Split Second

CHAPTER NINE

Emma

Emma reapplied the dressing. It was happening more and more. It was the murder, she knew it was. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, even dreaming about it. It seemed like every time she turned on the television or saw a paper, there was something there about Jason Barnes and Luke Murray. She knew what she did was sick, but she couldn’t stop. She’d never forget the first time: her eighteenth birthday.

They’d bought her a mobile phone, one with a camera on. It was lovely. She put her home number in, and her aunt and uncle’s, and the hairdresser’s. Then she took the money her nan had given her and went into Birmingham and trudged around New Street and up Corporation Street looking for a dress to wear for their meal out that evening. She tried on dozens, her arms aching and the hangers biting into her fingers as she browsed the rails. There were so many different styles: minidresses with bold prints, floaty romantic styles, metallic sheaths. She finally settled on a sleeveless maxi dress with an empire line and a full skirt; it was giant paisley in greens and browns. It hid her legs, which was good. The neck was scooped and quite low, but she had a green necklace at home that might look okay with it. She wasn’t sure about how it made her arms look, but by then she was too tired to try anything else, and she couldn’t go home empty-handed.

She got ready in her room, curling her hair and putting on green eyeshadow to reflect the colours in the dress. Her mum called to her when they were ready, and she went down and waited in the lounge doorway. Her mother smiled and nodded. Her father turned and did a mock double-take. ‘Gordon Bennett – what is it wearing?’

‘Roger!’ her mum protested.

‘That’s bound to frighten the horses. Whoever flogged you that was having a laugh.’

‘I like it.’ Her voice shook.

‘Well, you’ve never had a clue.’

‘Roger, don’t.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Emma demanded. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. Her mother shot her a warning glance, but it was too late.

‘Where shall I start?’

‘If we don’t go now, we’ll be late,’ her mother said.

‘You look like you’re wearing a tent – Jolly Green Giant, that’s it. We could all go camping.’

‘Don’t!’ Her mother moved towards Emma, frowning.

‘I’m only being honest. Do you want her to be a laughing stock?’

Her mum sounded really cross. ‘It’s a perfectly nice dress and you’re not being honest, you’re being mean.’

There was a silence, heavy, dangerous. Emma filled it, stammering over the words. ‘Well I like it and it’s my birthday, it’s my money. Shall we go?’

She braced herself for more from him, but he just gave a dry little laugh and scooped up the car keys.

At the restaurant, Emma chose the most expensive dishes: tiger prawns, fillet steak. She swallowed mouthful after mouthful. Her father made a fuss about the wine being undrinkable. and the waiter had to bring a different bottle.

She went to the toilet before dessert; the place was empty and she stuck her fingers down her throat and made herself sick. She felt raw with emotion, a bleak pain that threatened to drown her. She washed her hands and rubbed water on her teeth. She looked in the mirror, loathing her reflection: her upper arms like pasty white balloons, her podgy face, the colours in the dress sickly under the fierce lighting, her dangly earrings tawdry. The idea just came. She took one of the earrings out. Returned to the stall and locked the door. She drew up the dress and opened out the wire hook of the earring. Pushed it against her inner thigh, increasing the pressure until it pierced the skin and she felt it sting. She pulled the wire out and watched the bead of blood swell. A berry. She did it again. And once more. She closed her eyes and savoured the new feelings, the throbbing pain and the tide of relief that moved through her.

Then she wiped the blood away, replaced the earring and went to eat her Double Chocolate Hot Fudge Sundae.

The next day she surfed the internet and found a temporary job vacancy at an insurance company in Manchester. She applied online, having to retype much of the form because her fingers were shaking. She had an interview first thing the following week. She was sure she’d made a complete idiot of herself, stammering and blushing and getting muddled up, but they asked to start immediately. One of the managers gave her a number to ring for a vacant flat in the same block as his brother. He could give her a reference.

‘You silly little idiot,’ her father ranted. ‘What happens when the contract ends and you’re out of a job with rent to find? You’ll come running back then, no doubt, expecting us to bail you out. You can’t just up sticks and move to Manchester for three months’ work.’

Emma had let him talk, tried to ignore his comments, thought only of being somewhere else, somewhere better. Of being someone else, someone new. And now here she was, independent, in her own flat, sitting on the toilet lid, cleaning a razor blade.

Andrew

The morning of the funeral, and Martine turned up. She apologized for the intrusion, but she had news.

‘As a result of the publication of the e-fits, a number of names have come up, one of them repeatedly, and the inquiry team will be regarding these as persons of interest,’ she said.

‘Meaning what?’ Val asked, her face set with tension and interest.

‘The team will be keeping them under surveillance and gathering additional evidence.’

‘Who are they?’ Val said.

‘I can’t tell you that at present.’

Val stood up. ‘Why not?’

‘We need to be sure, we need to establish that we have found the right people, and if we have enough evidence to make any arrests, you’ll be informed.’

Martine had no idea that Andrew already knew it was Tom Garrington she was talking about, and that Luke had made a bitter enemy of Tom at the party. He was tempted to challenge her with these facts, but he hadn’t spoken to Val about meeting Louise, about the name she had given him, there hadn’t been a chance, and it would be dreadful to tell her now in front of the police officer.

Val’s friends Sheena and Sue arrived and they went out to greet them. The weather was calm, grey, cold and foggy. A sweaty scent clung in the air; Andrew couldn’t put a name to it. Then Colin and Izzie and their two arrived, and Jason’s friends. Warm greetings were exchanged, murmurs of mutual sympathy, questions about the schedule for the day. They waited for the hearse.

Ideally they’d have used a horse-drawn carriage and walked behind it, respecting Jason’s views on carbon footprints, but the woodland burial site was miles away, and it simply wasn’t practical. Andrew thought of the old rural maps he’d seen in Ireland, where mass paths were rights of way to enable the devout to reach their parish church to celebrate mass. He recalled images from a film, though its name was lost to him now, of villagers carrying a coffin across a hillside for burial.

He moved among the visitors crowding the house and felt that distanced sensation again. The notion that he was going through the motions, living someone else’s nightmare. He remembered being in a similar state at their wedding, even though that was a happy occasion. The focus on the right sequence of trivia, the whole thing more of a rehearsed ordeal than a joyous celebration. The distortion of ritual.

He faltered when he saw his parents, their wobbly faces, the ravaged expressions in their eyes. Hard to conceal their pain. He hugged his father, thinking, why Jason and not you, but with no hint of malice as he felt the old man’s belly bulging out, and noted the rounding slope of his shoulders.

Andrew hadn’t expected the press. They were set up at the ready as the cortège entered the cemetery site. Family and friends emerged from the cars to the snick and whir of the lenses. He watched as Jason’s good friends, along with Colin, took instructions from the director and carried the coffin into the chapel.

Two nights before, the boys had turned up to decorate the coffin, armed with memorabilia, computer printouts and photographs, PVA glue, felt pens, paint and scissors. Andrew had cleared space in the conservatory and found a wallpaper table to put the coffin on. The event took on a party atmosphere, helped along by the pizzas and six-packs of beer that the boys had brought.

The collage grew: riotous, lively, spreading over the sides of the coffin. One of the girls, an art student, used paint to connect the different images together, spirals and tendrils and leaf shapes.

A map, thought Andrew. There should be a map. He went to find his ordnance survey maps of the Peak District. He selected the one that included the little campsite where they had gone for weekends when Jason was small, and the hills where they’d hiked in later years until Jason rebelled and started sleeping all morning whenever he was off school.

Andrew had cut a large shape from the centre of the map and pasted it on to the lid as one of the boys told a story about getting lost with Jason on the school outdoor pursuit camp when they were in Year 6. How they had followed a stream downhill, sure that once they reached the valley they could trek back along the road to the base. But the stream had led down to a farm. Fields full of llamas and ostriches like somewhere in South America, and it turned out to be the wrong valley, and the farmer had to ring the outdoor pursuits centre and get someone to come and pick them up.

Andrew laughed and glanced round for Jason, wanting to catch his eye and share the joke. His heart shrank.

He hadn’t wanted the decorating session to end, but it did, and the young people left, and with them went their energy and brilliance and noise, and aspects of Jason.

In the chapel they gave testimonials and played music. Felix played a piece on the flute. Andrew gritted his teeth and hardened his heart as ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ filled the space. There were other tunes, other brave speeches, and then they left the chapel and paraded through the grounds to the woodland: the coffin, the mourners, someone carrying the rowan tree, the watering can, the spade. A motley crew, Andrew thought as they gathered around the grave. Trestle tables had been set up to take the coffin while they prepared the straps that they would use to lower it into the hole.

The mist was still rising in the woods as the weak winter sun met the dew. People wept and laughed and exchanged teary smiles and blinks of recognition. Without too much trouble the coffin was lowered into place, and the humanist minister gave a brief address and read a poem that Val had chosen. Felix played the flute again while Andrew and Val manoeuvred the tree into place just near the head of the grave in a second, much smaller, hole and covered the roots and watered them. Jason’s friends filled the grave with soil, and that was when Andrew felt close to breaking down. He held it in, a giant hand throttling his neck, pressing on his chest. Val trembled beside him. He put an arm around her. She was wearing a veil. ‘I’m going to cry my eyes out,’ she had said to him earlier. ‘It’s either that or sunglasses, and in sunglasses I’ll end up looking like some B-movie Mafia matriarch.’ They had told people to wear whatever they liked. Some had gone along with it, sporting vibrant colours, but most clung to the safety of sombre shades.

The reception was wonderful. People relaxed and mixed. His father had insisted on paying for a free bar, and it wasn’t only youngsters that took advantage of the fact. His nephew had sorted out a laptop loaded with music, and people could pick tracks to play. There was a wall of photos of Jason and the people who loved him. The food kept coming.

Close to eleven o’clock, Val caught up with him. ‘There’s a taxi coming.’ They’d agreed to leave the car and collect it the next morning.

They slipped away. The temperature had plummeted, and Andrew’s teeth were chattering by the time they got into the cab.

The driver was a young Asian lad. He struck up conversation as he pulled away. ‘Good do?’ he said blithely.

Andrew squeezed Val’s hand, felt his eyes prickle. ‘Great, thanks,’ he said, and gave their address.

Louise

Louise started back at work. She couldn’t afford to miss any more shifts. She might be able to get a hardship payment from the union, but she hadn’t had time to look into it.

Most days she worked eight till four so she could have some time with Ruby and visit Luke in the evenings.

Deanne came to the hospital. She was only just back from Christmas with her husband’s family in Wales. Louise had texted her, and they’d spoken on the phone several times. ‘Oh Louise, oh God,’ she’d said when she set eyes on Luke, and her eyes had glittered.

Louise hugged her friend and closed her own eyes against the grief.

‘Can he hear you?’ Deanne pulled away and looked at Louise, who shrugged. ‘No idea. No one has. We talk to him anyway. Ruby made a tape.’

‘How’s she been?’

Louise gave a breath out. ‘Brilliant really. But something like this…’ The enormity of it hit her again. She frowned and shook her head, determined not to cry. What did it mean for Ruby? Her brother so hurt, the uncertainty, the new routine of snatched meals and hospital visiting. ‘She’s got her audition soon. She needs to practise.’

‘She’ll get in,’ Deane said. ‘They’d be mad not to take her.’

‘I think she’s worried about going, if she does get a place. She’ll be boarding during the week.’ Her throat ached, the pressure building inside, the urge to let go and weep, which she had fought so hard.

‘Home at weekends?’

‘Oh yeah. The fees are means-tested and there are grants and stuff. The woman said we’d be fine on that score. She’s bought this wig.’ Louise smiled, still sniffing, pedalling back from the brink. ‘Dark crimson. She looks amazing.’

‘She is amazing. Do you want me to have a word with her? Buck her up a bit?’

‘No, ta. I need to do it. I’m not going to let this spoil things for her. It’s all she ever wanted, Deanne.’

‘I know.’ Deanne took her coat off, went and sat down. She stared at Luke. ‘It’s a crying shame,’ she said.

That was all it took and Louise was gulping and sobbing and the stupid, bloody tears were spilling through her fingers.

‘Louise! Aw, babe.’

Louise was up, half blind, seeking the door, the sorrow hot and fierce inside her. Deanne followed her out, hugged her close.

‘I didn’t want to bloody cry,’ she said when the worst of it was over, when she could no longer breathe through her nose and her lips were all swollen.

‘Course you need to cry,’ Deanne said. ‘You’re not a saint, Louise. You’re flesh and blood. With all this… Jesus.’ She rubbed Louise’s back.

‘I didn’t want Luke to hear me crying. He’s going to wake up, Deanne. He’s going to get better. If he can hear, what’s he going to think? Crying doesn’t help anyone.’

Deanne sighed. One of the nurses came along the corridor, smiled as she passed them by. Once she was out of earshot, Louise said, ‘Declan knows who did it – the main one. You remember Declan?’

‘Dopey Declan?’

‘Yeah. Apparently Luke had a set-to with this lad Gazza. Pulled him up for threatening a girl at a party. Gazza went for him and Luke tripped him up, took a photo and sent it round. Declan’s told the police; needed a kick up the bum from me first.’

‘Oh God,’ Deanne said. ‘I need a smoke.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Deanne looked, her face fell. ‘You haven’t?’

‘Something’s gotta give.’

It was dark outside, the sky a sickly blend of sulphur yellow from the city lights and leaden grey. The air was cold, still, trapping the smell from a brewery and the high, acrid exhaust fumes.

They smoked, and Deanne talked about Christmas at the in-laws, the tensions, the food, the boredom. Louise caught a shadow in her friend’s gaze, a current of something sour in between the words.

‘Did the kids like it?’

‘Yeah, they were fine, a bit bored but okay.’

‘And?’

Deanne cast her a glance, took a long drag on her cigarette, blew the smoke up into the beam of light from the street lamp.

‘Me and Tony.’ Deanne wrinkled her nose. ‘We’re breaking up.’

‘Oh no.’ After what? Twelve years, thirteen? Three kids.

‘Bastard’s seeing someone else.’

‘And that’s it? There’s no…’

‘Yes. And no. I’ve told him I want him out by the end of the month. You can imagine the atmosphere.’

‘Who is she? Someone you know?’

‘No. Some little tart he met on his travels.’ Tony was a rep selling soft toys to outlets round the north. ‘Lives in Preston.’

‘Oh Dee, I am sorry. Do the kids know?’

‘Not yet.’ Deanne ground her cigarette out. ‘We need a night out.’

Louise felt weary at the prospect. ‘I don’t know…’

‘No arguments. Me and you and Fee. Nothing too demanding. Cocktails.’

‘But Ruby…’

‘She can stay at mine – I’ll pay her to babysit. Or rather Tony will.’ Deanne looked at Louise. ‘It’s not like we’ve got much to celebrate for New Year. You with Luke, me not with Tony. Jesus, Fee better have some good news for us.’

It ended up being just the two of them – New Year’s Day evening, when the rest of the world was too hung-over to get out. Fee had begged off: food poisoning from dodgy prawns.

Louise made the effort. Ruby helped her put her hair up in an elaborate twist, and she dug out a dress and heels and a glittery shawl. It was as much for Deanne as for herself, but also a way of sticking two fingers up at the situation. Life goes on.

Tony wasn’t there when Louise and Ruby got to Deanne’s. Deanne looked formidable in a leopardprint sheath and half a ton of gold jewellery. Ruby had sat before for the boys, and they’d go to bed when she said. It wouldn’t be a late night anyway; both Louise and Deanne had work the next day.

They went to Roxies, a cocktail bar near the canals in town, where Deanne had once been manager. The guy serving remembered her and gave them two-for-one. After her first Margarita, Louise felt like going to sleep; after the next, she got her second wind and started to enjoy herself. Deanne told her all about the finer details of finding out that Tony was a cheating bastard. The discovery of his affair and the ensuing fallout had all taken place at his parents’, leading to ridiculous scenes where they had whispered arguments and tried to hide what was going on from the rest of the family.

‘I ended up bloody texting him,’ said Deanne. ‘Can you imagine, rowing by text! Slagging him off and him sending “sorry, sorry” back. It all blew up big style the day after Boxing Day. I caught him on the phone to her. So much for “sorry, sorry”. I got his phone. Stuck it in the dishwasher.’

‘Deanne!’

‘Prat.’

‘You wouldn’t go see someone?’

‘Counselling? Nah.’ She shifted the umbrella in her drink, took a sip. ‘Maybe if I thought there was any hope of a future in it, but… I don’t think he loves me any more.’

Louise saw the brief twitch as Deanne’s lips tightened, saw the hurt.

‘I’m spitting mad at him, but when I think of the kids, I want to cut his dick off. How can he do it to them? Those boys adore him, Louise. And trying to imagine the place without him.’ She shuddered. ‘Do you still miss Eddie?’

Louise smiled. ‘Yeah, specially at a time like this.’

‘Carl not stepped up?’

‘Oh, he would, given half a chance. Carl’s all right, but he’s not the love of my life, you know?’

‘Fuck buddies,’ Deanne supplied.

‘Oh, charming,’ Louise scolded her. ‘Ey up, incoming at four o’clock. We’re being given the once-over.’ Three men had arrived and were waiting to be served. They looked as if they had come from work: suits and ties. Louise wondered what sort of work they did, given it was a bank holiday. One of the men, looking her way, leaned into his friends and made a comment. Something funny; they all laughed.

Deanne swivelled in her seat. ‘Three into two won’t go.’

‘Are you mad?’ Louise asked her.

‘The one with the striped shirt is mine.’

‘In your dreams.’ Louise took a drink.

‘Is that a dare?’

‘Whoa! No,’ Louise said. ‘You’re not going to blame this on me. You know what you’d be doing?’

‘Rebound sex.’

‘Revenge sex – even worse. I am going home after the next drink. And you are coming with me.’

‘Am I?’

‘You’ll have to. I’m taking your babysitter home with me.’

‘Bugger,’ Deanne said. ‘Smoke?’

They took their drinks out on to the roof terrace, where patio heaters belted out warmth on to the tables and benches. Fog hung over the city, diffusing the lights.

‘I can’t imagine going with someone else,’ Deanne said. ‘There’s only been Tony for so long.’

‘No rush, is there,’ Louise said. ‘Not like you’ll forget how to do it.’

‘Like riding a bike,’ Deanne shot back. Cracked them up.

‘It’s a bit weird at first,’ Louise said once she’d stopped cackling. ‘The dates. Someone unfamiliar. You get the jitters and that, like when we were kids.’

‘Where did it go, Lou?’ Deanne was suddenly sombre. ‘All those years.’

‘Hey, we grew up. You’ve got three lovely boys.’

‘I know.’ She flicked repeatedly at the end of her cigarette with her thumbnail. ‘I never saw it coming. Thought we were in it for life. Saw other people’s marriages fold, affairs, divorces, never thought it’d be me.’

‘No.’ Louise smoked, heard a burst of laughter from inside the club rising above the jazz funk that was playing. She shivered, stamped her feet.

‘What will you do if Luke doesn’t wake up?’ Deanne said.

Louise froze; she felt her skin chill and a frisson of fear bubble through her veins. And then a hot needle of anger at the question. ‘He’s going to wake up,’ she said sharply. And ground out her cigarette underfoot.