Were they actually trying to hit every pothole? That would explain the swerving and lurching all over the road, Tim thought to himself. Cuffed, terrified and foggy, sitting in the back of an unmarked police vehicle, Tim’s life had taken a drastic turn. At 60, nearing retirement sitting in the back of a cop car was not in his plans. In fact, when he pictured his future, he saw himself sipping a coffee in the corner dairy. Maybe munching back a couple of mince pies slathered in tomato sauce. Now, his mouth was watering thinking about that flaky pastry and gravy. Those pies offered a retreat from his nine-to-five job, which was about as exciting as watching paint dry. The last few weeks had been a steady stream of news on some royal scandal. How many articles on the royals did they need to post in a week? Who cares about the royals? He sure as hell didn’t. Why was he even thinking about pies and work while he was getting taken into custody?  

 

Tim now sat alone under fluorescent lights which buzzed and flickered. His ears rang and his head felt like someone had used it as a punching bag. Sitting in a metal chair, behind a metal table, Tim waited. A man in a grey suit buzzed himself in, walked over to the table, and sat down placing a microphone on the metal table, alongside a mince pie. And then the questioning began, microphone recording. 

“So, Timothy Johnson. This is rather unprofessional of me, but I missed my lunch break- so I will just be munching on this pie.” 

This was torture. Eating a pie in front of him. Grey suit spoke again, mouth full of pie. A small piece of mince flew out of his mouth, finding a landing spot on his suit. 

“Tell me where you were at exactly eleven o’clock this morning.” 

Tim’s cheeks reddened, and ashamed, he spilled the beans. More accurately, he spilled the mince. He wasn’t a huge fan of beans. But pies? That was another story. 

“I showed up to work, checked my never-ending emails, and went for a jog- to the dairy.” Surely the step out the door and short run down the street balanced out the pies from the shop.

“And I got a caramel flat white- Darla makes the best flat whites. Soy, of course. And a pie.” 

His gut gurgled like a geyser when he had milk- now he was overthinking, palms sweaty, anxiety running high. What was he meant to be saying again? That’s right- the pies! He was halfway through his fifth pie, mince and sauce smeared around his mouth, crumbs clinging for dear life in his beard when the explosion happened. Wait a minute. What were they accusing him of? Drinking great coffee? Eating too many pies? Since when was that a crime? Health problem yes, crime no. Surely, they didn’t think that he blew up his beloved pie shop- he hadn’t a mean bone in his body. He was the sort of man who cried when he killed a spider for god’s sake- saying it had a life and a family and- well, a heart. How could he be accused of planting a bloody bomb? In his beloved pie shop, nonetheless!

 

Tim was shaken, sitting pale-white under the lights, and the ringing in his ears had not stopped. He knew nothing- just one big fog after the explosion. What do they call it- Post Traumatic amnesia that’s it! Or was it pie withdrawal?

 “Come on Tim,” the harsh voice of the grey suit cut through the fog in Tim’s mind. Urging him to tell them what he knew, but what could he say. He was just a fat old man with nothing to hide, a man who loved pies and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. In truth, he was probably more than a fan of the pies- a borderline addict. Those pies were like crack cocaine to him. A savoury, crumbly, pastry high.

“I’m not buying it, Tim. This is going to look bad. Like you are hiding the truth. Tell us what you know.” 

Tim didn’t know what to say. Oh god, what a nightmare. One of those ones where you are sure you are awake, and then you wake up sweating, overheating, and stressing. But this was no dream. He was trapped in an interrogation room, secrets out in the open. Was he going into pie withdrawal? Is that even possible? He could see it now. Newspapers plastered with his name, labelled as the pie freak or worse.