Split Second

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Andrew

He ran into her at the bank one Saturday. A fine June morning with the sky stretched high and blue and the trees in blossom and the local high street thronging with shoppers, some savouring coffees and pastries in the pavement cafés.

Andrew came through the automatic door, his paying-in book in hand, and almost collided with her. ‘Louise.’

She blinked, nodded. A faint colour crept into her cheeks. He sensed her about to move aside and spoke quickly. ‘How are you? How’s Luke?’

‘He’s the same,’ she said. ‘He’s in a residential place now.’

‘Right.’ He couldn’t think what else to say. But he didn’t want to leave it at that. ‘We could get a coffee,’ he suggested.

She drew her head back, preparing to refuse. ‘Half an hour,’ he said. Almost added ‘please’, but that would sound too desperate.

She hesitated, then gave a little shrug.

‘I’ll just pay this in.’ He held his bank book up.

Two mothers with babies in strollers were just leaving a table outside the deli, so they sat there. It was in full sun, and Louise put her sunglasses on. It made it harder for him to see her expression. ‘About before-’ Andrew wanted to apologize for the night he’d gone to Garrington’s house, but she cut him off.

‘It’s all right. No harm done.’

‘Thanks to you.’

‘How have you been?’ she asked.

He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled heavily. ‘Hard to say. Not great.’ His stomach muscles cramped.

‘It’s not something you get over, is it?’ she said. ‘It will always be with you.’

He swallowed, nodded. He was relieved to be interrupted by the waiter taking their order.

‘And Luke,’ he said, when they had chosen their drinks, ‘the place he’s in, it’s okay?’

‘Fine, yeah. The staff are great.’

‘And the chances of him coming round?’

He saw her lips tighten, the muscle in her jaw tense. She raised a hand to her mouth.

‘Sorry,’ he said; he’d put his foot in it.

‘The other day,’ she made a little huffing sound, ‘someone at work I don’t know well, she said how awful it must be for him, trapped like that.’

Andrew groaned in sympathy.

‘How can I know? How can anyone know?’ Louise said. ‘He might be dancing or he might be screaming.’ She pulled a tissue from her bag, dabbed beneath her glasses.

‘Louise…’

‘The longer it goes on, the more uncertain I feel.’

‘About what?’

‘Whether I’m right.’ Her voice shook. He waited, attentive, while she lit a cigarette, took a drag. He felt the sun warm on his back and his head, but a chill inside. She smoked some more. ‘I can’t talk about it,’ she said brusquely, lowering her head.

‘Yes you can.’

She looked at him.

Their drinks arrived. He stirred his, waiting until they were alone again. ‘It’s only words,’ he told her.

She turned her head away, looked across the street. He watched a bus rumble past and a sports car with the top down, more cars. At the next table a toddler began to shriek.

‘They say there’s nothing going on, no brain activity. No response to pain. The feeding tube, it keeps him alive. If I… stop hoping…’ She could barely string a sentence together.

‘But it’s your decision.’

‘How can I choose that?’ she asked him. She shuddered, her shoulders moving.

Tentatively he reached out, touched the back of her hand. He tried to put himself in her situation, imagine it was Jason. Failed. No knowing what he’d do. And Val. Would they even agree? He squeezed her hand, then withdrew his. He saw her arm was tanned, her face too. She was lovely, dark hair, an attractive face: heart-shaped, almond eyes, a dusting of freckles. He wondered what it might be like to hold her, to kiss her.

‘What if he is suffering?’ she asked him.

‘Has anyone suggested that?’

‘No.’

‘They’d be able to tell,’ he said, fragments of his training coming back. ‘Raised cortisol levels, that sort of thing.’

‘They would?’ She stubbed out her cigarette.

‘Yes,’ he reassured her.

She nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to lay it all on you.’ She picked up her drink. Her nails were short, painted a deep crimson.

‘It’s fine. And your daughter?’

‘Ruby. She’s great. She’s going to a performing arts school, over in Liverpool. She loves it.’ She smiled; he felt the warmth of it. Saw the dimples either side of her mouth. ‘She’s doing so well.’

‘Bit of a hike.’

‘She stays during the week.’

‘You’re on your own,’ he said.

Her face seemed to sharpen. Perhaps she had a partner now, or a boyfriend. What did he know?

‘I go to Luke’s most evenings. Watch telly there with him. Ruby’s back at the weekends.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I let her lie in.’

‘The trial,’ he said. ‘We were told the middle of October.’

She nodded. ‘Ruby wants to go.’

‘We’re witnesses, Val and I.’

‘Oh God,’ she said.

He cleared his throat. The toddler wrenched away from his mother and careened into Andrew’s thigh. ‘Hello,’ said Andrew. The child was plump, red-faced, a blob of snot bubbling in one nostril. Andrew recalled the weight of Jason at that age: piggybacking him once his legs got tired, Jason’s hands wrapped around his neck, burbling in Andrew’s ear, his breath sweet and moist. Andrew’s back growing warm and damp where Jason clung to him.

‘Grandad.’ The toddler stopped wailing, stared at Andrew. God, Andrew thought, he’d never be that now. No children in his life. It wasn’t like he could borrow his nephew and niece or suddenly change the family dynamics to play a greater role in their lives.

‘Sorry.’ The mother prised the child away. ‘That’s not your grandad,’ she said to the toddler.

‘Someone asked me if I had any kids the other day, a patient,’ Andrew said, sorrow coursing deep and slow within him. ‘I didn’t know how to answer.’ Jason in his crocodile wellies and Batman suit in the garden, a compass in his hand. Turning slowly, then faster, spinning like the needle, spinning round the world.

Louise sucked in a breath.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he said. They were harder – the glorious light and fine blue skies a savage counterpoint to the brooding, choking burden of grief.

‘We’re on to the weather now?’ Louise said wryly.

He laughed.

She checked her watch once more.

‘We could do this again,’ he said. His guts tightened.

She picked up her cigarettes.

‘Just coffee, talk,’ he said.

‘Why?’ She tilted her head. He saw himself reflected in her glasses. His hair was receding.

‘No one else understands,’ he said.

He watched her consider this. A couple sailed past, riding a tandem. Then a car, its windows down, the heavy bass of music pulsing through the air.

‘Just coffee,’ he said, trying to persuade her.

‘I preferred the pub,’ she said.

He grinned, nodded, ridiculously grateful.

‘I’ll ring you,’ she said. She hitched her bag on to her shoulder as she stood. She was soon lost from sight. Andrew sat there, reliving the conversation and feeling lighter, younger, more alive than he had for weeks.

Emma

It was the best time of her whole life. Even the annoying bits – the delay to the outbound flight, the shower conking out and the mosquito bites – didn’t really bother her. Or Little Kim and Laura arguing about where to go for cocktails or whether to meet up with the Geordie lads who had been flirting at the pool.

The week unspooled in the golden glow of chatter and preparation. Most of their time was spent getting ready: ready for the beach, ready for lunch, ready for a trip into town to hit the shops, ready for dinner and the nightclubs. Emma let the chatter, the gossip and plots, the jokes and anecdotes flow around her. She happily played the role of judge as one Kim or the other or Laura modelled options for what to wear or how to have their hair. She had brought a novel to read but barely opened it; even at the beach or lounging around the pool it was easier to close her eyes and listen to the others. Blonde Kim could talk for England; she even talked in her sleep, Little Kim said.

Emma’s playsuit was in mock denim. She felt a bit self-conscious, didn’t like the way her bum looked, but she got a couple of sarongs and used those like skirts tied over it to walk about in. The Kims assumed she wore it instead of a bikini because she was a bit overweight, so that was okay.

One night they were eating on a rooftop terrace. They had shared a mixed platter and were having kebabs and salad when a couple of older men who had finished their meal came over.

‘Fancy a nightcap, girls?’ the taller one asked. He was muscly and tanned and wore a gold chain. His friend had a shaved head and tattoos all over his arms.

‘No,’ said Laura. ‘Not aiming for bed any time soon.’

Blonde Kim giggled.

‘Shame, that,’ the man said. He had a hard look in his eyes like he didn’t like them even though he had stopped to talk. He reminded Emma of her dad. ‘And here’s us at a loose end. Mate of ours runs the Blue Dolphin, get a real good discount.’

‘Tequila slammers half-price,’ said his sidekick.

‘Ta, no,’ said Laura. ‘We’ve plans.’

Emma saw the first man swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘What about you?’ He spoke directly to Emma. She felt her face catch fire.

‘We’ve all got plans,’ Laura said.

‘All right, gobby!’ The bloke turned on Laura.

Emma was back on the bus, the same ripple of terror driving through her, the tone and the language signalling violence.

‘Fuck off, leave her alone,’ said Little Kim.

The man glared at them, then snorted, shook his head, sneering to his companion. ‘Leave it, Tony, load of lezzers, in’t they.’ And he stalked away, his friend hurrying after him.

‘Good night, Grandad,’ Laura yelled after them, and Blonde Kim hooted. Emma felt herself relax, felt the tension ease away. If she’d been on her own… but she hadn’t. She was with her mates. Her mates!

Laura caught her eye and winked, and Emma laughed, masking the tears that had threatened.

‘Here come the girls!’ announced Laura, and raised her arm. Emma and the other two touched palms with her, a joint high-five. Emma thought she would burst with happiness.

She sent postcards home, to Mum and Dad and Gran, and she got Mum and Dad a really nice vase, in the local style, to take back.

They blew all the money they had left on their last night. Cocktails and dinner at the fish place and then Club Dionysus. There was a Dutch DJ playing dance music. The bass was so strong that Emma could feel it going right through her, thundering in her chest and her belly, shuddering with each beat.

The place was packed, but there were loads of bar staff on and Emma was served really quickly. When she got back with the spritzers, the Kims and Laura were talking to a boy dressed like a sailor, who moved away.

‘Who was that?’ Emma asked Laura.

‘The candy man,’ Laura laughed. She opened her palm. Emma saw four small pills, each with a little lollipop picture on. She felt a bit weird. She had never taken Ecstasy.

Laura plucked one up and swigged it back. The Kims each reached out in turn. Emma bit her lip. What if she had a bad reaction, collapsed and died on her holiday?

‘It’s really nice,’ Laura said in her ear. ‘Get all loved up.’

The music changed and a whoop went up from the crowd. A sea of arms rose in the air. Emma picked up the pill, took it.

It was the best night of her life.

At five in the morning, she and Laura watched the stars fade and the sun rise over the sea, their feet in the wavelets at the edge of the bay, watching the lacy foam patterns in the sand appear and disappear. Emma rubbed at the bites on her arm. Flashes of the night flickered through her mind: laughing with Little Kim, dancing till she was breathless, telling Laura she loved her.

‘Why do we have to go back?’ she said.

Laura laughed. ‘So we can raise the dosh to come again next year.’

The prospect kindled a ray of hope in Emma, but it was soon quenched when she thought of what lay ahead in the months before then. What she’d been able to forget about for the last seven days. Now it lurked, large and squat and cold, ominous, waiting to devour her. The court case.

Andrew

The summer was fading, the air already cooler as September approached. The first conkers littered the pavement outside the house. He saw a bat flit zigzag between the houses as he let himself in.

‘I thought you were at Colin’s. Where were you?’

Andrew froze, tried to think.

Val was sitting on the stairs; she got to her feet.

‘You should have tried my mobile,’ he said.

‘Where were you?’

‘With a friend.’

‘What friend?’ She spat the word out like it was unpalatable.

He rubbed his forehead. ‘What does it matter, Val? She’s just a friend.’ He set his car keys down on the little table by the phone.

Val came down the stairs. ‘Who is she?’ Her face was taut with emotion, her eyes glittering.

‘Why do you care? You see your friends, don’t you? Sheena and Sue, you spend more time socializing with them than you do with me these days.’

It was true; she barely seemed to notice him, still off work, still slower, duller from the medication, resistant to his attempts to involve her in anything. He’d given up trying to get her to try counselling. He had been in to their GP, explained how worried he was, how Val flatly refused to consider either bereavement or relationship counselling. The GP heard him out but more or less told him to give it time and tend to his own needs.

He’d tried suggesting other things: a meal out, a weekend away, a trip to the theatre. All declined with the same flat delivery.

There were times when he felt she blamed him for Jason’s death, that if he’d got downstairs sooner, or arrived home a little later, he could have intervened himself. Prevented it – or taken the blow instead.

Even his attempts to share memories of Jason were thwarted. She always changed the subject, or even questioned the veracity of his recall. ‘I don’t remember that,’ or, ‘I think you’ve got that wrong.’ Or even worse, she’d not say anything at all. And his anecdotes, about Jason, the little moment he had shared with her, would hang neglected, discarded between them like something shameful.

‘Who is she?’ Val said again.

He looked back at her, irritated, then resigned himself to honesty. And damn the consequences. ‘Louise,’ he said. ‘Louise Murray.’

Val recoiled as if he’d slapped her. ‘Is that some sort of sick joke?’ she said.

‘We meet for a drink now and then; sometimes I visit Luke.’

Val flew at him, her fists on his chest, then smacking his face, shrieking, ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard.’

He caught her arms, restrained her. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted. Though part of him thought that this – her rage, her reaction – was healthier than her numb indifference.

‘You Judas. How could you?’ She spat at him. He flinched as the spittle caught his chin.

‘I can talk to her,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of company.’

Val’s face seemed to shrink; she was quaking, her lips drawn back in a grimace. ‘That scum, if it hadn’t been for him-’

‘I’m not listening to this.’ He let go of her wrists. He wiped his face on the back of his arm.

‘Why not!’ she yelled. ‘You’re always on at me to talk about it, pick it over like some scab.’

‘Not like this,’ he said.

‘Have you fucked her?’

He was shocked, at the question and her vehemence. He sighed. ‘No. Would it matter? You’re not interested any more.’ He felt bile at the back of his throat.

‘I hate you,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.

‘Val.’ He reached out a hand.

‘It’s a complete betrayal,’ she said, ‘a travesty. Our son would be alive-’

‘Luke didn’t kill him,’ he yelled, losing any composure he had tried to cling to. ‘The people who killed him are in prison, they’re up in court in six weeks’ time. Charged with murder. They killed him. They consigned Luke Murray to a living death.’

‘I want you to leave.’ Punishing him.

‘Oh, for Chrissakes, Val.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Well I’m not going anywhere. This is our house, I’m not leaving. You’re too distressed to make any sensible-’

‘Don’t tell me how I feel!’ she snarled at him.

‘I’m not leaving you. I’m not going anywhere. We have the court case to get through; when that’s over we can talk. But nothing happens till then.’

‘You can sleep in the spare room.’

He groaned. ‘This…’ He was overcome, took a breath. ‘We are both devastated.’

‘Really?’ she said sarcastically. ‘I can’t think why.’

He didn’t know how to reach her, felt unmoored, caught in the slipstream of her bitter grief. ‘We can’t decide anything in this chaos… I haven’t done anything wrong, Val.’

‘You have no idea,’ she said. And she turned and went past him and up the stairs.

Andrew sat outside, cradling a Scotch, taking solace from the peace in the garden, the scents of the night. Watching the moths around the wall lamp (they would have given Jason the heebie-jeebies) and the bat, still patrolling hither and thither, swift and silent in its tumbling flight.

He was tempted to call Louise, but imagined she’d be less than pleased to hear him moaning about Val: all those dreaded clichés, my wife doesn’t understand me, our marriage is all but over. And he didn’t want to sully their friendship with the mess of his marriage.

Was it over? Him and Val? He tried to see the future, a version where they stayed together and came through it, then an alternative one where they separated, and neither felt real.

Perhaps losing Jason was too much for them. He had been the heart of their relationship, and without him there simply wasn’t enough to sustain them.

I’m forty-eight, thought Andrew. I could have another forty years. And the prospect frightened him.