Split Second

CHAPTER TWENTY

Andrew

The call came late on the second day of deliberations. Val answered it; something quickened in her eyes and he knew.

‘The jury’s back,’ she said.

He held his hand out for the phone. ‘I’ll ring the others.’

‘Andrew.’ It was a plea. He saw the fear lancing through her eyes, her face blanched white.

‘Oh Val.’ He reached her, held her.

‘I can’t bear it.’ She was weeping. He could feel the bones in her shoulders, the span of her ribs. She was skeletal.

‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘I know. We’ll go together, we’ll be together.’ And he heard the prayer in his words.

There was a bizarre, slow-motion quality to the next hour. The agonizing crawl through the school-run traffic; parking. Weaving through the press pack already assembled: people rigging up cameras and lighting, running cables, setting up ladders.

Then the security checks. Going through the scanner.

Jason on the way to Sardinia, his arms akimbo, calling to Andrew, ‘Can they see all my bones, Dad?’ Putting his trainers back on the wrong feet.

A few years later, aged fourteen, he had made his jaw-dropping announcement that he would never fly again; it was the worst thing you could do for the planet.

‘What about holidays?’ Val had asked Andrew.

‘Butlins?’ he’d teased her. ‘Camping in Wales?’

Now Andrew collected his mobile phone and car keys from the tray and joined Val. As they took their seats, he tried to ignore the nausea that swirled in his stomach. The jury were filing into court, the clerks were in place. The lawyers exchanging pleasantries. The other families settled in their places. There was a steady hum of conversation, a buzz of anticipation that quietened as the usher instructed everyone to stand for the judge.

The clerk got up. ‘Would the jury foreman please stand.’

One of the jurors rose to his feet. He dipped his head to swallow; he clasped his hands in front of him.

The clerk spoke. ‘In the case of Thomas Garrington, on the count of murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

Andrew felt febrile, hot and cold all at once, skin too thin. Val reached over and put her hand on his arm, gripping him tight. I don’t care, part of him howled, I don’t want this, any of this! I just want him back. Please. I just want my boy back.

‘Yes, we have,’ the foreman replied.

‘What is your verdict?’

Guilty, Andrew prayed. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Val’s hand was a vice on his forearm.

‘Guilty,’ came the foreman’s answer.

Andrew’s stomach turned over, his heart pounded. He saw Thomas Garrington jolt, his hands go to his head, heard a woman cry out. Val fell against him. He embraced her, shut his eyes.

The clerk asked for silence.

Louise

Louise looked over to Andrew. His face was taut, his mouth clenched tight, a frown scored his forehead. He was cradling Val, her hair over her face, and he had his eyes closed. He looked close to weeping. Louise’s heart stumbled. Her head felt muzzy; she heard the wash of blood in her ears.

She and Ruby had come straight here from Luke’s bedside. Each evening after the court had finished business they’d told Luke everything they could remember about the day’s proceedings. But this afternoon they had simply been filling time until they were summoned. Louise had felt brittle and on edge; she had been smoking too much and her mouth was peppery and dry, her lungs tired.

She had not been able to sleep the night before. So she had sat sewing Luke’s quilt. The final edging: a strip of navy drill cotton cut on the bias. The only fabric she had to actually go and buy. The quilt was warm on her knees. As she worked, her eyes roamed over the different hexagons, prompting memories associated with the swatches. The stripy Babygro that Deanne had passed on to her for Ruby. A patch of one of her grandma’s summer skirts, sprigs of jasmine on powder blue; as a child nestled on her lap, Louise had tried to count the flowers. A portion from her mother’s trousseau, cherry silk; Louise had hesitated before using it, her feelings for her mother still muddled, found wanting even after all this time. She’d spoken to Andrew about it once, briefly. ‘I was so cross when she died; that seemed to be my main reaction, and I was cross with her when she was alive. She was always leaving. It was as if I never really had her.’ A piece of one of Eddie’s flannel shirts. Jamaicans were meant to be natty dressers, but Eddie was a slob. He dressed like a lumberjack. Blue jeans and check shirts, pork-pie hat on occasion. Scrubbed up well enough for their wedding. He made the effort when he had to.

She’d finished the quilt last night and taken it in to Luke today. She’d lined it with a very soft cotton sheet, which would be gentle enough for his skin.

In his room, Ruby had practised her solo for the school’s performance of Chicago, and Louise had massaged Luke, washed and shaved his head. ‘I could leave it, let you grow an Afro,’ she teased him, ‘but you’d never forgive me, would you?’

The court fell quiet. Louise’s stomach contracted. Ruby looked at her, biting her lip, panic and tension just below the surface. Louise nodded, trying to reassure her.

‘On the count of attempted murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you find the defendant Thomas Garrington guilty or not guilty?’

Of trying to kill Luke, chasing him down and… Her thoughts were like a mad chatter, splinters inside, teeth sharpened, nails like talons. The horror, feeding on the cold misery of her grief.

‘Guilty.’

Louise’s heart stammered, robbed her of breath.

‘Yes!’ Ruby bent forward, collapsing with relief, and Louise put her arms around her.

Andrew

It wasn’t over yet. They still had to deliver the verdict on Nicola Healy. She was only a few years older than his niece, thought Andrew. He pictured her as he had first seen her, standing near the gate, in her white furtrimmed jacket. Screaming along with Garrington. Her eyes wild, her beauty made terrible by the expression on her face and the tableau between them: the body on the floor, Jason and Conrad tugging at each other. The violence acrid in the air.

The clerk asked the defendant to rise. Nicola stood up. Beside Andrew, Val straightened, using a tissue to wipe her eyes and nose.

‘In the case of Nicola Healy, on the count of murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

‘Yes,’ the jury foreman said.

‘What is your verdict?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘Yes!’ a woman called out, and Nicola turned, looking up at her family, her face pale, raw with hope.

Andrew felt the lurch of disappointment. Then heard shock ripple through the courtroom as people absorbed the verdict. Val shook her head, turned to him with glittering eyes. He took her hand. Held it between his. Rubbed his thumb over her wedding ring.

It’s all right, he told himself. Garrington had been found guilty. The jury had given them an answer. Someone to blame, someone who would pay, who would be punished for taking Jason’s life. That was what today was about. Justice. Truth. He didn’t know what would await them, Garrington and Quinn, how many years they would get. Did not even know if it would do them any good. Everything he had read in the papers over the years seemed to say prison did not rehabilitate. People came out worse than when they went in, with no greater education, insight or understanding and with fewer prospects. Work, accommodation, opportunities even scarcer.

There was cold comfort in the verdicts. He had thought there might more of a sense of peace or resolution. He accepted it was crucial to go through the process, that without the trial, without the ritual of apportioning guilt, he and Val would have been left in limbo. Tearing themselves apart. Even more damaged than they already were. Maybe he’d feel different in time, once he had absorbed it all. Then maybe he’d feel the release he craved.

Louise

Not guilty of murder! Louise froze. Was Nicola going to be freed? She had been there, she had egged them on, she had kicked Luke. It was Nicola who’d called him a black bastard.

Andrew was leaning back looking drained, his eyes bloodshot. She saw his shoulders move as he exhaled, the slight shake of his head. He turned and met her gaze, shared a rueful smile. She wondered what would become of them now. Andrew and his wife. And Andrew and Louise? Would the awkward friendship they had built be broken off? Would either of them want to sustain something rooted in these bloody events? Wouldn’t it just be salt in the wound as time went by? Wouldn’t they be haunted by the stark facts: that his son had died trying to save hers?

She would miss him. He was a good man.

‘On the count of attempted murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’ asked the clerk.

‘Yes,’ the foreman said.

‘Do you find the defendant Nicola Healy guilty or not guilty?’

Nicola, who had kicked him in the belly, the soft part. Surely if Garrington was guilty on both counts, then the jury must have accepted that he and Nicola had lied, had conspired to blame Conrad Quinn for everything. Yet they had cleared the girl of murder. Louise wondered if they had argued, the jury. If any of them had believed Nicola Healy; if they had debated which of the boys was telling the truth.

Louise’s breath caught, her head spun. The silence arched across the space; she was suspended, rigid, petrified.

‘Guilty.’

Louise felt relief tumbling through her, something loosen inside, and she was weeping, for her boy, for Jason, for herself. For the inhumanity of it all.

‘No!’ Nicola screamed. ‘I never, I never. It’s not fair.’ The guard made her sit down; she was weeping noisily.

Louise felt a swell of gratitude for Mr Sweeney, the man who had fought for her son’s right to justice, who had made them see that he was just an ordinary boy who should have been able to walk the streets without fear. A beloved boy who was cherished and missed.

While the judge spoke, Louise stroked Ruby’s back and closed her eyes. She longed for rest and sleep and some semblance of control again. A life not strained to breaking point as hers had been since last December. She felt close to collapsing. The blood scraping through her veins too fast, the surface of her skin, her scalp tender, sensitive, as if she’d been sunburnt or scalded. She was so very tired.

Andrew

After handshakes and good wishes from Mr Sweeney and his team, and the relief of a hot drink, they had to perform for the public.

Mr Sweeney had a prepared statement to read out, and Andrew would speak next. Louise declined; she didn’t trust them, the press. Not surprising.

‘I’d like to say something.’ Ruby spoke up.

Louise looked startled. Ruby handed a piece of paper to her mother. ‘I wrote it last night.’

Louise scanned it, blinked rapidly, nodded, mute. She passed it to Mr Sweeney. He read it, smiled at Ruby. ‘That’s excellent,’ he said.

It was sunny outside, a golden autumn afternoon. A warm breeze sent dust motes dancing in the air. But Andrew felt cold to the bone, shivery, edgy in spite of the guilty verdict.

He closed his eyes, saw the warm red of his eyelids. The setting sun flooding Jason’s room flaming red. ‘And that’s the west, the sun always sets there. And the other way is east, where it rises.’

‘How does it get there?’

‘I’ll show you.’

Felt loss tumble through him again. Oh my boy, my love.

There was an atmosphere of victory, of triumph. News crews were asking for comments. Mr Sweeney stood between Val and Andrew, Louise and Ruby as he spoke. Andrew’s parents and Colin and Izzie waited behind them with others from the legal team and the police.

‘I would like to thank the jury, the witnesses and the families for their dedication and service in an extremely distressing case. The verdict today is all we hoped for and justice has been done. Thank you. Now Mr Barnes would like to address you.’

Andrew shivered, cleared his throat. ‘Jason was our wonderful child. A young man with everything ahead of him. And we will never come to terms with losing him.’ He faltered, focused on Jason giggling; Jason strumming his guitar; Jason scuffing his feet on the ground, his laces trailing; Jason bent over a map, drawing shark fins in the sea. ‘Nothing can bring Jason back,’ Andrew said, ‘but the people who took him from us have been caught and convicted. For that we are grateful. He will live forever in our hearts.’

Mr Sweeney introduced Ruby, and there was another battery of flashes as the photographers set to work. Ruby raised her piece of paper and read: ‘I miss my brother Luke every day. Sometimes you don’t know how important a person is until they are gone. Luke is still in a coma; he will probably never wake up. I’m glad the people who did it will be punished, but I wish it had never happened. I wish he was still here, and all right. I love him so much – and my mum. And I want to say thank you to Jason, who tried to protect Luke, and I’m sorry that he lost his life trying to help.’

Val had her eyes cast down, hiding from the sentiments, Andrew guessed. He sniffed hard and focused on the trees that edged the square, the leaves beginning to turn. Mr Sweeney thanked the press, shook hands with the families again, and the group began to split up.

‘What would you say to other people, Mr Barnes?’ one of the reporters shouted. ‘Should they have a go or walk away?’ The question hung in the air, echoing round the square as Andrew and Val, their family and Louise and Ruby walked down the steps and through the crowd.

Emma

Emma rang her mum that evening. ‘Did you see the news?’ she asked her.

‘Of course,’ her mum said. ‘They got what they deserved. A case like that, you wish they’d bring back the death penalty.’

Emma gritted her teeth, closed her eyes. As if more killing would make anything better.

‘What train are you getting on Friday?’ her mum said.

Emma’s mouth went dry. ‘I’m not coming.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Dad. I’m sick of him making nasty comments.’ Emma got to her feet, walked to the window. There was a train pulling in. She turned back into the room.

‘Oh Emma, it’s just his way,’ her mum wheedled.

‘Listen to me,’ she said, ‘please. I’m not going to put up with it any more.’ Her skin felt peculiar, like it was covered in a prickly mesh. Her heart was running fast.

‘It’s only-’

‘Let me talk!’ she shouted. There was a shocked silence at the other end of the phone. ‘I don’t want to see him again. Ever. I don’t want to hear from him or about him.’ Her voice shook, but she kept going. ‘I’d love to see you, Mum, but I’m not coming to the house. Not when he’s there.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Emma,’ her mother snapped.

‘We can meet in town sometime, or you can come here, but I mean it, Mum.’ Emma quelled the fear and the tears that brimmed just below the surface. She had hoped stupidly that her mum might understand, might even have some sympathy.

‘You’re upset,’ her mum cajoled.

‘Yes, and he’s the reason why. I don’t want him in my life.’ She was trembling, her breath hard to catch. She imagined him ranting at her, dragging her home and making her feel sick and stupid.

‘He’s your father, Emma.’

‘I mean it, Mum. I’m going now.’

‘Well what shall I tell him?’ Her mother’s voice rose, shrill with exasperation.

‘Whatever you like,’ Emma said. ‘Bye.’ She set down her phone, then ran around the room making mewling noises, half petrified and half elated. Waving her hands at her sides.

After she’d calmed down a bit, she fed the fish and had a Thai green curry ready-meal. And a bowl of rice pudding. Then she texted Laura and Simon: Anything on @ weekend? Letz party.

And she sang in the shower.

Andrew

Andrew slept well that night. When he woke, Val’s side of the bed was empty. There was a calm within him, reminding him of the sensation after a long hill walk, or an arduous journey: the feeling of achievement, the respite of reaching the final destination. An ordeal completed and the body and mind able to let go.

He showered and dressed. Downstairs he made coffee and toast and took it into the conservatory. He wondered where Val was. Perhaps she’d gone shopping; perhaps the conclusion of the trial, the landmark of the verdict, had released her from the worst of her depression and she had made a new start. Maybe she was out there, busy, practical. The old Val was coming back.

The day was washed in gold. Outside, wasps and hornets hovered among the flowers. He should start some winter crops in the polytunnels. A day doing something relaxing before going back to work.

He heard the door bang, and called out, ‘I’m in here.’

His good mood shrivelled when he saw her: she looked beaten down, weakened. ‘Would you like coffee?’ he asked her. ‘Some toast?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Coffee.’ She sat on one of the wicker sofas.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘To get my prescription,’ she said.

‘Right.’

When he returned with their drinks, she was looking out of the windows, her fingers encircling her wrist like a bracelet, twisting to and fro.

‘Coffee,’ he said, setting it down.

She turned, and he saw that her face was streaked with tears. He felt a punch to his guts. ‘Val?’ He sat beside her. ‘What is it?’

‘I can’t do it, Andrew. I can’t go on like this.’

His chest felt tight, his heart swollen. ‘Hey, it’ll be all right. You’ll get better and we’ll find a way…’

She shook her head.

‘We have to try,’ he said. ‘We can’t just give up. That’s not you, not the real you.’

She gave a shivery breath, put her hands over her face and rocked forward.

‘It’s hard to know where to start,’ he said, his throat dry, ‘and maybe we need help. After all we’ve been through, it’s no wonder, is it?’

Outside, a butterfly, a small white, danced over the fence. Not a moth. Why were butterflies all right but moths so scary?

‘I can’t,’ she said. She lifted her hands and held them as if in prayer, fingers steepled against her lips.

He was lost again; he had to find his way back, make her see sense. ‘I love you, Val, that’s all that matters. I love you and we’ll make it work. It might not be easy, but I’m here.’

She looked at him, her nose reddening, eyes spilling tears, her mouth drawn back in anguish. ‘I don’t know what I feel any more,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She cried helplessly. ‘I think we need some time apart.’

He felt something plummet inside him; vertigo was darkening his vision, filling his head with bees. ‘Val, no,’ he managed.

She swept at her tears and spoke on, the words coming at him in small bites. ‘Sheena’s got space. I just need some time.’

‘Why?’ He couldn’t understand. He needed her here. They had made it this far; they had to stick together now. Rebuild their lives. ‘Is this because of Jason?’

‘No. I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Anger and panic were swirling within him. ‘Don’t go.’ He looked at her, his eyes blurring. She might never come back. Didn’t she love him any more?

‘Oh Val,’ he said. And then they were embracing and weeping and he felt the future trickling through his fingers, evaporating, changing. The course tilting and altered, the route obscured. He kept hugging her – what else was there to do – until their breathing settled and the tears dried, salt on their cheeks.