Henry rubbed moisturiser into his skin. He paid particular attention to the tattoos that covered his body. Memories popped into his head of the stories behind each one. He didn’t take body art lightly, even the ones he’d tried to cut off. Generally, his clothes masked most of them. The spider’s web on his elbow was his nod to prison time. He had various animals too, as well as some stupid ones he’d got when he was a young idiot, but still they reminded him of how far he’d come. But now that was all unravelling. He kept telling himself to calm down and stick to his story.
Doctor Alex had told him that the truth would surely redeem him, but her demeanour told Henry otherwise. He was on his own. He had no one to rely on. Even the doc had her defects. Everybody had secrets. Why end up a therapist? But it was easier to throw mud where it was already stuck. If push came to shove, she wouldn’t protect him. She was just as much part of the system that failed him as the coppers. Prison was society’s waste bin, where they discarded everything they didn’t like, and threw it away to bury. Integrity was relative, and he didn’t have letters after his name. He wasn’t her typical client with millions of pounds behind him. His therapy was paid for by the state. It was a peculiar truth that the institution turned a blind eye to the quality of professional he chose, and thus the cost, but that wasn’t his problem right now. Monika was.
He’d spent another night in his van, avoiding CCTV cameras, like he’d once told Doctor Alex, as a joke really, but now he feared it could be used against him. Only an ex-con did such things.
His thoughts burdened him and felt heavier than any weight he’d lifted at the gym. He’d dropped in at home to change and grab a few items that would see him through, on the run. He’d been careful. The street was quiet and he’d come in the back, over the neighbour’s fence. Locking the door behind him, he climbed into his van and set off, pulling out into oncoming traffic. A few horns jarred his mind and he pulled on his seatbelt. He hadn’t even gone twenty yards when he saw blue lights behind him and he looked in his rear mirror quizzically. A siren sounded and he was flashed. Shit. He pulled over and his hands began to shake. The spectre of metal bars, the jangling of keys, being told when to piss and when to eat, the smell of incarceration, all conspired to hijack his nervous system and make him do something stupid. But this time, he knew the game was up.
The police car slowed and parked behind him. His heart sank to his belly. He watched as an officer approached. He looked around, and noticed a small crowd gathering to see what the fuss was about. He spotted a couple of neighbours and splayed his hands, as if to say he had no idea what was going on. They gave him the thumbs up but still watched, like spectators of a blood sport. Everybody loved a good sacrifice. The officer reached the car and Henry lowered his window.
‘Henry Nelson?’ the officer said.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see some ID, please?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Let’s just get the ID, shall we?’
Henry didn’t like the fella’s tone. It reminded him of the screws in prison: all power and no respect. He knew his rights but he didn’t much feel like having an argument in front of his neighbours. He opened his wallet and took out his driver’s licence, showing the officer.
‘Can you step out of the car, sir?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Just step out of the car, sir.’
Henry took his keys and put the window up. He got out of the car and stood in front of the officer. Another stayed in the driver’s seat of the squad car. Memories from years ago rose up in his belly and he had a feeling of impending injustice.
‘Henry Nelson, you’re under arrest for the suspected supply of Class A drugs to minors, resulting in the death of Brandon Stand. Please turn around and face the car. You have the right to remain silent…’
It wasn’t the charge he was expecting, and he almost laughed at the farcical charade. He stared at the officer and glanced at his neighbours, bereft of feeling. He turned around and allowed the guy to put hand ties on him. The restraints were tightened with force and he winced as the pain from his injured hand travelled sharply up his arm. The neighbours pointed and whispered.
‘Henry, what’s going on?’ one shouted.
He shrugged.
‘We’ll take you now, sir.’
‘What about my van?’ he asked.
‘We’ll take care of that.’
He was led to the vehicle behind and his head was lowered by the man’s hand as he got in the back seat. Recollections of being sent down from the courthouse, being led to the waiting vehicle – the ice box – and sitting in the back of the van on his way to prison came flooding back.
The back of the police vehicle was cramped, taken up by all the technological kit, and the officer sat close to him didn’t say a word. Voices chimed in his head from the radio, and lights flashed. The air conditioning kicked in as they set off and he saw the faces of his neighbours, already making up stories about the young man they’d thought they’d known. The officer beside him had tightened Henry’s seatbelt before his own and it seemed to crush his chest and his arms behind his back.
‘Are these really necessary?’ he asked.
‘Just until we get to the station, then I’ll take them off.’
‘But I’m not a risk, I’ve done nothing.’
The officer said nothing except to speak into his radio. Henry was transported back in time, to other police car rides he’d enjoyed at the cost of the taxpayer, but then it had been totally justified.
It didn’t take long to negotiate the Cambridge traffic and they parked in front of a police station. Henry hadn’t been inside this one before. His crimes had been committed far away in central London. He’d believed he had the best chance at staying out of trouble in a tame suburban town like this one: how wrong he’d been. The officer beside him got out first and went round to Henry’s side of the car to help him; he could say that this was the most humiliating situation he’d ever endured, but that would be incorrect. He was led up the steps to the entrance and recognised the familiar set-up that was inside every police station in the country. He was checked in and he confirmed his name and details, knowing the procedure well. His wrist ties were removed and he rubbed his flesh. The restriction of blood flow made his recent wound throb and blood seeped from the bandage he’d wrapped around it carefully this morning. The admin officer behind the desk looked at it and Henry couldn’t read his face, but he didn’t have to; he knew what was coming.
His belongings were checked in and itemised. He hadn’t been charged and so he didn’t have to enter a plea. He simply acknowledged the arrest. Then he was led to a cell and the door was closed behind him. The bare walls taunted him. They were white, and the floor was blue. There was a single cot bed, covered in a solitary blanket, and he sat on it and put his head in his hands. He stared up at the camera in the corner. The cell was silent, but it was the din inside his head that sapped his resolve, and it took all his strength not to totally lose it and freak out. The smells and lights sneered at him, teasing him about his inner badness. The rot had always been there, it mocked, and would never disappear simply because he spoke to a few kids about keeping clean and looked out for a damaged girl. His father was banged up, as was his brother, and countless uncles and grandparents before them; he hadn’t broken the cycle, that wasn’t how it worked. The sins of generations felt heavy on his shoulders and the weight of it made him lie down on his side. He closed his eyes to still his mind: if it couldn’t see, then maybe it couldn’t think.