Split Second (32 page)

‘The case for the prosecution turns on a few shouted comments heard by a traumatized young woman on a bus and the self-serving account given by the witness who was the most vicious assailant on Luke Murray. A witness who, I caution you, has every reason to evade the full force of the law. I ask you to use your minds as much as your hearts, ladies and gentlemen, and you will find Thomas Garrington not guilty on all counts.’

Andrew ached again for Jason. Even after so many months. In fact it grew harder. How would he cope if they got off? He understood obsession now, tales of campaigning parents, stuck forever in the mire of appeals and hearings. Life limited and defined by the quest for justice. Could he and Val get the authorities to pursue a civil case if a criminal one failed? What if there weren’t strong enough grounds? There had to be a reckoning; he had to know who had taken Jason’s life. Otherwise he would go mad.

It was the turn of Mr Floyd, Nicola Healy’s lawyer. ‘On the seventeenth of December, my client got caught up in events that will haunt her for the rest of her days. She had no idea that a spat between teenagers on a bus would spiral out of control.’

A spat? Emma recalled the atmosphere, the ugly menace. But to be fair, she had tried to persuade herself at the time that it was just kids messing about, hadn’t she? Though her gut, the tension in the air, told a different truth.

‘Nicola Healy has sworn on oath to tell the whole truth here today, and that is what she has done.’

Emma could see the girl in the dock, her head bent over, a tremor across her shoulders. Was she crying?

‘She has sworn on oath that it was Conrad Quinn who threatened Luke with a knife, Conrad Quinn who dealt the most devastating blows once Luke Murray was defenceless on the ground and Conrad Quinn who, drunk on bloodlust, drew his weapon and stabbed Jason Barnes. My client is not guilty. And she chose to fight her case here in court so you might judge her. She has nothing to hide. Nicola Healy never touched Jason Barnes. She did not lay a finger on him. Nor did she encourage anyone else to. The murder of Jason Barnes was an appalling crime, but it was a crime in which Nicola Healy played no part.

‘On the charge of attempted murder, my client pleads not guilty too. There is a whole world of difference between a kick that splits someone’s skull, as admitted by Conrad Quinn, and one that barely marks the skin. Nicola was horrified to see Conrad Quinn begin the assault with such ferocity. There had been no plan to the events of that evening, no plot to find and hurt Luke Murray. A random encounter on a bus escalated beyond all proportion and spiralled out of control, driven by the savagery of Conrad Quinn. My learned colleague is correct: these are the most serious charges in the land, and the prosecution must prove their case beyond all reasonable doubt. In the case of my client, they have singularly failed to do so. Nicola Healy found herself in a nightmare that still plagues her. But she is innocent, innocent of murder and of attempted murder. Please consider all the evidence you have heard, and if you do so, ladies and gentlemen, I am assured that you will find that you can reach only one conclusion: Nicola Healy is innocent.’

The judge summed up after the break. He told the jury they must decide whether the prosecution had proved that the defendants were guilty as charged. Any uncertainty and a guilty charge could not be agreed. He began to define the laws of murder, and Emma’s concentration drifted. She made her way out of the court as quietly as she could. Thomas Garrington’s mother gave her an acid look, quick so that no one else could see, and Emma felt sick inside. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Luke’s mother had said: ‘It’s what you do now that matters.’

She thought of her life, her job, Laura and the Kims, her flat – less lonely since the holiday. She had the girls round for nights now and again. She thought of the bingeing and the cutting. Her mum and dad. Luke’s mum was right. She had been brave, but that was like penance really. Most of the time she wasn’t brave and she wasn’t happy and it just went on and on. She let it go on and on. Like she was stuck on a travelator going nowhere. Or a luggage carousel, the last bag that no one claimed, going round and round for ever. And she was sick of it all.

When they failed to reach agreement in the couple of hours left at the end of the afternoon, the jury was sent home for the night. Andrew’s parents had invited him and Val to eat with them that evening. Colin and Izzie would be there, and the kids.

Andrew was ready to leave; he called up to Val, ‘We should go.’

She came to the top of the stairs. ‘My head’s killing me. I’m going to go to bed.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’ he said.

‘No, I’m going to try and sleep.’

‘Val, if this is about Louise Murray, I’m so sorry . . .’ He began to climb the stairs.

‘It’s not,’ she said.

‘What then?’

‘I told you, I’ve got a headache.’

He reached the top step, leant against the railing on the landing. ‘No. You’re still freezing me out. I want to help. Tell me what’s going on.’

‘I can’t do this now, Andrew. I can’t even think about it. Not while twelve people out there are deciding on the verdict. I haven’t got space in my head.’ She looked harrowed, her eyes burning. ‘That’s all I can cope with at the moment.’

‘Okay.’ He understood. ‘But afterwards.’ He looked at her. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘You know, everybody said you were amazing on the stand. I wish I could have seen you. And they’ll remember that, the jury.’

‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ She choked off a little sob.

He put his palm against her cheek. ‘We’ll be all right,’ he told her. ‘It’s nearly over.’ He gave her a hug.

‘Tell them I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I really just need to lie down.’

‘Okay.’

They drew apart and he went back downstairs. He accepted that all the energy she had was focused on the outcome of the trial. Once they’d got beyond that, then there’d be a chance to pick up the pieces. To work out how they could salvage their relationship. He wanted her back. He would listen to what she needed, and do all he could to make things right between them. She was weakened by the depression and it had felt like she was holding out on him deliberately, being cold and unresponsive, pushing him away almost as if she was forcing him to give up on her. Well, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t throw away twenty-five years. He would be stronger than that, strong enough for both of them if necessary. And his resolution would give them firm ground on which to build their future.

His mother had made a chicken casserole and creamy mashed potatoes. Comfort food, he thought. They were all eager to discuss the court case, the minutiae of replies and rejoinders. The manoeuvrings of the defence. Speculating on who had been lying, who they believed. The spirited debate was a complete contrast to the absence of interaction in his own house. We’re living in a mausoleum, he thought, buried alive with our dead son.

He told them what he thought of doing if they lost the case, and they all agreed to back him. Colin said he’d need legal advice about whether they had grounds to bring a civil suit.

‘I can ask Mr Sweeney,’ said Andrew.

‘You won’t need to,’ his mother said, setting down a cut-glass bowl of fruit salad in the middle of the table. ‘Any fool could tell they were guilty as sin.’

‘But they can only convict on the evidence,’ Andrew pointed out. ‘Gut feelings, instinct – they don’t count.’

‘The evidence is there,’ Izzie insisted. ‘The girl on the bus for a start.’ The chatter went on, and Andrew thought back to the haze of days after it had happened, to the numbness that had enveloped him. The way he had felt there was a veil between himself and the rest of them.

On his way out, his mother contrived to catch him on his own. ‘You and Val are having problems?’

‘Colin been shooting his mouth off, has he?’ He felt a scratch of irritation.

‘I have eyes in my head, Andrew,’ she said wryly.

‘I have tried to help. It’s tough. And please don’t quote “in sickness and in health” at me.’

‘She’s still off work?’

‘Yes.’ He pulled his coat on, grabbed his scarf from the hook on the wall.

‘Does she still see her friends?’

‘Yes, not as much, but yes.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘I know losing Jason, the strain, something’s bound to give, but I don’t want to lose her too.’ His eyes ached.

If he lost Val, he would lose so much more. The joint experiences they had shared, not just with Jason, but everything that had come before: the lost babies, the hardware store, burying her parents, her brother’s sudden departure for a monastic life. And their marriage: how they’d discovered each other’s charms and irritants, the way they had grown together, the intimacies no one else had knowledge of. And their love: the way his heart used to leap at the sight of her, his senses quicken at her scent. Then at last the wonder of parenthood: the ins and outs of vaccinations, parents’ evening, holidays, as well as all the little domestic rituals the three of them developed, the familiarities, like bedtimes spent checking the room for moths. Learning Jason’s foibles: the way he got carsick, his inability to sit through a meal without knocking something over, the sound of him singing, his voice fluting like clear water. And always Jason, at the centre, the sun they orbited.

His mother moved to hug him. ‘We’re here,’ she said, ‘always.’

‘I know,’ he said. Moved by her understanding. Grateful to her for not coming out with advice or platitudes.

* * *

It was late, but Andrew wasn’t ready to go straight home. He rang Louise. ‘You okay?’

‘Not really,’ she said.

‘Fancy some company?’

‘I don’t think so – Ruby’s here. It’s not a great time.’

‘Of course, another day then.’ He was disappointed.

‘Yeah, thanks for ringing. Andrew?’ she said quickly, before he could finish the call. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

He assumed she meant the verdicts. ‘You think?’

‘I do. We just have to wait.’

T
he 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 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.