The Best Thing He Ever Wrote

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

I glance up again and again as the sound of the sirens begin to wisp through the air. I curse silently considering more than once to just keep going, I'll lose him eventually. But my shoulders and hands have begun shaking all over again and my eyes burn because stupid tears are about to spill out through the corners of them.

16. What have I gotten myself into?

What sort of fine do you get when you're speeding? When your number plates are different and your car is letting off dark fumes?

I curse into the air again as I slow right down.

When you don't even have a license and your car isn't registered?

Jail. And I think it's the first time Sydney's spoken in a long time.

I pull the car to the side of the road and roll down my window, I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temple with my thumb and forefinger. I need to get away, but this officer won't understand. I'm seventeen, almost eighteen, and no one listens to a blabbering, breaking-down teenager. I'm really screwed. Then again what else do I have left? Nothing. I can't even begin peeling through the list of all the wrongs. I can't even think properly.

“Do you know that you were going one-hundred and twenty-five in a hundred and ten zone?”

I keep my head turned away from the window, “Yes, Sir.”

“Mawbray?” The officer says slowly, almost quietly, “Brandon?”

I open my eyes and look at him. His old blue eyes burn holes through my temple. Why him, why couldn't the police officer be anyone but him?

“I got a call about someone driving a little reckless around these roads. I had to come all the way out here, and you? Oh, jeez.” He blows out air and then begins to circles my car, he stops mid-step at my front window, left side, “You know your car isn't registered?” And I pray that he doesn't notice the plates.

He taps my window and I nod slowly as he walks back around to my window. His breath smells like peppermint and onion mixed together and I wonder if he's trying to cover his onion breath with cheap chewing-gum. Either way it isn't working.

He shakes his head disapprovingly towards me. I look past him and at an old Mini that's passenger's gawk at me. Were they the ones who did this? Another car drives past, this time another kind of Ute, was it them? And then the road turns silent and all it is me and Officer Watson standing in front of me.

I consider driving away again.

“I need to see your license.” He says.

I shake my head.

“I'm not playing games with you Mr Mawbray, this is my job and I need to see it.” His voice turns dark and hardens by just an octave. I remember that same look as he checked over Sydney's body as though it was yesterday. I remember him patting my back and giving Johnny his jacket because he just couldn't stop shaking. I can even remember him coming round’ to my house every Thursday and Sunday to talk to me to make sure I was doing ok. I even rode in that same police car just for the heck of it. Just so he could talk to me about everyday things even though I hardly ever spoke back. He hasn't changed a great deal, even though Sydney died not too long ago. His hair seems a little more to the grey side and I wonder if that's even possible. I can't even say that his job could be stressful in Havenstone, this is probably the first thing he's done in months. He looks at me expectantly and then raises his eyebrows, his forehead creases with age.

“I don't have a licence.” I say.

He blows out air again and then runs a hand through his hair, “What have you done?”