Point Blank: Arrested on Spaces

I hit disconnect. A pity—it was a good Spaces.

Later, someone tells me I said on the Spaces that I might kill someone. He’s still alive.

The door opens. Not at court. At home. It’s the guards.

They have keys. Interesting.

Five of them walk in.

They tell me I’ve breached a safety order. Didn’t realise calling out Oisín Murphy would count as a threat. That’s on me.

I tell the guard I also have a safety order against her. He shrugs. My request is declined.

I ask if I can get dressed.

I still think I’ll talk my way out of it—sure I’m well able to talk. But they’re not here for a chat. They’re aggressive in their own way. I get it—they’re doing their job. But I’m not exactly rolling over either.

I get processed. I won’t lie—I talked some shit. Not because I’m a cunt, but because I know this is ridiculous.

They put me in the cell. No laces anymore—full shoes off. The door slams.

You lie on the “bed.” You can’t sleep. You start counting things. You start seeing things—and I don’t mean thinking Oisín Murphy is a good person.

“How am I going to get this cunt back?” These are the natural thoughts you have. I’m up and down. I’ve a tipping service starting tomorrow for Royal Ascot and here I am, like a common criminal—because I loved someone.

The hatch opens. The guard’s a prick—that was my working thesis at the time. But underneath it, he knows. They all know. I shouldn't be here.

I'm not cooperative, but I'm not lying either. He asks me a question, I answer honestly. He doesn't like it. Not because it’s untrue—because it makes his job harder. He’s not the last guard to feel that way.

Then he whispers to me:

“She’s going to ruin your life.”

I leave the cell thinking I’m 100% in the right and I’ll be ok.

Then you go to court.

I keep misremembering whether I had shoes on. Then nothing.

When you get locked up, even just for a night, all time goes out the window. I walked in like a common convict. Remember now—my crime was being live on a Spaces. No one was in danger.

I’ve been in that court since. Anyone walking in that door is already sub-human—because they’ve been brought there. It’s a stereotype that needs dying out.

Have you seen my shoes?

My solicitor isn’t expecting me. That makes two of us. I give him a 20-second summary. He’s been at this long enough—five seconds would have done him.

I get moved to some room to await him. A woman from the office—who’s clearly seen it all—comes in.

“Are you Norris?”

I really am.

She gives her spiel and tells me I should move out of the house ASAP. Here’s the irony—there was nothing actually stopping me leaving the court at that point.

Eventually I do. What day was it?

The first day of Royal Ascot 2024.

I’m in survival mode. At the time I don’t realise it—I think I’m in Superman mode. It’s a long road ahead for Clark Kent.

Don’t ever think you can separate your personal life and betting. You can’t.

I still hear the whisper.

“She’s going to ruin your life.”

They gave me back my laces.

I’ll have to get my life back myself.