Chapter 9
The bed in the cell felt like it was made from bricks and the toilet flush wasn’t working, so for the last two hours she’d been in the uncomfortable company of someone else’s turd – and they did not have a healthy diet. If she hadn’t been considering self-harm when asked by the duty sergeant before, she was now. Were it not for the seriousness of the situation, she might have enjoyed its novelty. She’d never been in trouble with the law before; never had her fingerprints taken. Charing Cross Police Station was quite the venue on a Saturday night, far more interesting and immersive than Secret Cinema. The prostitute in the cell next door shouted, if you let me out, I’ll give you a blow job and I won’t even charge you. Such generosity, although somewhat self-damning. The worst thing was not having her phone to distract her. She hated having time on her hands. At school she’d once had to imagine being a middle-class Victorian woman for a day. She’d said the first thing she’d do was contract typhoid, preferring to shit herself to death than spend a single second with only flower pressing or embroidery to amuse her. She’d forgotten the restlessness of not having anywhere to channel her energies, and her eyes and fingers subconsciously sought the device out every few minutes. The only alternative was to think, and she did not like thinking. It was therefore a huge relief when she was told the duty solicitor had arrived, a relief that lasted right up until she met him.
John Foxsmith had bags under his eyes that were so big, it was like his eyelids had been put on upside down. He had the oddest streak of ginger hair across his upper lip, as though seconds before he’d drunk a glass of orange juice and had forgotten to wipe his mouth. And when he walked her to their private interview room, he did so in a lolloping zigzag, like he was trying to avoid flak from his past mistakes, of which he seemed the type to make many. Still, you could look like crap and not necessarily be crap at your job, right? He ushered her inside, closed the door and scanned the room.
‘Don’t say anything,’ he whispered, ‘but I’ve been drinking.’
‘You’re drunk?!’
‘Shh! Keep your voice down. If they find out, I could get rebuked.’
She slumped into a hard plastic chair and gave him some sharp rebuking of her own.
‘I just need to get my head straight,’ he said. ‘Have you got any water?’
‘No.’
‘I took a gamble on not being called out.’
‘On a Saturday night?!’
You didn’t need to have watched many police dramas to know that Saturday was the busiest night of the week at a station. He started explaining himself.
‘I’m not interested in your life story,’ she said.
‘Don’t panic. No one has to know.’
He paced up and down in the tiny room, focussing on his feet in an effort to maintain a straight line.
‘Er, any chance we can talk about me for a second?’ she said.
‘Sure, sure.’ He seemed unsure.
‘What did the police say when you got here?’ she prompted.
‘Erm…’
He’d forgotten.
‘I’ve been arrested for kicking a police officer in the balls.’
‘That’s it!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Did you do it?’
‘Not deliberately.’
‘Oh well, that makes all the difference.’
‘Does it?’
He sniggered. ‘No.’
The guy was sozzled.
‘Are you a real solicitor? Is this some kind of extended joke?’
This whole thing could still be an extravagant ruse.
‘I’m a real solicitor.’ He said it as an apology.
‘Jesus Christ.’
He laughed. She looked at him blankly.
‘Did you just say Cheesus Crust?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Because that would be pretty funny because, you know, Cheesus Crust. Like Jesus Christ, only cheesier.’
‘I didn’t say it. I said Jesus Christ.’
‘Are you religious?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I’m Church of Royally Fucked, mate.’
He laughed again. She gripped the edge of the table in front of her, fingers making contact with spongy chewing gum on its underside. She’d have to bathe for a month after this.
‘I didn’t know he was a police officer,’ she said.
‘Was he in plain clothes?’
‘No.’
He regarded her like she was the drunk one, but the effects of the alcohol had long since dissipated. Being in a cell could be a real buzzkill.
‘It seems unlikely you wouldn’t know then,’ he said.
‘It was a party. There were lots of police officers around.’
‘And yet you still assaulted one. Seems a bit stupid.’
‘Pot. Kettle.’
He laughed again, an idiotic barking laugh, like a seal on helium.
‘Do you have any current convictions?’ he asked.
‘Just the one that you’re an imbecile.’
‘Easy!’
She slammed the table with her fist. ‘This is so unfair!’
‘Just admit you made a mistake.’ He hiccupped. ‘It’s your first offense. A lapse in concentration. Tell them you’re sorry and they’ll probably let you off with a caution.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you’ll be let off with a caution. And you think I’m the slow one?’
‘I know what it is. But what does it mean legally? Do I have a criminal record?’
‘No. We just established that. This is a first offence, isn’t it?’
She dug her nails into her palms and asked again. He explained that a caution was something that stayed on your record for six years, and would only really be a problem if she was arrested again.
‘Be compliant in the interview, act apologetic, and with any luck we’ll both be out of here before the bars shut.’
An hour later, having done as she was told, John returned to the cell where she was waiting for news.
‘I’m afraid they’re going to charge you.’
Her skin suddenly felt very hot. ‘But you said… I did…’
‘I think someone up there’s got it in for you. Well, out there actually. They do have the option of letting you off, but it all depends on the officer. Afraid you got a particularly sensitive one. Although all men are particularly sensitive down there.’
Shit.
‘You’ll be charged and asked to attend magistrate’s court at a future date.’
She slumped onto the unyielding bed, bones jarring. ‘Should I plead guilty?’
‘That’s your choice. I can only advise.’
‘And what would you advise?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘Great.’
‘Oi. May I remind you that you’re getting this advice for free.’
‘You’re not giving me any advice.’
‘Is it any wonder? You’re not paying me! Anyway, I can’t hang around here all evening. I’ve got a case?—’
‘Ooh. Someone else gets to have the five-star counsel, do they?’
‘If you let me finish, I was going to say of lager. To be drinking. At home. It was nice to meet you…’
He’d forgotten her name.
‘Simone,’ she prompted.
He rapped on the door to be let out. Should she dob him in about drinking? She wanted to be as cruel to someone as fate was being to her. But what would that achieve? She just needed to get home and crawl into a bed that wasn’t crawling with god knows what. She’d figure it all out once she got out of here.