Katja from the Punk Band by Simon Logan Page A

into the back of his car, just sits there as he drives. He’s prepared for the fact that she might be lulling him into a false sense of security, ready to break free when he relaxes his guard, but just to be sure he tells her he just wants to talk to her.
    She knows the drill though, knows that it’s going to mean a night of detention if nothing else.
    He drives through the rainstorm, and she knows the way to the station as if it is tattooed onto her soul, so when he pulls the car over to the side of a street several blocks away, she is instantly put on edge. Aleksakhina turns side-on so he can see her through the metal grate separating them.
    Katja is itchy, nervous. She keeps looking around as if she expects something to happen, like a convict on death row awaiting the last-minute phone call that will call off the execution.
    He can tell she wants to ask what’s going on but she refuses to show any weakness or fear by asking and so decides to put her out of her misery.
    “I could take you to the station right now, book you in. You’d most likely spend at least the night there but probably more.”
    Katja fingers the cuffs, squinting at the silhouette of the man, dissected by the metal between them. She finds other things to look at instead, thinking of how the upholstery is the same pale grey of a smoker’s lung. He offers her a cigarette but she refuses.
    “I could do that. But I want to give you a chance first.”
    “Let’s just get this over with,” she sighs.
    “I thought we were finally getting somewhere, Katja,” he says to her, flicking his lighter to spark his cigarette.
    Her head is slumped to one side, her focus on a dark stain on the headrest.
    Deliberately and obviously uninterested in anything he has to say.
    “I don’t want you to be here any more than you do. You think I’ve not got better things to be doing with my time?”
    “Hey, don’t let me hold you back,” she says, still not looking at him. “If you’ve got a hot date or . . .”
    “Listen to me. I’m trying to help you here. How about you help yourself for a change?” She says nothing.
    “You want to tell me what you were really doing tonight?”
    Still she ignores him. Tongues her lip piercing. “How are things with Januscz?”
    And now she’s looking at him. Now she’s looking at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
    Raw nerve.
    “It’s not supposed to mean anything.”
    “It’s none of your fucking business. You’re my parole officer not my fucking therapist.”
    “Yes, I’m your parole officer. Which means that it’s my responsibility to make sure you stick to the conditions of your parole, which in turn means I need to know that you are getting some stability in your life, not less.”
    He doesn’t tell her that he’s already checked up on Januscz, that he knows about the man’s involvement in some of the island’s chemical gangs, though admittedly as nothing more than one of their runt-runners.
    “We’re fine,” she says, noncommittally.
    Aleksakhina reaches into his pocket, holds up the vial and watches her demeanour change instantly. For a moment he thinks she is about to try to snatch the thing.
    “What were you doing with this?” he asks her.
    Katja, her face is firm, stoic. He can tell she is trying hard to not give anything away.
    “Where did you get it?” The liquid inside the vial is an almost golden colour under the starkness of the streetlight overhead.
    “Did Januscz give this to you?”
    “I don’t have to answer these questions.”
    “I’m giving you a chance here, Katja. It doesn’t have to be me asking these questions. But I don’t want to have to take you in.”
    “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favour. You just don’t want to deal with the paperwork. Come on, man! I haven’t done anything. I just forgot to check in, that’s all. Give me a fucking break here. I need to get out for my shift. I need that job! You’re the one that’s saying you want to