Seventy Times Seven by John Gordon Sinclair

think about cleaning products?
    Marie hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime and her stomach was beginning to hurt. If she didn’t eat every couple of hours her blood sugar dropped and she got ratty.
    The interview process had taken nearly eight hours and it was now well after eleven in the evening. At the station they’d offered to get her a burger brought in from across the street, but who the hell ate that shit any more? Cops, obviously , thought Marie.
    They’d seemed genuinely disappointed when she turned it down. Even tried to persuade her that the burgers were the best in Tuscaloosa.
    ‘The guy uses real beef.’
    ‘As opposed to what?’ she’d wanted to ask, but that would have meant getting involved in another conversation, so she’d kept her mouth shut.
    Sheriff Ball Clay was still talking.
    ‘Do you know any other tunes?’ Marie heard herself say.
    At least it stopped him.
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘I’m sorry my mind was elsewhere‚ which is really where I want to be too.’
    ‘You sure you don’t want me to see you up to your apartment, ma’am?’
    ‘No really! Please! I’ll be fine.’
    ‘Sure, well if there’s anything we can get for you, you just let me know.’
    ‘Do you do deliveries?’
    He looked up at her with no expression on his big dumb face.
    Marie sighed, ‘Do you do humour?’
    ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’
    Marie was finished with trying to be nice. ‘Is this going to take much longer‚ Ball? We’ve been standing here so long my legs need waxing to get rid of the new growth.’
    ‘No ma’am, I’m nearly through. Here’s my card. Got all the numbers you’ll ever need on it.’ He handed a card to her that had his photograph on the front looking like he had someone’s finger stuck up his ass. ‘Just call the mobile, get straight to me. The whole force is carrying them these days. Makes you wonder how we managed before. We’re gonna sit right over there, in that there vehicle for the rest of the evening, make sure you’re okay.’
    Just as Ball turned to point at the patrol car parked in one of the bays, someone came up behind him. The guy had to duck to avoid getting an elbow in his face.
    ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Ball.
    ‘Sure,’ said the guy, flicking the cop a look.
    Marie recognised the guy, but couldn’t remember his name; one of her neighbours from the floor below.
    She smiled half-heartedly.
    ‘Hi.’
    The guy nodded to her and mumbled back at her. ‘Hi.’
    The guy didn’t really look at Marie as he squeezed past her – through into the lobby. The brown takeaway bag he was carrying smelled good: something Asian, Indian food maybe?
    There was just no stopping this cop. ‘One of our Trauma team will be in to talk to you first thing in the morning. They’ll take you through this whole situation; explain what happens if you need to go to court, make sure you’re familiar with the procedure, and there’s a couple of FBI agents driving down from Birmingham might want a word too, so don’t book any holidays just yet.’ He grinned like the finger had been taken out his ass . . . and something bigger put in its place. As he backed away he made a clicking sound with his tongue that made Marie want to reach out and strangle him.
    It wasn’t just the tiredness that was making her feel this way: it was the lack of food.
    ‘You sleep safe, ma’am, you under the protection of the Tuscaloosa Sheriff’s Department now.’
    ‘Great,’ she replied and made the same clicking sound right back at him. ‘I was worried I’d have to take a sedative, but now I know you guys are looking out for me I’m sure I’ll be fine . . . If I do have trouble sleeping I’ll just run through everything you’ve just been saying: that should knock me out for a couple of days.’
    Bill Clay smiled at her like she’d said ‘Thank you.’
    ‘You welcome, ma’am.’
    Marie made sure the building’s main door was securely locked then turned and walked wearily through the lobby. She