Kerry Fisher - The Island Escape

I threw 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 making notes. 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 scrawled away, listing the contents. She thrust the paper towards me. ‘Sign here, please.’ My hand was shaking so much I could barely form the letters of my name.

‘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 scuttle up and tell me I was free to go.

Pikestaff frowned 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 flick of her papers, she picked up the boiler suit and said, ‘Right. Let’s take you down to a cell to get changed.’

My own incredulity, plus the shocking racket from the two women who were still taking it in turns to bellow obscenities, clouded my ability to think. Were they actually going to lock me up and make me strip?

‘Couldn’t I keep my blouse? Can’t I just sit in here until all this gets sorted out? I promise I won’t go anywhere.’

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 and opened a heavy grey door. ‘Your shirt’s considered evidence because it’s got blood on the cuff. There’s no point in arguing, we have to remove it. By force if necessary.’

I did that eyes-wide-open thing, trying to get my tears under control, but they were splashing down my cheeks then soaking into my blouse as I trailed along after her, just another Surrey miscreant to be dealt with before tea break.

Every cell door had a pair of shoes outside it. All too soon, it was my turn to feel the cold concrete beneath my feet. My patent boots looked out of place amongst the trainers and stilettos. Pikestaff stood back to let me enter, then followed me in. Pikestaff pushed her straggly blonde hair off her face. ‘Your shirt.’

I gave in. My pride was already at an all-time low. I wasn’t about to embark on an unseemly tussle with a policewoman, so I stripped off my blouse and thrust it at her without meeting her eye.

She put the boiler suit down on the mattress. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wear this?’

‘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 a tiny 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.

Something shifted slightly in her face. I recognised the signs of a last-ditch effort. ‘Come on. Put it on. You don’t want to end up being interviewed in your bra. There’s CCTV everywhere.’

I tried to imagine walking through the police station with a mere whisper of black lace to protect my modesty. I pictured a crowd of officers pointing at the CCTV monitor and making jokes. To my frustration, my nerve buckled. I shook out the silly boiler suit 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.

As she left, 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 here 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-thirty. That was three hours ago. I prayed I’d be able to hold on all night.

I perched on the mattress, trying not to touch it with my bare hands. 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. I hoped – probably in vain – that Scott had been more interested in comforting her than making sure she understood that ‘I’d driven him to it’.

He couldn’t really have intended for me to be sitting here in this airless pit, though. Every time someone opened the door outside in the corridor, the smell of stale urine wafted around. I saw the occasional shadow move past the opaque window to the outside, convincing myself every time that it must be Scott coming to save me. A man was singing ‘Why are we waiting?’ in the cell opposite. Whoever was next to me was trying to batter the door down. I kept jumping at every crash.

After what seemed like an eternity, 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 garb 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 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 taken a statement from your husband.’ He bit his lip and glanced at the door. ‘He’s going to press charges.’

I gasped. 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 discussed Scott’s next trip to Australia to check up on one of his building ventures, had a curry 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. Up until then, I hadn’t really believed Scott would go through with this charade. 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 my father ever expected me to grow a backbone to use against him , but I was grateful for it now.