GLAZE (5 page)

‘What is going on, Petri?’ Zizi hisses next to me. ‘Who was that boy? And what has happened to your clothes?’ She looks at my bloody jeans and torn t-shirt for the first time.
 

‘You know the protest, the one Ryan McManus was organising?’

‘Against the closing of the school?’

‘Yep. Well, I kind of went and it kind of got out of hand. And I sort of ran. And that boy helped me.’

‘Petri, what did I tell standing your ground?’

‘Yeah, well, I panicked. They were firing water cannons and rubber bullets. Sorry, Mum.’ I only call her Mum when I want to annoy her; I know it drives her mad. It’s something to do with the power of names and how labels reduce women to outdated stereotypes. She wrote an article on it for
The Times
. Not that I read it, what with the paywall. I wasn’t going to pay to read the kind of stuff I can hear at the dinner table for free.
 

She runs her fingers through her grey, cropped hair and sighs. ‘It’s going to be OK. I’ve messaged my lawyer and we’ll sort this out.’

‘Can’t you just call Max?’ I say.
 

‘No!’ she snaps. ‘This is a family issue.’

‘But doesn’t Max play golf with the Home Secretary?’
 

‘That’s enough, Petri. Max is on a flight from Guatemala. Besides, you can’t run to him with every little problem like you’re a kid. You need to learn to take responsibility for your actions.’

I can tell by the way her mouth twists when she said Max’s name that there’s more to this than my arrest. She and Max must have had one of their falling outs again. Perfect.
 

‘We’ll get all this sorted out, don’t you worry. Just you and me.’ Zizi pats my knee, then pulls her hand away in horror at the sticky red stain on her hand. She wipes it on the leather car seat.
 

‘Look, can’t you stay out of it?’ I say.
 

In the pale glow from the lights streaking by outside I see her eyes widen. ‘Stay out of it? Stay out of it! This is a violation of your human rights, Petri. Or don’t you care about that?’

‘No, of course, I do. It’s just... do you have to make such a fuss? I’m sure it will all be OK.’

She folds her arms and turns her head away from me. ‘Fine, I’ll stay out of it. But don’t come crying to me when they send you off to one of their encampments. And don’t you think I don’t know about them,’ she says, leaning forward and addressing the police officers. ‘I’m a member of Amnesty. I’ve been recording this whole exchange, you know?’ She leans back again. ‘See how they like it when their barbaric procedures go viral.’
 

‘I wouldn’t suggest you do that, Ms Quinn,’ Lee says, not even turning around. ‘You could be charged with inciting violence.’
 

Zizi’s mouth drops open and snaps shut again. I try not to smile. The rest of the journey takes place in silence. Thankfully.

The police station is a modern, new-build affair. All glass and chrome. I start counting the seconds till Zizi mentions taxpayers. I don’t have to wait too long.
 

‘Well, isn’t that wonderful. And how much did that cost I wonder?’ she says looking up at a large metal sculpture of a policeman, bending down on one knee talking to a child. ‘What a great use of taxpayers’ funds. I mean, of course, forget about keeping the hospital’s maternity wing open as long as the police force get their shining symbol of benevolence to fool us all.’

I’m almost hoping they’ll lock me up.
 

Large glass doors hiss open as we approach and inside everything is quiet. More like a hospital than the loud police station I had imagined. There are no hookers or pimps screaming at each other. No tramps proclaiming their innocence. I’m a little disappointed.
 

Detective Lee swaps a few brief words with a policeman behind the large reception desk, tells the policewoman who’s accompanied us that ‘he’s got this’ and then leads us through a set of double doors at the back. What noise there was in the main area is now totally silenced. My trainers squeak loudly on the polished floors. Zizi scowls at me, like I can shut them up.
 

She mutters the whole way about civil liberties. Lee ignores her, which annoys her even more. Despite myself, I kind of like him.
 

He stops in front of a door and punches a six-figure number into the pass lock: 538873. I start looking for patterns in the number. Dates, codes, words. The only meaning I can ascribe is that as a simple letter cipher it would mean ‘kettle’. But it’s probably only a random number. He opens the door and steps aside.
 

It looks more waiting room than interrogation room. There are two low sofas facing each other either side of a glass coffee table. There are even mugs on the table. Lee nods for us to take a seat. He tidies the mugs, which clank together in his hand, and places them in a sink.
 

I take a seat and, after dusting crumbs off the cushion, so does Zizi. She’s chewing on the skin around her nails. They’re painted bright green today, although they’ve started to grow out a little and she’ll need to have them redone soon.
 

Lee eases himself onto the sofa opposite us. ‘You might be wondering how we tracked you down.’

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘You have surveillance everywhere.’
 

Lee looks a little unsettled. ‘Well, we didn’t need any surveillance, Miss Quinn. Your friend Ryan McManus gave us your name. But rest assured we would have found you anyway.’

I can’t hold back the small gasp of shock. ‘You caught Ryan?’
 

‘We let him off with a warning 30 minutes ago. He hadn’t done anything wrong.’
 

‘Then why exactly have you dragged my daughter in here?’

Lee slides over a slim tab. The latest graphene model, I notice. Looks like WhiteInc has been helping the police out in more ways than one. With the lightest of touches he brings the screen to life. A grainy image appears. It’s a crowd of people, holding placards and chanting. Lee taps the screen and the picture zooms in. I recognise some of people: Ryan, Karl, Kiara, me. It’s footage of the protest earlier filmed from a high vantage point. A drone or a satellite, I’m not sure.
 

Hooded figures press through the crowds. Where their faces should be are grey smudges, like someone has wiped a thumb over the screen. Now I understand what their silver scarves were for: anti-surveillance.
 

‘Those are the guys you should be arresting. Not me,’ I say.
 

Detective Lee smiles and the volume on the tab goes up.
 

A distorted voice plays out of the tiny speakers.
 

‘
Yeah, let’s all throw stuff. That’s how you bring about change. That’s how you stick it to the man!
’

I barely recognise my own voice. The screen pauses as the image of me goes to throw something into the crowd. I have one hand stretched out in front of me, the other poised to release my missile. I look like that Banksy painting in the Tate.
 

‘Do you know what the punishments are for inciting violence?’

I laugh, leaning back in my chair. This has to be some sort of test or something. He can’t be serious. I look at his face. He looks very, very serious.
 

‘I wasn’t inciting anything. I was being sarcastic!’ I say, leaning forward.
 

‘It didn’t sound sarcastic. And straight after you incited the crowd, this happened.’

The image plays again as the boys in black start hurling bottles down into the crowd and everyone starts screaming.
 

‘No, you’ve edited that. That’s not what happened. I didn’t tell them to start.’

‘Well, Miss Quinn, that’s certainly how it looks. So tell me, what do you know about these anarchists?’

‘The kids in the masks? I have no idea.’

‘They are members of the NF. What can you tell me about your involvement with them?’

 
Zizi’s intake of breath when he says those two letters scares me more than anything so far.
 

‘Zizi, this is crap, you can see that, can’t you? I don’t even know who or what the NF are!’
 

Her face is paler than usual as she watches the riot play out on the small screen. ‘Oh, Petri, didn’t I tell you that violence is never the answer.’

‘Petri’s had issues with violence in the past?’ Lee says.
 

‘What? Hang on, no.’

‘Ah yes, I see. Three reports of fighting at school.’

‘That’s private information, you can’t use that!’ I shout, waving my hand in front of his face disrupt his feed. It makes no difference.
 

‘All state schools operate an information sharing policy. I have all your files here, Petri. And it doesn’t look good.’

‘I told you I should have gone to a private school,’ I snap, staring at Zizi. ‘But, oh, no, you wanted me to get a
real
education! In the
real
world.’ I make ironic air quotes around the word ‘real’. I never wanted to go to a private school either. But I’m choosing to ignore that right now.
 

 
‘You can’t make this about me?’ Zizi says, holding her hand to her heart, all Hollywood diva.
 

‘Why not? You’ve made everything else in my life about you!’

Lee interrupts before things get too out of hand. ‘My superiors want me to press charges.’
 

‘Surely that won’t be necessary,’ Zizi says, all sweet and smooth—the voice I’ve heard her use with her fellow directors, right before she starts screaming. ‘My daughter isn’t a danger to society. She got carried away in the heat of the moment.’

‘I didn’t get carried away in the heat of anything!’ I say. ‘It was a joke! A joke! Why can’t you see that?’

The image has zoomed in even further and the clip plays on loop. My face is bright red and spittle sprays out of my mouth. I look like a crazy person.
 

I drop my face into my hands and let out a groan of frustration.
 

‘Well, that’s as maybe, but our actions do have consequences. I hope you can see that, young lady.’

I glare up at him from between my fingers.
 

‘Look, as this is your first offence—’

There’s a knock on the door. Whoever’s on the other side doesn’t wait to be called in. They throw open the door like they belong here.
 

I’m expecting to see Zizi’s lawyer, when…

 
‘Max!’ Zizi gasps. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looks confused. Angry even.
 

I don’t care. Relief washes over me like a warm breeze. Max has that effect on me. On everyone really. Whenever he walks into a room it gets instantly calmer, happier. And not only because he’s the creator and CEO of Glaze, but because there’s something about him that makes people feel good about themselves. The way, when he talks to you, he makes it feel like he’s really listening. When I was younger, he was the only adult I knew that didn’t treat me like an idiot. Who didn’t make me feel like I was in the way.
 

He’s wearing his usual grey shirt, grey suit with a red handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. No tie though; the only sign that he’s been on a transatlantic flight. He doesn’t even look tired. Although his greying stubble does look a little less designer than usual.
 

I look behind him, expecting to see the gaggle of staff that follow him everywhere these days. But he’s alone. I must be in even more trouble than I thought.
 

‘Detective Lee,’ Max says, approaching the policeman, his leather-gloved hand outstretched.
 

Lee stands up, curling the tab into a tight tube.
 
‘How did you get in here?’

‘I’m Maxwell White,’ Max says, by way of explanation. It’s the only explanation he ever needs.
 

‘Yes, I know who you are,’ Lee says, his voice icy cold. ‘Everyone in the world knows who you are, Mr White.’

‘Well then,’ Max says, slapping Lee on the shoulder with his gloved hand. The detective flinches as if Max’s touch is toxic.
 

If Max notices Lee’s obvious hatred he doesn’t react. Instead, he turns to me. ‘Petri, what have you been doing to worry your mother so?’

Zizi stands up and kisses Max on both cheeks, her lips never touching his skin. Max has a thing about germs. ‘How was the flight from Guatemala?’ she says, eyeing him coldly. Whatever they fell out about, it was big.
 

‘Long.’

‘And my lawyer told you about what was going on, I assume? Remind me to fire her.’

Max laughed. ‘And what has been going on?’
 

‘It’s nothing I can’t handle,’ she says, fiddling with her coat collar. ‘Nonsense cooked up by the police.’ She faces Lee while continuing to talk to Max. ‘You know how they’re always looking for some white, middle-class scapegoats to blame to hide their institutional racism. Couldn’t have them blaming Ryan McManus, the boy who organised the riot—’

‘Protest, Zizi,’ I interrupt. The knowledge that it was Ryan who gave me up turns in my stomach like a worm. ‘Ryan organised a protest,’ I finish lamely.
 

‘Either way, they couldn’t arrest an articulate, intelligent mixed-race boy, now could they? Not when they have the Investigation for Racial Imbalance breathing down their necks,’ Zizi finishes triumphantly.
 

I don’t follow her logic. They’re
not
going to arrest Ryan
because
he’s black
because
they’re racist? I don’t bother to try to work her out. I can only follow what she’s on about half of the time.
 

‘I’m sure the police are doing their jobs to the best of their abilities with the information available to them, isn’t that right, Detective Lee?’ Max says.
 

Lee doesn’t answer. He licks his lips slowly, and smacks them together.
 

‘Although, I am interested to know why a member of the Police Central eCrime Unit is investigating a protest?’