by Matthew Crow
“We’re not at school. We’re off sick.”
“Metro’s no place for recuperation.” The policeman laughed, moving closer. “Do you know what Toby over there is?”
“An unfortunately named woman?” Amber said, nodding toward the policewoman. I looked up and the policeman smiled but shook his head. “Or do you mean your rubbish guide dog?” she tried again. The whole time the officer kept shaking his head.
“I think you know exactly what I mean, flower. Now are you going to make this easy or hard?”
“Easy,” I said.
Amber turned and glared at me.
“Right. Who’s going to empty their pockets first?” he asked.
Eventually Amber moaned and shoved her hands into the one narrow coin pocket on the hip of her jeans. She pulled out a packet of cola-flavored bubble gum and a losing scratch card.
“Very good. And now you, good sir,” the policeman said to me.
My hands were shaking so hard that at first I couldn’t control them. Bravely I managed to demonstrate the pristine nature of my inside pockets, retrieving only the two spare buttons and a receipt from the clothing store that Mum had left in so I’d remember how much the coat had cost and would be sure to take care of it. I went into my front left pocket, then my front right, finally removing my hands.
“That everything?” the policeman said.
I nodded at first, but the dog was howling and moaning in the background and I feared that refusal to cooperate would result in a state-sanctioned mauling, so eventually I relented and pulled out the small bag of weed.
“Well, well, well,” the policeman said, taking the bag from me. “The plot thickens.”
“It’s medicinal,” Amber said.
“It always is, pet,” the policeman said, shaking the small bag at the policewoman, who rolled her eyes and took a treat from her pocket to feed to the hound, which silenced him momentarily.
“We’ve got cancer,” Amber announced.
The policeman looked flustered but then checked himself and resumed his dour expression.
“That may be, but the law’s the law. And I’m afraid there’s no such thing as a get-out-of-jail-free card. Now, what are your names?” he said, taking a pad from his pocket.
Neither of us spoke and the silence overwhelmed me, so eventually I cut in.
“Francis Wootton,” I said, and Amber groaned. “Francis spelled with an i. I live at one-eleven Melrose Gardens. . . .”
“All right, all right, I get the gist, kidder. And the lady?” he asked.
Silence.
I made a whimpering sound as Amber stood her ground and stared the policeman straight in the eye. Eventually she gave in.
“Amber,” she said.
“There a second half to that story?”
“Spratt,” she said. It was not the prettiest name at the best of times. But Amber always managed to make it sound like a swear word.
“Very good. Now I think you both know you’re going to have to come back to the station with us.”
“Nooooooo,” Amber whined.
“Afraid so, love. We’ve got to make you watch a video now so you won’t do it again.”
“Come on, cut us some slack.”
“Doesn’t work like that, darling,” he said. “We’ll call your parents. . . .”
I heard this part, then everything seemed to go mute for a moment. I had not even contemplated the possibility of Mum becoming involved in all this.
“Is there any chance I can ring my brother instead?” I asked. “He’s a responsible adult. . . .”
“Is he your legal guardian?”
“He picks me up from school sometimes.”
“Sorry, lad, you’re going to have to face the music, I’m afraid. We’ll get in touch with your mam, don’t you worry.”
I looked at Amber with desperate, frenzied eyes. She didn’t seem scared, more indignant. She must have picked up on my terror, though, because she made one last-ditch attempt to plead mitigating circumstances and suddenly went limp, like her skeleton had been removed.
“Oooooh, my cancer,” she groaned, looking pained and weak.
She flopped sideways against me, and let her head fall against my shoulder as though she had passed out.
She didn’t move. I looked at the policeman and he shook his head.
“Come on, love, don’t play the fool.”
Amber still didn’t respond. Her routine had failed in the most spectacular fashion but she deserved credit for persistence if nothing else.
“Amber . . .” I said. “Amber! Get up.”
“Mmmmmmm,” she said, rolling her head on my shoulder.
I looked first at the policeman and then the policewoman, busy feeding the gigantic hound treats from her pocket, before finally returning to the policeman, who was growing ever wearier of Amber’s dramatics. There was nothing else to say. I felt my entire life come crashing down around me and there was only one thing I could think of to do.
I leaned forward and threw up on his shoes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Being at the police station was the single most terrifying forty-five minutes of my life. They registered us at a front desk, and then took us into two separate rooms. They offered me a drink but I declined, fearing truth serum or something that might render me unconscious. Two police officers came in and chatted together for a while and then left me to stew.
I didn’t have time to worry about Amber. I assumed she would fare well in jail whereas I probably wasn’t so well suited to life behind bars. I wouldn’t last long. My dietary requirements, for one, would no doubt be ignored. Likewise my inability to sleep on sheets that had been washed without fabric softener.
It didn’t help that the policeman left to sit with me was not the chatty type. Once I was feeling a bit braver I attempted to engage him in conversation, but was met with one-word answers at best so just had to sit there in fear of whatever came next. And having seen Slumdog Millionaire, I knew all too well how authorities dealt with youths of unlikely intelligence.
Every ten minutes or so another policeman would pop his head around the door and provide updates on Mum’s progress toward the station. I’m sure this was some small attempt to make me feel better. (I’d cried twice and thrown up once more since my incarceration.) But in truth it just made me feel worse. All I could assume was that the policeman reporting on her movements was not the one who had been responsible for calling Mum.
After what felt like a lifetime I heard noise erupt in the hall outside and a woman’s voice howling all sorts of threats. I could hear Mum demanding to see her son, and informing a stuttering officer that if I suffered any relapse in my condition, then she would sue him personally, Northumbria Police and Newcastle City Council, and she would win.
“Sounds like your time’s up, big lad,” the policeman said to me from behind his copy of the Daily Sport.
Suddenly I was not so scared of jail anymore.
Mum came inside the interview room and burst into tears. I did not. My time at Her Majesty’s pleasure had hardened me somewhat, so I just let her hug me, though I shivered when through tears she whispered that as soon as I was better she was going to smack me into the middle of next week.
“Do you know just how unwell he is?” she asked the policeman who had been looking after me.
“That’s why I was sitting in here with him.”
“Medically trained, are you?”
“I’ve got two eyes and know the number of a good ambulance service,” the policeman said with a chuckle.
Mum did not laugh. She just grabbed me by the arm and yanked me to my feet.
“This is far from over,” she said as a policewoman led us out of the room and down the corridor.
We were taken into a small office where another policeman, this one in
a suit, sat behind a desk.
“Francis Wootton . . .” he said slowly, “. . . and this must be Mam.” She was so busy fussing about inside her handbag for her car keys that she didn’t notice the way the policeman was looking at her. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked her eventually.
“Excuse me?” Mum said, confused at first. Only once she looked properly at the policeman for the first time, her face changed. “You’re kidding?” she said glumly, like she’d just noticed a flat tire.
“It’s been a long time,” he said to her.
“Good to see you again, Dennis,” Mum said. The policeman corrected her, telling her it was DS Bradshaw these days. Mum just scoffed at this, with a short, cruel laugh. “If that’s not irony I don’t know what is! Look, is this going to take long?”
“It’s good to see you again too, Julie.”
“It’s Mrs. Wootton,” she said, then for no reason whatsoever added, “in name only. Subject to change.”
At this the policeman looked like he’d got five balls right on the Lottery and was waiting for lucky number six. Mum just looked like she wanted to kill someone.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“I’ve got an absentee husband, my own parking space at a cancer unit, and a druggie for a son,” she said, slapping my leg. “How do you think it’s going?”
The policeman laughed.
“Well, you’ll be on your way soon. Couple of forms to fill out, a video to watch . . .”
“What?”
“Just a little deterrent we use.”
“We’ll rent Trainspotting,” Mum said. I smiled, but made sure not to laugh, though this subtlety was not lost on her, or on DS Bradshaw, who stared at me.
“Nothing funny about what happened today, young man. Riding without a ticket, carrying a Class-C substance, soiling a train car.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Mum said. She was obviously unaware of the extent of our crimes. “What did you do?”
“I was sick,” I said.
Mum pressed her hand to my forehead and started cupping my glands.
“But you’re okay now? You’re feeling better? Do you need some medicine?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but weakly enough that she’d think I was just being brave.
“Mercedes, eh?” DS Bradshaw said, pointing at Mum’s key ring. “Must be doing something right.”
“I hot-wire cars,” she said. At this he laughed and even Mum smirked. “Look, I’m sorry. Any other time, Dennis, and I’d have loved a catch-up, but I really do need to get my son home. Can we just skip to the good bits of the video?”
The policeman huffed and shook his head, making it look like he was doing us a huge favor.
“All right,” he said. “But only because I know you, Julie, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that your boy won’t be doing it again.”
“I won’t. Ever.”
“Come on then,” he said, standing up. “There are a couple of things we need to get sorted, then you’re free to go.”
I sat by the windows as Mum filled out some forms at the front desk.
“OH, NO!” she yelled, pointing her pen at one paragraph in particular.
“It’s just protocol. A fifty-pound fine for soiling a Metro car.”
“He’s unwell,” she said to DS Bradshaw, leaning forward and baring her teeth.
“It has to be paid. And by the looks of it, you’re hardly strapped for cash.”
“It’s a point of principle.”
“You’re the one who was so keen to leave.”
Mum looked around the room and then glared at me.
“He’s fifteen,” she said, this time more softly, “same age as I was when you last saw me, I reckon. Come on, Dennis.” Her tone was worrying amicable. “You must remember, all those years ago? We were just kids . . . the fun we used to have,” she said, then left a long pause. “I was fifteen and you were nineteen, remember?”
I felt queasy. This was worse than being arrested for drugs. Mum was trying to sex-blackmail a policeman. They were going to make a documentary about us for certain. With her as my moral guide it was no wonder I had spiraled into a hell of crime and narcotics. I was only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.
“Julie, Julie, Julie . . . you cannot be serious?”
He didn’t seem angry when he said it, the way most people would be. For some reason he seemed to be enjoying the confrontation. I should have thrown up again on the floor, just to teach them both a lesson. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
I looked up and saw Mum raise her eyebrows the way women do in films before the screen fades to black.
“Drop the fine,” she said, “or I’ll ruin your life.”
DS Bradshaw threw back his head and laughed hard. “Oh, you’ve not changed a bit. Not one little bit.”
He picked up the sheets of paper and stacked them together neatly.
“You know, most people would be arrested for the stunt you just tried to pull?”
“Most people wouldn’t dare try,” she said.
“That’s for damn sure.”
“So?”
“All right then,” he said. “Just this once, I’ll pull some strings.”
“You make sure you do,” Mum said, slinging her handbag across her chest like it was body armor as she turned to summon me.
“And you watch yourself, young man,” Bradshaw said to me as we left the station. “Next time it’ll be ten to fifteen years, no question.”
I laughed weakly and scurried outside after Mum.
“Oh, and Julie love, you owe me a drink.”
Mum laughed and turned back into the police station, even though I had taken her by the hand and was yanking her in the opposite direction.
“Don’t push your luck, Dennis,” she said before I finally managed to drag her away.
The car ride home was deathly silent. I went to put on a CD but Mum put out her hand to stop me.
“You sit tight until we’re home, sonny,” she said. “Then you’re really going to get it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I started. “I think it’s the pressure of the last year. . . .”
“That’ll not wash,” Mum said. “Just belt up and keep your head down. This is so far from over it’s not even funny, Francis.”
Fortunately for me, the threatened reprimand was softened by the presence of Chris and Fiona.
As Mum pulled onto our street something white was dangling from her bedroom window. When we drew closer it became obvious that it was the old double sheet from the garage that she had used to cover the floor when she was decorating the downstairs bathroom.
“FREE THE TYNESIDE TWO” was painted on it in block capitals.
“I will kill that boy,” Mum said in a whisper as she yanked the hand brake so hard it made the entire car shake.
She slammed her door shut and sprinted into the house. I was left to make my own way inside.
“GET IT DOWN NOW!” I heard her scream from inside. As I made it out of the car I saw the sheet being whipped back through the bedroom window, and within seconds Fiona was sprinting out the front door and down the street.
Chris tried to wade in a couple of times while Mum was tearing a strip off me, but even he knew when to quit, so eventually he just hovered in the background, looking concerned. At first she started by grounding me indefinitely. I nodded my acceptance, even though it seemed pointless to me. Other than the odd Good Day at Amber’s, the farthest I ever really went was to the toilet, and even that required two sit-downs and a motivational speech from the closest relative to hand. Then she took to the podium and let rip for nearly an hour. Mum skipped through subjects like a pro, segueing seamlessly from how she’d worked every hour God sent to make sure Chris and I had a better start in life than she’d had, to pr
ospective universities for me, all the time touching on the themes of unemployment, homelessness, and even a bizarre aside about a documentary she had seen where a boy not much older than me had been executed in Thailand for just smelling a bit like weed.
I sat at the table, looking dead sorry and nodding where appropriate, trying to keep up with the speed of her logic. After a while the sound of her voice faded to a murmur, like background music, and I became transfixed by her impressive ability to multitask. Without in any way losing the thread, she managed to unload and reload the dishwasher, make both Chris and me a sandwich, and hand me a glass of water with three pills from the day-by-day medicine box she’d organized for all of my tablets and potions.
“Trite sentiment for an enabler,” Chris said as I gulped down the pills Mum was pushing into my mouth. She took my empty glass and rammed it into the overfull dishwasher.
“Too soon,” she said with a snarl.
“I am sorry. I don’t know what else to say. We were doing it for you,” I pleaded.
“Let’s not go down that road again, Francis.”
“For Christmas presents. We wanted to get everyone the best Christmas presents ever, to say how sorry we were for this year.”
Mum still looked unimpressed.
“I mean, honest to God, Francis, there isn’t anything you couldn’t have. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t let you do.”
“You wouldn’t let me go to Glastonbury,” I said, a subject that still rankled.
“You were thirteen!”
“Zak’s dad was chaperoning.”
“Zak’s dad has a purple beard and lives in a yurt. He’d probably have sold you for drugs money, which brings us conveniently back to where we started, smart ass!”
“I’m sorry,” I said in despair. Mum looked like she was going to go off on one again but then softened a bit, and stroked my head.
“I know, love. And I know it’s not like you, so let’s just draw a line under it for now, eh? We’ll sort something out when you’re feeling better.”
“Just one more thing,” I said eventually, eager to make as much headway as I could during her brief bout of friendliness.
