Free Forward Slash by Mark Edwards, Louise Voss

have reservations is because they’re useless and won’t listen to me.’
    ‘Well, your decision, I guess.’
    ‘Oh, all right, I’ll call them.’
    She ignored Gary’s smirk and crossed to the window to call the police station for the third time. It had been a really long day and she ached with exhaustion, the adrenaline deserting her body, leaving her feeling cold and depleted.
    ‘Well?’ Gary asked.
    ‘They’re sending someone round. Finally.’
    The police officers stood in Gary’s living room, filling it with their alien presence, a scene she had watched many times on TV but had never experienced until now. Amy was always astonished when she saw people being rude or confrontational to the police. She had been conditioned as a child to be respectful, even fearful, of the police and, even though she had little respect for them now, her own experiences brutally reversing that conditioning, she couldn’t relax in their presence. She felt awkward, under suspicion. But also desperate for their help. They introduced themselves as PC Jay Sewell and WPC Minnie Whitaker.
    ‘So,’ said PC Sewell, who must have been six foot four – he had to duck as he came into the flat. ‘You fell asleep in your sister’s flat and woke to find someone opening the door.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    WPC Whitaker, who reminded Amy of the hockey captain from her school, said, ‘Who else has a key? Did she have a cleaner, or a lover who might have had one?’
    ‘Just me,’ said Gary. Two pairs of eyes lasered in on him, and he hurriedly added, ‘We had copies of each other’s keys in case we ever locked ourselves out. But Amy has my key.’
    ‘And he was at the pub,’ Amy added.
    WPC Whitaker wrote something in her notebook.
    ‘Maybe you could take fingerprints from the door?’ Amy suggested.
    The police officers exchanged a look. She had seen mechanics exchange similar looks when she took her bike in to be serviced and suggested what she thought was wrong with it.
    ‘The issue we have,’ said Sewell, ‘is that no crime has been committed. We have nothing to make us think that something suspicious has happened to your sister, apart from your feelings and this … fact about Cambodia. And nobody tried to break into the flat. They opened it with a key.’
    Amy looked at Gary.
I told you so
.
    ‘Don’t you think it’s strange, though?’ Gary said.
    ‘Whether or not I think it’s strange is irrelevant, sir. We have no evidence of a crime. There’s nothing we can do.’
    Amy awoke the next morning in her own flat, with sunlight in a warm shaft across her cheek and the dawn chorus in her ears. She had fallen into bed in a punch-drunk daze, leaving the curtains open, still wearing her clothes. Boris was in his usual position at the foot of the bed and, as he heard her stir, came round to lick the side of her face.
    ‘Oh, lovely … Thanks, Boris. How—’
    Suddenly, all the events of yesterday whooshed into her head and she grabbed her phone to check her texts and emails.
Please let there be something from Becky.
But there was nothing. Instead, there were dozens more emails from customers and suppliers that had come in overnight, filling her Inbox on top of all the messages she’d failed to respond to yesterday. She felt a lurch of panic. It was only four a.m. but she knew she would never get back to sleep. She stank; her mouth was dry. She needed to do some work. She needed to find Becky. But she needed to catch up with her work, Becky, work …
    She remembered what the therapist had taught her about dealing with panic attacks. She swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, put one hand on her abdomen and the other just above her breasts, breathed in slowly through her nose, held it, then exhaled through her mouth. Repeat. She felt her mind emptying. She would deal with what she needed to do calmly, one thing at a time.
    After a minute or two, she relaxed, opened her eyes. The dog gazed up at her, his serious