Split Second

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Louise

The second day of the trial opened with Conrad Quinn in the witness box. Before he was called, the judge announced that if there was any disturbance in court, he would clear the gallery.

Louise heard the whispers behind her – liar, grass, scum – as he came up the steps into the dock. He was accompanied by a uniformed guard, a reminder to everyone that he had come from prison, where he was on remand awaiting sentencing.

She fixed her eyes on him. He was wiry, short; he looked undernourished, ill fed. He had a cheap-looking suit on. It was too big for him, shoulders sagging, the sleeves drowning his hands. He had a tattoo on his neck, barbed wire. His hair was so short you could see the pale scalp beneath, and marks here and there as if he’d shaved it himself and nicked the skin. This was the boy who had destroyed Luke, the one who had kicked him in the head until-

Her hurt, her rage trembled beneath her skin. She took him in, drank him in, avid.

Mr Sweeney cut straight to the chase. ‘Conrad, you pleaded guilty to charges of Section 18 wounding in the case of Luke Murray, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

The sir made Louise want to weep. As if showing respect for authority now would help him. Or perhaps he had to say it in prison and had got into the habit.

‘You just answer the questions; no “sir” needed.’

The boy nodded.

‘And have you given a full and truthful account of the incident to the police?’

‘Yes.’

Someone hissed. The judge didn’t appear to notice.

‘In order to appreciate the sequence of events that led to the affray, I would like you to tell the court about an incident that occurred on the thirty-first of October 2010. At a house party. When Luke Murray and Thomas Garrington exchanged words.’

Louise braced herself. Ruby gave her a look; she knew what was coming too.

‘We was at this party and Gazza was-’

‘Mr Garrington?’

Conrad Quinn shuffled uneasily, gave an embarrassed smirk. ‘Yes, he was having a go at this girl, ragging her, you know. Like putting her down. And Luke tells him to do one.’

What might have happened if Luke had kept his mouth shut, not said anything and left the party then? No run-in with Garrington, no deadly encounter on the bus. He’d still be coming home, heading straight for the microwave, then the Xbox. Still learning his trade as an electrician, a bit of money in his pocket, growing in confidence, more settled, happier. Maybe meeting a girl, someone bright and funny; he was a looker, after all. Getting a job, married, babies.

‘“Do one”; that means to leave, to stop?’ Mr Sweeney clarified.

‘Yeah. And Gazza didn’t like it, he swings for him and he misses. Luke trips him up and he hits the deck and he’s fuming. Really racked off. Then Luke’s got his phone out filming. Then they went.’

‘They?’

‘Luke and his mate.’

Oh Luke. Again the petty spite of filming and then circulating the footage of Garrington on the floor, looking stupid, threatened to unravel her. A moment’s meanness that had led to such a bitter end.

‘What became of this video clip?’

‘They posted it on the web,’ said Conrad Quinn.

‘Did Thomas Garrington and Luke Murray know each other prior to this?’ Mr Sweeney asked.

‘No.’ Conrad Quinn rubbed the underneath of his nose to and fro with the back of his index finger.

‘And after that?’

‘Gazza swore he’d get even.’

Louise blinked hard, felt her throat close. This was important: that Thomas Garrington had made threats. All those days between Halloween and December the seventeenth and Luke had been a marked man. Had he known? Had he any idea that Garrington would come after him? Did he think he’d get away with it?

‘And did Thomas Garrington see Luke Murray before the night of the seventeenth of December?’

‘No.’

‘That evening you were with Thomas Garrington and Nicola Healy. Can you tell us what you had been doing prior to boarding the bus?’

‘Hangin’ out at Nicola’s.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Just hangin’ out, drinking and that.’

‘What were you drinking?’

‘Baileys.’

There was a ripple of laughter at this. The image of the cream liqueur, the Christmas drink popular with mums and grandmas, was at odds with that of kids getting rat-arsed. Louise hated them for laughing.

‘It was her mum’s,’ he added, by way of excuse.

Louise saw Nicola wriggle; as though this pathetic misdemeanour could in any way compare to what had followed.

‘And did you consume any drugs?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘Just some coke.’

‘Cocaine?’

‘Yeah. Then her mum kicked us out, so we went to get the bus to Gazza’s. Luke was on the bus. It all kicked off. Gazza went for him, ranting he was, and he hit him.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I didn’t hit him,’ Conrad Quinn said defiantly. ‘Not then.’

‘Did you verbally abuse Luke Murray?’ asked Mr Sweeney.

‘Yeah.’ At least he had the grace to look ashamed, thought Louise.

‘What did you call him?’

As the litany rang out, Louise felt the punch of each one, set her teeth against imagining Luke’s feelings as they harangued him.

‘And when Jason Barnes intervened and Luke ran off the bus, you gave chase?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tell us in your own words what happened then?’

Louise felt nausea rising, a burning beneath her breastbone.

‘I ran and Luke went into this front garden but Gazza grabbed him before he could get to the door.’

‘Why d’you think he was going to the door?’

Conrad Quinn shrugged. ‘Made sense, try and get some help.’

And if he had? If Val had got there sooner and let him in? Or Andrew? Just a few moments and things would have been so different.

‘Carry on, please,’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘Gazza pushed him over. It was snowing and he was on the floor. We give him a kicking.’

The affectless tone he used chilled Louise’s blood, turned her skin cold.

‘Who kicked him?’

‘All of us.’ Dots danced in her eyes. She tried to swallow the knot in her throat, to hang on and not be dragged under by the awful questions and answers.

‘More than once?’

‘Oh yes.’ He gave a jerky nod, almost eager. She hated him; waves of fury rode through her. She wanted to slap at his face, claw at him, shake him, show him the depth of her hurt. How had he ended up like this, this scrappy kid? Had he been restless, unsettled, struggling with school like Luke, and then what? Masked his lack of power, his low self-esteem with aggression? Had he grown up confusing violence with attention, where a slap was as likely as a smile? Or had he simply been weak, lost, following Thomas Garrington wherever that might lead?

‘Continue, please.’

‘Then Jason Barnes grabbed Gazza and Gazza slung him off. This woman opened the door, she was calling out. Then Jason Barnes hit Gazza on the back, knocked him to his knees.’

‘What did he use?’

‘I didn’t see, I thought it was a metal pipe or summat, but I didn’t see it. Gazza was screaming, he got up and he went after Jason. Jason was coming towards me. Then Gazza got his knife out.’

‘Where from?’

‘He kept it in his boot. And he sticks Jason with it, real fast. Then he runs off and Nicola with him.’

‘Where was the knife at this point?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘Gazza still had it. He said later he put it in his pocket.’

‘Let’s stick with what you witnessed. You knew he was carrying a knife?’

‘Yes, he always has one.’

‘Liar!’ a woman yelled. ‘You bloody liar.’ There was a hubbub in response, people shuffling around to see who had called out, others echoing the sentiments. Louise saw a woman towards the back, her face bright red, mouth tight. The skin of her neck loose, like one of Louise’s elderly clients. Her hair puffy and dry, a dandelion halo of an indeterminate shade.

‘Silence!’ ordered the judge. ‘I will not tolerate interjections in my court. If there is any more disruption, those responsible will be held in contempt and the gallery cleared.’

The woman wrenched herself away from the man beside her. Louise thought she’d walk out, but instead she set her face and folded her arms. Louise wondered whose mother she was. Garrington’s, she guessed. She thought the ones behind them, the overweight woman and her two daughters, were Nicola’s family. The girls looked like Nicola, but she was the prettiest.

‘Did you expect Thomas Garrington to use the knife?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘No, never. I wouldn’t have hung around if I’d known.’

Just for the kicking, then? Louise thought bitterly. This is my son: the one on the ground, the one bleeding in the snow. The reckless one, the live wire, the one who always had to push it that bit too far and was lucky to survive. Lucky? There’s a thought to conjure with. The sarcasm was a prop, something sharp and hard to cling to. She would not break down here, she would not. Her nose stung, her teeth were aching, jaw clamped so tight she thought they might shatter.

‘You ran from the scene?’

‘Yes, soon as I realized what Gazza had done.’

‘You didn’t remain to continue fighting with Jason Barnes?’

‘No, he was just in the way. I was trying to get out of there.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked Mr Sweeney.

‘We ran into the estate until we were sure no one was following us. Gazza said split up. Nicola was like, “What have you done, man? You’ll get us all banged up.” And I’m the same.’

‘And how did Gazza react?’

‘He said to stop shittin’ ourselves and to separate. Said if anyone asked we’re to say we’d been in town after we left Nicola’s – where they have the ice rink. Hangin’ out there till midnight.’

‘When did you find out what had happened to Jason Barnes and Luke Murray?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘The next day. Gazza rang us. He said to lie low and that. Not to blab.’

‘He was warning you not to say anything about the incident?’

Louise was sick of the term ‘incident’. It wasn’t a freaking incident; it was murder and attempted murder.

‘Yes, he was,’ said Conrad Quinn.

The boy continued to answer questions about the appeal and seeing their pictures in the paper.

‘In all this time did it ever occur to you to come forward and give yourself up?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘’Cos I didn’t want to go to prison,’ he said. People muttered at this, a ripple of sound. Louise caught Andrew’s eye. His gaze was unguarded, naked. She would have liked to have been sitting next to him, she realized. Or going for coffee in the breaks between witnesses. Dissecting the evidence with him, sharing outrage and confusion and indignation. Over the months, she had come to appreciate his company. The tragedy that linked them put them on special ground, a unique tribe in a ghastly place that only those who’d lived through similar experiences could comprehend.

‘But once you were arrested and charged, you turned Queen’s evidence, pleading guilty to Section 18 wounding, a very serious charge that carries a lengthy sentence. When you could have pleaded not guilty along with the defendants and possibly been acquitted. Why didn’t you do that?’

‘Because I know what I’ve done and what I ’aven’t and it seemed best to tell the truth. I never meant to kill anyone, and I never did. I never had any intent. And if I lied and pleaded not guilty and then if it went the wrong way, the trial I mean, I’d get life for something I never did.’

‘One final question,’ Mr Sweeney said. He paused and the room stilled. ‘Please consider your answer very carefully and remember you are under oath.’

The boy nodded, made the same nervous gesture wiping at his nose.

‘Did you clearly see Thomas Garrington stab Jason Barnes with a knife?’

‘Yes, I did. I did. He did it.’

Andrew

If Andrew thought his own cross-examination was tough, it was a walk in the park compared to the savaging that Conrad Quinn received. At one point, the judge admonished Mrs Patel for harassing the witness. The stress told on the lad, who began to rock, obviously a subconscious reaction, tilting up on the balls of his feet and back, wiping repeatedly at his nose and getting less and less articulate as the gruelling interrogation went on.

The gist of the defence was to portray Conrad Quinn as a violent young thug who was out to save his own skin at the expense of his mates.

‘Have you ever carried a knife?’ Mrs Patel demanded.

When Conrad Quinn hesitated before answering, she swept in with, ‘It’s not a difficult question, is it? Yes or no?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Regularly?’

‘I suppose.’

‘You suppose. And where was your knife on the seventeenth of December?’

‘In my sock.’

He sounded pathetic, thought Andrew.

‘Handy enough to pull out when Jason Barnes came at you.’

‘I never!’ he said.

‘What happened to your knife?’ asked Mrs Patel.

‘What?’ said Conrad Quinn dully.

‘Where is it? Where was it when the police searched your house?’

‘I got rid of it,’ he said.

Andrew groaned inwardly. It looked so incriminating.

‘Why?’

‘Because of what happened.’

‘Because you stabbed Jason Barnes?’

‘No!’ Conrad Quinn protested, still for a brief moment. His face and his neck, with the unfortunate tattoo, flushed dark red. ‘No, because my knife was a bit like Gazza’s and they might think it was the one what had been used.’

‘Was there any blood on your knife?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But they could say I’d cleaned it. Bleached it and that.’

‘Did you?’

‘No. No.’ He sounded panicky now, and Andrew caught an intake of breath in the seats behind, where the other families were. What must it be like to be his parents? he wondered. To watch this, to see him there, clumsy and frightened, already baldly admitting to having kicked Luke hard enough to crush his skull and damage his brain.

‘Where did you get rid of it?’

‘In the river.’

‘I’d like to suggest a different version of events. It was you that stabbed Jason, wasn’t it? It was your knife, wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘You were still there with him when Thomas Garrington and Nicola Healy had run out of the garden. They had seen you get out your knife and they wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and you. But you were intent-’

‘I did nothing!’ Conrad Quinn objected.

‘Is there a question?’ Mr Sweeney had risen to his feet.

‘Did you stab Jason Barnes?’ Mrs Patel had her eyes pinned on him.

‘No. I never. I never.’ Andrew didn’t know whether to believe him or not. And if he didn’t, how would the jury know? He continued to watch the boy falter and bluster and struggle with Mrs Patel and then with the girl’s barrister. Any decorum or composure long gone.

Mr Floyd finished with a flourish, ‘It might be easier for this court to believe your account if you had gone to the police in the weeks between the murder and the date of your arrest. Yet you only saw fit to assist in the investigation once you were yourself at risk of being charged with murder. I put it to you that the account you have given was invented afterwards to fit the facts and save your skin. To make Thomas Garrington and Nicola Healy pay for the murder that you actually committed. Isn’t that the truth?’

‘No. That’s a lie. That’s a lie!’

‘I’d say you know a fair bit about lies,’ Mr Floyd said, ‘and I put it to you that you are lying to this court.’

‘No.’ Conrad Quinn swiped at his face.

Andrew rubbed his own forehead. Closed his eyes while the final thrusts and parries were made. It felt like he was watching someone poke a caged animal.

They made their way through the clot of reporters outside in the square, past the cameras and the news vans. Mr Sweeney had advised them not to answer any questions. They would be able to give a statement to the press at the end of the trial, once the verdicts were in. Andrew couldn’t second-guess the result any more.

When they reached the car park, he stopped Val and handed her the car keys; he’d go and pay. She didn’t even look at him as she took them, didn’t speak. Everything about her remote, withdrawn.

Colin shuffled from foot to foot as they waited in line by the pay-station machine. ‘You and Val…’ he began.

‘Don’t,’ Andrew said.

‘It’s not just the trial, is it?’

Andrew sighed.

The queue moved closer.

‘Mum and Dad are-’

‘Val’s depressed, they know that. And she doesn’t want my help.’ Andrew realized he sounded churlish, self-serving.

‘She was phenomenal in there,’ Colin said. ‘Just watching her go through that. She was so strong, and it was… everybody was moved. It must have been so hard for her.’

Andrew could imagine it. That grit inside Val, that unbending determination to do what had to be done, to bear witness, to cleave to the truth, to defy any challenge. He closed his eyes. ‘She thinks I’ve betrayed her,’ he said.

Colin’s eyes widened.

‘Not like that. Not exactly. Val blames Luke Murray for everything that happened.’

Colin nodded. ‘It’s fair to say he provoked the guy.’

‘Six weeks prior to the attack. C’mon, Colin. Not exactly provocation. Anyway, I ran into Luke’s mother, Louise. We met up.’

Colin stared.

‘Just friends,’ said Andrew. They moved closer to the machine.

‘You idiot.’ Colin shook his head and exhaled noisily. He put his ticket in the slot, fed the machine coins.

‘There was nothing in it.’ Andrew put his ticket in. ‘Just for coffee,’ he said.

‘That hardly matters,’ Colin said. ‘She’s still going to see it as a betrayal, isn’t she?’

‘Let’s just leave it,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s nobody’s business but ours.’ He could feel Colin’s disapproval, great waves of it. But he didn’t feel guilty about his friendship with Louise and he wasn’t going to pretend to for Colin’s sake.

‘She’s your wife,’ Colin said sharply as they climbed the concrete stairwell. Andrew could smell the damp stone, and the fumes of petrol and oil from the cars.

He stopped on the landing and turned to his brother. ‘We sit next to each other in court, we sleep under the same roof, we have a joint bank account. That’s all there is now. That’s the extent of my marriage.’

‘Well, a tragedy like this-’

‘Don’t you bloody dare.’ Anger crackled through him, a surge of static. ‘Don’t you dare lecture me about what a tragedy like this does or doesn’t do.’ He wanted to hit Colin, shove him down the stairs. Colin was always bossing him about, big brother knows best. Well this was one time when Andrew knew better. He walked quickly up the stairs and pushed through the door to the cars. Colin caught up with him, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Andrew.’

‘Just fuck off.’ Andrew wheeled away, raising his hands, palms open. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said curtly.

He got in the car. He thought Val might ask him what was up with Colin, but she said nothing. He was shattered, his bones and muscles aching as though he’d been beaten up. He hadn’t the energy to try and communicate with her. They travelled home in silence, through the mild evening air.