The knock came early that morning. Was it six or seven? I hardly remember.
My first thought was a ridiculous one: my mother had come to admonish my slumber. The idle will not prosper. I knew that. And what greater idleness could there be than staying in bed, in that half-awake, half-asleep idyll, when there was work to be done?
I was thirty-two years old, yet still the child inside me cowered at the thought of my mother’s displeasure. But I did not open the door to my mother that morning. I found, instead, two strangers—women—in trousers and dark woollen jumpers.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice from wavering.
‘Police,’ said the one on the right, who was tall and thin.
‘Can we come in?’ No, you cannot.
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied.
That, I would later discover, was my first mistake.
If a police officer—or two—come knocking and ask, as they will, Can we come in? your answer is this: Do you have a warrant? If they say no, then you say no, too.
I know that now. I did not know it then. So instead of sending them away, I led them through the front door and into the lounge room.
‘Would you like a seat?’I asked, my trembling voice polite.
I saw them exchange a glance that said, Who is this ludicrous woman? I knew that look well. Once, it might have made me crumble. But now I straightened my back and lifted my chin instead. The police officers failed to take the seat I offered. They stayed standing. So, I stayed standing, too.
And there we all were, the three of us standing in a room meant for sitting; all just looking at one another. The tall, thin officer broke the silence.
‘We wish to speak to Gordon O’Hanlon,’ she said.
‘He’s not awake,’ I replied.
This, as far as I knew, was true. Another glance from them, another lift of the chin from me.
‘Can you wake him?’ Once again that tall officer spoke while the other one—short and stout—stayed silent…
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