‘I want to ring my husband. You’ve taken my phone.’
‘We can organise that later. Just check this and sign. We’ll sort the fingerprints and you can give him a ring.’
Voices echoed around the walls. They had found the pump when they searched her and had allowed her to hang on to the BG meter and the flash glucose reader, though they looked at each item with suspicion before putting them in a sealed plastic bag. Through a glass door she could see people moving between desks, staring into computer screens. A tall slim woman in a belted green jacket clacked by with a clipboard. Two uniformed officers sauntered past, chatting, ignoring her. Natasha reminded herself that their indifference was cause for optimism. These people had real work to do. She was a petty shoplifter, of no serious interest to them.
‘If you’re going to ask questions, I’ll need a solicitor.’
‘You’ll have to wait. There’s no one around right now.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You have no right to arrest me anyway. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
The man pursed his lips and opened his piggy eyes as wide as they would go, which was not very wide. He was young, about Natasha’s age, with a pink face like the moon. He walked out from behind the counter and leant towards her. ‘Forgive me, madam, but I was under the impression that theft was usually considered to be a crime.’ His breath smelt acrid. ‘You said you were a barrister?’
She gave him the scary look, the one she’d been practising on witnesses and he backed off a little as she replied, ‘Theft requires the intention permanently to deprive. There was no such intention.’
‘Tell that to my superiors. I won’t argue with one of your noble profession. If you’ll just sign this, we’ll go and sort the fingerprints.’
Natasha heaved herself up and swayed to the counter. She scanned the form which set out details of the alleged offence, the time and place of arrest, her name and address and the contents of her handbag.
She scanned the page. Some of the type was large, some tiny, the stuff about your rights, the stuff they didn’t want you to read. The sergeant offered her a pen and she leant over the counter and signed, accepting that she had been arrested on suspicion of the theft of a bottle of Chanel perfume. She fell back onto the hard seat.
The light was hot, blinding white and one of the strips was flickering. The nausea was fading but now she had a headache coupled with an urge to hurl something hard and heavy across the counter at Piggy Eyes who was fiddling about with more bits of paper, trying to look interested in his dull job.
After fingerprinting, she was invited to follow a young, stony-faced policewoman down another cream-painted corridor. ‘We’ll take you to a place where you can wait for the duty solicitor.’
‘I’ve changed my mind about the solicitor. I’ve got nothing to hide. It was all a stupid mistake. I just want to get this over with and go home.’
‘Too late. He’s on his way. Follow me, Miss Baker.’
‘What about the phone call?’ she called after the young woman who was striding ahead.
‘Give us his number. We’ll call him for you.’ The woman didn’t turn but stopped at a heavy door which she opened, standing back to allow Natasha to enter. Something stuck in her throat.
‘You’re not putting me in here?’
‘Only till the solicitor gets here.’
‘Why can’t I wait in reception?’
‘Sergeant makes the decision,’ said the woman.
In front of Natasha was a low, narrow bed. No bedding. Just a mattress covered in grey and white ticking and a folded blanket. Natasha didn’t want to go near it, but she was exhausted. She sat down heavily, leaning against the wall. ‘I need something to eat.’
‘We’ll see what we can do.’
‘You saw the pump. I’m type 1 diabetic. It’s not optional. You want me to go into a coma?’
‘No need to get excited.’
‘And my husband, you’ll ring him?’
She was amazed at the ease with which she used the word ‘husband’. She had been irritated by Luke’s reference to her as his ‘wife’, but since her arrival in the police station, the status of marriage had come to seem strangely desirable.
‘Give me the number then.’ The police officer wrote it down and walked out, slamming the metal door.
The cell was stuffy, smelling of someone else’s sweat. There was no window, only a couple of airbricks high in the wall. Were they expecting her to spend the night here? There was a toilet in the corner, about a metre away from the bed, a toilet roll on a holder attached to the wall. Even a dog would leave more distance between the place it slept in and the place in which it chose to defecate. There was a small sink with a plastic bottle of handwash and a towel. Above the sink was a sign: NOT DRINKING WATER. A plastic pitcher of water and a mug had been placed on a small table.
How dare they do this to her? She would sue them for false imprisonment. They hadn’t even listened to her explanation. The bed was low, and her thighs were wedged up against her swollen belly. The only way to begin to be comfortable would be to lie down. She stretched out on her side. The headache was bad, but the shooting pains had ceased. What if she went into labour? There was no bell. They would forget about her. She would die in here. There was no guarantee they would contact Luke. She looked at her watch. 6:45 p.m. He would be worrying, ringing her mobile. She could hear sounds, banging, shouts. Other prisoners, real prisoners, were thumping the doors of their cells. The woman with the hard face came back with a sandwich: sliced white bread and processed cheese filling.
‘All I could find.’
She put it down on a small metal table and left, slamming the door behind her.
Natasha took a reading. Her levels were haywire. She pumped in the required amount of insulin and bolted down the horrible sandwich. Afterwards she felt calmer, though her head still ached. She lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
* * *
Someone was shaking her shoulder. It was the woman who had brought the sandwich.
‘Your solicitor’s here.’
‘Did you ring Luke?’
‘He’s coming down.’
Natasha pulled herself up and let herself be led back down the corridor to a room with a glass door. Her mouth tasted foul.
‘May I have my bag, please?’ There was a roll of peppermints in the side pocket.
‘Not yet.’
‘What time is it?’
‘A few minutes after eight. You’ve been asleep just over an hour.’
‘I need to go home. You can’t keep me here.’
‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer. We’re doing our best to organise the interview tonight.’
The woman walked out, banging the door behind her. And it came back to her, the overheated rooms, the plastic chairs, the smell of sweat, the heavy doors. She had bitten her foster mother and been returned to the children’s home. For twenty-four hours she had been placed in secure accommodation. Once again, she heard the clang of the door and the rasp of the key in the lock.
It was a memory, nothing more. Memories could do this. Could take you to a place of horror you thought you had left behind. She would never go back there. She would never again be locked up. The police seemed determined to go through with this farce. Maybe they had to achieve a certain number of arrests. But she would break free as she had always broken free. Soon she would be home with Luke. Tomorrow she would return to the court and speak out against the woman who had attacked her.