Being Me by Pete Kalu

exit doors into the crowds and along the side of Kendals to a police van.
    This is all a mistake, I say to myself to keep cool, it’s a scene we’re shooting for a Hollywood movie, I’m not a thief, I’m a film star.
    The cop swings the van doors open. He pushes me up and in. Two sets of metal doors slam shut behind me. The van smells of flowers and sick.
    It isn’t long before we stop and I’m in a procession stepping out of the van into the grounds of some high-walled police station courtyard. I’m numb. I hadn’t noticed anyone else get inside the van. I’m led, fourth in line, to a Reception. For a moment I think about giving a false name and address, but it seems pointless so I give them what they ask for. They take my possessions which I have to sign a form about. The policeman behind the big Reception desk gives me a friendly smile, which is weird. He says lots of things to me that I don’t listen to. Then he says:
    ‘Welcome to Bootle Street Hotel. Don’t look so worried, you’ll be out soon. We’re not putting you in cells as it is my judgement you are a minor and pose no risk to yourself or others.’
    I feel myself wanting to wee.
    I’m led down a corridor and into a room where there’s lots of other people at desks though no-one’s in uniform. I’m shown to a seat in front of a desk with a telephone and computer on it and I sit there wondering what next. The room is hot. Eventually a man comes and slides behind the desk.
    ‘Adele,’ he says, ‘You were caught red handed with let’s see ... an iPod. You don’t deny that, do you?’
    I shrug.
    ‘I’ll make this as painless as possible for you,’ he continues. ‘We’ve checked the databases and you have no other arrests to your name, nothing. It might not be the first time you’ve done this, but it’s the first time you’ve been caught. Am I right?’
    I say nothing again. His tie has some kind of ketchup stain on it. His desk phone starts ringing.
    ‘If it is your first time, here’s how it works. We won’t seek prosecution. The store will allow that, it’s the understanding we have with them, but only if you admit what you did.’
    The phone stops.
    ‘Can I go now then?’ I ask.
    ‘No you can’t,’ he says.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘We can’t just release you. You’re a minor.’ He sighs. ‘We have a major terrorist alert on and here I am wasting time with you.’
    The phone starts again.
    ‘OK, what we need to do now is phone Mum or Dad to come and collect you.’
    He’s got my phone already. I watch him scrolling through till he finds what he’s looking for. He gets there.
    ‘Who’s it to be then, Mum or Dad?’
    I shrug. I can’t tell whether he’s trying to be nice or teasing me. He has wonky teeth. He dials a number. There’s no answer and it cuts out quickly. That’s Mum’s phone, she’s always switched off. He rings another number. It rings for an eternity. Dad doesn’t like answerphone messages. He says too many people can hack into them.
    The policeman scratches his nose. He knows they’re the right numbers because I haven’t had the chance to mess with my phone.
    ‘Why don’t they pick up?’ he asks.
    ‘Probably switched off.’
    ‘Mmm. We can drive you home. Unless you know of another responsible adult who might pick you up? Help us out, we’re a bit busy here, Adele.’
    ‘My boyfriend’s mum,’ I say.
    He grimaces. ‘We need your parents or someone acting as a parent – a guardian. It has to be a responsible adult, else we have to drive you home ourselves, or find a Youth Justice worker. On a Saturday.’
    As he says that, someone calls out in the office and asks, ‘Dave, you wrapped that up yet?’
    ‘Ring her and see,’ I say.
    He walks away to the far corner of the office and phones Marcus’s mum. It’s a long call. His face shifts from frowning, to puzzled, to amused, then loops all the way back to frowning again. Eventually, he comes back to the desk and nods. ‘She’s