by Maria Farrer
Thoughts pile in, one on top of the other. Rewinding, replaying. Declan and Joel and Tyler in my kitchen. I should have stood up to them. I should’ve refused. Tears run down my cheeks, drip on to my jeans. I only rang a bloody doorbell. They can’t send me to prison for ringing a doorbell, can they? It shouldn’t be me in this car. It’s not right. Why did I bloody run? I’m an idiot, a stupid, stupid idiot.
The car starts to move and I stare out of the window, watching the streets go by, strange and unreal. Do I look like a criminal? My throat constricts making breathing hard as frustration hammers against my ribs at the injustice of it all.
It’s Tyler’s fault. I want to kill him. How did he pull me in so easily? All his promises, his lines about needing me, about my brother wanting us to be together. Did he have this planned all along? Is this what he did to my brother? I bet he never gave a toss about Liam, just like he doesn’t give a toss about me. If he did, he’d have come back for me. He’s only loyal to one person. Declan.
And what are they all doing now, as I’m being driven to the police station? Lounging around in the caravan, no doubt, drinking the rest of the beer, smoking, laughing at me, laughing at their lucky escape. Becky will be there, flashing her tits at Declan. He’s probably given her Liam’s stone to wear. Anger flares, and the need for revenge. I could tell the police where they are. I could take them straight there. For a moment I feel light-headed with the idea until Declan’s threats come thundering in; the knife held against me. My thoughts turn on their head. What if I’m wrong and Tyler does care about me and he’s as scared and hurt and confused as I am? I’m in this as deep as I can get and I can’t risk saying anything, because I don’t trust anyone any more. I hate Declan, I hated him from the start, and now I’m very, very afraid.
I give one small sob, digging the nails of one hand into the back of the other in an effort at control. The policeman looks at me as if he’s seen it all before. He has seen it all before. I’m just another bad kid like so many others round here. Why would he think I’m any different?
At that moment the rain starts. Slow at first then pounding against the windscreen, the wipers frantically flipping back and forth, back and forth. It makes me cold and it makes me sad.
I wish I was Liam. I wish I was dead.
The police station is a modern building with a lot of glass. You can see out of the windows but you can’t see in. That makes me feel better. I don’t want anyone to see me. But there are eyes everywhere and I can’t hide.
I’m taken to the custody suite where a policeman stands at a desk behind a glass screen and reads me my rights. I nod as I try to take in what he’s saying, but his words disappear into a fog of fear. He asks me my name and address and tells me they need to inform my parents. I wish I could disappear for ever. The thought of what Dad is going to say is almost worse than being arrested.
In another room a lady in a uniform searches me and takes my watch, my jewellery and the laces out of my shoes. They already have my phone and the small amount of money I had in my pockets. They’ve got the bag Declan gave me too. Then I’m asked some questions by someone who I think is a nurse or a doctor. Have I drunk any alcohol, taken any substances? Yes to the alcohol – not much. I answer all her questions and she seems satisfied. I’m offered water. Do I need the toilet? I shake my head to both.
Then I’m led through a heavy door and straight ahead, across a corridor, into a white-walled room with a wooden bench and a hard floor. This, I’m informed, is a detention room. It looks like a cell to me – a cell for criminals – and it’s so bare it makes me feel naked.
“We’ll let you know when your dad arrives,” says the policewoman. And the door is closed. It feels final, as if I’ll be locked in for ever. I know it’s not cold, but I’m shivering and I curl up into a ball in the corner. In a room like this you can’t look outwards, only inwards. And I don’t want to look inwards because every thought is a bad thought. There’s nowhere I can go in my head that doesn’t fill me with panic or fear. There’s a kind of peephole in the door so that people on the outside can watch without me knowing. I picture Liam watching me. Finders keepers, losers weepers.
I don’t know how long I wait. I rehearse what I’m going to say to Dad. I go over and over what happened. Every small sound is magnified. With each click or bang, I expect the door to open and Dad to come in. I wonder if any of the others are in here. For all I know, Tyler could be next door, but something tells me he isn’t.
By the time the door does open, I’ve almost given up. Suddenly Dad is here in the room and I don’t know what to do. I want him to hold out his arms and tell me everything will be all right, but he stands stiffly, creating an invisible wall between us.
“What the hell have you done?” he asks. He stares around and shakes his head. “God!”
I stand up, but he holds up his hand in a “stop” motion. Tears threaten and I try to swallow and blink them back. Dad seems uncertain as to what happens next and an officer reads my rights again and asks me and Dad if we understand. Dad nods.
“Right, Mr Neville, your daughter will be held here pending enquiries. You will be required to be present at the interview. Do you wish to contact a solicitor or we can contact a solicitor on your behalf?”
Dad shakes his head. I don’t know if he’s taking in anything at all.
“There may be a considerable delay before the interview. You can either wait in the waiting room or go home and we’ll contact you.”
Dad shakes his head again.
“How long?” I ask. I don’t want to be in this room any longer.
“Depends on how long it takes,” says the officer.
Dad doesn’t even look at me before he leaves. He’s only been here a matter of minutes. The door bangs shut and I’m alone again. Time becomes my central focus, but without a watch I have no idea of how many hours pass. I count to sixty a few times, trying to measure the length of a minute. I need to keep my mind busy to stop fear taking over. I don’t want to think about what’s happened. I’ve already been over it in my head a hundred times. I’m exhausted and wide awake at the same time. I’m offered food and more water, but I can’t touch anything.
Finally, I hear the click of the door and I’m on my feet before it’s open. I’m taken to an interview room. Dad is waiting, big and bristling and we sit down opposite two more police officers. The interview is horrendous. Question after question after question. It gets worse and worse. I tell them exactly what happened. I don’t bother to lie. They keep delving deeper and deeper until I know I’m bad from head to toe.
They ask me why I have two phones and I tell them I only have one. They ask about the other one, the one in the bag.
“Nothing to do with me,” I say. This doesn’t feel like too much of a lie.
“So how come it was in your bag, Amber?”
“It isn’t my bag.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” says Dad.
“I mean I was given it by … by one of the others.” I pull myself up quickly just before I say Declan’s name. “The phone was in it. I was supposed to use it to ring if I saw anything.”
“Anything… ?”
I shrug. “I didn’t use it.”
The police officer makes a note.
They ask me about my own phone and who I’ve contacted recently. It occurs to me then that none of the group ever contacted me by phone. I never had any of their mobile numbers either. No trace at all. Was that on purpose? Were they that clever?
I don’t have time to think too hard about this. The questions keep coming.
I have to go over my movements over the last few days and that’s trickier. I talk about working at the café and they ask me about Cathy, Simon and the new boy, Josh.
“Surely you’re not suggesting Cathy or Simon are involved in all this?” Dad says. He sounds ready to explode.
“We�
�re not suggesting anything,” the policeman says.
They ask Dad if he can vouch for my movements and he says he can. I can feel my eyes widening in disbelief, but I force myself to nod in agreement. He tells them I’ve been grounded since Kelly’s party and that’s why he’s so shocked about what’s happened. Dad makes himself sound like the super-responsible parent, but I’m not sure they buy it.
Then they ask me about Kelly’s party. How do I know her? Who was there? Who did I talk to? I tell them the truth – that I didn’t really know anyone. They get impatient. So does Dad.
“We told you to stay away from that girl,” he says.
“Was Kelly involved?” they ask me.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
Dad huffs, sits back in his chair and folds his arms.
Repeatedly, they ask me to name the other members of the gang. And I want to. I want to spill them all out, tell them everything. I scream at myself, tell them, tell them, but Declan’s voice screams back louder. I need time to think this through, but time is something I don’t have. If Declan’s threats are real … give us names, Amber … and they are real … give us names … what will he do to me? What will he do to Tyler? NAMES.
I shake my head. If I say anything, anything at all, Declan will know. I don’t want Declan coming after me. I have to protect myself. And I don’t want Tyler getting hurt. I have to protect him too – even after what he’s done – because I don’t know anything for sure. Tyler said we must stick together, for Liam’s sake, but what’s Liam got to do with all this? Nothing makes sense any more. Every nerve in my body is ragged and raw.
“I can’t tell you?” I whisper.
“Can’t or won’t?” says Dad. “Just bloody tell them the names.”
I look at Dad and I wish he would understand I don’t need more enemies. A long silence follows. A silence I am expected to fill. If Dad had been the perfect father he’s making himself out to be, he never would have left me on the anniversary of Liam’s death and none of this would’ve happened. Or I would’ve told him about Declan after that day in the shopping mall and perhaps he would have helped. Who knows? But I’ve never really talked to Dad – not ever. I had Liam.
The silence continues.
I press my lips together and give a small shrug. I sense, in the eyes of the people questioning me, that they understand more than Dad. I want them to know that I am not being difficult for the sake of it. I want them to see the battle going on in my head.
The interview winds up. Every last bit of energy, every morsel of information has been sucked from me. Everything except names or any other specifics about Tyler, Declan, Joel or Becky.
The policeman says that I’ll be released on bail pending further enquiries. I don’t know what this means but I cling on to the word released.
“Does that mean I can go home?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes. You will be required to return to this station in one month’s time unless you are contacted before that date.”
“Will I go to prison?”
At the mention of the word prison, Dad runs his fingers through his hair and slumps back in his chair.
“All the information will be passed to the Youth Offending Team and you’ll be contacted by them in due course.”
Before I leave, I’m fingerprinted and photographed, my personal identity recorded for ever, and my things returned to me – all except my phone. Getting out of here is the only thing I care about and, as we walk towards the door, my legs almost give way with relief. It doesn’t last long. I feel Dad’s grip on my arm, I feel Declan’s knife pressing against me, Liam’s shadow, my guilt. I’ve been released but I’m not free.
It’s almost dark when we step out of the station and on to the wet pavement. After the silence of my cell and the noiselessness of the interview room, the sound of traffic, the sloosh of tyres on the slick wet road surface, feels like an attack. The streets have changed. There’s no comfortable familiarity any more. I don’t know who, or what, or where to trust. I feel watched.
Dad has his arm linked through mine, pinning my elbow to his side. I’d like to know what’s going on in his head. We walk together, Dad with his head down, me trying to see behind every car, around every corner. I try to comfort myself with the fact I’m going home and, right now, home seems like a good option. But is it a safe option? Of course it isn’t. They know where I live.
Dad unlocks the car and we get in, still without saying a word. I slide my hand to the manual lock button near the handle and press, listening for the gentle click that tells me my door can’t be opened from the outside. Then we sit. Dad makes no move to drive away. We sit and sit until I can’t stand it any longer.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
He takes a deep breath and throws back his head, hitting the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. It scares me and I shrink back towards my door, trying to disappear into my seat.
When he looks at me his eyes are raging, but when he speaks his anger is matter-of-fact and controlled.
“We’ll never forgive you for this, Amber. Don’t expect anything from your mother and me any more. Nothing. Do you understand?”
I nod wearily. I don’t expect much as it is. Are they going to throw me out? Take away my job? Or is it just another empty threat?
Dad starts the car, reverses out of the parking space too fast, and drives us home. My mind is numb and exhausted. When we arrive, I trail behind him into the house.
“Paula?” shouts Dad as he shuts the door. There’s no answer. He goes upstairs and when he comes down, his eyes tell me all I need to know about the state Mum’s in. I don’t know how to act or what I’m supposed to do, so I put on the kettle. Dad’s mobile rings and he goes off into another room. I make us both tea. It feels normal, but it isn’t.
He looks hassled when he comes back into the kitchen and when I push a cup of tea towards him, he takes it without a word of thanks.
“I’m off tomorrow, early,” he says. “I won’t be back for a few days. If you do anything, ANYTHING to cause trouble, you’ll be out of this house for good. Do you understand?”
I take in what he is saying, but the words don’t carry any weight. I’ve heard it all before.
“Turn out the lights before you go to bed,” he says and I count his treads up the stairs. Eleven, twelve, thirteen.
Bed. It’s where I need to be. I stand up and glimpse a movement at the kitchen window. I freeze, my heart pounding. The movement freezes with me and I realize it’s my own reflection, shadowy and scary. I check all the windows are tight closed and pull down the blinds, shutting out the dark. I don’t want to think of the last time I was in this kitchen. I don’t want to think of Declan. I let the numbness come over me again and I fear going to sleep and losing control. So I sit down in the quiet, put my cheek down on the table, and stare at the wall.
I have no idea when I eventually crawl into bed. My body is desperate for sleep but my mind is still working overtime. I turn on the light, turn it off again. I lie on my side, my back, my stomach. Finally I hug my duvet around me and watch the dawn light creep through the curtains. I keep thinking, over and over, that all this is some big mistake; that I wasn’t actually there; that it wasn’t me that got arrested. It doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t even look like me. This is a person I don’t know.
Dad is quiet as he gets up and it’s not long before I hear his car start and pull away. I’m glad I don’t have to see him. I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t care if I never see him again. I don’t care if I never see anyone again. I give sleep one last try but it’s useless; my heart is beating too hard, my panic uncontainable.
I have to move, so I stand up and peep through the curtains. The world is still there. It hasn’t ended. I check up and down the street. It looks the same as usual. Normality still exists
for those who are lucky.
I tug the curtains open and sit back down on the bed. I look at the books school has given me to read over the holidays. I was hoping to carry on with English next year, but now I’m not even sure that school will have me back. Will they know? Will everyone know? I can imagine them talking about me in huddled groups. Or maybe not. Maybe people getting in trouble with the police is so common at school that no one will notice. But AMBER, I can hear them saying in a tone somewhere between shock and excitement. First my brother, now this. Why?
The empty space where I used to hide Liam’s stone glares at me. My mind travels up endless dead ends. Each time, I feel another speck of hope crushed out of me. My gut spasms and I have to run to the toilet.
By nine o’clock the sun is bright. I lie, curled even tighter on my bed, holding my belly. It’s more habit than anything that sends me through to Mum’s room. I want to tell her my tummy hurts and I want to crawl into bed with her and for her to bring a towel and bowl “just in case”. But when I tiptoe into her room, smell the fug and see the way her arm hangs over the edge of the bed, I know it’s me that should be fetching the towel and bowl.
I can’t do this by myself. I can’t.
I walk slowly down the stairs, feeling each step. Simon? I take a deep breath. I know I can’t ring Simon. Other friends? Where have all my friends gone? I wander into the kitchen. I’d like to open a window, but I don’t dare.
Stuck to the fridge is a list of hospital information. I run my finger down the list of numbers. Ward G5 has been added to the bottom. That must be where Gran is now. My finger hovers over the number. I memorize it.
I pick up the phone then put it down again. Why ring? If I ring she can refuse to see me. If I go to the hospital, it’ll be much harder for her to turn me away. It may not work but it’s the best chance I’ve got. G5.
I choose my clothes carefully. It matters that I look nice on the outside and concentrating on the little things helps. The journey to the hospital takes for ever. I feel as if everyone’s eyes are on me; as if they all know. In turn, I’m watchful. It’s tiring. The doors hiss open and shut. The bus gets more and more crowded and stepping off brings a brief sense of escape.
