"So why did you do it, Madam?"
Throughout all his years on the job, Mike Johnston had never arrested a woman as old as this. And he didn't want to start today. A warning would suffice.
She waited patiently for the roar of the dirty double decker to die.
"I was trying to get it in the river, Son. I didn't mean to cause any harm."
"But it was nowhere near the river! You threw it down onto the walkway: I've got a witness here on the bridge saw you doing it."
"The throwing arm's not what it used to be," she shrugged.
"And I'm sure chucking books into the river is illegal, anyway. What were you thinking?"
"I was finished with them," she offered with a shrug.
This was like dealing with a stroppy teenager and Mike already had two of those at home, one of them his own.
"So you think that because you've finished your book that it's okay to assault a member of the public? He's got an enormous cut on his head. Look at him!"
Lizzie eyed the man with a look of disdain.
"He's just an old tramp, anyway. The only folk down there are drunkards and druggies. That one's a down-and-out. Look at the state of him!"
"You don't seem to understand, Madam," explained PC Johnston. "This is common assault, punishable in a court of law. You could've killed him!"
Lizzie MacDonald couldn't help herself as a loud guffaw exploded from within for the first time in as long as she could remember.
"Would you just listen to yourself, Son? Who the Hell do you think I am, Rose West?"
"I'm being serious now. This gentleman has reported a serious crime..."
"Which gentleman? There aren't many of those in Glasgow and I certainly don't see any here," she laughed as she eyed both policeman and tramp up an down.
"That's it!" intervened PC Winnie Malcolm. "You're under arrest!"
"You're having a laugh, Hen!" complained Lizzie, as PC Malcolm took a tight grip on her arm.
PC Johnston sighed and called it in. It was going to be one of those mornings.
"Car will be here in 10 minutes."
Lizzie laughed to herself. Why had she waited sixty-eight years to get herself arrested? This was the most exciting thing she had ever done. Maybe she'd be in the papers now. Sixty-eight years and the only time she had ever seen her name in print was in the obituaries as a loving daughter, or heartbroken mother. Now was her moment. It was her time to start living.
"Do you always throw things you're finished with in the river?" enquired PC Malcolm in a conciliatory tone as they waited.
"First time," explained Lizzie, "but I hadn't finished it."
"I thought you had? You said you had."
"That's why you'll never make detective," laughed Lizzie, drawing a scowl from the young policewoman. "I said I was finished with them."
"With books? Why?"
"Books, magazines, papers. It's all a lot of nonsense, isn't it? Or maybe I've just been reading the wrong stuff. Spent all my life reading about other peoples' glitzy lives, envying their beauty, following their diets, drooling over their perfect kids and then I suddenly realised I had been wasting my time. Load of shite the lot of it."
