The Island Escape. Kerry Fisher
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perched on the mattress, trying not to touch it with my bare hands. I wondered if Alicia was asleep. I hated the thought of her going to school in the morning all strung- out and exhausted. The memory of her bewildered face as the police marched me away, that teenage bravado long gone, threatened my fragile composure. I hoped she’d heard me shout, ‘Don’t worry, darling, it’s just a bit of a misunderstanding,’ over my shoulder as I ducked into the squad car. I hoped – probably in vain – that Scott had been more interested in comforting her than making sure she understood that ‘I’d driven him to it’.
He couldn’t really have intended for me to be sitting here in this airless pit, though. Every time someone opened the door outside in the corridor, the smell of stale urine wafted around. I saw the occasional shadow move past the opaque window to the outside, convincing myself every time that it must be Scott coming to save me. A man was singing ‘Why are we waiting?’ in the cell opposite. Whoever was next to me was trying to batter the door down. I kept jumping at every crash.
After what seemed like an eternity, a fetid gust signalled the arrival of someone. The metal shutter was pulled back. Then a dark-haired policeman I hadn’t seen before came in, carrying a paper cup. Another person to feel humiliated in front of. Sitting there in a garb more suitable for carrying out a crime scene investigation made normal interaction impossible. I didn’t even dress up for fancy dress parties. The hairs on my arms lifted with static as I crossed them over my chest.
‘Are you OK?’ His voice was gentle. None of Pikestaff’s hostility.
I shrugged, then nodded.
‘Here.’ He handed me the tea. ‘Can I give you a word of advice? Don’t turn down the duty solicitor.’
‘Why? I shouldn’t even be here.’
‘I’d have one, just in case. It can be a bit weird on your own the first time. It is your first time, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I wanted to add, Of course.
‘Get someone to help you who knows the ropes. I shouldn’t tell you this, but they’ve taken a statement from your husband.’ He bit his lip and glanced at the door. ‘He’s going to press charges.’
I gasped. I didn’t think anything Scott did could shock me any more. I was wrong. Just a day ago I’d thought we were in a calm period. We’d discussed Scott’s next trip to Australia to check up on one of his building ventures, had a curry and watched the news. Then we’d gone upstairs and had sex, good sex.
And now he wanted to take me to court.
My God. I was actually going to need a solicitor. Lord. That meant rights and tapes and statements. I started shaking. Up until then, I hadn’t really believed Scott would go through with this charade. I wanted to throw myself around the policeman’s legs and beg him to get me out of here. I dug deep. And strangely enough, thought of my father and his favourite mantra. ‘You can get anywhere with a bit of backbone, Roberta, it’s what defines the Deauville family.’ I don’t think my father ever expected me to grow a backbone to use against him, but I was grateful for it now.
I swallowed and concentrated on breathing. ‘Could you organise a solicitor for me, please?’ My voice wobbled. ‘And I think I’d better phone someone.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll let them know at the desk.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Stop shaking. You’ll be OK. Who do you want to phone?’
I dithered. Who would have the Get out of jail free card? Scott? Beg him to come down and tell them it was all a stupid joke? That obviously wasn’t part of his plan. My mother? No, she could transform serving up a Sunday roast into a national emergency – ‘Oh my God, I’ve forgotten the horseradish. Just a minute, get started, it will all go cold, nothing worse than cold food, come on, get eating.’ Me, my bra and the police cell would probably put her on Prozac for good. My father? I wasn’t sure whether he’d rush to my rescue or say, ‘Serve you right’.
The policeman looked down at me, waiting for an answer. I trusted him. Even his name – Joe Miller, according to his name badge – was solid. GI Joe. He looked like the sort of chap who knew how to fix a dripping tap, who could change a tyre without swearing, who could accept there might be an opinion in the world that was different from his.
‘I’d like to call my best friend, Octavia Shelton.’
He ushered me out of the cell to a side room and I told him the number to dial. I knew she’d be in bed. I imagined her spooned up to Jonathan, all fleecy nightshirt and woolly socks. I was always teasing her about her utilitarian choice of bedwear. Scott would never have put up with it. She seemed to take forever to answer. GI Joe announced himself as calling from Surrey police, quickly saying there was nothing to worry about – though that, of course, depended on your perspective. He handed the phone to me.
Relief coursed through me. Octavia would get it sorted.
She always did.
I hated the bloody phone ringing in the middle of the night. Good news could always wait until morning. My first thought was Mum. I’d never liked her living alone in that big house after Dad died. I was awake on the first ring; it just took me a little longer to find the flaming handset under yesterday’s jeans.
I was still trying to get my head around the Surrey police announcement when Roberta came on the line. She sounded strained, as though she was being forced to speak in front of a hostile audience. As soon as she said, ‘Arrested’, she started blubbing and couldn’t get proper sentences out. I got ‘Scott’ and ‘solicitor’ and something about bringing a T-shirt. I ended up speaking slowly into the receiver, not sure whether she could even hear me.
I told her I’d be there as soon as I could, already grabbing a jumper from the end of the bed. Then the police officer came back on the phone. When I asked if I’d be able to see her, he told me that ‘detainees weren’t permitted visitors while in custody’. That did freak the shit out of me. Even though he said he didn’t know how long it would take for Roberta to be ‘processed’, I decided to go down anyway.
I pulled at Jonathan’s wrist, trying to read his watch in the dark. Nearly one o’clock. He shrugged in his sleep. I shook him. Then again, much harder. The whole family could be hacked to death with a machete and Jonathan would just tug the duvet a little higher. In desperation, I held his nose. I thought he might suffocate before he opened his eyes. Panic that Roberta might be in real trouble made me pinch hard.
When he did finally gasp into life, he squinted around as though he’d never woken up in our bedroom before. If the house had been on fire, I would have saved the three children, dog, hamster and been back for the giant African land snails before Jonathan had worked out where he was.
‘Roberta’s been arrested. I’m going to the police station,’ I said, while he was still peering round, mole-like. It really hacked me off that my husband could breathe life into any ailing computer but had the slowest thought processes on the planet when it came to getting to grips with the bare bones of a midnight phone call.
‘Arrested? Wha-? What’s happened?’ He started getting out of bed, almost knocking over his water glass. ‘Is she hurt?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘How long are you going to be?’
‘I don’t know, she couldn’t really speak. Not sure what’s happened, something to do with Scott.’
‘God, bloody Roberta. She can never have a drama at a civilised hour, can she?’
‘She can’t help it. Let’s hope she hasn’t murdered Scott,’ I said, tying my hair back with one of Polly’s school hairbands.
‘Can’t see that the world would be a worse