'No.'

Davies dials the number, hands me the phone.

She takes a long time to answer.

'Georgia,' I say. 'It's me, Patrick.'

'h.e.l.lo there.'

'Listen, I've gone and done something a bit stupid.'

'What's wrong?'

'I hit a man in the boarding house last night and he's dead. I've been arrested. I'm at the police station.'

'I don't understand.'

'I haven't much time,' I say. 'I just wanted to tell you I've been arrested.'

'You killed somebody?'

'No,' I say. 'I didn't kill him. I didn't mean to kill him, but he's dead. I only hit him once.'

'Was it an accident?'

'It's hard to explain,' I say. 'I just wanted to say I'm sorry I won't be able to see you for a while.'

'I don't understand.'

'I just wanted to tell you.'

'Do you have somebody to bail you out?'

'No.'

'Is that why you've called? Do you need somebody to come and get you?'

'No, that's okay.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah.'

'Have you spoken to your mum?' I've got an idea.

'If I give you the number, could you call her for me?'

she waits, thinking. 'I'm not sure.'

'They won't give me another phone call.'

'Okay, I'll call your mum for you. If that's what you want.'

I give her the number. 'Will you tell my mum I'm really sorry.'

Another pause.

'It'd be better if you said that.'

'All right,' I say.

'You'll be okay,' she says. 'Don't worry. It'll all get worked out.'

If I say much more, I'll be sure to choke up and I'm glad Davies has stepped forward to signal that my time's up.

'I've got to go,' I say.

'Okay. Goodbye, Patrick.'

'Goodbye.'

I should've used her name like she's used mine. It was nice to hear it said.

Davies takes me back to the custody office and the desk sergeant's got the inkpad ready for my fingerprints. When I've pressed my fingers onto the print sheet, rolled them back and forth, the desk sergeant steps out from behind the desk and puts my cuffs back on.

There's a chair in the corner and I mean to go to it and sit, but I don't make it. There's no warning when it happens and it happens fast and it doubles me over. The sick that's come out of me is liquid, a bitter water, and there's lots of it.

'Get a bucket,' says Davies.

The desk sergeant comes with a bucket, says, 'Put your head over this.'

I go to the chair and sit and put my head over the bucket.

The desk sergeant gives me some water in a paper triangle and the paper goes soft in my hand.

Davies takes me back out to the corridor, holds me by the elbow.

'We'll set up an interview room soon as we can,' he says.

'What about some more water?'

'In a minute,' he says.

There are two empty cells, one a bit bigger than the other. In the smaller one there's a sluice in the middle of the floor and a rubber mattress sits on a low bench.

I won't go in.

'You're in the big cell,' says Davies. 'We've got a drunk 'n' disorderly coming in. I don't want you sharing with him.'

I don't go in.

'Pop yourself on the bed,' he says. 'Might as well take a rest.'

'I only hit him once,' I say, 'and there was no blood.'

'Best to wait for your brief,' he says. 'Get in and hop on the bed.'

But this is no bed. It's only a blue rubber mat about two inches thick and it sits on a bench that's bolted to the wall. Over the bench there's a window, six bars in, six out, and there's a crack in the gla.s.s letting the cold air in. In the corner of the cell, there's a squat three-legged wooden stool and a toilet.

'Give me your belt,' says Davies.

I take my belt off, give it to him.

'Now get in,' he says.

'I don't belong in here,' I say.

'Get in.'

I go in, get on the bench, sit with my back against the brick wall. Davies takes the stool into the middle of the cell. 'Are you staying?'

'Yeah.'

'Why?'

'It's routine for an officer to stay with murder suspects.'

'I'm not a murderer.'

'It's routine.'

'Can I have these cuffs off?'

'Not yet.'

The rubber mat looks like a P.E. mat, but it's not soft and it stinks of rotten meat.

I hang my legs over the side.

'You can smoke if you want,' he says.

'I don't smoke.'

'There's a packet in my pocket, in case you change your mind.'

Davies flips through the pages of his pocket book and then looks over at me as though he's sure I'm about to do something interesting.

I get up, pull the bucket in nearer the bench, put my hands to my throat and breathe deep to stop myself being sick.

'You going to spew again?'

I say nothing.

He sits with me for an hour, maybe more.

The desk sergeant comes to the cell door, speaks through the opened hatch.

'The brief's gonna get here as soon as he can.'

'Okay,' says Davies. The desk sergeant leaves.

'I'll get you something to eat in a minute,' says Davies.

'I'm not hungry.'

'I'll see if I can get something.'

Davies leaves the cell, slides the bolt across, locks me in. I want him back.

So long as he's here, I'm not a prisoner, not yet jailed.

I go to the cell door, try to slide the hatch open.

It'll not budge. There's no hope of it opening.

I go back to the bench and stand on it, look out the window. There's a wall about four feet away and overhead there's a wire grille with cigarette packets stuffed into the holes.

When they let me out, I'm going for a long walk and I won't look at the ground in front of me. I'll pay more attention.

Almost a half-hour later, Davies comes back with a sandwich on a paper plate.

I smile when I see him.

I want to talk and I want him to stay. So long as he doesn't go away, there's still hope I might get out of here before dark.

'Here,' he says. 'Try and eat.'

I peel the bread back and look at the thick b.u.t.ter and slice of cheese.

'You don't want it?'

'No, but thanks.'

'Give it here.'

Davies eats the sandwich.

'What happens now?'