THREE
Arriving at Pitt Street Police Station, I’m led into an interview room and then left on my own.
I look around me at the room. It’s sparse, with plain green painted walls and linoleum tiled flooring. The only furniture is four stacking chairs set out around a melamine topped table; the latter bolted to the floor. My nose twitches in response to a clawing smell, stale sweat and disinfectant, if I’m not mistaken.
I pace up and down the room. My paper suit crinkles as I walk, and I feel desperately uncomfortable. I’m acutely aware that I need some proper clothes. I must contact my parents so they can help.
My parents, I hadn’t given them a thought until now.
It occurs to me how important it is to let them know what’s happened and where I am. I’m overcome with guilt. I haven’t seen o
