Page 2 of Parker

Chapter one

Glasgow, Scotland

Nicky

It’s a gloomy day in Glasgow, and the dark skies above mirror my mood.

I don’t suppose many people are ecstatic the day their divorce is finalized, but I hadn’t expected to feel like a hollowed-out version of myself, either.

I feel as though someone has scooped me clean from the inside, leaving me walking on legs made of glass, ready to shatter on the smallest impact.

I leave the courthouse around midday and head straight to the nearest bar. Not for a drink. Not at first. Just… for the silence. The shadow. The space to sit and pretend my whole life hasn’t just come undone. Somewhere I know no one, and no one will know me.

Oblivion is easier to chase than grief, and I take the easy way out. Precariously, I descend the stairs, taking each one at a snail’s pace to ensure I don’t slip on the green slime covering the old stone where the sunshine never reaches.

No one appears to have renovated the place for thirty years.

I step into the bar onto an old carpet, threadbare in spots, the wood paneling scarred from decades of use.

But something is comforting in the decay.

The dim lighting and red velvet chairs wrap the space in a kind of quiet that feels safe.

Forgotten places welcome forgotten people. I feel at home.

I climb onto a high stool, cross my legs, and wait. No bartender. No music. Just the low hum of a refrigeration unit and the buzz in my head.

Ten minutes pass, and nothing.

To hell with this, I think, sliding down from my perch.

I wander behind the bar while scanning the room for cameras, then I help myself.

The click of the optic and splash of liquor in the glass is calming for my anxious brain.

It starts with one drink, just one to take the edge off.

Just one to get through this hour, this day, this life. And it ends with ten.

The place stays empty, just me and the echo of my thoughts. Normal people are at work. Normal people don’t slide into the arms of insensibility before three o’clock on a weekday afternoon. But my life is anything but normal, and I need any relief I can get.

When the bartender finally emerges from the back room and finds me behind his bar, drink in hand, he doesn’t shout. He swings. The baseball bat cracks against my back before I even sense him move.

“Bloody thief,” he roars. “I’m calling the police. Stay there.”

The crash knocks the breath from my lungs, but I barely notice the pain as I fall to the ground. He plants a foot on my chest like I might run…as if I could. Between the concussion in my skull from hitting the floor and the volume of alcohol in my blood, my body is limp. I’m going nowhere, fast.

The sirens come quickly, or maybe I’ve lost time. Either way, two officers haul me upright, not bothering to be gentle.

“I’m Sergeant Reid. Can you stand?” the woman asks.

Her voice is firm, with an undertone of disgust. Unable to form the words in my head, I stay mute and look at her blankly. Revulsion shows on her face as she screws up her nose at the aroma of alcohol wafting in her direction.

“Another drunk in the middle of the day,” she mutters to her partner. “I don’t know about you, Clive, but I’m sick of dealing with these losers. And it’s not even Saturday.”

Clive doesn’t answer, looking me over as if I was a piece of shit he was getting ready to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. Impassive, he shrugs his shoulders at his colleague and then gestures to the bar owner with his eyes.

“Do you want to press charges for theft?” Sergeant Reid asks.

The man crosses his arms. “One bottle of vodka won’t ruin me. Just get her out of my pub before the after-work punters show up. I don’t want her cluttering up the place.”

Reid nods. Clive stays silent. They each put an arm under mine and hoist me to my feet. I rock between them as stars swirl in my brain. My seven years of sobriety end in a single afternoon. This is my rock bottom.

“Where are you taking me?” I mumble. The words slur together, barely audible.

As they bundle me toward the car, the door edge slams into my forehead.

“Duck, for fuck’s sake,” Reid snaps. “Are you so drunk you can’t see the giant hunk of metal in front of your face?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have it in me.

“The station,” Clive says flatly.

“Why?” I whimper. “The owner said he didn’t want to press charges. I can’t go back to prison.”

Clive raises an eyebrow, something passing behind his eyes. Recognition. Judgment. They’ve read me already, labeled me a repeat, a waste, a has-been. Maybe they aren’t wrong.

“Ma’am, you were found intoxicated and stealing vodka from a closed bar,” he says. “Let’s get you somewhere safe to sober up. Then we’ll call a family member to come collect you.”

My heart sinks at his words. A family member. I don’t have any of those left.

When we arrive, the police station is mercifully quiet. My anxiety soars to rocket levels, as I haven’t been in one since that day years ago. The last time, I was covered in someone else’s blood, trying to explain away what had happened.

Behind the white melamine desk, a lanky man checks in detainees as they arrive in the reception area. His narrow eyes regard me with suspicion as he speaks.

“Name?” he asks, voice bored but not unkind. He probably goes through this questioning dozens of times per day.

“Nicky,” I stammer. “Nicola Smith.” My hands shaking from nerves and my afternoon bender. Using my maiden name is a kick to the gut.

“Address and occupation?”

“I’m staying with a friend, Sophie Warren. Thorn Street, I think.” I hesitate. I don’t remember. “Or is it Barn Street. Number…” Giving up on recalling the exact details of where I live, I slur the one detail he asked for that I’m sure of. “I’m unemployed.”

A flush of shame creeps up my neck. My mother’s voice echoing in my mind: You shouldn’t rely on a man for everything, Nicky. It’ll all come crashing down. He can get rid of you when he wants. She’d been right. I hate that.

Everything goes a little fuzzier, and I sway from foot to foot. The officer on my arm steadies me by strengthening her grip. I wonder why she’s standing there; it’s not as if I can run anywhere.

“Put her in one of the holding cells to sober up. 3B is free,” the man behind the desk tells her. “I’ll get more details once she’s more coherent.” And with that, I’m led away.

I’m not sure how much time passes when the man from behind the desk comes to collect me. The bed is solid, and I’m lying, staring at the cracked ceiling when he appears.

“Come with me,” he says, so I scramble to my feet and scurry out after him.

Back at the reception desk, he tries again.

“Do you remember your address?”

“Yes,” I reply, my voice meek. “Sixteen Thorn Street. I’m currently staying with a friend, Sophie Warren.” He nods but doesn’t pass comment.

“Do you have someone we can call to come and collect you?” the officer asks.

“No, she’s out of town,” I lie. “I’ll get the bus.”

He frowns. “I’m sorry, Ms. Smith, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you leave on your own. Who’s your next of kin? Give me your date of birth, and I’ll pull someone from your records.”

I close my eyes and exhale through my nose. Defeat. There is no more fight left in me, so I tell him and wait for another wave of humiliation to come crashing down.

“Take a seat, Ms. Smith. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I sit on the sticky plastic chair waiting for my mother to arrive. She is going to be furious again. We haven’t spoken in a long time. As I sit twiddling my thumbs, I imagine how she will react. My heart sinks further toward my toes. How could you embarrass the family again? Do you never learn?

The clock on the wall ticks slowly, the second hand circling the face.

I pretend to read some of the stack of magazines left by previous attendees, but none of the topics pique my interest, and most are at least a year out of date.

I’m lost, staring at an unknown green splatter on the wall when he arrives.

“Nicky.” A familiar voice cuts through the buzz in my head. The hatred rolling around, shattering my confidence further with each word. I look up, and there he is. Joel. My now ex-husband, standing in the station like he still has the right to come save me.

“What the hell have you been doing?” he asks, his voice low but terse. “I got a call from the police at work. You can imagine how that played out with management.”

His mother, I think instantly. Of course, she knew before I even sobered up. She’ll love this.

“You mean your mother?” The words leave my mouth like broken glass. He flinches, just slightly. “You didn’t come to the courthouse this morning,” I state, steering the conversation away from that woman. Away from anywhere but here.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t need to. The divorce was a done deal. You didn’t need to be there either.”

“Maybe I did.” My voice is shrill with nerves and fury; it echoes off the blank walls. People in the waiting area gawk at us, but I don’t care. “Maybe I needed to see it end with my own eyes. I needed to know I didn’t imagine the whole damn thing falling apart.”

Because if I imagined the collapse, maybe I imagined the love too. That is too much to accept.

He sighs before offering me his hand.

“I’m not here to fight, Nicky. Sophie’s waiting for you at home. It’s been a tough day.” He pauses as if he wants to say more but changes his mind. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He leads me away from the watching officers. They each nod to him as he passes. Joel looks completely in control here, not as if he was collecting his errant ex-wife from behind bars. Sergeant Reid meets us at the elevator that will take us down to the parking garage below.

“Good day, Mr. Parker,” she says, her tone professional. “Is there anything I can help with today?” My eyes slide toward him. He smiles warmly at the officer as if he knows her, which he obviously does.