The Island Escape. Kerry Fisher
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that.’
People like me only came to police stations to report stolen iPads or missing Siamese cats. I was already trying to salvage any scrap of pride I had left. Rustling around in that wretched space suit might finish me off completely.
Pikestaff waved dismissively. ‘Look, it’s just something to cover you up while your blouse is examined for forensics. No big deal.’
Before she could say anything else, two policemen burst through the door, struggling to restrain a couple of girls in their mid-twenties. One had dyed black hair, thigh-length boots and the tiniest red miniskirt. The other was in a neon-pink body stocking. The Lycra had given up trying to contain her rolls of fat, her boobs spilling out like boxing gloves. The girls snarled and flailed as much as their handcuffs would allow, straining to get at each other in a torrent of abuse.
I glanced at Pikestaff. She looked bored rather than shocked. Another run-of-the-mill Thursday night.
Except for me.
These two women made Scott’s outbursts look like tea and scones with my mother’s patchwork club. The woman in Lycra spat at the policeman, saliva splattering onto his jacket. The other one was trying to stab anyone she could reach with her stiletto boots. No wonder Pikestaff was unperturbed that a middle-aged woman like me was having a wardrobe crisis.
She shuffled me over to the end of the counter, while I tried not to gawp round at the rumpus behind us. I prayed she’d keep that pair of devil women well away from me. With my Home Counties accent and aversion to miniskirts, the only common denominator uniting us was an unfortunate choice of meeting venue. The F-word didn’t trip off my tongue either, though Scott was no stranger to it.
When it was aimed at me, I felt the word land.
Pikestaff set out a sheet in front of her. I stood next to her, feeling as though I should make conversation, but what could I say? ‘Do you get many middle-aged, middle-class women in here?’ ‘Is it always this chaotic on a Thursday night?’
I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. I took a tissue from the box on the counter, a nasty cheap affair that disintegrated, leaving me picking bits of paper off my face.
Pikestaff ignored my pathetic little sobs and started running through my details. She scribbled away, stabbing an impatient full stop onto the paper after every answer as though there was a particularly salacious murder to solve just as soon as she could wash her hands of me. ‘Age?’ Thirty-nine. ‘Colour of eyes?’ Brown. ‘Distinguishing features?’ None. ‘Empty your pockets, please. Then I’ll just need to search you.’
I looked at her to see if she was joking. There didn’t seem to be anything funny about her. No wedding ring. I wondered if she had children. It was hard to imagine her soothing anyone to sleep. The disappointing contents of my pockets amounted to a Kleenex. She patted me down. Did she really think I had a knife tucked in my trousers? She rattled a plastic bag open. ‘I need your belt and jewellery.’
I dropped in my belt and bangle. I hesitated over my necklace. My Australian opals. Scott had brought them for me all the way from his native Sydney, his first trip home after Alicia was born, thirteen years ago. I wrapped the necklace in a tissue and placed it in the corner.
I threw in the big diamond solitaire Scott had produced with a flourish on our fifth anniversary. ‘Show that to your father,’ he’d said. ‘Told you we’d survive without his handouts.’
Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of my father’s disapproval.
Pikestaff was still making notes. Judging by the concentration on her face, no ‘t’ would escape uncrossed.
I slipped off my wedding band. The skin underneath was indented. Pale and shiny after fourteen years in the dark.
‘You’re allowed to keep your wedding ring,’ she said, barely looking up.
I held it for a moment, absorbing its mixture of memories, then slowly slid it back onto my finger.
I handed her the bag and she scrawled away, listing the contents. She thrust the paper towards me. ‘Sign here, please.’ My hand was shaking so much I could barely form the letters of my name.
‘You have the right to a solicitor. Would you like me to arrange one, or do you know someone?’
‘Solicitor? No. Thank you.’ I’d never even had a parking ticket before. Surely this wasn’t going to escalate into a proper full-blown police investigation? I was convinced that, sooner or later, one of Pikestaff’s minions would scuttle up and tell me I was free to go.
Pikestaff frowned as though I didn’t have a clue. ‘Do you want to tell someone you’re here? You’re allowed a phone call.’
Fright was taking the place of rebellion, but I declined. Scott knew I was here. That should be enough.
Surely that should be enough.
With a final flick of her papers, she picked up the boiler suit and said, ‘Right. Let’s take you down to a cell to get changed.’
My own incredulity, plus the shocking racket from the two women who were still taking it in turns to bellow obscenities, clouded my ability to think. Were they actually going to lock me up and make me strip?
‘Couldn’t I keep my blouse? Can’t I just sit in here until all this gets sorted out? I promise I won’t go anywhere.’
I think I was expecting her to make an exception because I wasn’t slurring my words, didn’t have any tattoos, and had had a shower in the last twenty-four hours.
She shook her head and opened a heavy grey door. ‘Your shirt’s considered evidence because it’s got blood on the cuff. There’s no point in arguing, we have to remove it. By force if necessary.’
I did that eyes-wide-open thing, trying to get my tears under control, but they were splashing down my cheeks then soaking into my blouse as I trailed along after her, just another Surrey miscreant to be dealt with before tea break.
Every cell door had a pair of shoes outside it. All too soon, it was my turn to feel the cold concrete beneath my feet. My patent boots looked out of place amongst the trainers and stilettos. Pikestaff stood back to let me enter, then followed me in. Pikestaff pushed her straggly blonde hair off her face. ‘Your shirt.’
I gave in. My pride was already at an all-time low. I wasn’t about to embark on an unseemly tussle with a policewoman, so I stripped off my blouse and thrust it at her without meeting her eye.
She put the boiler suit down on the mattress. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wear this?’
‘Quite sure, thank you.’ I squared my shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that I was standing in front of someone I didn’t know in a bra with more lace than substance. Judging by the disdain on her face, Pikestaff was more of a walking boots and headscarf sort of woman.
‘Suit yourself.’
The silent stand-off fanned a tiny spark of rebellion inside me. She had no idea about my life, none at all. Let her pass judgment about what sort of woman I was. Let the whole world.
Something shifted slightly in her face. I recognised the signs of a last-ditch effort. ‘Come on. Put it on. You don’t want to end up being interviewed in your bra. There’s CCTV everywhere.’
I tried to imagine walking through the police station with a mere whisper of black lace to protect my modesty. I pictured a crowd of officers pointing at the CCTV monitor and making jokes. To my frustration, my nerve buckled. I shook out the silly boiler suit and stepped into it. As I zipped up the front, resignation overwhelmed me. I didn’t look at Pikestaff in case I found smug satisfaction on her face.
As she left, the door reverberated shut like a scene from a budget police drama. I tried to distract myself by thinking about people facing a lifetime in jail for their beliefs and what it would be like to wake up in a tiny cell every day for years. Instead I became obsessed with whether I could get out of here before I needed