You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,94
hambone. I feel myself relaxing. See, it wasn’t so hard, was it? All that worrying for nothing. In fact, this magic stuff is pretty easy-peasy, I reflect, grabbing the ladle – we didn’t have a trowel – and digging myself a hole.
Quite literally.
Because at that moment there’s suddenly a loud whooping siren and I’m bathed in a harsh light. I twirl round, blinking in the brightness.
What the . . .?
And then a voice booms from a megaphone, ‘Stay where you are and put your hands in the air. This is the New York Police Department.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
OK, don’t panic.
One scary ride in a cop car wearing a pair of handcuffs later, and I’m sitting on a very hard plastic chair at a police station in the Ninth Precinct, being interviewed by a very hard-faced Officer McCrory.
On second thoughts, maybe I should panic.
‘So let me get this straight . . .’ Clearing his throat, he looks down at his notes. ‘You trespassed on city property and lit a fire.’
‘A candle,’ I correct. ‘A white candle.’
It’s important to be completely clear and stick to the facts, I tell myself calmly. Otherwise I could be mistakenly tried for a crime I didn’t commit. Like a robbery. Or a kidnapping. Or even a murder.
I feel a clutch of alarm.
Facts, Lucy. Remember, stick to the facts.
‘And why was that?’
‘I needed to burn a piece of paper and say a chant.’
‘A chant?’ His eyebrows shoot up like two thick, hairy, grey caterpillars scuttling up his forehead.
‘Well, it was more a poem,’ I explain. ‘Gosh, what was it now . . .?’ I try racking my brain, but I’m so nervous it’s as if it’s been wiped clean like a computer disc and there’s nothing on it. ‘Um, something about winds . . .’
‘According to these notes, you were also caught attempting to bury a deceased animal.’
‘It was a hambone,’ I say quickly. ‘My roommate keeps them in the freezer for Simon and Jenny.’
‘Simon and Jenny?’
‘Her dogs. Two rescues. Very cute. Well, Simon is, but Jenny has a dreadful underbite. That doesn’t make her ugly, though. I mean, she might not win Crufts, but—’
‘Miss Hemmingway, can you please stick to the question?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry, of course,’ I apologise hastily. ‘Officer.’
Shit. I’ve seen those cop shows. Robyn is always watching
CSI, in between Oprah and The Secret DVD. If I’m not careful, Officer McCrory is going to throw me in a cell with lots of deranged lunatics and prostitutes called Roxy who chew gum and seem tough but who are really kind-hearted and have a sick kid at home and are just trying to make ends meet. Actually, no, that wasn’t CSI – that was an episode of Law and Order.
‘And you were doing all this in order to break up with your boyfriend?’
I snap back. ‘Ex-boyfriend,’ I correct. ‘We’ve already broken up.’
Frowning, Office McCrory puts down his pen, rocks back on his chair and, steepling his fingers, gives me a long, hard look.
Fuck. This is not good.
‘Miss Hemmingway, you do realise that the New York Police Department has reason to believe you have violated the law on three points . . .’
Really not good.
‘Trespassing . . . arson—’
‘Arson? But I only burned a bit of paper with my ex’s name on . . .’ I trail off.
There have been times in my life when I really should have kept my mouth shut. Like, for example, the time when I was eighteen and got hideously drunk on Scrumpy cider and told Jamie Robinson, who I’d been on three dates with, that I was madly in love with him and wanted to have his babies. Suffice to say, there was no fourth date.
Then there was the time Mum bought me a yellow mohair jumper, the reasoning being that my favourite colour is yellow. Which is true, except yellow is my favourite colour because I think of sunflowers and sunshine, not big, fat, furry mohair jumpers that make me look like I’m seasick.
It was OK, though, because she told me that she would return it if I didn’t like it. She wouldn’t be hurt or offended. So I said it was a lovely thought but would she mind returning it?
Mum promptly burst into tears.
And now this is one of those times, I muse, looking at Officer McCrory with a beat of apprehension. If I say Ê€€†ëIf anything, I will deeply regret it. I need to keep my big mouth so firmly shut a can-opener couldn’t prise it open.