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‘In that case, we have your mother in the station. Apparently, the shop she was trying to break into was her own,’ said the police officer.
‘Hollyhocks?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Shit.’
‘I’ve spoken to your mother at length and, in between crying, she’s told me a rather distressing tale. Do you think you could come and collect her?’
‘Erm… yes… of course. I’ll be right down.’
This made no sense. My mum doesn’t touch alcohol. Why was she trying to break into her own shop when she had a key, and why the hell was she drunk? She won’t even have sherry trifle at Christmas.
I kicked off the duvet and immediately felt the chill of the cold winter night. I’m not the neatest person in the world, so I had to scramble around the floor trying to find something decent and warm to wear. I grabbed my keys from the chest of drawers and was just about to leave my bedroom when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I could not leave the house with dried drool on my chin, a crease in my face and my hair all over the place.
I ran into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. That certainly woke me up. I couldn’t do anything about the crease running down my cheek – hopefully it would have faded by the time I got to the station – but a beanie hat would hide the Russell Brand tragedy I call my hair.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when I left the block of flats, just an infinite number of stars. It was bloody freezing, and frost sparkled on every surface under the sodium of the street lamps.
I drive a VW Golf which is almost as old as I am. I slammed the door once I was inside and the sound resounded around the quiet neighbourhood. A light went on across the street. Oops. Never mind. The engine started on the sixth attempt. By the time it came to life, more lights had come on in houses along the road. I didn’t turn the heater on. My car couldn’t cope with driving and warming up the people inside at the same time. It was one or the other. I’d have to remain cold.
As I entered the police station, I realised this was my first time inside one. I’d recently started a new job: I was on the cusp of becoming one of the great paralegals of the twenty-first century… Although, at present, my job was mostly filing, making coffee and asking Sharon if she wanted any post taking to the box on the corner. Still, we all have to start somewhere.
The tired-looking bloke behind the desk took my name, and I sat down on the hard plastic chair, looking around me at all the crime prevention posters. There was a strong smell of disinfectant that was tickling my nostrils. I wanted to sneeze, but the desk sergeant looked like he was about to nod off, and I didn’t want to disturb him.
The door to the main part of the station opened, and a short, stick-thin police officer stepped out. She looked younger than me, and her uniform seemed a size too big.
‘Miss Shepherd?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m PC Hardy. We spoke on the phone. Would you like to come through?’
There I was, five foot seven, twenty-one years old and, despite my mother’s many reassurances that I’m big-boned and have childbearing hips, I prefer to speak plainly and call myself fat. Next to me was a teeny-tiny police officer, and we were walking down the corridor looking like a comedy double act. I felt like I was in a farce.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘My mum doesn’t drink. She doesn’t like alcohol. She never has done.’
‘Well, I’m afraid she’s taken a taste to it now. In a big way.’
‘And you say she was trying to break into her own shop?’
‘She was kicking the bottom glass panel of the front door. It’s going to need replacing, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you charging her with anything?’
She stopped walking. I carried on until I couldn’t hear her dinky feet catching up alongside me.
‘I’ve had a chat with your mum. She’s told me something quite distressing. Have you noticed a change in her behaviour lately?’
I thought for a moment. ‘She’s been a bit quieter than usual, I suppose.’
‘And she hasn’t said anything to you about… anything?’
‘Like what?’
‘Look.’ PC Hardy placed a hand on my arm. It wasn’t comforting at all. In fact, it was incredibly awkward. The only Hardy I want touching me is Tom, and in that scenario, we wouldn’t be fully dressed in a police station. ‘There’s something your mother has been wrestling with, but I think she’s ready to tell you now. I’ve had a word with my sergeant, and he’s perfectly happy to issue your mother with a caution and let her go.’
‘Oh my God. She’s ill, isn’t she? She’s dying.’ My eyes filled with tears. I felt sick. I could taste last night’s disappointing korma.
