500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(86)

Kim-Ange bit her lip. “Come over,” she said. Then: “Hang on, let me just make sure he’s not here.”

“Oh God,” said Lissa. Then, more hopefully, as if the thought had just occurred to her: “Maybe he’s fallen asleep or something, just lost track of time!”

Kim-Ange couldn’t bear to hear the forced casualness in her voice. “Mm-hmm, give me a minute.”

She banged loudly on her side of the wall, their normal method of communication.

“Nope,” she said finally. “That always works. He’s not here. You’re safe, come over.”

Lissa felt her heart plunge. That was her last hope. Well, that or him being wounded with something painful, but not aesthetically disfiguring, in the hospital somewhere where she could tenderly nurse him back to health, but she didn’t really want to say that one out loud.

“But then he’ll find me sitting there when he gets back like some kind of mega stalker! He’s already in hiding from me!”

Kim-Ange sighed. “I am taking you to the gin bar. That is the only way out of this situation.”

“Can we talk about him?”

“No. Just gin.”

“Can I cry a little bit?”

“Gin only.”

“ENGAGED,” SAID CORMAC ruefully, hanging up the phone. Kim-Ange would almost certainly be talking to her parents again, something that took place, on and off, quite a lot of the day.

“Mm-hmm,” said the policeman, uninterested. Cormac was still worried about whether they were going to charge him.

“Want a solicitor?”

On a list of things Cormac wanted, a solicitor was so far from being something he wanted he nearly cried. Instead he said, clearly, no, he didn’t and hoped he’d made the right decision.

The interview room was horrible, small, with a tiny cracked reinforced glass window set high above their heads and a revolting stale odor made no better by the heat of the day. What was lovely outside in London was very muggy and unpleasant in a basement near the River Thames. Feet were just visible above his head, walking back and forth in freedom. He watched them pass, feeling defeated, which he imagined was the point of the place, after all.

“I WAS TRYING to stop the big lad hurting anyone,” said Cormac for the fourth time to the two police officers opposite him. “I was using army defense methods to restrain him, nothing more. They went slightly wrong. But you know the trouble these big lads get themselves into. We were already there because of a horrible accident. Really wasn’t in the mood for another one.”

He sniffed.

“Also, sorry to point this out, but we were in a courtroom facility crawling with police officers and security guards. Why was I the only person in there trying to sort something out to stop them killing each other?”

The police officers looked at each other for a moment.

“Okay,” said the policeman finally. “Well, Big Al said to say thanks. He could have killed that guy and he did feel very bad about that.”

He was reading from a piece of paper.

“He’s pleaded guilty to brawling. Shouldn’t get him into too much trouble—slap on the wrist if he’s lucky.”

“Anger management? He needs it.”

“I hope so,” said the female officer. “Perhaps a medical professional could write a letter of recommendation.”

“Happy to,” said Cormac.

They all looked at one another. Cormac tried desperately not to glance at the clock.

“Ex-army, huh?” said the police officer, checking the files on her computer. “Says here you served in Fallujah?”

Cormac nodded.

“But you’ve never been in trouble?” She smiled rather wryly. “My brother was out there.”

She gave him a shrewd look.

“He found it quite tricky coming home.”

Cormac found himself swallowing suddenly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, in a quiet tone of voice.

“But you’re doing well.”

“Apart from being in prison,” said Cormac, thinking of everything that had happened, everything he’d learned and seen in the last few months.

“I’d say . . . nae bad.” The officer stood up. “Right. Off you go. Stay out of trouble.”

Cormac ventured to say his piece. “They’re just lads, you know. And they’ve been through a lot.”

“They have,” said the woman. “So have a lot of people who don’t start punch-ups in public places.”

“They started . . .”

Cormac realized quickly he was going to get himself into trouble again as a frown crossed the other officer’s face. He stood up fast.

“Thank you so much.”

THE SARCASTIC POLICE officer looked practically disappointed to see Cormac ready to walk out. “Leaving so soon?” he said.

“Aye,” said Cormac. He was handed back an envelope containing his wallet, watch, and phone. The battery was completely drained. Shit. He winced when he saw it. Then he realized he didn’t have a lot of time to lose. The other lads had already been released; he was the last one.

“Good luck with the fuckbeast!” shouted Nobbo as he ran out of the police station at top speed. They had found a pub next door to the police station, which seemed to Cormac unwise, to say the very least, but he didn’t have time to do much but wave quickly.