her jeans. Fuck. Blood everywhere, too much blood, slicking her hands when she tried to push up.

"What…" Her throat felt scraped raw. "What happened?"

"He was on you, at your neck." Sean's torch beam jumped as he fumbled for his radio. "I shot him, but he… he just ran. How the fuck did he run?"

The rain hammered the warehouse roof like God's own drum kit. December in Belfast, the kind of cold that got into your bones and sets up camp. But Rose didn't feel it. Should be freezing, lying here soaked in blood and piss, but she felt… warm. Energized, even. Like she'd mainlined espresso instead of getting her throat torn out.

"Control, this is DC Sullivan, badge number 4827." Sean's voice steadied into cop mode, but his free hand stayed on her shoulder. "Officer-involved shooting at Riddel's Warehouse, 87 Ann Street. Officer down, repeat, officer down. Need ambulance and backup immediately."

Officer down. The words should have terrified her, but Rose felt oddly calm. Fragments of memory sliced through the fog.

Phone buzzing. James's name on the screen.

"Emma didn't come home from the café."

Titanic Quarter. CCTV. Grey BMW, partial plate B-something-7

"Emma," she mumbled, trying to sit up. "Where's Emma?"

"She's not here, Rose." Sean pressed her back down, gentle but firm. "Just stay still. Help's coming."

More fragments, sharper now. Yesterday bleeding through.

Sean, over the phone, "No Uber scheduled."

Barney, her best snout, drunk but loyal: "That grey motor you're after? Saw it near Riddel's Warehouse."

The sirens grew louder. Blue lights painted the warehouse walls through broken windows. Rose tried to focus on Sean's face, but memories kept cutting in.

Darkness in the warehouse.

Movement too fast to track. Impact like a sledgehammer. Thrown across the warehouse floor like a doll.

A voice, cultured, amused: "Stay down."

Fire in her throat. Fire in her veins. Couldn't breathe, couldn't scream.

The face wouldn't come. Just that voice, that terrible burning, and then Sean's shout, the gunshot, and nothing.

Paramedics burst through the warehouse doors, equipment clattering, professional voices cutting through the rain. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Rose Gallagher." The words came automatically. "DS."

"When did this happen?"

"15 minutes?" Sean answered for her. "I heard the attack, found him on her. I was watching the back."

They were cutting away her jacket, checking vitals, but Rose barely felt it. Everything seemed too loud. The rain, the radios.

"Jesus, look at all this blood," one paramedic muttered, helping her out of the ruined clothes. "Let's get these off."

Rose fumbled at her pockets before they cut away the jacket. Receipt, matchbook from the Europa, phone. She shoved them into the plastic bag they gave her for personal effects.

The humiliation of lying there in piss-soaked jeans while strangers worked on her should have burned, but Rose had bigger problems.

"Most of this blood isn't yours," the paramedic said, confused. "These injuries don't match the volume."

They lifted her onto the gurney.

"She's confused," Sean told them. "Possible head trauma."

Rose wasn't confused.

The ambulance ride blurred past in harsh lights and medical chatter. Royal Victoria Hospital's A&E was its usual Friday night chaos - drunks and fighters and the walking wounded of Belfast's endless small wars. They wheeled her into a curtained bay where a tired-looking doctor examined her throat.

"When exactly did this happen?" He frowned at the wounds.

"An hour ago," Rose said.

"You're lucky, not much more than a few scratches and a concussion. You won't need to stay, but you should stay with someone if there's no one at home."

"Felt like a fucking dump truck hit me," Rose muttered, but the doctor's expression stayed neutral.

Sean's phone rang. Even through the curtain, Rose could hear Evers on the other end - the DI, probably dragged from his bed, three whiskeys deep into his Friday night.

"Sullivan's on desk duty pending investigation," Evers's voice carried over the speaker. "No body at the scene. No blood trail. You sure you hit him?"

"He went down as soon as I hit him, then bolted like a fucking maniac."

"Well, he got up and walked away. Or someone carried him. Either way, I want a full report, but take the day."

They gave Rose scrubs to wear home, her soiled clothes sealed in a bag. Sean drove her through empty Belfast streets, the city washed clean by rain, everything gleaming under streetlights like a fresh crime scene.

"Your da know you're coming?" Sean asked as they turned onto the Falls Road.

"He will when I knock."

"Rose… that attack… who?"

"Was a junkie." She cut him off. "High on something. We'll tell Evers we were following up a drug lead."

"Right. A junkie who took a bullet and ran?"

Sean pulled up outside Archy's terraced house, the one she'd grown up in, now falling apart like the old man himself. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm grand." Rose climbed out, surprised her legs held her. She should have been shaking and in shock, but she felt steady. Strong, even. "Go home, Sean. Sleep."

"Ring me if you need anything. And Rose?" He leaned across the passenger seat. "We'll find Emma."

Rose nodded. Watched his taillights disappear into the rain, then turned to face her childhood home. Three in the morning, about to wake her dementia-addled father, covered in someone else's blood, her daughter missing, her head ringing like a church bell.

Just another fucking Friday night in Belfast.