Free Smashed by Mandy Hager

of an American football player, says, ‘You’re Toby Young?’
    The fermenting cheese sandwich slams against the pit of my stomach. I nod.
    ‘Can we come in?’ They take a step forward, as if I’ve already invited them inside. ‘We’d like to ask youa few questions.’
    If I had a choice, I’d slam the door and run for it. But they’re already pushing past me, eyeing up the kitchen as they make their way through to the lounge. They lower themselves onto our old sofa, and the sergeant guy flips his notebook open in a movement slick from practice.
    I’m thinking of telling him that I have the right to remain silent, or whatever it is you’re supposed to say. That I want my one phone call. That I want my lawyer, if I had one. That I want my mum. But they don’t give me time to pull my thoughts together.
    ‘Have you heard about your friend Donald Donaldson?’ the older cop asks. He’s watching me really closely. I can see him mentally scribbling pages full of evidence against me, cos I can’t stop myself from swaying and slumping into the nearest chair.
    When I answer him, my voice comes out in the world’s most pathetic squeak. ‘No.’
    He keeps eyeballing me and I can’t stand the intensity of it. I stare down at my hands, picking the last of the crusted blood out from underneath one fingernail. ‘He was found in the central city last night with serious head injuries … it looks like someone did a dance right on his head.’
    ‘Jesus!’ I look up at that, not believing what I’mhearing. The guy’s staring at my hands as well, flinching as I flick away the flake of blood. Is this what I’ve done to him? I’m scrabbling through the jumble of images inside my head. Wouldn’t I remember that? ‘Is he … going to be alright?’
    ‘We’re not sure, son. It’s early days.’ He sounds almost tearful, which makes me kind of teary too. ‘You’re looking pretty bad yourself. What happened to your face?’
    For a moment I can’t think what he’s on about. I run my hands over my face and feel the rough, scabby grazes. ‘It’s not what you think,’ I say defensively. ‘I did this to myself.’
    Now he’s looking at me like I’m a psycho. The other guy, Square-jaw, is up and wandering around the room. He leans across the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the lounge and reads Mum’s note. He picks it up, which I reckon is a damn cheek, and hands it over to the sergeant. ‘Who’s this to?’
    I’m not going to rush into answering this. I’ve seen enough cop shows on TV to know that it’s the stupid guys who open up their mouths and talk before they think who walk right into trouble. Besides, I can hear a car pulling into the drive, the door slam and the sound of hurried footsteps slapping across the yard and up the front steps.
    Mum flies in, her face pale as she takes in thepolicemen, but it’s me she’s searching for. I rise to greet her, so relieved to see her that I don’t even care when she hugs me right in front of them. ‘Jesus, Toby, are you alright?’
    ‘I’m fine,’ I say, patting her back and peeling her off me. Her hair’s all over the place and she looks pretty rugged — like she hasn’t slept for about a week. I jerk my head towards the cops. ‘They’re looking for Dad.’
    She turns to them now, totally confused. But I’ve gotta give her credit; she pulls herself together, holding out her hand to the sergeant guy who has risen to greet her as though she knows he’s the important one to schmooze. ‘I’m Maeve Young. What’s this about?’
    ‘Sergeant Gavin DeVinnie,’ he replies. ‘And this is Constable Mark Gordon.’ He indicates for her to sit, and waits before he follows suit. ‘Do you happen to know your husband’s whereabouts?’
    ‘Yes, he’s at work.’
    He frowns ever so slightly, a v-shaped crease forming between his brows. ‘It appears not. We’ve just come from there.’
    Mum laughs a little unconvincingly. I can tell she wants to