Game Theory (9 page)

Then again, I was nothing like Summerlee and Mum knew I would never deliberately get in trouble with the law. So maybe it was a different kind of punishment. Maybe I was being forced to think about all those occasions when I could have helped Mum
out, but didn't.
This is the world I've always had to deal with, Jamie. Now you know how it feels.
If that was the case, then I wasn't the only person who should have been in the car. Dad also abdicated responsibility; how many times had he put up sandbags against a rising tide of troubles and let Mum do the baling when it all spilled over?

The beauty of game theory is that it makes you constantly examine how other people might react to situations, but it's also a pain in the arse for the same reason. It was the middle of the night, I was tired and these thoughts buzzed round in my head, offering possibilities but skirting insight.

I wound down the car window and let the cool night air bathe me. It smelled of rain.

Mum found a parking space outside the cop shop. The station was brightly lit, curiously welcoming in a way.
Come on in. It's nice and warm and safe in here.
Mum walked quickly, purpose in her paces, and I trailed a couple of metres behind. I hadn't tied my shoelaces in the car and I worried I'd trip myself up. The waiting area was spartan: a few straight-backed chairs against the walls, a reception desk that was deserted. Someone had made an effort to brighten up the walls by fixing posters at intervals. Helplines. Something about Neighbourhood Watch. There weren't even any magazines to while away the time, but I guess a police station is not a doctor's waiting room. Car thieves reading
Motoring Weekly
. Mum went straight to the desk and pinged one of those
old-fashioned bells that have a button on the top. The sound echoed through the building, but no one came.
You could steal these chairs
, I thought,
and make a clean getaway
. Mum muttered and jingled the car keys again. Summerlee was somewhere here, and that was a strange, disturbing thought. It was difficult to imagine cells behind those neat doors, places with bars and the taste of hopelessness. Much easier to imagine neat cubicles where people peered at computer screens and ate takeaway sandwiches at their desks.

Mum was about to ring the bell again when a burly officer in uniform appeared as if from nowhere. He was wiping his face with the side of a hand, possibly brushing crumbs away. He had a cardboard cup of what looked like coffee in his other hand.

‘Good morning, ma'am,' he said to Mum. ‘How can I help you?' ‘I'm Janet Delaware. I believe you have my daughter, Summerlee, here.'

‘Ah, yes,' said the cop. ‘We certainly do. Please take a seat, Ms Delaware. The arresting officer will be right with you.' He picked up a phone on the desk and pressed a button. Mum stood for a moment as if unsure whether to follow the instruction or attempt to listen in to the conversation. In the end, she turned away and sat down beneath a poster publicising a twenty-four-hour drug support line. Almost immediately she started jingling her car keys. It made an annoying sound. I sat next to her and took the opportunity to tie my laces. I wondered if someone had taken
Summerlee's away, assuming she had any. Didn't they do that so you couldn't hang yourself in your cell? I sat forward, forearms on my thighs, and inspected the grouting between the floor tiles. It had once been grey, but now it was black.

They kept me and Mum waiting for forty-five minutes. I suppose it's not unreasonable. Perhaps the guy was off somewhere interrogating a suspect or filling out forms. Wasn't that the way it was in TV shows, the endless form-filling a barrier to catching the baddies? But I couldn't help concluding it was insensitive. Summer was eighteen. Yeah, an adult. But still eighteen. And her mum was there, not knowing whether she had dropped litter in the street or caved someone's head in with a hammer. Forty-five minutes of agonising speculation was excessive. Mum never stopped the key jingling, but she didn't say a word.

Finally, a door to the reception area opened and a man in a suit put his head around. His tie was undone, the knot hanging way below his chin.

‘Ms Delaware?' he said. Mum stood.

‘Yes.'

‘Come this way, please.' We both followed him through the door and along a corridor to a small office. The cop didn't ask who I was and I didn't volunteer the information. I was half expecting Summerlee to be in there, but the room was empty. The man motioned to a chair and then sat behind a desk. There was only one chair so Mum took it. The place was pretty much like the cubicles I had imagined out there in the waiting room.
The only thing missing was the takeaway sandwich. The man picked up a thin manila folder and examined a page. He glanced up at Mum.

‘At one-thirty this morning we received a call from the night manager at the Hyatt Hotel in the city. He reported that there was a disturbance in one of the rooms and asked for assistance. A patrol car was sent out and, as a result, your daughter and two other people were arrested.'

Mum sighed. It could have been worse, I suppose. A disturbance was better than an assault. Then again, the word ‘disturbance' covered a multitude of possibilities.

‘What has she done?' Mum asked.

The cop turned back to the folder.

‘At present, the charge sheet reads affray, possession of illicit substances, resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer,' he said. It turned out the disturbance
was
an assault. He put the sheet down. ‘In addition, Ms Delaware, your daughter trashed the hotel room. That was the reason the police were called in the first place. Apparently, she and her guests made a real mess. Smashed the television, destroyed the bed, tipped up the bar fridge, broke tiles in the bathroom . . .' He picked up the sheet again, clearly thought about listing more of the damage, changed his mind and put the sheet back. ‘Let's just say that there wasn't much in that hotel room that
could
be broken that wasn't. I imagine the Hyatt will be hitting your daughter with a substantial bill for damages.'

‘She can afford it,' said Mum. I didn't know if the police officer
would pick up the irony, the weary resignation, in her words or interpret the remark as dismissive.

‘Yes,' said the cop. ‘Summerlee Delaware, multi-millionaire.' Did he intend the rhyme? I almost laughed. ‘I read all about it. Saw the news. But that doesn't give her the right to destroy other people's property or assault police officers.'

‘I know that,' said Mum. ‘Believe me, I know.'

The cop stared at her for a few moments. I was really tempted to break my silence. The guy was looking at Mum as if she was a shit parent. Just another one in a long line of shit parents he had had to deal with in his career.
Your daughter didn't just turn out this way. You made her. How about taking some responsibility?
But Mum
had
tried. She was the only one who had. She'd fucked up, sure, with all of us, but which parent doesn't? In the end, she didn't deserve this. This was Summerlee's crime and it was painful to watch Mum being invited to share it.

‘Anyway,' the cop continued. ‘Your daughter is an adult and will be charged as one. We are prepared to release her tonight. But she is still very drunk and I require the presence of a sober adult to take responsibility for her.'

‘Keep her in a cell overnight,' said Mum. ‘Might do her some good.' I could only imagine the despair that led to that suggestion. It wasn't like Mum at all.

‘No. We want to be rid of her. Though it's interesting you should say that. Your daughter also didn't want to be released to you and suggested the same thing. But, frankly, no one here has
the time or energy to clean up her vomit or watch her constantly to make sure she doesn't choke on it. To be honest, Ms Delaware, we are tired of her. Take her home.'

Mum nodded. She seemed so worn down, shoulders sagging as if in some way she welcomed the burden. Or, at least, recognised the inevitability of carrying it.

‘Come with me,' said the cop.

This time we were led to a room that
did
contain Summerlee. She sat on a bench, her head dangling between her knees, and she looked up as we entered. I have seen Summer in various states of drunkenness and most times she looked like shit, but she had outdone herself this time. Her top was torn and dirty and she didn't even have the energy to hitch it up to conceal grimy bra straps. The rest of her clothes, such as they were – Summer never considered herself decently dressed if she was decent – were in a similar state. Not dragged through a hedge backwards, but repeatedly forced through it on considerable occasions. But it was her face that shocked me more than anything. Cuts and scratches, make-up smeared, hair in a disastrous tangle. And her eyes. They seemed dead somehow, a window to misery. I actually wanted to go over and hug her, but I didn't have the guts. She would have recoiled anyway. Her gaze took us in, but it was uninterested, and she turned her eyes back to the floor. I noticed that they
had
taken her shoes.

Mum, to her credit, didn't launch into anything resembling a sermon. Just as well, because Summer might have found herself
facing further charges. Instead, she jangled the car keys again. ‘Time to go home, Summerlee,' she said.

Summer stood and walked past both of us, staggering slightly and banging her hip against the door frame. The cop led the way to the front desk and Summer was given back her possessions. Shoes, mobile phone, handbag, twenty-six dollars and twenty cents in cash. Summer counted it out carefully.

‘I had more than this,' she said. ‘I had at least fifty bucks.'

‘You didn't,' said the guy in the suit. He had never given us his name. That was okay. I wasn't particularly interested. ‘You had exactly what it says on that sheet. Twenty-six dollars and twenty cents. You signed. Here.' He pointed out Summer's scrawl at the bottom of the form.

‘Yeah, well, I was pissed,' she replied. ‘I woulda signed anything. I had more than a lousy twenty-six bucks.'

‘Are you accusing us of theft?' said the guy. ‘If so, there is another form that you will need to fill out.'

‘Oh, sure,' said Summer. ‘That's gonna work, isn't it? How fuckin' dumb do you think I am?'

For a moment I thought the cop was going to accept the invitation and spell it out for her, but he didn't. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes hard.

Maybe it would have been better to let Summer talk herself back into jail, but in the end we got her out of the station. You could feel the mood of the constabulary lifting as we went
through the door. It was distinctly possible they would have had a whip-round to raise the twenty-four dollars to bring her cash up to the fifty she claimed. That would have been a blast. Giving twenty-four bucks to someone who was worth seven and a half million.

Summerlee shivered in the cool night air and wrapped her arms around her front. I couldn't imagine that would provide much warmth, but there was nothing to be done about it. She looked up at the night sky, teeth chattering gently. Mum opened the rear door of the car.

‘Despite everything, Summerlee,' she said. ‘I'm glad you got the police to call me.'

‘I didn't,' she replied. She didn't even glance at Mum. ‘They got your number from my phone. Isn't there some law against that? You can't just go searching through someone's mobile. That's invasion of privacy. I should sue the fuckers. Maybe I will.'

Mum sighed. I realised she was bone weary and not just because of the lateness – the earliness – of the hour. It was five-fifteen and the sky had taken on that quality that said night's dominance was ending. Stars were fading on the horizon. So too, closer to home, was Mum's resilience.

‘Get in the car, Summer,' I said. ‘You must be cold.'

‘Nah, I'm right.' She pulled out her phone from that ridiculously small bag and punched in a number. ‘I'll get a taxi.'

‘Where to?' said Mum.

‘There are other hotels.'

‘Come home,' said Mum. ‘You can sleep properly. I'll cook you breakfast. You can have a hot shower.'

‘Maybe we could sing a song together in the car,' said Summer. ‘Play happy families. Speaking of happy families, Dad couldn't make it, I see.'

‘One of us had to stay and look after your sister.'

‘Yeah. He's good at that, is Dad. Doing fuck all.'

Mum's hand clenched against the car keys. I saw the blood drain from her knuckles.

‘Come home, Summer,' she said again.

‘Nah, I'm right.' Summerlee turned her head away from us. ‘Yeah, I need a taxi right away. I'm outside the police station in Gordon Street. Going to the city . . . Summerlee Delaware . . . ten minutes? Right.' She hung up.

‘Summerlee . . .'

‘Leave it, Mum,' I said. I took her by the arm. ‘You're not going to get anywhere. Let's go.'

‘But . . .' There was a puzzled expression in her eyes.
I can't just leave my daughter alone in the street at five in the morning. It's dangerous and I have to protect her. It was only yesterday that she would giggle when I tickled her and hug me and give me a big sloppy kiss on my cheek and draw me pictures, outrageously bad pictures, that I would proudly stick up on the fridge, and she'd get so wound up on Christmas Eve that she could never sleep but would sometimes make herself sick with excitement, and her first day of
school . . . I can't leave her. It's what being a parent is about. It's hardwired
. ‘Please, Summerlee,' she added.

I felt anger at the abject pleading and a profound sadness at the same time. It was a curious emotional mixture.

‘Nah, I'm right,' said Summer.

I grabbed my sister by the arm, and when she tried to wrench herself free, I tightened my grip, hissed close to her ear.

‘You're a fucking bitch, Summer,' I said. ‘Dad is worried, Mum has driven here to pick you up and all you can do is spit in her face. You don't even have the decency to say thanks.' She managed to finally free herself and her face was contorted in anger.