As she heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock, Gemma began to shake. She’d managed to hold herself together until now; answered all their questions and even phoned Roger, leaving a message on his voice mail. It was as if her body was acting for her brain. Enough was enough, it was telling her. Her vision blurred and she felt two hands gripping her under the armpits and forcing her to sit.
‘Deep breaths,’ said a voice ‘take deep breaths.’ Her head was thrust between her knees and the voice continued. ‘Don’t try to sit up until you can see clearly. Keep breathing as deeply as you can.’
Gradually her sight returned and she could see the scuff marks on her boots where she’d been dragged into the van. ‘Take it slowly,’ cautioned the voice. ‘That’s it, good. You’re suffering from shock.’ She turned her head to face a pair of blue/grey eyes regarding her with kindness and concern. They were set in a long, narrow face, high cheekbones, not handsome but not ugly. .
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Dan.’
‘Were you at the demonstration?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Gemma was shocked at her directness, but Dan seemed unfazed.
‘I’m a junior doctor and we’re fighting for more pay and shorter hours.’
‘You must think I’m very ignorant.’
‘No,’ he smiled, ‘ill informed maybe. Don’t worry though. It’s obvious you had nothing to do with it. The cops made a mistake.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Unfortunately yes. They’ll just grab the nearest person.’
Gemma realised she was holding his hand. Embarrassed, she began to pull it away but somehow it refused to move.
‘It’s OK.’
‘As a doctor I expect you’re used to this.’
He nodded. ‘It’s usually old ladies not …’
He looked away and she was amazed to see a slight blush creep across his face.
‘Gemma Hayes, you’re free to leave. The officer’s voice shattered their intimacy and Gemma couldn’t react at first. ‘Come on, or would you rather stay here?’
Dan nudged her and gave her a slight push.
She dragged her hand away from his. ‘Goodbye,’ she managed, and then she was out in another world
‘Here she is. None the worse by the look of it.’ Roger was all clean shirt, charming smile and confidant bonhomie. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘It was all a silly mistake. They won’t press charges. Look, they’ve even rescued your shopping.’
Gemma looked at the collection of carrier bags full of expensive clothes as if they belonged to someone else.
‘OK, I’ll take them shall I? Right, off we go then. Thanks guys.’
Gemma wondered what, exactly he was thanking them for. Dragging her across the road, shoving her into a police van, locking her up? Ah, of course, they were not going to prosecute her for something she hadn’t done. Big of them. She stopped and turned at the door.
‘What will happen to the others?’
‘Oh, they’ll be charged in the morning – fined probably.’
‘Where?’
‘Blackfriars.’
Roger took her firmly by the arm and propelled her towards his car. ‘Come on, anyone would think you wanted to stay there. How are you feeling?’ He nosed into the traffic. ‘You look okay. Nice shower and a good rest – you’ll be good as new. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘What?’
‘You know, the grand presentation. Important night.’
Oh God, she’d forgotten. The corporation’s annual prize giving.
‘I’m not going.’
Roger was speechless. She could see him holding his breath, trying to suppress his anger. The fingers of his left hand started to drum the steering wheel.
‘Oh come on Gem! It’s not the end of the world. The police made a stupid mistake, that’s all. You’re acting like a spoiled child.’
She hated him then. What was she? Eye candy on his arm? A trophy girlfriend? All she had to do was look good and agree with everything he said. Minimal requirements.
Gemma had always known she was pretty and had accepted the benefits and adhered to the responsibilities they entailed. ‘Be kind to girls less fortunate,’ had instructed her mother, ‘and never push yourself forward.’ She’d been encouraged to always look her best, taken to good hairdressers, given an ample clothes allowance and rarely asked her opinion. She was not expected to be academic and after passing an average number of GCSE’s was sent to France on an art appreciation course. The Chateau, she now acknowledged, was little more than a finishing school. Somewhere to perfect her French, acquire some style and make useful contacts. The course had led to a job in a gallery, although she suspected she’d been given the position on her looks, manners and fashion sense rather than artistic knowledge. She was considering taking a diploma in art history when Roger arrived. The son of her parents’ acquaintance, he was climbing the corporate ladder, already earning good money and demanding of her time.
Roger’s fingers stopped tapping. ‘Of course,’ he told himself, ‘you’re still in shock.’ He patted her hand, pulled up at her flat and said he’d call her the next day.
Gemma couldn’t settle. She’d showered, made herself a snack and decided to watch the six o’ clock news for footage of the demonstration. It was brief with a statement from one of the leaders and a shot of protesters being led away by police. Suddenly she caught sight of something familiar. She froze the screen and pressed the replay button. There she was, dropping her carrier bags and being dragged towards a police van. She played the scene twice more before the phone rang. It was her mother sounding semi-hysterical.
‘Darling was that you? On the news? I can’t believe it. Are you all right?’
‘It was a mistake mother. The police realised this and they released me. Roger picked me up. I’m perfectly all right.’
‘Thank God for Roger.’
As soon as the call ended, the phone rang again and an unknown voice asked if they were speaking to Gemma Hayes. Gemma denied this and told the caller she had a wrong number. God, the press were quick off the mark. She rang her parents and mercifully got her father. She told him she was leaving the landline off the hook and switching off her mobile.‘Will you call the gallery, explain why I’ll be away for a few days and ask them not to speak to the press?
‘Of course. Keep your head down and look after yourself.’
‘Will do Dad.’
Once she’d checked that both doors were locked, shut the windows and pulled the curtains, Gemma switched on her laptop to find the location of Blackfriars court and the procedure times for the following day. She dreamed that her mother was dragging her to church where she was supposed to marry Roger.
At 7.00am the next morning there was just one member of the press hanging around in the road outside so Gemma phoned a taxi for an hour’s time with instructions to park in the next street. She found her oldest, scruffiest jeans at the back of the wardrobe, tied her hair back, pulled on a hoodie and added sunglasses. She escaped, unnoticed via the back door and asked the taxi driver to drop her one street away from the court. There was a small group of press waiting outside the main entrance and Gemma hid behind an adjacent building until the demonstrators came out. They posed for photographs and a spokesperson made a brief statement before everybody dispersed. Dan had hovered at the back of the group – he looked fine. He turned and left with one of the others. Gemma followed at a safe distance until she was sure there was no press left, then, heart pounding, she ran towards him.
‘Dan!’
‘Gemma? What are you doing here?’
‘I had to make sure you were OK. What happened in court?’
‘Oh, the usual fine and a rap on the knuckles – ‘don’t do it again.’ Are you OK? I thought someone was picking you up.’
‘Yes I’m fine but I can’t talk now. I was on the news and the press are onto it. Can we meet somewhere else?
‘Erm…okay. Not today – I’m on shift later. Tomorrow? Trafalgar Square? By The National?’
‘Great, they should have given up on the story by then. What time?’
‘Four o’clock?’
‘Four o’clock. I’ll see you then.’
What was she doing? Throwing herself at him? He could have a partner or even a wife and kids for all she knew. Did he look hounded? Pleased to see her? Was there a warmth in his eyes or just concern? It was too late now. She’d find out tomorrow.
Gemma, imprisoned in the flat, cleaned and worked out to fitness DVDs. She desperately wanted to call someone but didn’t dare. Just before leaving to meet Jed the next day there was a knock on the back door and Roger’s voice, urgent but low, trying not to attract attention.
‘It’s me Gemma. Let me in.’
‘What is it Roger?’
‘I’m here to take you down to your parents. Your mother’s in meltdown. She insists I drive you. I’ve never seen her in such a state.’
‘Are we leaving now?’
‘Yes. Look sharp. I’ve had to leave the car round the corner.’
Gemma threw clothes into a rucksack, (she had no way of contacting Dan) grabbed her handbag and followed Roger, at a run, to the car. They set off at speed and were too quick for the last, remaining reporter to follow.
‘Good, I think we’re clear.’
‘It’s stifling. Shall we have the top down?’
‘Why not?’
‘How was prize night?’
‘Not bad. I got what I wanted.’
‘Any comments about my T.V. appearance?’
‘Yeah, they all thought it was a sick joke. You’re the last person anyone can imagine on a demonstration.’
‘They’re fighting for better pay and conditions in the NHS.’
‘There you are then,’ Roger was triumphant. ‘When have you ever cared about that?’
He had a point. She may have seen a GP as a child, but lately it had been private medicine all the way. They were approaching Vauxhall bridge on their way south to Gemma’s parents in Surrey and traffic was at a standstill. She glanced at her watch. Three thirty. It was time to go. She threw her rucksack out of the car and vaulted over the side. Running for the nearest tube station she knew that Roger would never leave his beloved vehicle and come after her. She had twenty five minutes to go. The station was packed with tourists, commuters heading home early for the weekend, mothers pushing children in buggies and one elderly man being pushed in a wheelchair. Gemma prayed she’d get her ticket in time for the next train. The queue went on forever. She felt like screaming at the people in front of her. Finally she rushed onto the right platform only to see her train disappear through the tunnel. She had ten minutes left. Perhaps Dan would be held up at the hospital.
She was twenty minutes late reaching the steps of the National Gallery and she knew before she arrived that Dan would not be there. He probably waited fifteen minutes then cursed himself for wasting valuable time off, only to be stood up by a spoiled, brainless, brat. God knows which hospital he worked at. She wouldn’t even be able to apologise and explain. Why hadn’t she taken his phone number? Or would that have been too forward?
‘Gemma?’’
She found herself tossing her head and looking up at the pigeons to stop the flow of tears.
‘Deep breaths,’ he said, and they both laughed. Sitting over coffee, (her) a beer (him) and after she’d explained why she was late, and he had told her he’d just popped into the gallery while he waited, Dan suddenly grew serious. ’Look Gemma, I know we met in unusual circumstances but ….’ Here it comes, she thought. He’s married, engaged, gay, in a relationship …‘I’m no knight in shining armour.’
‘And I’m no victim.’ She watched surprise, relief, then amusement cross his face.
‘That’s all right then.’
(c) 2024 Katya Marsh.
