Page 16 of Close to You
Almost.
The locksmith arrives twenty minutes later and pulls onto the spot where my car should be. He has brawny shoulders, a bit of a belly, dirty fingernails and hairy arms. The type of bloke who looks like he could probably install a bit of drywall.
There is minimal fuss as he gets on with the job. I wait on the kerb outside as he drills out the old locks and then hammers in a new one with measured brutality. I spy some of the neighbours’ curtains flickering and don’t blame them, though it might be helpful if a couple of them were being nosey when my car was being stolen. I fiddle with my phone, zooming in on Jane’s photo and then swiping away to skim through my Twitter feed. It’s hard to remember what people used to do before phones came along. Sit alone on benches and kerbs like complete lunatics?
‘That’s it, love,’ the locksmith says after a while.
I head back to my door as he clears away the debris with a handheld vacuum. He hands me three shiny keys and then presses onto the bonnet of his van as he scribbles out an invoice. I can hardly complain – and I’m certain he’s not ripping me off – but the price is up there with motorway service stations for relation to the real world.
He must see it in my face: ‘You did say you wanted it as an emergency,’ he says.
‘It’s fine,’ I reply, ‘I’ll do a bank transfer by the end of the day. I’d pay cash but…’ I tail off and pat my pockets as if to indicate something he probably hears most days. I always feel bad about homeless people. They sit around asking for change but who carries around coins nowadays? It’s all tap-tap-tap, with either phones or cards.
I wait in the doorway as the locksmith heads off and then try all three of the new keys. The lock is smoother than the previous one and, when I get inside, I do another lap of the flat, checking for either my car keys, or the pot from the counter. By the time I’m back where I’m started, it’s at the point where I am struggling to deny what’s in front of me any longer. Aside from David being back, what other explanation is there? He was in the photo. Someone got into my flat – and it was only he who had keys.
I’m in the living room, gazing aimlessly out towards the spot where my car should be parked, when a police vehicle pulls in. An officer clambers out from either side and they put their hats on in unison. One is a good head taller than the other, as if they’ve been paired together purely for someone else’s amusement.
I get to the front door before they do and the taller of the two jolts back with alarm when I open it a moment before he was about to knock.
‘I thought you were coming over tonight?’ I say.
The officer blinks and glances to his colleague before turning back to me. ‘Sorry?’
There’s that horrible moment in which it feels like everyone in an awkward situation is looking to everyone else. It’s quickly apparent to all of us that they’re here for a different reason.
‘Are you Morgan Persephone?’ he asks, rhyming my name with ‘telephone’.
‘Per-sef-oh-knee,’ I say.
‘Morgan Per-sef-oh-knee…?’
‘Right.’
‘And you drive a black Volkswagen Golf…?’
‘Yes. Have you found it?’
They exchange another momentary glance and I know in that half-second that something terrible has happened.
‘We have found it,’ the officer says. ‘It was involved in a collision with a pedestrian.’
My stomach gurgles noisily; a clingy child desperately wanting attention. It feels like everything’s stopped and I find myself parroting along.
‘A pedestrian?’
The officer clamps his lips together grimly. ‘I think it might be better if you come to the station.’
‘The station?’
His expression doesn’t move and it takes a good two or three seconds for me to figure it out. When I do, it seems so obvious.
‘You think I was driving…?’
Nine
I’ve never been breathalysed before. It’s one of those things I’ve seen on TV; something that could only ever happen to somebody else.
I’m still outside my flat when the officer asks whether I’ve recently cleaned my teeth or used mouthwash. When I say I haven’t, he removes a plastic tube from a sealed bag and inserts it into a small black box. He talks me through the process, as if I’ve never figured out how to breathe before, and then I end up blowing into the tube until there’s nothing left in my lungs. He pulls the device away and stares at the front. I know I only had one drink early in the evening at the awards last night and yet there’s still a part of me that is terrified I’ll somehow test positive. It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when having a few drinks and then driving home was the norm.
