Next one!...Not much else to say really! Just please keep reading, review if you have a minute to spare, and enjoy.

The song for this one is part of the three songs 'The Lightening Strike' by Snow Patrol, it's the first one that is called 'What if the storm ends?' and it's beautiful. God I don't think I could write anything if I didn't have music. So yeah, check it out on youtube! xx

"What if this storm ends,

And I don't see you,

As you are now.

Ever again?"

September 4th – 9.14pm

Suddenly, your whole body is cold.

"I have to make a call." You tell her, standing fast from the table.

"To who?" She's annoyed already. You can see that. This was supposed to be your night. Together. Just the two of you.

There is one simple reason. A small one. But it's enough to make you call off anything. With anyone.

"Nikki. Nikki tried to call me."

That's it.

"Well surely there's someone else she can call."

"She rang 15 times, Em."

"Well if she rings again, you can answer it, but just leave it, yeah."

"I'll only be a minute."

"I'm sick of this, Harry. She snaps her fingers and you go running. Every fucking time. I'm sick of playing second fiddle to her and you, and your messed up relationship!"

You shut the door on her screaming, and redial.

"Harry?"

Suddenly, your whole body is cold.

"Leo?"

9.45pm

You're running now. Faster than you've ever ran before. Your heart is thundering in your chest, tears creating a mist over your eyes so you can barely see. You skid to a halt at the signs, breathing loud, heavy, frustrated when none of the writing seems to make sense.

You run again, through corridors, swinging doors, past concerned looking doctors, barely aware patients. You're shaking.

This is the worst night of your life.

Because you've suddenly realised how badly you've fucked things up. She needed you. Again. And you were too busy to care. Again.

And now she could be dead.

They could both be dead.

You're not sure how, but finally you find a room, and they're all there.

Janet.

Leo.

Even your Mother.

She's not there.

"Where is she?"

Your Mother is crying, staring at the wall behind you. She doesn't move. It is Leo and Janet who move first, together, as if they'd rehearsed it. So distant now, yet so in sync. Janet holds you up with gentle hands on your arm. Leo holds your shoulders and looks you straight in the eye. You look back, willing him not to give you bad news.

"She's in intensive care, Harry. It's touch and go. The guy ran. I've just spoken to the DCI, they haven't got him yet, but they think they've spotted him heading towards Suffolk."

You want to punch something, but can't help but notice what Leo hasn't mentioned. The thought of why that might be feels like a lightning bolt to the heart and is equally as painful. When you speak, it's weak, plaintive, barely above a whisper.

"What about my baby?"

Glances are exchanged around the room. It is Leo who speaks again.

"Nikki was hit with force. It brought on premature labour. Other than that, we don't know."

You swallow hard. You've been counting the weeks, days, how could it possibly be okay? There is a knock and a doctor enters. Your Mother stands as he enters. His skin is mottled, he looks anxious, rattled.

"Any news?"

"Dr Cunningham I presume. Arthur Wade." He introduces himself warmly, his firm handshake a totem for your humid, shaking hand. "Your wife is responding well, we expect her to regain consciousness in the next few hours all being well." He pauses, moving slightly closer into the group. "We had no choice but to deliver your baby son at 28 weeks."

Your heart skips a beat.

"A little boy?"

"A very strong little boy. He's been taken up to the neonatal unit for tests on his organs."

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Having prepared yourself for the worst, you're not sure you believe what you're hearing.

"He's…he's okay?"

One nod. There is an audible sigh of relief and your Mother clasps your hand so tight in her own you think it may break.

"Though I must stress that he is very premature and his chances right now are very slim. You must prepare yourselves for the worst."

Your Mother finally speaks.

"Can we see him?"

"I'm afraid I will let you know when our tests are done and then he will be open for visits."

"Can I be with my Wife?" She must have been so scared. So terrified. You want to be the one to soothe her. To explain. It's the very least you owe her now.


You're barely half way to the room when you hear her cries. You're at her side in seconds, pulling her to you. She hits out, screaming hysterically. Eventually, as you knew they would, her screams melt into sobs and she clings to you.

There is no point explaining yet, she won't hear you. All you can do is hold her and cry with her until she calms down. You know what she's feeling; having only minutes before been unsure whether your child was alive or dead.

As you hold your estranged, distraught wife, tight to your chest, you wonder what you did to deserve all of this. Perhaps it's you that causes it all. A proverbial hurricane reaping havoc and destruction wherever you go, perhaps you are your own worst enemy.

Or perhaps lightening does strike in the same place twice.