Split Second (20 page)

‘In the longer term, because he is unable to make decisions about his treatment, that will fall to you. I’m talking about very difficult decisions about his quality of life, about whether to maintain life support in the form of food and drink.’

Louise ground her teeth together. She could not think about that. How dare the woman sit here and say those things? She stared down at her hands, at the skin around her nails, red and angry, her nails dull and scratched.

‘But those are decisions for the future. In the shorter term, we need to consider where Luke can best be cared for. Given that there is no medical imperative to keep him in the hospital—’

‘You’re giving up on him.’ Her head was swimming. Everything crooked.

‘Not at all. But everything we are doing for Luke here can be done equally well in a residential care facility.’

Louise thought of some of the homes she’d worked in, those residents able to leave their rooms plonked in chairs in front of the television, the wanderers drugged up and befuddled, the smell of urine.

The doctor went on, ‘What we are proposing to do is to refer Luke on, with a view to moving him in the next couple of months.’

Louise stared at her.

‘I want to assure you that if there was anything else I could suggest in terms of other treatment options for Luke I’d explore it, but we may have to accept that the trauma was so severe that recovery, even on the most basic level, is not a realistic prognosis. I am sorry. Is there anything you’d like to ask, anything you don’t understand?’

Why Luke? Why? Shrieking inside her mind. A lament. Louise shook her head once, biting her cheek. She did not speak. She went back to sit with her son.

They drove to Durham on the Saturday to collect Jason’s things. Term hadn’t started. Andrew borrowed Colin’s estate car, which had more space in the back than theirs.

The drive up took longer than they’d expected. Heavy rain had caused flooding on some sections of the M1, then they got caught up in a tailback where a lorry had shed its load of pallets. He suggested they leave the motorway at the next exit, but Val argued it would take even longer using the back roads.

He loved the look of Durham as they approached, the Norman cathedral and the castle dominating the skyline, the whole place compact and dripping with history. At street level there was a malevolent one-way system and an acute shortage of parking places in the narrow lanes. The place had been built for people and horses, not vehicles.

They found their way to the halls of residence and parked there. Val shivered as they got out of the car, and he suggested they go get a bite of something to eat and a cuppa before making a start. It was partly consideration for her, but also a desire to delay the chore that faced them.

The café they found was a traditional place, steamed-up windows and the scent of frying bacon and wet clothes. Andrew had an all-day breakfast, suddenly ravenous, and Val chose egg on toast but didn’t clear her plate. He should talk to her about it, he thought; he would talk to her about it, but not now, not yet. He didn’t want to put any more pressure on her.

He still hadn’t told her about Garrington, about knowing the identity of one of the thugs, and the more time passed, the less he wanted to confide in her. It would mean explaining about Louise Murray and how he had visited Luke, and that would feel disloyal. And if he felt it was disloyal, then it surely would read like that to Val. Keeping it from her thus far would be seen as something worse than it was, as a betrayal at a time when she was vulnerable.

They had Jason’s key and made themselves known to the manager of the halls, who they’d spoken to on the phone. She greeted them warmly. Andrew liked the lilt of her accent. ‘We’re just up here,’ she said. He was glad of the guidance; although he had been here before, helping Jason move in, he would never have remembered the way.

‘If there’s anything you need, just give us a call.’ She left them outside the room.

Andrew opened the door. The space was small and cluttered and shouted Jason from every angle: his guitar, his rugby shirt, his photos. Andrew took a sharp breath and moved towards the desk at the back wall where books and CDs and files were strewn about. Val took a step after him and stopped in the middle of the room between the bed and the chest of drawers.

Andrew scanned the desk. What had Jason been reading, working on, listening to? Hungry for more knowledge about his son. When he turned back to Val, she moved to him. They embraced. All the nevers, thought Andrew. He will never come in that door, play that song, read another word. He eased himself away from her.

‘I’ll fetch the boxes,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the books, if you can empty the drawers.’

She nodded, and they set to work.

‘Oh, Louise.’ Omar looked crestfallen, shaking his head at her when she went in the shop for milk. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed.’ He waved his hand at the bundles of newspapers he was undoing for the shelves.

Her eyes flew from one headline to the next. COMA BOY’S REIGN OF TERROR – DEATH IN VAIN? STUDENT GAVE LIFE FOR TEENAGE THUG. COMA VICTIM’S LIFE OF CRIME. Luke’s face and Jason’s staring out at her in black and white.

Louise felt her heart clench, gasped at the savagery of the words.

‘Don’t read them,’ Omar said.

She was dizzy, frightened. ‘How can I not read them?’

‘It’s all lies,’ he said.

‘I need to know what they’re saying.’ She got out her purse.

‘Keep your money,’ he said. ‘If I could, I’d burn the lot.’

She forgot the milk. Ran home and spread the papers out. Ten minutes until she had to wake Ruby.

It was lies, most of it. The facts twisted beyond all recognition. Supposition and exaggeration and righteous indignation stuffed between barbed comments. Luke had been out of control, uncontrollable, feckless, reckless, known to the police, excluded from school, a thug, prone to antisocial behaviour, a budding criminal, an arsonist, a vandal, a drug-user, disturbed. He’d been raised in a broken home, by a single parent who had children by two different men. Neither of the children saw their fathers. There was no mention of Eddie’s sudden death. Luke had caused explosions in an arson attack, defaced public property. Neighbours reported living in fear. A source close to the family did not want to be named.

He was the devil incarnate, her spawn.

Something broke inside her. This was her boy, her lovely boy, lying sick in a coma, his skull broken, and they could write all this about him. The cruelty of it sang through her, circulated like acid in her blood. And a great swell of doubt came crashing after it. Was it her fault? Could she have done more? Done better? Was this a broken home? She had filled it with love and encouraged laughter, tried to keep it warm, kept the fridge stocked, their clothes clean. Revelled in them, even when she was ragged with fatigue. She’d have done anything to prevent Eddie’s death; she had not chosen to be left on her own raising a family. And in her heart she did not equate lone parents with broken homes. Weren’t they simply victims of unsuccessful relationships? While a broken home was a dysfunctional one, surely, one without love or care or comfort.

She recalled the visits to school, her attempts to broker some sort of peace between Luke and his teachers, Luke and the attendance officer. She had done her level best to listen, to try and find out how she could help him, why he was so unhappy and restless.

The possibility that she had fallen short, that there were mistakes, inadequacies in what she had done, made her sick with guilt. Shame clawed through her.

But when she returned to the papers and read them anew, the anger returned. This was not Luke, this was not fair.

Shivering with rage, she rang DC Illingworth, never mind how early it was. ‘Have you seen the papers?’ she demanded, a tremor in her voice.

‘No,’ the woman replied. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s bloody character assassination,’ she said, close to tears, ‘that’s what it is. My boy’s a victim here and they’re making him out to be a right villain.’

‘Louise—’

‘Please,’ she blurted out, ‘read them!’ She ended the call.

‘Mum?’ Ruby was there in her school uniform. ‘What’s going on?’

Louise only hesitated for a moment – there was no way she could keep it from Ruby; she was bound to hear about it. ‘The papers, they’re saying things about Luke, things that aren’t true.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘That he was a criminal, that he was terrorizing the place.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Ruby’s eyes filled.

‘I know it’s not true and you know it’s not true, but it’s there in black and white and some people will take it as gospel.’

‘Can’t we sue them, then?’

Oh, Ruby. ‘I doubt it.’ She tried to focus, to concentrate on what was important. ‘Listen, you might get some bother at school. Do you want me to talk to Miss Morley?’

‘No, it’ll be all right.’

‘But you would let me know if . . .’ A spike of panic in her guts; was she neglecting Ruby too? Should she keep her off, cocoon her here?

‘Course.’ Ruby poured cereal, drained the last of the milk, pulled one of the papers closer.

‘How do they know all this?’ Louise wondered aloud. ‘The stuff with the police, the cautions, that’s not public knowledge. He was only fifteen, it’s meant to be confidential. So either the police have leaked stuff, or someone who knows Luke told them. But why? Why would anyone do that?’

‘It makes him sound horrible,’ Ruby exclaimed. ‘There’s our house.’ She pointed at an inside page. The picture made the place look smaller, meaner than it really was. Barren. Taken so that the great tree, with Luke’s lights in, was not in view.

The only reference to Luke’s attackers was right at the end of the piece, which repeated that the police had issued e-fit pictures of two men and a young woman wanted for questioning in the assault that led to the death of Good Samaritan Jason Barnes.

‘Why would they write all this?’ asked Ruby.

‘Because it sells papers. They can stir it up, get people talking. You know what spin is; this is spin. Your great-grandad called them the gutter press, this lot. Best used for wiping yer arse on.’

‘Mum!’

‘His words, not mine.’ She drew a breath; her chest ached. ‘Just remember, if anyone says anything at school, you know Luke, and what sort of person he is. And this isn’t him.’

* * *

DC Illingworth rang back before they left. ‘I’m so sorry, Louise.’

‘Can’t you do anything? Make them take it back? What if it affects how people see things when we get to court? Isn’t that illegal if there might be a trial?’

‘They’ve been very careful; there are no details about the incident itself in what they’ve written.’

‘Aren’t your press office meant to stop them printing stuff like this?’

‘We do our best, but we have a free press. Publishing material like this doesn’t help anybody, but as I say, there’s nothing there that might materially affect our ability to press charges or mount a prosecution. You could try for a right of reply or an apology, but we really wouldn’t advise it. It could make things even worse.’

Louise felt boxed in, nowhere to turn. ‘How did they find all this out, the stuff about the cautions? I was told at the time that none of it would be disclosed.’

‘That’s right, it’s common practice with young offenders.’

‘But someone’s disclosed it.’

‘This hasn’t come from us, Louise, if that’s what you’re implying, I can assure you of that.’ There was a tart edge to her tone.

‘So I just let it go, do I? See him slandered like this?’ Tears of frustration started in her eyes.

‘I know, it’s hard. But it’s like feeding the machine: anything you give them can come back and bite you. You speak to them and they’ll want more. Our press officer is already in touch, so there shouldn’t be anything else. And even if we make arrests and charge people, the trial wouldn’t be for several months.’

Louise glanced at the clock, signalled to Ruby that she should set off. ‘Why hasn’t anything happened yet?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got the name. What are you waiting for?’

‘Let me check with the team and get back to you.’

‘So you don’t actually know?’ Louise felt she was being fobbed off.

‘I want to make sure I’m completely up to date. I’ll speak to you later today,’ the detective said neutrally.

Hadn’t she done her best? Should she have been harder on Luke? Tough love? She had lived all her life in the belief that people were basically good, that with children you set boundaries and you loved them, you praised them, and they would come good. So where had it gone so wrong? She felt wretched. She had not been able to protect him when it came to it. They had ridden him down and savaged him. And now she could not even protect his reputation. She could not defend him and set the record straight. Tell the world that the reckless arson was just a firework in a wheelie bin; that he was cheeky, never malicious. That he had never been violent, never a thug, terrorized no one.

All day she wrestled with it, a net of worry, of impotent rage. A web of doubts and questions. Deanne called her mid-morning, then Fee and even Carl. All of them outraged, spitting tacks at the injustice of it. She was grateful to them; it helped to know she had them rooting for Luke. But the dribble of unease, the seasick lurches of guilt, wouldn’t go away. Louise felt dirty, tarnished, the smears undermining her self-belief. Yet she had to squash this, bury it deep, in order to be a rock for Luke, for Ruby.

Mrs Coulson regularly took one of the tabloids. It always sat on the tray table at the side of her chair, but today when Louise visited it was absent. Louise didn’t say anything and neither did the old woman. The kindness disarmed Louise and she felt a lump in her throat as she said goodbye.

She’d just put the key away in the key safe by the back door and was walking to her car when Andrew Barnes rang her. There was a bitter wind, a northeasterly, thrashing the trees, making her eyes water and pinching her cheeks. Clouds dense and low swung overhead, making her giddy. She turned her back to the wind, hunched over the phone. Litter skirled down the street, bags and a plastic bottle, fast-food cartons, smacking against walls and skittering around parked cars.