Hot Pursuit. Gemma Fox

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      ‘Oh my God, oh my God. I think the baby’s coming. I want to push. Oh no, oh God, it can’t be – oh, oh…’ squealed the woman, desperately trying to grit her teeth and hold on tight to her dignity.

      Bernie Fielding stood his paint kettle down on the grey civil-service carpet and sighed.

      ‘No, yer don’t. Come on now, love, don’t get yourself in a state. You’ll be all right. Breathe, pant. I know what I’m talking about. I was in the Falklands, me. Paramedic, yomped into Goose Green, Iran, Iraq – you just want to take it steady, darlin’ – it’s probably only wind. Do you want me to go and get you something? A nice glass of water – what about a pillow?’

      As he turned, the large ginger-haired woman dropped down onto her haunches and bit the desk, while droplets of sweat glistened and rolled slowly into the rising swell of her ample cleavage. She groaned and then as Bernie watched very, very elegantly rolled backwards onto the floor as the contraction passed, her floral pink sundress tight as clingfilm across her creamy-white flesh. She looked like a Homes & Gardens beach ball.

      ‘Ring Linda in security, will you?’ she hissed between tortured breaths and clenched teeth, waving wildly towards the phone. ‘Or Anthea in Human Resources. Oh, my God, I think there’s another one coming. I thought that it was a false alarm; the baby isn’t due for another fortnight…Oh my Godddddddd.’

      The woman’s face contorted into a hideous snarling mask while Bernie stared, overwhelmed, at the switchboard beside her computer. One little light flashed and then another, and another. It looked like some bizarre children’s puzzle. It was no good; he had no idea which key to press. He looked down at the woman, desperately clutching her distended Laura Ashley abdomen – it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be any help at all. Bernie stepped over her with some care, and opened the office door.

      Outside in the corridor, a fey-looking boy in a cheap blue suit was busy pushing a trolley along the linoleum. Bernie beckoned him over.

      ‘S’cuse me, mate, but there’s a woman in here having a baby. I really think that you ought to go and get someone to give her a hand.’ He glanced back over his shoulder as the woman heaved herself over onto her side, panting furiously, her face flame red with effort and exertion. ‘And you’d better make it snappy.’

      The boy’s face turned ashen. ‘What? Really? Who? Not Ms Hargreaves? Oh my goodness, oh my…Wait here, I’ll go and fetch someone.’ He looked down at his watch. ‘God, it’s nearly lunchtime, everyone will be leaving soon – His last words were snatched away as Ms Hargreaves let out an unearthly screech and the terrified boy broke into a run.

      Bernie leant back against the wall; all in all it had been a funny sort of morning so far. He had been roped in by a friend with a painting and decorating business to help him with a little job, cash in hand, no names, no pack drill – a bit of easy money – and Bernie most definitely needed the money. He had had a couple of bad years, when nothing had gone right. The Inland Revenue were after him, national insurance, VAT, the bank, the finance company, two ex-wives – not to mention the council-tax people and the bloody rent man: in fact you name it and they had Bernie’s name top of the list.

      He thought his mate was taking the piss when they’d turned up in the works van at this place out on the Colmore Road, and that maybe he’d been set up. It was obvious, though there were no signs up outside, that the offices were government. The whole place reeked of tax returns and little men in grey suits with beady eyes hunched over columns of figures that didn’t quite add up. Just pulling into the car park had made him feel a bit queasy, but it had been okay – until now.

      Ms Hargreaves wailed again.

      Within a few seconds two middle-aged women in suits appeared, bustling down the corridor pursued by the boy, whose complexion had turned from grey to bright crimson.

      ‘In my opinion it’s best if we get her downstairs to First Aid,’ said one woman, elbowing her way past Bernie.

      ‘Shouldn’t we leave her where she is, Audrey? If we could just get her into the recovery position – I don’t think you should move a casualty –’ ‘But that is exactly my point, Lucinda, she isn’t a casualty is she? She is in labour –’

      ‘But I read –’

      On the