Split Second (15 page)

They clung to each other like that until she quietened and his feet had gone numb and his shoulder and top were damp with her tears.

He didn’t know what to say, how to move them back to the business of living, of dealing with the dead. In the end, he resorted to the basest practicalities. ‘Tea, something to eat?’

She shivered, looked at him. Grey eyes lucid and naked, red-rimmed. ‘There’s a shepherd’s pie, it’ll microwave.’

He squeezed her shoulders and clambered upright, the burn and bite of pins and needles sizzling in his legs.

She’d rallied by the time he’d got the food on the table, though he noticed she ate little as she updated him on the progress she’d made for the other arrangements. How she’d asked Jason’s friends to choose some music, but told them it would be nice to include the Bobby McFerrin song ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’
.
‘Remember?’

‘Lovely,’ he said, but there was a lance in his heart.

That holiday. Driving down to Cornwall with a compilation tape that Andrew had made playing loud. All of them singing that song, rewinding it time and again for Jason, who was seven. In the wake of Val’s parents’ deaths, a horrible year, the mantra seemed tailor-made for them all. Jason had made a video on the camcorder to go with the music. Stop-motion Plasticine cat and mouse, meant to be dancing, swaying their heads to the laid-back beat, but getting the movements right had proved too difficult. The end result was hilarious, had Jason breathless and Andrew and Val in stitches.

Jason had got car-sick on the drive home. Andrew thought that navigating with the road atlas would entertain him, but before they’d reached the M5, Jason was pasty-faced and they had to stop. Val had blamed Andrew. ‘Everyone knows reading causes car sickness; what were you thinking?’ Then Jason had been sick in the car, once they were on the motorway. The reek of it was horrible and Jason was crying, and they had to wait to get to the services to try and clean him up a bit.

‘Andrew?’

‘Sorry?’ Had she said something? What had she said? He saw a flicker of displeasure.

‘The stuff for Colin’s there. I’ve emailed the text, but he wants the actual picture to scan for the cover.’

‘Right.’ Colin was doing the programme for the service. He ran a print and design company and had everything to hand. ‘I’ll take it over now.’

* * *

With nightfall and clear skies, the frost had come. Andrew scraped the ice off the car windscreen, shaving delicate white curls on to the ground.

His neighbour Robert came out of his house and paused when he saw Andrew; he half raised an arm in greeting, a muddled look on his face, then let his arm fall, nodded and strode off. Not knowing how to deal with me, Andrew realized. Embarrassed, uncomfortable.

He was almost at Colin’s when he heard his phone. He checked it once he’d parked.
Missed call from LOUISE.
He felt a tilt of surprise. She’d left voicemail. He pressed to retrieve the message, wondering if something had happened to Luke.

‘Hi, Andrew, it’s Louise Murray here. There was something I wanted to tell you. Ring me when you can. Bye.’

Andrew hesitated. He could ring now, but then he’d still have to go in and give Colin the file. If it was more bad news, then it might be better to call afterwards.

Colin insistedhe sit and have a coffee with him and Izzie. Their kids came through and each hugged Andrew, a simple act of fondness that threatened to unseat him.

‘How’s Val?’ Izzie asked.

Andrew shrugged and gave a rueful smile. ‘Keeping busy. I suppose after the funeral, that’s when it will really hit home.’

‘And the photofits?’ asked Colin. ‘Have they any leads?’

‘We’ve not heard. But someone must know who they are. The simple fact that there’s three of them going round together. People must know.’ But he was aware that there were cases where no one came forward. Where the wrongdoers were sheltered, protected, helped to get away with it. Could he have done that? If Jason had done something wrong, would Andrew have covered for him, told lies and hidden the truth? He couldn’t imagine it, not for something serious. Would he have seen Jason locked away?

He changed the subject, told Colin and Izzie which of the wider family were coming on the day.

Colin cleared his throat, messed with his coffee mug.

Now what? Andrew thought.

‘Mum and Dad, they’d like to do more,’ he said.

Andrew frowned.

‘They feel helpless. They’re devastated.’

‘Join the club,’ Andrew said.

Izzie blinked, taken aback.

‘Sorry,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s just . . . there isn’t . . . I can’t . . .’ Inarticulate, he rubbed at his head.

‘They were glad to have you there, they were worried about you leaving so soon. Mum feels like Val takes everything on herself. Perhaps too much,’ Colin said.

‘It’s just her way,’ he answered. ‘She needs to do this.’

‘But if there’s anything Mum—’ Colin persisted.

‘We’ll say, we’ll ask!’ He got up, indignant but trying not to let it show. Astonished that they were chiding Val and, by extension, him. Tired of family etiquette in the midst of their tragedy. ‘I really need to get back.’

Colin stood up too, and followed him out. Patted him on the back and made reassuring sounds. Big brother. Andrew’s annoyance melted. For a moment he wanted to be small again, to stay with Colin and be teased and bossed about and allowed a go on the Scalextric. Free of all that awaited him.

Colin watched from the doorway, so Andrew drove away and parked up a couple of hundred yards down the road to make the call. The wheelie bins were ranged along the pavement, ready for collection. The general refuse ones and the blue paper recycling bins. Cardboard boxes were piled high beside them outside the nearest house. Packaging from Christmas presents: Hot Wheels Garage and Table Top Football.

Andrew rang Louise Murray.

‘Have you heard from the police today?’ she asked him. She had a warm voice, slightly husky – that would be with the smoking. A strong local accent.

‘No.’

‘We’ve got a name – the oldest lad.’

‘What!’ He felt a shiver run through him, and his heart leap against his ribs.

‘Luke’s friend recognized him.’

He needed to see her, to hear it properly, find out more. ‘Where are you? Are you at the hospital?’

‘Just leaving to go home.’

‘Where’s that?’

She didn’t reply immediately, and he thought he’d freaked her out. ‘Sorry, if we could meet . . .’

‘There’s a student pub, just south of the junction of Mosley Road and Wilbraham.’

‘Yes, I’ll see you there. Won’t take me long.’

The pub had several rooms off a central bar. The floor was sticky underfoot, and garish banners for high-strength drinks caught the eye. The decor was a mix of Soviet retro-chic and Victorian gin palace.

Louise was in the second room he tried. On her own, apart from a foursome at another table. There was a coal-effect gas fire in the hearth, pub mirrors advertising drinks around the walls. She had a full glass in front of her, but he still offered to buy her a drink. She declined. He ordered a pint at the bar. Tried to remember when he last had a pint in a pub. With Jason, up in Durham, a pie and a pint when they’d moved his stuff into halls. He took a mouthful of the foam as soon as it arrived so that it would be easier to carry without spilling.

He set his drink down on a beer mat, took off his coat and sat opposite Louise. He didn’t bother with preambles. ‘This friend recognized the picture?’

‘Yes. Declan, Luke’s friend.’ She gathered her dark-brown hair in one hand, pulled it back as if to make a ponytail. Then let it loose. ‘Declan and Luke met the lad at a party. Luke and he had a barney and the boy went for him. Luke tripped him up.’ She sighed. ‘Then he filmed it.’

‘Luke did?’ Andrew leaned forward, his hand tight around his glass.

‘Yeah, on his phone, a video.’ She gave a little shake of her head, her eyes clouded. ‘And he sent it to everyone he knew.’

Andrew had heard the terms:
happy slapping, cyber bullying
. He tried to sort out what this meant. ‘He knew them, then?’

‘Not well, but he’d met that one. He’s called Tom Garrington.’

Tom Garrington. Andrew waited, expecting the name to signify something, to explain or illuminate or resonate. But nothing changed. Tom Garrington. Four syllables. ‘You’ve told the police?’

‘Yes, that’s why I rang. See if you’d heard.’

He looked away. Gazed at the fire. Befuddled. His cheeks warm, skin clammy. He drank some beer. ‘When did you tell them?’

‘This afternoon.’

This was important, Andrew thought, this was the start of all the answers. Who and why.

‘I asked if they were going to arrest him, but she said that it might not happen straight away; they have to follow procedures.’

‘But if they know who it is . . .’ He stared at her.

‘I know!’ She nodded her head, emphatic in agreement.

She talked some more about how they had a copy of the video, then she excused herself. She wanted a smoke. She pulled her bag over her shoulder. ‘You won’t disappear on me again?’ she teased him. He saw she had dimples, and her almond-shaped eyes narrowed and almost closed as she smiled.

He drank the beer, the taste hoppy and fruity. He stared at the nearest decorative mirror,
Bell’s Whisky
, elaborate letters, ribbons and bells. He thought about what she had told him, and began to feel ill at ease. Disturbed. Soiled, somehow. Because of the pathos? The tawdry background to the attack. A squabble, a lad on the floor, humiliated, and teenagers sniggering over the short film, showing it to their mates. The lead-up to Jason’s unthinking action had been petty and trivial.
Call an ambulance. I think they’ve killed him.

It all seemed to get in the way of what mattered, the arrangements for Thursday, for saying goodbye to Jason and honouring his life, celebrating him. All this was like smearing dirt over everything.

When Louise came back in, he could smell the smoke on her and feel the cold air around her. He had finished his drink.

‘Do you want another?’ she asked him.

‘I’ll get them. What are you having?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘I’ll get them,’ he repeated. He assumed he was better off than she was. He knew she was a lone parent, and somewhere in all the column inches, he had read that she was a care worker. Low-paid, on the bottom rung.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘just a Coke.’

‘Nothing in it?’

She wrinkled her nose, thought about it. ‘Oh, go on then – rum. Thanks.’

The pub had been a good choice, he thought. A roomy, anonymous sort of a place. Not somewhere he might run into anyone he knew.

She was on the phone, texting, when he went back. She thanked him for her drink and finished the message. ‘My daughter, Ruby,’ she explained.

‘I remember.’ A fleeting impression, a lovely-looking girl. Willowy, beautiful eyes. ‘How old?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘When you got in touch, I thought it might be Luke.’

‘No, still under.’

He hadn’t meant that he thought Luke might have woken, but that he might have deteriorated. Why had he thought like that? Because he’d seen the state of the boy, perhaps, and couldn’t imagine him recovering? Or because his own situation was so dark it made him pessimistic?

‘It was out of character, for Jason,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t think he’d ever been in a fight in his life. Not a proper fight. He just wasn’t that sort of kid, you know?’

She nodded, did that thing with her hair again. ‘Well he wasn’t fighting,’ she said. ‘He was trying to stop it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Luke . . .’ She blew out a sigh, stretched her back, ‘he’s a handful. He’s had his moments, got into the odd scrap at school, but he’d never start anything. Selfdefence half the time. That and being too cocky for his own good.’ The words were harsh, but he heard the love behind them.

‘This trouble with Garrington . . .’ The name felt odd to say. ‘What was that about?’

‘Declan said that Garrington – they call him Gazza, actually . . .’

‘Oh, please,’ he moaned. The image of a pudgy footballer known for weeping and later for his chaotic personal life mushroomed in his mind, and then the thought that these nicknames, Gazza, Baz, Mozzer, were typical for young thugs.

She shrugged. ‘Well, he was having a go at some lass. Nasty – threats and that. Luke told him to pack it in.’

Andrew was surprised; he’d expected something more loutish, laddish. Not the chivalry she described. She seemed to read his thoughts, and there was an edge to her tone when she said, ‘He wasn’t looking for trouble; he was doing the right thing.’

But trouble had found him, trouble had caught up with him, dragging Jason in its wake.

The second pint was nearly gone, slipping down faster than the first. Andrew was aware of the softening in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his gut uncoiling some.

‘I keep thinking,’ she said. ‘If he hadn’t filmed it, would it have been okay? Would they have let it go? He always has to have the last word. Drives me mad.’ Her face fell suddenly, lines puckered her brow. ‘God, I’m sorry. Going on like this when you—’

‘It’s fine,’ Andrew said. ‘No one knows how to be, you know, how to talk to us. I laughed at something on the radio the other day. Laughed. I was mortified. How could I laugh? Even we don’t know how to be.’

‘I don’t think there are any rules,’ she said softly.

‘Maybe not.’

They talked a little longer, about their sons, the similarities and differences. Then he said he’d better leave. ‘Thanks for ringing.’

‘Something’s bound to happen soon,’ she said. ‘Now they know who he is.’

‘Yeah.’ He buttoned his coat and they walked out together.

He felt awkward again as they parted; the intimacies they had shared suddenly lost currency as they stood like strangers on the pavement. But once he was in the car on his own, he found himself replaying bits of the conversation, and recognized that for much of the time he had been comfortable in her company. That there had even been moments of pleasure in among all the chatter. Flashes where they were just two human beings communicating, and doing it reasonably well.