Page 39 of Real Rocks
When I finished, Jonas was silent. He didn’t speak for several minutes and I thought we’d been cut off.
“Jonas? Are you still there?”
“You do realise how serious this is, don’t you, Saff?” he said at last.
“What are you talking about? Carl was threatening me. Tris stopped him.”
Jonas let out a long sigh. “Tris has a record. It might not be as simple as you think.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. “But I can tell the police exactly what happened. They’ll have to believe me, then Tris can come home.”
“That’s not necessarily how it works, Saff. If what you’ve told me is true, then Tris might be going back to prison.”
24
Saff
How Darren managed to get any sleep while I tossed and turned beside him, I would never know. When I did finally get a few moments respite, my nightmares were clouded with visions of Tris being sent to prison again and I’d wake up, drenched in sweat, with the startling clarity that it might not be a dream. I constantly checked my phone, waiting for any sign from either Jonas or Tris himself that everything was fine. How was he coping? What was happening to him right now? What could I do to help him? Eventually I slipped into a dreamless slumber for a whole blissful hour until the vibrations of the phone woke me. It was a voicemail from a Manchester number.
It had to be Tris. Maybe he had been released and gone back to the hotel. My heart soared. Everything was going to be okay.
The initial euphoria faded as I heard the monotone voice of a Detective Sanders asking me to attend the police station as soon as possible to provide a witness statement in relation to an incident at The Matchbox. He left an address and phone number, encouraging me to contact them sooner rather than later.
Spurred into action, I shook Darren awake.
“We’ve got to go to the police station,” I said, pulling the covers off him. “I need to tell them what happened and then Tris can come home.”
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”
“Six-ish. Come on, we need to go.”
“You want to go to the police station looking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Saff, take a look in the mirror.”
I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. Still dressed in last night’s stage clothes, my make-up was all over my face, my hair mussed up. I didn’t look exactly like the demure girlfriend ready to vouch for her boyfriend. The stripper heels taunted me from the floor where I’d discarded them last night.
Maybe Darren was right.
“I don’t have anything here. All my stuff is at the other hotel.”
“Then why don’t you go back there, get a shower and some breakfast. I’ll meet you there. I’m not letting you do this on your own.”
“You don’t know how much that means.” I pounced on him, enveloping him in a huge hug.
He extricated himself from my embrace, wrinkling his nose. “I think the Manchester police force will prefer a fresher smelling Saff too.”
I punched him. He was one of the few people I’d let get away with those type of comments.
The walk of shame back to the other hotel was every bit as excruciating as I’d imagined. Serious cyclists and runners gave me the judgy-once-over as they went past, a couple of taxi drivers tooted their horns at me, and I even got thrown shade by some uni students who were probably doing the exact same thing.
When I arrived, I realised Tris had the room key card. I approached the reception desk. “Hi, I checked in yesterday, but my boyfriend has the key. He’s, um, not with me right now, so can I get a spare?” As I spoke, I realised how dodgy it sounded.
The duty manager met me with a frown. “What was the room number?”
“It’s one of the top floor rooms, sorry, I don’t remember. The booking was in the name of Tris Judd?”
