Blood Junction by Caroline Carver Page B

consciousness crawled reluctantly out of the deep blanket of sleep and she opened her eyes. They felt as if they
     had been rolled in grit, and her mouth was sour. She felt hungry, dirty and exhausted.
    “I’ve brung you a coffee,” said the shadow, and pushed a steaming foam cup through the railings.
    “Oh, Polly.” She was touched. “You’re a lifesaver, you really are.”
    “You’re glad to see me?” The girl’s face was alight with so much eagerness that India recoiled a little.
    “I’m glad of the coffee.” She saw the hurt in Polly’s eyes, but was too tired to care. Curled on her side, she started to
     sip with her eyes closed. Thin and watery, it was probably the worst cup of coffee she’d had, but the heat and sweetness cut
     the staleness of her mouth and after a while she opened her eyes and murmured, “Delicious.”
    Polly’s face brightened as though a torchlight had been switched on from inside.
    “So where’s mine then?”
    They both looked at Mikey.
    “Didn’t know you was here.”
    “You know this man?” said India.
    “Everyone knows Mikey.”
    “Polly,” he said, “what time is it?”
    “’Bout seven.”
    “Bugger off and get Whitelaw, will you? I’ve had enough of sharing my cell with this woman.”
    India half turned. Mikey was sitting on his bunk, his face swollen by alcohol, ponytail hanging limply down the back of his
     torn T-shirt.
    “You don’t like India?”
    Mikey fixed her with a speculative gaze. “Not as yet, no.”
    Polly squirmed like a puppy in distress.
    “I’m sure she’s nice deep down, Poll,” he said wearily. “Go on, do us a favor and get Whitelaw. I just want to go home is
     all.”
    India kept an eye on Mikey as the girl scampered, soft-footed on her dirty bare feet, down the corridor.

    Whitelaw appeared five minutes later, freshly shaven and crisply shirted. The clean smell of soap washed through the odor
     of vomit and sweat like a rainstorm after drought. For a few seconds he stood there staring around him.
    “Did this jail go dual-sex overnight?” he remarked. “Or am I seeing things?”
    Mikey rolled off his bunk and came to stand by the cell gate. He was taller than Whitelaw, well over six feet. “Just get me
     out,” he said.
    “What’s your hurry?” Whitelaw inquired. “Your cell mate not pretty enough?”
    Mikey flicked her a look. “As it happens I’ve never found her sort attractive. Too thin, too uptight and altogether too aggressive.”
     He made a gesture of impatience. “Come on, Jed, get on with it, will you?”
    The gate swung wide with a metallic groan. Mikey walked into the corridor. Cautiously, India followed him, stood at a wary
     distance. There was a silence before Whitelaw said, “Miss Kane. Could you fill me in on what’s happened here?”
    “Ask Sergeant Bacon.”
    Whitelaw narrowed his eyes at Mikey. “What’s the score?”
    “The usual.” He looked India in the eyes. “Can’t believe Stan was so stupid. He ought to have known she’d never crack. That
     type never does.”
    Whitelaw gave a sigh. “Let’s get you both processed,” he said. “Mike, Donna will deal with you. Miss Kane, if you’d follow
     me, I’ll see if we can’t get you a shower.”
    India followed the two men down the beige corridor. Whitelaw pushed the swing door back with a little rubber snap.
Too much sunshine.
It made her eyes ache and her head throb. Donna was talking on the radio, dark hair bobbed and shiny, shirt bright white.
     The look she sent India made her acutely aware of the grime she’d picked up in the past twenty-four hours. India watched as
     Donna turned her attention to Mikey, gave him a flirtatious little wave. Mikey ignored her and peered over the counter. He
     pocketed a wallet, a bunch of keys, and hooked a mobile phone to his belt. He then peered at a pile of forms beside a computer,
     ruffled them with a finger.
    “I collected your backpack this morning,” Whitelaw said to India. “Thought you