Kookaburra (formerly untitled) Ch.TWENTYFIVE

“Scott?” He’s still peering down at me, feigning concern.

“Go away, Seth.” I can barely speak through the choking sobs.

“Scott, you need to go to the hospital, or the police, or…”

“Shouldn’t you be in jail?”

“I got bailed out by a friend. Seriously Scott, you’ve gotta… you’ve gotta…”

“I’m – I’m fine. Honestly, I’m fine. You can quit pretending to care.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You obviously are. You never cared before. So why do you now?”

“Of course I cared before.” He shakes his head, pushing a hand through his hair. “Scott, we’ve got to move. That guy could wake up at any time, and we probably shouldn’t be here when he does.” I glance over at Bert, lying on the ground, eyes pressed tightly shut. Blood dribbles out of his mouth and nose, tiny drops of it staining the floor. He crouches down in front of me, taking my chin in his hands gently, twisting my head to his, staring into my eyes. “We have to call the police.”

“But…” My eyes are drawn back to Bert, and oh, God, I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow he looks almost most terrifying than when he was conscious.

“Do you know him?”

“He’s… sorta.”

“Right.” Seth sounds worried, almost genuinely concerned. He’s silent for a minute. I can feel his eyes pushing into me. Until: “do you mind if I call the police?”

I raise my shoulders halfway up to my ears and let them drop in an-almost shrug.

“Okay, well, I’m going to.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a battered mobile. He dials quickly, pressing the phone to his ear, eyes flicking between me and Bert. “It’ll all be fine, Scott. I promise.”

And it’s that promise I cling to, that tiny shred of hope my single unburnt bridge to normality.

That’s what I’ll hold on to.

That’s what I’ll keep.

***

“Mr Willis, can you please talk me through what happened from the moment Mr McCracken accosted you?”

I rub a hand across my forehead, pulling on the strands of hair. This tiny room in the police station is full of recycled air. I can barely breathe. “I already told you everything.”

“I understand that Mr Willis, but we need a solid account.”

“I-“ I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to be here. “I was walking past this alley, and he just grabbed me and pulled me in. He pushed-“ my voice cuts out for a minute. I clear my throat, trying to avoid the critical way the police officer’s staring at me. “He pushed me against a wall, and said all this stuff. Then suddenly, he – he like, turned me round, and – and he – he-“ I can’t do this. My voice collapses into sobs.

The police officer is, of course, indifferent. “Mr Willis, we really need to get an report on what happened.”

I take a deep breath, running it over in my head. “He pulled down my fly, and he was working on his, but then he crashed down, and I guess Seth punched him, and he was – he was like, on the ground, and then – and then we called you guys, I guess, and then I’m here. And… yeah.”

“Thank you,” nods the police officer, scribbling on a sheet of paper in front of him.

I take a deep breath. The tears have almost stopped, and I’m glad for that. “Can I go now?”

He nods again, without looking up. Thank God. I must look like shit. I push up from the chair and leave the room silently. The air in there was far too deafening to keep on breathing.

***

“Mr Willis, would you like us to call anyone for you?”

“I… uh… yeah. My brother,” I mutter, focussing on the desk sergeant’s nametag. ‘Brian Martyn. Officer 3520, Hertfordshire District.’

“Do you have a number we could reach him at?”

“No, I… his name is Callum Willis. Can you find out from that?”

“I can try.” Brian Martyn switches his eyes to the keyboarding, tapping his fingers against the keys, clicking the mouse a few times, then presses his gaze back into me. “We have no Callum Willis on our system, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Uh. Try…” A brainwave. I ride it. “Try Callum Thomson.”

He looks back at the computer again, typing. His nails click across the letters in an annoyingly proficient way. “Twenty-one year old male, black hair, green eyes, currently in residence at flat 405, Maple Estate. Sound familiar?”

I nod. “Yeah, yeah, that’s him.” Mum’s maiden name. Of course.

“If you take a seat, I’ll speak to him and be with you in a moment. Unless of course you want to talk to him?” But the phone’s already pressed against his ear. I just sigh, and step back until plastic hits against the back of my knees. I sit down on the hard chair, and am suddenly filled with questions. What are they going to say to him? What will he say back? Will he take it seriously? Will he actually care?

I need him here. I need someone here.