Page 148 of The Home Grown
And that’s all it takes for a panic attack to set in. My chest tight, my breathing ragged, my whole body shaking.
“Not really,” I admit, gasping for air. “She’s going to end me. She’s going to ruin my career.” I turn towards Johnny, practically pleading with him. “You know I didn’t do anything, right? I didn’t push her or shove her or—all I did was help her into Vicky’s car then?—”
I put my head in my hands. My gut clenches. The air in the car feels thick, like I’m breathing through treacle. I can still hear her crying—fake as it was—as Vicky slammed the car door.
“Calm down, buddy. Take a moment.” He cuts the engine. “Look at me.”
“Cap … I?—”
“Bettsy. Look at me.”
He grabs my face and turns it towards his, locking eyes with mine.
“Right. Forget about the police. Forget about Rochelle … this is just another shift, right? We’re a goal down. Defence, Betts. Stand tall. Watch your marks. Show them who’s stronger.” He breathes in deep, puffing his chest out and I copy—instinct, mostly. “And out…. in … and out. Deep breaths. Steady breaths.” His voice softens. “I’m going to be there with you … it’s just another shift, yeah? We’ll go inside and get this figured out. Okay? I’ve got you.”
I nod, following Johnny as he steps out of the car, and we ascend the steps.
They keepus waiting for over an hour. I know this because there’s a loud, obnoxious clock fixed to the wall behind the flimsy plastic chairs which we’ve been told to sit in. Ticking away. Minute by minute.
All I can focus on is that ticking and the smell of stale sweat mixed with tobacco. It makes me feel like I’m about to pass out.
Johnny tries to distract me, though. Playoff hockey is not a light topic where he’s concerned, so we fill the time, discussing plays, working out approaches, the tick-tick-tick in the background … right up until a constable sticks his head around a door and calls my name.
No time for distractions now.
I get to my feet and swallow down the threat of vomit; the bile burning my throat.
“I’ll be here, bud,” Johnny says.
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. All I’ve got to do is tell them the truth. Tell them?—
“Michael Betts?” The copper says my name again as I stop in front of him, enunciating each syllable like he’s learning to read.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He looks at me, knitting his brows together, then leans back into the room, the muffled sound of distant conversation on the edge of my hearing.
Then he’s back.
“Michael Betts?” He says it slower this time, like he’s trying to catch me out.
“Yes,” I say.
“Right. Does the name‘Billy Hobbs’mean anything to you?”
I stare blankly at the officer.
“Hobbsy?” I say.
God,that’sa name I haven’t heard in a long time. Not since my junior days.
The cop turns around again, retreating into the room this time, the door closing with athudbehind him.
I turn back towards Johnny.
“What’s going on?” he mouths.
But all I can do is shrug.
