Page 2

Chapter 1

Crochet Penises and Stinky Shadow Men

Jemma

“H ey Jemma, why is mine all wonky?”

“Jemma, the string just fell off the thing! Ooh, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!”

“Guess what, Jemma?! My mum has a crochet penis , and our dog likes to chew on it!”

I choked back a bellow of laughter and, slightly red-faced from the picture of Ellie’s Schnoodle deep-throating her mum’s woollen penis, I dealt with one thing at a time.

“Wow, Ellie, that’s a fun and quirky thing for Mum to have!” I said loudly and brightly, then leaned closer and lowered my voice—a secret between two girls. “Might be best though if we don’t out Mum as the owner of handmade genitals in front of your friends, okay?”

“Aren’t all genitals handmade though, Jemma? Handmade by God?” Harper asked.

I groaned inwardly. No, I was not getting into a discussion about religion … or my utter disbelief in the existence of any of that nonsense … with these girls. These girls particularly .

Mental note: don’t use a stage whisper when you’re actually trying to keep your voice down …

Ignoring Harper’s God remark, I looked down at the few rows of rather wonky stitches she’d managed.

“It’s just your first try, Harper, and you’re doing so great! You should have seen how loopy my first go was, and I was a fully grown adult when I started. But if you really, really want it to be straighter, you need to keep the tension on the yarn consistent. Like this …” I wrapped my hands around her fingers and showed her how to maintain tension through a few stitches.

“You try that on your own for a few rows now, okay?”

Harper nodded, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration as she set to work. Thankfully, all talk of God was forgotten.

I moved around the table to where little Faith, a tiny thing with a frog-green beanie (one I had crocheted for her and sparked this group’s interest in the craft) and a permanent blush on her face, was wrangling an empty hook and a tangle of hot pink yarn.

“I suck at this, I’m never going to get it!” she moaned softly, her little head dropping into her bony hands.

I wanted to sob. I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and tell her that she was the most amazing, brave little fighter I’d ever met, and that even if she never managed to keep yarn on a crochet hook, she could do so many other things that were incredible in their own right.

“Hey,” I managed, my throat thick. “Remember what you said when you tried to teach me how to sing Cardigan ?”

Faith’s cheeks went even redder, and she covered her mouth to stifle a horrified giggle.

“It was so mean!” Faith squeaked.

“Remind me again,” I said firmly, flashing her a conspiratorial grin so she’d know I wasn’t upset.

“Jemma!” she mumbled between her fingers, then took a deep breath and dropped her hands. “I said that you sounded like that cat that sits on the fence outside my window and screeches like it’s dying!”

The words came out in a rush, like she was scared someone would come and admonish her for them.

“And you were right!” I exclaimed. “But I kept practising, and what happened?”

Ellie and Harper chortled as Faith said, “Well, you didn’t sound like a dying cat, as much.” The girl’s face broke into a grin. “You were more like a cat with a bad case of laryngitis.”

I couldn’t help myself. I snorted. Dropping my own crocheting, I grabbed a tissue and hurriedly wiped away the snot that had splattered from my nose across my lips and chin. I jumped up, discarding the tissue and squirting a liberal amount of hand sanitiser into my palms, massaging it halfway up my arms.

When I returned to the table, the girls were still giggling.

“My point is, sometimes we just suck at things. And that’s okay. We don’t have to be amazing at everything we try. We don’t even have to be mediocre at it. I’m good at crocheting, but I suck at singing. You, on the other hand, have a voice like an angel … and my goodness, your drawings are so detailed and lifelike! So … it’s okay to suck at crocheting. And it’s okay to decide it’s not for you. Life’s too short to keep pushing if something is stressful or unenjoyable.”

I stumbled to a halt, my eyes wide as I glanced from one small face to another, anticipating the moment when one of them cracked and the reality of their situation poured back in.

Instead, Faith, that little trooper, dropped her crochet hook and scuttled over to the craft trolley, returning with paper and a jar of coloured pencils.

“You’re right, Jemma. I suck at crocheting, and that’s okay! But I can design you some new costumes for Luci, and then you can make them!”

“That’s always the plan!” I agreed with an encouraging smile, turning back to my own crochet hook and the ferret-sized mermaid costume that I really needed to have finished before the weekend.

“Hey, since we’re talking about Luci, when can she come in for a visit?” Harper asked.

“Yeah!” Ellie piped up. “We’ve heard so much about her, but we’ve only seen pictures.”

Breathing out a low, slow sigh and forcing back the prickling in my eyes, I pasted a sunny smile on my face.

“I know you want to meet her super badly, girls, but I asked, and the … the hospital said that she’s not an approved therapy pet, so I can’t bring her in.”

I hated being the one to make their little faces fall. But honestly, I knew I’d feel worse if Luci-Fur, my wayward ferret, did something to compromise their treatment. Or their immune systems.

“I’m sorry, girls,” I finished, and I focused hard on my work so they wouldn’t see how much my eyes glistened.

* * *

“I’d sell my goddamned soul for a cask of Riesling and a cinnamon donut right about now,” I muttered, dropping my not-quite-finished product, with the crocheting hook still attached, onto the hospital coffee shop table.

Ezra, my official bestie, and unofficial therapist, grimaced. “Are you sharing this hypothetical cask, or are you just situating yourself under the tap and opening your throat for it?” He leaned back, running a hand over his immaculate strawberry-blond hair.

“You’ve just finished a twelve-hour shift, you’re about to clock back on for overtime, and you’re wearing hospital scrubs with flipping sausage dogs on them! How do you look like a runway model?” I grumbled.

“Good hydration, excellent genes, and a tinted moisturiser by Selena Gomez,” he replied with a smirk, tilting the straw of his Stanley Cup at the bundle of emerald-green yarn on the table between us.

“Is this ‘The Little Mer-ferret’?” he asked.

I groaned. “It’s supposed to be. I’m struggling with the tail fin, though. And don’t even get me started on how I design a shell bikini that Luci won’t immediately eat. Why did I think this was a good idea?” I wailed.

“Because …” Ezra said in his talk-crazy-Jemma-down-off-the-ledge voice, gripping my fingers and un-clawing them from the yarn, “… when you’re not a bundle of anxiety, you can see how crazy talented you are! You took some drawings from one of your patients, and you turned them into an amazing, creative, unique product.”

I snorted. “Ridiculously niche and frivolous product … and they’re not my patients,” I grouched.

Ezra’s warm hand covered mine. “First. Stop parroting Joe.”

I stifled a grimace at the mention of my brother’s name, bracing myself for the lecture. Ezra had lots of thoughts about my older brother. I’d heard them all, but that didn’t stop him from repeating them.

But he said nothing more about the fact that my brother disapproved of my business venture. ‘Disapproved’ was probably putting it kindly.

“Second … you do more for those girls than you realise. Being a kid stuck in here is bad enough, but they’re sick … and they’re being poked and prodded and filled with drugs that often make them sicker than the cancer does to begin with. You’re such an integral support for them. Plus, you’re like their Slay Queen.”

I rolled my suddenly burning eyes, reaching under my glasses to rub at a stray tear. “I don’t think that’s how you use that phrase. And they only think I slay because of the pink hair.”

Ezra chuckled. “I’m sure that helps, but it’s definitely not the only reason you’re a queen, Jemma.”

“Stop being so nice, you’re going to make my mascara run!” I let out a watery giggle, slapping him on the arm. He grinned, pushing the bundle of half-crocheted Ariel tail back at me.

“You’re so close to finishing. One last little push, and you’ll have another costume ready for the markets this weekend. Which ones are you at again? I can never keep up.”

I chewed on my lip, wracking my brain. “Uh … I want to say Showground? Which week is it?”

Ezra’s eye-roll was withering. “It’s the second weekend of the month.”

I grinned sheepishly. “Lakeside Markets, then.”

Ezra’s face lit up. “I hope that hot potter has the stall beside yours again!”

I smirked. “Been thinking about humping Humphrey, have you?”

Ezra guffawed heartily, but his cheeks turned pink. “Thank God you’re so good with names. I was too busy drooling to remember a single thing that came out of his mouth.” Ezra threw his head back and sighed. “The way he moulded that clay …”

“Yes, yes, we all get it. You want his fingers moulding your clay.” I leaned closer, cupping my hands around my mouth like I had a secret for him. “By clay, I mean your rear end.”

Ezra chortled. “He can turn me into a vase and stick his stem in me any day of the week.”

I collapsed into a fit of giggles. Soon my eyes were streaming, my mascara a lost cause. I hiccupped violently.

“Well, make sure you actually talk to him this time, Ez. You won’t be getting any stem-in-vase action if you just goo-goo eye him and blush whenever he so much as blinks in your direction.”

Ezra sighed. “I know. I really know this. Give me some of your confidence with men, Jem.”

I snorted. “You mean, the confidence to ask Rupert Sullivan to the year twelve formal, and have him tell me he’d ‘think about it’ and then proceed to mock me to the entirety of the class? That confidence?”

Ezra rolled his eyes. “That was years ago.”

I snorted. “Oh, and my love life has been so much better since …”

“You made me promise never to mention He Who Must Not Be Named again …” Ezra gave my hand a squeeze. “But, you were the one to approach him, too. And sweep him off his feet with your cheeky sweetness.”

“And it ended in utter disaster,” I reminded him.

Ezra’s crinkly smile was so kind. I tried to mirror it with a watery one of my own.

“And you know what? It hasn’t stopped you from approaching men. I envy the way you can just walk up to a guy and start talking.”

“The stakes are low for me, though. I can’t remember the last time I approached a man with a view to dating him,” I mumbled, sipping the last of my coffee. “Dating’s hard work, Ez. Relationships are hard work.”

“They shouldn’t be, if they’re with the right person.”

I shrugged. “Well, he better show up soon, I’m not getting any younger!”

Ezra gave a small smile. “You’re only twenty-eight, Jem. Plenty of years ahead of you.” He covered my hand with his own, and I squeezed his fingers.

He glanced down at his watch, cursing under his breath. “I’ve gotta get back to the ward. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

He stood, knocking once on the table. “You going to be okay getting back to your car?”

I peered out the window at the rapidly dwindling light, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I’ll be totally fine.”

Ezra flashed me a concerned look, but I scowled up at him, setting my jaw defiantly. Which only made him burst into laughter.

“You are incapable of looking fierce, Jemma Bliss!”

* * *

“I hate winter!” I snarled, flipping the hood on my parka over my hair as I stepped out of the hospital. “It’s not natural for it to be dark at five PM! And what’s the deal with the temperature?” I tucked my hands inside my sleeves for good measure, awkwardly clutching the strap of my shoulder bag with my padded mitts.

The car park was a long way from the hospital entrance, and I was all too aware that I was a teeny tiny woman walking alone in the dark. Talking to myself had always been my coping mechanism to stave off fear.

I followed the covered walkway with its infrequent lights past the Emergency department, where there was usually a random assortment of people loitering outside. Mostly sucking desperately on a cigarette or vape pen. Technically it was banned across the entire hospital site, but the staff turned a blind eye to the poor, unfortunate souls forced to wait hours for an understaffed emergency team to see them.

Still … super gross.

Tonight, however, there was no one leaning against a post. There was no tell-tale glow of a lit ciggie. No sickly-sweet cloud of flavoured vape. No little rectangles of light as people scrolled through social media while they sucked in their hit of nicotine.

It was deserted.

“Weird,” I mumbled, huddling deeper into my puffy parka. There was no one around … but I felt like I was being watched.

Everything in me screamed to run as fast as I could the rest of the way to my car, get in and lock the doors. But something made me stop and peer deeper into the gloom beyond the awning lights.

“Is someone there?” I squeaked.

Gosh, was the temperature rising? I was sweating inside my parka. I unzipped it a little, flapping the collar to let some chilly air in to cool my heated skin.

Something was there. In the dark. No … it was someone. A very tall, broad someone. A someone lurking so deep in the shadows that I couldn’t make out a single feature.

“What are you doing back there, creeper?” I demanded, adjusting my glasses and peering into the shadows. The shadowy someone sighed. A cloud of smoke puffed out of his (their … its?) mouth.

I coughed. “Eww! What are you smoking? That smells like … rotten eggs!”

The shadow blew another burst of the noxious gas at me, and I gagged. I staggered back from them … him … I was sure it was a ‘him’; this behaviour reeked of alphahole obnoxiousness … him and his sulphuric haze.

“Oh my God!” I gasped, finally finding air that didn’t reek like the worst fart I’d ever smelled. “You are the worst!”

The shadowy alphahole said nothing as I spun on my heel and marched away. I made it all the way back to my car and was zipping out onto the main road before I realised that I’d forgotten to feel frightened for the rest of the dark, creepy walk back to my car.

Well, thank the Stinky Shadow Man for small mercies.