Page 2 of Parker
“Bloody thief,” he roars. “I’m calling the police. Stay there.”
The crash knocks the breath from my lungs, but I barely notice the pain as I fall to the ground. He plants a foot on my chest like I might run…as if I could. Between the concussion in my skull from hitting the floor and the volume of alcohol in my blood, my body is limp. I’m going nowhere, fast.
The sirens come quickly, or maybe I’ve lost time. Either way, two officers haul me upright, not bothering to be gentle.
“I’m Sergeant Reid. Can you stand?” the woman asks.
Her voice is firm, with an undertone of disgust. Unable to form the words in my head, I stay mute and look at her blankly. Revulsion shows on her face as she screws up her nose at the aroma of alcohol wafting in her direction.
“Another drunk in the middle of the day,” she mutters to her partner. “I don’t know about you, Clive, but I’m sick of dealing with these losers. And it’s not even Saturday.”
Clive doesn’t answer, looking me over as if I was a piece of shit he was getting ready to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. Impassive, he shrugs his shoulders at his colleague and then gestures to the bar owner with his eyes.
“Do you want to press charges for theft?” Sergeant Reid asks.
The man crosses his arms. “One bottle of vodka won’t ruin me. Just get her out of my pub before the after-work punters show up. I don’t want her cluttering up the place.”
Reid nods. Clive stays silent. They each put an arm under mine and hoist me to my feet. I rock between them as stars swirl in my brain. My seven years of sobriety end in a single afternoon. This is my rock bottom.
“Where are you taking me?” I mumble. The words slur together, barely audible.
As they bundle me toward the car, the door edge slams into my forehead.
“Duck, for fuck’s sake,” Reid snaps. “Are you so drunk you can’t see the giant hunk of metal in front of your face?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have it in me.
“The station,” Clive says flatly.
“Why?” I whimper. “The owner said he didn’t want to press charges. I can’t go back to prison.”
Clive raises an eyebrow, something passing behind his eyes. Recognition. Judgment. They’ve read me already, labeled me a repeat, a waste, a has-been. Maybe they aren’t wrong.
“Ma’am, you were found intoxicated and stealing vodka from a closed bar,” he says. “Let’s get you somewhere safe to sober up. Then we’ll call a family member to come collect you.”
My heart sinks at his words. A family member. I don’t have any of those left.
When we arrive, the police station is mercifully quiet. My anxiety soars to rocket levels, as I haven’t been in one since that day years ago. The last time, I was covered in someone else’s blood, trying to explain away what had happened.
Behind the white melamine desk, a lanky man checks in detainees as they arrive in the reception area. His narrow eyes regard me with suspicion as he speaks.
“Name?” he asks, voice bored but not unkind. He probably goes through this questioning dozens of times per day.
“Nicky,” I stammer. “Nicola Smith.” My hands shaking from nerves and my afternoon bender. Using my maiden name is a kick to the gut.
“Address and occupation?”
“I’m staying with a friend, Sophie Warren. Thorn Street, I think.” I hesitate. I don’t remember. “Or is it Barn Street. Number…” Giving up on recalling the exact details of where I live, I slur the one detail he asked for that I’m sure of. “I’m unemployed.”
A flush of shame creeps up my neck. My mother’s voice echoing in my mind: You shouldn’t rely on a man for everything, Nicky. It’ll all come crashing down. He can get rid of you when he wants. She’d been right. I hate that.
Everything goes a little fuzzier, and I sway from foot to foot. The officer on my arm steadies me by strengthening her grip.I wonder why she’s standing there; it’s not as if I can run anywhere.
“Put her in one of the holding cells to sober up. 3B is free,” the man behind the desk tells her. “I’ll get more details once she’s more coherent.” And with that, I’m led away.
I’m not sure how much time passes when the man from behind the desk comes to collect me. The bed is solid, and I’m lying, staring at the cracked ceiling when he appears.
“Come with me,” he says, so I scramble to my feet and scurry out after him.
