Split Second

CHAPTER FOUR

Emma

Emma couldn’t believe what had happened. The man in the parka, who was a student, had tried to help and they’d stabbed him. Killed him! Just think if she had said something… And the other one, Luke, he might not make it. The police wanted people to give information, but all she saw was what happened on the bus and a bit after, and they had CCTV on the buses so they’d know all that. And they could talk to the driver, couldn’t they?

She worried about it all Saturday night and finally rang the number on the Sunday morning. She had to repeat herself three times before she was transferred to a second person. She walked about as she waited, to the window and back, the window and back. Alongside the station, trees feathered the sky, stark as woodcuts. She watched the frost steam in the pale sunshine.

She had to give her name and address and date of birth.

‘And you’re ringing in connection with the Jason Barnes inquiry?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I saw him on the bus.’

‘Can you speak up?’ said the man.

‘Sorry.’ She tried to talk more loudly, her hand gripping the phone hard, still walking to and fro. ‘He was on the bus when I was coming home, on Friday.’

‘Jason Barnes was?’

‘Yes. And these boys, and this girl, they were causing trouble… erm. Ganging up on this other boy, and Jason told them to stop.’

‘How many of them were there?’

‘Two boys and a girl.’ She remembered the girl, how pretty she was, and the big one’s round blue eyes. ‘Then they all got off.’

There was a pause; Emma wondered what to say. She felt a bit dizzy.

‘Did you see anything after that?’

‘Just them running after the other boy and Jason following them.’

He asked her how old they were and what they looked like and what they were wearing. She guessed they were seventeen or eighteen, a few years younger than her, and did her best to describe them.

‘Thanks. Can you hold for a minute?’

There was no on-hold music like they had at work when staff had to check records or refer to the handbook or get a supervisor for help. At work they played some classical instrumental music, quite perky. The sort of stuff that people dance to in costume dramas. Emma thought it would drive you bonkers while you were fretting about the flood damage or the boiler repair or your mother’s jade and gold necklace that had gone in the robbery and hearing this prancy music skip on and on.

All she could hear now while she waited were bits of conversation and a phone ringing and someone with a shocking cough. Then the man came back on.

‘Emma, thanks for calling. We’d like to arrange to come and get a full statement from you; we can do that at your house.’

‘I’m going away the day after tomorrow,’ Emma explained, ‘for Christmas.’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Yes, erm… it’d have to be after work.’

‘Fine, what time will you get home?’

‘About six.’

‘Shall we say six thirty?’

‘Yes.’

He thanked her again and she said goodbye and rang off. He hadn’t asked her the questions she’d been waiting for: the ones that kept buzzing in her head like fat bluebottles. Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you do anything? Why did you just sit there and let it all happen?

‘That’s near you, isn’t it? Kingsway.’ Laura at work raised the tabloid so Emma could see the headline: Samaritan Student Slain. Coma Boy Fights On.

Emma picked her coffee up, nodded. Felt something tighten inside. Tried to swallow. Laura looked at her. ‘What?’

Emma felt wobbly. The Jelly, that’s what they’d called her at school, the whole of Year 9. Smelly Jelly. She tried to ignore it because people said if you reacted it would get worse, but she couldn’t help it when she blushed or was unable to talk because the girls who kept slagging her off were all staring at her. Luke had tried to ignore them; he’d looked away out of the window, but they wouldn’t let him be.

Both the Kims were in the staff lounge on break, too, and they waded in. ‘There was a girl with them, joining in. That is really sick,’ said Little Kim.

‘Girls are the worst,’ Laura said. ‘They egg them on.’

‘What was it about?’ Blonde Kim asked.

‘Doesn’t say.’ Laura was studying the paper.

‘Probably a mugging,’ said Blonde Kim.

‘I was mugged,’ said Little Kim. ‘Walking home one night when I worked at the bar. Scared the life out of me. He had a knife.’

Blonde Kim gazed at her, biscuit poised. Laura looked up.

‘He said “Give us yer phone and yer money.”’

‘Was he a druggie?’ Laura asked her.

‘Dunno,’ said Little Kim. ‘I just gave him it and he ran off. I was crying, I could hardly walk, I was shaking that bad. It was horrible.’

‘I saw them,’ Emma managed to say, her face heating up.

‘You what?’ Blonde Kim gawped.

‘Before the stabbing.’

‘Oh. My. God.’ Little Kim clutched her hands to her chest theatrically.

‘Where? What? Spit it out!’ said Laura.

Spit it out, Emma, I haven’t got all day. One of her dad’s phrases.

‘They got on my bus. I’ve got to give a statement to the police.’

‘The police!’ Little Kim shrieked. ‘Will you have to go to court and everything?’

Emma shrugged.

‘It must have been horrible,’ Laura said. ‘What did they do?’

‘Just kicking off, you know. Threatening this boy, the one who’s in hospital.’

‘Oh, Emma,’ breathed Little Kim.

She didn’t want them going on about it, she didn’t like it. She set her cup down, still half full, and put her bag back in her locker.

‘Someone’s keen.’ Laura glanced at the clock. Another four minutes.

‘We’re not all slackers,’ Emma tried to joke, but she sounded weird, sort of bitter, and she saw the Kims raise eyebrows at each other.

They could be very cliquey and it had taken her a while to make friends here. She didn’t want to mess it up, but she couldn’t think of what to say now to put it right. Her face glowed; she hated blushing. ‘See you in a bit,’ was all she managed.

As she left and closed the door, she heard them laughing and her eyes stung. Two more days and she’d be off home for the holidays. It would all blow over and things would get back to normal.

Back at her desk, she began work. The forms and the figures, the policy numbers and dates and exclusions were a relief, a place to get lost.

Andrew

Time lost meaning, hours morphed into days, minutes hung slow, poised, paused. Andrew felt there was a membrane between himself and the world. Translucent, invisible. A caul. And any real understanding, any comprehension as to what had happened was there on the other side with everyone else.

They had been to register the death – he knew that, though recalling the event clearly was impossible, like trying to make out writing that had blurred and run in the rain. Rorschach blots staining the paper where letters once processed.

He hadn’t driven, he knew that much; they wouldn’t let him drive, so Colin had taken them.

The woman studied the medical certificate from the hospital and checked the facts with them and then made out the entry in the register in her small neat italic writing. The ink was sooty black.

Andrew felt like he was underwater; everyone’s words took an inordinate amount of time to reach him and half of what they said was incomprehensible. He kept losing his place, as though the co-ordinates had been shifted, the land rippling beneath him and leaving him on a different contour line with no way-marks.

Colin must have driven home too, Val carrying the death certificate and the one for burial, though he had no memory of it.

‘Dad?’

He was on the stairs carrying holdalls up, when he heard Jason. Someone had been to the house, got clean clothes for them, toiletries. His heart burst, soared with joy, and he whirled round, seeking his son, waiting for further proof that this had just been some awful, dreadful mistake. His body hungry to hug his boy, to tell him how they had all been knocked sideways but here he was. Here he was and his life was golden and green and wide with potential.

He stood and waited, holding his breath, his head inclined to catch the faintest echo, eyes shut the better to smell Jason’s approach – a mix of sugar and mint from the gum he was always chewing and the cologne his mother had bought him last birthday. A better option than the Lynx body spray he’d favoured for years.

Andrew’s father found him on the stairs. ‘You need a hand with those?’

Andrew looked down, bewildered at the bags in his hands, felt the ache in his fingers and wrists, the numb pain across his back. He tried to remember what was in the luggage and where he was meant to be taking it.

‘There’s a site for Jason,’ Val said, her eyes glittering painfully, ‘on Facebook. Look.’ She pushed the laptop along the table. He turned away.

‘All his friends,’ she said, ‘and people who never even met him. Thirteen thousand already,’ she added.

Andrew stared down at the table. People jumping on the bandwagon, pseudo-grief, trite platitudes from strangers.

‘There are some lovely messages,’ Val went on, pulling the laptop back. ‘And photographs.’

The anger came without warning, a bolt of it, driving him to his feet, pushing him away from the table, roaring in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of shock and concern.

He bowled out into the conservatory and wrenched at the patio doors, locked of course. Beat at them with his fists. The garden beyond draped in snow, a splash of yellow on the witch-hazel, frilly flowers like shredded crêpe paper, the old stone bird table and footsteps leading to and back, the shocked flight of robins and magpies as he shook the doors.

‘Andrew.’ She was behind him, tears in her voice. Her hand on his shoulder, her head on his back. ‘We have to do this,’ she said. ‘We weren’t the only ones who loved him. And there are things we have to do: the arrangements, the funeral, work out what he’d have liked.’

What he’d have liked? Christ, the preposterous notion made him choke back a laugh. What he’d have liked! He’d have liked to live, he’d have liked to get a degree and drink too much with his mates and play the field, he’d have liked to grow up and get hitched and maybe have kids himself, see something of this world and smell the fucking daisies.

Andrew shifted, turned to her.

‘We’ll do it together,’ she said. She was always so strong, so sure. She put her hands to his face, kissed him.

Martine had information for them. The police were releasing the name of the victim – the one Jason had gone to help. Luke Murray.

Andrew felt a spike of anger, a needle inside, hot and piercing. ‘Why would they do this? Beat up this Luke and then take a knife…’ he demanded. ‘Why?’ He had to stand up. Move.

‘We don’t know,’ Martine said. ‘Once we’ve identified them-’

He spoke over her. ‘There must be a reason.’

‘Once we’ve apprehended the suspects, we might have more information.’

‘Was it a racist attack?’

‘That’s one avenue we are exploring. I understand it must be very frustrating for you both,’ Martine said.

‘It doesn’t matter why,’ Val said. ‘There probably isn’t any good reason. But they’ll pay for it.’ Her lips trembled.

Andrew’s anger drained away. He sat back down. Val took his hand. As Martine talked about the investigation and how it was going, Andrew was back in the garden, his feet cold and wet on the snow, seeing the lurid stain against the white, the ruin of Luke Murray’s face, watching Jason screaming for him to call the ambulance, seeing the smallest boy flailing and then running to the gate, his accomplices, their faces contorted as they screamed. He felt his throat spasm, mouth water, then a convulsion in his abdomen. He made it to the downstairs toilet and puked until he was spent. He gazed bleary-eyed at the face in the mirror, wiped the string of drool from his chin, his fingers white and bloodless. There was something odd; he stared, puzzled over it, then realized that he hadn’t shaved, his face was shadowed with thick stubble.

Someone came to find him eventually, someone always came after him even though he wanted to be left alone.

Their house was pictured on the news again, police tape fluttering in the slight breeze, which snatched the lightest dusting of snow and blew it round in a fine spiral. Outside their fence, bouquets of flowers and cards and candles. The photograph of Jason, and then two images of Luke Murray. The second one showing his horrific injuries. Val murmured in shock and Andrew groaned. The bare facts of the case were narrated, then the man leading the inquiry appealed for information.

When the next item came on, Val muted the sound. Turned to Martine. ‘When can we go home?’

‘I’d suggest leaving it for a few more days,’ Martine said. ‘You’d be likely to be besieged by the press if you went back now.’

‘But you can’t stop us?’ There was grit in her tone.

‘Maybe we’re better here,’ Andrew ventured.

Val turned to him. ‘I want to be closer to Jason. I want to be where he was.’

He swallowed.

‘Let me check how things stand.’ Martine got up. ‘I’ll make a call.’

Andrew reached out a hand, covered Val’s. It was the best he could offer by way of support, but the prospect of returning home filled him with cold dread.

‘I need some air,’ he said to Val later. ‘I need to get out.’

‘Want company?’

Oh God. His heart contracted; he felt a pulse quicken in the roof of his mouth. He hesitated. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he felt trapped.

She understood. She let him go.

Andrew walked towards town, avoiding the centre of the pavement where the snow had been compacted to treacherous ice, stepping instead on the edges, on the untouched white. The snow creaking underfoot.

He could see his breath, milky smoke.

Dragon’s breath! Jason chortling, six years old and his head full of dinosaurs and pirates.

The sun was hidden; clouds mottled pearly grey blanketed the sky. The bushes, each twig and leaf, were laced with frost. He walked north towards Withington. On the eighteenth-century maps, this was a toll road from Manchester to Oxford; Withington was where one of the turnpikes had been, a village surrounded by farmland before it had grown and fused with others to form the city. The route south was dotted with coaching inns every few miles, forerunners of the railway stations. He glimpsed a snowman on a side road, squat and plain, eyes but no other features, no hat or scarf. He passed the milestone outside the fire station: 4 miles to Manchester, to Centre of Saint Ann’s on one face, 8 ¼ miles to Wilmslow on the other.

He walked on; let his eyes roam over the buildings, shops and houses, apartment blocks. All this now charted in the A-Z, captured on Google Earth, in aerial or street view. He and Jason had looked up their house when they first downloaded the software; they had worked out when the photograph must have been taken, because it showed the old greenhouse, which had been wrecked by spring storms and had been taken down by Andrew shortly after and replaced with a polytunnel.

He reached Rusholme. The streets were chock-a-block here, the shops and Indian restaurants brightly lit and buzzing with people even though it was daytime. The traffic was loud, buses lumbering along the bus lane and taxis and cars snarled up in the narrow road. Someone sounded a horn repeatedly. People were shouting to each other, walking too close to Andrew; they were staring at him. A fine sweat broke out over the whole of his body and his heart hammered painfully.

He took the first turning right, away from the main thoroughfare. Soon he was on quiet streets, halls of residence empty for the holidays. Had anyone told Durham about Jason? Val would know; she was keeping a list, an A4 pad to help them stay on track. On track to where? Destination unknown. How could they know the right route? No one else had made this journey, not this exact same journey. Even if others had lost a child, they hadn’t lost Jason. Andrew didn’t want to be forced along any particular path. He wanted to wander in the wilderness. Yes, like some deranged prophet, grow a beard and rent his clothes and live on honey and locusts. Hah! The image, the pathetic self-pity, made him bark a laugh, and a woman across the street looked over in alarm.

He reached another arterial road, where the tall buildings on either side funnelled air into a wind. The pavements here had been treated, the brown grit mixed with slush, fudge coloured.

He felt cold, his back tense, shoulders raised. His nose was running but he had no tissues. He sniffed, and when that didn’t help, resorted to wiping his nose on the back of his glove.

He went in through the A &E entrance. They’d brought Jason here. He wasn’t here now; he was in the funeral parlour. Andrew’s eyes ached at the thought. Couldn’t bear it. He checked the hospital map and found the location he sought, then navigated his way among the visitors and staff, the walking wounded and the patients pushed in wheelchairs and on trolleys.

There was a buzzer entry system at the Intensive Care Unit. Andrew hesitated, then pressed the button. He could see through the glass to the reception desk. One of the nurses stretched out an arm, pressed the release for the door.

The phone was ringing inside the unit. Andrew’s eyes roamed over the chart behind the desk. The list of names and bed numbers, initials for consultants and care. He found the right name and felt an eddy of apprehension.

‘I wanted to check on visiting hours,’ he said.

The nurse smiled up at him. ‘We don’t have any restrictions, though we only allow two people per patient at any one time.’ She leant towards the phone. ‘Who is it you want?’

Andrew swallowed. ‘Luke Murray.’ Barely a whisper.

‘Sorry?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Luke Murray.’

‘Second on the left.’ She picked up the phone.

Andrew walked down the corridor, pulling off his gloves and loosening his scarf, his bowels turned to water. He used the gel dispenser at the door to Luke’s room.

He held his breath as he went in, released it with a shudder when he saw there was no one else there, just Luke. He stood staring at the figure on the bed, the boy utterly still, his face half covered with an oxygen mask. Machines and pumps and equipment ringed the bed, arrayed around him like so many mechanical vultures.

It was quiet in the room, just the click and shush of some of the equipment and distant sounds from the corridor muffled by the door. He looked, taking in the bandage on the head, the boy’s brown arms on the blanket, hands flat at his sides. Steeled himself to focus on the face, the places not hidden by the mask.

A rush of air. ‘You can sit down, you know.’

Andrew jumped, nerves flickering like lightning. The nurse smiled. ‘It’s quite safe.’

‘I have to go, I can’t stay.’ He almost bolted, his pulse racing, but he fought the urge and walked, legs unsteady, back up the ward.

A woman stood aside to let him pass, small and dark-haired, pallid, weary-looking. He nodded his thanks.

Seconds later he heard footsteps swift behind him, turned and saw the same woman, anxious, alert. ‘Oi!’

Andrew stopped, puzzled.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘Sorry?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘You will be,’ she snapped, ‘if you don’t tell me who you are.’

‘Andrew Barnes,’ he said.

She gave a little snort, shook her head, the name not registering. ‘What were you doing with Luke?’

‘Sorry, I-’

‘Tell me.’

‘I’m Andrew Barnes.’ He blinked. ‘Jason Barnes’ father.’

She closed her eyes, put her hand to her head. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry. I’d no idea who you were, and after what they’ve done to him already…’ She shuddered, faltered.

She thought he might have come to cause harm.

‘Could you…’ Her eyes were naked now, bright with pain. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’