Moe. I’ll double-check with your dad when he gets here.’
‘Dad? Oh, man! What’d ya have to go and call that dick-head for?’
‘Mikaylah, these are serious charges. It’s not just shop-lifting or truanting this time. Breaking and entering is heavy stuff, and, as you’re a minor, your parents need to be informed.’
‘Fuckwit,’ she muttered under her breath, sullenly sliding her eyes sideways.
‘Yes, well, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’ And he went back to his paperwork, licking the end of his pencil with gusto.
‘Look, in view of how unhelpful you’re being, I’m going to ask you to go and wait in the lunch-room, get yourself a coffee and I’ll fill in the paperwork without you.’
Higgins fired a final shot to her hunched shoulders as she left. ‘You’re a real worry, Mikaylah, I don’t know how such a bright kid like you has fallen into this crap.’
Mikaylah slunk off to the room at the back of the station. She knew where to find it; this wasn’t the first time she’d been a guest of the boys in blue.
She picked up a plastic spoon thick with old coffee and sugar grains and shovelled three heaped loads of International Roast into a Styrofoam cup. She dumped in three – no, what the hell – four sugars and smelt the milk from the fridge before adding a splash. Then she sat grimly, scowling at the steam that snaked from the cup – she needed this hitnow, not in ten fucking minutes, she thought, blowing at it to cool it faster.
She was jumpy and itchy. She rifled through a stained and scratched Tupperware container of Arnott’s Assorteds and hit paydirt, finding two Monte Carlos at the bottom. She plucked one out and prised it open to get to the creamy filling and the sugar fix she was desperately craving.
Sighing, she munched on the bickie and considered her awful position. Like, hello?? She didn’t make a habit of knocking off other people’s gear. It’s not like she didn’t have a reason. It’s not like she wasn’t totally desperate.
Desperate to get that fucking Tony Marecci off her back.
He and his custom-painted panel van had been a regular fixture at the school gates as long as anyone could remember. A vulture waiting for the fresh young things to fall so he could feast on their demise. His patter was polished: his free Mars Bars; hot chips on cold days and his thin guise of mateship were welcome balms to troubled souls. He made a fortune from the shit he sold cheap to kids who didn’t know any better and couldn’t stop once they’d started.
But of course, nothing’s really cheap, and when Tony had urged his newest customer, Mikaylah, into more debt than she could hope to afford, he offered to let her ‘clear the books’ with a small gesture. His ugly knuckled hands had karate-adjusted his package to illustrate his idea of the sort of gesture that was required. ‘I wouldn’t touch that poxy cock with a barge pole,’ Mikaylah had hissed at him, her throat constricting with fear.
Tony was a little weed of a bloke; stunted, scrawny and mean. The sparse black fibres of his mo did little to disguise his cruel lips, which constantly housed a smouldering Peter Stuyvesant. His head was permanently tilted to the side as his eyes squinted through a coil of ciggie smoke. His weak chin was a battleground of acne scars, punctuated withpiercings. Lurid satin boxers hung from his bony arse, atop baggy jeans that sagged to his knees. He jingled about the school gate each afternoon as the chains linked through his belt loops slapped in time to his loping walk.
He was the worst kind of travelling salesman, peddling his wares strictly to the vulnerable teenage market and spending no longer than necessary in the town. He’d laughed in Mikaylah’s face when she’d refused the sweet deal he’d offered her – she’d be back, he thought as he watched her stride away. He’d adjusted his cock in a well-practised motion and run his tongue over his festering teeth – they
‘Dad? Oh, man! What’d ya have to go and call that dick-head for?’
‘Mikaylah, these are serious charges. It’s not just shop-lifting or truanting this time. Breaking and entering is heavy stuff, and, as you’re a minor, your parents need to be informed.’
‘Fuckwit,’ she muttered under her breath, sullenly sliding her eyes sideways.
‘Yes, well, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’ And he went back to his paperwork, licking the end of his pencil with gusto.
‘Look, in view of how unhelpful you’re being, I’m going to ask you to go and wait in the lunch-room, get yourself a coffee and I’ll fill in the paperwork without you.’
Higgins fired a final shot to her hunched shoulders as she left. ‘You’re a real worry, Mikaylah, I don’t know how such a bright kid like you has fallen into this crap.’
Mikaylah slunk off to the room at the back of the station. She knew where to find it; this wasn’t the first time she’d been a guest of the boys in blue.
She picked up a plastic spoon thick with old coffee and sugar grains and shovelled three heaped loads of International Roast into a Styrofoam cup. She dumped in three – no, what the hell – four sugars and smelt the milk from the fridge before adding a splash. Then she sat grimly, scowling at the steam that snaked from the cup – she needed this hitnow, not in ten fucking minutes, she thought, blowing at it to cool it faster.
She was jumpy and itchy. She rifled through a stained and scratched Tupperware container of Arnott’s Assorteds and hit paydirt, finding two Monte Carlos at the bottom. She plucked one out and prised it open to get to the creamy filling and the sugar fix she was desperately craving.
Sighing, she munched on the bickie and considered her awful position. Like, hello?? She didn’t make a habit of knocking off other people’s gear. It’s not like she didn’t have a reason. It’s not like she wasn’t totally desperate.
Desperate to get that fucking Tony Marecci off her back.
He and his custom-painted panel van had been a regular fixture at the school gates as long as anyone could remember. A vulture waiting for the fresh young things to fall so he could feast on their demise. His patter was polished: his free Mars Bars; hot chips on cold days and his thin guise of mateship were welcome balms to troubled souls. He made a fortune from the shit he sold cheap to kids who didn’t know any better and couldn’t stop once they’d started.
But of course, nothing’s really cheap, and when Tony had urged his newest customer, Mikaylah, into more debt than she could hope to afford, he offered to let her ‘clear the books’ with a small gesture. His ugly knuckled hands had karate-adjusted his package to illustrate his idea of the sort of gesture that was required. ‘I wouldn’t touch that poxy cock with a barge pole,’ Mikaylah had hissed at him, her throat constricting with fear.
Tony was a little weed of a bloke; stunted, scrawny and mean. The sparse black fibres of his mo did little to disguise his cruel lips, which constantly housed a smouldering Peter Stuyvesant. His head was permanently tilted to the side as his eyes squinted through a coil of ciggie smoke. His weak chin was a battleground of acne scars, punctuated withpiercings. Lurid satin boxers hung from his bony arse, atop baggy jeans that sagged to his knees. He jingled about the school gate each afternoon as the chains linked through his belt loops slapped in time to his loping walk.
He was the worst kind of travelling salesman, peddling his wares strictly to the vulnerable teenage market and spending no longer than necessary in the town. He’d laughed in Mikaylah’s face when she’d refused the sweet deal he’d offered her – she’d be back, he thought as he watched her stride away. He’d adjusted his cock in a well-practised motion and run his tongue over his festering teeth – they
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