Cashing In
I didn’t know what had happened. Not at first. But then I knew. I was looking at prison walls and the vomit down them was mine. There are some things you can’t come back from. It’s as if the world swallows what came before and leaves you in a big open space of guilty realisation. Loneliness. Freedom, I had thought. The chance to start again. No longer the quiet girl, underestimated in the corner. But as I sat in the airport bar, I noticed the policemen. I ordered a triple vodka, then another. Plan A was to drink a lot, quickly. Mainly in the hope of eluding the police and celebrating my freedom. Plan B was they find me in, haul me into the station, at least I wouldn’t have to pay the bar bill. Not that money was a problem. I had more than enough, but I hadn’t been born rich and still found a free drink tasted nicer than a bought one. I drank a lot before the police found me, so much that I wasn’t even bothered when they asked to see my passport. I didn’t start out to hurt everybody
