Split Second (26 page)

Even as she thought this, there was a well of hatred in her for what they had done. What they had taken. Louise had made an impact statement, which would be taken into account if they were convicted and would affect sentencing. How could you put it into words? It was like something physical, something pulled from your guts, sucked from the marrow of your bones. Shards lodged in your heart. Like losing sight or hearing, like the light going dim and the future reduced to a feat of endurance.

Down the hall, a young man in a tracksuit was crying, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand. An older man beside him patted him on the back, talking quietly.

Out of the window, Louise saw a child, four or so, run after a balloon that skittered along the ground then bounced and rose in the breeze. Louise’s mother used to do a number with balloons, she suddenly remembered, but couldn’t recall the song she sang. The balloons were swirly metallic colours. She had given Louise one and Louise had tied it up next to her wardrobe. They’d used it for a game of keepsie-upsie. Was it Christmas time?

‘Mum.’ Ruby nudged her. The usher had come out of the court. It was time to go back in. Louise fought the ripple of apprehension, the urge to turn and go the other way, ignored the roiling in her stomach and followed her daughter.

The woman said, ‘It’s time now,’ and Emma felt the ground tilt and her vision darken.

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Laura.

Emma tried to smile but her face was beyond her control.

Laura gave her a quick hug. ‘Good luck. I’ll be watching.’

Laura had found her sobbing in the toilets at work a fortnight ago, almost gibbering with terror at the prospect of appearing in court. She had got another letter telling her when to come to court, and a phone call offering her a visit in advance to have a look round. She hadn’t slept. Her leg hurt.

‘You can bring a friend,’ Laura told her, after she had stopped crying. Laura was looking at the leaflet that had come with the letter. ‘I’ll come.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yeah, course,’ Laura said.

‘What if I say the wrong thing?’

‘You won’t. Just tell them what you saw, that’s all. Stick to your guns.’

Now Emma followed the usher into the court and took her place in the witness box. She swore on the Bible to tell the truth. The judge told her to speak up. She felt inadequate already.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Laura take a seat in the public gallery. There they were, the two defendants, in the dock. Emma looked away, but she had already noticed that he wore a suit and shirt and tie and the girl next to him wore a plain dark dress. He looked tired, the big eyes duller than Emma remembered.

Mr Sweeney, the barrister for the prosecution, was talking to her. Asking her easy questions: her name, where she lived, how she travelled to and from work. But even answering those she could feel her tongue thick and clumsy, her breathing out of sync. Mr Sweeney explained that the jury had seen CCTV footage of events on the bus, on the seventeenth of December 2010. They had also seen that Emma had the seat across the aisle from Luke Murray and close to the defendants.

‘In your witness statement you recall the defendants making abusive comments to Luke Murray. Can you tell us what those were?’

Emma swallowed. ‘They said he was a wog boy and a dirty nigger and a black bastard.’ Her face burned.

‘Anything else?’

‘A dickhead and a knobhead.’ People laughed. Emma felt awful swearing in front of everyone, even though she knew she had to say it exactly as it had been.

‘Who actually said wog boy?’

‘Thomas Garrington,’ she said.

‘And dirty nigger?’

‘Thomas Garrington.’

‘And black bastard?’

‘Nicola Healy.’ Her throat felt parched.

‘And dickhead?’

Embarrassment scalded her skin, her gullet. ‘Thomas Garrington.’

‘And knobhead?’ The word sounded ridiculous coming from the smart lawyer.

‘Thomas Garrington, just before he hit him.’ She saw the lunge the bully had made in her mind’s eye. The sickening noise when Luke’s head hit the window.

‘Did you hear Thomas Garrington threaten Luke with a knife?’

‘Yes,’ Emma said.

‘Can you remember his exact words?’

‘Yes, he said, “I’ll do you, I’ll have you, I’ve got a knife.”’

‘Was anything else said about the knife?’

‘Yes, he told the other two to tell Luke. And Conrad Quinn said, “He has, he’ll shank you.”’

‘Did you know what that meant?’

Emma coughed. ‘I guessed it meant he’d stab him but I hadn’t heard it before.’

‘It wasn’t a term you were familiar with?’

‘No.’

‘Was there any more talk about the knife at that point?’

‘Nicola Healy said, “He’ll cut you.”’

‘How did Luke react?’

‘He ignored them as much as he could; he was looking out of the window.’

‘Then Jason Barnes came downstairs. What happened then?’

‘Thomas Garrington punched Luke in the head.’ She tripped over the words, carried on. ‘His head hit the window and Jason came closer and said, “Leave him alone.”’ Emma remembered the fear, like acid searing through her, and how she had wanted to escape, to disappear. ‘Thomas Garrington told Jason to fuck off. And then Jason said “Just leave it.”’

‘Did you hear Luke speak at any point?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘You saw Luke once he was off the bus?’

‘Yes, he was running.’

‘Did you see him provoke anyone? See him shout or offer any physical violence?’

‘No, he was running away, they were chasing after him.’

‘And that was the last you saw?’

She nodded. The lawyer waited and she remembered she had to speak. ‘Yes.’

‘And where was Jason?’

‘He was behind them all, trying to catch up.’

Mr Sweeney nodded and thanked her.

Shaky with relief, Emma turned to go, but the usher put her hand out to stop her.

‘Please wait,’ the judge said. ‘The barristers for the defendants now have the opportunity to cross-examine you.’

Someone sniggered. She was mortified. She stepped back into place.

Mrs Patel came forward; she was defending Thomas Garrington. She wore her hair up in clips at the back of her head and the barrister’s wig perched on top. When she spoke she had a southern accent, clipped tones and long vowels.

‘I’d like to take you back to the bus, to the point at which someone said, “I’ve got a knife.” Where were you looking then?’

‘What?’ Emma had the buzzing in her head, the blank static.

‘Were you watching my client?’

‘No.’ She hadn’t dared look; she had studied her hands in her lap, the snow outside.

‘Where were you looking?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘So you heard the expression but did not see who said it.’

‘I heard it,’ Emma said, unnerved.

‘And how could you tell who said it?’

‘From the voice.’

‘From the voice?’ Mrs Patel made her sound demented. ‘Would it be fair to describe the scene on the bus as chaotic?’

‘Yes,’ Emma said.

‘Things happened quickly?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did not know any of the people involved?’

‘No,’ Emma admitted freely.

‘Were either of the defendants or Conrad Quinn facing you?’

‘No.’ And she had prayed that they would not do so; she’d done all she could to make herself invisible, irrelevant.

‘Yet you claim to be able to tell who said what in a heated exchange when you were gazing elsewhere? How so?’

The gazing was a cheap shot, as if she hadn’t cared about what was happening. She had. But she had been so uncertain, so frightened. ‘They sounded different,’ Emma said. Her heart was banging in her chest.

‘In what way?’

Emma tried to find the words. Her hands were shaking. Everyone could see her hands were shaking. Then Mrs Patel was waiting, her head angled to the side, her eyebrows raised. And Emma couldn’t remember what she had been asked. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

‘Shall I repeat the question?’ Mrs Patel asked.

Emma nodded.

‘In what way did the defendants sound different from each other?’

‘Conrad Quinn sounded squeakier.’

People in the gallery laughed. Emma blinked. She scanned the seats. Found Laura. Laura wasn’t looking fed up with her or embarrassed but alert, and she looked straight at Emma and gave a small tip of her head.

‘Squeakier?’

‘Yes, like he had a cold, and he giggled a lot after he spoke, like he was a bit nervous.’

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Patel said quickly, and Emma felt a bit better because it made sense, what she’d said, and she saw one of the people in the jury nod his head.

‘You claim Conrad Quinn said, “He’ll shank you.” How would you describe his manner?’

‘He was mean, aggressive, they all were.’

‘Please only answer the question as put to you,’ the judge said.

‘Sorry.’ Emma was awkward. She was hot, could feel sweat between her breasts, on the back of her neck.

‘Mr Quinn appeared aggressive and mean?’ Mrs Patel asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did he at any point object to what the defendants were saying?’

‘No,’ Emma said. She didn’t understand why she was asking this.

‘He didn’t try and stop them threatening Luke Murray?’

‘No, he joined in.’ Emma knew Conrad Quinn had pleaded guilty to wounding Luke. He had admitted to the police his part in everything.

‘Did you hear anyone coerce him?’

‘No,’ Emma said.

‘And when Jason Barnes remonstrated with Thomas Garrington, what did Conrad Quinn do?’

‘He jeered at him.’

‘Jeered?’

‘Yes, he jeered.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Really?’ The lawyer’s eyes sharpened and Emma felt a twist inside her. She looked down.

‘You can’t remember? But you’ve had perfect recall up until now; why can’t you remember?’

‘I don’t know,’ Emma stammered.

‘Perhaps some of what you’ve already told us is less than accurate?’

‘No, it’s all true—’ Emma started to say, but Mrs Patel cut her off. ‘Can you really be one hundred per cent certain that it was Thomas Garrington who said “I’ve got a knife”? In the commotion of the encounter, with people jumping on seats and yelling, surely you could be mistaken?’

Emma felt caught, blinded in the spotlight, everyone looking, her head a blur again. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Please speak up.’ The judge sounded irritated with her.

Cat got your tongue? Dozy Dora, Whispering Winnie.

‘No,’ she said; her throat hurt. ‘I’m right.’

‘Can you be absolutely certain that Thomas Garrington didn’t say, “He’s got a knife”?’ Emma felt a swing of doubt. She steadied herself, replayed the memory. ‘No, I’m certain, he said “I’ve got a knife.”’

She waited for the blow, the ridicule, the murmurs to drown her, but nothing happened. The barrister thanked her, invited the judge to ask questions then handed over to Mr Floyd. Mr Floyd was quite young; he had dark hair and looked a bit like an actor in a spy show on the telly. He was Welsh.

‘In your statement you said you thought the defendants knew Luke Murray? Why was that?’

‘They called him Pukey Luke.’

‘Please be precise; who used that name?’

‘Erm . . . Thomas Garrington.’

‘Did you see my client, Nicola Healy, touch Luke at any point?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see her touch Jason Barnes?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see her touch either Luke Murray or Jason Barnes after they got off the bus?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t say anything on the bus when the alleged threats were made?’

‘No.’ Emma bit her cheek. Felt the fizz of static in her head.

‘You didn’t say anything when Luke Murray was pushed?’

‘No.’ Emma was shrinking, her breath getting thinner.

‘Perhaps you thought it was just horseplay? Is that the case?’

‘Erm . . . I wondered . . . Because they knew him and no one else—’

‘Did you think it might be horseplay? Yes or no?’

‘At first,’ Emma said. But then there had been danger in the atmosphere, the violence thick in the air, which had raised every hair on her body, shrivelled her stomach, shredded her nerves. ‘But then I didn’t.’

‘But you still said nothing?’

‘I thought . . . I wasn’t sure what was happening . . . Nobody else—’

‘I’m not asking anybody else,’ the barrister said firmly. ‘I’m asking you. You weren’t sure what was happening? This could have been high jinks getting out of hand? Is that fair?’

‘Yes. Perhaps,’ she said.

‘It might have all calmed down?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘You didn’t want to make a fool of yourself?’

Emma felt herself redden. How did he know? She hadn’t said that in her statement.

‘Because at that point it was far from clear whether this was a group of youngsters messing about or something more serious. Is that true?’

‘I don’t know.’ She was lost again. In a maze and all the tunnels the same. ‘I’m not sure. I was scared.’ Her mouth trembled.

‘Miss Curtis,’ the judge snapped, ‘please stick to the questions.’

Mr Floyd spoke. ‘I suggest to you that it was far from clear what the relationships were between my client and the other people accompanying her and Luke Murray, and that’s why you didn’t intervene?’

‘No. I was just scared really,’ Emma said. She looked at the public gallery, at Laura, at the woman and the girl, and the other group who she thought might be relatives of Jason. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. There was a catch in her voice and she fought not to break down, but she couldn’t control the way she shook.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Floyd. ‘No further questions.’

Laura met her in the foyer and hugged her and told her she was bloody brave.

‘I’m not,’ said Emma, crying a little. ‘I’m a coward. I sat there and—’

‘Hey, I’d have been the same,’ Laura said. ‘But you came here. The way they talked to you! Outrageous. I wanted to slap that Patel biddy.’

Emma giggled in spite of herself. The laugh dangerously close to sobbing. There must have been a break then, because the people poured out of the court and milled about.