Page 103 of Salvation

That was true, actually. But it wasn't going to stop me. I'd pay with a painful throat tomorrow, but it was worth it. “I got married to the widow next door. She's been married seven times before.”

Every line I sang had the tips of his ears turning redder and redder. He slammed the phone down on his desk and glared at me.

“And everyone was an Henry. She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam. I'm her eighth old man, I'm Henry. Henry the Eighth, I am.”

“Stop,” he muttered, putting his hands over his ears.

“I’m her eighth old man, I'm Henry. Henry the Eighth, I am. H-E-N-R-Y. Henry. Henry. Henry the Eighth, I am, I am. Henry the Eighth, I am, yeah!”

He breathed a sigh of relief, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.

“Shall we take it from the top?”

“God!” He groaned, pulling his hands down his face before burying his head in his arms on top of the desk.

“I'll take that as a yes! I'm Henry the Eighth I am…”

Two hours later, I was still singing.

I sat on the floor, my back against the wall, occasionally drumming my hands on the concrete. I had been singing for five hours in total now and my voice was more than a little sore, but I'd long since got used to it.

It was worth it to see the guard's sanity slip away hour after hour. He had yelled, he'd thrown things at me (only to quicklyretrieve them when he realised I could use it as a weapon), he'd begged, he'd pleaded. He'd tried using tissue as earplugs, he'd hidden his head in his coat, and now, he was currently staring at the wall, a blank, distant look on his face.

“Okay, I'm bored now,” I said, startling him. He threw me a wary look, and I shrugged at him. “A girl can only sing a song on her own for so long before she's done.”

“There is a fucking God,” he said, tipping his head back and speaking to the ceiling.

“Which is why I propose a round robin! I'll sing two lines, then you start! Ready… I'm Henry the Eighth I am…”

“I hate you,” he muttered, and then sank down in his seat, utterly defeated.

Another three hours later, and my throat was killing. I thought it hurt doing ten-hour shifts in a call centre, speaking non-stop to customers. But this was something else. Officer Bradley had come in at one point to take my statement, but after listening to me sing for half an hour, he soon terminated the interview and buggered off. They could only keep me here twelve hours before charging me, which meant they had four hours left. I could last four hours.

I don't think the poor guard could, though. He'd all but begged to be relieved of duty, saying it wasn't normal to sit with a suspect since I was in a secure room, but officer Bradley was having none of it.

It made no difference to me.

“I got married to the widow next door—”

“Enough!” the guard roared, slamming his hands on the desk, bringing his face centimetres away from mine.

I closed the distance, kissing the tip of his nose, and whispered, “She's been married seven times before.”

He punched the wall and stormed out.

“H-E-N-R-Y. Henry, Henry, Henry. Henry the Eighth I am, I am—”

The door flew open, interrupting my song.

I eyed officer Bradley, but I didn't stop. “Henry the—”

“Shut the fuck up!” He snapped. I chuckled under my breath and shook my head, and then raised one eyebrow when I saw he had left the door open this time.

“You're free to go. All charges against you have been dropped.”

He looked ruined. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and drawn, and his mouth turned down at the corners. His hair was dishevelled, and his uniform was wrinkled and creased.

“Why have the charges been dropped?” I said, my voice croaky.

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