‘Get him out of here! He’s scaring me.’
‘I have Parkinson’s.’
The young constable tells me to sit down. ‘We’re not allowed to issue medications.’
‘They’re prescribed . . . in my coat.’
‘Step back from the door, sir.’
‘You’ll find a white plastic bottle. Levodopa.’
‘I’ll warn you one more time, sir, step away from the door.’
With every ounce of willpower, I stop myself moving. I can hold the pose for a few seconds, but then I start again.
‘A phone call. Let me make a phone call.’
The young constable tells me to wait. Ten minutes later he returns. I’m allowed a call.
The first name in my head is Julianne’s, but nobody answers. Charlie’s voice is on the recorded message. It beeps and I start to speak but realise I don’t know what to say. I put down the receiver and call Ruiz.
‘What’s up, wise man? You sound like shit.’
‘I’m in jail.’
‘What did you do - forget to take back a library book?’
‘I beat up Gordon Ellis.’
I have to wait until he stops laughing.
‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’
‘I have visions of handbags at ten paces.’
‘I need your help. My pills. The police won’t let me have them. I can’t function.’
‘Leave it with me.’
I go back to waiting and writhing and being watched by the drunk. If I lock my left and right ankles together I can sometimes get my legs to remain still. But making one part of me stop means the energy finds somewhere else to spasm.
An hour passes and the young constable unlocks the door. He has a glass of water and my bottle of pills. I can get the tablets on my tongue, but keep spilling the water. I swallow them dry and sit on the bench, waiting for the jerking to subside.
‘Your lawyer is on his way,’ says the PC.
‘I don’t have a lawyer.’
‘You do now.’
Two hours pass. I’m taken upstairs to an interview suite. Even before I arrive I recognise the profanity-laden south London accent of Eddie Barrett, a man who can make a smile seem like an insult. Ruiz must have called him.
Eddie is a defence lawyer with a reputation for bullying and cajoling witnesses and juries. Years ago he earned the nickname ‘Bulldog’, which could be due to his short body and swaggering walk, or his passionate embrace of all things British. (He has ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ as his ringtone and is rumoured to wear Union Jack underwear.)
‘Well, well, look who got himself arrested - the Hugh Grant of the head-shrinking profession. Should I call it a profession? I guess if it’s good enough for prostitutes . . .’
Eddie reads my expression and tells me to sit down. Taking a seat opposite, he splays his thighs like his bollocks are the size of grapefruit. ‘Let’s make this quick, Britney, I’m missing out on my beauty sleep. I hope you didn’t make any admissions . . . sign any statements.’
‘No.’
‘Good. Are they treating you OK?’
I nod and glance at his watch. It’s after midnight. He must have driven down from London.
‘OK, here’s the plan, Oprah. Your case is listed for the morning. We won’t plead. I’ll make an application for bail, which should be a formality. Do you have any savings?’
‘Not really.’
‘Family who can put up a surety?’
‘My parents, maybe.’
‘Good.’
Eddie starts making notes on a pad. He asks me about Julianne and the girls, my job and whether I’m involved in any charities.
‘Have you ever been arrested?’
‘Once. It was a misunderstanding.’
Eddie rolls his eyes and scrubs out a note.
‘Can’t you get this stuff dismissed?’ I ask.
‘You didn’t piss in a phone box, Professor.’
‘He broke into my house.’
‘And you tried to remove his head.’
‘Surely we can cut a deal?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas any more.’
Eddie stands and readjusts his hanging bits before tossing his raincoat over his arm.
‘Is that it?’
‘For now.’
‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’
‘Right now, I want to find a king-sized bed, a twelve-ounce Porterhouse and a mini-bar. You’ll be paying for all of them.’
Picking up his briefcase, he lifts the flap and inserts the notepad before doing up the buckle.
‘By the way, the guy you hit needed thirty stitches and a blood transfusion. I hope he had it coming.’
31
Bristol Crown Court looks almost whitewashed in a burst of sunshine grinning through a gap in the clouds. Resting my forehead against the window of the police van, I watch clusters of shivering workers smoke cigarettes in doorways.
The van has to stop at a police checkpoint. Barricades have blocked off either end of the street, guarded by officers in riot gear standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Protesters, carrying placards and banners, have been funnelled on to the footpath and kept well away from the entrance to the courthouse.
Glancing ahead, I can see another group at the far end of the street forming a makeshift honour guard for a larger prison van. Some of the crowd are carrying political posters and placards with slogans about ‘taking back our country’. They’re a strange mixture of shaven-headed youths with tattoos, middle-aged men in zip-up jackets and pensioners still wearing war medals. Among them is a woman with a baby in a sling and a grandmother carrying a picnic basket and vacuum flask.
My eyes pick out a familiar face in the crowd. It takes me a moment to place it. Lance Hegarty is in the front row, taunting refugee advocates and pro-immigration protesters. The crowd surges forward, trying to follow the prison van. The police link arms and force them back.
A woman yells, ‘We love you, Novak!’
Someone else shouts, ‘It’s a stitch-up! A state fucking conspiracy!’
TV crews and reporters record the moment, filming from the safety of no man’s land, between the groups of protesters.
Large wooden doors swing open and the prison van pulls down a narrow concrete ramp. The prisoners disembark and walk single file into the bowels of the building.
I’m driven down the same ramp and forced to wait as the doors close behind us. A police officer takes me inside to a holding cell. Other prisoners have lawyers to talk to. I can’t see Eddie Barrett anywhere.
