Split Second

CHAPTER TWELVE

Louise

When Louise got back from work, she made some pasta and tuna for their tea, then booted up the laptop. The pieces were there on the internet, and after them threads of messages readers had posted. Outraged and virulent, most of them. Luke was Borstal material; he’d obviously grown up without moral guidance or discipline, etc., etc. These people believed what they’d read, swallowed it hook, line and sinker. About Luke, about her. The impotence, the inability to shout the truth from the rooftops was tempered by the miserable shame Louise felt, the sense of failure.

Ruby said school had been weird but okay. Some of the kids thought it was cool that Luke had been in the papers again and didn’t really care what it said about him.

‘The cult of celebrity,’ Louise muttered.

Intent on maintaining a brave face, after tea she persuaded Ruby to run through her pieces and watched her.

‘Excellent!’ she said.

‘The wig moved a bit.’

‘I never noticed,’ she said.

Their visit to Luke was brief that evening. Louise read some of the papers out to him. Some deluded part of her hoping that he’d be so annoyed at what had been said that he’d wake up fighting. He never moved. Not a flicker.

Louise went round to see Angie later that evening. The last snowfal had all but gone now, rain most of the day, so just a drift left along the fence where it was shaded and sheltered, though more was forecast. Gusts of wind rattled the branches in the sycamore and made the lights swing. She’d keep them on, she decided, a bit of Luke shining in the dark. A beacon. She could hear the clatter of a gate somewhere close by, and a dog whining and yapping.

She was disconcerted when Sian opened the door in tears.

‘What’s wrong?’ Was Angie bad? Had she collapsed again? Louise went to put her arm round Sian, but the girl moved away into the living room and Louise went after her.

‘The stuff in the papers,’ Sian said. Angie looked miserable too.

‘Oh love, ignore it,’ Louise told the girl. ‘It’s a pack of lies. They’d write anything to sell a few more copies. We know it’s not true.’ Sounding stronger than she felt. ‘You know Luke. He’s no angel, but he’s not a devil either. He’s not got a mean bone in his body.’

They were both looking peculiar. Uncertainty stole through her. ‘What is it?’

Angie bit her lip, put her hand to her head.

‘I didn’t say any of that,’ Sian said in a rush. ‘Not what they put. They changed it, they made it sound really bad.’

‘Sian?’ Louise said, perplexed.

‘I’m so sorry, Louise.’ The girl started crying. ‘I didn’t…’

Louise felt everything collide: the girl weeping, the headlines, Andrew Barnes on the phone. ‘You talked to the papers?’ she said, quaking. A bad taste in her throat.

‘They kept ringing. They just wanted to get an idea of what Luke was like. Human interest for people. I never said those things, Louise. I never.’

Louise covered her eyes and pressed her lips tight together, felt the rapid thud in her chest and the busy swarm humming in her head. It was all such an awful mess.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh God.’ Louise sat down heavily on the sofa.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sian sobbed.

‘It’s okay,’ Louise said, still smarting with shock and aggravation but knowing that the girl needed her forgiveness. ‘It’ll be okay.’ The words shallow in the overheated room.

Andrew

He stood watching the house; the night was cold and foggy, the pavements and fences shone with a dull gleam under the street lights. The thick air tasted of tar and seemed to cling to his clothes, making them damp.

The house was a bog-standard three-bedroom semi. One of thousands built by the local authority in the post-war period. Council houses. Many of them sold since in right-to-buy schemes, but this one didn’t bear any of the marks of owner occupation. No big extension, fake stone cladding or laughable mullioned windows, no garage crammed into the space at the side of the house. Just red-brick, a door in the middle, a window either side of it and two on the storey above them. And a satellite dish. In front of the house, a concrete driveway, an old Vauxhall parked there. There was a yellow glow of light through the glass in the door and electric blue from one of the upstairs rooms. Someone watching telly? Him?

Two weeks since Louise had given him the name, and still nothing had happened. Bland reports from Martine claiming they were making progress but never any specifics. And after two weeks he was still free. Going about his business. Laughing in their faces.

Thomas Garrington.

Andrew hadn’t been able to find him on the hospital system. He had to guess at dates of birth around Halloween. Louise had told him Garrington was celebrating his birthday when he and Luke clashed at the party. He had to guess which year, try days either side. He must have entered thirty different combinations, and nothing. Perhaps Garrington had never been to Wythenshawe Hospital. Perhaps he’d been born at MRI, or the family had moved to Manchester in recent times and managed to get rehoused.

While he had been hunched over Harriet’s terminal, stabbing at keys and crossing off combinations, he hadn’t thought about what he might do with any information he found. The acquisition of it was all that mattered. Knowledge is power.

In the same way, he was unaware what he might do if Thomas Garrington appeared now. But the very prospect of it made him clench his fists, sent his breathing up a gear. Seared in his memory was the glimpse he’d had: Garrington and the girl by the front gate, yelling as Jason and the other boy struggled over Luke. The look on Garrington’s face: exhilaration. Wild and high and excited.

Andrew heard footsteps in the fog and stepped back into the alleyway. The steps grew closer, were drowned out by the noise of a passing car, then he saw a man and his dog across the other side of the road. When they had gone, swallowed up by the fog again, he resumed his vigil.

The anger came in waves. He didn’t resist but let it carry him out to the depths. Allowed the pictures to bloom in his head: saw himself knocking the boy down and beating him senseless with a baseball bat, spurred on by the meaty sound of wood on flesh and bone; driving into him with the car and reversing back over his body, the satisfying jolt as the wheels went over him; felt the heft of a butcher’s knife in his hand and the ease with which it slid into the boy’s chest and throat and belly, watching his expression alter from belligerent to wary to fearful then anguished. Peeling back the layers of pretence. You hurt too. You bleed.

Or fire! Push a Molotov cocktail through the letter box and watch the colours at the windows change. Him trapped behind the glass, fists banging on the double glazing, face contorted.

The images were lurid, heightened and of no comfort whatsoever. They simply fed the anger, tinder to the flames.

There had been other times in his life when there had been a hint of this rage, like when his boss mounted her bullying campaign: micromanaging him, belittling his work and his demeanour, alternately carping and mock-concerned. Until the sight of her, the scent of her perfume, made him seethe. But never anything as raw, as profound as this. He wanted to howl at the moon, bay for blood.

The door opposite opened and the whole of Andrew’s skin prickled. Framed in the light, one hand on the door jamb, the other scratching at his belly, was the boy. Looking down towards his feet where something moved. A cat. Andrew saw the lad nudge the animal gently with his foot. His bare foot. The cat leapt over the threshold and was lost in the dark. The boy closed the door.

He was still there, living, breathing, scratching. Letting the fucking cat out.

Andrew’s phone rang, loud in the muffled night. He dug it from his pocket. It was Louise.

‘I don’t want you to contact me again,’ she said.

He was surprised. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

She gave a little laugh, no humour in it. ‘You really don’t know?’ She sighed. ‘Luke’s alive, Jason isn’t. It’s not fair, is it? Every time you see me or Luke, you must wish it had been different. It’s only natural.’ She spoke brusquely, sounded brittle.

He wasn’t sure what to say.

‘And now with the garbage in the papers – I’m sorry about what happened to Jason, but he saved Luke and I can never be sorry for that. I just think it’s better if we-’

‘Garrington, Gazza, he’s here. He’s still here, at his house. They’ve not done anything.’ His words were spilling like skittles. ‘Why haven’t they arrested him, they know it was him, they’ve had the name two weeks, what the hell do-’

‘Where are you?’ she demanded.

‘Outside his house. Ten minutes’ walk. I’ve just seen him, Louise, large as life-’

‘Where? What’s the address?’

He told her.

‘Don’t move.’

She was there in no time at all. Pulling up and waiting while he opened the door and got in. Then driving away, crunching through the gears in a way that told him she was livid even before she spoke.

She stopped the car alongside the park; the street smothered in fog looked empty. She snapped off her seat belt. ‘What the hell were you playing at?’

‘The police have done nothing.’

‘Oh, and you were going to, were you? What? Thump the guy? Put a brick through his window?’ She was quivering, her eyes bright and intense.

‘He killed my son,’ he said tightly. ‘And he’s not even been picked up.’

‘And he put my lad in a coma.’ She rounded on him. ‘What happens when he is arrested and it comes out you’ve been stalking him?’

‘I wasn’t stalking.’

‘Intimidating a suspect, interfering with an inquiry. You could mess it all up.’

‘But-’

‘I want them sent down, I want them punished. I want justice, not some middle-class prat like you ruining everything. Playing at terminator. What makes you think you know better than the police?’ She was trembling with fury, spittle at the side of her mouth, which she swiped away. She hit at the steering wheel. ‘What if he’d seen you, legged it?’

‘He didn’t see me,’ Andrew said, his mouth dry and palms clammy. ‘And I wouldn’t have done anything.’

‘Just being there was doing something.’

‘Why is it taking so long?’ he burst out.

‘I don’t know!’ she yelled back. She closed her eyes. Silence stretched between them. He looked out at the huge poplars, bare branches shrouded in fog. He heard the slam of a car door, the cough of an engine.

She spoke. ‘Swear to me that you won’t go near that house again, you won’t try anything else.’

He took a breath. ‘I promise.’

‘I never should have told you, I thought you could be trusted. You acted like we were on the same side.’

‘We are.’ He was desperate to reassure her, redeem himself. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You wanted to hurt him?’

‘Of course, but only in my head.’

‘We’re better than them,’ she said quietly. ‘Jason was better than them, my Luke…’ In the quiet he heard her swallow, heard the ticking of the car as the metal cooled.

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, screwed his eyes shut tight.

‘I’ll take you home,’ she said.

‘I can walk from here.’ He opened the door. ‘Thanks.’

She looked at him but didn’t speak. She looked so tired; worn out but not defeated.

He watched her drive off until the red rear lights had gone. Then he turned for home.

The phone went at seven, waking him. His thoughts flew to Jason, something wrong… then he slammed into the truth, a brick wall of pain – Jason’s gone. Amended his fears: his father, perhaps? He hurried on to the landing, snatched up the handset.

It was Martine. She didn’t waste time on small talk. ‘Andrew, we arrested three people this morning.’

His knees went weak. ‘Who?’

‘I can’t give you names at the moment.’

He heard Val. ‘What is it?’

Martine went on, ‘They match the descriptions. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more. Would you like me to come round?’

Val was there, eyes puffy from sleep, her hair tangled.

‘No thanks. We’ll be fine.’ He put the phone back. ‘They’ve arrested them,’ he said.

‘Oh God.’ She swayed, put a hand to the wall to steady herself.

‘Three of them – that’s all she could say.’

‘Oh God,’ she repeated, covering her mouth. ‘So have they been charged?’

‘I don’t think so. She’ll ring later.’

Val nodded slowly. She seemed to reach some sort of decision. ‘Good. It’s good.’

‘Of course, yes.’ But it was unnerving, too. ‘Shall we stay home? I don’t know how long… don’t know if I could concentrate.’

‘And the press might be back.’

‘Yes. We’ll stay here.’ He shuddered, goose flesh on his arms. Outside it was lashing rain; he could hear it slapping the windows, hear the wind buffeting the house. He moved to hold her. His arms went round her and he felt her tense, withholding the full embrace he longed for. He stepped away. ‘You okay?’ Though that wasn’t the question he wanted to ask.

‘Fine,’ she said. The lie between them like a line in the sand. A border between alien territories. ‘I’ll get a shower.’

Above him, around the roof, the wind howled.

Louise

Louise spent the day on pins, checking her phone every ten minutes. Losing track at work so she almost gave Miriam two lots of her lunchtime tablets. Smoking too much even when her mouth tasted foul and she was behind on her schedule.

It poured down all day, sullen clouds dumping bucketfuls of rain over and over, the wind hurling it sideways, so she had to try and smoke in doorways, even in a bus shelter at one point, to avoid getting soaked through. She wouldn’t break her rule and smoke in the car, but boy was she tempted.

She’d not slept the night before, too wound up about Andrew’s vigilante stunt and what it might have led to, and about the papers. Not only what they’d written about Luke, but also the way they’d conned Sian, who wasn’t the brightest button in the box. They’d preyed on her goodwill, her friendship with Luke’s family, to get hold of the information, then warped it as much as they could. Louise had got out of bed in the end, wrapped herself in layers and a blanket against the cold in the house and done some sewing until her fingers went numb.

When the phone went during breakfast she had expected the agency with a change to her visits, but it was the police. The news made her physically sick, the shock of it.

Now she was waiting for more. She had called at the hospital straight from work. Aware with each visit that she was avoiding Dr Liu, not ready to face any more discussion about moving Luke or the impossible decisions she might be forced to make after that. She bathed Luke and brushed his teeth. The dressing on his head had been removed and his hair was growing back, dark fuzz, the texture of hair on a kiwi fruit. The scar looked livid, pink and lumpy where they had operated. Fee had given her some aromatherapy oil, a mix of basil, bergamot and peppermint. She massaged him with it, his torso, arms and legs, gently round his neck, his feet. The scents, peppery and fresh, filled the room.

‘Do you like the smell, then?’ she said. ‘Meant to help your memory this, stimulate the brain.’ When she’d finished, she drew the sheet over him and sat and held his hand. ‘They’ve arrested them, Luke. The three that hurt you. They picked them up this morning.’ She watched for the slightest twitch, saw only the steady pulse in the side of his neck, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

She reached and tapped the side of his face. ‘Luke, wake up now. It’s Mum. You can wake up now.’ She pressed a fingernail into the sole of his foot, her eyes fixed on his face. Altered her tone: quick, instructive, ‘Luke, wake up!’

There was nothing.

‘Ring them, Mum,’ Ruby said again.

‘I’ve told you, they’ll ring me.’

‘What if they’ve forgotten? Or think it’s too late?’

‘Then I’ll kick up a stink,’ she said.

‘What if they let them go?’

‘Then they’ll tell us.’

Ruby looked so worried.

‘Why would they let them go? Look, you’re getting me all stressed now. Haven’t you any homework to do?’

‘Done it.’

The phone rang. Louise snatched it up. Ruby stared, shoulders hunched, her eyes huge.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, Louise: DC Illingworth.’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth was dry; she strained for a clue in the way the woman spoke. Good news, bad? She nodded to Ruby, reached out a hand. Ruby took it.

‘The three people we arrested this morning have now been charged with the murder of Jason Barnes and the attempted murder of Luke.’

Louise gasped, felt dizzy, as though she’d topple over.

‘One of the three has made an admission of guilt, a confession, and that’s enabled us to bring charges more quickly than we’d anticipated.

‘Oh God.’ A confession!

‘What?’ Ruby was mouthing, slicing her free hand with impatience.

‘The people involved are Thomas Garrington aged eighteen, a seventeen-year-old woman who cannot be named for legal reasons and Conrad Quinn, aged eighteen.’

She unscrambled the words, struggled to take it all in: the numbers, the unfamiliar name. ‘What legal reasons?’

‘Under eighteen.’

‘What happens now?’ Louise asked.

‘They’ll appear in the magistrates’ court in the morning, and then next week there will be a plea and case management hearing in the Crown Court. That will set a date for the trial.’

‘Thank you,’ said Louise, her voice breaking.

‘I think I can speak for the whole team when I say how pleased I am that the individuals have been apprehended and charged. I’ll be in touch soon. You are entitled to attend any of the court hearings if you wish.’

Did she want to? The thought of seeing them made her stomach turn.

‘I’ll call tomorrow,’ the detective said.

‘They’ve got them,’ Louise told Ruby. ‘They’ve charged them all.’ And she started to cry.

Emma

She showed the letter to Laura at work. Laura scanned it. ‘You’re going to be a witness?’ She glanced at Emma.

Emma nodded, miserable. ‘I wish I didn’t have to.’

‘It might fall through,’ Laura said. ‘It’s months away. I know someone who had to go, about their neighbours: the bloke had attacked his wife. Anyway, when my friend got there, all hyped up, they said it was off. The bloke changed his plea.’

Emma considered this, but knowing her luck, the thing would go ahead and she’d have to appear.

She’d had to go in to the police station, once they’d arrested the suspects. The police had called at work and she’d had to go and ask Gavin for the time off. He had no problem with it but she half hoped he might have some reason to refuse.

The people weren’t lined up like on telly. She just had to look at videos of different people and pick them out. It was easy, really. The Gazza guy with his red hair and staring blue eyes, the other one with that tattoo and his pokey face and the girl prettier than all the other girls in the clips shown to her.

Now, with it all being reported in the papers, Emma knew their names: Thomas Garrington and Conrad Quinn. The girl was just called Girl A because she was under eighteen. Conrad Quinn had confessed, he’d pleaded guilty so he’d be a witness like Emma.

‘Might be exciting,’ Laura said.

She doesn’t understand, thought Emma. Emma wanted to do the right thing – she still felt a sting of shame when she thought back to her silence on the bus – but she was bound to freeze up or get tongue-tied and make a fool of herself.

That weekend she went home to celebrate her mother’s birthday. They were having a meal on the Saturday evening. Emma had bought Mum a necklace, lovely rose-coloured beads interspersed with pearls, which would go with some of her clothes.

The restaurant overlooked the river and they had a table in the conservatory right next to the water. Emma waited until they had finished the meal, and she’d had three large glasses of white wine, before telling them about the witness summons. Her dad was on it like a hound on an injured fox.

‘You a witness! God help the prosecution. Tell them to give you a megaphone or no one will catch a word you say.’

‘Roger,’ her mum chimed in, on cue.

‘Well,’ he leaned back, belched softly, ‘you know what she’s like. Whispering Winnie.’ He made stupid sibilant sounds, angling his head to and fro, some ghastly impersonation, malice flickering in his gaze.

Emma dug her nails into her palms, felt the hate for him black in her heart. ‘Why do you always put me down, Dad?’ The directness of her question startled Emma as much as it did her parents. Her mum shifted and laughed awkwardly and her father stopped still.

‘Any more coffee?’ her mum said.

‘I asked you a question.’ Emma forced herself to keep looking his way, even though her face was aflame with heat.

He leant forward and lowered his voice. His eyes glinting. ‘You will not ruin your mother’s special night out with this silly attention-seeking claptrap.’

‘Roger… Emma…’ Her mum was flustered.

Emma pushed back her chair.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ he snapped.

‘Toilets,’ Emma said. ‘Something’s made me feel sick.’ As she turned, she caught her foot on the chair and stumbled.

‘Hah hah!’ he cackled, delighted. ‘See that! Hah! Nellie the Elephant.’

‘Oh, Roger,’ her mum said sadly, ‘that’s not fair.’

Emma didn’t cry; she wouldn’t cry. Nellie the Elephant, Whispering Winnie. Hateful. And what hurt worst of all was that he was right.

Louise

They had to set off early to allow for the traffic. Ruby was wound up with anxiety, chewing at her nails. ‘Stop it,’ Louise told her. ‘If you have to chew something, chew some gum.’

‘I haven’t got any,’ Ruby retorted.

‘In the glove compartment.’ Louise’s stomach was fluttering too – like a bird had got trapped in there – but she tried to act calm for Ruby’s sake.

Ruby fiddled with the radio, tuned it into Radio 1 Xtra. She sang along to the tunes she liked.

Louise concentrated on the road, negotiating the slew of commuter cars and heavy goods wagons. It was sleeting and the wipers were going at full tilt to clear the windscreen.

She hadn’t told Ruby about Dr Liu’s plans to move Luke from the hospital; hadn’t told anyone. Nothing would happen yet anyway. ‘In the next couple of months,’ she’d said. That could be March. They could get Ruby settled into a new routine by then. Travelling to Liverpool early on a Monday, back Friday night. They should be able to get help with her travel expenses.

‘Mum!’ Ruby yelped as a 4 × 4 swerved in front of them from the inside lane. Louise braked, cursed, sounded the horn. The vehicle flashed its lights in reply. A sarky thank-you. Louise flung a V-sign his way, shaken up.

‘I’d like to get there in one piece,’ Ruby grumbled.

‘Tell him, not me,’ Louise said.

They were just in time. The drama school was in its own grounds, a grand old Victorian villa with pillars at the entrance door and big bay windows. Trees thrashed their branches in the wind and icy rain as Ruby grabbed her holdall from the boot. Another heavy squall bounced off the car roof and the gravel.

One of the students took Ruby’s name, showed her where to leave her bag in the changing rooms and gave them a tour of the buildings. The house was warm and bright, with the former bedrooms now classrooms and downstairs rooms used as rehearsal spaces and offices.

Outside, behind the villa, a converted garage functioned as the dance studio, next to a purpose-built music centre. Ruby’s eyes roved hungrily over everything. There were plenty of students about, both boys and girls. Louise noticed the way they checked Ruby out as they passed and Ruby doing the same.

‘We’ve had loads more people applying,’ their guide told them. ‘The Glee factor.’ She mentioned the American TV series about a school choir and their ambitious musical routines. It had been compulsory viewing for Ruby when it started.

The student halls were a modern block. Canteen, lounge, showers and cubicle-style bedrooms. They were able to see inside one – it was smaller than Ruby’s bedroom at home, little more than a cell. But if all went well and she made friends, she’d only be in there to sleep.

Back in the main house, they were served coffee and biscuits and Ruby got changed and waited to be called. The auditions were in one of the rehearsal rooms. In the quarter of an hour until her slot, Ruby couldn’t sit still. Louise let her prowl about, working off some of her energy. She looked amazing: the glowing red wig framing her sculptured face, her eyes big and luminous with long lashes, her mouth generous. It was a face Louise never tired of looking at. The same with Luke. Ruby wore a red leotard and red and black striped tights, black boots. Her body was long and slim and fine. She stopped pacing and turned to Louise, panicking. ‘I can’t remember it! The poem. Oh Mum.’

‘Hey, you’ll be fine. It’s just nerves. Run on the spot.’

Then the student called her and Ruby went.

Louise fiddled with her phone. She had a voice message on there from Luke: ‘Hey, I’m staying at Declan’s, yeah. See you tomorrow.’ His voice was warmer than she had remembered, in spite of the bland, businesslike content of the message. She had played it to him recently; she’d try anything to reach him. She listened again now. ‘Hey…’ What she’d give to hear him say that now. One word. Hey.

‘Mrs Murray?’

Louise felt a prick of shock, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She slid her phone shut, smiled and went through to meet the principal, Vicky Plessey. They’d spoken on the phone before, and Louise had seen her picture on the website: a vivacious, Liverpudlian with long blonde hair. She couldn’t be much older than Louise. Her office was a hymn to art deco – mirrors and statues, velvet curtains, framed posters. She began by telling Louise that Ruby was an impressive applicant, obviously committed to performance. How would she find living away from home?

‘I think she’ll be fine. She’ll make friends, I’m sure, and she’ll be home at weekends.’

‘Is there anything we need to be aware of, anything that’s altered since you sent in the application from?’

Louise didn’t know whether to say anything about Luke. If she went into details, if she identified him as the boy who had been savaged in the press, it might alter Vicky’s view of Ruby. Turn her from a gifted teenager to the sister of a young criminal. But if she said nothing, there might be problems further down the line for Ruby, because no one would know Luke was in hospital.

‘Ruby’s brother is in hospital,’ Louise said. ‘A brain injury.’

Vicky frowned in concern. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

Louise rushed to speak, keen to deflect any questions. ‘So she may need to visit, depending on how he does.’

‘Of course. The welfare of the students is our first priority.’

Before Vicky could ask anything, Louise said, ‘When will we hear if she’s got a place?’

‘By the end of the week,’ Vicky said.

‘And the bursaries – does that depend on who gets in?’ Louise realized it might be a bit crass homing straight in on the money side of things, but it was crucial Vicky understood their situation.

‘Yes. We only offer two bursaries each intake and demand is increasing year on year. Though we do have a separate expenses fund.’

‘Like I explained on the phone,’ Louise said, ‘Ruby wouldn’t be able to come here if we had to find the fees.’

‘I understand.’

Did she? Louise wondered. Had Vicky Plessey grown up in a home where school trips were out of the question and buying new shoes might mean keeping the heating off for a month. Could she imagine that? Every purchase being weighed, the permanent worry about managing money gnawing inside.

Back in the changing room, Ruby was ready to leave.

‘How did it go?’ Louise asked.

‘Good,’ she grinned, ‘good. I slipped on the last turn but I changed it into a slide and I don’t think they could tell.’

‘How many people were there?’

‘Three!’ she said. ‘And they laughed at the poem.’

‘Hey, well done you. We’ll hear by the end of the week.’

The call came on Thursday. Louise texted Ruby straight away, even though her phone would be off till school ended at three p.m. At 3.03 Ruby rang home, whooping and hollering with joy.

That evening they celebrated and Ruby flung a hundred questions at her mum, none of which Louise could answer. ‘What about my washing? Do I keep the same doctor? If I go on the train will I have to pay full fare? Will there be a public show this term? Do they have teacher training days?’ At bedtime, Ruby lingered in the doorway perched on one leg, practising her balance. She put her foot down. ‘Will you be all right, Mum?’

‘Me? Course I will.’

‘But you’ll be all on your own.’

Louise bit her cheek. Breathed in hard. ‘Hey, I’ll be fine. You’re amazing, you know. I’m so proud of you.’ She hugged her. ‘Now. Bed.’

Ruby went. And Louise kept on breathing steadily, eyes shut tight. Till she was fit again, danger past. Her delicate grasp on life, on self-control, regained.