“No,” I say, giving a delighted smile when there’s a knock at the door and a cup of tea is placed on the table in front of me. The pallid colour is less of a celebration, but I’m not one to argue.
“Pardon me?”
I take a long sip, relaxing back in the chair which is, despite appearances, rather comfortable. “What I said was that Malakai told me that’s what he was doing. I don’t know whether he was genuinely planning on doing that.”
“Right. But that’s definitely what he said?”
“If that’s what I told you.”
I yawn and rub my eye where it’s twitching. Typical of my sleep patterns. I’ll be lying awake until three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, wishing for death if it would knock me out for a few blessed hours, but drag me into the police station and I could nod off if I blink for a second too long.
Maybe it’s perimenopause.
Why thank you, internal voice. It’s been a while since anyone reminded me how old I’m getting. Well done on your loyal service.
Your period’s late.
I close my eyes, trying to count back and lose my ability to perform simple subtraction—or is it addition?—almost immediately as my brain tries to nap.
“Are you okay there?”
“Just tired.” I reluctantly drag my eyes open again but nothing’s changed. Not for the better, anyway. I drain the last of my plastic cup and shift on my seat, waiting to remember what I should be saying.
“My memory’s not great, lately,” I admit. “But it hasn’t got any better with time, so whatever I told you directly after the…” I wave my hand. Kidnapping seems extreme and carjacking a bit missing-the-rest-of-it.
“The abduction.”
Nice. Let’s hope I remember that one for next time.
I open my mouth to continue but the thread of the conversation has drifted away again. It was two weeks before I went to the prison. My period. I remember being relieved when the men visited with their cock and bull story about Josh being a target.
Because it’s bad enough to store things up there and then hand them over to your son. Handing them over with all that going on as well would turn anyone’s stomach.
As evidenced by mine throwing a revolt right this second.
I bolt upright, hand over mouth, and the officer’s shocked face tells me she understands what’s about to happen. She rushes to the door, then to the bin. A metal canister with holes all around the sides.
Why? Decoration? Aeration?
Didn’t the designer understand someone might need it in an emergency for quite a different purpose than the one stated on the wrapper?
I vomit into it. My stomach doesn’t care that it has holes.
That beautiful sandwich barely had the chance to be digested. As soon as the retching stops, I wonder if the officer will fetch me another one. Then I throw up an accompaniment of drool and think that’s not the greatest idea.
Then my stomach grumbles with hunger again.
Fuck my life.
A handful of tissues is thrust at me, and I use them to wipe my mouth, then scrape my tongue. I try to recall the last time I did the same thing, and remember it was the day I went to the prison.
Back when all I had to fear was recreational drugs shoved up my playpen.
Two weeks after my last period. Twenty-seven days, plus the two on the run, plus fourteen…. My head suddenly feels stuffed with three times the cotton wool of normal.
A baby. I could be carrying a baby.
Everything in my chest seizes, freezing into place. My face is hot, but my hands are so cold.
