Drysdale is on his feet, anger radiating from him. ‘Are you questioning my authority, McCarthy?’
‘That’s not my intention … sir.’
‘Why did you go to the Goodalls’ house today?’ asks Drysdale.
‘I had a phone call asking for help. Alison had been locked in the house by her husband.’
‘He denies that.’
‘Ask her.’
‘She hasn’t given a statement to the police.’
The answer shakes me. Drysdale opens the folder.
‘When you went to the primary school, did you see Sergeant Goodall outside?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He tried to stop you leaving, but you deliberately drove your vehicle at him.’
‘That’s not what happened.’
‘He says that you’re obsessed with him. You’ve been watching his house. Following his wife.’
‘He ran me off the road with his car.’
‘Did you make an official complaint?’
I don’t answer.
Drysdale sighs in frustration and pushes back his chair. ‘You have maligned the reputation of a decorated police officer; and disobeyed direct orders. You have used unreasonable force in making an arrest and illegally accessed a police database, and used that information unlawfully. I am charging you with gross misconduct and recommending you be dismissed without notice from the Metropolitan Police Service.’
I feel a scream building up in my chest, but my throat has closed and the only sound that escapes is a strangled moan.
‘You will hand over your warrant card and badge, and surrender any equipment that belongs to the Met.’
My shoulders are shaking.
‘I’m going to fight this. I will sue for wrongful dismissal.’
Drysdale ignores me and gets to his feet, tucking the folder beneath his arm. As he reaches the door, he turns to me, his mouth curling in disgust. ‘How anybody ever let you join the Met is beyond me. Thankfully, that mistake is about to be rectified.’
I expect the door to slam, but it closes with a gentle click that echoes in the silence of the room. Pickering hasn’t moved or uttered a word.
‘Where were you?’ I ask. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’
He feigns surprise. ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken. I’m here on behalf of Sergeant Goodall.’
‘What?’
‘He wanted to make sure that his actions and statements were correctly represented.’
Pickering tugs at the sleeves of his jacket, making sure it’s sitting properly on his shoulders. He’s a show pony, or as my Uncle Clifton likes to say, ‘all lace curtains and kippers for dinner’。
‘I did try to warn you,’ he says, ‘but your mouth doesn’t know when to quit.’
‘Women should be seen and not heard, is that it?’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘I’m sure they’ll wash down with a beer. I hear Goodall is buying.’
I grab at his wrist and pull up his coat sleeve, looking for the three-letter tattoo. There isn’t one.
Pickering shakes his arm loose and steps back, looking at me as though I’m crazy. I can smell his aftershave and something malodorous on his breath.
‘Ever heard the phrase: All things being equal? It’s bullshit. They never are. Enjoy civilian life, Miss McCarthy.’
34
Outside, angry beyond reason, I walk aimlessly through the rain-slimed streets, staying in the shadows because I don’t want to see my reflection in shop windows. I duck my head, avoiding people’s eyes, crossing blindly at intersections, grieving for my future and mourning my past. I have been defined by this ambition since I was eleven. It was my purpose, my path. Now that map has been ripped up and scattered to the wind.
Replaying the meeting in my mind, I try to think what I could have said or done, swinging wildly between rebellion and febrile calm, addressing a phantom version of myself that stands over me, arms folded, lips pursed tightly, accusing me of failing. I want to blame others. Alison Goodall should have made a statement. This might be her way of placating her husband, but it won’t work. Goodall won’t compromise.
A car horn blares. A vehicle swerves. I’m halfway across a road, blinded by headlights. I glance up at the walk-sign and see a red man akimbo. Waving an apology, I hear the driver shout, ‘Drunk’ as he accelerates away.
What an unforgiving city. There are no honest mistakes any more. No unfortunate accidents. No mitigating circumstances. Everybody gets what they deserve. The poor. The sick. The unemployed. The inattentive.
I look at my phone and realise that I turned it to silent when I went into the meeting. The screen is full of messages and missed calls. Henry. Tempe. Constance. My uncles. Before I can read any of them, the phone vibrates.
‘Where have you been?’ asks Tempe.
‘Busy. I can’t talk. Henry is trying—’
‘He’s with me. Your father had a heart attack. We’ve been looking for you.’
‘Is he … ?’
‘Alive. In intensive care.’
I hear Henry in the background, wanting to talk. Tempe reluctantly hands him the phone.
‘What are you doing there?’ I ask.
‘Looking for you.’
‘What happened?’
‘He collapsed at home. Constance kept him alive until the paramedics arrived. They stabilised him on the way to hospital.’
‘Where?’
‘The Royal Brompton. I can pick you up.’
‘No. I’ll meet you there.’
I’m already scanning the street, looking for a cab. Two pass me, but both are occupied. I start to run. Traffic is backed up along High Holborn.
A black cab is coming towards me, but somebody has stepped onto the road to flag it down. I start sprinting towards them, arriving as the cab comes to a halt. My fingers are first to the door handle.
‘I’m sorry. It’s an emergency.’
I scramble into the back seat. The man protests.
‘Royal Brompton Hospital,’ I tell the driver, who is young and Asian. He is about to take sides, but my urgency and the destination seems to make up his mind. The man on the footpath hammers his hand on the roof of the cab as we pull away.
‘What’s happened?’ asks the driver.
‘My father had a heart attack.’
Reacting instantly, he swings into a side street, taking a shortcut that misses two sets of lights. Accelerating between intersections, he talks about how his grandad had a stroke in India, but he couldn’t get back in time to say goodbye. I’m only half listening. Instead, I am picturing my father – how frail he looked at his birthday party. He’ll be a terrible patient. He’ll ignore instructions and be rude to the doctors and flirt with the nurses and try to organise a mass escape of patients to the nearest pub.
I have spent ten years avoiding this man and trying to deny his existence, but I have never escaped his shadow. That was made clear to me by Drysdale. This should make me angry, but instead I’m clutching my phone and quietly praying to a God that I don’t believe in. Whispering, ‘Please don’t die. Please don’t die.’
A receptionist directs me to the ICU, on level 3 of the Sydney wing. Leaving the lift, I follow the signs along a brightly lit corridor. The counter at the ICU is unoccupied. I press the buzzer and a nursing sister appears, pulling a mask away from her face.