If the police had found Harry at the scene, they'd have taken him away in handcuffs. Despite his incredible ability to avoid the subject of previous criminal activity, I remained aware of his relationship with the authority. They'd take one look at him and label him guilty.
I decided it was probably best to face the blue flashing lights head on, so I left the crumpled man on the floor of the garage and flagged the police car down with my best distraught look. It wasn't all that difficult. My tears were fresh, but not a consequence of what I had supposedly stumbled upon; the streaks making tracks down my cheeks were evidence of a shattered being.
"Over here!" I yelled.
I was kept away from the commotion, ushered to the side but not forgotten. An older police woman continued to ask me if I was ok, if I needed to sit down. My mute communication was assumed to be an aftermath of shock. They had no idea.
A short time later I observed from the side lines as Harry's dad was stretchered into the back of a waiting ambulance. I was relieved to hear just the squeak of wheels along the pavement. Part of me had fretted over the man making a scene, crying out to the angels of the person laden with culpability. I praised the drugs needled into his arm, the source of his silence.
The ambulance was peculiarly accompanied by two police motorcycles. The throaty ignition startled me, bumping into an officer carrying a utility belt weighed down with items to force submission.
***
I'd never sat in a police car before. It humoured me at the thought of the other vigilant vehicles we shared the road with, every one abiding by the speed limit, indicating correcting, refraining from cutting others up on the roundabout. I was pretty certain that as soon as we turned off, cars would revert back to precarious driving habits which would have people hooting in annoyance.
My name was taken again at the reception desk inside the police station. I felt out of my depth and alone. I sought comfort in the ghosting of Harry's fingers wriggling between mine; he'd done it so many times with a smile on his face. But now there was no-one to hold my hand.
***
"Miss?"
My eyes floated back to the young officer sat in front of me. He'd given me a paper cup filled with milky tea, my hands using it as a source of heat until it was lukewarm and undrinkable.
We'd been sat in the room for an uncertain amount of time; the walls a wash of magnolia, a colour to calm the nerves. I'd pictured being dragged to a dark interrogation, the beam from a lamp being shone into my eyes as someone demanded to know "the truth". But no. It was a cushioned chair with armrests, pictures of sailing ships pinned to the wall by the door, a coffee table with magazines.
I was to have an "informal chat".
My knee bounced until I became aware of the movement and placed my hand on my thigh to remind myself. "Don't look guilty", I mindfully repeated in mantra. Little did it help.
"Am I under arrest?"
My voice was thick with nerves, cracking under the pressure of relentless observation. No matter how casually they'd dressed the room, my eyes did nothing but seek out the camera in the top right corner of the space.
"No, Miss," he replied with a small smile.
He was sat on the edge of his seat, the one opposite mine. His body was leant forward, almost as if he didn't want to miss a single word uttered from my mouth; like every syllable was a clue into the crime committed.
"So I can leave any time I like?"
He shifted to pick up his second round of tea, the cup identical to mine.
