Burn The Dead: Purge: Book Two

Chapter 2

2

“So when does the training start?” Dad asks me, slurping his tea from across the breakfast table.

“I already said, Dad,” I reply, unable to disguise the impatience in my voice. “This weekend. Thursday is a run through—meet the guys, kind of an intro. Plus, a fitness test. If that goes well, the real training will start on Friday.”

“For how long?”

“Until Sunday.”

“Until Sunday?” he blurts out, almost spitting out his tea. “That’s it?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s very intense. And most of the important training is done out on the field. I’ll be shadowing someone first. Then, maybe after a few weeks, maybe even a few months, I’ll be having to deal with things alone.”

“One b****y weekend. That’s scandalous. You’d swear you were training to work in a supermarket—not working as a b****y Cleaner.” He takes a giant—almost aggressive swig of his tea—and puts his cup down a little too hard on the table, spilling a little. “All I hear on the News is how little money they get from the government, putting up with shitty equipment, understaffing, and dangerous working conditions. It’s just not worth the risk.”

“Tell that to the armed forces then. They’ve always had to put up with budget cuts. And so has the NHS. But we still need nurses and soldiers.”

“Well, I think you’re mad, Catherine. I really do. And I don’t see what the big fascination is with all this. Why can’t you just get an ordinary job like everyone else?”

“I know it’s risky, but this is something that I’ve wanted to do since I was a little girl. You know that. So nothing’s changed. I still want to be out there, making a difference in the world. Not stuck dealing with stupid customers at a restaurant.”

“Yes, I understand all that, but why does it have to be you? There are plenty of men already doing this kind of thing. Let them take the risks.”

“That’s exactly the point: Men. It’s one of the only jobs left in this country that has a No Women Policy. It’s dated and sexist and now I’ve changed that. Me. Your daughter. All by myself. And you were the one who said that I should write to the government. You’re the one who taught me to fight for what I believe in. You.”

Dad shakes his head, clearly struggling to justify his actions. He reaches over to the centre of the table and takes the last slice of toast from the plate. “Look, Cath, I know what I said, but—”

“But nothing. It’s obvious to me that you only encouraged me to write those letters because you thought that I wouldn’t stand a chance. Well, now I’ve got through, and I’ve got the job and I plan on keeping it for as long as possible. And I plan on setting an example to all the other women out there who have to live in a world with sexist pigs like you.”

“Catherine!” Mum shouts from the sink. “Don’t speak to your father like that. He’s only saying what needs to be said.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that—but that’s how it’s coming across.”

“Just because your dad thinks that something is dangerous,” Mum continues, “doesn’t make him sexist.”

“Look, Cath,” Dad says, his tone a little softer, “I just want you to be safe. Your mother and I both do. I just happen to think that some jobs are better suited for men and some better suited for women. That’s all. That’s not sexist, it’s just life. We’re not all the same. We have lots of differences. And if you can’t see that, well, then…more fool you.”

Mum walks over to the table and stands behind Dad, her both hands on his shoulders, tea towel draped over her arm. “Look, I tell you what, Catherine, why don’t you apply for something a little less controversial?”

“Like?” I ask patronisingly, knowing full well that she’s just going to reel off a list of girlie jobs—like nursing.

Mum shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe hairdresser, you know, something like that. Or beautician. I mean there’s good money in that if you get in with the right salon.”

“I’ve got a job, thank you.”

Dad takes a mouthful of toast and then speaks; his words muffled: “Being a Cleaner doesn’t even pay that well.”

“It’s not about the money,” I retort, “it’s about the job.”

Dad swallows and then sighs. “Well, I think you’re crazy. I really do. And you’ll only end up changing your mind again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Cath, you’ve gone through more career paths than I have—and I’m fifty-b****y-eight.”

“I haven’t had that many.”

“No? You sure about that? What about wanting to be an English teacher?”

“So what? I was fifteen. I was just a stupid kid.”

“Then it was a doctor.”

“Paramedic, actually, Dad.”

“Okay, paramedic then. Same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing, and I only abandoned that because they were only recruiting in London. Remember? And you were the one who talked me out of it. You said that I’d hate living in such a big, dangerous city.”

“Can’t remember saying that.”

I clench my fists under the table, seething with frustration. “Typical—selective memory as usual.”

“Oh yeah, and then of course it was the Navy.”

“What, so you want me to go off and fight in some s**t-hole country then?”

Dad shakes his head. “No, of course not. My point is: this Cleaner thing is just another one of your little ventures. In a month, you’ll get bored, move on to some other career path, and then you’ll be handing in your notice.”

I snort, struggling to contain the outburst that’s brewing inside. “You don’t have much faith in me, do you?”

“It’s not that, Cath. I do have faith in you. I think you’re a smart girl, with a great future. I just don’t want you to risk it on some flash-in-the-pan job that you think is glamorous, and important.”

“It is important. Very important. In fact, I believe it’s just as important, if not more so, than a teacher, a paramedic—even a frontline soldier. And yeah, maybe you’re right—I haven’t exactly followed through with my career paths. But that’s only because this is my true calling. And now that it’s in the palm of my hand, I’m not going to let it slip away. And that’s that, Dad.”

The kitchen falls uncomfortably silent for a full minute.

He finishes what’s left of his tea and leans back on his chair, his eyes locked onto mine. “Okay, Cath,” he says with a beaten-down sigh. “If it’s what you really want, then I suppose there’s nothing we can do to talk you out of it.”

“No, there isn’t,” I say firmly, shaking my head.

Dad moans loudly, clearly unable to add anything productive. “Just be careful, for Christ’s sake.”

Beth walks over from her pillow and rests her furry white head on my thigh. She knows when I’m pissed off or stressed out, even if I’m not screaming the place down. Must be a dog sixth-sense thing. Seeing those pitiful eyes always manages to calm me. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say with a thin smile, stroking the top of Beth’s soft head. “I’ll be all right.”

Mum walks over to me and kisses my cheek. “And make sure you don’t get bitten. Those things are b****y vicious.”

“Okay, Mum,” I take her hand, beaming. “I’ll try not to.”