The School Gate Survival Guide (37 page)

The custody officer, who introduced herself as Sergeant Julie Pikestaff, , sighed as though if it weren’t for me, she’d be stretched out on a sun lounger in St Lucia. ‘Take her cuffs off.’

The creak in my shoulder blades as I brought my arms in front of me reminded me that I needed to go back to Pilates. Pikestaff ducked below the counter, re-emerging with a white plastic boiler suit. ‘You’ll have to put this on once we’ve checked you in.’

The stunned disbelief that had enveloped me on the journey to the police station evaporated. I knew I should do what they wanted. Being arrested was mortifying enough without drawing more attention to myself. But that boiler suit epitomised how low I’d sunk.

I tried to find the voice I used at parents’ evenings when teachers were evading my questions, but I could only manage a croak of despair.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t wear that.’

People like me only came to police stations to report stolen iPads or missing Siamese cats. I was already trying to salvage any scrap of pride I had left. Rustling around in that wretched space suit might finish me off completely.

Pikestaff shrugged. ‘Look, it’s just an overall. No big deal.’

Before she could say anything else, two policemen burst through the door, struggling to restrain a couple of girls in their mid-twenties. One had black dyed hair, thigh length boots and the tiniest red miniskirt. The other was in a neon pink body stocking. The Lycra had given up trying to contain her rolls of fat, her boobs spilling out like boxing gloves. The girls snarled and flailed as much as their handcuffs would allow, straining to get at each other in a torrent of abuse.

I glanced at Sergeant Pikestaff. She looked bored rather than shocked. Another run-of-the-mill Thursday night.

Except for me.

These two women made Scott’s outbursts look like tea and scones with my mother’s patchwork club. The woman in Lycra spat at the policeman, saliva splattering onto his jacket. The other one was trying to stab anyone she could reach with her stiletto boots. No wonder Pikestaff was unperturbed that a middle-aged woman like me was having a wardrobe crisis.

‘Go and give them a hand while I get Mrs Green checked in,’ Pikestaff said to my arresting officer. She pushed her straggly blonde hair off her face and beckoned to me. ‘Come on, we’ll get you sorted in that room over there. They’re going to be busy out here.’

She snatched up the overall and a big transparent bag, not quite poking me in the back to move me along. I prayed she wouldn’t leave me on my own with that pair. With my Home Counties accent and aversion to miniskirts, an unfortunate choice of meeting venue might be the only common denominator. The F-word didn’t trip off my tongue either, though Scott was no stranger to it.

When it was aimed at me, I felt the word land.

Pikestaff opened a door into a side room. ‘All right?’

I nodded and rubbed my wrists. I felt as though I should make conversation with her, prove to her that I shouldn’t be there, but my mind was blank. My eyes were streaming. I took a tissue from the box on the table. It couldn’t cope with my tears and disintegrated, leaving me picking bits of paper off my face.

She started tapping away on a computer, fingers fairly flying over the keys as though there was a particularly salacious murder to solve just as soon as she could dispatch me to a cell. ‘Colour of eyes? Distinguishing features? Shoe size?’ Pikestaff handed me the bag. ‘I need your belt and jewellery. And you’ll have to give me that shirt.’

‘I don’t want to be difficult but I can’t wear that plastic thing. Could I just keep my blouse?’

I think I was expecting her to make an exception because I wasn’t slurring my words, didn’t have any tattoos and had had a shower in the last twenty-four hours.

She shook her head. ‘It’s considered evidence because it’s got blood on the cuff.’ She indicated the overall. ‘It’s that or sitting in your bra.’

I looked at her to see if she was joking. There didn’t seem to be anything funny about her. No wedding ring. I wondered if she had children. I couldn’t imagine her soothing anyone to sleep. I dropped in my belt and bangle. I hesitated over my necklace. My Australian opals. Scott had brought them for me all the way from his native Sydney, his first trip home after Alicia was born. I wrapped the necklace in a tissue and placed it in the corner.

I dropped in the big diamond solitaire Scott had produced with a flourish on our fifth anniversary. ‘Show that to your father,’ he’d said. ‘Told you we’d survive without his handouts.’

Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of my father’s disapproval.

Pikestaff was still stabbing away at the keyboard. Judging by the concentration on her face, no ‘t’ would escape uncrossed.

I slipped off my wedding band. The skin underneath was indented. Pale and shiny after fourteen years in the dark.

‘You’re allowed to keep your wedding ring,’ she said, barely looking up.

I held it for a moment, absorbing its mixture of memories, then slowly slid it back onto my finger.

I handed her the bag and she typed away, listing the contents. Then I stripped off my blouse and thrust it at her without meeting her eye.

She pushed the overall towards me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to put this on?’

‘Quite sure, thank you.’ I squared my shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that I was standing in front of someone I didn’t know in a bra with more lace than substance. Judging by the disdain on her face, Pikestaff was more of a walking boots and headscarf sort of woman.

‘Suit yourself.’

The silent stand-off fanned the little spark of rebellion inside me. She had no idea about my life, none at all. Let her pass judgment about what sort of woman I was. Let the whole world.

Pikestaff recognised the impasse. ‘You have the right to a solicitor. Would you like me to arrange one or do you know someone?’

‘Solicitor? No. Thank you.’ I’d never even had a parking ticket before. Surely this wasn’t going to escalate into a proper full-blown police investigation? I was convinced that, sooner or later, one of Pikestaff’s minions would peer round the door and tell me I was free to go.

Pikestaff shook her head as though I didn’t have a clue. ‘Do you want to tell someone you’re here? You’re allowed a phone call.’

Fright was taking the place of rebellion but I declined. Scott knew I was here. That should be enough.

Surely that should be enough.

With a final tap of the computer keys, she stood up and walked over to the door. Was I really going to make my way through the police station with a mere whisper of black lace to protect my modesty? To my frustration, my nerve buckled. I shook out that silly plastic overall and stepped into it. As I zipped up the front, resignation overwhelmed me. I didn’t look at Pikestaff in case I found smug satisfaction on her face. I shuffled out after her, just another Surrey miscreant to be dealt with before tea break.

She shouted to a policeman in the foyer, a stocky man in his twenties with a ‘king of the dance floor’ walk.

‘Ryan, take her down to number twelve for me. I need to go and give Samuels and Frances a hand.’ The two girls were still making a shocking racket at the front desk. Pikestaff didn’t give me a second glance as PC Ryan led me down a corridor. He walked close behind me as though I might make a sudden dash for it. Incredulity clouded my ability to think. Were they actually going to lock me up? I did that eyes wide open thing, trying to hold back my tears, but they were splashing onto the overall then running down it in little rivers as I crinkled along.

Every cell door had a pair of shoes outside it. When we arrived at number twelve, it was my turn to feel the cold concrete beneath my feet. My patent boots looked out of place amongst the trainers and stilettos. He showed me into the cell. ‘Sounds like a right one, your husband.’ He winked at me. ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

I couldn’t believe that Scott hadn’t turned up to tell them he’d overreacted.

The door reverberated shut like a scene from a budget police drama. I tried to distract myself by thinking about people facing a lifetime in jail for their beliefs and what it would be like to wake up in a tiny cell every day for years. Instead I became obsessed with whether I could get out of there before I needed to use the vile metal loo in the corner. I racked my brains to remember when I’d last had a drink. A glass of wine before dinner, about eight o’clock.

That was three hours ago. I prayed I’d be able to hold on all night. I perched on the mattress, sitting with as little buttock touching it as possible. 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.

There was no air. Every time someone opened the door outside in the corridor, the smell of stale urine wafted around. I stood on tiptoes to see out of the window but it was opaque with filth. A man was singing ‘Why are we waiting?’ in the cell opposite. Whoever was next to me was trying to batter the door down.

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 get-up 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 PC Ryan’s cockiness or 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 interviewed your husband.’ He bit his lip and glanced at the door. ‘He’s going to press charges.’

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 had chicken curry for dinner, discussed our next trip to Australia 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. 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 he’d ever expected me to grow 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 contained only the slightest tremor. ‘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 mustard. 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 – 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 that there might be an opinion in the world that was different from his.

‘I’d like to call my best friend.’

He led 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 damn 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 scrabbling about, grabbing a jumper from the end of the bed. Then the police officer came back on the phone and said I could visit her, but it would be ‘under prison conditions’, which when I investigated meant we’d have glass between us. That did freak the shit out of me. I decided to go down anyway, glass or no glass, even though he said he didn’t know when she would be ‘processed’.