Boy A (14 page)

The younger boy, alone but for his counsel and social worker, had curled hair, chip-gravy brown, and wore a tracksuit throughout the trial. The other wore new clothes, that fitted perfectly, probably for the first time in his young life; bought for an occasion, not to grow into. Smart trousers and a selection of shirts, presumably purchased in a different town, where his mother would not be recognized. Even the trial had been moved to Newcastle, for fear that feelings ran too high in Durham. He also wore a tie, tiny, probably a clip-on, that stopped at an elasticated snake-fastening belt.

The appointed pastel artist found that he couldn’t get the colours right for the sickly pallid tone of this boy’s skin. And it was hard to draw his features, without seeming to satirize or exaggerate. In the end it didn’t matter. Only views which hid the accuseds’ faces were shown on the nationwide nightly coverage.

Two weeks into the trial the entire circus went to
Stonelee Byrne. Out of the court, under police escort, the judge, the jury, and all the court officials, the press, the prosecution and two defence counsels, their aids, and their aids’ aids, expert witnesses and associated staff. The boys stayed, on the decision of their lawyers. So did the spectators’ gallery, except the Miltons, for whom accommodation was made. A coach carried all those that left, like a charabanc trip with uniformed outriders. From the tour bus the Newcastle Law Court building looked imposing. Itself new and castle-like, with towering stone pillars, moated by the Tyne. On a quayside, which had been caught, as if in undress, halfway to becoming yuppified.

The waters of the Byrne would join the Tyne, but at Stonelee they remained a different course. Sluggish, stained, glutinous. Less fresh than some of the flowers which still lay under the bridge. The ground had been cleared to discourage the morbid. Which made it hard for the forensics witness to point out spots distinct in evidence of pain. The pain was visible enough in the eyes of the Miltons, who hadn’t seen this place before. This dirty, murky, cave under a two-lane road. They held on to each other, as it was explained about each specific torment that Angela, their pride and prize, had suffered. If one more of them was taken away, it looked like all would have fallen. But by the Byrne-side they survived. Stood like a pyre, with each stave of wood supporting every other.

The judge led the jury round, almost incognito without his wig and his scarlet and ermine robe of office. Out of his red leather chair, he looked like an ordinary chalk-striped citizen, a businessman or banker, if they are ordinary. The jury was five men and seven women, mostly working class, all white but for one of the ladies, who was Asian. Even she became pale, as the cloudy water edged past, and the police described what the drag-tracks on the tow-path had meant. One of the other jurors, a former stranger, took her hand,
though he had a fading NF tattoo on his own, and cried by her side.

Although there were usually only two minors present, the court stuck to school hours. Starting at nine, breaking at eleven, and then again at one and two-thirty, closing for the day at three-thirty-five; or sooner if the judge felt an apt natural pause had been reached. Sometimes there were other children. Three boys testified separately, via video link, about a time when they had all been set upon by the two defendants. They were clearly still upset by the experience, because their faces were anxious, and they stumbled during the gentle cross-examination, getting confused and contradicting each other about exactly who had said and done what. But the jury got the gist of this unprovoked assault.

The televisions were kept in place to play the CCTV footage. Most of those watching had already seen the highlights, shown in the first days after Angela disappeared. Damning slowed-down frames of children, already formed into premeditating monsters, darting from alley to doorway, as they followed an angel down the street.

The pathologist’s mortuary report came last. When it was hoped that the jurors and the gallery would be already steeled to what was going to be revealed. A Stanley knife, in a neatly labelled clear plastic bag, was handed to the foreman. Some jurors touched it gingerly, as if an evil genie might erupt, should the knife be rubbed or the bag burst. The photographs that passed around left many of the twelve clutching their eyes to their palms, rubbing, like that or anything else could erase what they’d seen. The pathologist concluded that he remained unsure, in the absence of DNA, the boys being hairless and seedless. He couldn’t confirm for certain that one or both had entered her. But it sufficed for him to say that something had.

To sum up the summing up. A girl named Angela, ten years old, perfect as the world might ever know, was
molested and murdered on the bank of the Byrne. Under clear skies, in broad day, she had been trailed, trapped and dragged along a gravel path. She was slashed, with many strokes, and slung into the filthy water. Not even the prosecution had the stomach to dwell on what may have happened between her capture and murder. It was enough to think of Angela, alone and afraid, at the mercy of creatures that had none.

And so, before it reached its verdict, the jury knew the facts at least, if not the truth. Having tried every ruse in a child’s repertoire, every lie and weakling wile, it was doubtful if even the boys could remember the real truth. But then a court isn’t necessarily there to find the truth. Its purpose is more about finding a wise solution.

In his verdict the judge seemed shrewd enough: a seven-year sentence was passed; severe, but not unfair, considering the gravity of the case. The Home Secretary, however, more at the mercy of public will and already a tabloid-painted fool, made detention indefinite. Prompted, perhaps, by a coupon campaign. And because governments in the terminal spins of election years know far better than unaccountable officials the necessity that justice is damning. No doubt the Minister felt vindicated when the Courts of Appeal, all the way up, kept to his line. They too contended that justice must be
seen
to be done. But they also upheld the decision of the trial judge: that other than one photograph of each, the boys themselves should never be seen again.

Jack and Chris play a game of ‘Old People’s Shoes’ while they do town-centre deliveries in the morning. The rules are simple: you take it in turns, street by street, and get a point for every pensioner you spot wearing trainers, two if they have a tartan trolley as well, which is more common than you might think. In the advanced game you also get two points for any young people that you see wearing sensible school-type shoes with tracksuits. Jack is winning 15–9, when they have to suspend the game to head off the A roads and on to Bs, and bizarre country drops. Jack has never been to most of these village garages, but Chris still knows his way. They’re delivering air fresheners and learner plates today.

‘So what happened with you and Michelle last night? How’d the date go?’ Chris asks, manoeuvring round a tight curve. There are dark woods to one side of the road, and a fenced bank down the other.

‘It wasn’t really a date, as such, we just watched a video.’

‘Oh yeah, round at hers, was it? Any hanky panky?’

Jack looks ahead while he considers his response; an old blue Cortina is in front. He doesn’t really want to get into this. But Chris is his friend and he knows that this is something friends talk about.

‘Just tell me, did you get a go on those tits? Steve the mechanic reckons they’re so big she has special bras, cos they ran out of letters and had to start using the Greek alphabet.’

Jack shakes his head, but can’t help a laugh. The Cortina is pulling away from them, too fast for the roads. As a general rule of thumb anyone that drives faster than Chris is going too fast for the roads. Jack knows this because Chris has told him. The Cortina driver must be a real local.

‘You don’t give much away do you, Bruiser? I don’t think you need to worry about protecting Michelle’s honour…’ Chris stops talking when he sees what Jack sees.

A deer jumps out of the wood. It’s suspended in a split second of sunlight. Then it lands on the road in front of the Cortina. The driver brakes, and the car skids. Locked wheels send it careering. It smashes through the fence, with a whip-crack. Disappears from sight. Chris hits his brakes too, but pumps them when the van starts to swing. He steers into the skid and brings the Mercedes to a stop. Less than a child’s length in front of the motionless deer. It looks at them with watery brown eyes and tilts its head to one side. Then it turns and scrambles back into the wood.

Chris and Jack look at each other.

‘Shit!’

They jump out and run to where the car disappeared. The fence is wooden, and jagged lumps of it lie all around. The blue Cortina is at the bottom of a long steep bank. Its roof is dented down, almost to wing-mirror height at the front, and its crumpled bonnet is wedged against a thick, partly uprooted, tree.

Chris shouts that he’s getting his phone and the tyre-iron from the van. Jack is already starting down. It’s hard to keep his footing on the grassy incline. There are huge chunks of red earth showing, where bits of the car have dug in as it rolled. Jack slips on a lump and finds that he’s rolling too. Spinning down the bank on his side, like he’d done as a
child. But with fear. He is going much too fast, and he can’t see, but he knows there are trees about. He tries to open his arms, to stop himself, but wrenches his shoulder and carries on rolling. He has no control over direction or speed.

Jack only stops spinning when the terrain lets him.

When the ground does level out, he is virtually next to the car. Other than aches he isn’t injured. Judging by the state of the Cortina, the driver will probably not be so lucky. Its flattened roof is scattered with green leaves. Flung down like tickertape by the impacted tree. Jack can’t see inside.

‘Hello!’ he shouts. ‘Are you OK? Can you hear me?’ There is no response.

The driver’s door-handle is coated in the same rich red mud as the scars on the slope above. Jack strains with it, one foot pressed against the car’s body, but he can’t open it. He tries the rear door, to the same effect. A glance tells him Chris is coming down the bank now, occasionally resorting to sitting to keep his balance. The passenger side door is completely crumpled, twisted into the frame. But behind it there is a chance. The last door is the least damaged, and not trapped by the dropped roof. Jack can even see into the car, through the tatters of glass that cling in the window. There is a baby bucket-seat in the back, strapped to the battered matt-black upholstery. In it there is a little girl. Her dress is pink-gingham, her hair is blond and alice-banded, and her face… Her face is blue. Still and blue.

Jack is shouting to her to hang on, as he wrenches at the door. It moves a little but he can’t get it open. Chris arrives and shoves the tyre-iron straight into the small crack that Jack’s efforts have made. The two of them groan together. Speaking only to count from one to three. Until the door speaks too, and falls open with a metal whimper.

Jack knows his ABC. He studied it in the secure unit, they all did, as part of education. Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Airways,
Breathing, Circulation. He repeats it like a mantra as he crawls into the small space on the back seat. Her blond head is tilted forwards. He takes it beneath the chin and by the crown, and moves it gently back. Her lips are a pale powder-blue. With crossed fingers he parts them. He can’t feel a tongue initially, then it appears and he draws it forwards, tries to check for other obstructions. She gags. A beautiful retch to Jack.

‘She’s alive,’ he shouts. Then he checks to listen to her breathing. It is too gentle to hear, but he can feel her chest rising with his palm. ABC. Circulation. He feels a pulse at her throat. A tiny throb of life. He is overwhelmed, almost in tears.

‘You’re going to be all right,’ he tells her. ‘It’s all going to be all right.’ He can hear Chris outside on his mobile. Describing their location. The little girl looks at him. He hasn’t been this close to a child since he was one. She doesn’t cry. She asks where her daddy is. Jack remembers the driver. The front seats are squashed together. There is barely a gap between them, and the roof is flattened to their top. They won’t get to him from the back.

‘They’re coming,’ Chris says. ‘It stinks of petrol in there. Shouldn’t we get her out?’

‘You got your knife?’

Chris passes in the Leatherman that he always wears for work, with the blade already opened. Jack slices through the webbing that holds the child-seat in place, and eases the little girl out. Still in her padded bucket, in case of back injury. He talks to her awkwardly, and monitors her signs. Chris keeps trying in vain to open the driver-door, until the fire brigade arrives to take over.

With the firemen come paramedics. And shortly after the police arrive. Two officers, with batman utility belts and flak jackets. They question Jack and Chris separately about what happened. Mercifully they don’t ask them to make
statements at the station. One ambulance disappears to take the little girl to hospital. The other waits for her father. By the time the fire crew manage to move the cutting equipment down the bank it is too late for him. Maybe it was always too late for him. Jack and Chris never see his face. He is strapped under an orange blanket when he’s brought back to the spot where the deer landed. The second ambulance doesn’t use its sirens as it pulls away.

The policemen shake Jack’s hand after they have questioned him. They tell him that his quick thinking and first aid almost certainly saved the girl’s life. Then they radio for a WPC, to help them tell a wife and mother she’s a widow.

Most of the day is gone by the time Jack and Chris are back on the road. They have explained the situation to the office, but with Pony Express valiance they opt to complete the drop they started.

When they get back to the yard they are clapped in through the storerooms and loading bays. Most of the guys are quite obviously joking, but there is still an unmistakable feeling of pride around the unit. Jack has never felt a sense of belonging anything like this. They are heroes. He is a hero. It’s a sensation almost strong enough to pierce his wall of unworthiness.